The Man In The Long Black Coat (2/?)
Title: The Man In The Long Black Coat (2/?)
Rating: R for language and violence
Pairings: Brief Dean/Castiel, Crowley/Aziraphale, mentions of Crowley/Crowley
Word Count: 5632
Warnings: Violence, some language, probably blasphemous concepts
Author’s Note: A triple crossover between Supernatural, Good Omens, and the Lucifer comics by Mike Carey. Set during Supernatural’s 5th season, and has elements of AU for all of it that’s been shown so far, and will definitely be AU for the eventual ending. Set after the events of Good Omens and sometime between Lucifer #44 and #46. (Also, I really couldn’t help having a double helping of Crowley in this. Giving him a first name was kind of necessary for clarity.)
Summary: For all their dealings with pagan gods and monsters from mythology, Sam and Dean ought to know by now that there are more powers in the world than Heaven and Hell.
Chapter One
“Shit,” Crowley gasps after the Morningstar has left. “A week. That’s not exactly a lot of time, is it?”
“Calm down dear,” Aziraphale says, with a distracted air. “I have to wonder why he came to us. We’re not the most well connected beings in Heaven and Hell, now are we?”
“Angel, do I look like I give a fuck? I just want him to leave satisfied, and with us in one piece.”
“I don’t think he still cares about the Apocalypse you know,” Aziraphale says conversationally. “He didn’t seem angry to you, did he?”
“It’s Lucifer, Aziraphale; he doesn’t go around advertising it like some of your lot. It isn’t his style. You just push too far and bam,” He snaps his fingers violently. “You go up in a ball of flame. No sodding thank you.”
Aziraphale sighs. “There’s no need to be so melodramatic my dear, I take your point quite clearly. We’ll just do as he asks and everything will be fine. I doubt he can be bothered to waste any energy on the likes of us. And we can rely on his discretion as well, if only because he likes to have something to hang over people’s heads.”
“Well I’m not about to take any chances until the week is over,” Crowley says, waving his hand vaguely to return himself to snappily-dressed normal, suit and tie perfectly crisp as though he hadn’t dumped them on the floor ten minutes ago. “I’m going to stock up on holy water and holy oil. You should too, you know.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says in a conciliatory manner, but it’s too late. The fallen angel has already spread his wings and is gone.
-----
Crowley rather enjoys working alone, not counting Aziraphale of course, but luck favours the well-connected, and so he likes to keep an ear to the ground when he can. The lesser demons come in very useful here, since as cannon-fodder they have a healthy - or not so healthy as the case may be - turnaround time between Earth and Hell, and considering the only real way to get ahead in Hell is through a mixture of age, the ability to kick those weaker and smaller than you in the tender areas, and good old-fashioned arse-licking, the favour of the Fallen is always in high demand. But age is the most important of these. Stay alive long enough and you’ll move towards the top through sheer attrition. Age has always conferred power in Hell.
The whole concept of corrupting certain of the souls in Hell into new demons had been mostly an accident, but it remains one of the most effective innovations in Hell’s history. As Crowley often mentions in his reports - and honestly, he never thought anyone actually read those things, or he would never have said anything - humans are far, far better at the business of evil than your average fallen angel. They have imagination. Angelic stock, even with the influence of Hell itself clawing into their Grace for a billion years, can’t come up with anything even close to their dizzying heights of nastiness. Or good, for that matter, but it seemed Heaven hasn’t caught on to that idea as a recruitment policy yet.
Crowley’s main contact with these lesser demons, those who used to be human once, before Hell dug its claws into them, is not quite your everyday rank and file grunt. They’ve known each other for a very long time, nearly as long as he has Aziraphale, and they are, as much as two demons can be, friends. He was one of the first generation, back in the old days of Ur, of Sodom and Gomorrah, when humans had only just developed far enough to be capable of choice. Back when Adam and Eve had only recently been chucked out of Eden, and he and his angel were still at each others’ throats most of the time. Back then, everyone had to have a go at the torture business, just so the Dukes could find those with a real talent for it. Crowley hadn’t exactly enjoyed it, but back then he was... colder. Angrier. Anyway, the man he broke became his protégé of sorts for a time, before he struck out on his own, and there’s always been a sort of twisted affection between them.
James has gone through a lot of names, but he’s been using Crowley’s as his surname for several hundred years now. It comes in useful; there are advantages to being able to be in two places at once, reputation wise, and seeing as James works over in America in Sales, there’s no harm in the borrowing. He’s kind of used to it now, and it is, after all, something of a compliment.
Crowley hasn’t talked to James since the Second World War, when Crowley was hanging around Germany making sure no-one had figured out how to use the Spear of Destiny, and racking up commendations downstairs for things he had absolutely no part in, and which in all honesty made him slightly ill, and which he tried very hard not to think about. James, predictably, loved every minute of it. He hasn’t exactly been entirely truthful with the other demon, but then no-one ever is in Hell. Trust isn’t a word his side are familiar with. Friendship only goes so far. Still, he doubts most demons are covering up fraternisation with an angel.
Anyway, James doesn’t know any of this. He doesn’t know Crowley tried to stop the Apocalypse, or about the Arrangement. He actually looks up to Crowley, believes everything that’s written down on all those commendations he’s received for things he was only ever in close proximity too. The Holocaust. The Spanish Inquisition. It’s... unpleasant, but James is far nastier than he would ever want to be. Ex-human, remember. But whatever’s going on here, he’ll know about it. Sales gets all the gossip.
-----
It has been some time since Aziraphale has been back to the Silver City; not since his last discorporation indeed, and that was centuries ago. He is expecting to be held up at the gates for some time while they check his papers, so to speak, but he is pleasantly surprised when the Seraph on desk duty waves him in, barely looking up. Once inside, he allows himself to shake out his wings and unfurl his Grace, sunning himself in the warmth of his first home. But there is something not quite right, some strange feeling or aura that should not be here. He frowns as he tries to work out what exactly he’s sensing, but it is too vague to pin down. Anyway, he has a job to do.
It is not too difficult to track down Castiel’s location. He goes to visit his garrison first of all, and finds no-one has been told about his role in the Apocalypse, which is rather cheering. Of course, all this friends are Second and Third Sphere, so perhaps the Firsts are keeping it to themselves for now. He spends some time chatting with Malakai and Tienel, a pair of Powers he had become quite friendly with after his demotion, and after the usual gossip and catching up, he gets them round to the topic at hand.
“Castiel,” Malakai says thoughtfully. “I think I know that name. Yes, I recognise it from one of the reports. He’s up to something important, so I hear. One of... Her garrison.” He looks half-disgusted, half-pitiful. Aziraphale is immediately concerned.
