Good Omens/Supernatural fic: A Backdoor to Hell
A Backdoor to Hell [Good Omens/Supernatural, Aziraphale, Crowley, Sam, Dean, gen, PG, 1,750 words, post season 3 of Supernatural. For the lovely kellifer_fic, a wee, somewhat silly, birthday present. Many thanks to out_there for a splendid beta.]
The doorbell chimes angrily. 1 Aziraphale lifts up his head warily, and is a little taken aback to see his new customer.
There are several types who wander into Aziraphale's book shop, and the man striding towards him now doesn't fit any of those types. Not because he's extremely tall, though that is one of the first things Aziraphale notices-he rather thinks he's going to get a crick in his neck if he has to talk to him for long.
No, the reason for Aziraphale's surprise is that his new customer has, well, not to put too fine a point on it, something of the demon about him. It's not obvious. His eyes are a normal shade of hazel, though they match the mood of the door chime, and he actually looks as though he's not long woken up, his hair flattened down on one side and tousled on the other. Even his clothes are crumpled and Aziraphale itches to run a steam iron over them. But there's energy crackling around him, a certain unmistakable power, so Aziraphale packs that urge away and gives the man his complete attention.
"How may I help you?" he asks politely but discouragingly, as though he's trying to get rid of any ordinary customer.
"I want you to get my brother out of Hell," the man says in a distinct American accent. He sounds determined, and only slightly better tempered than the door chime.
It's not the strangest request Aziraphale's heard, 2 but it surprises him nonetheless.
"I'm not sure that I-" Aziraphale starts, only to be interrupted by the man leaning over the counter and placing his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders. He's not precisely menacing, despite his size and mood, but he clearly means business.
"I know you understand the request, and I've been assured, from a very reliable source, that you have friends in, well-." The man pauses and actually looks embarrassed, and Aziraphale thinks that right now he looks more like a lost little boy than a vaguely demonic human. The man swallows and continues, his tone no longer angry. "In low places," he says softly. "Who could help."
"Your brother? He's in Hell because-" Aziraphale asks, politely leaving the question open ended.
"It was a deal, with a demon-his life for mine." Matter of fact on the surface, but Aziraphale sees the pain in his eyes.
"Oh dear. Those never do turn out well." Aziraphale's and Crowley's Arrangement really is the one exception to the rule.
"I know," the man snaps, and then drops his head contritely, letting his appallingly shaggy hair drop over his face. "Sorry. It was a long flight, and I'm tired."
Aziraphale knows the cure for that, and he's taken a curious liking to the man, despite his desperate need of a haircut. He's always been an excellent judge of character 3 so he feels perfectly comfortable ushering the young man around the counter and into the back room.
He puts the kettle on-he feels he should make tea the human way, even if he's a little rusty and has a tendency to forget to put water in the kettle, or tea in the pot-and sits the man down on the sofa.
"Perhaps we should start with some introductions," Aziraphale says.
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," the man says, looking flustered as he tries to fold his legs out of the way. "I'm Sam Winchester, and my brother's Dean. A friend, Bobby Singer, gave me your name."
Of course. He should have guessed. Crowley had mentioned the Winchester family only the other day when they were enjoying a stroll alongside the Serpentine-something about Down Below being fed up of all the extra paperwork the Winchesters were causing them. Mr. Winchester clearly notices the recognition.
"You've heard of us?" he asks, sounding surprised.
Aziraphale nods, and goes to fill the teapot. A minute later he brings it out with a china plate of scones-sultana scones from M&S, unsalted butter, and wild strawberry jam, and really there's nothing half as good as that in Heaven, though it's possible he would be scolded if he voiced that opinion out loud. Mr. Winchester's stomach rumbles loudly, and he looks apologetic.
"Please, help yourself, Mr. Winchester."
"The meals on the plane weren't very generous," he explains, and gratefully takes a scone. "And it's Sam. Mr. Winchester is-was-my father."
Aziraphale pours the tea, hands Sam a cup and saucer that are dwarfed in his hands, and they eat and drink in silence for a while.
"So, Sam, you're trying to get your brother out of Hell."
"I am going to get him out of Hell. Whatever it takes."
"And you think I might be able to help."
"Your acquaintance, um, Crowley. I understand he has certain access."
"That issss true," says a voice from the doorway. Crowley has snuck in yet again. Aziraphale wonders if he has some way of knowing whenever Aziraphale has scones.
