Chapter Text
Dean and Sam approach the warehouse with casual ease borne of this not being their first break-and-enter. It wasn’t even in their first fifty of the year.
And it was standard, as far as warehouses went - no windows, cement block walls with peeling paint, and protruding security cameras that were easy to throw a jacket over before picking the lock.
According to Bobby's call that morning, it has been a few days since there had been any activity by the cultists at the warehouses. So either something happened to them, they gave up, or they had finished what they set out to do. With any luck, they would find evidence of an unsuccessful ritual, and they could get back on the road to continue stopping Lilith from breaking more Seals.
In many ways, Dean was looking forward to the simplicity of this job. He could almost pretend he and Sam were still just fighting werewolves and ghosts. He could almost forget that the world was ending.
Inside, he and Sam split up to cover more ground. The hands holding their flashlights support their guns and they step on light feet between the shelves of boxes. At each corner, Dean turns rapidly to assess the aisle. Each one was empty, and he was reaching the far wall when he heard a voice call out:
“Is someone there?”
That wasn't Sam.
Dean flinches and turns around. The warehouse had echoed in its emptiness, and it was hard to pinpoint the location where the sound came from.
The voice continues. "I mean I know someone is there, but I'm asking to be polite. Would you care to make yourself known? Or should I just keep pretending I'm talking to myself?"
A beam of light hits the ceiling and Dean approaches its source.
At the base of the light is Sam, and another figure on the ground.
It appears to be a man. His hands are chained to a metal hook set into the floor. His clothing is torn and blood stains his skin and the blindfold over his eyes. Dean would have thought he was a victim of the cultists, perhaps an intended sacrifice, if it wasn’t for the devil’s trap around him.
“You can be as silent as you want, but I know you’re there. This isn’t a thick blindfold and your flashlights are pointed right at me.” The man’s head lolls as he turns towards them. His voice is haggard, and decidedly British.
"Now, are you the same guys, or someone new? Because if it's the same, my answer hasn't changed and you should just save yourselves the effort and let me out now."
Sam leans over to Dean without lowering his gun. “That’s a standard trap. We should exorcise him and be done here.”
Dean nods. “You want to do the honours?”
Sam makes a face. “You just want the easy job.”
“Come on, you always want an excuse to show off your Latin.”
The man… no, the demon perks up a bit. “You like Latin? Very fun language. Conjugations for days. Would love to have a chat about it with you. Think you could scuff up these lines around me first though?”
“We know what you are, demon.”
“Well I have to try. Typically people that summon demons aren’t the smartest of your lot.” His tongue flickers out like a snake's. “You two are new though. Cultists as well?”
“Hunters.”
“Oh, fantastic." The man appears to lose a few bones as he sulks. "Go on then, do your thing. It’s not going to work though.”
Sam gives Dean an 'is this guy for real?' look. Dean keeps his gun trained on the demon as Sam starts chanting in Latin.
The demon doesn't react at all, at first. But a couple lines in he begins to flinch. Then growl. Soon he is thrashing, chains rattling where they attach to the floor. His bones twist unnaturally beneath tight clothes, showing seams that had already been torn.
“It won’t fucking work!” His next inhale is pained. “Told the last guys the same bleeding thing!” He screams through gritted teeth as he seems to lose any structure of a spine. Sam continues the exorcism rites.
“Looks like it’s doing something,” Dean taunts, watching as black scales ripple across the demon’s skin and linger.
“Because it feels like you’re trying to pull my bones out through my flesh!"
Sam finishes the exorcism and the demon collapses, writhing within the centre of the circle, but no shadowy mass shoots shrieking up to the ceiling.
The only sounds in the warehouse are the heavy breaths of the demon curled up on the ground, shivering.
“Please, I just want to go home."
Dean scoffed. “I didn't find Hell that cosy."
The demon takes a deep breath and cracks his neck. "Been there, have you? Hmm. You wouldn't happen to be the Righteous Man? The other humans mentioned something about that. Not the most efficient way to start an Apocalypse, but desperate times, and all that rot."
Sam found that odd. Any other demon they spoke with knew all about the plan to jumpstart the Apocalypse. "You didn't hear about Dean in Hell?"
"I'm retired. Don't report to the head office anymore."
"You're a demon. You can't just retire from what you are."
The demon snarls. "I was an angel once too. Retired from that no problem."
"Why did the cultists want you?" Dean asked.
"So you can decide whether you can let me go, or what?"
Sam shared a look with Dean. "We're not going to let you go."
"Then I've got no reason to tell you anything." The demon shifts and groans. "This is killer on the knees. You're sure I can't tempt you to free me? I've been told I'm a pretty good lay. No strings attached. Only stipulation is that you agree to let me go afterwards."
Dean's heart misses a beat but he carefully schools his expression into neutrality, leaning towards disgust.