“Her?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”
“Anael,” Malakai says. “She chose to Fall, some time ago. Of course you wouldn’t know, you haven’t exactly been keeping in touch.” He gives Aziraphale a reproachful look, not that he notices it. There’s a kind of white noise filling his head. Shock, he thinks dully. Anael... she is - was - one of the Seven, the Archangels who were Firstborn, who sit at the foot of their Father’s throne. It is practically inconceivable that she should Fall.
“What?” he says aloud. “But... how?”
“No-one knows,” Tienel says. “She wanted to become a human, the story goes, though how true that is...”
There must be more to the story than that, Aziraphale thinks, pulling himself together. He has a task to do here, and he shouldn’t let any news, no matter how bad, put him off from it. And perhaps Castiel will know more, if he was in her garrison. He can ask.
“You say Castiel was in her garrison?”
Malakai nods. “They put Zachariah in charge in the meantime. They’ve been given some sort of important task to do, down on Earth. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything? I mean you’re down there all the time...”
“No, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale replies, smiling tightly. “But if I hear anything, I promise I’ll pass the word along.”
“Thank you brother,” Tienel says, stepping forward to hug him, their wings touching softly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Do pop in from time to time,” Malakai tells him. Aziraphale waves goodbye to them as he stretches his wings and takes to the air. They have a point. He does have friends in Heaven, for all that they would probably shun him or worse if they knew everything he was up to on Earth, and he shouldn’t neglect them.
Anael’s garrison is not far away from Raphael’s, but Aziraphale is becoming very aware of the amount of time he spends in the Silver City. It does not pass at the same speed as on Earth, though unlike Hell, it is faster, not slower. He has only been here for a short while, but it must have been several days on Earth at least, and Lucifer only gave him a week. He enters the tall building, his footsteps echoing on the marbled floor of the atrium. There aren’t many angels about, and the board behind the reception desk has about half the flags flipped down to show the relevant names are on Earth. He pauses when he sees the blank spaces where some names have been removed altogether. Whatever is going on, his brothers are dying for it.
“Hello,” he says to the Power behind the desk, trying for jolly but falling flat. “I’m looking for Castiel.”
“Earth,” the angel says, not looking up from his paperwork.
“Um, yes,” Aziraphale says, “but I was hoping to be a bit more specific than that.”
The Power looks up, sighs, and slides a form towards him. “If you’ve been requisitioned for Seal duty you need to speak to Uriel. Fill this out please.”
“Oh, no, no,” he stammers, shaking his head. “No, I just needed to talk to him.”
The Power regards him suspiciously. “Okay,” he says slowly. “He’s in South Dakota, America. Sioux Falls. But he’s very busy, so if he doesn’t want to speak to you, don’t come complaining to me.”
“Ah. No. Thank you.” Aziraphale backs away and leaves quickly. Uriel? He thought Zachariah was in charge of their garrison now? This is all very strange, but then he supposes that if Lucifer had wanted to know about it, there must be something going on. But what? Ah well, he has Castiel’s location now, and perhaps then things will become a little clearer.
-----
Castiel, when he finds him, is keeping watch over a house in the middle of a scrap-yard. It’s in one of the quieter suburbs of the town, and there is nothing particularly unusual about it. Castiel doesn’t react in the slightest when Aziraphale alights beside him. He holds himself very stiffly in his human vessel, as though he isn’t quite used to how it feels yet. He is surprisingly young; from the way the Power had spoken, Aziraphale had been expecting one of his original brothers. Castiel is nearly a fledgling. He clears his throat, and Castiel’s head turns, independent of the rest of his body.
“Hello brother,” Aziraphale says brightly. “I don’t suppose I could have a word? If you’re not too busy that is.”
Castiel turns to face him properly, gaze bright and scanning him closely. Aziraphale can feel the itch as it presses on his Grace. “I do not believe I know you, brother,” the Principality says, narrowing his eyes.
“My name is Aziraphale, one of Raphael’s garrison,” he replies, a little taken aback by the other angel’s almost-hostility. His stare rather reminds him of Crowley’s; there is a certain lack of blinking going on. “I was told you were here, and I just wanted to speak with you for a moment. It won’t take long.” He smiles, trying to look friendly.
“What are your orders?” There’s not a hint of emotion. It’s unnatural, even for one of Heaven’s front-line soldiers, which Castiel clearly is.
“Well, I don’t have any, specifically. I mean,” he says quickly, “it is quite important I talk to you, but it’s not quite official, if you see what I mean.”
It’s as if a switch was flipped; Castiel turns his back without a word and returns to watching the house. Aziraphale feels rather put out. It really is terribly rude to start ignoring one’s visitors right in the middle of a conversation. He had expected the other angel to have better manners. He frowns, and is about to try and get his attention again when he sees the scars. They aren’t obvious, or he would have noticed them before, but they are harsh and ugly, marring the delicate flesh of his wings. Punishment scars. He is well aware that Heaven’s punishments for disobedience have been growing worse - indeed he’s lucky not to have suffered it himself, he knows that - but he’s never actually seen the results before. It isn’t pleasant.
“Castiel,” he says softly. “How did you disobey?”
The angel tenses almost imperceptibly, and pulls his wings in to his body as tight as they will go. “It is immaterial,” he replies coldly. “I was foolish. I should not have questioned Father’s will, or the rightness of what we are doing here.”
Aziraphale would give anything to be able to help him, but these scars, both mental and physical, will not fade. That’s rather the point. The scars are a mark of shame for the rest of the Host to see. It’s no wonder Castiel is acting like this, with the things that have been done to him in the name of... what? What is going on here?
He doesn’t want to make Castiel talk when his wounds must still be so fresh, but knowing what Heaven is doing is important. He can see that now, there is something very wrong undercutting all this, it’s no wonder Lucifer was interested. He sidesteps the topic for now.
“I heard Uriel was on Earth as well,” he begins cautiously.
“He was.” Past tense, the words drop like stones into the silent night. Castiel still doesn’t look at him. “He is dead.”
“What?” He can’t quite process it, at first. Death is almost a foreign concept to angels; discorporation doesn’t count, and it’s not easy to kill them. But an Archangel, one of the Seven, God’s favoured... This sort of thing just doesn’t happen. Not since the war... Not ever, for one of Heaven’s Generals. And on top of what he was told about Anael... “But... how?”
“He disobeyed. Anna- Anael’s blade made the stroke, but it was our Father’s will.”
Aziraphale rather feels like he needs to sit down. A cup of tea, that’s what he needs. Some biscuits. Something to take his mind off... this. It’s unbelievable, it’s so very, very wrong, he can’t... Did Lucifer know this, when he sent him off on this mission? Is this some barbed punishment of his, to have him find out these things like this? He sinks down onto the hood of one of the rusting cars packed into the scrap-yard, burying his face in his hands. It’s not even as if he ever had any particular fondness for Uriel, but he was still one of his brothers, one of the brightest, one of the firstborn. And yet Castiel seems not to care. Unless that’s just the re-education working.
“But, wait,” he says, realising something. “You said Anael? I thought she had Fallen?”
