Happy Accidents

A Good Omens, Supernatural Crossover.

Disclaimer: Good Omens is the beautiful work of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Supernatural is the beloved brainchild of Eric Kirpke.

A/N- I wrote this because I couldn't get the idea out of my head, and Crowley and 'Zira seem to do so much better at things when they aren't actively trying to do them. Also, the idea of Aziraphale going downstairs because he's looking for Crowley strikes me as hilarious.

Summary: Though he didn't intend to do so, Aziraphale manages to save the world. Again.

Aziraphale was lost. Hopelessly. Normally angels couldn't get lost, for in Heaven angels were everywhere at all times needing only to bring their consciousness to bear on the appropriate moment, and on Earth in a single body they need only spread their wings and will themselves where they wanted to be. Aziraphale, however, wasn't in Heaven or on Earth, and his very nature was at odds with his current surroundings causing his skin to tingle (1), and his ears to ring with the muffed screaming hitting his ears (2).

He stuck to the shadows, Grace carefully packed away and unobtrusive, trying to navigate what passed for highways in Hell, and sighed.

Perhaps Raphael was right, and all the time dirt side had messed with his mind. Just look at Gabriel who, Aziraphale had found out after the apocalypse-that-wasn't, ran off and joined the Asgard (3). What kind of angel knowingly went into Hell just because they were looking for a demon that had missed his dinner date? And Aziraphale wasn't even planning to attack the demon in question.

He was actually rather worried. Crowley had missed five of their last eight get togethers, and two of those that he had managed to make he had been... frazzeled. Crowley didn't do frazzeled, and though he clearly wanted to talk about it he was hesitant.

Enough was enough, the angel decided. Aziraphale was determined to find his Opponent (4), drag him back upstairs, and into protective custody if need be. It was a very simple, very good plan.

Aziraphale hadn't quite taken into account, however, just how vast Hell was. "Oh dear..." The angel murmured as a dark cloud of what may have once been human souls whipped through where he had been standing, screaming and spitting hate.

Aziraphale carefully tucked a stray golden lock out of his face, frowned, and continued deeper on into the Pit. He contemplated pulling aside a different demon, or maybe one of those black clouds, and asking as to Crowley's whereabouts, before discarding the idea.

He tried to ignore the worried, human, voice of reason in the back of his mind that thought it was more from fear of being discovered alone on Enemy territory, and oh-boy what fun the Fallen would have if they got their claws into you...

Aziraphale took a left turn as the sound of screaming laughter, his eye twitching erratically for a moment, echoed out from a tunnel made of bone, blood, and chains of hatred.

People were suspended on racks, the likes of which were far more sophisticated than those of the Inquisition, and the angel had to fight the urge to take them down. They were souls flayed, pinched, pulled, and lay bare for all to see. Darkness of their own making swallowed them, and if he did take them off, eventually they would find their way back on. Eventually.

Aziraphale looked away, moving silently through the throngs of beings, hunching further in on himself, and wondering how Crowley ever managed to retain any goodness when he came from this.

The blonde angel quickly ducked into a spare room when a lower level Fallen came rushing up from below, all horns and anger and curses, grumbling about an alarm at the Gate.

"Huh. You're different." A weary, dry voice spoke, and Aziraphale turned around, startled.

It was a man. A bruised and hurt man, body broken and intestines hanging out. All his fingers were broken and twisted, his arms flayed, and Aziraphale winced as the only thing that wasn't a ruined wreck was his face.

A pained smile worked its way onto chapped and bleeding lips. "Interesting approach, didn't think you assholes had anything worth looking at..." He swallowed, and though he hid it well, when all you were was a soul emotions came across like great big neon signs. "You can tell Alastair I'm not going to say yes to a pair of baby-blues and some nice legs. But good try."

Aziraphale blinked, mind trying to process what he was seeing. "P-pardon me?" He shook his head, carefully ignoring the torture implements that had been lovingly arranged on a table of bone and iron, and walked over to the man. Man. Not demon. Not tainted spirit. Not damned (5). "I am not with Alastair, young man, and why are you here?"

