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Crowley, as a rule, tries to avoid America. The Americans have never needed much tempting, and anyway, the last time he was there, he told Eric Kripke it was time to start getting over his ex-girlfriend and the man started coming up with all the ways a girl named Jessica could die. Whenever Crowley is scrolling around on Tumblr and sees one of those creation of the CW’s Supernatural memes he can’t help but snort, because they’re all wrong.
Yeah. Supernatural is Crowley’s fault. It seemed like a great idea at the time— boosting Eric’s mediocre show to make sure it reached this Jessica to create all sorts of drama was hilarious. So was bribing Misha to stand just a little too close to Jensen and stare soulfully into his eyes. But, of course, all of Crowley’s great ideas come back to bite him in the arse. Which is why right now, he’s pretending that he isn’t in tears after watching 15x18.
He isn’t invested! He’s not! Just, you know, there’s something about two people (who have spent what feels like an eternity dancing around each other and never saying what they really mean) finally getting to speak their truth that really hits. To keep from thinking about why exactly he’s having feelings about that, Crowley gropes blindly for his phone and taps on the first app he sees.
Tumblr’s reputation as a hellsite is deserved. Both in the sense that it’s utterly deranged, and also in that Hell pulled some strings when it was being developed. Beelzebub considers it a failure— it’s chaotic, sure, but hardly evil— but Crowley’s kept up with it. It’s a bunch of humans being weird, which will never fail to fascinate him, and it’s the only place where he can say things that are completely true without sounding batshit insane. His look at me being evil and maniacally plotting the downfall of god. can I hear a wahoo post got over two hundred thousand notes, and not a single one of them was calling him crazy. If Hell asks, he’s instigating shipping wars. In reality, he’s being just as much of a loser as the humans.
Destiel went canon less than two minutes ago, and his dash is already in shambles.
Oh, yeah. He might run a Supernatural blog. Maybe.
angelradio
HOLY SHIT
#that. that actually happened #right? #destiel
cryptcas
oh my god
#HE SAID I LOVE YOU #HE ACTUALLY #I’M #DESTIEL
cant-spell-heller-without-hell
DESTIEL IS CANNON???
#spn 15x18 spoilers #I’M SHAKING #destiel
deanstardis
HELLO DEAN GOODBYE DEAN
#you’re not crazy #I have ascended to a higher plane #OUGH #THE HANDPRINT THE HANDPRINT THE HANDPR
sazzafrazzled
brb yeeting myself into the sun like the gay angel yeeted kansas man into the wall
#I need a minute #destiel #spn 15x18
Crowley opens the destiel tag.
Every post is some variation of chewing-glass-oh-my-god-it’s-actually-canon. It takes less than ten minutes for gif sets to start popping up. Showrunners work fast, but hellers work faster. The flurry of activity almost reminds him of ye olde days of 2013 Tumblr.
He gets an idea and snaps his fingers. Thousands of ex-Superwholock fans jolt awake and reach for the nearest device.
Canon Destiel breaks containment within fifteen minutes.
It’s pure chaos. Crowley can practically feel the insanity of all the screeching fangirls (totally not because he is one). Posts are flooding the destiel tag even more impressively than before— confusion and joy and insanity come together into a big cacophony, and—
Crowley’s phone glitches out of the app. He frowns and tries to pull it back up, but all he gets is the error screen. The site gives him the same thing, and he cackles.
They’ve broken Tumblr.
He’s totally taking credit for that one. Head office will love this.
Crowley thinks that perhaps this chaos will be enough to keep him from thinking about why this episode really matters. He’ll just have to do his part to keep it chaotic.
In the end, Crowley exerts very little demonic influence. Tumblr just… does its thing, and he participates. He tinkers with the nonexistent algorithm to boost a couple posts, like pale coconuts colliding and what if you wanted election results but mostly, he just scrolls at his leisure through fan theories and analysis. When Destiel moves to start trending above the US presidential election on Twitter, he gives it the tiniest push, and then goes back to blogging and sowing more chaos.
justajamesbondreally
hey did anyone hear about sherlock season 5
ichliebedean
Sherlock season WHAT
The dash keeps getting better and better.
jellyroll
tumblr crashin’ / destiel canon / ballot box / superhell
sherlock / stop the count / what the fuck please let me out
georgia blue / putin / off to write fanfiction
election / sherlock 5 / nevada / and bundy guy
WE DIDNT START THE FIRE
IT WAS ALWAYS BURNING SINCE THE WORLDS BEEN TURNIN WE DIDN’T—
#the past two hours makes at least three new verses. AT LEAST. #heller billy joel would be the most normal thing to happen today #destiel #sherlock #politics
beepboop
it’s okay guys deans just processing at nevada speed
#rip buddy #dean winchester #destiel
moosetasch
Alright. Who’s gotta go canon to get rid of Boris Johnson.
#is this what sherlock s5 is for? #johnlock #things I never thought I would type
warmsmycockles
guys I’m in a different time zone what the fuck did I wake up to
Crowley is thriving in the chaos. The sheer scope of the madness is enough to keep him from thinking too deeply about the episode itself. As the Europeans begin to login, the confusion only doubles. He can’t help but notice, though, that despite the flurry of activity on his dashboard, Crowley’s beloved mutual gayangel has been oddly silent about the whole ordeal. They always have Thoughts about these sorts of things that Crowley either a) has a blast arguing against (Metatron is not the most compelling villain, it’s obviously Chuck and he will fight you on that), or b) rotates in his brain for no less than three days (at a minimum) like food in a microwave. Crowley is practically vibrating waiting to hear gayangel’s thoughts.
Of course, reading gayangel’s thoughts means he’ll have to. You know. Think about the episode beyond haha he went to superhell. But it’s fine! Because Crowley is not emotional about this episode at all because it totally doesn’t remind him of another not-quite-a-couple that he’s not part of. (He’s Dean, by the way. The flannel is awful, but he wouldn’t be caught dead in that trench coat. Anyway, tan is more of Aziraphale’s color.)
As though thinking about their blog has summoned them, a post from gayangel pops up on Crowley’s dash.
gayangel
I’ve been trying to find the words to talk about this episode for hours. It’s heartbreaking, certainly. But it’s also beautiful, and I think it was so incredibly important for Cas and Dean. They have spent years knowing how they feel about each other, and spent just as long suppressing those feelings. Love is always the elephant in the room. They never look directly at it, or discuss it. Things like “we need you. I need you,” and “I’ll go with you” stand in place of “I love you.” And those are expressions of love! But with these two, they need to acknowledge it. They need to actually talk about what they want, because when they don’t, they hurt each other (see seasons 4-15). They’ve spent years as nothing but subtext— until Cas speaks up. They’re not hidden between the lines anymore. When Cas comes back, now they have a chance to be themselves, or be more themselves, with each other. They can be together. They can be queer. And I think that’s important, not just for Dean and Cas, but for all of us, too. Maybe happiness isn’t in the having. Maybe it is in just saying it, and escaping our own subtext. Maybe it’s about being honest about how we feel for a chance at something beautiful.
