Fandom: Supernatural/Doctor Who crossover
Word Count: 970
Summary: My first venture into SuperWho. Crowley has Team TARDIS and Team Free Will cornered, as they’re facing off against the Weeping Angels. Brief exploration of an idea that may develop into something more.
Made of Stone
The lights flickered throughout the warehouse. In the shadows, sinister figures changed position with awkward, disjointed motion, like a roll of film with half the frames missing. In the centre of the room, the six people standing there inched closer to each other, away from the shapes that were closing in on them. Amy reached for her husband's hand, and as Rory squeezed back she took a small step backwards, her heel brushing the edge of the line of white powder surrounding them. Seeing where she was going, Sam touched her arm to pull her back into the centre of the circle, "Stay inside the salt line," he instructed, desperately looking for an escape route as their enemies closed in.
A sinister chuckle sounded from in front of the group, as a man emerged from the shadows. He was relatively short, but imposing nonetheless, and was wearing an entirely black suit and tie with a satisfied smirk plastered on his face. "Salt won't do you much good here, Moose," he taunted. "Not against these nasties. You're not dealing with demons anymore."
"No," the Doctor said cautiously, brandishing his sonic screwdriver as he attempted to control the erratic lighting. "These are Weeping Angels, but the question is, how are you controlling them?" He seemed to be desperately trying to figure it out for himself, but Crowley just chuckled again.
"How much do you really know about the Weeping Angels, Doctor?" he asked, mocking him. "Not as much as you'd like. Truth is, they've always been a bit of a mystery even to Time Lords, haven't they? Well, perhaps our good friend Castiel here could explain?"
All eyes flickered towards the trenchcoated angel, who looked confused. "I don't know anything about any 'Weeping Angels'," he responded. "They are not true angels. The term merely refers to their resemblance to the commonly accepted human interpretation of an angel's appearance."
Crowley tutted at him. "Is that what you think? Well, have you ever wondered what happens to an angel trapped in Hell?"
Castiel frowned at him. "Apart from Lucifer and Michael, there have never been any angels trapped in Hell, and both of those are confined to Lucifer's cage."
"Wrong again," came the sadistically delighted answer. "Do you remember when your merry band of soldiers came down to the Pit looking for the slightly-less-tall Winchester? How many of them got out?"
As Crowley taunted him, Castiel stared resolutely back, his jaw set in a stern line of defiance. But even as he refused to answer, a look of horrified realisation was slowly spreading over his face.
"That's right, Castiel, they were never killed outright," Crowley said with a smirk. "Instead, the ones who got captured in battle were dragged off to the torture chambers. Now you've seen what that does to a human soul, but can you imagine what effects it has on an angel's grace? I'll tell you, Castiel. When the demons got to work on your brothers, slowly cutting them up and draining all their grace away, they began to turn to stone."
Cas' eyes were wide with horror now, and his expression was mirrored on the Doctor's face.
"Yes, that's right," Crowley continued, clearly enjoying himself. "They became confined to a stone shell, barely able to more, except for if they can snatch enough energy from the quantum vacuum when no-one's looking. But that isn't enough to keep them alive. No, if they actually want to keep existing as something other than just dead stone, they need more than that. That's why they hunt down humans, feeding on their time energy to make sure they're still able to move or think or stay conscious. But what if, maybe, they came in contact with another, living angel? They could steal his grace, and bring themselves back to life again. Because they don't care whether that's right or wrong anymore. They're weeping because they're hurt and desperate; because they've been tortured and tormented for centuries, and they want their grace back whatever way possible. And now they're coming to take it from you, Castiel."
Protectively, Dean moved closer to his friend to stand between Crowley and Castiel. "That's not gonna happen, you son of a bitch," he growled defiantly.
Crowley just looked amused. "I'd like to see you stop it Dean, when my little stone angels here have sent you all the way to the Middle Ages and you've got no way to get back."
"Oh, we'll find a way," the Doctor said, even though his attempts to stop the intermittent power supply to the lights were failing and the Angels were drawing closer with every flicker. "I've faced worse than you before, Crowley, and if there's one thing I'm not going to let you do, it's hurt any of my friends. I'm going to stop you, and Canton, if you're in there, I'm going to save you too."
Crowley laughed again. "I don't think Canton can hear you, Doctor. I haven't heard a peep from him in almost three decades. In fact, I'm not even sure he's in this meatsuit anymore. It's just me; King of Hell, and since these hungry little statues are Hell-created, they're mine to command."
The lights dimmed again, for a whole two seconds this time, and in the pitch blackness all they could hear was Crowley's sinister laughter. When the lights finally flickered back on, the group of six found themselves completely encircled by a ring of stone statues, their faces warped into savage snarls and clawed hands grasping for them.
Frightened, Amy leaned in closer to the Doctor and whispered in his ear. "Doctor, what do we do now? You have a plan, right?"
He looked at her, wanting to say something reassuring, but not wanting to lie. "I'm working on it."
The lights went out.