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Aziraphale was one of the first angels to be created. Pretty important, you know. Special. Kind of a big deal upstairs, really.
“Angel,” Crowley interrupted. “Why are you haranguing on about this?”
“Well,” Aziraphale said daintily. “If you just listened, I’d tell you.”
“I’m listening,” Crowley said, belly flat on the ground and head propped up by his hand, looking up at Aziraphale is a very intentionally disinterested posture that didn’t fool Aziraphale for a second.
“It’s just that,” Aziraphale said, “I think that a dear old brother of mine might be coming to drop by.”
“Brother?” Crowley asked.
“I’m something of a mentor figure to these younger angels,” Aziraphale told Crowley stiffly. “I’m a real guiding light.”
“Oh, for Satan’s sake --”
“I do wish you wouldn’t take that man’s name in my bookshop --” Aziraphale fretted but Crowley rolled right over him.
“Please tell me Castiel isn’t coming over.”
“I believe he prefers -- Cas,” Aziraphale said miserably.
This wasn’t the first time Cas had come by. It probably wouldn’t be the last. Aziraphale had felt something hovering between hope and freedom the first time Cas had died but he’d come back and then come back and then come back and it had gotten to the point where the only thing Aziraphale dreaded more than these little visits was the news that Castiel was dead and/or alive again, usually accompanied with world crippling tragedy.
The first time Aziraphale had met Castiel, the angel had been newly made. He was quiet and mostly looked up at Aziraphale with much larger eyes than Aziraphale felt like were strictly appropriate for angels -- not that he was or would ever question God’s will. And he was so serious too! He’d just sit there and stare at the fish. Aziraphale tried to give him a wide berth, but the angel had seemed to -- to imprint on him, or something, because for the first several centuries he would prance around only to catch Heaven’s little square peg looking at him. Honestly, it was a relief to get stationed on Earth.
Well. Honestly, not a relief, per say. It’s simply that Earth was better than Heaven in nearly every single way.
Unfortunately, being stationed on Earth for the last two thousand years had the unfortunate side-effect of being forced to host what Aziraphale was loath to call corporate angel retreats. Crowley had no such compunctions.
“Is it time for the biennial Corporate Angel-Human Training sessions?” Crowley would ask and Aziraphale would remind him not to call it that.
Usually, Azirphale could get out of them by pretending that there was an urgent soul in need of saving or that Crowley’s wily plan was just reaching a tipping point and that Azirphale simply needed to be there to stop him.
However, sometimes there was no saying no to the Heavenly Host.
The first time Aziraphale spoke to Castiel was one of those times.
WE ARE TO RETRIEVE THE RIGHTEOUS MAN FROM HELL. WE ARE TO BRING HIM BACK INTO THE LIGHT OF GOD’S HOLY WARMTH ONE IN BEING WITH THE FATHER, THE SON AND THE HOLY SPIRIT.
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said.
WE COME TO YOU O PRINCIPALITY OF THE EASTERN GATE TO BESEECH YOUR AID.
“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said. “I couldn’t possibly. I’m afraid I just can’t leave the shop that long. And, erm, who would shepherd the human souls?”
WE MUST DESCEND TO EARTH AND JOIN YOU, BROTHER. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Await Aziraphale did, Crowley keeping his distance from the bookshop for several agonizing days. Instructions, as it turned out, were not forthcoming. What was forthcoming was a series of angels, asking for guidance on humanity. Aziraphale gave them tickets to the West End and sent them on their way with a “pip pip, there’s a good lad!” Usually, Aziraphale was able to Miracle them first class tickets to America by the time they got back.
“But we can fly,” the angels protested.
“Ah, well, yes,” Aziraphale said. “But humans cannot. This is a … lesson. Watch at least two movies. Take notes. Practice exchanging human customs with your flight partners.” There, Aziraphale thought to himself tidily. That ought to do it. America ought to take care of everything for him.
Overall, Aziraphale felt rather good about himself and this new methodology.
Or, he did, until Castiel came.
Castiel did not come with a vessel, unlike the rest of the angels. He also came covered in blood and several deep gashes on his side.
DEAN WINCHESTER IS SAVED, he said.
“The whole bloody planet heard you the first time,” Aziraphale said and then immediately regretted it. “Castiel, where is your vessel?”
I HAVE HEARD, Castiel said, attempting to stand, THAT SOME HUMANS ARE CAPABLE OF PERCEIVING OUR TRUE VISSAGE.
“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t know if that’s quite true.”