#Destiel #Castiel #Dean Winchester #Supernatural 15x18 #My Posts
Crowley reads it at least half a dozen times. He doesn’t apply it to his own life. Absolutely not. There’s nothing to apply it to, because he totally hasn’t been pining for his best friend for all of eternity and definitely doesn’t think about talking about this unspoken thing between them. He doesn’t ever wonder if he did, if it would lead to something good. He doesn’t. He doesn’t.
He leaves a snarky reply as though that will stop his corporation’s heart from twisting in his chest.
justajamesbondreally
be honest and get sent to super mega turbo gay hell?
gayangel replies within the hour.
gayangel
If we’re brave enough. If we want it enough.
Crowley aches. Because that’s exactly it. Only, it’s not.
See, it’s all well and good for Castiel to confess his feelings. He doesn’t have to deal with the consequences of his actions. What if Dean hadn’t felt the same? What if he had, but he didn’t think it was worth the pain? What if Dean didn’t want it enough? He does, obviously, but that’s them. Cas doesn’t have to worry about it. For him, it’s just a tearful I love you, and who-ee, off to Super Hell he goes. Rescue guaranteed within the next two episodes, complete with I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition parallels and true love’s kiss.
Crowley does not have that assurance. He knows that there’s something between him and Aziraphale. They love each other, he knows. But he doesn’t know if it’s the same kind of love. Crowley’s is the heart-beating-out-of-his-chest-wants-to-spend-the-rest-of-eternity-together-perhaps-hold-hands-maybe-kiss type. Aziraphale— well. Aziraphale is sensible. His is probably the friends-who-go-out-sometimes type. Crowley doesn’t know that this is something they’re on the same page about. He doesn’t know if it’s something they want enough to have, or if it’s something he just wants. He doesn’t know that he and Aziraphale get a happy ending, because they’re not two losers from a tv show. They can’t actually kill God to take control of their narrative— not that Aziraphale would allow that even if they could. For them, it’s not just about being brave. It’s about everything else, too, because they have to deal with the consequences.
But the part where it is about being brave….
Crowley can’t help but wonder if maybe they’d be somewhere different if he was so brave.
He reads the post again. Pretends he doesn’t feel like crying. He keeps scrolling, and finds more stupid things to reblog.
anonymous:
what exactly is going on?
justajamesbondreally
watch supernatural
Crowley’s phone vibrates in the middle of reading blocking analysis for 15x18 (reading gayangel’s post has sent him down a rabbit hole of analysis that he’s totally not having feelings about). It’s Aziraphale. He’s always happy to hear from Aziraphale, but he’s having a moment here.
“Hi, sorry, not a great time,” he says as soon as he answers, “maybe if you want to call back in, hrk—“
And then he hears it. In the background on the other end, music that definitely isn’t classical.
I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you…
“Is that The Night We Met?” Crowley says blankly.
“Erm,” Aziraphale says. “Hello, Crowley. How are you?”
Take me back to the night we met…
“Tickety-boo,” Crowley says. “Since when have you listened to anything but Beethoven?”
“I enjoy a good Tchaikovsky, you know,” Aziraphale says. “Mendelssohn. Arnold. Vivaldi.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you…
A thought occurs to Crowley then and he blurts, “Angel, are you a heller?”
Aziraphale goes silent.
Take me back to the night we met…
“Aziraphale,” Crowley starts, and Aziraphale cuts him off.
“I am, if you must know,” he says, almost defensively. “It was an accident, really, and— Crowley, do you watch Supernatural?”
“Unfortunately,” Crowley says. “2005 was a whole thing.” And the last thing he wants to do is admit to Aziraphale that the train wreck Supernatural is partially his fault, so he immediately says the next thing that comes to mind. “So, did you see the last episode?”
“I did!” Aziraphale says, and that explains the Lord Huron, “It was magnificently executed, though the ending was oddly cut, didn’t you think? And oh, I do hope Cas will be alright, and poor Dean….”
“Yeah,” Crowley says, “quite the episode. Tumblr is losing its mind.”
“You’re on the Tumblr?” Aziraphale says. “Oh, of course you are. You haven’t been circulating that post about coconuts, have you? Because if they kiss— when they kiss, I’m sure it will be quite passionate—“
“Nope,” Crowley says, lying through his teeth. He thinks that post is hilarious. “Not me, I swear. Didn’t realize you had such strong feelings about some old men making out.” And then it registers that Aziraphale knows what a Tumblr is and what’s circulating on Tumblr. “You know what Tumblr is?”
“I have a blog,” Aziraphale says, as though Crowley is being silly.
“You have a what—“
“A blog,” Aziraphale says. “That’s what it’s called, right? An account?”
“Ngk. Yeah,” Crowley says. “Didn’t realize you knew what that was.”
“I know what an account is,” Aziraphale says, sounding almost affronted.
“Not an account, a Tumblr.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “You don’t even have a phone, for Satan’s sake. And that computer of yours is from the Stone Age, it shouldn’t be able to access the modern internet.”
“Well, it does,” Aziraphale says. Crowley can practically see the pinched face he’s making. “When I ask nicely, Bertha is quite cooperative.”
Crowley sends a long-suffering look skyward. Aziraphale is lucky he loves him; Crowley wouldn’t tolerate many people naming their computers Bertha.
He fights the urge to throw himself out the window. His denial skills clearly need work.
“So,” Crowley says, going back to Not Thinking About It via his favorite technique: the blatant conversation change, “if you have a blog, you must have a url.”
“A url?” Aziraphale says blankly.
“Username. You know, what your account is called,” Crowley says, smiling a little. There’s the technologically impaired angel he knows.
“Oh. Yes, I do,” Aziraphale says.
When he offers no further information, Crowley prods, “Which is…?”
“You want my username?” Aziraphale says, surprised.
“Mhm. Spit it out, angel.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Why not?” Crowley says. “Just to verify that you actually have a Tumblr. And, hey, maybe we’ll know each other.”
Aziraphale hesitates.
“Come onnn,” Crowley encourages him. “I’ll tell you mine. Your url can’t possibly be worse than mine.”
“I don’t expect you to know me,” Aziraphale says after a moment. “I’m gayangel—“
“You’re gayangel?” Crowley interrupts.
“Yes?” Aziraphale says.
