Chapter Text
It's universally accepted by satanists, theologians (of the more hands-on type) and hunters, that while it's child's play to summon up a demon, trying to find the right one is about umpteen times more trouble than it's worth. Attempting it tends to involve more hours of research than is generally considered healthy, as well as the headache that trying to spell a demon's name can give you. Don't even attempt to pronounce it - demons have a fondness for xs, js and qs, often consecutively, and appear to believe that vowels are for wusses. Then there's the fact that four times out of five you'll end up with the wrong demon anyway.
Considering this, it would probably surprise the casual onlooker (providing, naturally, that they had a decent knowledge of demon summoning) that the Winchester brothers were about to attempt just that. Then again, Sam and Dean happened to have two things that no other people had: Firstly, levels of pig-headed stubbornness that would put a camel to shame[1]. And secondly, they happened to have an angel on their side. Let's call it divine intervention.
Dean added the finishing touches to the final sigil out of the seven that they'd spent several hours engraving into the stone floor of the cellar they'd rented. He stood up stiffly, wincing at the stiffness in his joints that came from lying on the ground, and dusted some of the dirt off his jeans.
Sam pulled out a handful of salt, mixed with iron filings, and scattered it liberally around the edge of the circle. Dean nodded, smirking at Castiel. "Come on then, angel, light her up!"
Castiel blinked, raising an eyebrow at the brothers. "...Light what up?" He asked. "The cellar appears to be adequately lit already."
Dean groaned. Bloody literalminded angels and their literalminded... uh... minds? He sighed. "Doesn't matter, just start off the process, angel," he grumbled.
Castiel nodded, as always the strong, silent type (a little voice in the back of Dean's head snickered shamelessly), and waved a hand over the dull runes which suddenly began to glow with angelic power. There was a strong wind that rushed through the cellar, accompanied by tendrils of smoke that whipped around in a mini-cyclone. A dark, handsome, slender figure in a stylishly-cut suit (Yes, the author has a crush on Crowley. Shush.) materialised in the centre of the circle, formed out of the smoke, with an anticlimatic pop.
Dean grinned, getting ready to gloat over his captive (hey, he might not do this for fun, but it helped to have a little gloating every now and then) and a smirk appeared on his face. The demon glanced up at them, sighed deeply, and pulled a set of speech cards out of his pocket.
[1] Stubborness is a much-underrated quality - while it may not have the same mountain-moving abilities as Faith, it's still a good trait to have in a prophet. (It took Joshua a lot longer than seven goes to knock down the walls of Jericho, and a hell of a lot more than trumpets).
"Hello," he read in a flat english monotone, "You've chosen Satan and Co. express service for today's damnation. Thank you for giving us your custom. We offer a comprehensive range of services for our standard price of one freely-given immortal soul." He shuffled the cards in his hands. "Are you a revisiting customer, or is this the first time you have used our services?"
There was a long silence, and Crowley waited expectantly. "Shall I take that as a 'no'?" he asked, smirking ever so slightly.
"What the hell?" Dean heard Sam mutter, and the demon rolled his eyes behind his dark shades.
"Well, yeah," he replied, "But the powers that be Down Below decided that we should have a new company policy: to whit, anyone who summons a demon up gets drowned in bureaucratic bullshit." He brightened up. "Oh, that reminds me..." he clicked his fingers and the cards containing said bureaucratic bullshit burned into bureaucratic ashes. "That felt good."
He paused. "You know, I'm not sure whether to regret sending them that memo on corporate practice or feel proud that they're finally moving into the 20th century. I'm not even going to bother trying with the 21st..." he coughed, embarassed. "Anyway, sorry about all that, but orders are orders."
Dean snorted, irritation letting him recover a little. "Yeah, right. The hell you did - the 'King of Hell' doesn't have to take any orders from anybody."
Crowley faltered, blinking. "... no, I don't imagine he does," he replied cautiously. "And your point is?"