NO, Castiel said, with an unbearable earnesty. IT WAS WRITTEN IN THE WORDS OF A PROPHET. HE WAS A DRUNK AND UNSKILLED IN THE BEDROOM BUT THE WORDS OF GOD FLOWED OUT OF HIS INK AND ONTO THE PAGE.
“Castiel,” Aziraphale said. “Maybe you should rest.”
I CANNOT REST, Castiel said. I HAVE RESCUED THE RIGHTEOUS MAN FROM THE PITT. I MUST WELCOME HIM TO THE WORLD.
“I really think you should get yourself a vessel.” Aziraphale did not suggest Castiel make himself a body because angel’s who made themselves bodies tended to be tethered to earth and Aziraphale did not want Castiel tethered to Earth.
IT WILL NOT BE NECESSARY, Castiel said. DEAN WINCHESTER IS SPECIAL. I COULD TELL WITH MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF HIS SOUL.
“Castiel,” Aziraphale said, “I’m not one to comment on the attire of others, but he does wear a lot of flannel.”
YES. Castiel sounds, unfortunately, delighted by this. HE IS A HUNTER. IT IS A VERY NOBLE PROFESSION.
Hunting was not a very noble profession. It was what Eve had been forced to do when God cast them out of the garden. It was bloody and messy and ultimately not worth the fuss it took to get entrails out of good china, which Aziraphale only knew because of Crowley. “Ah,” Aziraphale told Castiel. “That is good?”
YES. Castiel did not seem sure of his answer. HUNTING IS A NOBLE SPORT. DEAN WINCHESTER IS, Castiel paused. NOT WHAT I EXPECTED.
“Ah,” Aziraphale said, “I know how that goes. Not so special in the light of Earth, eh?”
The beam of all eighty-nine of Cas’s eyes slammed onto him. DEAN WINCHESTER IS SPECIAL. I WILL GO SPEAK TO HIM NOW AND INFORM HIM OF THE WORK HEAVEN HAS FOR HIM.
Then, with a ruffle of wings, he vanished. Aziraphale collapsed into his armchair with a heaving sigh of relief and miracled a perfect temperature cup of tea to forget about and let get cold while he read.
...
HE COULD NOT HEAR MY TRUE VOICE, Castiel told Aziraphale sadly, popping back in several hours later and causing Aziraphale to drop his half finished fruitcake into his lap.
“Ah,” said Aziraphale, patting the dust off his pants. “Well, pick your head up and put on your dancing shoes I always say. There’s a chap.”
WHAT? Castiel said.
“Er,” Aziraphale said, a bit desperately. “Would you look at the time --”
WHERE? Castiel asked. I AM INCORPOREAL. YOU ARE NOT WEARING A WATCH.
“Not technically, no,” Aziraphale hedged.
SO WHY MUST WE LOOK AT THE TIME? HOW?
“Human expressions,” Aziraphale said. “You know how it is.” He started edging towards the door.
YES, Castiel told him seriously. I HAVE ALSO FOUND THEM TO BE A STRUGGLE. He lifted his head in the air. OH. THIS IS UNPLEASENT. I THINK I AM BEING SUMMONED.
“Oh, no, don’t even --” but Castiel was gone.
Crowley didn’t say anything when Aziraphale showed up and made him drive Aziraphale down to Chanel’s newest store for a watch, but his smirk was irritating enough.
...
I TRIED TO SPEAK TO HIM AGAIN, Castiel said despondently when Aziraphale got back home.
“ARGH!” Yelled Arizaphale when he got back home.
IT STILL DOES NOT WORK, Castiel continued, ignoring Aziraphale.
“Castiel, I refuse to speak with you until you get a vessel!” Aziraphale responded, clutching his chest, and then flounced dramatically out of his bookstore.
He avoided the store for the next few days but in the end he couldn’t bear the thought of his books sitting there all alone without anyone to read them or lovingly caress their spines and move back in. Crowley seemed disappointed. After a week passed without Castiel, Aziraphale began to relax.
…
Aziraphale was carefully putting his most sought after books in high, unreachable places with obscenely high price tags wrapped around them when a man in a truly offensive overcoat came in.
“Sorry, sir. We’re closed.”
The man turned around. “Aziraphale.” It sounded like someone had put the poor man’s vocal cords through a coffee grinder.
“Castiel,” Aziraphale sighed. “It’s closed.”
“Dean,” Castiel uttered in the name in a vaguely blasphemous manner, “calls me Cas.”
“Er.” Aziraphale replied. “Dean?”
