⛥ The Self-Hating Angel of Thursday ⛥

What the problem was

Why it could only be solved with a self-sacrifice

What the positive results are now

A great example of this is Spock's death in the Wrath of Khan. There is something wrong with the engine and it's going to explode, it can only be fixed by someone going into this one room and getting a lethal dose of radiation, and after Spock does it we get to see that the crew are all alive.

the GO finale fails utterly because:

the problem is that the free will we have seen everyone using all along is in some definable way 'not free enough' because God and angels and demons exist.

There is really no practical reason why total destruction is the only option. Why not just let everybody live and then take miracle power away from all supernatural entities so that they had to live as humans? This is a fantasy universe and the characters are being given a choice, what practical mechanism is preventing them from simply choosing that?

the end result we get is that, well, all the pain and horror that ever happened on the old earth still happened, people still kill each other in religious wars, people still commit genocide, but now they are less free. Anthony, for example, is a human with no free will. How can we know for sure that he and Asa are the only ones? Crowley liked the stars because he made them, but Anthony likes them because God has created him as a reincarnation of Crowley, meaning that his whole career is dictated to him by things that happened in a past life he can't remember. How is this materially better?

Free Will was never in danger. Humans have exercised that since the Garden

Destruction serves no purpose beyond subverted expectation (but in a universe that has, up to this intersection, leaned into the importance of choice and action, what's the end game?)

Cosmic Horror. Yes, this is what you get when you employ horror and dark fantasy writers to polish off the conclusion of a heroic bright fantasy. (And, yes, there's a place for cosmic horror, dark fantasy, and all such things....but this wasn't it) Anthony likes them because God has created him as a reincarnation of Crowley, meaning that his whole career is dictated to him by things that happened in a past life he can't remember. How is this materially better?

It's not. It's tragic. The takeaway message here is that what matters is what happens prior to any actual imperfection. We're not allowed to make mistakes. We can't be loved as demons. Crowley/Anthony is kind of heroic, but that hinges on his perceived purity Give me a demon who's actually made mistakes. Give me a hedonistic angel with a penchant to barter in unholy goods

“It seems like she doesn’t care but she secretly cares, she just doesn’t let it show”

Idk it seemed pretty fucking obvious to me that only someone who cares so SO much would do the things she does!!! She’s showing it through her actions!! Isn’t she!????

Am I just fundamentally wired differently???

the paperwork:

Dean carded his fingers absentmindedly through Castiel’s hair.

“You know,” he murmured, “normal couples probably don’t spend date night researching fake FBI badges and eating cold takeout.”

Castiel hummed against his chest. “That is because normal couples are cowards.”

Dean barked out a laugh, the sound vibrating under Castiel’s cheek. “Wow. Okay. Hostile.”

“I’m merely observant.”

“Sure you are.”

The movie exploded into a loud car chase scene. Dean reached over to lower the volume before settling back again, his arm immediately returning around Castiel’s shoulders like it belonged there.

Which it did.

Cas traced lazy shapes over Dean’s stomach with two fingers. “Sam bought oat milk again.”

Dean groaned dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Man looked me dead in the eyes this morning and said it was ‘creamier.’”

“You were offended for several hours.”

“I’m still offended.”

Castiel tilted his head just enough to look up at him. “You are very sensitive.”

Dean narrowed his eyes fondly. “You say that while cuddling me like a teddy bear.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Cas.”

“I am simply existing near you.”

Dean snorted and squeezed his hip. “Uh huh.”

Castiel let his head settle back onto Dean’s chest, listening to the steady heartbeat beneath his ear while Dean’s fingers continued combing slowly through his hair. The room felt warm. Safe. Dean smelled like soap and sleep and the lingering traces of coffee.

The realization crept over him quietly.

He had become accustomed to this.

Not simply sharing space with Dean, not the occasional touches or kisses stolen in motel kitchens or against the Impala after hunts. This. The softness of it. The ease.

The domesticity.

Dean adjusting the blanket over both of them without even looking away from the movie.

Dean rubbing slow circles into his back because he knew Castiel liked it.

Dean letting him steal all the warmth without complaint.

Castiel frowned faintly.

Dean noticed immediately, because of course he did. “What’s going on in that giant angel brain?”

Castiel was quiet for a moment.

Then, softly, “I think I’ve become very comfortable with you.”

Dean’s expression melted into something unbearably tender.

“Well,” he said lightly, “yeah, sweetheart. That’s usually what happens when you’ve been dating somebody for years.”

Castiel ignored the teasing. “No, I mean…” He glanced down at where his hand rested over Dean’s heart. “This feels natural to me now. I did not expect that.”