“She had. She regained her Grace.”
Aziraphale runs one hand through his hair, trying to get his whirling thoughts under some measure of control. He needs to talk to Crowley. He needs to work out the bigger picture here. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
As he takes flight, he’s not even sure if Castiel notices him leave.
------
Crowley has been lounging around James’ rather nice home for three days now, and he still hasn’t managed to get the details on the big plan out of him. Which is not to say he hasn’t found out a lot - as it turns out, James is working for the being passing itself off as Lilith, though of course he isn’t aware that she’s an imposter. He’s acting undeniably smug with the power of knowledge and being in someone’s inner circle for once, even though Crowley hasn’t let on exactly how much he doesn’t know. At least he wears it well. Crowley taught him well, back in the day. They are quite similar, in many ways. It’s just that smugness is not very helpful.
So far he has managed to discover the following, all without admitting he didn’t know in the first place of course; that Azazel, fallen angel of Nephilim fame had been going around feeding his blood to children from seriously heavy-duty vessel bloodlines, and is now permanently out of commission due to a head-shot from the infamous - and Crowley had thought up till now, mythical - Colt; that one of those kids had been the brother of the Righteous Man; that the fake-Lilith is working on breaking the 66 seals, though he’s not entirely clear on what those are; and that the last of these is due to be broken in four days, the day after Lucifer’s deadline runs due. The problem now is getting any more out of him without being too obvious about it. Idle gossip is one thing, but this stuff is the big-time. Crowley can’t say he didn’t know about it and keep any kind of credibility. In the mean time, he has to put up with a steady diet of scotch, which he has never been very keen on, a distinct lack of decent food, and an inexorable loop of Nazi rallies, genocide, and snuff porn on a TV which is half a bloody inch bigger than the one in his own apartment. It’s all very tiresome and not at all to his taste. He sometimes wishes the damn camera hadn’t been invented. Still, without it, he would never have come up with reality TV.
“Tell me some more about this Righteous Man,” he says, looking over his shoulder to make sure James isn’t watching too closely when he transforms the whiskey into a rather nice white wine. “I still can’t quite believe he lasted thirty years at Alistair’s hands.”
“It is an extraordinary achievement,” James smirks, turning the music down. “But after he broke, now, that was glorious. He has a talent for it, a certain... imagination. Normally they’re so squeamish about the first couple, they have to be reminded why they got off the rack in the first place, but not Dean. Alistair started him off on some real bastards, I must admit, but even so, he just dug right in.” He makes a rather illustrative gesture. “The ‘Best Of’ Tapes were a real hit downstairs. I’d let you borrow my set, but I think I lent them to Ishtar.”
“So much for the righteousness of the Righteous Man.” Crowley smirks, fanning himself with the edge of one wing. James likes to keep his house hot - as Hell, if you’ll pardon the cliché - not to mention that his protégé has always been fascinated by his wings. It’s a popular kink in ex-humans. But of course, they are demons, so the appeal is more in the delicious possibilities for violence that can be inflicted on their more tender parts. His friend is watching them right now with a kind of awe and hunger; obviously he’s thinking about it. Crowley might worry if he thought the lesser demon was actually capable of taking him in a fight, sexual or otherwise, but they’ve proved in the past that’s not so. He stretches out the pinions so the butter-gold feathers gleam in the light of the fire.
“Satan knows, the angels don’t seem to mind what he did down there,” James says, sounding mildly distracted.
“Castiel and Uriel. They’re pulling out all the stops up there if they’re sending down one of the Seven.”
“A dead Archangel now,” James says, with a small laugh, sipping his scotch. Crowley can’t prevent surprise and shock showing on his face for a moment before he manages to suppress it. But clearly he can’t ask for more details, this is obviously one of those things he should have known. He needs to talk to Aziraphale about this. That kind of casualty... it can’t have gone unnoticed in the Silver City.
“Is Lilith letting you help with the final seal?” he asks instead. His protégé shakes his head.
“Ruby’s with Sam Winchester, more’s the pity.” He sighs. “I would have loved to be the one feeding him my blood, though I doubt he’d be so keen on the violent sex from me.” His lips quirk in a wry smile. “No, I’m just sitting here on the sidelines, guarding the Colt.”
“Oh, so you’re the one who has it,” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow, though his thoughts are whirling behind his otherwise calm facade. He hadn’t mentioned blood before, or not in the present tense, and that... well, that’s just dangerous. It might not be as potent as Azazel’s blood, not being of angelic origin, but it’s still edging dangerously close to Nephelim territory. What are these guys playing at?
James meanwhile is smug with pride. And he’s probably justified, considering Crowley had thought the gun wasn’t real not too long ago. “Yes, I have it,” he says. “Would you like to take a look?”
Crowley waves him off. “Perhaps later.” He gives his friend a long look, yellow eyes glinting. “Anyway James, it’s crass to boast,” he says, poking fun lightly. James is about to reply when they both feel a presence touch against the angel-proof wards that mark the edges of the demon’s property, and it’s one which he knows. Aziraphale. Handy, since he does need to talk to him, but he’s not sure why his angel came looking for him. They’re going to meet up in a few days anyway.
James is just starting to get up. “Won’t be a moment Anthony,” he says cheerfully. “I’ve got a nice, agonising set of Enochian curses I’ve been saving up for an opportunity like this.” His smile is cheerful and not a little bloodthirsty. Crowley is not pleased.
“No, no, I’ll deal with it,” he says hastily, springing to his feet. “Wouldn’t want you to waste your resources when I can deal with the problem for you. I could do with the taste of angel on my tongue anyway. It’s been a while.” He grins, enjoying the innuendo he knows his friend won’t get. He’ll take it to mean blood, not other, more pleasant, substances.
James looks disappointed, but he’s not about to protest. “Guests first,” he says graciously. “I’ll watch.”
Crowley tuts mock-anxiously. “You’re possessing that body, James, and I would hate for you to lose the meat-suit if things get out of hand. You’ve had it for long enough that it must hold some sentimental value, at least.”
James sits back down and gestures to the door languidly. “Oh, go ahead then.”
Crowley smiles at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you get your chance next time.”
----
Lucifer has been keeping a careful eye on Creation since Yahweh left, and without the Name to anchor reality, the instability is continuing to get worse. He has not yet decided what, if anything, he is going to do about it. The collapse of this Creation will not affect his own realm, and he does not owe anything to it or the beings that inhabit it. He may yet open his doors and let the refugees flee to him, but it is a possibility that will wait for him to consider. His generosity is not endless, and the disadvantages of doing so may outweigh the meagre benefits. If they wish to blame anyone, blame his Father.
In the meantime, he only intends to prevent any other beings from taking Yahweh’s throne and assuming the vacuum of power that has been left behind. The only two who have the right to sit upon it are Michael and himself, and as his brother refuses it, and he could only take it with a fight he judges not worth the cost, it must remain empty. If they cannot have it, certainly no-one else will.
