Chapter Text
1.
This was meant to be a simple salt and burn. Just in and out, dig up the grave of the old guy who had been drowning young men like the one who had knocked up his daughter fifty years ago, and that would be that. As Dean wipes the last traces of dead flesh and goo he’d rather not think about from his face, making an exaggerated expression of disgust, he thinks he ought to have realised by now that nothing goes quite to plan any more. God, but he and Sam stink to high heaven right now, and there’s no way he’s going to get bits of zombie on the Impala’s upholstery. Luckily they keep a tarp rolled up and stuffed in the back seat foot-well for times like this; it’s a lesson they learned a long time ago.
“Do you think this is another sign of the Apocalypse?” Sam asks, inspecting his ruined shirt mournfully. It’s no loss, Dean thinks, it was ugly anyway. “I mean, this is the second group in two weeks, though at least they weren’t acting human this time around. More like the kind of zombies we’re used to hunting. But I bet Death is behind this as well.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, not that he really gives a damn at this point in time. He’s tired, okay, and he thinks he’s got good reason to be. If this is Death’s work, they can deal with it in the morning. Right now he just needs a shower, and its half an hour’s drive back to the motel, and he can’t deal with any of this apocalypse bullshit right now. “We’ll think about it tomorrow, okay? I’ll call Cas and see what he thinks.” He wipes the blade of his shovel clean on the grass before shouldering it, sighing.
Sam nods, looking about as tired as Dean feels. He’s practically swaying on his feet, so Dean guesses there’s no question about who’s going to be driving the Impala. He’s just started to head down the path when he sees Sam isn’t following him. Instead he’s staring off across the cemetery at a point in the trees near the boundary wall, and tension is knotting his shoulders. Dean turns, his hand going to his gun instinctively before he remembers he ran out of ammo sometime in the past half-hour. He curses under his breath.
There is a man standing in the shadows of a laurel, leaning against the trunk and smoking casually, as if the whole cemetery hadn’t been swarming with the legions of the undead ten minutes ago. Dean exchanges a look with his brother, a non-verbal question, you got ammo? Sam shakes his head slightly. Looks like they’ll be bashing the guy over the head with the shovels if it comes to that. But so far he’s done nothing, not even moved. He’s just watching them, raising the cigarette to his lips in long, slow breaths.
“Fuck this,” Dean says. “I’m going to see what he wants.”
“Dean,” Sam says, his tone cautious, but as he puts out an arm to block his movement forward the man looks up, smiles at them, and vanishes, quite literally, into thin air.
“Oh come on!” Dean says, throwing one hand up in a vicious gesture. “Fucking angels.” As if their night wasn’t bad enough already. They drag themselves home, and Dean tries not to think what it means that Heaven has managed to find them again.
------
2.
Nine months ago.
Here is a lesson Heaven never learnt; angels gossip, if you leave them to their own devices, and you never know who might be listening in. Perhaps this pair think that they can walk into Lucifer’s territory with impunity because he has a new creation to tend, not to mention the innumerable other plans he is spinning into his web at any one time, but they are wrong. Foolish of them to think they would not be overheard not a block from his stronghold, but they are Third Sphere, and their kind has never been known for their critical thinking.
“They say there are only a few more seals left before he is loose,” one whispers to the other. They are squeezed into human vessels, wings constricted. Younglings who know no better. They were not around for the War or for the Fall, so how can they appreciate who he is? They only know of him from stories, as the Adversary, and then... as no-one. But ignorance is no excuse to the Morningstar.
“Lilith will not succeed,” the second angel says firmly. “The power of Heaven is more than a match for her.”
It is the mention of Lilith’s name that stays his hand. It would take but a touch of his Grace to scare them off, but now Lucifer wants to hear what they have to say to each other. He knew Lilith, a long time ago. Without her, he suspects it would have taken him much further to find his own independence, but it has been half a billion years since he last saw her. It seems strange that she could come out of hiding without his hearing of it before, and if it is not her, then whoever the imposter is must be very brave or very stupid to take on her name. The Lilim would not take very kindly to it.
