fic, Good Omens/Supernatural: Misery Likes Company (Dean/Crowley; one sided D/C and C/A), R
Okay, so, this was for the Dean/Cas kink meme but it seriously got too long and splitting it in comments was hell. And as soon as I read the prompt my head went that way and uh, hi, never written Crowley in anything I posted before (why, I'm crossovering them now but with the right pairings), so just go easy on poor me.
Title: Misery Likes Company
Rating: (hard) R
Pairing: Dean/Crowley, one sided Dean/Castiel and Crowley/Aziraphale
Words: 3905
Summary: talking about his feelings for Castiel with a demon who was in love with another angel isn't exactly what Dean had signed for when he decided to take a walk in the park. And he definitely hadn't signed for more than talking.
Spoilers: until 4x18 for Supernatural, for GO... well, general for the whole book more or less.
Disclaimer: I can't be Eric Kripke, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett at once, right? So not mine, even if I wouldn't object if I owned either. ;)
A/N: written for the Dean/Castiel kink meme for the prompt so, Dean waits for something or another in a public place, sitting on a bench or something. Some random upset girl decides it's a good idea to tell a stranger about her tragic love. In response, Dean in all honesty tells her what's it like to be in love with an angel. It can be a crossover with something. With equally impossible pairing. Aziraphale/Crowley, or Martha/Doctor or someone else. Don't ask me why I decided that Dean/Crowley was a good pairing. It just seemed so. ;) First time with me writing Crowley, more or less. Sorry for the lack of notes, I'll make it up next time I write GO stuff.
The problem, Dean thinks, is that it seems like he can't have ten minutes of peace for himself.
It's either Sam or Cas or demons or angels or Seals to save or battles to fight or people to save and he doesn't even have some time while he sleeps because hello, nightmares still; and sincerely, he doesn't think that just half an hour on his own is that much to ask. That's why, since Sam was out doing research anyway, he has decided to just go for a stupid, dumb walk in the park and sit on a bench and just chill out.
Now, fine, maybe the park and especially the bench weren't exactly the brightest idea he's ever had, especially because as soon as he sat in the afternoon sunlight he could only think about that other time on a bench when Cas was there too and.. right. No.
Except that then this random girl had come and asked him whether the other half of the bench was free. And he had said yes. And that had been the worst idea he has had in the last year or so, because after a minute she starts talking. And well, she's pretty lovely to be honest, tall enough, long straight chestnut hair, two heart-shaped lips red as a cherry and two striking green eyes which would have definitely been enough to draw his attention in any other circumstance.
In any other circumstance, because well.. not in this. In the following three minutes Dean learns that her name is Desiree, she's twenty-three, she works as a shop assistant in a lingerie store (pretty spot on for a profession, Dean thinks as he looks at her), she's from some hole in Utah and she's trying to model without much success, and most important thing of all, she's miserable. Oh, so miserable, and why? Because of that son of a bitch of her boyfriend, some guy named George who, from what she says, has to be the biggest jerk on the face of the Earth.
"... because you see, we met at the store, he was there with his sister, and you know, he looked at me and I looked at him and he came back the next day and you know how it is, right? So before I even know we're dating and he's just so... oh, you should have seen him. He's so beautiful, and nice, and polite, and did I tell you he has a degree in... how it was, some archaic language, philology, all that stuff..."
"Latin, maybe?"
"Yeah, Latin! Exactly. Why, are you in..."
"No. But I know Latin. Professional reasons."
"Oh. Wow. That's cool. Anyway, you see, he's just so, so, you know, perfect? Except that this morning he just... he just..."
She breaks down crying and Dean curses his life.
"He dumped me! He said I wasn't good enough! How awful is that? How can someone say that?"
She sniffs and sobs and breaks down crying and Dean decides it's enough. He doesn't work for any fucking magazine and he doesn't give love advice, but if she wants her tragic love she's going to get it. Because fuck, he doesn't talk about this, ever, but maybe it'll just make her get lost.
"Hey, Desiree, you wanna hear a story? A real tragic story, I mean."
"What.. what do you mean?"
"I mean that this? This is not tragic. You want to know what tragic means? I'm sure I can get it across. Or try, at least. See, let's say there is one person. This guy who has screwed up some serious shit and has died and ended up in Hell for that, and he was smart enough to actually sell his soul. Not to mention that he'd do it all over again, but anyway. Our man spends forty years in Hell, and they ain't the best years of his life, or death. Also, while he's there he pulls some serious crap, but let's just ignore this part of the story. Suffices to know, one day a honest-to-God angel of the Lord, sorry for the joke, comes and pulls him out. And so our guy gets back to the living, and he meets said angel of the Lord, who is kind of a dick even if a very attractive dick, and he's told that he needs to stop an incoming Apocalypse. Nice, huh? Anyway, the angel drops by sometimes and then more often, and our guy at the beginning is pissed off because he just can't stand the self-righteous son of a bitch, then he, uh, gets adjusted, then he fucking starts to look forward to said dick dropping by. It doesn't help that our angel has chosen a very attractive guy as his vessel, but point is, one day our guy realizes that hey, wait a second, he actually likes this angel person, worse, he fucking cares about this angel person. Now, considering that angels don't really feel as real people do and the best our guy can hope is some mere, you know, charge/guardian kind of fucking thing, not to mention that with all the shit he did downstairs he doesn't even get while this angel he's, uh, involved with, at least on his side, should give a fucking damn, how do you think he feels?"