But for now he has the current problem to deal with. The angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley are due to report back to him soon, after which he is sure that any real threat can be taken care of swiftly by himself or with Michael’s aid, if it is serious. Not that he is overconfident - he has learnt after the confrontation with the Titans that this would be a mistake - but he knows the limits of his own abilities, and the same trick never works twice.
The wards on Aziraphale’s bookshop have been strengthened since his last visit, as he expected, but he is not so easily kept out. He makes himself at home in the back room, reclining on a frankly hideous tartan couch, and settles down to wait. Patience comes easily to immortals as ancient as he; indeed, for most of them, it is being required to act quickly in the face of a threat that poses a problem. In contrast, fledglings and the like have no patience at all.
The Morningstar spends several hours in silence and peaceful contemplation, watching the metaphysical fabric of the surrounding area of the city carelessly unravelling without the Name to hold it together. It is not yet at a stage where there is cause to worry, but he wouldn’t give it more than five years, and that at a stretch. It is helped a little by the slight stabilising effect of Aziraphale’s own presence, which has worked its way into the warp and weft of reality after so many centuries. Angels still possess something of the divine Essence about them.
When Aziraphale eventually returns, he brings Crowley with him, and he has a general aura of worry and disturbance about him that does not seem to be solely due to Lucifer’s presence. The pair notice him as soon as they arrive, fluttering through space-time on silent wind, and are immediately wary. Aziraphale bustles about making tea, which the Morningstar suspects is an anti-stress mechanism, while Crowley leans against the doorframe and keeps a careful eye on him. Their fear and distrust amuses him slightly. While he would think them fools if they actually trusted him, he holds no particular malice towards them. He would not have them come to harm while they are still useful to him.
Aziraphale puts a tray down on the table and sits down on the equally fashion-challenged, equally tartan sofa opposite him. There are three cups on the tray, a bowl of sugar cubes and a packet of chocolate chip cookies from Mark’s & Spencer’s. The angel has become painfully native, Lucifer notes, with a sort of internal sigh. There is something crass about stooping to such a human level. Blending in is all very well if one intends to make a permanent habitation on Earth, but there are lines one really ought not cross. Or at the very least, try to keep some sense of style. Crowley seems to manage.
“What did you discover?” he asks, ignoring the cup of tea Aziraphale leaves by his elbow, balancing miraculously in a precarious position on the arm of the couch.
Aziraphale sighs. “Uriel is dead,” he says quietly, looking at the floor and clutching his teacup. “and Anael has Fallen, or something like it. Apparently he disobeyed somehow, and so she killed him. But the whole thing is being hushed up.” He glances up with unmistakable anger. “No-one I spoke to even knew one of the Seven was dead. Only Castiel, and only because he was working with him!”
Lucifer has to confess he’s surprised at this news. He would have thought Michael would have informed him of something so severe, no matter how bad the enmity is between them. After all, these are his brothers in rank, the firstborn. Family, even if he holds no particular love for them. Coming as it does so close to the Seals breaking, it seems very unlikely the two occurrences are not related, and whatever the link, this business becomes more worrying the further he looks into it.
“And what of Castiel?” he asks.
“Watching over the Righteous Man and his brother.” The angel looks uneasy. “I know there’s a prophecy about those humans, but I really can’t think what it is, and I’m afraid I’ve not had the chance to look it up yet.”
“Prophecies are vile things in any case,” Lucifer says, “but I am aware of this one, as it used to pertain to me. Before I left Hell, there were six hundred Seals keeping me in. In one of the possible paths that can be taken to the Apocalypse, sixty-six of them must be broken to free me and set events in action. The Righteous Man breaks the first Seal by himself being broken in Hell, and his brother must break the last by surrendering to his birthright, and doing evil though meaning good.”
“So someone’s trying to kick-start the Apocalypse again?” Crowley asks. “Well that’s just great.” He’s taken a cup of tea in an attempt to look nonchalant, with limited success, judging by the way the china is starting to crack in his grip.
“Without my presence in Hell, it would no longer work,” Lucifer says. “And I doubt Remiel and Dumas will allow the gates of Hell to open, Seals or no Seals.”
Crowley shrugs and gulps his tea. “I know a guy who’s working for this fake-Lilith. He said they’ve got a demon - ex-human - feeding the younger brother her blood, something about Azazel and the fact he’s a heavy-duty vessel. I’m guessing that has something to do with his birthright?”
“Yes; corruption through blood. It isn’t necessary for him to be a vessel, but it would make it easier for his body to accept the changes.” It makes things a little clearer, but only to show there must be angelic influence somewhere in all this. As if whatever is going on in Heaven didn’t prove that.
“He wouldn’t tell me what their endgame was, and I couldn’t ask without showing I didn’t know what he was on about,” Crowley says. “But they’re planning on breaking the final Seal tomorrow night at St Mary’s Convent, in Ilchester, Maryland, if you’re planning on stopping them from finishing the job.”
“It would be wise to do so,” the Morningstar says. He doesn’t like the picture which is beginning to emerge in his mind, but without knowing who Lilith really is, or what exactly she is trying to achieve, he can’t be sure of anything. Turning back to Aziraphale he asks, “What did Castiel tell you of Heaven’s plans to stop the last Seal breaking?”
“He refused to speak to me without orders,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting. “I think... he said he had disobeyed recently, and he had punishment scars on his wings...” He gestures vaguely. “I doubt he’ll do anything but follow the absolute letter of the law from now on.”
Pain being about the only thing that would still a Third Sphere’s tongue, Lucifer thinks irritably. Inconvenient. He has to wonder what orders the angel had thought so abhorrent that it would risk punishment. “It would be inadvisable to allow the final Seal to break,” he says, after some thought. “And we cannot rely on Heaven without knowing what they mean to do, if anything. It is clear I will have to take action myself.” He doesn’t anticipate running into any difficulties there.
“We’re coming with you,” Aziraphale says firmly, putting his cup down and fixing his gaze on Lucifer. Crowley makes an aborted little movement forwards in surprise before he collects himself.
“What?” he says, low and angry. “Angel!”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Aziraphale tells him, turning to the demon, his tone steely. “Uriel is dead, and I want to know why. I want to know why it’s being kept secret. I want to know what’s so important.”
Lucifer watches with a certain amusement as Aziraphale and Crowley have a silent contest of wills, enacted solely through glaring at each other. As long as they don’t get in his way, he couldn’t care less what they choose to do. As expected, the angel wins the argument, though Crowley doesn’t look happy about it.
“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” he says finally, in as magnanimous a fashion as he can manage.
“Very well,” Lucifer says, standing. “We should leave at one. I would prefer to be there in plenty of time.” He spreads his wings and fixes the Name of the location in his mind, and with a flick of power and Grace, reality bends around them and they take flight.