Crowley sits down with a plate and a scone and a cup and saucer-although Aziraphale had only brought two plates out, and two cups for tea, and he's fairly sure he didn't start off with this many scones either-and looks across at Sam.
"Sssso," he hisses, head to one side. "You're the younger Winchester boy."
Sam sits on the sofa and bears the scrutiny without a word. Eventually, Aziraphale can tell Crowley has come to a decision.
"There is always the back door," Crowley says.
"The back door?" both Aziraphale and Sam question simultaneously.
Crowley nods. "No point in being a demon if you can't be devious in your own back garden," he points out, and manages to make it sound perfectly sensible.
Aziraphale thinks this is the point at which he should probably leave. He really doesn't need to know any more about a back entrance into Hell, so when the door bell chimes-a dainty sort of tinkle, like a happy smile-he stands up and makes his excuses. "You should, hmm, carry on without me," he says, and heads out into the shop.
His latest customer is Aziraphale's idea of a perfect customer-she wants to browse, and she'll occasionally enquire about a book, but she doesn't appear to have any intention of actually buying anything. She wanders around for an hour or more, picking up books, reading a little, smoothing their covers lovingly, then putting them back carefully in the exact place she found them. Aziraphale would happily keep his shop open for much longer hours if all his customers were like her.
When she finally leaves, an apologetic smile on her face even though she has nothing to apologise for, Aziraphale changes the sign to closed and heads into the back. It's been decidedly quiet there, which is not necessarily a good thing when Crowley is involved.
He's not sure what to expect, but he's prepared for almost anything, so the sight of Crowley (looking rather dishevelled), Sam (looking even more dishevelled and blinking back tears) and another man, Dean Winchester presumably, lying on the sofa, clothes torn to bloody shreds, doesn't particularly surprise him. The gory meat hook on the floor is also unsurprising-they have, after all, just returned from Hell, and Aziraphale has more than a vague idea of the discomforts there. He had expected them to be a little longer, but presumably the back door to Hell isn't that far away from Soho, which makes perfect sense when he comes to think of it. He flicks a speck of dust off his tartan waistcoat, and debates what is to be done about the state of attire of the Winchesters. A moment's consideration, and he decides that it's worth the minor risk of being noticed by Up There to do something about them. He snaps his fingers.
"What the-?" Sam says, and cuts his exclamation off short as he looks down at his long body now clothed in an extremely elegant tweed suit. Aziraphale modelled it after one of his own. Dean opens his eyes, looks around, sees Sam, and bursts out laughing, which is not at all the reaction Aziraphale expected. Then he looks down at himself and stops laughing suddenly. He actually looks disturbed, which is strange for a man who has just been rescued from Hell. After all, while a kilt possibly wasn't the perfect choice after all-Dean's knees do look rather pasty above the jaunty yellow woollen knee socks-Aziraphale still thinks he looks far more dashing than he had in shredded flannel.
Aziraphale sighs. Americans never have had any sense of style. 4
"Tea?" he offers.
- end -
1 It really does. It was a gift from Crowley last Christmas, a doorbell that would chime according to the mood of the person entering. Unless it's Crowley entering, in which case it's silent-he always has been a sneaky kind of demon-or Aziraphale, in which case it sings Hallelujah in a deep baritone, which was rather charming the first time, mildly irritating the second, and now ensures that Aziraphale always enters through the back door. He's tried disconnecting it, but (and this might be Aziraphale's imagination) it appears to chime even louder when it's not connected up. [return]
2 He's not entirely sure to whom (or what) that distinction belongs. There was the time a mallard in St James Park tossed back the bread he'd just thrown her and asked for a Wensleydale, marmite and piccalilli sandwich, claiming that hatching eggs was giving her all sorts of cravings. Then there was the man who had pushed his way into Aziraphale's shop and demanded a book that he didn't have to read, because he hated reading. Or there was Lady Worthington, ninety years old at the time, who had made him go quite pale with the impropriety of her request. Or, well, you get the point-Aziraphale is no stranger to peculiar requests. [return]
3 Admittedly, the heavenly hosts wouldn't agree, and admittedly his life would be easier if it weren't for a certain demon in it, but he still maintains that, in his own peculiar way, Crowley is a good chap. Albeit one prone to lying, inciting hatred between mankind and stealing the last chocolate digestive from the packet. [return]
4 When Aziraphale commented afterwards that it was sad that the two Americans didn't appear to appreciate tartan, Crowley agreed, although he smirked a little as he said it. Given that smirking was Crowley's default expression, Aziraphale chose to believe Crowley's assessment of Aziraphale's taste as divinely fashionable. [return]
//
The doorbell chimes angrily. 1 Aziraphale lifts up his head warily, and is a little taken aback to see his new customer.