“Of course I know you, we’re mutuals,” Crowley says. “I didn’t know you had a Tumblr, though—“
“I believe we already established this,” Aziraphale says.
“— and definitely wouldn’t have expected that to be your url.” Crowley considers for a moment. “Maybe AZFell, or something about books. Or Eden. Oysters. Snuffboxes. You know.”
“I did think about AZFell,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully, “but, well, you know my blog. Supernatural and all, I thought perhaps this would be more fitting. Not only does it identify me as a member of the fanatic domain, but I am a gay angel myself—“
“You’re gay?” Crowley blurts, and oh, God, Satan, someone, anyone discorporate him right now. Please.
“Well, I—“ Aziraphale sputters uselessly.
“I just,” Crowley says, upon realizing that he’s still in his corporation and his last sentence sounded really homophobic, “just didn’t realize you were. Ngk. Making an effort.” Because for angels, it usually is the sort of thing you have to make an effort for. And now Crowley has to think about this. Normally.
“Erm— it’s not—“ Aziraphale laughs, almost nervously. “It’s used loosely. That is, if y— if the, erm, person whom my affections are directed towards happened to not be a man, I would still. Want them.”
“Cool,” Crowley says, because what else is he supposed to say to that? Internally, he’s losing it. Aziraphale likes someone. Wants someone. And Crowley is not jealous, he isn’t, the same way he doesn’t care about Destiel going canon—
“You said we’re mutuals,” Aziraphale says quickly. “I suspect I’ll recognize your username, then. Who are you?”
“justajamesbondreally.” Crowley is going to be normal about this. He’s going to be so normal about all of this.
Aziraphale sighs over the line, unmistakably fond. “Of course you are,” he says again.
anonymous:
tried asking another spn blog and they weren’t very helpful. what’s going on?
gayangel
I’m more than happy to help, Anonymous! In 2008, the American television program Supernatural introduced Castiel, an Angel of the Lord. Since his introduction, there has been a lot of homoerotic chemistry between him and Dean, one of the main characters. After twelve years of fans calling out the queer subtext between these two characters, Destiel (Castiel/Dean Winchester) was canonized. However, the way in which this canonization was handled has some fans concerned that this was an attempt by the CW to “bury their gays,” hence the “super mega turbo hell” jokes. This is unrelated to the American presidential election and Vladimir Putin to the best of my knowledge. I hope this helps!
And don’t mind @justajamesbondreally, he only thinks he’s funny :)
justajamesbondreally
I AM funny angel. hilarious actually
gayangel
Of course you are, my dear <3
Crowley has to lie down after that exchange.
He thinks vaguely sometime around one that perhaps he should do something with his day other than sit around scrolling through his phone. So, he gets up for all of ten minutes to scream at himself plants, “IF DESTIEL CAN GO CANON AFTER TWELVE YEARS OF QUEERBAITING, YOU CAN GROW BETTER! SO GROW BETTER! DON’T THINK I WON’T SEND YOU TO SUPER MEGA TURBO HELL!” He mists them, relishing in how they cower, then goes back to lay contorted on his couch and continue scrolling through Tumblr.
He doesn’t feel too guilty. Sloth is a sin, after all.
Crowley’s sloth ends quite abruptly, when while admiring a lovely gif set of the confession, Jensen Ackles’ voice burst from his phone. “Crowely.”
Crowley nearly falls off the couch. In his defense, anyone would if Dean Winchester started talking out of a gifset on their phone. He tries to untwist himself into a more presentable position. “Nrm. Uh, hi. Who is this?”
“Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies,” Dean says.
“Lord Beelzebub. Quelle surprise,” Crowley drawls, trying desperately to be cool. “How’s Hell?”
“Crowley,” Beelzebub/Dean says briskly. “I need information.”
“Of course,” Crowley says, “and here I was, thinking this was a social call.”
“What’s diestel?”
“What’s—“ Crowley’s brain catches up with what they asked. “Nyeh. Sorry, what?”
“Diestel,” Beelzebub/Dean repeats impatiently. “The American election thing. My sources have reported that it’s causing quite a bit of chaos, but not a single one of them can explain what it izzz. With your Earth expertise, I thought you could enlighten us.”
Crowley wonders how this became his life. His best-friend-slash-crush is his heller mutual, his boss wants him to explain Thee Supernatural Ship, and said ship destiel is canon.
“Well,” Crowley says, trying to figure out where the Heaven he’s meant to start, “Nngk. It’s, uh, it actually doesn’t have anything to do with the American election. Um. It’s a ship.”
“A ship,” Beelzebub says flatly.
“Yeah, you know, a relationship. The human thingy.” He waves his hand vaguely even though they can’t see it. “Two fictional characters. Dean Winchester and Castiel. After twelve years of staring at each other they got together. Kind of. Not— hrk— not as such, but— anyway, it’s caused a bit of a splash. Disrupted the lives of millions. Hundreds of thousands lovesick, unable to focus on their jobs, slowing down the economy even more, which’ll piss off the economy humans, who’ll then take it out on people, who’ll take it out on more people. Uh. Lots of people pissed because it might have been a bury your gays confession— long story. But, yeah. Very evil, very disruptive. Pissed off Putin— you know how he’ll handle it, lots of evil there. Even slowed down the Nevada ballot counting.”
Beelzebub is silent for a moment, then—
“Izz this your doing?” they ask.
“Yes?” Crowley says. It sounds more like a question. “Yes,” he says again, a little more sure. “Obviously. Who else would come up with something so brilliant?”
“More like ‘who else would come up with something so daft,’” Beelzebub/Dean says snarkily, “‘and still be successful.’”
“I resent that,” Crowley complains, “I’m brilliant and everyone knows it.”
Beelzebub mutters something under their breath that Crowley doesn’t quite catch. Before he can innocently ask them to repeat themself, they speak up. “The Dark Council is quite impressed by the reach of your scheme. Perhaps if it continues, you could find yourself with a commendation.”
“Lord Beelzebub, you flatter me,” Crowley says, but the gif is back to normal. Just Dean Winchester, silently mouthing the words don’t do this, Cas.
Crowley stares at the gif and says, “What the fuck.”
When did this become his life?