Dean’s face softened further somehow.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

Castiel was already as close as physically possible, but Dean still tugged him higher against his chest until Cas was half sprawled over him. Dean pressed a kiss into his hairline.

“You know what’s natural to me now?” Dean said quietly.

“What?”

“You being here.”

Castiel looked up at him.

Dean smiled, sleepy and crooked and entirely fond. “Also you stealing all the blankets. Which is impressive considering you literally run colder than humanly possible.”

“I cannot regulate my temperature properly in this vessel.”

“Yeah, yeah. Excuses.”

Castiel leaned up just enough to kiss him, slow and familiar.

Dean kissed him back with a soft hum, one hand sliding up along his spine.

When they pulled apart, Dean rested his forehead against his for a second before mumbling, “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I was under the impression you found me devastatingly handsome.”

Dean grinned. “See? Comfortable. Couple years ago you would’ve stared at me like a confused tax accountant if I flirted with you.”

“That still occurs occasionally.”

The bunker has gone silent around them.

Cas is sprawled half on top of Dean now, face tucked into the crook of his neck, one arm heavy across Dean’s stomach. His breathing has gone slow and deep in that way that means he’s right on the edge of sleep, vessel finally relaxed enough to fully rest.

Dean can’t sleep.

Not because he’s anxious. Not because of nightmares or unfinished hunts or the million ugly things usually clawing around in his head.

Just because Cas is here.

Warm and sleepy and safe in his arms.

Dean glances down at him again.

God, he loves this man.

Cas’ hair is a mess from Dean running his hands through it for the last hour, dark strands sticking out in every direction. There’s a faint crease on his cheek from where he’d been pressed against Dean’s chest, and his lips are still slightly swollen from kissing earlier.

Dean feels something painfully soft settle in his chest.

Years ago, he never would’ve imagined this for himself. Not the bunker feeling like home. Not quiet nights. Definitely not this: Cas curled against him in nothing but boxers, trusting Dean enough to fall asleep like he doesn’t have to stay alert for the end of the world.

Dean brushes his fingers carefully through Cas’s hair again.

Cas makes a tiny sound, barely conscious, and instinctively presses closer.

Dean’s heart practically folds in on itself.

“Yeah, okay,” he whispers fondly. “C’mere, angel.”

Not that Cas could physically get any closer, but Dean still shifts him gently higher against his chest and pulls the blanket tighter around both of them.

Cas’ eyelashes flutter.

“You are staring at me,” he mumbles sleepily.

Dean huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought you were asleep.”

“I nearly was.”

“Uh huh.”

Cas squints one eye open just enough to look at him. “Why are you staring?”

Dean should say something sarcastic. Usually he would.

Instead, his hand slides slowly along Cas’s bare back, and he says honestly, “Because I love you.”

Cas goes still for half a second. As he does every single time Dean says the words.

Even half asleep, those words still affect him every time.

Dean watches the sleepy confusion melt into something soft and luminous in Cas’s expression. Like he still doesn’t fully understand how Dean could possibly look at him this way after everything: with so much affection it almost aches.

“There is an 87% chance you are being sentimental because you are tired,” Cas murmurs.

Dean grins helplessly. “And there’s the little shit I fell in love with.”

“I love you too,” Cas says quietly.

Simple. Certain.

Dean looks at him for another long moment after that, unable to stop.

Cas’ eyes are already drifting shut again, completely relaxed against him, trusting Dean to hold him through the night.

The fondness in Dean’s chest feels almost overwhelming.

He presses a kiss against Cas’s forehead and whispers, so softly Cas probably doesn’t even hear it.

Crowley asks Aziraphale to help him. Stop them. Begs him. Says he needs him. 

But Aziraphale says there’s no point. Heaven and Hell can’t change. It’s the divine plan. And walks away from him. Then turns back from the door and grabs Crowley by the lapels and kisses him. Expecting Crowley to change his mind. Leaves.

But Crowley decides to go, determined to try and avoid the next disaster. And he does. He works hard in the disgusting place he despises to avoid another war while Aziraphale back on Earth spirals, loses the shop to mafia, sleeps next to Crowley’s car that’s gathering dust. 

3 years laters Crowley shows up, looking for lost Eric or somebody and comes across Aziraphale. Dirty and drunk, asleep in alley. Oh but first Mrs Sandwich stops and gives Crowley shit about the whole street falling apart because of him. 

Anyway. The point I was trying make then as now is that Crowley’s behaviour is always seen as normal, expected. And Aziraphale’s as something to fix. He’s the one who doesn’t understand. Who has to learn. Change. Who behaves in ways that metas and fics and art have to ‘correct’.

But if Aziraphale behaved in the exact same way as Crowley, would people feel the same way about him as they do about Crowley? As if he was always right and Crowley wrong?