There are several types who wander into Aziraphale's book shop, and the man striding towards him now doesn't fit any of those types. Not because he's extremely tall, though that is one of the first things Aziraphale notices-he rather thinks he's going to get a crick in his neck if he has to talk to him for long.
No, the reason for Aziraphale's surprise is that his new customer has, well, not to put too fine a point on it, something of the demon about him. It's not obvious. His eyes are a normal shade of hazel, though they match the mood of the door chime, and he actually looks as though he's not long woken up, his hair flattened down on one side and tousled on the other. Even his clothes are crumpled and Aziraphale itches to run a steam iron over them. But there's energy crackling around him, a certain unmistakable power, so Aziraphale packs that urge away and gives the man his complete attention.
"How may I help you?" he asks politely but discouragingly, as though he's trying to get rid of any ordinary customer.
"I want you to get my brother out of Hell," the man says in a distinct American accent. He sounds determined, and only slightly better tempered than the door chime.
It's not the strangest request Aziraphale's heard, 2 but it surprises him nonetheless.
"I'm not sure that I-" Aziraphale starts, only to be interrupted by the man leaning over the counter and placing his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders. He's not precisely menacing, despite his size and mood, but he clearly means business.
"I know you understand the request, and I've been assured, from a very reliable source, that you have friends in, well-." The man pauses and actually looks embarrassed, and Aziraphale thinks that right now he looks more like a lost little boy than a vaguely demonic human. The man swallows and continues, his tone no longer angry. "In low places," he says softly. "Who could help."
"Your brother? He's in Hell because-" Aziraphale asks, politely leaving the question open ended.
"It was a deal, with a demon-his life for mine." Matter of fact on the surface, but Aziraphale sees the pain in his eyes.
"Oh dear. Those never do turn out well." Aziraphale's and Crowley's Arrangement really is the one exception to the rule.
"I know," the man snaps, and then drops his head contritely, letting his appallingly shaggy hair drop over his face. "Sorry. It was a long flight, and I'm tired."
Aziraphale knows the cure for that, and he's taken a curious liking to the man, despite his desperate need of a haircut. He's always been an excellent judge of character 3 so he feels perfectly comfortable ushering the young man around the counter and into the back room.
He puts the kettle on-he feels he should make tea the human way, even if he's a little rusty and has a tendency to forget to put water in the kettle, or tea in the pot-and sits the man down on the sofa.
"Perhaps we should start with some introductions," Aziraphale says.
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," the man says, looking flustered as he tries to fold his legs out of the way. "I'm Sam Winchester, and my brother's Dean. A friend, Bobby Singer, gave me your name."
Of course. He should have guessed. Crowley had mentioned the Winchester family only the other day when they were enjoying a stroll alongside the Serpentine-something about Down Below being fed up of all the extra paperwork the Winchesters were causing them. Mr. Winchester clearly notices the recognition.
"You've heard of us?" he asks, sounding surprised.
Aziraphale nods, and goes to fill the teapot. A minute later he brings it out with a china plate of scones-sultana scones from M&S, unsalted butter, and wild strawberry jam, and really there's nothing half as good as that in Heaven, though it's possible he would be scolded if he voiced that opinion out loud. Mr. Winchester's stomach rumbles loudly, and he looks apologetic.
"Please, help yourself, Mr. Winchester."
"The meals on the plane weren't very generous," he explains, and gratefully takes a scone. "And it's Sam. Mr. Winchester is-was-my father."
Aziraphale pours the tea, hands Sam a cup and saucer that are dwarfed in his hands, and they eat and drink in silence for a while.
"So, Sam, you're trying to get your brother out of Hell."
"I am going to get him out of Hell. Whatever it takes."
"And you think I might be able to help."
"Your acquaintance, um, Crowley. I understand he has certain access."
"That issss true," says a voice from the doorway. Crowley has snuck in yet again. Aziraphale wonders if he has some way of knowing whenever Aziraphale has scones.
Crowley sits down with a plate and a scone and a cup and saucer-although Aziraphale had only brought two plates out, and two cups for tea, and he's fairly sure he didn't start off with this many scones either-and looks across at Sam.