The chaos leaves him on a peculiar high, even after the fifth draws to a close. So what if he knows who actually won the US Presidential election? So what if Putin isn’t actually resigning? Whenever he so much as thinks the word destiel, his chest goes all tight and needs to sit down. His sleep schedule has been thrown on its head, and he’s completely lost whatever appetite he had. Somehow, he’s pretty sure that he could still lift a building— without any miracles to help him. Lovesickness, baby. He resolutely avoids thinking about why exactly he can identify the feeling so easily.
acklesjackles
I think I’m broken. I can’t eat. can’t sleep or fucking exist because my chest feels funny whenever I think about them. it’s like I’ve swallowed a live wire. what has this show done to me. why do I need to lie down every time I think about you changed me, Dean.
justajamesbondreally
perhaps because of the love sickness?
acklesjackles
oh my god
#that explains… so much actually #only these two idiots would get me honest to god LOVESICK #destiel
agentfreddie
Love that we’re all just out here collectively experiencing lovesickness because of destiel. Go team
#no one does it like us
In the end, the lovesickness gets him a commendation. Can he hear a wahoo?
He spends his time off blogging, of course, and calling Aziraphale. Who is also lovesick and when Crowley makes a joke about it, says, “It’s not all that unusual, really, I’m quite good at working around it.” Crowley then proceeds to be so normal about it. He’s Thee Normalest of Normal. And if he’s not, he’ll gaslight himself into believing he’s normal, like the girlboss he is.
November twelfth dawns rather inconspicuously. It’s a cold, dreary day, but Crowley is living his best life. It’s not the fourteenth century, he feels like he’s had six shots of espresso despite the fact that he hasn’t had so much as one, destiel is canon, Tumblr’s insanity is rising with the question why lamp? and he and Aziraphale have a date (not a date, for Satan’s sake) over the phone to watch 15x19 live that evening. Early the next morning, technically, due to the time difference between London and America. Whatever. It’s not like Crowley plans on going to sleep between now and then anyway.
Being agents of Hell and Heaven respectively, Crowley and Aziraphale try to limit their contact with each other (not that they try terribly hard). As a result, this past week is the most they’ve talked in decades, whether it’s over the phone or via stupid Tumblr posts. He loves it. Not that he’ll admit it. But he does. It makes him positively giddy, like he’s drunk one too many glasses of laudanum.
Crowley only gets even more wound up as it gets closer to airtime. He pretends it’s because of the episode— they probably won’t see Cas for this one, but they will see the return of widower Dean Winchester, and Crowley is nothing if not a sucker for the widower arc. He’s definitely been pacing for the past hour because he’s excited about that and not at all because he’s trying to figure out when he’s supposed to call Aziraphale. Not too early— then he just comes off as eager and uncool— but not right when the episode is about to start, because then they won’t get to talk. Is ten minutes before too much? Five seems like too few, but ten is almost certainly too many.
He throws himself onto his horribly uncomfortable couch and groans. Why is he like this?
In the end, he calls seven minutes beforehand. Aziraphale picks up on the first ring.
“Crowley? Is that you?” He sounds terribly eager, and that does funny things to Crowley’s chest.
“Yup.” Crowley pops the p, trying desperately to be cool and ignore the way his heart is palpitating. “Who else would be calling you at this time? Far as I know, none of your bosses have so much as touched a phone.”
“I was just making sure. My phone doesn’t have the little screen to show me the name.” Crowley can practically feel Aziraphale restraining himself from rolling his eyes.
“You could always upgrade,” Crowley says. “Cell phones, angel, are a marvelous invention. You don’t have to worry about the cord, for one thing.” It’s an old (well. Perhaps not that old, considering that for beings with their lifetimes, the cell phone has barely been around for the blink of an eye) argument, so he knows exactly what Aziraphale is going to say.
“I am not getting a cellular telephone,” Aziraphale says primly. “Mine works perfectly fine. And it’s modern!”
“Maybe in the 1890s,” Crowley says.
“You think everything goes out of style within a few months of having it; I hardly think you’re fit to judge what’s modern,” he sniffs.
“That makes no sense,” Crowley says. “How does that make sense?”
“Quite sensibly,” Aziraphale says, the bastard. He changes the subject. “Are you ready for the episode?”
“Oh, yeah.” Crowley is lounging on his stiff couch already, the muted tv casting its light over the rest of the room. “They’re dealing with all the plot stuff, yeah? So we get to see Chuck get his arse kicked— cannot wait for that one, think it will be cathartic? — and widowed Dean. Should be pretty solid.”
“It’s a Buckner and Ross-Lemming, I believe,” Aziraphale says, sounding resigned.
Crowley racks his brain. “Did they do the racist truck one?”
“Yes, that was their first.”
“Hm. That was an episode.”
“You could say that.”
Soon enough, the CW logo is on Crowley’s screen. He unmutes his television and his and Aziraphale’s conversation tapers off as the episode begins. They offer commentary every so often, like:
“Miracle. What a lovely name.”
“S’not lovely. Cheesy is what it is.”
And:
“Lucifer? Dear me, again?”
“Ngk. Yeah. He was cool the first few seasons, now it’s just overkill. Pretty sure as a demon I’m meant to be in favor of it, though.”
“Ah. Quite right.”
“I mean. I am in favor of the fact that Dean almost tearfully made out with Lucifer.”
Crowley!”
“What? It would have been funny!”
And:
“Oh, Satan, that’s not who he is.”
“Crowley, are you… crying?”
“Nyeh. No. Shut up.”
Et cetera, et cetera.
The whole while, it almost feels as though Aziraphale is here, like he’s sitting beside Crowley on the couch, watching the same screen, close enough to reach out and touch. It’s wonderful. It’s not a particularly remarkable episode, but it’s the most fun Crowley’s had while watching this show. The most fun he’s had while watching anything, really.
Aziraphale tends to do that. Make Crowley enjoy himself. This is even more fun than leaving snarky tags on Aziraphale’s Tumblr posts and waiting for him to respond. Crowley is practically drunk on the excitement of it all. He blames that for his lapse in judgment as their post-episode chatter begins to die down.
“Hey, d’you want to come over?” he says without thinking. “Next week, for the finale? We’ll make an evening of it.”
It gets very, very quiet.
“Come— come over,” Aziraphale echoes, uncertain, “to watch the episode?”
“Nyeh— ngk— sure.” Stupid Crowley, stupid, stupid Crowley. “There’d be wine. Uh, surround sound? Probably better than whatever brick you’re watching from. I didn’t even know you had a tv,” he rambles, “and, hrg, food? There could be… edible food. Nnrm.”
“I’m— I’m not sure if my side would like that,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds actually disappointed.
My side. Aways sides. Crowley wants to kick God in the shins. “Oh. Right. Of course.” Kicking God in the shins isn’t really an option, though, so he focuses on trying to convince Aziraphale instead. “I mean, if it was social. Obviously they wouldn’t like that. But if you were there to thwart me, they couldn’t object to that, right?”
“No,” Aziraphale says slowly. “How— hypothetically— would I be thwarting you?”