Castiel looked affronted. “The Righteous Man, The Sword of Michael, Bringer of --”
“Winchester would have done,” Aziraphale interrupted hastily. “Castiel, what are you doing here?”
Cas gave Aziraphale a look up and down that seemed to imply he had weighed all of his being and found him wanting. “I have a vessel now,” he said.
“Oh?” Aziraphale said. “Poor sod.”
“I had to rush him through the tasks,” Cas said, disapprovingly. “I needed to get to Dean Winchester as soon as possible. He needed me.”
“Ah.”
“He was willing to boil his arm much sooner than I anticipated.” Cas seemed to reflect. “It was nice of him. He is a very faithful man.” He frowned. “He is very faithful, but I don’t think he understands Heaven very well.”
“Humans rarely do,” Aziraphale babbled and tried not to obviously look for the exit. “Why are you -- not with Dean now?” is what he ends up asking. It’s better than Can you please leave now?
“Are we not to report to you for training? Uriel said it was almost adequate.” Cas chuckled. “I like his sense of humor,” he said, leaning forward awkwardly, as if trying to share the joke with Aziraphale. Aziraphale did not laugh. Cas did not seem to notice.
“Yes!” Aziraphale jumped up, relieved for the excuse to get rid of Cas. “Here.” He pushed the two West End tickets Crowley had Damned for them last night. “Assignment one.” He patted Cas on the shoulder and immediately regretted it. Cas looked similarly discomforted by the gesture.
“Well.” Aziraphale clapped his hands once. “Off you go.”
There was a flutter of wings and then Cas was gone. Aziraphale looked down at the receipt in his hands. Zorro. Ah, well. It was a bit too low brow for Aziraphale but maybe Cas would get something out of the introduction to Flamenco music and Hispanic heroes. He had the flight tickets waiting for when Cas returned.
…
Aziraphale shoved the tickets into Cas’ hand the second Cas touched back down in his bookstore -- or at least, he tried to. Cas did not take the tickets.
“I do not understand,” he said, and tilted his head to the side. “Why would I take a plane?”
Aziraphale grasped at straws and drew himself up to his most pompous. “Before meeting humanity,” he began to lecture, “it is imperative to meet them on neutral ground. Ergo, the flight. Now, the flight will evoke several key frustrations that are necessary to create empathy for the humans in your charge. First, the seats are not built to contain --”
“Why?” Cas asked. “I have already met Dean. He stabbed me.”
“Dear me!” Aziraphale said.
“Don’t worry,” Cas said, mistaking his concern for, well, concern. “His blade cannot hurt me. Besides,” he said. “I think it is really himself he would like to hurt. Dean does not understand that he deserved to be saved.” He frowned deeply. “He was not happy that I gripped him tight and raised him from perdition.”
Privately, Aziraphale wasn’t sure that Dean Winchester had deserved to be saved. “Well,” he blustered, “regardless of the ingratitude of one unwashed American --” Aziraphale caught Cas’ glare and took a step back. “The plane is a good idea.” He tried again to shove the tickets in Cas’ hand.
“Dean has the most beautiful soul I have ever seen,” Cas told Aziraphale.
Aziraphale didn’t teleport away but it was a close thing. “Just think,” he said desperately, holding the tickets out, “you can tell your flight partner all about his soul for eleven hours.”
Cas squinted. “Why would I do that?” he asked.
“Don’t you want to, er, talk about it?”
“I want to tell Dean about it,” Cas told him earnestly, “but I think it would make him very sad. Dean does not like to hear nice things about himself though I have yet to meet a human more deserving.”
Aziraphale did not point out that Cas had not met very many humans. He also did not point out that if he never heard the name Dean Winchester again in his long and immortal life, he could die happy. “Bully for him. And you, I suppose. Now, the tickets?”
“Is this another human expression?” he asked.
“Yes,” Aziraphale said quickly, and looked down at the tickets in his hand. The watch. Oh bless Crowley. Aziraphale was going to have to get him a new pair of sunglasses at least. “Watch!” he said. “Would you look at the time? I’ve simply got to be going,” he steam rolled past Cas’ attempts to interrupt him, “I’ve got business to attend to you know. Very busy person. And it’s late. So here are the tickets for the flight -- first class, of course -- and just take them whenever you leave. Because I’ve simply got to be off. Tickety-boo.”
This time, Aziraphale avoided the bookshop for a month. It didn’t work. The next time he found Cas, Cas explained that he had given the first class tickets to a teenage girl trying to escape her abusive boyfriend and get back home to her family and had crouched in the luggage carrier instead. Aziraphale resolved to research angel warding more thoroughly.