Disclaimer: Supernatural and Good Omens belong to Eric Kripke and Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman. There's no money made off this.
Warnings: Supernatural themes, gore and implied violence, Satanism, some bad language.
Authors Notes: I spent the day separated from my laptop and ended up scribbling this one trying to fight the boredom. Still working on 'In at the Death' (which was, of course, on the damn laptop).
Now then – just in case some don't know about Good Omens here, I'll give you a few tidbits. It's an extremely clever and entertaining book by the authors above, concerning the End of the World and Heaven and Hell and the Anti Christ and Humanity. I won't tell you how it all goes, but it's really very touching and very, very funny.
Two of the characters I've shanghaied for this story here – Crowley, the demon, who was the Serpent – the Original Temptor of the Garden. The other was Aziraphale, the angel, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden. The two, both assigned to earth to tempt/test humanity, have spent six millennia on earth, and in that time formed a friendship – realising somewhere about the 1000th year that they had a lot in common with each other, moreso than they had with their respective sides. They are also, in their own way, humanists. Living among humans for six thousand odd years has affected their mindsets – they think more like humans than evil or good incarnate. So when the end of the world does come, their loyalties may not be as clear cut as it seems, or should be. I found them fun, and their friendship touching; and, well, Crowley does have yellow eyes, so the idea was attractive.
Please, relax, read, re-read and review.
When Summoning, Please Watch the Wording – By Ryuuza Kochou
It was a good circle. It had elegant curves and strong lines. It had dizzying symbols done with ritual and meaning. It had etchings and worrying looking sigils. It had significant stones of power; it had bundles of important woods. It had rich altar cloths, glimmering metal implements. The book, which had a twenty-three syllable title meaning 'instruction manual' had highly graphic diagrams and gothic script so thick that it required an English to English translator. The robes of the three teens were the pitch black of the starless sky of Hell, covered with dark and brooding runes.
It was a Ferrari of magic circles. If magic circles were a sellable commodity, this one would only appear to the Fortune 500 section of the catalogue. Essentially what that meant was it looked good and worked well, but had a lot of components that weren't, when you got right down to it, necessary.
Dean Winchester wasn't in the mood to appreciate it. In fact, the only thing he was in the mood for now was complete and utter carnage with a side order of rage. He was loud and vociferous to this end, but being trussed up like a cow at a rodeo and gagged meant that it wasn't nearly as incandescent as he wanted it to be.
Sam wasn't tied. But Sam wasn't in any shape to follow his brother's lead. Animal tranquilisers will do that to a person. He stared, blinking heavily, and you could see from his eyes that No One Was Home.
Who'd have thought? They faced monsters and spirits and demons and even human beings with guns and way to much time on their hands on occasion, and after all that it was a bunch of brats with too much makeup and not enough sense that brought them down. How about that?
It had just been a routine stop. When you see a girl with a killer body and a face fresh off the farm and a sweet smile frowning quizzically over a car engine of course you stopped to help. And exchange phone numbers. But mostly help. No self respecting male between say fifteen and fifty was going to just drive past. It just didn't happen. You may as well pluck the moon from the sky.
Dean had come to with a headache and a lack of ability to move, dumped on the ground on this dingy field outside some dingy town out of a dingy van by some ding bat kids. They had stacks of equipment set up all around. The girl's two male companions did most of the heavy lifting while the girl drew all the significant lines. And gloated. She was a champion gloater.
"Won't be long now, darling," she purred to the slumped Sam, who was twitching weakly. He was trying to force his brain to work. "You are a chosen vessel. Time to stop fighting your destiny," her hands ran over his lanky body in intimate ways that Sam would run from and Dean would run to. "You will bring glory to the dark lord. Silly little Sam Winchester, with his silly little normal life. You are not even close to worthy, but you are it. Poor little Sam – your just not good for anything are you? Pathetic little dreams and pathetic little thoughts, and pathetic little emotions. You just can't do right by anyone, can you? Hurt your father, hurt your brother, kill your girlfriend. You should have joined our side long ago. It would have been better for everyone."
Sam turned his face away. Doped up, he was still aware enough to absorb what she was saying but not coherent enough to put up his defences.
No mercy, bitch, Dean thought viciously, surreptitiously testing the knots. When, when they got out of this, Dean was going to mount a skull on the Impala. He growled through the gag like a pack wolf.