Dean takes a breath, realizing that he probably has never talked so much at once all of his life. Or something. Desiree looks at him completely dumbfounded.
"Miserable doesn't even beginning to cover it. Fuck, he doesn't even have an idea how to deal with it, especially since he has always liked chicks, and liked them a lot. And anyway, however things go, said angel will end up returning back to Heaven someday, so he can forget about it. Whoever said better to have something and lose it than not having it at all probably was an idiot and..."
Desiree stands up and leaves without a word; Dean lets out a breath of relief. She probably took him for some nutcase, which is just fine with him. Just-fucking-fine. He takes his head in his hands and shakes it. It aches. Fuck, he didn't need a headache now. And then he opens his eyes and sees that someone else is sitting next to him. Fun. He didn't even hear him.
This new stranger is more or less his height, is dressed in fucking designer's clothes, all black and definitely stylish, he had to give him that. He wears snake skin shoes and Dean figures he's got money. Good for him. But Dean also has to admit that he's pretty handsome; his cheekbones are really good, his pale skin contrasts deliciously with short-but-not-too-short black hair; his lips are curved in a somewhat sympathetic smile and he wears sunglasses so dark that Dean can't even distinguish his eyes beneath the shades.
"Er. Hello?" he offers after a minute during which they just stare at each other. The stranger shrugs and the smile becomes more of a smirk.
"Hi yourself. You're probably wondering what the he-, I mean, what the bloody fuck I'm doing here, right?"
Dean nods, trying to process the accent. British. Definitely British. What the fuck is some Brit rich guy doing in the town next to Chuck's, or the Prophet Chuck's, he'd really like to know.
"Well, I was... let's say taking a walk. I needed to clear my head from some stuff, and... let's say I overheard you and that girl earlier."
"You were eavesdropping?!"
"I was barely overhearing, you weren't exactly whispering. Not that eavesdropping isn't a good part of my business, but anyway, that isn't the problem. I was saying, I heard you, and I'm bloody sorry to say, it sounds like we have the same problem."
"What? You've been to Hell, too?"
"Not exactly. I come from Hell, and I'm... fuck, oh, let's bloody say it out loud, in love with an angel."
Dean stares for ten good seconds. Then blinks. The guy hasn't moved.
"You're crazy," he states soon after, but the guy shakes his head.
"Not really. Not that our lady friend there hasn't thought the same thing about you. And if you want proof of at least the first part..."
He pushes the glasses slowly down his face and Dean almost screams when he sees two golden eyes shining with something definitely inhuman whose pupils are vertical just as a snake's. Then the guy pushes them back up again and smiles a friendly smile which Dean can't really place.
"Are you convinced now? Don't worry, I'm no ordinary demon. Actually, I'm Hell's agent on Earth, even if more than their dirty work I do my own dirty work, if I explain myself. I don't want to harm you or anything and if you were in Hell I sure as fuck don't envy you. I didn't apply for the Earth job as soon as possible because I was bored. And not that I wanted to be there anyway, you know, not when I didn't even fall."
"You didn't fall?"
"No. Let's say I vaguely sauntered downwards, but that's not our main concern."
"Right. So, you're... in love with an angel... how the fuck should I call you anyway?"
"Anthony J. Crowley, for your knowledge, but Crowley will do. What about you?"
"Dean. Dean Winchester, but Dean will do."
"Bloody great. I was saying, well, yes. And since I can't exactly talk about it with anyone, see, you came exactly at the right moment. Or well. Were there. Whatever."
"Who is he?"
"Heaven's agent on Earth. His name is Aziraphale, he freaking collects books, he has hideous taste in clothing because he always wears tartan, we've known each other for six thousand years, we stopped a sodding Apocalypse together, more or less, and we usually mind our business and have an arrangement and feed some crazy ducks at a park in London, where I should actually be right now but I just wanted to take a walk somewhere far. Oh, and I tempt him to lunch most times and I just don't have a fucking chance. What about yours?"
Dean shrugs and closes his eyes. "His name is Castiel, I don't think he's anyone's agent but maybe it's better like this, he's a self-righteous son of a bitch who was a dick when I met him first and not so much lately, probably because he has started to feel or whatever crap it is. He always wears a ridiculous trench coat which looks right out of some fucking Columbo episode, he dragged me out of Hell, he seems to believe that I can stop an Apocalypse, he doesn't have a sense of humor, likes trashy novels which will become my and my brother's gospel and I just have no fucking chance."
Crowley laughs and shakes his head, somehow amused.
"You don't want to make him fall, right?"
"Oh, fuck no. I'd never... you don't either, right? And I bet he's always speaking like a printed book and always tells that God has a plan and you need to have faith in Him, right?"
