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alchemyaliceTitle: Salvage
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Gabriel/Crowley, gen, pretty cracktastical
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,400
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.19
Summary: It's just old-fashioned curiosity. That's what Crowley keeps telling himself. After all, an archangel's never died before. It's something to see for the novelty, if nothing else.
A/N: Written for the cuddlememe, for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
morganoconner's prompt: Gabriel/Crowley - one of them gets hurt protecting the Winchesters, leads to snarky comfort cuddles. It accidentally became a story. Oops.
Salvage
It's just old-fashioned curiosity. That's what Crowley keeps telling himself. After all, an archangel's never died before. It's something to see for the novelty, if nothing else.
So while the Winchesters are bitching and moaning and cleaning their guns, or whatever else they do when he's not around, he goes to the Elysian Fields Motel.
It's still a mess in there, smelling of herbs and raw meat and blood, with a tang of sulfur that reads like Lucifer's calling card. Crowley wrinkles his nose. He really hates this game.
Adjusting the lines of his jacket out of habit, he steps through the wreckage, and raises an eyebrow at the bar. Half the bottles are broken or empty or on the floor. But the other half...well, well. He snags a bottle of 12 year old Lagavulin and then walks around to the main event.
Old gods still litter the ground. Crowley doesn't really heed them. His eye is immediately drawn to Gabriel.
Gabriel is splayed out, almost brighter than the rest of them, broken warrior that he is, ash settled around him on the ground. Crowley can see the six wings in relief, magnificent even in death, though he'd never admit it. Shattered pieces of Grace litter the floor.
"Poor bastard," Crowley murmurs, not meaning to. He nudges some of the slivers of Grace into a pile. They cling to each other as he pushes them, like they want to put themselves back together.
Apocalypse or not, it really is a shame. Crowley hadn't really been keeping tabs on Gabriel or anything, but what he could trawl from the Winchesters' brains was enough for him to feel bad about the archangel-turned-Trickster. Hell, he thought he'd been giving the humans a hard time, but compared to Gabriel, well. It was damned impressive, was what it was. Shame to see that sort of mischief gone to waste.
He steps back, and the little pile of Grace seems to look accusingly back up at him. Which is, what the fuck. Grace is not sentient. This is a fact.
“Fact,” Crowley says to them, as if saying it will make it more true. “What do you want?”
No answer. Obviously. He sighs.
“I’m going to regret this,” he says. He pulls his silk handkerchief from his pocket, and crouches down. He looks at Gabriel’s slack face, tawny eyes dull with death but still faintly golden. “I hope you appreciate this,” he says darkly to it. “Don’t say I never did anything for you. Or better yet, do. Saying I gave someone like you some dignity in death wouldn't do anything for my reputation. Not that my name isn’t mud already, obviously. Bloody Winchesters, am I right?”
He gathers the shattered pieces together, picking them out of the ash and splintered wood. As they settle together in the pocket of cloth, their glow seems to grow slightly. Or maybe it’s just the natural accumulation of dim points of light.
When Crowley can’t find any more pieces, he looks back at Gabriel. One limp hand is curled on the sword sticking out of his chest. Lips twisting in indecision, Crowley lifts it, and places the pouch of fragments underneath, closing the stiff fingers loosely around it.
“There,” he says finally. “Better, yeah?”
He moves to stand. And then abruptly stops.
Gabriel’s hand has turned into a fist around the silk bundle. Crowley stares at it for a long moment. “No fucking way,” he breathes.
Gabriel’s chest rises, expands, and then there’s the sound of a heavy inhale, laboring and rattling from the archangel's throat. And on the exhale, “Way, dude.”
This time Crowley does stand. He also takes a very rapid step back. “What the fuck?”
Gabriel’s hand twitches around the bundle of Grace. “Thanks for this,” he wheezes, and seems to be making abortive movements with his legs and head. “Would’ve taken me a lot longer doing it metaphysically.”
"You're supposed to be dead," Crowley observes blankly.
Gabriel groans, finally managing to lift his head, and then says a bit pathetically, "I got better."
"Not much better," Crowley snorts. And then he kneels back down and grips the archangel by the shoulder to help him sit up. Why is he doing that? He should not be doing that. He should be scoffing as an archangel tries feebly to put himself back together. It's practically in his job description.