“Well—“ Crowley is making things up on the spot, hoping to Hell that this works, “— if I were to watch the episode all alone, I might hypothetically, uh, liveblog without spoiler tags! So I would spoil the episode for everyone. Super evil, against the Divine Plan, blah, blah, blah. But if someone were to be here, so I couldn’t use my phone….”
“Wily serpent. In that case,” Aziraphale says, “it really would be in the interest of the greater good for me to show up.”
“Midnight or so?” Crowley suggests.
“I’ll be there,” Aziraphale promises.
kermitsbanjo
okay but how perfect would it be if Dean rescues Cas and goes “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition” after they escape the Empty. how PERFECT
#THE PARALLELLELELS #DABB I AM BEGGING YOU #destiel #Dean Winchester #Castiel #Spn 15x20 speculation
ghostfacersofficial
Remember… gay love can pierce through the veil of death and save the day.
#it saved corbett #it can save you too castiel #dean go be gay for that poor dead angel #destiel #ghostposts
sliceofkevin
its been an honor serving with you all
#destiel
caswithones
24 hours to cas rescue, how we feeling?
#this is the night I can feel it #we are clowns no more #destiel
Aziraphale knocks on the flat door at midnight on the dot. Crowley is three seconds away from imploding. He furtively adjusts the charcuterie board on the coffee table so it isn’t crooked. All of Aziraphale’s favorite cheeses, those crackers he likes with the brie, immaculately cut fruit, some grapes, complimentary wine– and, because Crowley wasn’t being ridiculous enough already, pie. French silk, because that’s another one of Aziraphale’s favorites. He pointedly doesn’t think about all the thought he’s put into tonight, or why he did it.
Dean gets to confess tonight. And if he can do it–
Crowley shakes his head. Now he’s being ridiculous. Tonight is just– just a rare night with Aziraphale, his friend, his best friend, and the end of some stupid tv show that’s sorta his fault. Nothing more than that.
He opens the door.
Aziraphale is in the midst of glancing down the corridor, fiddling with his ring. When the door opens, his head turns and he lights up, smiling. “Good evening, Crowley.”
In the dim light of the corridor, he’s beautiful.
Well, Aziraphale is always beautiful, but something about him here, right now, so happy to be here with Crowley, it fries some of Crowley’s higher circuits. He stares dumbly for a few moments before he realizes that he should say something.
“Uh,” he says, “hi.”
Don’t just stand there! the functioning part of his brain admonishes. The less functioning part decides to hone in on tonight’s bow tie, which is blue and green tartan, because of course it is. It really does suit him.
Crowley is painfully aware that after this night is over, he’s going to replay these few embarrassing moments for the next several centuries any time he thinks of hanging out with Aziraphale.
Finally, he gets enough control over himself to wave Aziraphale in.
“I would have brought wine,” Aziraphale says, unaware of Crowley’s struggles, “but you were quite insistent that you had everything under control. Let me know, though, if you change your mind, I have a nice red that I’m sure I could miracle over if we need it–” He sees the spread by the couch and softens.
Crowley regrets every single one of his decisions that led him here. The charcuterie is too much, he should have just done wine, he should have–
“Oh, this is lovely!” Aziraphale turns back to him, smiling.
“S’nothing,” Crowley says, fighting for some semblance of nonchalance. “Had it in the fridge already.”
“Yes, because you always carry french silk pie and brie.” Aziraphale sees right through him. He always does. “You really are quite a n–”
“I will kick you out if you finish that sentence,” Crowley threatens.
Aziraphale takes a seat on the couch, still smiling that smile. It’s a gentle, knowing, vulnerable thing that takes Crowley’s breath away.
Crowley isn’t used to this much affection. Aziraphale always hides most of it. This is all of it– full force, unrestrained affection. Crowley doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what to do with it. This, somehow, is different.
“Of course you would,” Aziraphale says, fond, oh so fond. “Thank you, nonetheless.”
“Ngk,” Crowley manages.
He takes the open spot on the couch.
“You never did tell me,” Aziraphale says, surveying the cheese, “how you got into Supernatural.” He pops a bit of Gouda into his mouth and sighs. “Mm. This is excellent, my dear, you really must try it.”
Crowley did not think this through. He really didn’t. He loves watching Aziraphale eat, loves anything that makes the angel enjoy himself, but he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to handle those noises on his couch while watching a love confession he totally doesn’t at all relate to. Fuck. Wait, no, not fuck–
Crowley shoves a piece of cheese in his mouth in an effort to keep from saying something stupid. He needs a moment.
“Do you see what I mean?” Aziraphale takes another bite. “Absolutely scrumptious.”
Crowley nods. It just tastes like cheese to him. “Nyeh. Great… cheesy cheese.”
Aziraphale smiles that soft, fond smile again.
Crowley stares.
The moment stretches until Aziraphale abruptly clears his throat. “You never did answer my question.”
“About the cheese?” Crowley knows perfectly well which question Aziraphale is referring to, but he refuses to take responsibility for his actions. “Said it was good. Great, if you want a direct quote.”
“About how you started watching Supernatural,” Aziraphale says, expectantly.
“Nhg. Well.” Crowley lounges even further– quite the feat, considering both the extent to which he was already lounging and the distinct uncomfortableness of his couch– going for nonchalance. “You know how it is, it was on the tv one night, thought it looked okay.” Which is, technically, true– it’s not like Kripke told him that he was going to make a tv show!
Aziraphale sees straight through him. He raises an eyebrow. “Did you?”
Crowley curses internally. He hates being known. Stupid Aziraphale and his insight. “Yep.”
Aziraphale is unimpressed. He gives Crowley a look, and Crowley has never been good at saying no to him. Frankly, it’s embarrassing how quickly he crumbles.
“Alright! Supernatural… might have been my fault. Maybe. Not really.” Aziraphale blinks and Crowley starts to ramble, digging his hole even deeper. “It was one conversation with Kripke– how was I supposed to know he’d go off and do this?”
Aziraphale is quiet for a moment. “Now that I think about it,” he muses, “it really does have your demonic fingerprints all over it, doesn’t it? The show even has its own Crowley.”
“What? No, it’s got a Cr–” Crowley suddenly realizes that perhaps Supernatural-Crowley-With-The-Weird-Pronunciation is inspired by him. “Oh, Satan.”
“Did you not know?” Aziraphale says, looking far too amused.
“Wha– ngk– ‘course I did!” Crowley says. “Shut up.”
Aziraphale does not do a good job of hiding his grin. “I didn’t say anything!”
“Good,” Crowley says, and casts his gaze around for something, anything that will change the topic of conversation. “Wine?”
“Oh, yes, please,” Aziraphale says.