"He- dam-, oh, for someone's sake, yes. Way-too-fucking-much. An INEFFABLE plan, too. And he always stares calmly just like that and then says some idiotic thing but you just can't come up with anything else to say because it's just so him to say it."
"Fuck, yes. And then he stares at you with fucking blue eyes which are just too big for their own good and you can't refuse shit."
"Why, does the vessel have blue eyes?"
"Yeah. Your guy too?"
"Yesss. Maybe it's an angel thing. And he just has no fucking fashion sense."
"Are you kidding me? Suit and Columbo trenchcoat? What fashion is that?"
"Do you think that tartan suits are any better? They're just a punch in the eye..."
"... but not that much if he wears them, right?"
Crowley smirks and shakes his head. Dean does the same.
"No. Bloody he- fuck, no. And you always feel like you shouldn't even be allowed to stand in the same room because you're just not that worthy sometimes, even if to be honest it happens only when I'm really drunk. After six thousand years I got over that."
"Lucky you, I only had one and I totally haven't."
"And then one day it'll just really happen and we'll be on opposite sides and I won't ever see him again."
"And then one day however it ends he'll be back where he belongs and I'll either end up here or stuck in Hell again because I really can't see myself in Heaven."
They look at each other for some ten seconds without saying anything.
"Fuck. We really make a pair, don't we?" Dean offers, not even caring that he's basically being friendly with a demon. Mostly because this guy here is probably the first person he met since he got out of Hell who seems to understand him square and straight.
"One of a kind," Crowley murmurs, even if it isn't spiteful or anything.
"Hey. You can take off the glasses. I won't freak out."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. And anyway, the demons I meet all have black eyes. Yours have a color. I'm more than fine with it."
"Why, I'm offended here. I told you I'm not any demon," Crowley smirks as he takes the glasses off. Dean takes a better look. After the first shock, they don't look too weird. Actually, the gold is almost shining in there and they seem just.. particular. Or unique. Or something.
"That I had understood. Is that because you've been here a while?"
"He- fuck, yes. I mean, your world is a good place to live and you lot aren't as bad as one could think. Surely you're better company than my company downstairs, and from what I gather, mostly better than the company upstairs too. And you're awfully easy to tempt, but don't worry. I never overdo it. Mostly. Anyway, I like it well enough here. So what's this story of another Apocalypse anyway? Clearly no one saw fit to tell me, but after last time I can't exactly blame them."
Dean shrugs and tells and Crowley doesn't look too pleased. His pupils narrow from time to time and Dean thinks he actually looks angry or something.
"Fuck," he says when Dean is done, "you have quite the burden on you."
Dean doesn't answer, but then Crowley abruptly pushes his glasses back up and stands up, raising him by the elbow.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I think that you and me need a sodding drink. Or more than one."
"You wanna get wasted about the Apocalypse and angels with whom we're stupid enough to think we could have some fucking happily ever after with?"
"That was exactly my plan."
"Fine. Which bar?"
"Bar? For He- someone's sake, I'm not stooping that low."
--
The next thing Dean knows is that he's in an extremely luxurious five-star hotel room, with a double bed with red silk sheets, a bathroom which looks almost as large as the actual suite, a coffee machine in the corner, a flat TV screen with cable on the wall and it isn't even campy. It's... classy. Crowley is closing the small fridge in front of the bed and Dean can't help noticing that he really has a very, very nice ass as Crowley stands up from his kneeling position. Suddenly a couple of glasses appear on the bed just right next to where Dean is sitting; Crowley goes on the other side and hands him some French or Italian red wine; when Dean reads the date he almost faints.
"Shit. That's..."
"Some bloody fucking great stuff. I know. I have my resources, as you probably realized. If I need to be here at least I'll be comfortable."
"Is this your hotel?"
"Pretty much, yes. So, to idiotic angels without any sense of fashion or an idea about what good music is?"
Dean lets Crowley fill the glass and then blinks. "Why, is... Aziraphale oblivious about good music too?"
"He fucking calls the Rolling Stones be-bop. I guess he's freaking clueless if you're talking about anything that existed after fucking Stravinsky."
"Ha. Well, still better than no clue at all."
"That's a sad thing."
"It fucking is. Cheers."
And that's how Dean gets wasted in the company of Hell's agent on Earth, who behaves more like a human than a lot of people he met. He figures that maybe he has just gone fucking native.
--
"No way, you just didn't tell me that you own a fuckin' 1926 Bentley. That's... no no no, that's imposs.."
"That's fuckin' possssssible, I bought her firsst hand. Pity that all the tapes turn into Best Of Queen shit, buut, well, job stuff."
"Fuck. Man, Queen? That's just, uh, evil."
"Don't you tell me. I hate fucking Queen. And anyway, you said '67 Chevrolet Impala?"
"Oh, yes. She's, like, the, uh, most perfect thing in, er, ex... existence. And fuck, I really am wasted."
"Yesss," Crowley agrees, "but I could ssober up."
"Yeah, you could, and what 'bout me?"
