Happy Accidents

A Supernatural/Good Omens Crossover

A/N- Fine. I give up, this is now a WIP. I have no idea when or how it will end, or even the rate of update. My muse is being stubborn.

Part Three: Territorial Disputes

Crowley felt an instinctive shiver of trepidation as he eyed the brandished teapot. It was one of Aziraphale's favorites, antique and heavy and easily turned into a bludgeoning instrument, and the demon could practically taste the santity of tea. Crowley hissed while throwing as much fire-and-brimstone authority as he could into his voice (1). "Put. The pot. Down."

It wouldn't even be death-by-teacup, which he could come back from, but death-by-tea.

Crowley had always hated The Wizard of Oz. (2)

Winchester's lips quirked hungrily. "I don't think so."

Crowley fought down a shiver. Balls. The man had them. Which wasn't necessarily good for his continued health (3).

"Dean, darling." Aziraphale cut in, smoothly stepping between demon and human in an attempt to defuse the situation. Waves of calm were wafting off the angel in buckets, and the hunter relaxed. Marginally. Soft, manicured fingers touched down on bare skin, rubbing soothing circles on the hunter's arm. "It is alright."

Crowley's eyes turned to slits as the whole world narrowed down to just the three of them. Hell's schemes could sod off. Heaven and its manipulations could wait their bloody turn. This, here and now, needed to be dealt with.

Dean still held the pot gripped tight, held by the handle in a such a way that with a twist and flick of the wrist the contents would scatter across the room. Hazel eyes flicked from Crowley to Aziraphale, and back. The hunter's voice came out rough; too raw from screaming (4) to be anything else. "Demon." As though that explained everything. (5)

"Why, yes." Crowley snarked, his own eyes keeping careful watch on the pot of flavored death. A moment of hesitation was all he needed. With a thought he could snap his fingers and miracle, if not the pot, the righteous man himself away... but then Hell might find him again. "I Tarzan. You Jane. Anything else you'd like to point out, Winchester?"

"Dears." The angel dragged out, grace flaring ever slightly. The forgotten phonebook's pages fluttered from where it had been abandoned on a shelf. The blonde took a step closer to the human, all but pressing against him, radiating good will and just plain Aziraphale-ness. "Dean." Big blue angel eyes wide and beseeching.

Crowley felt momentarily conflicted with equal parts anger and sympathy: he had been on the receiving end of that look (6). The human didn't have a prayer.

Gently, Aziraphale took Dean by the non teapot holding hand, and led him to the back room away from the windows. (7)

Crowley followed along behind, fingers flexing.

The angel was using some kind of mind-whammy. Dean knew, as a hunter, that he should be trying to throw it off and gank the demon... but was it worth the effort? He was feeling rather mellow about things at the moment.

Also, Aziraphale's bitch face surpassed Sammy's at its worst. (8)

At the very least, he had managed to maneuver the too-trusting-for-his-own-good, rather like a certain little brother, angel to the seat furthest away from the wannabe mafia king. A huff that sounded like half amusement and half exasperation came from the direction of the angel, and the demon's expression went cold. Almost reptilian.

The hunter felt a thrill of dark satisfaction.

"So." Carefully, threateningly, Dean poured himself a cup of tea. The stuff wasn't half bad with milk and a couple dozen spoonfuls of sugar. "Are you trying to tell me you've changed? Cause I got to tell you, I heard it before." (9)

"Of course not!" The demon hissed with surprising derision. "I'm a demon. I'm evil. It's what I do. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying."

"That's not to say that's he doesn't mean well. He's just Crowley." Aziraphale quickly explained with a pleasant expression (10) as the demon in question made a noise of strangled disgust.

Dean gave the blonde the same kind of look he gave to people that believed in aliens. "And that means?"

"It means I don't get my rocks off eating babies or other such pastimes." Crowley shrugged with a grin. "Very little meat on babies. Nothing but lard."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale glared, barely catching the teacup in the air with a twist of grace, which was interesting because Dean hadn't known the angel had telekinesis in its bag of tricks (11) The demon himself had scrambled backward, nostrils flaring, sunglasses slipping down his nose from the sudden movement. The angel -Without taking up space between!- had crossed the room and was hovering almost protectively by the demon while at the same time scolding. "Hush. Dean, dear, I know you mean well, but I can take care of myself, and Crowley really isn't going to hurt me. Are you, dear?"

Crowley snorted (12). The hunter frowned as Crowley righted himself, a motion so smooth it could have been boneless, and nonchalantly adjusted his jacket. "Your eyes," Dean breathed, noticing their color for the first time. "They're... gold."

"Yessss?"

Gold eyes. Not the sick, jaundice yellow of Azazel's, or the milky dead white of Lilith's. Not even the ink-black pits of the more common demons. They were the deep burnished gold of the sun, or rich wheat, and slitted like a cat's... or a snake's. Actually, Dean thought before Crowley tapped his sunglasses back in place with a finger, they were kinda pretty.

"Dean? Dear?"

Dean shook himself. "Yeah, yeah. Okay." The demon would live, for now. If it was a demon. He wasn't entirely positive of that anymore, still, there was something going on. Something that this Crowley knew. He would have never made it his first year in the Hunting business without instincts, and right now they were screaming at him.

Lilith was not a happy camper. The blood decorating her hands and frock attested to this. "What do you mean he's gone? He can't be gone!" She yelled at the top her her stolen six-year-old voice while stomping her tiny foot through the remains of a woodland creature. "Souls don't just get up and leave Hell!"

A random demon coughed (13) before falling to the dirt in pain as Lilith put the psychic whammy on the disrespectful minion. Blood vibrated in a small wooden bowl, communicating the annoyance, fury, and demands of the being on the other end of the inter-dimensional phone call.

"Of course, Alastair baby." Lilith replied. "It shouldn't be too difficult. We'll have you up here in two shakes of the Dragon's tail."

1. Which wasn't much, admittedly. Torture and terror were sooo last millennia.

2. As a demon, he wasn't supposed to feel sympathy with anyone, and he usually didn't, but damn if his heart didn't go out to Hamilton.

3. Or Crowley's for that matter. Ask anyone (a) when it came to survival, the Serpent played dirty. And for keeps.

3a. There's a particular Duke who, if he wasn't consigned to bits of flotsam on the ocean of Oblivion, could swear to the fact.

4. To be fair, a good deal of the screaming were creative curses. Dean had been particularly proud of the one about the demon, the rabbit, and just what his torturer could do with a slug and a salted kidney.

5. For Winchesters, it usually did.

6. And ended up trying to beat off the Morningstar with a tire iron.

7. This included the men in the dark coats and glasses watching the windows.

8. It wasn't so much a bitch face, as an expression that caused Dean's inner-child want to go and repent in a corner.

9. The demon who had claimed it promised to help keep him out of hell, and considering how that went he was less than inclined to believe it.

10. Which didn't really explain anything, but generally made everyone believe in the benefit of the doubt.

11. Remembering Max, Dean decided he would have to be extra sneaky if he planned to go behind his angel's back.

12. So far as he knew, Aziraphale was the only angel to accidentally discorporealize himself. Twice. Three times if you counted the barrel incident of 93 AD.

13. It sounded suspiciously like 'John Winchester'.