Sam folded his arms, giving him bitchface number 27: 'Yeah, right, do I look like a dumbass?' "It's not like anybody's going to be giving you any orders soon, Crowley, is it?" he narrowed his eyes further at the demon. "Not since you betrayed Cas and took over Hell, you snake!"
"There's no need to get personal," Crowley muttered, face pale. "And I know that I haven't been Downstairs in a while, but I don't think that even I could have missed a promotion that big."
Dean growled between his teeth. "Look, Crowley, just because you've gone and gotten yourself a new meatsuit doesn't mean that you can try and pretend that none of this ever happened! We don't forgive that easy." He managed to get the smirk back onto his face. "And what's with the British accent[2]? You got a fondness for the British meatsuits or something? They just sound freaky."
"Definitely an improvement on the last one, though," Sam said absently, looking Crowley up and down appreciatively.
Silence filled the cellar, and Dean turned slowly to stare at his little brother.
Sam looked away as he noticed the sudden silence. "What?" he asked defensively, catching Dean's incredulous stare. "Just saying..."
Dean closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. "There is a time and a place" he said between his fingers, "For hitting on people. And it is not when we've trapped a demon in a cellar!"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Dean. Cool it, I was just pointing it out."
"At least the kid has taste," Crowley told them, looking down at himself. "There's not a thing wrong with my body - over six thousand years and not a single problem; one owner since new." He paused. "Since everything was new, really... anyway, I like it!"
Castiel was busy doing the creepy stary thing he always freaked people out with - sure enough, Crowley had begun to look increasingly unnerved by the angel's intense gaze. When Castiel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, the demon finally snapped. "Ok... is this guy new or something? Because seriously, the staring thing's going to creep out the humans a little." He glanced back towards the brothers. "Who's this guy? Is he as much of an arsehole as all the other angels? Well," he corrected himself, "most of the other angels."
Sam was enthralled by now. "Do you have some kind of memory loss or something?" he guessed, raising an eyebrow.
Dean groaned. "why do I always end up with the nutjobs?" he asked the heavens. Or, at least, the cellar roof. The whole 'being underground' thing kind of ruined the effect.
[2] Note for Americans and other aliens: There is no such thing as the 'British Accent.' There are accents from Britain: there are English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish Accents. Even within England there are so many accents that most of the South half can't understand the Northerners. It's like saying that someone has a 'european accent' - one lot of people will be offended, and all the others will want to punch you for even suggesting that they sound like "That lot of bastards."
Castiel frowned, turning towards the brothers. "He seems different," he admitted, "There's something strange about him."
Crowley snorted. "Yeah; from the sounds of it you've got the wrong bloody demon! What, did you decide to start harassing me because you couldn't find him?"
"Paranoid nutjobs," Dean ammended.
Sam glanced over at his older brother. "I think he has finally cracked," he told him, thoroughly amused (hey, when you spend your life driving from cheap motel to cheap motel and getting nearly killed on the way, you get your kicks where you can find them).
Dean scowled. "We don't have time for this," he announced, pulling out a bottle of Holy Water from his pocket. This was angel-blessed, the strongest stuff you could get without actually knocking Raphael over the head in an effort to get him to give you anything other than a righteous smiting[3].
"Well," said Crowley, in time-hallowed words, "That escalated quickly." He still regarded internet memes as a bit of work well-done for hell.[4] Trying to grin disarmingly, he took a step closer towards the Winchesters, one eye on the bottle of water. "Just... put the bottle down and we can talk, ok?"
"Man up a bit!" Dean snapped, "And start talking some sense, dammit! Anyway, the big scary 'King of Hell' can't be afraid of a little pain, can he?" he shot back, sneering.
"No," Crowley said weakly, bordering on the hysterical "It's not that I'm unable to handle pain, it's more that I'd prefer not to go the way of Ligur and be smited into Oblivion, yeah?"
