A podfic of werebear's work With Drooping Wings
https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314580
One night, in the bookshop, they were particularly drunk for no particular reason. Crowley snapped their wine glasses full, yet again, and slurred, apropos of nothing: “I was ‘fraid of heights for a while. Not the heights exactly… th’wind.”
(Or, a headcanon that turned into a wingfic.)
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