Happy Holidays, lynndyre!
Title: Wherein Certain Beings Have Nothing Better to Do
Gift For: lynndyre
Gift from: mozzarellaroses
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley (GO), and Gabriel (SPN) with mentions of Odin and various other angels and the Winchesters
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: PG
Warnings: Canon character death, silly things
Author's Notes: I'm pretty sure something was supposed to happen, but in the end, they're just talking :I Hope it's enjoyed, anyway!
The fun about certain mythologies was that there was a lot of overlap.
For example: just because this guy was named, say, Gabriel earlier in the day, and just because the very same guy was an archangel, did not automatically mean he couldn’t be named Loki too. And, you know, not be all that angelic.
Now Loki, as he was called for quite a little bit of time, was involved in a little scuffle and, well, the long and short of it, he kind of got tied to a rock and set to suffer under the venom dripping from a snake’s mouth.
It was a mythology thing.
The aforementioned overlap was also a mythology thing, and just because the snake had to hang around in a dank cave over a trickster didn’t mean he was always that way. This snake in particular just so happened to have a little free time while Judeo-Christian heaven got its act together and thought it would be nice to have a little trip, seeing sights and all that. Certainly he didn’t expect to get holed up in a cave with nothing to do but drip. That was just undignified.
This was how the Snake, whose name at the time was Crawly, found himself having an unusually pleasant conversation with the Trickster(former-archangel) whose name at the time was Loki.
“So, really, did you see yourself as Odin’s pet torturer when you first came around?”
“Oh, don’t ssssstart with me. You’re the one who pissssssed the old man off enough to get yourssself tied to a rock.”
“Really. Come on, they tied me here with some kids I promised Sigyn I’d look after. They’re not really my sons-actually, these aren’t even her sons. These are… I dunno, goat entrails. I think. Freaky, but works in a pinch. So I’m just playing a little, as opposed to you. What’s that… binding magic? Gotta tell ya, it’s not a good idea to hang your dirty clothes out where Pagan gods can see them, Crawly.”
The snake coiled menacingly over the Trickster’s head and leaned down, his venom dripping just a tad off the side of the bound head.
“I’ve been thinking of dropping the name. Anywaysss, who wantssss to ssstay a ssssnake all the live long? I’ll go for a new body when I get out of here.”
“That look like it’s in the cards any time soon?” the Trickster challenged. The snake, as much as its scaly diamond-shaped head could do, looked absolutely put-off.
“I sssssuppossse not.”
“So how about a deal? You cut these gut-ropes, I’ll break the runes, everybody goes home happy.”
“What, can’t do it yourssself?”
“Actually-and this is embarrassing, I’m only telling you this because neither of us are ever speaking of this again-I can’t. Not now, anyway, not until the month ends. Odin may not know exactly what I am but he’s no idiot. And as much as this sucks… I’m not raring to wait any more than I need to.”
The snake thought for a while (but not a long while) and eventually agreed.
And the Trickster, being, well, a Trickster, it took Odin about a century or so to realize that Loki was no longer tucked away safe, and somehow, the snake had slithered its way out of his employ.
Aziraphale didn’t really enjoy the presence of other angels where he’d set up shop (literally). It was the principle of the thing, really, and no matter how much warmth and God-given love he had for his brothers and sisters, well... every family had its ups and downs.
Some families had clashing ideas, heaven’s had clashing thunder. And swords, and spears, and razor-sharp wings (which were a recent thing, a little too vulgar for Aziraphale’s tastes, but really).
There were exceptions, of course.
Gabriel was fast becoming one of those exceptions, ever since the new-millennium mark when he’d dropped in out of nowhere, saying he’d been out of the game for centuries and just wanted to stop by to see how his favorite angel-gone-native was doing.
They bonded over sweets and Gabriel’s appreciation for Aziraphale’s collection, and derision (or delicate critique, on Aziraphale’s part) for the systems of authority in heaven.
The first time Gabriel arrived, he had news (Crowley called it gossip, and Aziraphale certainly did not sputter at that, no matter what he said) about the goings-on in heaven, about how Raphael had taken charge, Michael sat in the corner awaiting orders and God Himself seemed to have left the building.
It seemed to be gearing towards something large, he’d said, but Aziraphale learned little beyond that.
It was in the time after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t (more aptly the Apocalypse-no-one-Up-or-Down-wanted-to-acknowledge-for-fear-of-ever-present-sensible-Anti-Christ-power) that Gabriel frequented Aziraphale’s bookshop, whether to bring news, ask Aziraphale for a favor or five (and really, he was perfectly reasonable for someone who did his noble work killing the prideful in-and Aziraphale certainly didn’t judge him for it-his pagan ways), and sometimes even to ask how Crowley was doing.