He eases Gabriel upwards until the archangel seizes up. “Um,” Gabriel says, after a pause. “Would you mind?”
He gestures at the sword in his gut. Crowley makes a vaguely disgusted sound. “Fine,” he grumbles.
He pulls the cuffs of his shirt down to cover his palms, and then grips the handle, ignoring the burn that accompanies it. With a hard pull, he dislodges it from Gabriel’s ribcage.
Gabriel makes a sound like a dying cat. Crowley almost laughs, but he’s too busy throwing the sword across the room and hissing at the burns on his hand.
Gabriel looks up at him. “Huh,” he says blankly. “You’re a demon.”
“Born and bred,” Crowley says through gritted teeth.
“Got a reason for being here?” There’s caution in his voice now, which Crowley sort of resents, considering.
“Seeing the sights, poking around.” Then he remembers, and picks up the bottle he put down earlier. “Free single malt?”
Gabriel groans again, but this time it sounds like approval. “Hold that thought,” he says. “Also, you might want to close your eyes for a sec.”
Crowley obeys, because he has a pretty good idea what Gabriel’s about to do.
He hears the rustle of clothing, and then the impact of Gabriel’s palm against the gaping hole in his chest. There’s a hard flash of white light that sears its way across his eyelids, and then nothing. He cracks his eyes back open.
Gabriel’s breathing heavily, but a bit more easily now. His palm is still pressed to his chest, but there’s nothing but char left of Crowley’s handkerchief. The Grace isn’t there any more, either—instead, Gabriel glows faintly with it.
“Feeling better?” Crowley inquires, which is a little useless, considering, but it’s been a long time since he’s been in the presence of an archangel, even a severely crippled one, and it’s a bit overwhelming.
“Infinitely,” Gabriel wheezes. “I think I’ll take that single malt now.”
“I never actually offered it to you,” Crowley points out.
Gabriel glares halfheartedly. “Don’t think I can’t smite you, even in this state.”
“Sure, sunshine. You owe me a new handkerchief, by the way.” He hands the bottle over, though.
***
“Fucking Winchesters,” Gabriel grumbles. “I’m telling you, this shit’ll get you killed, Crowley. I know, I was dead.”
“So I saw,” Crowley agrees.
They're still on the floor amid the fairly elaborate scene of carnage. The bottle of Lagavulin is empty, as are several bottles of Bailey’s, all of the Skyy vodka (Crowley has a weakness, all right?) and two more single malts, including an unexpectedly delicious Cragganmore.
Also, somehow Gabriel is now draped over Crowley like an overheated pile of feathers, one arm slung around his shoulders, the other gesticulating rather gracelessly. Their legs are a bit tangled, too. But Crowley is mostly okay with this. Gabriel had just been dead a few hours ago, after all. He still doesn’t have the strength to actually sit up by himself. Plus, they’ve definitely established they're on the same side now, so there's camaraderie to consider.
“You be fucking careful dealing with those fuckers,” Gabriel says earnestly. “You stop paying attention, and then all of a sudden they start making you a better person and shit.”
“See, that’s where you and I are different,” Crowley points out, and is he gesturing a bit wildly too? Surely not. “I’m mercenary. You’re still an angel, even in your little Trickster-y way. They didn’t make you better, they just reminded you that you were.”
“Don’t call me little,” Gabriel grumbles. "Smite you."
In a moment of magnanimity, Crowley ruffles his hair. “I’m intrinsically evil,” he reasons, “So I don’t have that problem.”
“Fucking lucky, that,” Gabriel says. “Be grateful. Probably means you won’t die.”
“But see, you can un-die. I die, and it’s pretty permanent. So really, you still win a little more.” Crowley doesn’t really know why, but he’s compelled to make the archangel feel better. It seems to work, too.
“I am pretty awesome,” Gabriel says. “Like, in the surfer-dude way and in the original way.”
Crowley makes agreeing noises.
Gabriel looks up at him, rather awkwardly as he doesn’t appear to have the ability to raise his head entirely from Crowley’s shoulder. “Can we agree to give them as much shit as possible? If the Apocalypse actually happens, I want to go out laughing.”
“The Winchesters? Of course,” Crowley says. "The brats deserve it."