"Nah, I'm only interested in women."
The demon cocks his head.
"You sure? Not thinking about how you like that I'm chained up?" Dean fights to not choke on his breath.
The demon continues with a smirk. "Not thinking about how easy it would be to take me, arse up in the air while you pound me into the ground?" Dean feels himself twitch in his pants. No! He wasn't attracted to this man.
Demon! Man-demon!
"I'll even let you in on a secret…” The demon pauses, his next words coming out in a sultry whisper; "I like it rough."
Dean blushes. His palms have become sweaty, but he resists the urge to dry them on his pants. He definitely didn't want to draw attention to what was happening down there.
"I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last thing on Earth!" He hopes his voice was at least steady enough to convince Sam, if not the demon.
"You're attracted to me though," the demon shrugs. "Other one's not. He could leave the room if that's what's holding you back."
"It's not! I'm not gay!"
"Methinksss the lady doth protest too much." He pauses to think. "I could have whichever genitals you wanted. If that changes your mind."
Dean raises his gun. "It doesn't."
The demon sighs. “Just as well, really. Doubt my husband would be happy with me if we did shag. You, though,” Sam can tell the demon’s talking to him, though he is still blindfolded.
Sam shakes his head. "Not interested. I don't date redheads."
“Nah, but I can give you what you’re craving." Sam's breath stutters. How did he know? The demon all but purrs. "You're due for another hit, aren't you? Same offer. Your brother can even leave the room.”
Sam thinks about Ruby’s blood and his tongue flicks out to lick his lips against his will.
The demon's voice is soft and sensuous. “I promise, whatever that other bottom-feeder was giving you, mine will be so. Much. Better.”
Sam shivers in anticipation at the tone, but something in the words rattle him enough to shake out of his desire for demon blood.
“You’re not a low level demon!”
“Wot?” The oppressive feeling overtaking Sam dissipates. That the demon's powers were affecting him outside of the Trap only confirmed his suspicions.
“That’s why the exorcism wouldn’t work! You're a high-ranking demon.”
"I'm not, I told you I'm retired!"
“What’s he on about, Sam? What's he offering you?"
“I’ll tell you later.”
“He’s lyiiing,” the demon sings.
Sam continues, "You need to call Cas, Dean. We can't do this one alone."
Dean hesitates. "I could pop a bullet in its head first though, right?"
This set the demon off, rambling at a high pitch. "No need to waste bullets on me! Would be ssssilly to find yourself at Apocalypse-Two-Point-Oh missing a bullet when you need it the mossst!"
"I think I'll take my chances."
Dean's finger presses down on the shotgun’s trigger twice, bullets aimed directly for the demon’s head.
The demon’s form seems to glitch - his head moves just enough for the bullet to only graze his temple, severing the blindfold's ties. The bullets hit the wall behind him, sending concrete flying.
The demon hisses in pain. “You know, I didn't want to believe all the shit everyone says downstairs about you Winchesters, but you both are very difficult to like."
And he opens his eyes.
They catch the light of the flashlights. Acidic yellow irises took up the whole sclera, except for the serpentine pupils, narrow as daggers. They scream danger.
Sam starts the exorcism rites again.
The demon roars, thrashing in his chains. “I’m not possessing anyone! This is my damned body. Had it since Eden, and you can’t kick me out of it!”
Dean, sensing things were getting wildly out of hand, begins praying. “Castiel! Angel of Thursday and other things that are probably more important. We could really use your help right now!"
Mere moments pass before the fluttering of wings announce the angel’s arrival.
At about the same time, Sam stops the exorcism. Not because he noticed Castiel’s arrival. But because he is hit in the face with a snake-skin boot. Sam catches it with a squawk.
“Dean. Sam.” Castiel says the younger Winchester's name like an afterthought. He eyes the boot in Sam’s hand with a tilted head. "Why have you called me?”
“Got a demon,” Dean said. “A strong one. He’s got yellow eyes.”
Yellow eyes that narrow upon seeing Castiel. "I knew I smelled something blessed about them. That's your doing, then?”
“Perhaps.”
Crowley echoes his response in a mocking tone. “What was it he called you? I was a little busy having my bones rearranged."
Sam interjects. “We tried an exorcism. I was using it again because it seems to hurt him, but doesn’t eject him from his vessel. He said he wasn’t possessing anyone.”
Castiel tilts his head at the Demon.
“He’s not. He is one of the Fallen.”
Sam frowns. “He mentioned that too. But aren’t all demons?”
“No, they’re not. The average demon is a human who has made a deal. This being is far older than that.”
“But you said Anna was a fallen angel,” Dean protests “She’s different.”
“This demon was one of the first to fall with Lucifer. I don’t know about his rank in Hell, but his eyes aren’t indicative of that. He is The Serpent.”