Rating: R for language and violence
Pairings: Brief Dean/Castiel, Crowley/Aziraphale, mentions of Crowley/Crowley
Word Count: 5632
Warnings: Violence, some language, probably blasphemous concepts
Author’s Note: A triple crossover between Supernatural, Good Omens, and the Lucifer comics by Mike Carey. Set during Supernatural’s 5th season, and has elements of AU for all of it that’s been shown so far, and will definitely be AU for the eventual ending. Set after the events of Good Omens and sometime between Lucifer #44 and #46. (Also, I really couldn’t help having a double helping of Crowley in this. Giving him a first name was kind of necessary for clarity.)
Summary: For all their dealings with pagan gods and monsters from mythology, Sam and Dean ought to know by now that there are more powers in the world than Heaven and Hell.
Chapter One
“Shit,” Crowley gasps after the Morningstar has left. “A week. That’s not exactly a lot of time, is it?”
“Calm down dear,” Aziraphale says, with a distracted air. “I have to wonder why he came to us. We’re not the most well connected beings in Heaven and Hell, now are we?”
“Angel, do I look like I give a fuck? I just want him to leave satisfied, and with us in one piece.”
“I don’t think he still cares about the Apocalypse you know,” Aziraphale says conversationally. “He didn’t seem angry to you, did he?”
“It’s Lucifer, Aziraphale; he doesn’t go around advertising it like some of your lot. It isn’t his style. You just push too far and bam,” He snaps his fingers violently. “You go up in a ball of flame. No sodding thank you.”
Aziraphale sighs. “There’s no need to be so melodramatic my dear, I take your point quite clearly. We’ll just do as he asks and everything will be fine. I doubt he can be bothered to waste any energy on the likes of us. And we can rely on his discretion as well, if only because he likes to have something to hang over people’s heads.”
“Well I’m not about to take any chances until the week is over,” Crowley says, waving his hand vaguely to return himself to snappily-dressed normal, suit and tie perfectly crisp as though he hadn’t dumped them on the floor ten minutes ago. “I’m going to stock up on holy water and holy oil. You should too, you know.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says in a conciliatory manner, but it’s too late. The fallen angel has already spread his wings and is gone.
-----
Crowley rather enjoys working alone, not counting Aziraphale of course, but luck favours the well-connected, and so he likes to keep an ear to the ground when he can. The lesser demons come in very useful here, since as cannon-fodder they have a healthy - or not so healthy as the case may be - turnaround time between Earth and Hell, and considering the only real way to get ahead in Hell is through a mixture of age, the ability to kick those weaker and smaller than you in the tender areas, and good old-fashioned arse-licking, the favour of the Fallen is always in high demand. But age is the most important of these. Stay alive long enough and you’ll move towards the top through sheer attrition. Age has always conferred power in Hell.
The whole concept of corrupting certain of the souls in Hell into new demons had been mostly an accident, but it remains one of the most effective innovations in Hell’s history. As Crowley often mentions in his reports - and honestly, he never thought anyone actually read those things, or he would never have said anything - humans are far, far better at the business of evil than your average fallen angel. They have imagination. Angelic stock, even with the influence of Hell itself clawing into their Grace for a billion years, can’t come up with anything even close to their dizzying heights of nastiness. Or good, for that matter, but it seemed Heaven hasn’t caught on to that idea as a recruitment policy yet.
Crowley’s main contact with these lesser demons, those who used to be human once, before Hell dug its claws into them, is not quite your everyday rank and file grunt. They’ve known each other for a very long time, nearly as long as he has Aziraphale, and they are, as much as two demons can be, friends. He was one of the first generation, back in the old days of Ur, of Sodom and Gomorrah, when humans had only just developed far enough to be capable of choice. Back when Adam and Eve had only recently been chucked out of Eden, and he and his angel were still at each others’ throats most of the time. Back then, everyone had to have a go at the torture business, just so the Dukes could find those with a real talent for it. Crowley hadn’t exactly enjoyed it, but back then he was... colder. Angrier. Anyway, the man he broke became his protégé of sorts for a time, before he struck out on his own, and there’s always been a sort of twisted affection between them.
James has gone through a lot of names, but he’s been using Crowley’s as his surname for several hundred years now. It comes in useful; there are advantages to being able to be in two places at once, reputation wise, and seeing as James works over in America in Sales, there’s no harm in the borrowing. He’s kind of used to it now, and it is, after all, something of a compliment.
Crowley hasn’t talked to James since the Second World War, when Crowley was hanging around Germany making sure no-one had figured out how to use the Spear of Destiny, and racking up commendations downstairs for things he had absolutely no part in, and which in all honesty made him slightly ill, and which he tried very hard not to think about. James, predictably, loved every minute of it. He hasn’t exactly been entirely truthful with the other demon, but then no-one ever is in Hell. Trust isn’t a word his side are familiar with. Friendship only goes so far. Still, he doubts most demons are covering up fraternisation with an angel.
Anyway, James doesn’t know any of this. He doesn’t know Crowley tried to stop the Apocalypse, or about the Arrangement. He actually looks up to Crowley, believes everything that’s written down on all those commendations he’s received for things he was only ever in close proximity too. The Holocaust. The Spanish Inquisition. It’s... unpleasant, but James is far nastier than he would ever want to be. Ex-human, remember. But whatever’s going on here, he’ll know about it. Sales gets all the gossip.
-----
It has been some time since Aziraphale has been back to the Silver City; not since his last discorporation indeed, and that was centuries ago. He is expecting to be held up at the gates for some time while they check his papers, so to speak, but he is pleasantly surprised when the Seraph on desk duty waves him in, barely looking up. Once inside, he allows himself to shake out his wings and unfurl his Grace, sunning himself in the warmth of his first home. But there is something not quite right, some strange feeling or aura that should not be here. He frowns as he tries to work out what exactly he’s sensing, but it is too vague to pin down. Anyway, he has a job to do.
It is not too difficult to track down Castiel’s location. He goes to visit his garrison first of all, and finds no-one has been told about his role in the Apocalypse, which is rather cheering. Of course, all this friends are Second and Third Sphere, so perhaps the Firsts are keeping it to themselves for now. He spends some time chatting with Malakai and Tienel, a pair of Powers he had become quite friendly with after his demotion, and after the usual gossip and catching up, he gets them round to the topic at hand.
“Castiel,” Malakai says thoughtfully. “I think I know that name. Yes, I recognise it from one of the reports. He’s up to something important, so I hear. One of... Her garrison.” He looks half-disgusted, half-pitiful. Aziraphale is immediately concerned.
“Her?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”
“Anael,” Malakai says. “She chose to Fall, some time ago. Of course you wouldn’t know, you haven’t exactly been keeping in touch.” He gives Aziraphale a reproachful look, not that he notices it. There’s a kind of white noise filling his head. Shock, he thinks dully. Anael... she is - was - one of the Seven, the Archangels who were Firstborn, who sit at the foot of their Father’s throne. It is practically inconceivable that she should Fall.