“I do not doubt our orders,” the first says, “but this demon is wily, as you know.”
“True, but we have the Righteous Man, and we have his brother, and you know the final seal cannot be broken so long as that abomination does not use its powers.”
“I do not understand why we allow him to live,” the angel says, sneering. “He cannot break anything if he’s dead.”
“The Righteous Man loves his brother,” the other says patiently, “and he would not cooperate if we did that. Castiel has been given charge of them, and you should not question his decisions.”
“Castiel is but a Principality, and he has been given the power of a Dominion! And Uriel himself I hear is as near as taking orders from him. I have never heard of such a thing, and why? Is he that virtuous a soldier? Are we not all virtuous in doing God’s work?”
“Perhaps it is because he does not question our Father’s wishes?” the other says sharply.
The Morningstar lets them go. He has heard enough, and this intrigues him. It is clear that the angels were referring to the sixty-six seals that once held him in Hell, before he took the metaphorical back door out. They are without purpose now, and he cannot imagine why anyone would go to the bother of breaking them. If they wanted to free a Duke, there are easier ways. But clearly someone is doing it, and this bothers him. There is always a reason, and usually one which does not take a great deal of effort to divine, but not this time. Something is off here, and he doesn’t yet know what. He will have to make some enquiries.
----
Lucifer has had whole eras of the Earth to amass knowledge of every corner of creation, to have allies and contacts in every pocket dimension and planet with sentient life. With Yahweh gone, he has power besides to work with too. However it would be foolish to start asking around before exploring the most obvious option; the Lilim themselves. Though Mazikeen is not perhaps on the best of terms with him at the moment, their deal is square, and he is prepared to owe her a favour. Better than trying to ask angels, or lowering himself to admit ignorance to Michael. The demon in question is with her people in his own universe, as expected. Her brothers and sisters turn to watch him cautiously as he passes through their camp.
“Have you heard news of your mother recently?” he asks when he finds her, straight to the point. There has never been any need for idle pleasantries with Mazikeen, something he had enjoyed about her company.
“No lord,” she says, “not for a long time. You wish to find her?” She frowns a little, visible only on the side not hidden by her mask. It is as he expected, but it would be asinine not to ask and thereby miss a simple and obvious answer.
“Not as such,” he replies. “There is a being using her name, breaking the sixty-six seals. You may wish to look into it.”
Mazikeen inclines her head. “Yes,” she says, with no small venom. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention lord. The imposter shall be found, and we shall take great care in dealing with it.” Her smile is cruel, and he likes it.
It will take a little while for her to make any progress, and in the meantime the Morningstar has many other things which require his attention. He will leave this with Mazikeen for now. It is not urgent, and it will wait.
----
3.
A week passes without news from Mazikeen, and in the meantime Lucifer has tuned his awareness back in to the seals for the first time in several decades. It both worries and surprises him that only eleven remain before that magic number is reached. This is proceeding far faster than he had expected, which makes him suspect there is more to this than the overheard conversation led him to believe. It is not as if the seals are unprotected, though it is possible the chain of command in Heaven is somewhat uncertain these days. There was chaos enough the last time he visited. In any case, he needs more information, and since the Lilim have found nothing, he must turn to other sources. The rumour mills of Heaven and Hell are fertile gardens for gossip, and if anyone knows what is going on, the word will filter out from them. He needs only to tap into it.
The angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley occupy interesting positions in their respective hierarchies. After the last aborted Apocalypse both Beelzebub and Metatron were well aware that the pair had something to do with stopping it, but as the actual act itself had been all the work of the Antichrist, it was impossible to find something that they had exactly done wrong. As massive bureaucracies are wont, neither side wanted to upset the status quo, and the whole business was quietly swept under the rug. Not forgotten, however, which meant they were left to their own devices for the most part, in the hope of providing enough rope for them to hang themselves. The most important factor, from Lucifer’s point of view, is that no-one lower than the Seraphim or the Dukes actually knows any of this. Crowley and Aziraphale are free to walk their respective homes and talk to whoever they want. Just what he needs.