“Oh! You know me?” The demon perks up slightly “Nice to have my work appreciated for once.”
Castiel scowls. “I would not say ‘appreciated’. Humanity knows sin because of you."
“I've said it before, I'll say it again! They would have eaten the apple with or without me! Tempting as all anything, right in the middle of the Garden.”
“-and you have the power to break the seals.”
“Well I’m not going to do it!" The demon actually managed to sound indignant. "Already stopped one Apocalypse, I’m not exactly going to help jumpstart another!”
“The Serpent?” Sam asks. “As in, the one that gave Eve the apple? Original sin?”
"Yes. keep up, would you?" The demon turned back to Castiel. "Name. Now. I don't recognize you."
Castiel’s frown impossibly deepened. “I am not giving my name to a demon.”
“Name for a name, then! I may not be a crossroads demon, but that’s just good business. “
“No. I could ask Az…any other angel who The Serpent was, and they would know.”
“But not you.” The demon puzzled. “Why’s that?”
“I was not created until the Earth was older.”
–--
Castiel had a bad feeling about The Serpent. The demon seemed familiar in a way that Castiel could not place, though he had never met him before, of that Castiel was certain. But looking into his serpentine eyes, something shifted in his memories. Like a glimpse of Jimmy's past coming to the forefront of his mind.
“This is the youngest of the Heavenly Host, Castiel.”
That was Aziraphale's voice, so it certainly wasn't one of Jimmy' memories. Was it one of his own?
All angels knew each other, so Aziraphale would never have had to introduce him.
Right?
Crowley's voice drew his attention back tot he present. “If you’re that young, there is no way you have a corporation. So you’re possessing someone? I didn't know Upstairs had stooped so low." He considers this. “You must be new to it too. Haven’t even figured out how to use the voice box correctly. You sound like you've swallowed gravel.”
Castiel flinches as another foreign memory wafted into his brain.
“It’s incredibly bad manners to possess someone, Castiel! If angels are coming to Earth, they require a corporation.”
“But Gamaliel says –“
Castiel hisses as his head feels like it is splitting. He tries to gather his thoughts to make a coherent sentence.
Dean gives him a look of concern. "You alright, Cas?"
Castiel ignores him. "It is the apocalypse, demon. We need every advantage if we're to preserve Earth."
“'We?' No way other angels are helping you. They're itching for the end as much as Hell." The demon's eyes widen as he leans forward. "Aziraphale is helping you, isn’t he! He must be. There’s still names on his list of old farts he’s waiting to die so he can go to their estate sales. Can't let the world end now!"
Sam wanders around the devil's trap. Better to have more angles covered. "I’ve never heard of an ‘Aziraphale’ in the Host," he says.
"Well I wasn't expecting you to know, but I thought The Littlest Angel over there might."
"Aziraphale is my friend,” Castiel says carefully. “One of the best angels I know and I'm not about to lead him straight to a demon with unclear motives."
Castiel blinks, and he has switched places with the demon - instead of looking down, he is looking up. The demon’s hair is longer, and he wears black robes.
Castiel’s mouth opens to speak.
"If you're friends with Aziraphale, you must not be all that bad."
If pressed, Castiel couldn't think of a friend of Aziraphale's among Heaven. He was not a popular angel. Many viewed him as strange, having become too similar to the humans he was supposed to watch over on earth.
The memory continues.
"Not friends! Enemies since Eden!"
"And that, Castiel, is what a poor liar looks like." Aziraphale again. Why couldn't he remember what happened around these memories?
But one thing was certain; if these memories did happen, then the demon wasn’t lying.
"How do you know Aziraphale?" Castiel demands, blade falling into his hand.
"Biblically," The demon drawls.
Sam and Dean snort in shock but Castiel doesn’t see any humour in such a statement.
Castiel reels back and punches the Demon in the face. The blade supports his knuckles to add to the impact.
"FAAAACK!"
"Don't besmirch my friend!"
The demon holds his nose awkwardly with his still restrained hands to stem the blood flow. "I didn't do anything he didn't fully consent to, I assure you. Smirching or otherwise."
He cracks his nose back into place with a hiss. The demon continues. “Please, I’ll be honest with you. Honest as I can. The cultists wanted me to break some Seals to Lucifer’s Cage. I don’t want to do that. So if you let me go, I won’t! Win win!”
Dean, having reloaded his gun, takes aim again. “So you can be summoned again by another who can convince you to break the seals? Not happening.”
Castiel tries to focus on the words everyone is saying, but his thoughts drift as he stares at the demon’s blood on his hands. They overlap with a memory of smaller hands. Stuck to the blood was white feathers, singed and ashen.
Which was strange. Aziraphale was the only angel he knew that had white wings lasting past fledgling age. Usually they settled into their colour sometime before angels fully settled into their Grace.