"And you?" blond hair waved merrily as she laughed. "Big Brother Dean. You're pathetic in a whole 'nother way. We were tailing you for weeks and big bad hunter didn't even notice. What kind of sleaze actually falls for 'oh poor widdle ol' me my car seems to have broken down' in this day and age? Your nothing, Dean. Nothing," she came over to gently cup his face, smiling her fresh, sweet, corn-fed smile. "And when the golden-eyed demon comes and takes his rightful vessel, you will have the great honour of being the lord of Earth's first victim – and a victim of your own brother's hand. Maybe we'll untie you. Maybe we'll give you a fighting chance," she giggled. "You can kill your brother, Dean. Or be killed by him. Isn't that nice," she caressed Dean hair, like he was a dog. "You won't be killed by a stranger." She leaned down to kiss him. "Do you still want this," she whispered in his ear. "When the demon comes, we'll need soldiers. And you could still be with Sam. How about it? There are privileges."
Dean forehead jerked forward, but she moved easily out of range, and laughed. "You're so…cute Dean. Always fighting the unkillable. Always putting off the inevitable. Your stupidity is entertaining. Maybe…" she leaned in, covering his body with hers. "Maybe we'll leave you alive. To watch."
"We're ready, Amethic," one of the two guys called over, lighting the last black candle. The other guy was hauling Sam into the centre of the circle.
"Daelth, Ridderstrek, start the ceremony," the girl ordered imperiously. "Pave the way for our Dark Lord!" She went over to one of the piles of boxes and equipment and did something to one of the bundles. She came back with a goblet.
The two guys, pasty faced and rather forgettable, started to chant, and howl and do all sorts of other stupid things that looked completely insane. Amatuers, Dean thought furiously, struggling and writhing. Sam was writhing too – even in his drugged position he knew something wasn't right. But even as he squirmed the girl gave him a hard kick, leaving him on his back and exposed.
The girl tipped the chalice and liquid, too dark to see what it was, dripped onto Sam's face. His head turned this way and that, trying to escape the stuff. He made a noise in the back of his throat, like a denial. Dean snarled and kicked helplessly.
"We summon thee, Master of Darkness. We whom prepare thine imperfect vessel call out to you, so that we may serve under your most perfect reign. Come forth, Golden Eyed One. We, your servants, are ready for your coming. We have built the Way." The chanting rose to a frenetic crescendo, howling and echoing through the dark, clear night.
She started intoning an ancient tongue from the book, fleck of spittle flying from her mouth in her ecstasy of purpose…
Thousands of miles and a whole ocean away, two men, or at least men shaped beings, were finishing up a scrumptiously expensive meal in an exclusive restaurant in London.
"Well don't look at me," one said. "I only came up with the idea of humiliating people on national TV. I only got as far as 'Funniest Home Videos' and 'Candid Camera'. The reality show was all them."
"Nevertheless. The whole thing is in extremely poor taste. They could at least try for some…sophistication in their sins. This is just crass. It really is most depressing."
"I know. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Really, my dear," the other one dabbled at his mouth fastidiously. "There is no need for that. Now you've gone and started my side on supernatural dramas and reconciliation shows that stop criminals. Do you really want to start the Great War through television? Think of the damage!"
"You may have me there," the other one shrugged.
"Indeed," the other replied. "Now then, I am certain it is your turn this time."
The other man opened his mouth and stopped.
"Now, now," his companion wagged an admonitory finger. "None of your tricks. It is definitely your turn to pay, I am sure of it."
"Oh no. Oooh no!"
"What is it?"
The girl said the last word, Dean flopping like a fish, straining to be free. There was a wind, and chill, a shake, and the torches flared and candle flames became pillars of fire seven feet tall.
There was a sound that seemed to come from a long way off but move very fast at the same time. It sounded like…
"-iiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIT!" A man landed in the circle, stumbled slightly and righted himself. He was tall, had excellent cheekbones and was stylishly dishevelled, dressed in black with snake skin boots. Well, presumably they were boots – they were skin-tight, whatever they were. He wore sunglasses that the dark night didn't induce him to take off.
The flames died down, leaving the man standing alone with Sam at his feet. The young hunter tried to get away, but his body simply wouldn't work with him. He opened his mouth to talk and could only manage a groan garbled string of nonsense.