"No, I mean, fuck, yesss, you're right. I won't sober out of, uh, sssolidarity. Or somethin'."
"Another one for solidarity?"
"Pour that. Hell, if he saw me now..."
"Who, Ariza... sorry, Azipha... not, I just..."
"Aziraphale. Don't worry, 'ts a long name and we're drunk. Well, fine, he gets drunk too, but if he knew I was gettin' wasted over him..."
"Well, if Cas knew that 'bout me he'd just... uh, I dunno, I don't even wanna know."
"Cassss?" Crowley hisses before biting his tongue. "You're so screwed. I mean, in six thousand years I... uh, never nicknamed him. Oh, you're so screwed."
"Well, yeah, but after six... uuh, six thousand years I probably would've gathered some courage and spilled it out, y'know?"
".... point taken," Crowley hisses, and then they look at each other in the eyes for the first time since they really started getting wasted and Dean suddenly realizes that while Crowley is nothing like Cas he's attractive as hell and he hasn't gotten any since Anna, and Crowley realizes that Dean is fucking nothing like Aziraphale but he's warm and you all know about the deal with snakes and warmth and before Dean's brain starts to act (difficult, since he's drunk) he's thrown on the bed, achingly hard, with Crowley's mouth inches from his and golden eyes staring down at him, and Crowley is as hard as he is.
"Fuck," he spits, and Crowley nods, but he doesn't move. "This is crazy," Dean mutters, but doesn't even try to do anything.
"It sodding is, but anyway, what d'you wanna do?"
"Fuck, never heard of a demon asking consent."
"I told you, I..."
"You're the exception confirming the rule, uh, yeah, got that. Y'know what? Let's just royally fuck this up."
Crowley honestly-to-God smirks and as his hand yanks Dean's jeans down, Dean just feels drunk and miserable and horny and just, why the hell not? And so he brings Crowley's head down in a kiss which is all teeth and clashing and blood, but that's how it should feel. They're both no angels after all.
--
Not that it's a problem after all; Crowley's hands are skilled and Dean moans helplessly as those fingers touch him everywhere and he doesn't mind if he gets bruises; he kisses just taking and Dean doesn't want to receive anything, so he's more than willing to give. And he's a fucking tease (right, demon there) and that fucking tongue does some really wicked things anywhere it lands, his mouth or his cock or his skin, whatever, and Dean arches and thrusts up and when Crowley's hands grab his hips he just lets him and meets his touch; and then there's a finger, and then two, and then Crowley is inside him and Dean moans against his neck and teeth bite his shoulder so hard it draws blood. Dean comes with a gasp and a deeper moan from the back of his throat, his body shuddering in pleasure; Crowley just soon after with a similar sound which is maybe quieter but still there and Dean doesn't even mind when Crowley barely moves after he pulls out.
He thinks he sees some outline of wings as Crowley comes. Fuck, he is wasted.
But, drunk as he might be, he has figured out the whole snake business and sincerely he can use some warmth in his bed, even if he's the one providing most of it.
--
It's early morning when they sit again on the bench, Crowley looking just as stylish and casual as the day before while Dean has the mother of all hangovers, but it was actually worth it. He thankfully accepts the aspirin Crowley miracles out of thin air along with a glass of water.
"Sorry about that. Healing is for angels, not for us. Next time try to get drunk with your Cas, he probably would save you the consequences."
"The day I get drunk with him it's the day God appears to me in person. Anyway, thanks. For the aspirin. And... the rest. Y'know. You really aren't as bad as you try to be."
"Fun. He told me almost the same thing once. Aziraphale, I mean."
"Well, then maybe it could just be true."
"Sodding sure it is. Cut that crap, really. And don't beat yourself up too much, whatever happened to you down there... that can't have been much of your fault. I know my side. Don't beat yourself up too much."
Dean nods, taking a breath. "You know. He didn't... exactly tell me that, Cas I mean, but I figure that it was the meaning."
"What a pair. Indeed."
"Hey. Maybe you should just try. I mean, you know each other since... what the fuck, creation or whatever. From what you said I gather that he really doesn't mind you around that much, all the contrary. You can tell him at least. He'd know if... right?"
"Tsk. I could say the same thing to you. I mean, bloody he-, whatever, he drags you out of hell and he still hasn't given up on you, dick as he might be, and I believe you there because they totally can be the worse dicks around, maybe he does care about you."
Their half-smiles are both absolutely miserable.
"Like we'd ever do it," Dean whispers, and Crowley breathes out and shrugs in agreement.
"Well, who knows. I think I'm late for feeding the sodding psychotic ducks."
"And my brother is probably worried out of his mind. Guess I'll go. But... well, it was... I can't exactly say the happiest night of my life but..."
"Oh, shit, not that. I get that. Just no, alright? It wasn't, fine, but... just get lost," Crowley blurts, but as he pulls the glasses down Dean sees that the expression is everything but hostile. He nods and stands up.
"Right. Well. If I stop it, good luck. If I don't... see you sometime. Eventually."
"Just bloody stop it, alright?"