It was in the time after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t that Crowley and Aziraphale’s Arrangement had somehow clicked into this place that it had always been before, but executed and scrutinized in a very different manner-executed with what normal human beings would call romance, scrutinized by a Gabriel that seemed all too entertained by the notion of an angel and a demon, as he put it, doing the horizontal mambo (or in Aziraphale’s case, the vaguely upturned gavotte).
It would have been a lie to deny it. Worse off, it would have been a bad lie, especially around Gabriel, who was good at spotting that sort of thing. It didn’t matter, really.
Aziraphale loved Crowley, easily, though the demon discouraged (begged) him to stop saying that out loud (not that he didn’t like hearing it, but the Infernal Reaches of Hell liked to eavesdrop and Crowley didn’t need another reason for them to send other demons to kill him-or worse, hellhounds-and Crowley, despite his continuing faith in the now-young-man Adam and his ability to keep heaven and hell at bay by a twenty-something-year-old threat, did not want to risk that).
Still, it didn’t stop him from whispering it, barely more than a hiss, when he thought it was safe. And that, more than anything, made it worth all the dangers.
It was one gray afternoon that the metaphorical shit hit the fan, and that was heralded by the herald (former herald) of heaven himself crashing through the door (and promptly miracle-ing it back together again) and telling Crowley and Aziraphale (who were just sitting there drinking, thank Go-someone; they really didn’t need another incident like the last time Gabriel dropped in without warning) about the coming Apocalypse and Lucifer himself rising.
Crowley all but shattered in a quiet, slow way that had him reaching carefully for the bottle and downing the entire thing in ways that would have a normal man dying of alcohol poisoning within a minute.
Aziraphale cursed, the third time in his entire existence, and even Gabriel looked shocked.
“Wait,” Crowley said suddenly after sobering up fast, “Winchester? As in the Winchesters who tried to kill you not a year ago?”
“Dean and Sam Winchester, yeah. The biggest little shits who seem to shake the earth every time they slip up, those Winchesters.”
“Sam Winchester? The big one you like so much you did the angelic equivalent of pulling pigtails and probably traumatized him for the good little time he has remaining in his life?”
“Hey!”
“Well, Crowley’s right, brother, you could have handled that with a little more grace.”
“Great,” Gabriel huffed, “I’m getting love advice from the angel stuck in 1950s tartan chic.”
“What are you planning to do exactly? Send Sam Winchester in a care package to the Morningstar all wrapped up nice for Christmas? That sounds entirely counterproductive,” Crowley observed, taking more moderate amounts of alcohol, poured from a bottle that didn’t occur to them was supposed to be empty already.
“No, listen, Sam’s already well on his way to being Lucy’s plaything. I’m trying to convince Dean to say yes to Michael. Might as well, to see who has a fighting chance,” Gabriel said bitterly.
Aziraphale frowned in the way that made you feel ten times worse for disappointing someone so warm.
“Such an attitude… I’d expect it from our other brothers, Gabriel, but much less from you.”
“Don’t lecture me, Aziraphale. I am sick and tired of trying to take responsibility for something that’ll probably just sideline me like the scrawny kid in football season. They don’t care, and they’ll stop at nothing. Might as well even the score.”
“Or fight.”
Gabriel glared.
Aziraphale stood at full height, not very impressive for a being of his physical stature, but Gabriel didn’t choose a very tall vessel for himself either, and both of them had this ability to seem a thousand times more threatening than they could be (this power stemming from the fact that both their true, angelic forms were bigger than the usual human conventions of epic proportions or outrageous enormity-somewhere between the height four full grown blue whales would make up vertically aligned and the distance between the earth and, say, the moon).
“We did,” he said defiantly.
“Angel-” Crowley attempted to stop him, but Aziraphale held.
“We’re much less powerful than you, Gabriel. You could snap your fingers and we’d be ash piles. But we stood our ground. We may not have your power, but we know how you feel about this-and don’t say that we don’t-and we know that all you need to do is stand up and fight for once in your earthly existence.”
The following glare Gabriel gave Aziraphale could freeze countries (and, admittedly, burned Aziraphale’s eyebrows clean off-Crowley fixed it later on), right before the former-archangel disappeared.
It didn’t come with much fanfare, the last time they saw Gabriel. He brought them news of the Horsepersons in America (since the last ones dispersed wide, the risen Lucifer had to cobble them together, and the results were not pretty) and how Sam, Dean, and a not-yet-fallen-but-on-his-way-down angel were holding up-pretty well, amazingly.