The man in black looked around angrily. "What the fu-" suddenly he doubled over clutching his stomach. "Thrice blessed bloody trans-planal travel!" he groaned. "Even archangels don't use it anymore! Oh G…Sa…bollocks!" He swayed momentarily. His accent was hard to place. It was part British, part European, part American and mostly Royally Pissed Off.
Dean was staring. So were the three wannabes. Clearly, they hadn't been expecting what they'd been asking for. "My Lord!" the girl's voice was exultant. "We have summoned you so that you might bring about your glorious rule. And then, the Apocalypse!"
"What? Again?" The man in black looked around blearily. "Look, we tried the Apocalypse and the Anti-Christ said he didn't want any." He suddenly seemed to focus "Oh no. No! Look, I've got a lot of things on right now, I don't have time to do any Summoning. They're not my speciality, okay? I'm more of a background string master now than an in-your-face temptor. I don't do the whole customer service shtick anymore. There's some evils even I won't stoop to."
"Er…but we have summoned you, Master, so that you can receive your Chosen Vessel," the girl continued, in the tone of voice when one finds unplanned for occurrences in a well rehearsed universe.
"Huh?" said the demon.
"The…the…Sam Winchester, your evilness," said one of the guys. "Your Vessel in which you may…cross…over into the…er, mortal plane…"
The demon gave them all a blank stare. "Do I look like I need to cross over? What do you call this, a public transport body?" he tapped his chest.
"But…this is your Vessel, my Lord," the girl said, suddenly sounding stronger. "You can abandon that weak human you've possessed and enter this one, and use his powers as your own."
The demon looked down at Sam. Suddenly he bent down, peering intently at the young man's face, as if he suddenly noticed something. He gave a little grunt, while Dean roared past his gag in what he hoped was a threatening way. "Well, thanks for the offer kids," the demon said, standing up. "But I'll pass."
"What?" the girl recoiled like she'd been slapped. Dean stopped struggling. Even Sam turned bleary eyes on the demon.
"I kind of like this body," the demon explained. "It was tailor made, you see? Took me years to requisition one that I could add my own touches to. Did you know my last one had a pudding bowl hair cut with an emo forelock and one of those little moustaches that looked like it had been sliced with a slide rule? Apparently it was all the rage at the time, but all I could say was that even with a decent shave and a stylist, it was all you could do to not look like the bloody idiot that was on all the posters with the black indecisive looking X on them. And, you know, it doesn't have any holes that leak yet. You humans! You're covered in holes. Whoever thought up intelligent design should have stopped right there. Human do nothing but leak! You feel sad, you leak. You do exercise, you leak. You get sick, you leak. To eat something, you…well, leak's as good a word as any. You get cut, you leak. You take a leak, you leak. All of you are nothing but holes with gushing fluids all the live long day. It's gross! That's why I gave up on the whole possession business. You humans are just too squishy." He looked down at Sam again. "Besides, this kid is going to have enough to deal with. I couldn't possibly make his life worse, even if I was inclined to."
Dean made a completely pole axed noise. Sam lay still. The kids stood with their mouths hanging open. "But…but…you've been hunting this guy since he was a baby," said one of the two guys, pointing to Sam. "You've…you've killed off people he knows to get him."
The demon looked blank. "You must have me confused with somebody else," he replied with a shrug. "I don't do that sort of thing. It's undignified."
The girl was thumbing through the book. "What is your name, demon?"
The man in black shrugged again, and flicked her a business card.
"A J Crowley," she read slowly. "No, I mean your demon name."
"That is my name," Crowley replied, a little sullenly. "Has been for six thousand years. I like it."
The girl thumbed through the book. "You…don't um…seem to be in here…"
Crowley raised an injured eyebrow. "I should hope not. I have some pride. A lot, actually, since it's an official Sin." He pointed a contemptuous finger at the tome. "That thing is like…like a dating site, right? You find a picture of someone good looking and then add a personality on beneath it. You know, a fancy sounding name, likes cats, has sense of humour, is interested in the mind not the body, are looking for commitment. I mean, you're not going to attract anyone my saying you're a one eyed mortician's assistant with a thing for people who lie still, are you? Same thing here. They drew the nastiest pictures imaginable and wrote themselves…advertisements. There's not a lot of employment in Hell that doesn't include torment, which gets pretty old fast and you don't get paid well. So they look for something…better. Hence the book."
"That's not true!" the girl shrieked. "This book holds all the wisdom of Hell!"