Dean nods and Crowley disappears in thin air; Dean turns his back on the bench and walks on. He feels strangely fine, for having the mother of all hangovers. Maybe it's just because misery likes company, but still, better than nothing.
End.
Title: Misery Likes Company
Rating: (hard) R
Pairing: Dean/Crowley, one sided Dean/Castiel and Crowley/Aziraphale
Words: 3905
Summary: talking about his feelings for Castiel with a demon who was in love with another angel isn't exactly what Dean had signed for when he decided to take a walk in the park. And he definitely hadn't signed for more than talking.
Spoilers: until 4x18 for Supernatural, for GO... well, general for the whole book more or less.
Disclaimer: I can't be Eric Kripke, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett at once, right? So not mine, even if I wouldn't object if I owned either. ;)
A/N: written for the Dean/Castiel kink meme for the prompt so, Dean waits for something or another in a public place, sitting on a bench or something. Some random upset girl decides it's a good idea to tell a stranger about her tragic love. In response, Dean in all honesty tells her what's it like to be in love with an angel. It can be a crossover with something. With equally impossible pairing. Aziraphale/Crowley, or Martha/Doctor or someone else. Don't ask me why I decided that Dean/Crowley was a good pairing. It just seemed so. ;) First time with me writing Crowley, more or less. Sorry for the lack of notes, I'll make it up next time I write GO stuff.
The problem, Dean thinks, is that it seems like he can't have ten minutes of peace for himself.
It's either Sam or Cas or demons or angels or Seals to save or battles to fight or people to save and he doesn't even have some time while he sleeps because hello, nightmares still; and sincerely, he doesn't think that just half an hour on his own is that much to ask. That's why, since Sam was out doing research anyway, he has decided to just go for a stupid, dumb walk in the park and sit on a bench and just chill out.
Now, fine, maybe the park and especially the bench weren't exactly the brightest idea he's ever had, especially because as soon as he sat in the afternoon sunlight he could only think about that other time on a bench when Cas was there too and.. right. No.
Except that then this random girl had come and asked him whether the other half of the bench was free. And he had said yes. And that had been the worst idea he has had in the last year or so, because after a minute she starts talking. And well, she's pretty lovely to be honest, tall enough, long straight chestnut hair, two heart-shaped lips red as a cherry and two striking green eyes which would have definitely been enough to draw his attention in any other circumstance.
In any other circumstance, because well.. not in this. In the following three minutes Dean learns that her name is Desiree, she's twenty-three, she works as a shop assistant in a lingerie store (pretty spot on for a profession, Dean thinks as he looks at her), she's from some hole in Utah and she's trying to model without much success, and most important thing of all, she's miserable. Oh, so miserable, and why? Because of that son of a bitch of her boyfriend, some guy named George who, from what she says, has to be the biggest jerk on the face of the Earth.
"... because you see, we met at the store, he was there with his sister, and you know, he looked at me and I looked at him and he came back the next day and you know how it is, right? So before I even know we're dating and he's just so... oh, you should have seen him. He's so beautiful, and nice, and polite, and did I tell you he has a degree in... how it was, some archaic language, philology, all that stuff..."
"Latin, maybe?"
"Yeah, Latin! Exactly. Why, are you in..."
"No. But I know Latin. Professional reasons."
"Oh. Wow. That's cool. Anyway, you see, he's just so, so, you know, perfect? Except that this morning he just... he just..."
She breaks down crying and Dean curses his life.
"He dumped me! He said I wasn't good enough! How awful is that? How can someone say that?"
She sniffs and sobs and breaks down crying and Dean decides it's enough. He doesn't work for any fucking magazine and he doesn't give love advice, but if she wants her tragic love she's going to get it. Because fuck, he doesn't talk about this, ever, but maybe it'll just make her get lost.
"Hey, Desiree, you wanna hear a story? A real tragic story, I mean."
"What.. what do you mean?"
"I mean that this? This is not tragic. You want to know what tragic means? I'm sure I can get it across. Or try, at least. See, let's say there is one person. This guy who has screwed up some serious shit and has died and ended up in Hell for that, and he was smart enough to actually sell his soul. Not to mention that he'd do it all over again, but anyway. Our man spends forty years in Hell, and they ain't the best years of his life, or death. Also, while he's there he pulls some serious crap, but let's just ignore this part of the story. Suffices to know, one day a honest-to-God angel of the Lord, sorry for the joke, comes and pulls him out. And so our guy gets back to the living, and he meets said angel of the Lord, who is kind of a dick even if a very attractive dick, and he's told that he needs to stop an incoming Apocalypse. Nice, huh? Anyway, the angel drops by sometimes and then more often, and our guy at the beginning is pissed off because he just can't stand the self-righteous son of a bitch, then he, uh, gets adjusted, then he fucking starts to look forward to said dick dropping by. It doesn't help that our angel has chosen a very attractive guy as his vessel, but point is, one day our guy realizes that hey, wait a second, he actually likes this angel person, worse, he fucking cares about this angel person. Now, considering that angels don't really feel as real people do and the best our guy can hope is some mere, you know, charge/guardian kind of fucking thing, not to mention that with all the shit he did downstairs he doesn't even get while this angel he's, uh, involved with, at least on his side, should give a fucking damn, how do you think he feels?"