“What?” he says aloud. “But... how?”
“No-one knows,” Tienel says. “She wanted to become a human, the story goes, though how true that is...”
There must be more to the story than that, Aziraphale thinks, pulling himself together. He has a task to do here, and he shouldn’t let any news, no matter how bad, put him off from it. And perhaps Castiel will know more, if he was in her garrison. He can ask.
“You say Castiel was in her garrison?”
Malakai nods. “They put Zachariah in charge in the meantime. They’ve been given some sort of important task to do, down on Earth. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything? I mean you’re down there all the time...”
“No, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale replies, smiling tightly. “But if I hear anything, I promise I’ll pass the word along.”
“Thank you brother,” Tienel says, stepping forward to hug him, their wings touching softly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Do pop in from time to time,” Malakai tells him. Aziraphale waves goodbye to them as he stretches his wings and takes to the air. They have a point. He does have friends in Heaven, for all that they would probably shun him or worse if they knew everything he was up to on Earth, and he shouldn’t neglect them.
Anael’s garrison is not far away from Raphael’s, but Aziraphale is becoming very aware of the amount of time he spends in the Silver City. It does not pass at the same speed as on Earth, though unlike Hell, it is faster, not slower. He has only been here for a short while, but it must have been several days on Earth at least, and Lucifer only gave him a week. He enters the tall building, his footsteps echoing on the marbled floor of the atrium. There aren’t many angels about, and the board behind the reception desk has about half the flags flipped down to show the relevant names are on Earth. He pauses when he sees the blank spaces where some names have been removed altogether. Whatever is going on, his brothers are dying for it.
“Hello,” he says to the Power behind the desk, trying for jolly but falling flat. “I’m looking for Castiel.”
“Earth,” the angel says, not looking up from his paperwork.
“Um, yes,” Aziraphale says, “but I was hoping to be a bit more specific than that.”
The Power looks up, sighs, and slides a form towards him. “If you’ve been requisitioned for Seal duty you need to speak to Uriel. Fill this out please.”
“Oh, no, no,” he stammers, shaking his head. “No, I just needed to talk to him.”
The Power regards him suspiciously. “Okay,” he says slowly. “He’s in South Dakota, America. Sioux Falls. But he’s very busy, so if he doesn’t want to speak to you, don’t come complaining to me.”
“Ah. No. Thank you.” Aziraphale backs away and leaves quickly. Uriel? He thought Zachariah was in charge of their garrison now? This is all very strange, but then he supposes that if Lucifer had wanted to know about it, there must be something going on. But what? Ah well, he has Castiel’s location now, and perhaps then things will become a little clearer.
-----
Castiel, when he finds him, is keeping watch over a house in the middle of a scrap-yard. It’s in one of the quieter suburbs of the town, and there is nothing particularly unusual about it. Castiel doesn’t react in the slightest when Aziraphale alights beside him. He holds himself very stiffly in his human vessel, as though he isn’t quite used to how it feels yet. He is surprisingly young; from the way the Power had spoken, Aziraphale had been expecting one of his original brothers. Castiel is nearly a fledgling. He clears his throat, and Castiel’s head turns, independent of the rest of his body.
“Hello brother,” Aziraphale says brightly. “I don’t suppose I could have a word? If you’re not too busy that is.”
Castiel turns to face him properly, gaze bright and scanning him closely. Aziraphale can feel the itch as it presses on his Grace. “I do not believe I know you, brother,” the Principality says, narrowing his eyes.
“My name is Aziraphale, one of Raphael’s garrison,” he replies, a little taken aback by the other angel’s almost-hostility. His stare rather reminds him of Crowley’s; there is a certain lack of blinking going on. “I was told you were here, and I just wanted to speak with you for a moment. It won’t take long.” He smiles, trying to look friendly.
“What are your orders?” There’s not a hint of emotion. It’s unnatural, even for one of Heaven’s front-line soldiers, which Castiel clearly is.
“Well, I don’t have any, specifically. I mean,” he says quickly, “it is quite important I talk to you, but it’s not quite official, if you see what I mean.”
It’s as if a switch was flipped; Castiel turns his back without a word and returns to watching the house. Aziraphale feels rather put out. It really is terribly rude to start ignoring one’s visitors right in the middle of a conversation. He had expected the other angel to have better manners. He frowns, and is about to try and get his attention again when he sees the scars. They aren’t obvious, or he would have noticed them before, but they are harsh and ugly, marring the delicate flesh of his wings. Punishment scars. He is well aware that Heaven’s punishments for disobedience have been growing worse - indeed he’s lucky not to have suffered it himself, he knows that - but he’s never actually seen the results before. It isn’t pleasant.
“Castiel,” he says softly. “How did you disobey?”
The angel tenses almost imperceptibly, and pulls his wings in to his body as tight as they will go. “It is immaterial,” he replies coldly. “I was foolish. I should not have questioned Father’s will, or the rightness of what we are doing here.”
Aziraphale would give anything to be able to help him, but these scars, both mental and physical, will not fade. That’s rather the point. The scars are a mark of shame for the rest of the Host to see. It’s no wonder Castiel is acting like this, with the things that have been done to him in the name of... what? What is going on here?
He doesn’t want to make Castiel talk when his wounds must still be so fresh, but knowing what Heaven is doing is important. He can see that now, there is something very wrong undercutting all this, it’s no wonder Lucifer was interested. He sidesteps the topic for now.
“I heard Uriel was on Earth as well,” he begins cautiously.
“He was.” Past tense, the words drop like stones into the silent night. Castiel still doesn’t look at him. “He is dead.”
“What?” He can’t quite process it, at first. Death is almost a foreign concept to angels; discorporation doesn’t count, and it’s not easy to kill them. But an Archangel, one of the Seven, God’s favoured... This sort of thing just doesn’t happen. Not since the war... Not ever, for one of Heaven’s Generals. And on top of what he was told about Anael... “But... how?”
“He disobeyed. Anna- Anael’s blade made the stroke, but it was our Father’s will.”
Aziraphale rather feels like he needs to sit down. A cup of tea, that’s what he needs. Some biscuits. Something to take his mind off... this. It’s unbelievable, it’s so very, very wrong, he can’t... Did Lucifer know this, when he sent him off on this mission? Is this some barbed punishment of his, to have him find out these things like this? He sinks down onto the hood of one of the rusting cars packed into the scrap-yard, burying his face in his hands. It’s not even as if he ever had any particular fondness for Uriel, but he was still one of his brothers, one of the brightest, one of the firstborn. And yet Castiel seems not to care. Unless that’s just the re-education working.
“But, wait,” he says, realising something. “You said Anael? I thought she had Fallen?”
“She had. She regained her Grace.”