"What the hell is wrong with you, Crowley?!" Dean exploded, finally losing patience and just flicking some of the Holy Water at the captive demon. Crowley flinched backwards, yelling out in pain; he had thrown up his hands to protect his face, and the water burned his skin like acid. His wings came out as reflex; an attempt at making him seem larger and more intimidating. His shades lay where they had fallen, discarded, as Crowley glared at the two hunters, eyes blazing.
Dean's eyes widened and he stumbled backwards, swearing loudly and fumbling desperately for his demon-killing knife. The bottle of Holy Water dropped to the floor unheeded and smashed, splashing the edges of Crowley's wings. Black smoke rose from them like steam and he hissed in pain, beyond anything as human as words; his mind was going straight to snake, instincts ingrained since the Garden.
"Yellow eyes," breathed Sam, all trace of humour gone. "Shit..."
(Cue advert break... no? Oh. On with the story, then...)
[3] This is, unsurprisingly, the only kind of smiting there is.
[4] The fact that Aziraphale was also of this opinion, but from Heaven's point of view, was beside the point. Everyone knew that those little 'share this if you support our cause' messages irritated far more people than they helped.
Castiel simply stood and watched the drama unfolding before him with a puzzled look of half-recognition on his face, brow wrinkled. Dean took a cautious step closer, brandishing the blessed blade. Crowley's wings flutttered nervously; yearning to open to the skies , but hemmed in by the boundaries of the circle.
Suddenly there was a FLASH of white light and Aziraphale appeared, clad in a sky blue suit, his only concession to tartan a hankerchief in his breast pocket, brushing the dust off his shoulder. "Really, Crowley," he started. "They're just going to have to leave you alone for a while; I haven't managed to finish a meal wiith you for..." he trailed off as he looked up from his ministrations and took in the tableau before him; Dean advancing on the captive demon with a knife, and Sammy and Castiel watching.
The older angel took a deep breath in, his wings unfurling to span the cellar, pure white and radiant. Intense blue eyes filled with fury as Grace rolled off him in waves; a flaming sword appeared in one hand, which he levelled at Dean. "Take one more step towards him," he challenged the hunter, voice soft and deadly. "I dare you."
Dean gulped, his face turning a rather unusual colour. He'd met angels before, of course, but never one such as Aziraphale; an avenging angel, filled with righteous fury. Needless to say, he started backing away carefully.
Aziraphale waved a hand and the demon-killing knife vanished into the ether. He turned back towards Crowley, carefully slicing through the circle's sigils and miracling away the salt. He immediately reverted to his natural state of mother hen, taking Crowley's hands to inspect the damage. Oh, Crowley," he murmured, "what have they done to you?" He summoned up a little grace and soothed away the burns from the demon's hands and wings.
Crowley sagged in relief, running a shaky hand through untidy hair. "Thanks, angel," he replied, with an attempt at his usual crooked smile.
Aziraphale smiled gently back at him. "It's not a problem, dearest."
Castiel blinked in surprise a something inside his head clicked into place. "Aziraphale?" he asked surpised.
The older angel turned, face grim once more. "Yes? What do you -- Castiel?" he blurted in surprise.
Dean frowned, glancing between both of the angels. "Wait, you guys know each other?" he asked, and was summarily ignored for his pains by both angels.
"Castiel, I know that things have been difficult these past few years," started Aziraphale, king of the understatement," but really. I can hardly believe you've stooped to torturing harmless Fallen."
"Harmless?!" Sam shot back, skeptical. "Demons are anything but harmless."
"Fallen Angel," Crowley corrected idly, far more relaxed than he had been five minutes ago. "There'ssss a diference." he paused, miracling (anti-miracling?) up another of shades. "And lets just say 'disinclined to harm you,' shall we?" he settled back, leaning back against the cellar wall to enjoy the show.
Castiel frowned, looking puzzled. "Why do you choose to associate with one of the Fallen?" he asked Aziraphale, who smiled.