"Nah, it's too thick for that. Hell's wisdom wouldn't cover a very thin pamphlet. But, fairs fair, neither would Heaven's. Look," Crowley sighed, and glared, and started to hiss. "I know I sssshould probably be egging you on or sssssomething, but you interrupted a very good meal and dragged me all the way to…" he sniffed the air. "America because you were looking for ssssomeone else. I don't apprecssssiate this, children. You want to further the cause of Hell? Go home, chuck all your candles and props and whatnot, go to school and become defence lawyers or congressmen or TV producers. Don't go in for this whole magic thing. It pissses demons off, and attracts attention from the Good crowd. I'm giving you friendly advice here, okay?"
The girl seemed blindsided and enraged by this. She broke in. "No! We've worked hard for the sake of our Lord! You're nothing but a low class demon, that's why you are not in the book! But here! These two," she gestured to the Winchesters. "Are hunters! They have killed and expelled your kind! You must do as I say! Kill that one!" she jabbed a finger at Dean. "And then find the Golden Eyed One so that we might…"
"That's it? That's what you summoned?" Crowley took off his glasses. Yellow eyes glinted in the darkness. "Je…Beelz…Cripes! Don't be so damn loose with your wording! You summoned me for the sake of eye colour, you morons! The spell just found the nearest being that fit the description!"
Sam stared into those eyes. They weren't the eyes of his tormentor. He would never forget them, and these weren't them. These were yellow all round, slitted like a snakes. Dean thrashed some more, but was watching the demon through narrowed eyes. He noticed too.
"But we summoned the Golden Eyed One…his hunting ground is here! Why were you so much closer?"
"His hunting ground is Hell!" Crowley raged, pacing the circle around Sam. "Where yellow eyes, by the by, are the most common colour in all the Pits! I live on the mortal plane. And, contrary to evidence, the mortal plane really is a lot closer than Hell."
"The mortal…you can't!" the girl said aghast, completely failing to notice Dean worming his way toward the equipment piles.
"Dem'ns…" Sam managed to mumble. The tranks were wearing off. "C'n't cross…c'r'ss 'ver. Need body…"
"Now they need a body, kid," Crowley replied to him, as Dean fingers brushed a ritual knife. "But you know…before the Big Guy cut the ribbon on this planet, so to speak, it was kind of unsecured. Like any other construction site. Anyone can nick in and out. Everything was still being…organised. There weren't any actual rules yet. It wasn't until the whole…Apple Incident that Up There decided to put in a fence and a few night watchmen. And, you know, I was doing work here at the time…" Crowley shrugged, smiling the faint smile of someone looking in on the past.
That gave even Dean pause. If that was true, and the man in the circle was all demon and not some human puppet, then he might well be the oldest demon on earth. He gripped the knife and sawed harder. He was a hunter. The duty was obvious.
The girl looked completely lost, but still stuck to her guns. "I command you to kill these hunters! We have summoned you, and while you are not our Lord, you are still compelled by our power! Kill them!"
"Good grief, why would I want to do that?" Crowley stared at her. "This Lord of yours must be one of the younger crowd. They're all red hot, excuse the pun, or death and annihilation. It's stupid."
"Why?" Sam whispered, trying to force his still limp body to move.
Crowley looked down at Sam. He saw with an immortals eyes – which notice a lot more than any mortal ones. He knew Sam was one of the lucky few that he couldn't lie to. "Because, what good does a lot of dead innocent people do us? They're all heading for Heaven, aren't they? Living people are good. Living people can sin. They can encourage others to sin, that's the best bit. They're better at it than any demon. They're also better at virtue than any angel, too. Humans are a bit funny like that. Down There and Up There simply can't compete with you lot. The younger crowd don't really get it; to them it's about torment and murder … or righteousness and smiting if you swing for that team. It's rather sad, really. Good doing evil by encouraging humans to murder for God. Evil doing good by whisking innocent souls right out of Hell's grasp. It's all a bit of a cock-up most of the time, to tell you straight. Makes you wonder what He really had planned."
"That's…that's it? The truth?" Sam whispered, leaning back in a shocked slump. Dean's hands were free.
"Go…Sa…Somebody's honest truth, kid." Crowley looked at Sam's soiled face. "Sorry," he felt compelled to add.