Dean takes a breath, realizing that he probably has never talked so much at once all of his life. Or something. Desiree looks at him completely dumbfounded.
"Miserable doesn't even beginning to cover it. Fuck, he doesn't even have an idea how to deal with it, especially since he has always liked chicks, and liked them a lot. And anyway, however things go, said angel will end up returning back to Heaven someday, so he can forget about it. Whoever said better to have something and lose it than not having it at all probably was an idiot and..."
Desiree stands up and leaves without a word; Dean lets out a breath of relief. She probably took him for some nutcase, which is just fine with him. Just-fucking-fine. He takes his head in his hands and shakes it. It aches. Fuck, he didn't need a headache now. And then he opens his eyes and sees that someone else is sitting next to him. Fun. He didn't even hear him.
This new stranger is more or less his height, is dressed in fucking designer's clothes, all black and definitely stylish, he had to give him that. He wears snake skin shoes and Dean figures he's got money. Good for him. But Dean also has to admit that he's pretty handsome; his cheekbones are really good, his pale skin contrasts deliciously with short-but-not-too-short black hair; his lips are curved in a somewhat sympathetic smile and he wears sunglasses so dark that Dean can't even distinguish his eyes beneath the shades.
"Er. Hello?" he offers after a minute during which they just stare at each other. The stranger shrugs and the smile becomes more of a smirk.
"Hi yourself. You're probably wondering what the he-, I mean, what the bloody fuck I'm doing here, right?"
Dean nods, trying to process the accent. British. Definitely British. What the fuck is some Brit rich guy doing in the town next to Chuck's, or the Prophet Chuck's, he'd really like to know.
"Well, I was... let's say taking a walk. I needed to clear my head from some stuff, and... let's say I overheard you and that girl earlier."
"You were eavesdropping?!"
"I was barely overhearing, you weren't exactly whispering. Not that eavesdropping isn't a good part of my business, but anyway, that isn't the problem. I was saying, I heard you, and I'm bloody sorry to say, it sounds like we have the same problem."
"What? You've been to Hell, too?"
"Not exactly. I come from Hell, and I'm... fuck, oh, let's bloody say it out loud, in love with an angel."
Dean stares for ten good seconds. Then blinks. The guy hasn't moved.
"You're crazy," he states soon after, but the guy shakes his head.
"Not really. Not that our lady friend there hasn't thought the same thing about you. And if you want proof of at least the first part..."
He pushes the glasses slowly down his face and Dean almost screams when he sees two golden eyes shining with something definitely inhuman whose pupils are vertical just as a snake's. Then the guy pushes them back up again and smiles a friendly smile which Dean can't really place.
"Are you convinced now? Don't worry, I'm no ordinary demon. Actually, I'm Hell's agent on Earth, even if more than their dirty work I do my own dirty work, if I explain myself. I don't want to harm you or anything and if you were in Hell I sure as fuck don't envy you. I didn't apply for the Earth job as soon as possible because I was bored. And not that I wanted to be there anyway, you know, not when I didn't even fall."
"You didn't fall?"
"No. Let's say I vaguely sauntered downwards, but that's not our main concern."
"Right. So, you're... in love with an angel... how the fuck should I call you anyway?"
"Anthony J. Crowley, for your knowledge, but Crowley will do. What about you?"
"Dean. Dean Winchester, but Dean will do."
"Bloody great. I was saying, well, yes. And since I can't exactly talk about it with anyone, see, you came exactly at the right moment. Or well. Were there. Whatever."
"Who is he?"
"Heaven's agent on Earth. His name is Aziraphale, he freaking collects books, he has hideous taste in clothing because he always wears tartan, we've known each other for six thousand years, we stopped a sodding Apocalypse together, more or less, and we usually mind our business and have an arrangement and feed some crazy ducks at a park in London, where I should actually be right now but I just wanted to take a walk somewhere far. Oh, and I tempt him to lunch most times and I just don't have a fucking chance. What about yours?"
Dean shrugs and closes his eyes. "His name is Castiel, I don't think he's anyone's agent but maybe it's better like this, he's a self-righteous son of a bitch who was a dick when I met him first and not so much lately, probably because he has started to feel or whatever crap it is. He always wears a ridiculous trench coat which looks right out of some fucking Columbo episode, he dragged me out of Hell, he seems to believe that I can stop an Apocalypse, he doesn't have a sense of humor, likes trashy novels which will become my and my brother's gospel and I just have no fucking chance."
Crowley laughs and shakes his head, somehow amused.
"You don't want to make him fall, right?"
"Oh, fuck no. I'd never... you don't either, right? And I bet he's always speaking like a printed book and always tells that God has a plan and you need to have faith in Him, right?"
"He- dam-, oh, for someone's sake, yes. Way-too-fucking-much. An INEFFABLE plan, too. And he always stares calmly just like that and then says some idiotic thing but you just can't come up with anything else to say because it's just so him to say it."