"He's good company, and he knows some excellent restaurants. After six thousand years with nobody else to talk to, you tend to get on with someone rather well, to be frank." he glanced back at Crowley, laughter dancing merrily in his eyes. "He's a much nicer person than he likes to make out, you know."
"Oh, thankssss, angel," he grumbled, embarassed. "Shout it out to the whole world, why don't you?" Sam sniggered, and Crowley stuck his forked tongue out at him.
Castiel still looked confused. "There is no Crowley mentioned in the records of the Fallen," he told them.
Crowley coughed awkwardly. "Well, I Fell a little after the whole thing with Luci, to be honest," he admitted. "Never really liked him, the vicious sod. Seriously, talk about a freaking psychopath, that guy gives the word 'mental' a whole new meaning. I didn't so much fall as..." he paused, searching for the words.
"Saunter vaguely downwards," Aziraphale supplied, smiling fondly.
"Yeah," Crowley agreed, brightening. "And then I went and upstaged everyone else by inventing original sin barely five minutes later, he told them all smugly.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "The little serpent's alway's been rather proud of that one."
Dean shifted uncomfortably. "I think that what we have here is a case of mistaken identity," he admitted.
"What, you think so?" Crowley asked in mock-surprise. "Just who in Heav--Hel--Earth's name did you mistake me for, anyway?" he demanded. "That Holy Water bloody well hurt!"
The brothers looked at each other, then launched into a tirade against their Crowley.
"-Tricked us-"
"-The Colt-"
"-With Bobby-"
"-Betrayed Castiel when he-"
"-Took over Hell-"
Aziraphale blinked as the verbal assault on the demon finished. "Well," he announced eventually. "He does seem like a rather nasty piece of work."
There was another pop, and a second dark figure materialised in what we shall for the sake of narrative causality assume is an absurdly spacious cellar. Crowley the second smirked as he glanced around the place. "Did somebody say my name?" he asked.
Of course they had ended up in a bar.
Dean had had his reservations at first (read: sworn himself blue and point-blank refused to go), but he'd eventually agreed to go with them for two reasons. Firstly, the chance to get so completely drunk that this all made some sort of sense was a very attractive prospect; and secondly, Dean had seen Crowley 1.0's Bentley, and... well. Nobody with a car that nice could be all evil.
Sam sipped at his pint, watching Crowley 2.0 over the rim of his glass. British beer was far stronger than the stuff you got back home, he reflected idly. The younger demon seemed really hyped up, like a girl just before a big date; he kept checking his hair every couple of minutes or so, fingers beating out a fast staccato rhythm as he fidgeted. Every so often he'd glance over at Crowley 1.0.
Sam couldn't resist, grinning evilly, he nudged him (yes, today was officially the strangest day ever) and smirked. "So," he began casually, "This new guy... he's some kind of big deal? You know... Down There?"
"Are you kidding?!" The demon yelped, high pitched voice and all. He coughed, embarassed, and took a gulp of his drink. "It's just... the Serpent of Eden, y'know? He basically invented the job I do. And he's good at it, too, always inventing new methods of spreading evil. Like Facebook. And those automatic checkout machines that never work. And I'm nearly certain he helped found the Republicans."
Crowley smirked. "So... yeah. He's a pretty big deal." He frowned into his glass. "Well, to the Human Demons, anyway. The Fallen haven't any imagination whatsoever, on the whole. Still stuck in 2000BC, the lot of them."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "And you're the king of Hell," he pointed out. "So go talk to him."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "I can see why they call you the smart one," he muttered, knocking back the rest of his Glennfiddich and sauntering towards the table Crowley 1.0 was sat at. He slipped into the seat opposite his counterpart.
"So," said Crowley 1.0, "I believe you're the second version of me I've been hearing so much about."
Crowley 2.0 mock-bowed, smirking. "All of it bad, I hope?" he joked.