"Do as I command!" the girl shrieked, incensed. "Do it! You can't leave until I tell you! You can't leave until you kill them! Kill them!"
Dean got up and got the knife out in front of him.
Crowley calmly stepped out of the circle, until he was nose to nose with her. "Wanna bet?" he hissed, putting his glasses back on. His teeth were straight and white and glinting before. Now they looked…sharper.
Suddenly he stopped, nostrils flaring. He looked down at the cup in the girl's hands. There was a scowling set to his eyebrows. "What is that?"
Dean was staring at the knife in his hands. He checked his hands for cuts. It wasn't his.
"Blood," the girl replied with a hint of a quaver. "Yes! We performed a proper sacrifice to honour our Lord. It is your sacrifice now. The blood that cleared the Way. Are you not pleased?"
Dean turned, dreading what he'd see. There was something wrapped in a bed sheet behind him, amongst the piles. Something…small.
Crowley went over to have a look. He ignored Dean who warily circled him and backed towards Sam, hiding the knife against his side. Said brother was propped up on one elbow, wiping shaking fingers across his face. He was stained with blood.
Crowley meanwhile had unwrapped it…her…from the shroud. She was so tiny. Sam stared in horror. Dean gripped the knife hard.
"Pleased." Where the Winchesters were expecting the malicious glee of Hell in the voice of the demon there was…nothing. A flat, empty bleakness. "Pleased." Crowley repeated, his tone unidentifiable. Much to everyone's surprise, he knelt down and laid her out properly, so she wasn't just dumped like a piece of meat.
Suddenly he turned, smiling. Well, his teeth were showing, all the way to his points. His face had a waxy gleam to it. His expression was happy and…there was no other word for it; hellish.
"You're right. I am pleased. Come on, now, we have to call in the Big Guns don't we?" Bouncing into the circle so abruptly that the humans all jumped, he grabbed Dean's knife hand almost absently as the hunter lunged, and pressed him down to sit next to his brother. "Sit still, for just a minute. You'll get your chance after I have mine!" the demon hissed. The Winchesters frowned at each other. That wasn't very demonic.
"Okie dokie," Crowley said cheerfully. "You stand right there, miss, and your young man – sorry, men – take up your positions. We just need to change the wording a little. Okay, now you do the chanting," he snapped his fingers, and the chanting started, much to the surprise of the chanters. "And you say the spell. Hang on, just let me…" Crowley toed a rough circle around the Winchesters and himself. "There. Now, repeat after me…"
"And this will bring my Lord to me?" her eyes were glazed and eager. "Truly?"
"On my honour as a demon," Crowley didn't even bat an eye. "Would I lie? Now just say…" he recited a Latin passage.
Sam's eyes, nearly all there now, opened wide. Dean blinked.
But clearly Latin wasn't a prerequisite for the modern Satanist. The words were shouted joyfully, clearly into the air.
The circle, except for Crowley's little cordon, blazed a blinding blue white. The sandy earth was fused into glass. And out came the sound of…
"oooohhhh deeeeeaAAARRR!" And a man popped into the circle. Again.
This man was…well, not like Crowley at all. He was dressed tweed, was fair featured and haired, with pale blue eyes. He had an air of gentle intelligence about him. Rather like a harmless old librarian or English Lit professor. He staggered in the circle. "Good God!" he moaned. He focused on Crowley, and glared. "Really! Isn't this an awful lot of trouble to go through just to avoid paying the bill, my dear?"
"Aziraphale," Crowley greeted cheerfully, completely ignoring this. "Sorry for the ride, but I have myself some lost souls here who would really use some…divine intervention.
The man's – Aziraphale's – eyebrows rose. For some reason he focused, not on the Satanists, who were gawping, but on the Winchester's, who were crouched tensely on the ground. Sam felt those pale eyes look right into the core of him. Dean fought not to look away. "Oh my. Well, yes, obviously. But they don't need my help any more. They are…balanced. Of course," he looked at them benevolently and earnestly. "If you need any literature, I can…"
"No, not them," Crowley gestured to the rest of the people. "These are the one's I mean." He smiled. He smiled like a snake.
"Who are you?" one of the guys asked, bewildered. "Another demon?"
Aziraphale looked shocked. "I should think not, dear boy! I'm an angel. And you are…?"
"Satanists," Crowley replied promptly, grinning. "The most lost of lost souls. They want to bring about the Reign of Terror and the Apocalypse blah di blah blah and so forth."