"Fuck, yes. And then he stares at you with fucking blue eyes which are just too big for their own good and you can't refuse shit."
"Why, does the vessel have blue eyes?"
"Yeah. Your guy too?"
"Yesss. Maybe it's an angel thing. And he just has no fucking fashion sense."
"Are you kidding me? Suit and Columbo trenchcoat? What fashion is that?"
"Do you think that tartan suits are any better? They're just a punch in the eye..."
"... but not that much if he wears them, right?"
Crowley smirks and shakes his head. Dean does the same.
"No. Bloody he- fuck, no. And you always feel like you shouldn't even be allowed to stand in the same room because you're just not that worthy sometimes, even if to be honest it happens only when I'm really drunk. After six thousand years I got over that."
"Lucky you, I only had one and I totally haven't."
"And then one day it'll just really happen and we'll be on opposite sides and I won't ever see him again."
"And then one day however it ends he'll be back where he belongs and I'll either end up here or stuck in Hell again because I really can't see myself in Heaven."
They look at each other for some ten seconds without saying anything.
"Fuck. We really make a pair, don't we?" Dean offers, not even caring that he's basically being friendly with a demon. Mostly because this guy here is probably the first person he met since he got out of Hell who seems to understand him square and straight.
"One of a kind," Crowley murmurs, even if it isn't spiteful or anything.
"Hey. You can take off the glasses. I won't freak out."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. And anyway, the demons I meet all have black eyes. Yours have a color. I'm more than fine with it."
"Why, I'm offended here. I told you I'm not any demon," Crowley smirks as he takes the glasses off. Dean takes a better look. After the first shock, they don't look too weird. Actually, the gold is almost shining in there and they seem just.. particular. Or unique. Or something.
"That I had understood. Is that because you've been here a while?"
"He- fuck, yes. I mean, your world is a good place to live and you lot aren't as bad as one could think. Surely you're better company than my company downstairs, and from what I gather, mostly better than the company upstairs too. And you're awfully easy to tempt, but don't worry. I never overdo it. Mostly. Anyway, I like it well enough here. So what's this story of another Apocalypse anyway? Clearly no one saw fit to tell me, but after last time I can't exactly blame them."
Dean shrugs and tells and Crowley doesn't look too pleased. His pupils narrow from time to time and Dean thinks he actually looks angry or something.
"Fuck," he says when Dean is done, "you have quite the burden on you."
Dean doesn't answer, but then Crowley abruptly pushes his glasses back up and stands up, raising him by the elbow.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I think that you and me need a sodding drink. Or more than one."
"You wanna get wasted about the Apocalypse and angels with whom we're stupid enough to think we could have some fucking happily ever after with?"
"That was exactly my plan."
"Fine. Which bar?"
"Bar? For He- someone's sake, I'm not stooping that low."
--
The next thing Dean knows is that he's in an extremely luxurious five-star hotel room, with a double bed with red silk sheets, a bathroom which looks almost as large as the actual suite, a coffee machine in the corner, a flat TV screen with cable on the wall and it isn't even campy. It's... classy. Crowley is closing the small fridge in front of the bed and Dean can't help noticing that he really has a very, very nice ass as Crowley stands up from his kneeling position. Suddenly a couple of glasses appear on the bed just right next to where Dean is sitting; Crowley goes on the other side and hands him some French or Italian red wine; when Dean reads the date he almost faints.
"Shit. That's..."
"Some bloody fucking great stuff. I know. I have my resources, as you probably realized. If I need to be here at least I'll be comfortable."
"Is this your hotel?"
"Pretty much, yes. So, to idiotic angels without any sense of fashion or an idea about what good music is?"
Dean lets Crowley fill the glass and then blinks. "Why, is... Aziraphale oblivious about good music too?"
"He fucking calls the Rolling Stones be-bop. I guess he's freaking clueless if you're talking about anything that existed after fucking Stravinsky."
"Ha. Well, still better than no clue at all."
"That's a sad thing."
"It fucking is. Cheers."
And that's how Dean gets wasted in the company of Hell's agent on Earth, who behaves more like a human than a lot of people he met. He figures that maybe he has just gone fucking native.
--
"No way, you just didn't tell me that you own a fuckin' 1926 Bentley. That's... no no no, that's imposs.."
"That's fuckin' possssssible, I bought her firsst hand. Pity that all the tapes turn into Best Of Queen shit, buut, well, job stuff."
"Fuck. Man, Queen? That's just, uh, evil."
"Don't you tell me. I hate fucking Queen. And anyway, you said '67 Chevrolet Impala?"
"Oh, yes. She's, like, the, uh, most perfect thing in, er, ex... existence. And fuck, I really am wasted."
"Yesss," Crowley agrees, "but I could ssober up."
"Yeah, you could, and what 'bout me?"
"No, I mean, fuck, yesss, you're right. I won't sober out of, uh, sssolidarity. Or somethin'."
"Another one for solidarity?"
"Pour that. Hell, if he saw me now..."
