They’d called up the other Crowley. The one from England.
Well, Crowley had called up the other Crowley, anyway. He figured if the Serpent of Eden couldn’t decipher Mother Monster’s nasty scribbling, nobody else could.
What Castiel wasn’t expecting, though; was Aziraphale showing up, too.
The first thing the Principality had done was comment on the furnishing. This wouldn’t have been odd, except they were in a torture chamber. Aziraphale thought the blood was decorative.
The second thing he did was offer to make some tea. Castiel felt like he was back in Heaven’s family reunions again. He shuddered.
After days of indecipherable reading and “my Crowley, your Crowley, snake Crowley, short Crowley” misunderstandings, they finally got somewhere.
That somewhere was the Gates of Purgatory.
There had been arguing, tears, Raphael well dead, and Sam trying to stab him in the back, but spare that, it had all gone quite well, in retrospect.
Of course, the convulsions weren’t part of the plan, but one must learn to keep a stiff upper lip as Aziraphale would’ve said if he hadn’t fled with bastard Crowley and the other Crowley (or was it snake Crowley and bastard Crowley, he’d never gotten the naming right). They were now in some trailer park most likely getting piss-drunk. Good for them.
And then there were hands coming out of his stomach and maybe he should’ve thought the souls plan a bit more thoroughly. Luckily, thanks to Sam yapping on his ear for the past week, he knew exactly where to find help; albeit the more awkward kind of help.
And now he stood before the gates of Purgatory because apparently Death had some sort of crush on Dean, ready to spill out every bit of power he’d ever had and most likely die.
The gates were open and apparently both Crowleys and Aziraphale had come to watch the show. He wobbled up to the gate, Dean and Aziraphale supporting him and braced himself.
One by agonizing one, the souls crawled out.
“Oh Castiel, dear, are you quite alright? I’ll fix you a cup of coffee, if you’d like, that looked like quite the stress.” Said Aziraphale, supporting his younger brother against his chest.
He’d always known tagging along with Crowley was the way to go. Naturally, something would go terribly wrong like all plans involving Crowley usually did (he still resented that awful stain from the coffee machine), and a plan with two Crowleys? Well, that couldn’t possibly be good news, either. Although the hunter boys and Castiel did do a good job averting Apocalypse 2.0 (Now with less moody Antichrists!). But there was still a lack of trust as far as he was concerned.
“I’m fine,” Castiel managed to say between gasps. The poor thing, he was just trying to fix things around Heaven. Not that Aziraphale visited too often, but he’d heard the place had gone to the dumps after the Archangels started dying.
“Are you sure, because you don’t look too-“
And then there was something like a flash of bright light flying out the door again and, instead of hitting Castiel, aiming straight for the Principality.
Coming to America had been a terrible idea.
Crowley had been perfectly comfortable in his little South Downs refuge with Aziraphale until the other Crowley (the one who wasn’t angel stock) came knocking at his door asking something he could’ve perfectly asked of Lillith.
Oh wait, that bitch was dead. Well done, hunter boys.
So he packed his metaphorical bags (occult beings don’t need bags) and took his metaphorical plane to The Promise Land. Oh, and Aziraphale had come along too.
Of course he’d had to fawn over his little angel brother the entire time.
And then he got himself hit with a full blast of souls. Lovely.
Crowley (the snake one) rushed over to where Aziraphale had toppled along with Castiel in a matter of seconds. He shoved the other angel out of the way, earning quite a nasty look from both the hunter brothers, and shook his angel violently, not panicking at all.
He’d never been more relieved when Aziraphale opened his eyes.
He’d never been more devastated when he realized they weren’t Aziraphale’s eyes.
“Angel?” He whispered, already knowing the answer. It still hurt when it came, though.
Not-Aziraphale hoisted himself up and grinned from ear to ear, “Even better.”
“Who’re you?” Crowley heard from behind him. One of the Winchesters, he couldn’t remember what his name was, but was dead envious that he had to courage to ask what his stupid, speechless mouth couldn’t.
“We are the Leviathan,” not-Aziraphale said, examining his (their?) surroundings, “And we…” he (they?) paused and held up Aziraphale’s scarf (a bit bloody from leaning on Castiel), “Oh my, is this tartan? Honestly, I’m having second thoughts about not talking the dirty-looking one,” he pointed vaguely to Castiel.
“But you didn’t… you left Castiel and went to Aziraphale… why?” the other Crowley that wasn’t a snake had joined in the conversation and suddenly snake Crowley felt very cowardly.
“Are you kidding me, have you seen his nails? Gorgeous, not a scratch on them,” all he (they) got as a response was a dry stare, “Oh fine. You know, angelic corporations, much more durable than pain old human vessels. In fact, this one might only explode in a week. Mr. Gosh-I-Should-Really-Get-To-Shaving over there? An hour, at most.”
“You…” snake Crowley’s voice finally, finally, finally reaches him.
“Ah, he speaks!” not-Aziraphale closes his glasses and tosses them aside, “Surely, you can be more coherent, dear.”
“Don’t you dare call me ‘dear’” he hissed, “Where’s Aziraphale?”
Not-Aziraphale takes a few steps forward and there are worrying black veins sprouting from his neck. He (they) doesn’t stop until he’s face to face with snake Crowley, “Oh, I dunno. Out there.”
Crowley reaches out and grabs not-Aziraphale by his shirt collar, their faces only centimetres apart, “Bring. Aziraphale. Back,” he says in a low snarl.
“Oh, honey, that’s adorable,” not-Aziraphale taps him on the chin and gives him the most disarming smile, “You say it like he’s still alive.”