He’d then gone on to bequeath a very simple-looking key to Aziraphale, and a DVD (they would have to play it at Crowley’s place) and said goodbye.
They both knew he wasn’t coming back.
Eventually, news reached them of Lucifer and his murder of his own brother, and Crowley promptly brought along one of those portable DVD players (really, Aziraphale mused, the world seemed to be moving at twice its speed now that it was the 2000s) and they viewed it-a message from Gabriel.
“Hey guys. Listen, I know I haven’t said it before, but man, thanks for letting me crash at your place. You guys were fun-don’t let the snake tell you otherwise, Aziraphale. And Crowley, I thought you should know, that namesake of yours? Stirring up trouble.
“Also, and I’ve gotta take a minute to tell you this as seriously as I can-those Winchester brothers have screwed the pooch in this one. I really, really don’t trust them to do this on their own, and I know you two are like, bona fide Apocalypse stoppers, so consider this my final wish, since I’m probably dead-you wouldn’t be watching this if I didn’t already snuff it-help the boys. And their angel, I guess. I do not want the world to end, even if I’m not in it. You guys appreciate it. You know that this world has so much more to offer than being the universe’s biggest parking lot.
“So please…”
And the Gabriel in the screen sighed, rubbed his face, and flipped his hand, making an apple appear out of thin air.
“I don’t want to see two brothers who love each other so much fall apart again. I mean, okay, so if I’m dead, I won’t, but you get the idea. Not as a favor, since I can’t pay you back anymore favors, but… just please.”
And it was done.
Almost.
“One more thing-that key I gave you? Let’s just say ol’ Balthy isn’t the only one with a stash of heavenly weapons. I think I might’ve kept your sword somewhere in there, bro. Happy trails!”
And finally, the screen went to black. They sat there for another ten minutes in silence, making sure that there was nothing else.
“Hm.”
“Well my dear, I suppose that means…”
“I’ll book us some tickets.”
“America. Do you think it’s nice there this time of year?”
“Well the Apocalypse doesn’t exactly go for nice, sunny days, Aziraphale.”
“You never know.”
“Yeah. You’re right, we don’t.”
~end~
Happy Holidays, lynndyre, from your Secret Writer!
Gift For: lynndyre
Gift from: mozzarellaroses
Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley (GO), and Gabriel (SPN) with mentions of Odin and various other angels and the Winchesters
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: PG
Warnings: Canon character death, silly things
Author's Notes: I'm pretty sure something was supposed to happen, but in the end, they're just talking :I Hope it's enjoyed, anyway!
The fun about certain mythologies was that there was a lot of overlap.
For example: just because this guy was named, say, Gabriel earlier in the day, and just because the very same guy was an archangel, did not automatically mean he couldn’t be named Loki too. And, you know, not be all that angelic.
Now Loki, as he was called for quite a little bit of time, was involved in a little scuffle and, well, the long and short of it, he kind of got tied to a rock and set to suffer under the venom dripping from a snake’s mouth.
It was a mythology thing.
The aforementioned overlap was also a mythology thing, and just because the snake had to hang around in a dank cave over a trickster didn’t mean he was always that way. This snake in particular just so happened to have a little free time while Judeo-Christian heaven got its act together and thought it would be nice to have a little trip, seeing sights and all that. Certainly he didn’t expect to get holed up in a cave with nothing to do but drip. That was just undignified.
This was how the Snake, whose name at the time was Crawly, found himself having an unusually pleasant conversation with the Trickster(former-archangel) whose name at the time was Loki.
“So, really, did you see yourself as Odin’s pet torturer when you first came around?”
“Oh, don’t ssssstart with me. You’re the one who pissssssed the old man off enough to get yourssself tied to a rock.”
“Really. Come on, they tied me here with some kids I promised Sigyn I’d look after. They’re not really my sons-actually, these aren’t even her sons. These are… I dunno, goat entrails. I think. Freaky, but works in a pinch. So I’m just playing a little, as opposed to you. What’s that… binding magic? Gotta tell ya, it’s not a good idea to hang your dirty clothes out where Pagan gods can see them, Crawly.”
The snake coiled menacingly over the Trickster’s head and leaned down, his venom dripping just a tad off the side of the bound head.
“I’ve been thinking of dropping the name. Anywaysss, who wantssss to ssstay a ssssnake all the live long? I’ll go for a new body when I get out of here.”