"Who, Ariza... sorry, Azipha... not, I just..."
"Aziraphale. Don't worry, 'ts a long name and we're drunk. Well, fine, he gets drunk too, but if he knew I was gettin' wasted over him..."
"Well, if Cas knew that 'bout me he'd just... uh, I dunno, I don't even wanna know."
"Cassss?" Crowley hisses before biting his tongue. "You're so screwed. I mean, in six thousand years I... uh, never nicknamed him. Oh, you're so screwed."
"Well, yeah, but after six... uuh, six thousand years I probably would've gathered some courage and spilled it out, y'know?"
".... point taken," Crowley hisses, and then they look at each other in the eyes for the first time since they really started getting wasted and Dean suddenly realizes that while Crowley is nothing like Cas he's attractive as hell and he hasn't gotten any since Anna, and Crowley realizes that Dean is fucking nothing like Aziraphale but he's warm and you all know about the deal with snakes and warmth and before Dean's brain starts to act (difficult, since he's drunk) he's thrown on the bed, achingly hard, with Crowley's mouth inches from his and golden eyes staring down at him, and Crowley is as hard as he is.
"Fuck," he spits, and Crowley nods, but he doesn't move. "This is crazy," Dean mutters, but doesn't even try to do anything.
"It sodding is, but anyway, what d'you wanna do?"
"Fuck, never heard of a demon asking consent."
"I told you, I..."
"You're the exception confirming the rule, uh, yeah, got that. Y'know what? Let's just royally fuck this up."
Crowley honestly-to-God smirks and as his hand yanks Dean's jeans down, Dean just feels drunk and miserable and horny and just, why the hell not? And so he brings Crowley's head down in a kiss which is all teeth and clashing and blood, but that's how it should feel. They're both no angels after all.
--
Not that it's a problem after all; Crowley's hands are skilled and Dean moans helplessly as those fingers touch him everywhere and he doesn't mind if he gets bruises; he kisses just taking and Dean doesn't want to receive anything, so he's more than willing to give. And he's a fucking tease (right, demon there) and that fucking tongue does some really wicked things anywhere it lands, his mouth or his cock or his skin, whatever, and Dean arches and thrusts up and when Crowley's hands grab his hips he just lets him and meets his touch; and then there's a finger, and then two, and then Crowley is inside him and Dean moans against his neck and teeth bite his shoulder so hard it draws blood. Dean comes with a gasp and a deeper moan from the back of his throat, his body shuddering in pleasure; Crowley just soon after with a similar sound which is maybe quieter but still there and Dean doesn't even mind when Crowley barely moves after he pulls out.
He thinks he sees some outline of wings as Crowley comes. Fuck, he is wasted.
But, drunk as he might be, he has figured out the whole snake business and sincerely he can use some warmth in his bed, even if he's the one providing most of it.
--
It's early morning when they sit again on the bench, Crowley looking just as stylish and casual as the day before while Dean has the mother of all hangovers, but it was actually worth it. He thankfully accepts the aspirin Crowley miracles out of thin air along with a glass of water.
"Sorry about that. Healing is for angels, not for us. Next time try to get drunk with your Cas, he probably would save you the consequences."
"The day I get drunk with him it's the day God appears to me in person. Anyway, thanks. For the aspirin. And... the rest. Y'know. You really aren't as bad as you try to be."
"Fun. He told me almost the same thing once. Aziraphale, I mean."
"Well, then maybe it could just be true."
"Sodding sure it is. Cut that crap, really. And don't beat yourself up too much, whatever happened to you down there... that can't have been much of your fault. I know my side. Don't beat yourself up too much."
Dean nods, taking a breath. "You know. He didn't... exactly tell me that, Cas I mean, but I figure that it was the meaning."
"What a pair. Indeed."
"Hey. Maybe you should just try. I mean, you know each other since... what the fuck, creation or whatever. From what you said I gather that he really doesn't mind you around that much, all the contrary. You can tell him at least. He'd know if... right?"
"Tsk. I could say the same thing to you. I mean, bloody he-, whatever, he drags you out of hell and he still hasn't given up on you, dick as he might be, and I believe you there because they totally can be the worse dicks around, maybe he does care about you."
Their half-smiles are both absolutely miserable.
"Like we'd ever do it," Dean whispers, and Crowley breathes out and shrugs in agreement.
"Well, who knows. I think I'm late for feeding the sodding psychotic ducks."
"And my brother is probably worried out of his mind. Guess I'll go. But... well, it was... I can't exactly say the happiest night of my life but..."
"Oh, shit, not that. I get that. Just no, alright? It wasn't, fine, but... just get lost," Crowley blurts, but as he pulls the glasses down Dean sees that the expression is everything but hostile. He nods and stands up.
"Right. Well. If I stop it, good luck. If I don't... see you sometime. Eventually."
"Just bloody stop it, alright?"
Dean nods and Crowley disappears in thin air; Dean turns his back on the bench and walks on. He feels strangely fine, for having the mother of all hangovers. Maybe it's just because misery likes company, but still, better than nothing.
End.