Aziraphale runs one hand through his hair, trying to get his whirling thoughts under some measure of control. He needs to talk to Crowley. He needs to work out the bigger picture here. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
As he takes flight, he’s not even sure if Castiel notices him leave.
------
Crowley has been lounging around James’ rather nice home for three days now, and he still hasn’t managed to get the details on the big plan out of him. Which is not to say he hasn’t found out a lot - as it turns out, James is working for the being passing itself off as Lilith, though of course he isn’t aware that she’s an imposter. He’s acting undeniably smug with the power of knowledge and being in someone’s inner circle for once, even though Crowley hasn’t let on exactly how much he doesn’t know. At least he wears it well. Crowley taught him well, back in the day. They are quite similar, in many ways. It’s just that smugness is not very helpful.
So far he has managed to discover the following, all without admitting he didn’t know in the first place of course; that Azazel, fallen angel of Nephilim fame had been going around feeding his blood to children from seriously heavy-duty vessel bloodlines, and is now permanently out of commission due to a head-shot from the infamous - and Crowley had thought up till now, mythical - Colt; that one of those kids had been the brother of the Righteous Man; that the fake-Lilith is working on breaking the 66 seals, though he’s not entirely clear on what those are; and that the last of these is due to be broken in four days, the day after Lucifer’s deadline runs due. The problem now is getting any more out of him without being too obvious about it. Idle gossip is one thing, but this stuff is the big-time. Crowley can’t say he didn’t know about it and keep any kind of credibility. In the mean time, he has to put up with a steady diet of scotch, which he has never been very keen on, a distinct lack of decent food, and an inexorable loop of Nazi rallies, genocide, and snuff porn on a TV which is half a bloody inch bigger than the one in his own apartment. It’s all very tiresome and not at all to his taste. He sometimes wishes the damn camera hadn’t been invented. Still, without it, he would never have come up with reality TV.
“Tell me some more about this Righteous Man,” he says, looking over his shoulder to make sure James isn’t watching too closely when he transforms the whiskey into a rather nice white wine. “I still can’t quite believe he lasted thirty years at Alistair’s hands.”
“It is an extraordinary achievement,” James smirks, turning the music down. “But after he broke, now, that was glorious. He has a talent for it, a certain... imagination. Normally they’re so squeamish about the first couple, they have to be reminded why they got off the rack in the first place, but not Dean. Alistair started him off on some real bastards, I must admit, but even so, he just dug right in.” He makes a rather illustrative gesture. “The ‘Best Of’ Tapes were a real hit downstairs. I’d let you borrow my set, but I think I lent them to Ishtar.”
“So much for the righteousness of the Righteous Man.” Crowley smirks, fanning himself with the edge of one wing. James likes to keep his house hot - as Hell, if you’ll pardon the cliché - not to mention that his protégé has always been fascinated by his wings. It’s a popular kink in ex-humans. But of course, they are demons, so the appeal is more in the delicious possibilities for violence that can be inflicted on their more tender parts. His friend is watching them right now with a kind of awe and hunger; obviously he’s thinking about it. Crowley might worry if he thought the lesser demon was actually capable of taking him in a fight, sexual or otherwise, but they’ve proved in the past that’s not so. He stretches out the pinions so the butter-gold feathers gleam in the light of the fire.
“Satan knows, the angels don’t seem to mind what he did down there,” James says, sounding mildly distracted.
“Castiel and Uriel. They’re pulling out all the stops up there if they’re sending down one of the Seven.”
“A dead Archangel now,” James says, with a small laugh, sipping his scotch. Crowley can’t prevent surprise and shock showing on his face for a moment before he manages to suppress it. But clearly he can’t ask for more details, this is obviously one of those things he should have known. He needs to talk to Aziraphale about this. That kind of casualty... it can’t have gone unnoticed in the Silver City.
“Is Lilith letting you help with the final seal?” he asks instead. His protégé shakes his head.
“Ruby’s with Sam Winchester, more’s the pity.” He sighs. “I would have loved to be the one feeding him my blood, though I doubt he’d be so keen on the violent sex from me.” His lips quirk in a wry smile. “No, I’m just sitting here on the sidelines, guarding the Colt.”
“Oh, so you’re the one who has it,” Crowley says, raising an eyebrow, though his thoughts are whirling behind his otherwise calm facade. He hadn’t mentioned blood before, or not in the present tense, and that... well, that’s just dangerous. It might not be as potent as Azazel’s blood, not being of angelic origin, but it’s still edging dangerously close to Nephelim territory. What are these guys playing at?
James meanwhile is smug with pride. And he’s probably justified, considering Crowley had thought the gun wasn’t real not too long ago. “Yes, I have it,” he says. “Would you like to take a look?”
Crowley waves him off. “Perhaps later.” He gives his friend a long look, yellow eyes glinting. “Anyway James, it’s crass to boast,” he says, poking fun lightly. James is about to reply when they both feel a presence touch against the angel-proof wards that mark the edges of the demon’s property, and it’s one which he knows. Aziraphale. Handy, since he does need to talk to him, but he’s not sure why his angel came looking for him. They’re going to meet up in a few days anyway.
James is just starting to get up. “Won’t be a moment Anthony,” he says cheerfully. “I’ve got a nice, agonising set of Enochian curses I’ve been saving up for an opportunity like this.” His smile is cheerful and not a little bloodthirsty. Crowley is not pleased.
“No, no, I’ll deal with it,” he says hastily, springing to his feet. “Wouldn’t want you to waste your resources when I can deal with the problem for you. I could do with the taste of angel on my tongue anyway. It’s been a while.” He grins, enjoying the innuendo he knows his friend won’t get. He’ll take it to mean blood, not other, more pleasant, substances.
James looks disappointed, but he’s not about to protest. “Guests first,” he says graciously. “I’ll watch.”
Crowley tuts mock-anxiously. “You’re possessing that body, James, and I would hate for you to lose the meat-suit if things get out of hand. You’ve had it for long enough that it must hold some sentimental value, at least.”
James sits back down and gestures to the door languidly. “Oh, go ahead then.”
Crowley smiles at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you get your chance next time.”
----
Lucifer has been keeping a careful eye on Creation since Yahweh left, and without the Name to anchor reality, the instability is continuing to get worse. He has not yet decided what, if anything, he is going to do about it. The collapse of this Creation will not affect his own realm, and he does not owe anything to it or the beings that inhabit it. He may yet open his doors and let the refugees flee to him, but it is a possibility that will wait for him to consider. His generosity is not endless, and the disadvantages of doing so may outweigh the meagre benefits. If they wish to blame anyone, blame his Father.
In the meantime, he only intends to prevent any other beings from taking Yahweh’s throne and assuming the vacuum of power that has been left behind. The only two who have the right to sit upon it are Michael and himself, and as his brother refuses it, and he could only take it with a fight he judges not worth the cost, it must remain empty. If they cannot have it, certainly no-one else will.