Crowley pours the wine, a lovely red he’s been saving for the past few decades on the off chance that Aziraphale might come around his.
Instead of testing it right away as he usually does, Aziraphale considers his glass for a moment, then looks, almost tentative, to Crowley. “Perhaps we should do a toast,” he says. “To happy endings?”
He’s talking about the show, obviously. Crowley fiercely ignores the fact that it feels like more. “To happy endings,” he echoes.
They drink, and properly start the evening.
Over the next hour, they talk about plenty. Not just things related to Supernatural, even though that is why they’re here (it’s not, not really, and the both of them know it). Crowley asks about the bookshop and Aziraphale laments how the West End is still shut down. They debate Hamlet for the hundredth time and agree that they ought to find a time soon to try the wine Aziraphale is hoarding back at the shop. They talk and they talk and they talk. You’d think that after talking for millions of years, you’d run out of things to say, but that’s never been a problem for them. It’s wonderful.
Crowley tries to memorize the scene. Aziraphale has been in his flat only a handful of times, and it feels incredibly intimate, even though the place isn’t nearly as personalized or as cosy as the bookshop. And, on top of that, Crowley can’t remember the last time they sat this close (he can actually– it was several thousand years ago, when the two of them had accidentally gone to the same very crowded bathhouse. Between their elbows nearly brushing and Aziraphale’s state of undress, it’s a miracle that Crowley lived to tell the tale). At the shop, he takes the sofa and Aziraphale the armchair; they’re separated by a coffee table and a wine of choice. Now, all he need do to touch Aziraphale is lean over.
He definitely didn’t think this through. But, hey, he never does, and Aziraphale is here, halfway through a story about some manuscript or another, and he really does look like an angel in this lighting, what with how it nearly makes his hair glow like a halo. It looks soft. (Crowley wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to run his fingers through it.) Aziraphale is fully at ease, gesturing enthusiastically and smiling, happy to be here with Crowley, and–
“– listening, my dear?” Aziraphale pauses, looking at him expectantly.
Crowley panics. Oh, fuck. He’s been caught.
“Nuh– mng– yeah, m’listening.” Crowley tries to look attentive. “You were talking about, er, manuscripts, and that Darcy fellow–”
“I know you, you wily serpent,” Aziraphale says. He seems more amused than miffed. “If my stories are boring you, please feel free to say so, I know I can go on–”
“What? No,” Crowley says immediately; he could listen to Aziraphale talk about anything up to and including the fourteenth century and he would be loath for him to stop. “No, I was just distracted, by–” my huge obnoxious crush on you, he thinks, “– ngk. Bowtie. Your bowtie, it’s very, nmg, fitting.”
Aziraphale beams. “Oh, you think so?” His excitement only makes it all the more endearing. Crowley loves this ridiculous being so much it hurts.
“Yeah,” Crowley says, “Fits the occasion, fits you– ngk.” He needs to stop talking. Right now. Before he says something even stupider. He glances at the time, and–
And they’re about to miss the show.
Crowley reaches for the remote. “S’time,” he says, not sure if he’s glad or not. He turns on the tv and looks to Aziraphale, whose smile has become something more affectionate, something gentle. His stomach flips.
“We’d best get comfortable, then,” Aziraphale says, and– Crowley is going to discorporate, he really, truly is– scoots closer, until there’s barely an inch between them. Then, as though this is something they do, as though his brain isn’t breaking, Aziraphale snaps his fingers and there’s a weight over the two of them– a blanket that matches his bowtie. He turns to Crowley, seeming, for just a moment, uncertain. “Good?”
All this open affection tonight– what does Crowley do with it? What is he supposed to do with it? They don’t do this, not the easy smiles and closeness, not any of it. Why are they doing it now? He should stop Aziraphale and ask. Only, that would involve talking about it, and that’s another thing they don’t do, and Crowley won’t be the one to cross that line, not with the risk of pushing Aziraphale away.
And, selfishly, he wants this. He’ll take what he’s given, no questions asked.
“Nyeh. Yep.” Despite the mess in his head, Crowley manages to get words out. “It’s supposed to be plaid, though, you know. And flannel.”
“I do have standards,” Aziraphale says. “Now hush, it’s starting.”
The first part of the finale is fine. It’s not amazing, but a few minutes in, Aziraphale leans into Crowley’s side, and after the initial bout of panic, it improves the experience by leaps and bounds. Crowley barely notices what’s happening on the tv, trying to memorize this closeness, this intimacy. He could get used to this. He’s terrified of getting used to this.
Eventually, though, he starts to get impatient. Not with Aziraphale, Aziraphale is fucking perfect, but with the show. Castiel hasn’t even been mentioned and they’re nearly halfway through the episode– what happened to saving him? Crowley doesn’t give up hope, not really– he is, at his core, an optimist, and he needs Dean and Castiel to get their happy ending, for reasons he doesn’t even dare think– but he can feel Aziraphale shifting against him, nervous.
“It’s fine,” Crowley says, pretending that he doesn’t feel just as uneasy.
It is not fine.
To be nice, accurate, and to the point, it is quite the opposite of fine. Fifteen years of character development are thrown out the window in favour of sticking to the narrative from season one. No one gets a happy ending. Sam gets a horrible wig and a blurry wife (where the fuck did Eileen go?) and Dean gets nailed in the most unsexy way possible. He does not mention Castiel. He does not grieve Castiel. Castiel might as well not exist, except for a vague “Cas helped.”
Crowley is not a writer. He doesn’t know the ins and outs of creating a story, probably couldn’t write a very good one himself. But he does know that this episode doesn’t make any Satanblessed sense, and he knows it’s because of Castiel’s confession. It’s better that Dean is killed, reduced to the soldier and blunt instrument of season one, than letting him reciprocate.
Crowley doesn’t know why he’s surprised.
He aches. He feels sick. And it isn’t because of the show.
If it isn’t possible for two fictional idiots to be happy despite a cruel, capricious, omniscient, and unforgiving system, how on earth are Crowley and Aziraphale–
Crowley turns off the tv.
Aziraphale, still pressed against him, doesn’t move. They are silent.
It’s such a silly thing, for a demon who’s been around since before the dawn of time to be looking to a stupid tv show for hope. It’s also painfully human, and after six thousand years, so is Crowley. Not in all senses of the meaning– he is still a demon, after all– but he’s human in all the ways that count. He feels. He swallows the urge to cry.
“Well–” Crowley tries to sound unaffected, “– that was a thing.”
Aziraphale doesn’t respond.
Crowley looks over. His words die in his throat.
Aziraphale’s face is damp. He’s still looking at the tv, not quite seeing it. He looks lost, as though the world he’s looking at now isn’t the one he’s memorized.