“That look like it’s in the cards any time soon?” the Trickster challenged. The snake, as much as its scaly diamond-shaped head could do, looked absolutely put-off.
“I sssssuppossse not.”
“So how about a deal? You cut these gut-ropes, I’ll break the runes, everybody goes home happy.”
“What, can’t do it yourssself?”
“Actually-and this is embarrassing, I’m only telling you this because neither of us are ever speaking of this again-I can’t. Not now, anyway, not until the month ends. Odin may not know exactly what I am but he’s no idiot. And as much as this sucks… I’m not raring to wait any more than I need to.”
The snake thought for a while (but not a long while) and eventually agreed.
And the Trickster, being, well, a Trickster, it took Odin about a century or so to realize that Loki was no longer tucked away safe, and somehow, the snake had slithered its way out of his employ.
Aziraphale didn’t really enjoy the presence of other angels where he’d set up shop (literally). It was the principle of the thing, really, and no matter how much warmth and God-given love he had for his brothers and sisters, well... every family had its ups and downs.
Some families had clashing ideas, heaven’s had clashing thunder. And swords, and spears, and razor-sharp wings (which were a recent thing, a little too vulgar for Aziraphale’s tastes, but really).
There were exceptions, of course.
Gabriel was fast becoming one of those exceptions, ever since the new-millennium mark when he’d dropped in out of nowhere, saying he’d been out of the game for centuries and just wanted to stop by to see how his favorite angel-gone-native was doing.
They bonded over sweets and Gabriel’s appreciation for Aziraphale’s collection, and derision (or delicate critique, on Aziraphale’s part) for the systems of authority in heaven.
The first time Gabriel arrived, he had news (Crowley called it gossip, and Aziraphale certainly did not sputter at that, no matter what he said) about the goings-on in heaven, about how Raphael had taken charge, Michael sat in the corner awaiting orders and God Himself seemed to have left the building.
It seemed to be gearing towards something large, he’d said, but Aziraphale learned little beyond that.
It was in the time after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t (more aptly the Apocalypse-no-one-Up-or-Down-wanted-to-acknowledge-for-fear-of-ever-present-sensible-Anti-Christ-power) that Gabriel frequented Aziraphale’s bookshop, whether to bring news, ask Aziraphale for a favor or five (and really, he was perfectly reasonable for someone who did his noble work killing the prideful in-and Aziraphale certainly didn’t judge him for it-his pagan ways), and sometimes even to ask how Crowley was doing.
It was in the time after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t that Crowley and Aziraphale’s Arrangement had somehow clicked into this place that it had always been before, but executed and scrutinized in a very different manner-executed with what normal human beings would call romance, scrutinized by a Gabriel that seemed all too entertained by the notion of an angel and a demon, as he put it, doing the horizontal mambo (or in Aziraphale’s case, the vaguely upturned gavotte).
It would have been a lie to deny it. Worse off, it would have been a bad lie, especially around Gabriel, who was good at spotting that sort of thing. It didn’t matter, really.
Aziraphale loved Crowley, easily, though the demon discouraged (begged) him to stop saying that out loud (not that he didn’t like hearing it, but the Infernal Reaches of Hell liked to eavesdrop and Crowley didn’t need another reason for them to send other demons to kill him-or worse, hellhounds-and Crowley, despite his continuing faith in the now-young-man Adam and his ability to keep heaven and hell at bay by a twenty-something-year-old threat, did not want to risk that).
Still, it didn’t stop him from whispering it, barely more than a hiss, when he thought it was safe. And that, more than anything, made it worth all the dangers.
It was one gray afternoon that the metaphorical shit hit the fan, and that was heralded by the herald (former herald) of heaven himself crashing through the door (and promptly miracle-ing it back together again) and telling Crowley and Aziraphale (who were just sitting there drinking, thank Go-someone; they really didn’t need another incident like the last time Gabriel dropped in without warning) about the coming Apocalypse and Lucifer himself rising.
Crowley all but shattered in a quiet, slow way that had him reaching carefully for the bottle and downing the entire thing in ways that would have a normal man dying of alcohol poisoning within a minute.
Aziraphale cursed, the third time in his entire existence, and even Gabriel looked shocked.
“Wait,” Crowley said suddenly after sobering up fast, “Winchester? As in the Winchesters who tried to kill you not a year ago?”
“Dean and Sam Winchester, yeah. The biggest little shits who seem to shake the earth every time they slip up, those Winchesters.”
“Sam Winchester? The big one you like so much you did the angelic equivalent of pulling pigtails and probably traumatized him for the good little time he has remaining in his life?”
“Hey!”