His hands tremble.
Castiel's own wings were black. Nothing like these feathers. Were they from a moult? Why was there so much blood?"
"...as….Cas!"
His corporation's lungs couldn't intake air properly anymore. His wings feel like they are on fire. He brings them out to check, but they were their usual black. Only, they were also white and burnt, bleeding despite his feeble attempts to stem the flow. Fingers coming away burnt from hellfire.
Castiel comes to realize that he has no clue when his wings had moulted to their mature colours.
Faintly, Castiel hears Dean and Sam call to him, but he can't make out the words.
His ears are overcome with the sound of screams. They overlap each other in a terrible cacophony.
What was happening to him?
He reaches his senses out and sees a demon. He is sitting on his knees. But he is also towering above him, in his mind's eye. The abomination has Hellfire in his hands, and he is taking aim at Castiel.
Castiel reaches out blindly for his angelic powers. This human vessel was not meant to hold such power and he can feel it cracking at the seams. But he has to defend himself.
He has to.
---
The angel is silent, staring at his hands in shock.
Dean turns on Crowley who is still caught in the devil's trap, and just as confused as the humans.
"What have you done to him!"
"I'm not doing anything!" Dean stepped up to 'Cas' whose eyes were wide and beginning to glow an electric blue.
Crowley couldn't be certain what that meant, but he'd a suspicion.
“Get away from him you stupid man! If you touch him when he’s going nova, you will get fried!”
The hunter levels his gun at Crowley's head instead.
Sam intervenes. “You can’t shoot him Dean! What if it’s a curse? We need him to break it.”
"And what if he's the cause in the first place?"
Crowley's brain ran at inhuman speeds. He could weasel his way out of this. He always has before.
"Cas. You called him Cas! What is that short for?"
"If Cas didn't want to tell you, I sure as shit won't either," Dean growls
If he did shoot, Crowley wouldn’t have time to gather the energy to manipulate time. He'd already used the juice he was saving on the earlier temporal shift.
Then angel brings out his wings and Crowley's breath comes out of him in a whoosh.
"Castiel."
Crowley feels his own wings twitch at the sight of the obsidian wings on the angel's back, but he keeps them safe in the celestial plane.
It was Castiel.
The glow intensifies, and cracks begin to form in Castiel's vessel.
That probably wasn't good.
Castiel charges towards Crowley, eliciting a strangled sound. The instant he gets in range of the devil's trap, the power of his aura cracks the floor.
Crowley is out in an instant, the chains that had bound him clattering to the floor. He immediately puts himself between the angel and the humans.
"Castiel, snap out of it," Crowley says, "If you hurt your humans, you're going to feel terrible about it.
Castiel's voice sounds child-like when he pleads, " Make it stop burning! Please Crawly!" Glowing tears leak from his eyes.
Oh. That would explain a few things. Castiel seemed to be getting his memories back. Seeing Crowley must have started jump-started the process.
He approaches slowly. "Hey, Castiel. It's me, Crawly." The name felt wrong on his tongue, but if he was right about what was happening, Castiel didn't know Crowley.
The angel's whimpering softens only slightly. "Please Crawly! It hurts. My wings- mywingsmywings-"
Crowley tries to remember what he'd said originally. Was it words of comfort? Clinical repairs? He thinks the former would be better received now.
"Castiel, I need you to look at me, alright? Hey, I know it's hard. I know it hurts. I can help. But you need to go to sleep."
"It hurts too much- I can't-the other demon-"
"Aziraphale's taken care of them. I can help you with your pain. Will you let me?"
Castiel's head nods, a jerking motion.
"Okay. Close your eyes." Castiel does and Crowley snaps his fingers, quieting the parts of the brain he needs to. The angel collapses immediately into Crowley's arms, the glow emanating from him ceasing immediately.
And then Crowley's whole existence is burning.
It reminds him of when he entered the church in the mid 1900's to save Aziraphale and his books.
Except times a thousand. And not contained to his feet.
Crowley’s throat constricts. His corporation’s vocal cords are not certain how to express how much pain he is in.
In the shock, all he can think of is Aziraphale finding a pile of goo where he used to be. He wasn’t even wearing his sunglasses. There would be no way to know it had once been him. He wished he had been wearing his wedding band when he was summoned, but he'd taken it off to do some gardening.
Crowley’s bones ache as he feels them exposed to the air.
Through his pain, and whimpering gasps he can hear:
“Is Cas alright?”
“He’s not breathing! Does that mean-”
He's fine. Doesn't need to breathe. Crowley thinks but he can’t form the words.
His existence is nothing more than his skin boiling off.
His last thought before blacking out was gratitude that he at least got to see Aziraphale one last time.
He isn’t conscious long enough to question it.