“‘Ziraphale?” Crowley says tentatively.
“They were supposed to be happy,” Aziraphale says, sounding not just heartbroken, but almost bitter. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly in front of him. “They were supposed to be free. But they never were going to be, were they? At the end of the day, they’re still cogs in someone else’s machine.” He scrubs at his eyes, not bothering to miracle up a handkerchief. “It’s… ridiculous, I know, but…” He looks to Crowley, tears already pooling again in his eyes, “I thought, if they could, then–”
He never finishes his sentence, but he doesn’t have to. The puzzle pieces all fall into place and Crowley understands, the unrestrained affection, why Aziraphale is even watching this stupid show in the first place. Love.
Crowley always thought that if, miraculously, impossibly, improbably, if Aziraphale loved him back, the same way Crowley loves him, it would be a wonderful occasion. It would be like the planets aligning, a puzzle piece falling into place, like flowers unfurling after a long winter and the sun coming out after rain. Instead, he feels like his ribs are caving in on themselves, as though someone has grabbed his heart and started to squeeze.
Yes, Aziraphale loves him. But the one thing they want… it’s something they know they can’t have.
Crowley doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry, or some secret third thing. He wants to scream.
He doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, he leans forward and latches onto Aziraphale. He buries his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. If it’s to comfort Aziraphale or himself, Crowley couldn’t say, only that the way Aziraphale fits in his arms– soft and solid and real– somehow makes the hurt of all this more bearable. When Aziraphale embraces him back, clutching to Crowley like a lifeline, Crowley’s eyes actually do start to water.
He should say something. He knows Aziraphale understands– they’ve been speaking this silent language for so long, he must understand– but still, Crowley fights for a few moments, trying to wrangle his vocal chords. Eventually, he manages to croak out, “Me, too.”
Aziraphale holds him even more tightly, making a choked noise.
Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry. His glasses are pressed uncomfortably against Aziraphale but he doesn’t draw back, nor does Aziraphale ask him to.
It’s an awkward position. Neither of them care and neither of them let go. The moment they do, they’ll have to start picking up the pieces and pretend that none of this means anything. It will be back to carefully calculated distances and things unsaid and ignored. And it will be so much worse, because Crowley won’t just wonder if it’s just him; he’ll know that Aziraphale orbits him just as much as he does the angel, just out of reach, no matter what they do. Knowing, but never having.
(Happiness isn’t in the having, a voice in Crowley’s head whispers. He tells it forcefully to shut up. Castiel doesn’t know shit. He didn’t have to live, after.)
“I wish,” Aziraphale murmurs eventually, still sounding watery. He never finishes his sentence.
“Yeah,” Crowley says. He understands anyway.
They sit, they hold each other, and they breathe.
And then Aziraphale moves away.
Crowley lets him. What else is he meant to do?
Systematically, Aziraphale dries his eyes. He straightens his bowtie and his coat. “It’s late,” he says, not quite managing to sound like his usual self. “I have to open the shop tomorrow. Better get going, I think.”
Normally, Crowley would tease him; you never turn down an excuse to keep the shop closed, angel, come up with a better lie, will you? This time, he doesn’t.
He wants Aziraphale to stay. He knows Aziraphale will not. Crowley feels helpless– and despite his breaking heart, that makes him angry. Why can’t they be happy? Why can’t they be together? Why can’t they control their own lives?
We can go somewhere, he wants to cry, somewhere God and Heaven and Hell can’t find us– we can be together! We’re not like them, we can be happy, we can write our own narrative! Please. I love you. I love you I love you I love you I love–
He doesn’t. Just pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Right. ‘Course.” He doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. It hurts too much. “D’you need a ride?”
“I’ll manage,” Aziraphale says softly. He stands. “Thank you,” he says, sounding just as miserable as Crowley feels, “for a lovely evening, my dear.”
And then he’s gone, and Crowley is alone. The stupid blue and green tartan blanket mocks him where it’s been abandoned on the couch, and Crowley wraps himself in it.
thepizzaman
spn really said bury your gays, nail your bis, and blur your wives
#where was cas????? where was eileen????? #where was their peace???? #excuse me while I use humor to cope #spn 15x20
angelwithagluegun
Andrew Dabb I trusted you
#FUCK THE FINALE
leias-d20
I don’t even have words
#I wasnt expecting a masterpiece. I really wasn’t. #but that??? #genuinely I dont know where to start
casdeanscas
they didn’t even mention Cas
#15x18 was a burry your gays #guess we were clowns the whole time #fuck this
poloroidofdoriangay
At this point its not even about destiel, it’s that they knew they couldn’t close deans arc without him reciprocating so they killed him. It is better to be dead than to be queer. fuck. you.
bradburrrycharlie
Still collecting thoughts on this, but after Dean struggled with wanting to live and being happy for the entirety of the series, they killed him. That sends a pretty shitty message.
#and j*hn in heaven?? fuck that. #will have more thoughts about this when I finish crying #spn 15x20 #dean winchester
mistermr
[IMAGE CANNOT LOAD. TRY AGAIN]
Image id: Destiel meme. Castiel is saying “I love you” in the top frame. On the bottom frame, Dean’s text says, “I died of tetanus in a vampire juggalo barn accident”
Gonzo-with-the-wind
you’re telling me that literal god can be bisexual but some random man from kansas can’t? ok
togayornottogay
I cannot believe that happened what the fuck was that kansas cover
the-haiku-bot
I cannot believe
that happened what the fuck was
that kansas cover
Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.
#haiku bot #togayornottogay
Crowley gets a commendation for the finale. It rubs salt in the wound, as if he wasn’t hurting enough already.
The first few days are rough. He screams at his plants and drinks most of his wine cabinet. He flops on the couch where he watches reruns of Golden Girls aimlessly. He scrolls miserably through Tumblr, where everyone else is bashing the finale or grieving.
There are no posts from gayangel. No calls from Aziraphale.
Crowley is alone.
It leaves him a lot of time to think.
At first, he tries to tell himself that nothing has changed. It was a stupid show and now it’s over. Watching it with Aziraphale was no different than the two of them scheming to get tickets next to each other at the theatre, or having a late nightcap at the bookshop. And it’s not like Aziraphale actually said anything– Crowley can chalk up the longing looks to his imagination, he can pretend the tears were a trick of the light–
The tartan blanket is still on the couch, though, and Crowley can’t ignore that. He can’t forget their embrace or all the things they didn’t say.
But nothing has changed. They never talked on a regular basis, so of course Aziraphale hasn’t called. This distance is normal. Everything is the same.
Only, everything has changed and nothing is the same, because Aziraphale loves him. Aziraphale knows that he loves him. And they can’t do a blessed thing about it.