“Well, Crowley’s right, brother, you could have handled that with a little more grace.”
“Great,” Gabriel huffed, “I’m getting love advice from the angel stuck in 1950s tartan chic.”
“What are you planning to do exactly? Send Sam Winchester in a care package to the Morningstar all wrapped up nice for Christmas? That sounds entirely counterproductive,” Crowley observed, taking more moderate amounts of alcohol, poured from a bottle that didn’t occur to them was supposed to be empty already.
“No, listen, Sam’s already well on his way to being Lucy’s plaything. I’m trying to convince Dean to say yes to Michael. Might as well, to see who has a fighting chance,” Gabriel said bitterly.
Aziraphale frowned in the way that made you feel ten times worse for disappointing someone so warm.
“Such an attitude… I’d expect it from our other brothers, Gabriel, but much less from you.”
“Don’t lecture me, Aziraphale. I am sick and tired of trying to take responsibility for something that’ll probably just sideline me like the scrawny kid in football season. They don’t care, and they’ll stop at nothing. Might as well even the score.”
“Or fight.”
Gabriel glared.
Aziraphale stood at full height, not very impressive for a being of his physical stature, but Gabriel didn’t choose a very tall vessel for himself either, and both of them had this ability to seem a thousand times more threatening than they could be (this power stemming from the fact that both their true, angelic forms were bigger than the usual human conventions of epic proportions or outrageous enormity-somewhere between the height four full grown blue whales would make up vertically aligned and the distance between the earth and, say, the moon).
“We did,” he said defiantly.
“Angel-” Crowley attempted to stop him, but Aziraphale held.
“We’re much less powerful than you, Gabriel. You could snap your fingers and we’d be ash piles. But we stood our ground. We may not have your power, but we know how you feel about this-and don’t say that we don’t-and we know that all you need to do is stand up and fight for once in your earthly existence.”
The following glare Gabriel gave Aziraphale could freeze countries (and, admittedly, burned Aziraphale’s eyebrows clean off-Crowley fixed it later on), right before the former-archangel disappeared.
It didn’t come with much fanfare, the last time they saw Gabriel. He brought them news of the Horsepersons in America (since the last ones dispersed wide, the risen Lucifer had to cobble them together, and the results were not pretty) and how Sam, Dean, and a not-yet-fallen-but-on-his-way-down angel were holding up-pretty well, amazingly.
He’d then gone on to bequeath a very simple-looking key to Aziraphale, and a DVD (they would have to play it at Crowley’s place) and said goodbye.
They both knew he wasn’t coming back.
Eventually, news reached them of Lucifer and his murder of his own brother, and Crowley promptly brought along one of those portable DVD players (really, Aziraphale mused, the world seemed to be moving at twice its speed now that it was the 2000s) and they viewed it-a message from Gabriel.
“Hey guys. Listen, I know I haven’t said it before, but man, thanks for letting me crash at your place. You guys were fun-don’t let the snake tell you otherwise, Aziraphale. And Crowley, I thought you should know, that namesake of yours? Stirring up trouble.
“Also, and I’ve gotta take a minute to tell you this as seriously as I can-those Winchester brothers have screwed the pooch in this one. I really, really don’t trust them to do this on their own, and I know you two are like, bona fide Apocalypse stoppers, so consider this my final wish, since I’m probably dead-you wouldn’t be watching this if I didn’t already snuff it-help the boys. And their angel, I guess. I do not want the world to end, even if I’m not in it. You guys appreciate it. You know that this world has so much more to offer than being the universe’s biggest parking lot.
“So please…”
And the Gabriel in the screen sighed, rubbed his face, and flipped his hand, making an apple appear out of thin air.
“I don’t want to see two brothers who love each other so much fall apart again. I mean, okay, so if I’m dead, I won’t, but you get the idea. Not as a favor, since I can’t pay you back anymore favors, but… just please.”
And it was done.
Almost.
“One more thing-that key I gave you? Let’s just say ol’ Balthy isn’t the only one with a stash of heavenly weapons. I think I might’ve kept your sword somewhere in there, bro. Happy trails!”
And finally, the screen went to black. They sat there for another ten minutes in silence, making sure that there was nothing else.
“Hm.”
“Well my dear, I suppose that means…”
“I’ll book us some tickets.”
“America. Do you think it’s nice there this time of year?”
“Well the Apocalypse doesn’t exactly go for nice, sunny days, Aziraphale.”
“You never know.”
“Yeah. You’re right, we don’t.”
~end~
Happy Holidays, lynndyre, from your Secret Writer!