The Morningstar does not anticipate having to work hard to convince them to play along. He may not rule Hell anymore, but he had been at that time, playing his role in the end of the world, and he had seen the potential for something... unusual. An angel and a demon standing side by side against the storm, working together. A rare sight indeed. He has kept an eye on them, even after his retirement, and there have been some interesting developments since then. The sort of thing that wouldn’t be overlooked, not when both sides were just itching to take them down for something. You expect pettiness from Hell, from Heaven it just proves a sanctimonious point.
Lucifer does not announce his arrival, but he has the taste not to simply materialise right next to them. It would be bad manners, not to mention – depending on what they were doing at the time – arouse a not inconsiderable amount of embarrassment and anger. While he may want them off guard, that would be counter-productive. Instead, he walks through the front door of Aziraphale’s dusty bookshop in downtown Soho, London, ignoring both the lock and the ‘Closed’ sign, letting the bell jingle into the muted silence that all such stores seem to carry around them. Angels, he finds, tend to have a fondness for books, although Aziraphale’s interest in prophecy is at least more useful than Meleos’ collection, though he disapproves of any method of predestination on principle. Still, threatening the books will probably not be necessary in this case.
“I’m afraid we’re closed for the evening, there was a sign...” Aziraphale’s voice trails off as he comes out of the back room and sees who is waiting for him by the counter. “Oh. Oh dear.”
Lucifer smiles, taking note of the angel’s ruffled hair, open collar and flushed face. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says, looking expectantly back the way Aziraphale came. The angel blushes even harder and turns his head.
“Crowley,” he calls, “I think you’ll want to be out here for this.”
The demon is in an even worse state of undress, which has the interesting effect of highlighting just how pale he turns on seeing the Morningstar. He manages to miracle his shirt back on after the second try, and stammers out a respectful greeting.
“I’m assuming you’re here for a reason Morningstar,” Aziraphale says coldly, drawing himself up to his full, if rather unimpressive, height and folding his arms, positively crackling with angelic energy. Lucifer has never made the mistake of underestimating him despite his less than fearsome appearance. He does not forget the angel was once a Seraph, and no matter how diminished his rank may be now, that is not power that ever truly fades, though it may lie dormant. Aziraphale may have forgotten what the taste of his full Grace really feels like, but given sufficient stimulus, Lucifer has no doubt he would be able to find it again. Even though the angel would be no real challenge, he has never taken by force what he could get through words instead.
“I am here for information,” Lucifer says crisply. “Or more precisely, rumours.”
Crowley visibly relaxes at this. He has always been understandably nervous around the once-ruler of Hell, and the Morningstar doubts that will ever change. Sometimes he thinks Crowley something of a coward, but he always manages to do something to surprise him. It is probably due to all the time spent on Earth, but the distorting nature of Hell has had less effect on him than most other demons he could name. “We can do that,” the demon says thankfully. “I like to think I’m still well up in the water-cooler gossip, especially with the ex-humans.”
“Age has its advantages there I’m sure,” Lucifer replies smoothly. “I want to know about a being calling itself Lilith. Not the genuine article.” His gaze flickers over to Aziraphale. “And a Principality turned Dominion named Castiel.”
The angel nods firmly, still in his wary stance. Perhaps he heard about what happened to Meleos. Angels are so touchy about their belongings. “I’ll ask around,” he says. “The name sounds a bit familiar, though I’m sure he’s not in my garrison.”
“I’ll be back in a week,” Lucifer says, and leaves, slipping through the space of infinity into one of the doors only he can see, back to his own Creation.
----
“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 within 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 known Aziraphale, and they are friends, as much as two demons can be. 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, including a healthy boost to his reputation, and as James works over in America in Sales there’s no harm in the borrowing. He’s rather 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.
-----
4.
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. In any case he has a job to do; there’s little time to waste. It is probably nothing significant.
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 his 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 they say, 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 under her command. 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 someone his age. 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 children... 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 in this way? 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 on him
“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.
------