Title: Let Me In and Don't Let Go
Fandom: Good Omens/Supernatural
Pairing: Aziraphale/Castiel, Aziraphale/Crowley, Castiel/Crowley by proxy
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 1553
Summary: Castiel was not alone when he washed up far away from America.
Author's Notes: Written for Porn Battle XIII.



Castiel wasn't certain if he had been swimming in the dark for days, weeks, or months. What he did know was that, having finally landed somewhere not very dry or very bright, he didn't truly want to wake up.

Logically speaking he knew he was somewhere on Earth - he had seen every inch of Heaven, Hell and Purgatory, and this was not one of those inches - though he did not recognise it. The fact he was lying on a pebbled beach while staring up at a grey sky didn't help, and he was too tired to look for more clues, drifting off into unconsciousness all too easily.

"... somewhere, it may have been a while but I never forget a grace and - oh! Oh, goodness, Crowley, be a dear and help me, would you?"



Castiel had never given up fighting Leviathan despite everything, but after winning the battle he had been exhausted; if he had ever made plans for what to do once victorious, he had since forgotten them.

He had not thought rest and recovery would be anything other than a solo affair, so it was a surprise when he woke in a warm bed wearing striped pyjamas. Any grit from the pebbles he had rested on seemed to have been cleaned away thoroughly.

"Good morning," said the angel sitting in the bedside chair. "I was starting to worry about you. Crowley too, though he'll never admit it."

Castiel didn't startle easily, but he did edge away when the angel offered him a cup of tea that definitely hadn't been there earlier. He couldn't imagine the angel's age or experience - he'd never known any of his kind to work a miracle without a hand gesture before.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that Crowley. It's a common name amongst demons. My Crowley is a lot older."

That was far from comforting, but Castiel accepted the cup of tea, not yet drinking. He did not know of anything in liquid form that could banish an angel without being set on fire first, but he wasn't ready to take that risk.

"You don't recognise me, do you?"

"No," Castiel replied, thankful the angel had finally started asking questions, not knowing what to make of the kindness with which he was apparently being treated.

"I'm Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern gate."

Castiel decided it was safe to drink the tea after all.



Aziraphale seemed content to fill Castiel's resulting silence with a summary of how he, a guardian, had ended up on Earth for hundreds of years and living close to a demon who had been around just as long. Despite constant reassurances that Crowley was a "good sort", Castiel couldn't help but feel wary; his latest dealings with a "good sort" of demon, a demon with the very same name at that, had taken a severe turn for the worse.

Most of the blame lay on his own head, and he knew it. "I slaughtered -"

"I'm not God," Aziraphale cautioned, taking the empty teacup from Castiel and setting it down on the bedside table. "I can't pardon you. But I can sympathise,"

Castiel thought of what that meant; he remembered the brothers and sisters in Heaven he had murdered, wondered how many like Aziraphale he would have killed if he had known of their existence, and winced. Aziraphale was a true angel - calm, wise, completely unshakeable - and he was one of the only ones left alive.

Aziraphale leant over and took Castiel's hands in his. "Castiel, regret won't help you change the past. Nothing will."

It had been a long time since someone had touched him just because they wanted to, and Castiel felt it was safe to shift some blame onto Dean's shoulders for his reaction to it.

Aziraphale did not object to being kissed. He just changed the conditions of the kiss; Castiel had been clumsy and forceful but Aziraphale had confidence and warmth, and Castiel found himself wondering if that 'dear' demon had helped him practise.

Castiel felt a faint wave of disapproval interrupt what had been a constant stream of comfort and froze up the instant he realised what it meant. He didn't mean to dig his fingernails into Aziraphale's wrists or to gasp in his shock, but it wasn't just Aziraphale's skin he could feel beneath his fingers, it was his grace.

Castiel forced himself to calm down before pushing back with his own, felt Aziraphale start adapting to the conflicts within him and finding ways to soothe the self-inflicted wounds.