They shake on it. It’s a pretty good deal.
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Gabriel/Crowley, gen, pretty cracktastical
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1,400
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.19
Summary: It's just old-fashioned curiosity. That's what Crowley keeps telling himself. After all, an archangel's never died before. It's something to see for the novelty, if nothing else.
A/N: Written for the cuddlememe, for
morganoconner's prompt: Gabriel/Crowley - one of them gets hurt protecting the Winchesters, leads to snarky comfort cuddles. It accidentally became a story. Oops.Salvage
It's just old-fashioned curiosity. That's what Crowley keeps telling himself. After all, an archangel's never died before. It's something to see for the novelty, if nothing else.
So while the Winchesters are bitching and moaning and cleaning their guns, or whatever else they do when he's not around, he goes to the Elysian Fields Motel.
It's still a mess in there, smelling of herbs and raw meat and blood, with a tang of sulfur that reads like Lucifer's calling card. Crowley wrinkles his nose. He really hates this game.
Adjusting the lines of his jacket out of habit, he steps through the wreckage, and raises an eyebrow at the bar. Half the bottles are broken or empty or on the floor. But the other half...well, well. He snags a bottle of 12 year old Lagavulin and then walks around to the main event.
Old gods still litter the ground. Crowley doesn't really heed them. His eye is immediately drawn to Gabriel.
Gabriel is splayed out, almost brighter than the rest of them, broken warrior that he is, ash settled around him on the ground. Crowley can see the six wings in relief, magnificent even in death, though he'd never admit it. Shattered pieces of Grace litter the floor.
"Poor bastard," Crowley murmurs, not meaning to. He nudges some of the slivers of Grace into a pile. They cling to each other as he pushes them, like they want to put themselves back together.
Apocalypse or not, it really is a shame. Crowley hadn't really been keeping tabs on Gabriel or anything, but what he could trawl from the Winchesters' brains was enough for him to feel bad about the archangel-turned-Trickster. Hell, he thought he'd been giving the humans a hard time, but compared to Gabriel, well. It was damned impressive, was what it was. Shame to see that sort of mischief gone to waste.
He steps back, and the little pile of Grace seems to look accusingly back up at him. Which is, what the fuck. Grace is not sentient. This is a fact.
“Fact,” Crowley says to them, as if saying it will make it more true. “What do you want?”
No answer. Obviously. He sighs.
“I’m going to regret this,” he says. He pulls his silk handkerchief from his pocket, and crouches down. He looks at Gabriel’s slack face, tawny eyes dull with death but still faintly golden. “I hope you appreciate this,” he says darkly to it. “Don’t say I never did anything for you. Or better yet, do. Saying I gave someone like you some dignity in death wouldn't do anything for my reputation. Not that my name isn’t mud already, obviously. Bloody Winchesters, am I right?”
He gathers the shattered pieces together, picking them out of the ash and splintered wood. As they settle together in the pocket of cloth, their glow seems to grow slightly. Or maybe it’s just the natural accumulation of dim points of light.
When Crowley can’t find any more pieces, he looks back at Gabriel. One limp hand is curled on the sword sticking out of his chest. Lips twisting in indecision, Crowley lifts it, and places the pouch of fragments underneath, closing the stiff fingers loosely around it.
“There,” he says finally. “Better, yeah?”
He moves to stand. And then abruptly stops.
Gabriel’s hand has turned into a fist around the silk bundle. Crowley stares at it for a long moment. “No fucking way,” he breathes.
Gabriel’s chest rises, expands, and then there’s the sound of a heavy inhale, laboring and rattling from the archangel's throat. And on the exhale, “Way, dude.”
This time Crowley does stand. He also takes a very rapid step back. “What the fuck?”
Gabriel’s hand twitches around the bundle of Grace. “Thanks for this,” he wheezes, and seems to be making abortive movements with his legs and head. “Would’ve taken me a lot longer doing it metaphysically.”
"You're supposed to be dead," Crowley observes blankly.
Gabriel groans, finally managing to lift his head, and then says a bit pathetically, "I got better."
"Not much better," Crowley snorts. And then he kneels back down and grips the archangel by the shoulder to help him sit up. Why is he doing that? He should not be doing that. He should be scoffing as an archangel tries feebly to put himself back together. It's practically in his job description.