"Admirably so." Crowley 1.0 told him. "And apparently you've managed to take over Hell while I've been away, too." His eyes flickered gleefully with a kind of smug satisfaction. "Have you gotten rid of Hastur yet? Please tell me you're demoting some of those unimaginative bastards to spit-turners. I mean really, craftmanship's all very well and good, chipping away at one soul for twenty years, but with seven billion people on the planet it just isn't sensible."
Crowley 2.0 nodded, smirking. "Has-beens." He stuck out a hand. "It seems I share a name with quite the legend; the serpent of eden." He whistled. "That's quite the pedigree, I have to say." He grinned, raising his glass. "To both Crowleys. And our excellent dress sense."
Crowley the first took a sip of his drink, shuddering. "God, angels have no sense of style at all. It's horrific." He paused. "Though I didn't particularly enjoy being mistaken for you, to be frank."
Crowley 2.0 winced. "Ah. Yes. Uh... sorry about that?" he tried.
"Not a problem, really. Certainly not as bad as what happened last Apocalypse, anyway."
Crowley 2.0 straightened up a little, intrigued. "So that was something to do with you, then? There were rumours among the upper circles of Hell, but that was all. Nothing concrete, anyway." he signalled to a waitress for another whisky. "I certainly know a few demons who'd love to shake you by the hand for getting rid of that old dinosaur, Ligur."
"Yeah, I was involved, but I'm not sure exactly how much I helped." the older demon paused. "You know, I could do with a contact in America," he said thoughtfully. "Fancy an arrangement between our two countries? America's definitely where all the sin is at the moment - you've got gluttony down to an art form." he raised an eyebrow. "And I have to say, well done for inventing the Krispy Kreme. That was a stroke of genius."
Crowley 2.0 preened slightly, before he started nodding thoughtfully. "I can imagine that this could be... beneficial..." he agreed, sipping his second whisky slowly. "To both sides, naturally. I've got a couple ideas for a new online service that could really tarnish peoples' souls."
Crowley 1.0 grinned evilly over his vodka. "Tell me more..."
Dean groaned into his beer. "Look at them!" He told the two angels. "They're plotting together, look!"
Both angels dutifully looked at the two demons, who by now were both cackling into their drinks. "Oh dear," sighed Aziraphale, "He's going to have a terrible hangover in the morning, isn't he? He a nightmare to deal with when he's grumpy."
"But... they..." Dean gaped at this blatant lack of worry from both of the angels for the future of all mankind, then gave up in favour of getting even more heroically drunk than before.
Aziraphale stood, nodding to Castiel, as Crowley shook hands with his new business partner. "And I believe that that is our cue to leave." he turned back to the other angel. "It was lovely to catch up with you and your friends, Castiel."
He moved over towards the demons' table, where he bent down to whisper something in his demon's ear. Crowley 1.0 nodded, standing up and saying something to the other Crowley, who nodded, snickering unashamedly. As they moved away, the slightly tipsy Aziraphale leaned over and kissed Crowley 1.0 gently; fairly drunk, the demon responded rather enthusiastically. And noisily.
Castiel turned a rather funny colour at this display and wore an expression closely akin to that of a teenager whose parents just started flirting in front of the coolest kids in the school and isn't quite sure whether to ignore them or scream at them to stop it now!
Dean simply moaned into the bar, which was by now pressed closely to his face, and concentrated very hard on not passing out. Sam simply sniggered into his pint glass.
As the two beings disappeared in a puff of grey smoke, the only sound they left behind was that of Crowley 2.0 laughing hysterically into the seventh scotch of the night. After he'd managed to calm himself, he looked over at three of them and started giggling madly again. "Just you wait!" he crowed in between chuckles. "Just you wait!"
Not long after, somewhere in Scotland, a satanist cult stared in confusion at the grey, transparent, smoky figure in the centre of their circle.
"Hello, and thank you for choosing Satan and Co. for today's temptation. We're afraid that our operative can't be with you just now, as he is very busy elsewhere. However,we will try to get back to you within the next millenium at least. We hope you'll choose us again for all your future attempts at achieveing damnation and unlimited power.
"Please leave a message after the scream."