It was only natural to pull Aziraphale up onto the bed with him and wrap arms around his back, closing the distance between them; it was only natural to moan when Aziraphale lay down with him to return the favour.



Clothes were no barrier, not to this. Only a few angels had offered it freely since the first war with Lucifer, and Castiel had not been one of them. Balthazar almost had, but his definition of 'free' was questionable.

Castiel felt Aziraphale sink into him, surrounding him and holding him close, gentle at first despite finding his way into depths Castiel had long ignored. He relived the moment of fear and doubt when Alastair almost forced him out of his vessel, felt again the blood on his knuckles when he beat Dean close to death. Aziraphale didn't leave without commenting, but never with anything cruel, just a tired sigh of experience and the teacherly suggestion that Castiel really ought to know better.

Castiel pushed back through the open doors Aziraphale had left and saw millennia of observation. There was grief sat within him for humans Raphael had overlooked, the everyday tragedies as well as the greatest horrors. Aziraphale's wounds were long healed but still visible, scars he wore with something like pride. Castiel suddenly felt very much like a child despite knowing Aziraphale was physically the same age as him. He had spent centuries of Earth hidden away in Heaven, waiting and watching from afar; Aziraphale had not only watched, he had taken part.

Castiel bucked up when Aziraphale's exploration took a turn into the few moments of eroticism Castiel had known - the poisonous thrill of kissing Meg, the discomfort of watching Dean's video collection - and decided to expand on it. Castiel had not seen Meg remove her bra, and had not touched himself when watching Dean's videos, but Aziraphale toyed with the suggestions before backing away on realising it wasn't what Castiel wanted.

Castiel had not experienced sex himself, but Aziraphale had - with his Crowley, as Castiel had suspected - and he had experienced it often. Aziraphale gave Castiel the tingle of whispered words into his ear, the exciting pain of a bitten neck, the wet desperation of a deep kiss. Castiel could not remember the last time he had asked for something selfish, but Aziraphale was more than willing to obey when Castiel wrapped his legs around Aziraphale's waist and demanded more.

Sharp little teeth took their turns with both his nipples until they were sore, a strange and clever tongue did unspeakable things to his cock, slick and greedy fingers pushed into him and held him open with a dull ache that only made him demand, again, more.

Aziraphale's real fingers wrapped around his erection as he let his grace intermingle with Castiel's until Castiel started to lose track of what was Aziraphale, what was him, and what was Crowley. Aziraphale had grace-bonded with a demon, and instead of finding it despicable, Castiel let Aziraphale's memories of Crowley fuck him, let himself fuck Crowley, feeling himself spread open on the demon's cock at the same time he was pushing inside the demon's ass.

By the time he came it was over Aziraphale's hand, over his own stomach, into Crowley's mouth and between Crowley's thighs.

"No more," Castiel begged as Aziraphale pulled back from him slowly, every inch of him both physical and insubstantial oversensitive to the point of agony. "No more."

Aziraphale settled down at Castiel's side, cleaned the bed with a quick flick of his wrist, and rested one arm loosely across Castiel's waist. "No more," Aziraphale promised, kissing Castiel lightly on the shoulder.



Neither of them slept, but when Aziraphale left the bed at noon to make tea they were both well rested. Castiel stood on legs that had started to remember their strength, looked out of the window at the strange little street Aziraphale lived on and finally allowed himself to think of the Winchesters.

They would not understand him as readily as Aziraphale had, but they did not have his years of patience and experience. They still had swords and oil and tempers sore enough to consider using them, but his options were to wait until they passed away without ever making amends, or to come to them and earn their forgiveness. The former wasn't much of an option at all - Sam had prayed to him when Leviathan had left him falling apart at the seams, and Castiel couldn't forget that.

Castiel stayed for tea, bid Aziraphale farewell, and did not promise to be back in another year.

If everything went to Hell, he wouldn't be coming back. If everything went well, he'd be back a lot, lot sooner.



The End