"Sssso," he hisses, head to one side. "You're the younger Winchester boy."
Sam sits on the sofa and bears the scrutiny without a word. Eventually, Aziraphale can tell Crowley has come to a decision.
"There is always the back door," Crowley says.
"The back door?" both Aziraphale and Sam question simultaneously.
Crowley nods. "No point in being a demon if you can't be devious in your own back garden," he points out, and manages to make it sound perfectly sensible.
Aziraphale thinks this is the point at which he should probably leave. He really doesn't need to know any more about a back entrance into Hell, so when the door bell chimes-a dainty sort of tinkle, like a happy smile-he stands up and makes his excuses. "You should, hmm, carry on without me," he says, and heads out into the shop.
His latest customer is Aziraphale's idea of a perfect customer-she wants to browse, and she'll occasionally enquire about a book, but she doesn't appear to have any intention of actually buying anything. She wanders around for an hour or more, picking up books, reading a little, smoothing their covers lovingly, then putting them back carefully in the exact place she found them. Aziraphale would happily keep his shop open for much longer hours if all his customers were like her.
When she finally leaves, an apologetic smile on her face even though she has nothing to apologise for, Aziraphale changes the sign to closed and heads into the back. It's been decidedly quiet there, which is not necessarily a good thing when Crowley is involved.
He's not sure what to expect, but he's prepared for almost anything, so the sight of Crowley (looking rather dishevelled), Sam (looking even more dishevelled and blinking back tears) and another man, Dean Winchester presumably, lying on the sofa, clothes torn to bloody shreds, doesn't particularly surprise him. The gory meat hook on the floor is also unsurprising-they have, after all, just returned from Hell, and Aziraphale has more than a vague idea of the discomforts there. He had expected them to be a little longer, but presumably the back door to Hell isn't that far away from Soho, which makes perfect sense when he comes to think of it. He flicks a speck of dust off his tartan waistcoat, and debates what is to be done about the state of attire of the Winchesters. A moment's consideration, and he decides that it's worth the minor risk of being noticed by Up There to do something about them. He snaps his fingers.
"What the-?" Sam says, and cuts his exclamation off short as he looks down at his long body now clothed in an extremely elegant tweed suit. Aziraphale modelled it after one of his own. Dean opens his eyes, looks around, sees Sam, and bursts out laughing, which is not at all the reaction Aziraphale expected. Then he looks down at himself and stops laughing suddenly. He actually looks disturbed, which is strange for a man who has just been rescued from Hell. After all, while a kilt possibly wasn't the perfect choice after all-Dean's knees do look rather pasty above the jaunty yellow woollen knee socks-Aziraphale still thinks he looks far more dashing than he had in shredded flannel.
Aziraphale sighs. Americans never have had any sense of style. 4
"Tea?" he offers.
- end -
1 It really does. It was a gift from Crowley last Christmas, a doorbell that would chime according to the mood of the person entering. Unless it's Crowley entering, in which case it's silent-he always has been a sneaky kind of demon-or Aziraphale, in which case it sings Hallelujah in a deep baritone, which was rather charming the first time, mildly irritating the second, and now ensures that Aziraphale always enters through the back door. He's tried disconnecting it, but (and this might be Aziraphale's imagination) it appears to chime even louder when it's not connected up. [return]
2 He's not entirely sure to whom (or what) that distinction belongs. There was the time a mallard in St James Park tossed back the bread he'd just thrown her and asked for a Wensleydale, marmite and piccalilli sandwich, claiming that hatching eggs was giving her all sorts of cravings. Then there was the man who had pushed his way into Aziraphale's shop and demanded a book that he didn't have to read, because he hated reading. Or there was Lady Worthington, ninety years old at the time, who had made him go quite pale with the impropriety of her request. Or, well, you get the point-Aziraphale is no stranger to peculiar requests. [return]
3 Admittedly, the heavenly hosts wouldn't agree, and admittedly his life would be easier if it weren't for a certain demon in it, but he still maintains that, in his own peculiar way, Crowley is a good chap. Albeit one prone to lying, inciting hatred between mankind and stealing the last chocolate digestive from the packet. [return]
4 When Aziraphale commented afterwards that it was sad that the two Americans didn't appear to appreciate tartan, Crowley agreed, although he smirked a little as he said it. Given that smirking was Crowley's default expression, Aziraphale chose to believe Crowley's assessment of Aziraphale's taste as divinely fashionable. [return]
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