The man said nothing, eyes narrowing in suspicion, as the angel reached into the folds of his jacket and removed a two-and-a-half foot sword, using it to hack at the chains holding the young man in place, while expending just a tiny bit of Grace to speed along the healing process.

"What are you doing?" The man hissed. "I said no!"

"I heard you the first time, dear, but it's obvious to anyone with half a mind you don't belong here. There must have been a mix-up with customs... this sort of thing happened all the time during the eleventh century..."

The man begins to plea half-heartedly, and Aziraphale recognizes the faintest spark of hope in his eyes. "I made a deal. I don't, I don't welch on my deals."

Aziraphale has managed to get one of his feet and both hands free, the man his gathering up his intestines and shoving them back where they should be while watching Aziraphale for any signs of hostility, before resting hands on his hips. "And what, exactly, was this deal?"

The look on the man's face is incredulous, as though Aziraphale must have been dropped on his head as a baby or something. "That if, if the demons brought my brother back to life, after a year I'd go to hell. And here I am."

"Well then." Aziraphale says with triumph while hacking at the last of the chain, and as he comes free the man darts over to the table of knives and screws, picking them up and hiding them about his person. "I don't see the problem. You've gone to hell. You've fulfilled your end. Nothing says you have to stay here. Now, dear, we really must go. I've used quite a bit of Grace tending to your essence and no doubt the Dukes will have noticed."

The man blinks, unsure, and clearly bewildered, but wanting to believe. "What are you?"

A man shaped creature enters the bookshop through the backdoor. Yellow, snake-slitted eyes keep watch on the street before he relaxes and removes his coat.

"Angel, you won't believe what... what is he doing here?" Crowley sputters as he spots the human snoring on what should have been an empty couch (6). A small coffee table was covered in empty pie plates and a cooling pot of tea sat at the far end.

Aziraphale came walking in from the storefront, phone in one hand and a truly massive phone book in the other. Upon seeing his counterpart, the angel's face lit up like a megawatt bulb. "Oh, Crowley dear! It's so good of you to drop by, I've had a horrible time with this thing, you wouldn't happen to know how to make an international call, would you? I need to call this," Blue eyes glanced at a hastily scribbled bit of paper. "Singer Salvage. South Dakota."

Crowley can't stop the hysterical laugh that bursts from his mouth. "Oh Go-, Sa-, Sweet Manchester, Angel. You've no idea, do you?" The demon is fairly certain of this statement. While Hell had been supremely pissed at his actions during the last attempt at The End, they hadn't cut off communication, and in fact had been running Crowley ragged, no doubt trying to distract him. Heaven, on the other hand, had decided to ignore the troublesome angel utterly, much as they pretended Gabriel was still upstairs.

They didn't want the grunts getting any ideas about questioning their orders, after all.

Aziraphale just continues smiling, gesturing with a telephone that is more of a brick than a miracle of modern science, and Crowley waves it away while taking out his own, sleeker, state-of-the-art cell phone.

1. The fires of hell emit more dangerous radiation than a hundred suns, and it is only the fact that the denizens of the underworld are incorporeal that keeps them from mutating horribly, though that itself is debatable.

2. Most angels wouldn't be in Hell anyway, as the gates are guarded by all kinds of devil's spawn (a), but after a night of drinking (b) Aziraphale happened to know where the back door entryways are.

2a. And no one really wanted to be there.

2b. A game of truth or dare was involved, and the angel could be surprisingly vicious on the dares.

3. Though admittedly their honey-mead went even better with mana than wine, but Aziraphale wouldn't tell his superiors that.

4. Because Enemy was just too... antagonistic... when applied to his drinking partner.

5. Except in metaphysical geographic sense.

6. Crowley bought it five years ago and called it a business expense- attempting to tempt the angel into sloth.