"What, again?" Aziraphale asked, surprised. "Well, you can certainly tell they're humans. You should think of your souls, children," he turned to them sternly. "You should try to raise the sum total of humanity. You should try to resist the temptation of pressing the big, red 'Let's End the World' button at any rate. It was really most annoying and disrupting the last time. We're still doing the paperwork. Now, I am going to grant each of you a bit of ecstasy – divine ecstasy – in the hope that you will…"
Crowley broke in. "Yes, yes, yes, save their souls, very good. But first," he steered the puzzled angel around. "I need you to make sure a soul here isn't lost." Aziraphale had a direct view.
There was a long, long silence.
"Are…are you really an angel?" It was Sam who broke it, even half drugged looking so hopeful and so afraid. Dean glared at the supposed celestial. He wasn't trusting anyone who just materialises out of thin air.
After a long time, Aziraphale spoke. "Yes, my child. I am," he turned. The expression on his face couldn't be called holy under any circumstances.
"Pathetic lackey of a dead God!" the girl snarled, reaching for an inverted crucifix. "Look at you. Soft and weak and fairy all the way through!"
"Uh oh," Crowley said gleefully. "Hang on, angel. Just let me get out of the way."
Aziraphale's expression was like thunder. "Come to me, my child," he said, his tone as cutting as diamonds. "And I will show you a true wonder of a miracle!"
There was light. Then darkness.
…..Dean woke up with a groan. He was sprawled out next to his precious car. What the hell…?
They'd stopped to help someone. Then something… "Sam? Sammy?" Dean heaved himself up and darted around frantically. Sammy was a crumpled up heap on the ground. "Sam!"
"Uhhh…my head…" Sam groaned from the ground. "I don't feel so good…" Dean propped him up against the Impala. "What the hell happened, Dean?"
"Damned if I know," Dean mumbled, slumping alongside him. "Didn't we stop for that girl with the killer curves?"
"Who…that one?" Sam pointed.
"Who the hell are they?"
There were three of them, dressed in tattered strips of cloth. One was a curled up ball of limbs. He seemed to be muttering "I'll be good. I'll be good. I'll be good." Another was staring at a flower like it was the most fascinating thing in the whole world. He said nothing, but he smiled a lot in a fixed sort of way. And she was…well, skipping around, flipping an imaginary dirndl and humming tunes from The Sound of Music with apparent satisfaction and complete lack of inhibition. They made an interesting stage show. The bemused brothers watched for a while.
"Oookay…we've been mugged by three crazy people," Sam summarised finally. "That's definitely a first."
"Ex-ex-excuse me," said a tiny voice. There was a small face peering out from around the trunk of the Impala. "Can you tell me where Mommy is, please? I…I want my Mommy, and I can't find her…" she seemed close to tears. There was blood on her shirt collar.
"Hey, are you okay?" Dean got up and went to crouch down next to her gently. "Do you hurt anywhere?"
"No. I want to go home!"
"Okay honey," Sam gently took one of her hands comfortingly. "We'll take you back home, okay?"
"Wh-what about…the funny people?"
The brothers looked at each other. "I think…we'll send someone back for them," Dean said, feeling unaccountably nasty. "They don't deserve any help."
Sam found himself agreeing, without ever knowing why.
Two men – or men shaped creatures – were sitting on top of the Impala as it drove back into town, completely invisible to mortal eyes.
"Well, that was certainly…interesting," Crowley commented, idly grooming the cobalt black feathers in his wings. "I always knew you had a bit of bastard in you, angel. The Sound of Music? I know demons in the Pits that'd be impressed."
"Yes, well, you requested the miracle," Aziraphale replied defensively. "Saving the life of a child, Crowley. My people would be most pleased."
Crowley grunted. "Don't give me any set of whites yet, angel. She might grow up to be a politician. Or a TV executive. Or a pop singer."
"Or a doctor. A nun. A saint," Aziraphale grinned. "It's…most enjoyable I find, never knowing. Watching them choose."
"More entertaining than Heaven or Hell, at any rate."
Aziraphale shifted on the car roof uncomfortably, spreading his pure white wings for balance. "May I ask why we are travelling this way, my dear?"
"Do you feel; like going back across the Atlantic the long way? We're not as young as we used to be. Besides," he patted the Impala companionably. "I've got a soft spot of classics."