But for now he has the current problem to deal with. The angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley are due to report back to him soon, after which he is sure that any real threat can be taken care of swiftly by himself or with Michael’s aid, if it is serious. Not that he is overconfident - he has learnt after the confrontation with the Titans that this would be a mistake - but he knows the limits of his own abilities, and the same trick never works twice.
The wards on Aziraphale’s bookshop have been strengthened since his last visit, as he expected, but he is not so easily kept out. He makes himself at home in the back room, reclining on a frankly hideous tartan couch, and settles down to wait. Patience comes easily to immortals as ancient as he; indeed, for most of them, it is being required to act quickly in the face of a threat that poses a problem. In contrast, fledglings and the like have no patience at all.
The Morningstar spends several hours in silence and peaceful contemplation, watching the metaphysical fabric of the surrounding area of the city carelessly unravelling without the Name to hold it together. It is not yet at a stage where there is cause to worry, but he wouldn’t give it more than five years, and that at a stretch. It is helped a little by the slight stabilising effect of Aziraphale’s own presence, which has worked its way into the warp and weft of reality after so many centuries. Angels still possess something of the divine Essence about them.
When Aziraphale eventually returns, he brings Crowley with him, and he has a general aura of worry and disturbance about him that does not seem to be solely due to Lucifer’s presence. The pair notice him as soon as they arrive, fluttering through space-time on silent wind, and are immediately wary. Aziraphale bustles about making tea, which the Morningstar suspects is an anti-stress mechanism, while Crowley leans against the doorframe and keeps a careful eye on him. Their fear and distrust amuses him slightly. While he would think them fools if they actually trusted him, he holds no particular malice towards them. He would not have them come to harm while they are still useful to him.
Aziraphale puts a tray down on the table and sits down on the equally fashion-challenged, equally tartan sofa opposite him. There are three cups on the tray, a bowl of sugar cubes and a packet of chocolate chip cookies from Mark’s & Spencer’s. The angel has become painfully native, Lucifer notes, with a sort of internal sigh. There is something crass about stooping to such a human level. Blending in is all very well if one intends to make a permanent habitation on Earth, but there are lines one really ought not cross. Or at the very least, try to keep some sense of style. Crowley seems to manage.
“What did you discover?” he asks, ignoring the cup of tea Aziraphale leaves by his elbow, balancing miraculously in a precarious position on the arm of the couch.
Aziraphale sighs. “Uriel is dead,” he says quietly, looking at the floor and clutching his teacup. “and Anael has Fallen, or something like it. Apparently he disobeyed somehow, and so she killed him. But the whole thing is being hushed up.” He glances up with unmistakable anger. “No-one I spoke to even knew one of the Seven was dead. Only Castiel, and only because he was working with him!”
Lucifer has to confess he’s surprised at this news. He would have thought Michael would have informed him of something so severe, no matter how bad the enmity is between them. After all, these are his brothers in rank, the firstborn. Family, even if he holds no particular love for them. Coming as it does so close to the Seals breaking, it seems very unlikely the two occurrences are not related, and whatever the link, this business becomes more worrying the further he looks into it.
“And what of Castiel?” he asks.
“Watching over the Righteous Man and his brother.” The angel looks uneasy. “I know there’s a prophecy about those humans, but I really can’t think what it is, and I’m afraid I’ve not had the chance to look it up yet.”
“Prophecies are vile things in any case,” Lucifer says, “but I am aware of this one, as it used to pertain to me. Before I left Hell, there were six hundred Seals keeping me in. In one of the possible paths that can be taken to the Apocalypse, sixty-six of them must be broken to free me and set events in action. The Righteous Man breaks the first Seal by himself being broken in Hell, and his brother must break the last by surrendering to his birthright, and doing evil though meaning good.”
“So someone’s trying to kick-start the Apocalypse again?” Crowley asks. “Well that’s just great.” He’s taken a cup of tea in an attempt to look nonchalant, with limited success, judging by the way the china is starting to crack in his grip.
“Without my presence in Hell, it would no longer work,” Lucifer says. “And I doubt Remiel and Dumas will allow the gates of Hell to open, Seals or no Seals.”
Crowley shrugs and gulps his tea. “I know a guy who’s working for this fake-Lilith. He said they’ve got a demon - ex-human - feeding the younger brother her blood, something about Azazel and the fact he’s a heavy-duty vessel. I’m guessing that has something to do with his birthright?”
“Yes; corruption through blood. It isn’t necessary for him to be a vessel, but it would make it easier for his body to accept the changes.” It makes things a little clearer, but only to show there must be angelic influence somewhere in all this. As if whatever is going on in Heaven didn’t prove that.
“He wouldn’t tell me what their endgame was, and I couldn’t ask without showing I didn’t know what he was on about,” Crowley says. “But they’re planning on breaking the final Seal tomorrow night at St Mary’s Convent, in Ilchester, Maryland, if you’re planning on stopping them from finishing the job.”
“It would be wise to do so,” the Morningstar says. He doesn’t like the picture which is beginning to emerge in his mind, but without knowing who Lilith really is, or what exactly she is trying to achieve, he can’t be sure of anything. Turning back to Aziraphale he asks, “What did Castiel tell you of Heaven’s plans to stop the last Seal breaking?”
“He refused to speak to me without orders,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting. “I think... he said he had disobeyed recently, and he had punishment scars on his wings...” He gestures vaguely. “I doubt he’ll do anything but follow the absolute letter of the law from now on.”
Pain being about the only thing that would still a Third Sphere’s tongue, Lucifer thinks irritably. Inconvenient. He has to wonder what orders the angel had thought so abhorrent that it would risk punishment. “It would be inadvisable to allow the final Seal to break,” he says, after some thought. “And we cannot rely on Heaven without knowing what they mean to do, if anything. It is clear I will have to take action myself.” He doesn’t anticipate running into any difficulties there.
“We’re coming with you,” Aziraphale says firmly, putting his cup down and fixing his gaze on Lucifer. Crowley makes an aborted little movement forwards in surprise before he collects himself.
“What?” he says, low and angry. “Angel!”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Aziraphale tells him, turning to the demon, his tone steely. “Uriel is dead, and I want to know why. I want to know why it’s being kept secret. I want to know what’s so important.”
Lucifer watches with a certain amusement as Aziraphale and Crowley have a silent contest of wills, enacted solely through glaring at each other. As long as they don’t get in his way, he couldn’t care less what they choose to do. As expected, the angel wins the argument, though Crowley doesn’t look happy about it.
“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” he says finally, in as magnanimous a fashion as he can manage.
“Very well,” Lucifer says, standing. “We should leave at one. I would prefer to be there in plenty of time.” He spreads his wings and fixes the Name of the location in his mind, and with a flick of power and Grace, reality bends around them and they take flight.