Crowley regards the whole thing with a bone-deep ache. There is something horribly poetic, about having something you can’t have dangled right in front of you. Something even more horrible when it’s accompanied by a voice that whispers mockingly, in another life, you could have it. Just not this one.
“Why?” he asks his empty flat on the third day. “Why not?”
And then he stops, and asks himself again, why not?
He understands Aziraphale’s hesitance. If Heaven or Hell found out, they– or Crowley, at least– would be in hot water. Boiling water. Water so hot it turns to steam. But when was the last time Hell properly checked in with Crowley, destiel chaos notwithstanding? When’s the last time Heaven properly checked in with Aziraphale? Crowley thinks it was when the bookshop opened; Aziraphale mentioned a few weeks back that these days he goes Upstairs when his bosses need to speak to him. No one on either end really cares what happens on Earth, just that things are getting done. They never check up. If Crowley and Aziraphale were to get together, it would be… well. Almost exactly the same as what they do now, just perhaps with a little more talking and maybe if Crowley is really lucky, some hand holding, or– his knees go wobbly and it’s a good thing he’s sitting on the couch– kissing. It wouldn’t be any more dangerous than the Arrangement, and they’ve gotten away with that for ages.
The ansaphone in the other room goes off and Crowley flails to the ground rather spectacularly. It’s vaguely embarrassing– even though the flat is empty, he left the door to the plant room open. When he picks himself up, he shoots a glare at the foliage. “That,” he says shortly, with all the dignity he can muster, “never happened,” and then nearly trips over the coffee table in his haste to get to the phone.
There are only two types of people who ever call Crowley. One: telemarketers (he finds them incredibly entertaining), and two: Aziraphale.
He really hopes that this time it’s Aziraphale.
“This is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.”
“Hello, Crowley. It’s, ah–” Crowley can practically see him standing by his desk, phone in one hand, the other fiddling with the buttons on his coat, “– it’s Aziraphale. I realized that we– or, I, really, was being a bit silly, the other night–”
Crowley grabs the phone. “Angel,” he says, trying (and failing) to not sound breathless. He clears his throat. “Nhmn. Was just thinking about calling.”
“Oh, were you?” Aziraphale sounds terribly pleased. Then, he sombers slightly, “Look, my dear, about our date–”
Crowley chokes. “Hyngg. Gnk. S’that–” he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but that certainly wasn’t it, “– that what we’re calling it?” he manages weakly.
“That is precisely my point,” Aziraphale says, ignoring or perhaps not noticing Crowley’s crisis. “Was it a date?”
Crowley can’t get out more than a few consonants. “Ngk.”
“And when we fed the ducks at the park last,” Aziraphale continues, “was that? Or our last nightcap, the last play we went to? My dear,” he says, “I rather think we’ve been going on dates since I asked you to Petronius’ in 41 A.D.”
“... Oh.” Crowley might actually discorporate. He needs to sit down. Because– well, they really have been, haven’t they? They’ve been dating in everything but name; dinners just for the pleasure of each other’s company, picking up little trinkets because they remind them of the other– even endearments. “Huh.”
“I realized,” Aziraphale says, “that since we’ve practically been– well. Together, for the past few thousand years, and nothing terrible has happened… perhaps it would be… we could make it official. If you wanted. I know–”
“Yes,” Crowley says immediately. Thank someone his mouth is faster than his brain, because he’s still working through we’ve practically been together for the past few thousand years. “Yes, we could be– I mean–” he tries to regain some coolness, but he doubts that it fools anyone, “– if you wanted. That would be. Okay.”
“Well,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can hear his smile, “then, would you like to come over to the bookshop? For our first official date as a couple?”
Crowley doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods. Then, he realizes that Aziraphale can’t see him, and forces out a semi coherent answer. “Mng. Nyep. Sure.”
“Seven, then? The twenty fifth?” Aziraphale says.
Crowley manages an affirmation. “Mhm.”
“I’ll see you Wednesday, my dear. Mind how you go.”
Crowley is left in his flat, almost numb with shock, and grinning like an idiot.
On Wednesday, Crowley slips into the bookshop. It isn’t any different than usual… except for the part where he’s full of nervous energy, because they’re together now. They’ve established that it doesn’t change much, if anything, but he feels like it should, shouldn’t it?
He goes to stuff his hands in his pockets in an effort to be more casual, then realizes that he can’t, because he’s holding a pristine yellow tulip that seemed like a good idea to give Aziraphale this morning, but he’s starting to doubt himself. Too late now, though. He wanders further into the shop and finds Aziraphale at his desk, engrossed in some book or another.
Crowley loves him.
Before he can lose his nerve, he drops the tulip on the desk.
Aziraphale looks to it and then turns, beaming, to Crowley.
The flower is placed in a vase that Aziraphale happily puts on his desk, where he’ll see it the most. They pull out a nice red, and when Crowley takes his customary spot on the sofa, Aziraphale sits right beside him, ignoring the armchair. They talk about everything and nothing, smiling soppily at each other (Crowley can’t even bring himself to care about his ruined reputation). When Crowley is feeling particularly brave, he takes Aziraphale’s hand, and their faces go pink and their smiles get even sopier. It’s perfect– until Crowley’s phone starts buzzing, and then won’t stop.
Cursing, he tries to fish it out of his pocket without relinquishing his hold on Aziraphale.
Aziraphale watches, lips pressed together with amusement at Crowley’s contortions.
“Shut up,” Crowley says.
“I didn’t say anything,” Aziraphale says.
“You’re the worst.”
“You like that.”
“Unfortunately.” Crowley finally manages to get a hold of his phone. He opens the first notification– something Tumblr– and blinks at the screen. Wordlessly, he shows it to Aziraphale.
It’s the destiel meme. Dean’s response reads, y yo a ti, Cas, and the post caption is, ITS CANON AGAIN???
“How the fuck,” Crowley says, feeling quite a few emotions he isn’t quite sure how to name, “did a drunken conversation with Eric Kripke lead to this?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” Aziraphale says, “but! Love wins!”
Crowley’s brain is going a mile a minute. “Nuh– no, see, because this just proves that they changed the script of the original– dubs can’t vary this widely, so it must have–”
Aziraphale shakes his head fondly and pulls him in for a kiss.
Love wins, indeed.
from the tumblr DMs of gayangel and justajamesbondreally:
gayangel
Crowley, you didn’t start the rumors about the “CW Sniper,” did you?
justajamesbondreally
…
no
hypothetically speaking though what if I did
gayangel
Crowley.
justajamesbondreally
it’s hilarious
I’m hilarious
and you love me
gayangel
I do <3