He eases Gabriel upwards until the archangel seizes up. “Um,” Gabriel says, after a pause. “Would you mind?”
He gestures at the sword in his gut. Crowley makes a vaguely disgusted sound. “Fine,” he grumbles.
He pulls the cuffs of his shirt down to cover his palms, and then grips the handle, ignoring the burn that accompanies it. With a hard pull, he dislodges it from Gabriel’s ribcage.
Gabriel makes a sound like a dying cat. Crowley almost laughs, but he’s too busy throwing the sword across the room and hissing at the burns on his hand.
Gabriel looks up at him. “Huh,” he says blankly. “You’re a demon.”
“Born and bred,” Crowley says through gritted teeth.
“Got a reason for being here?” There’s caution in his voice now, which Crowley sort of resents, considering.
“Seeing the sights, poking around.” Then he remembers, and picks up the bottle he put down earlier. “Free single malt?”
Gabriel groans again, but this time it sounds like approval. “Hold that thought,” he says. “Also, you might want to close your eyes for a sec.”
Crowley obeys, because he has a pretty good idea what Gabriel’s about to do.
He hears the rustle of clothing, and then the impact of Gabriel’s palm against the gaping hole in his chest. There’s a hard flash of white light that sears its way across his eyelids, and then nothing. He cracks his eyes back open.
Gabriel’s breathing heavily, but a bit more easily now. His palm is still pressed to his chest, but there’s nothing but char left of Crowley’s handkerchief. The Grace isn’t there any more, either—instead, Gabriel glows faintly with it.
“Feeling better?” Crowley inquires, which is a little useless, considering, but it’s been a long time since he’s been in the presence of an archangel, even a severely crippled one, and it’s a bit overwhelming.
“Infinitely,” Gabriel wheezes. “I think I’ll take that single malt now.”
“I never actually offered it to you,” Crowley points out.
Gabriel glares halfheartedly. “Don’t think I can’t smite you, even in this state.”
“Sure, sunshine. You owe me a new handkerchief, by the way.” He hands the bottle over, though.
***
“Fucking Winchesters,” Gabriel grumbles. “I’m telling you, this shit’ll get you killed, Crowley. I know, I was dead.”
“So I saw,” Crowley agrees.
They're still on the floor amid the fairly elaborate scene of carnage. The bottle of Lagavulin is empty, as are several bottles of Bailey’s, all of the Skyy vodka (Crowley has a weakness, all right?) and two more single malts, including an unexpectedly delicious Cragganmore.
Also, somehow Gabriel is now draped over Crowley like an overheated pile of feathers, one arm slung around his shoulders, the other gesticulating rather gracelessly. Their legs are a bit tangled, too. But Crowley is mostly okay with this. Gabriel had just been dead a few hours ago, after all. He still doesn’t have the strength to actually sit up by himself. Plus, they’ve definitely established they're on the same side now, so there's camaraderie to consider.
“You be fucking careful dealing with those fuckers,” Gabriel says earnestly. “You stop paying attention, and then all of a sudden they start making you a better person and shit.”
“See, that’s where you and I are different,” Crowley points out, and is he gesturing a bit wildly too? Surely not. “I’m mercenary. You’re still an angel, even in your little Trickster-y way. They didn’t make you better, they just reminded you that you were.”
“Don’t call me little,” Gabriel grumbles. "Smite you."
In a moment of magnanimity, Crowley ruffles his hair. “I’m intrinsically evil,” he reasons, “So I don’t have that problem.”
“Fucking lucky, that,” Gabriel says. “Be grateful. Probably means you won’t die.”
“But see, you can un-die. I die, and it’s pretty permanent. So really, you still win a little more.” Crowley doesn’t really know why, but he’s compelled to make the archangel feel better. It seems to work, too.
“I am pretty awesome,” Gabriel says. “Like, in the surfer-dude way and in the original way.”
Crowley makes agreeing noises.
Gabriel looks up at him, rather awkwardly as he doesn’t appear to have the ability to raise his head entirely from Crowley’s shoulder. “Can we agree to give them as much shit as possible? If the Apocalypse actually happens, I want to go out laughing.”
“The Winchesters? Of course,” Crowley says. "The brats deserve it."
They shake on it. It’s a pretty good deal.