What Isn't And Came To Be
Chapter 6: History
A crying baby, the taste of power emanating in the air.
It was true what they said, history had a habit of repeating.
This time it was the son of Satan he was here for, and he intended events to work out better than they had with Amara. All that time and effort he'd spent on her, yet the few hours she'd spent being doted on by Squirrel had outweighed all of it.
It had infuriated him, but by then he'd understood. The partial demon cure and the fiasco with demon Dean, it had helped clarify the bias; he'd come to see that the good guys had an unfair advantage when it came to winning the hearts and minds, of impressionable infants and otherwise.
This time he'd come prepared, if sentimentality was the coin required to buy the hearts and minds of the apocalyptically powerful youth of tomorrow, he had just the bid.
Pretty green eyes, snub nose, freckles and all the wholesome goodness, and misplaced optimism of a lifetime movie heroine. His very own Disney Poppins, prophet of the Lord on a string. She was practically perfect in every way. For manipulating Jack Kline, that was.
The soon to be reinstated King of Hell lingered in the doorway, hands in pockets, observing proceedings.
He noted the human shadow burned onto the wall directly across from the crib; and mother Winchester's lightly charred corpse tumbled against the wall, face down beneath, like a puppet with it's strings cut.
He wondered idly where the woman's spirit had ended up this time. Up, down — or else where.
Ever since Amara had brought her back, Mary Winchester had been the preverbial bad penny, and caused her sons nothing but drama and angst, (not that either of her son's would admit that, even to themselves.)
But Crowley was an expert on horrible mothers, and didn't shy away from telling it like it was.
A small horrified gasp brought his attention back, to the not so horrible mother in the room.
Michele rushed over to the crib, heedless of the carnage tumbled against the wall behind her.
Attention so completely taken up by the kabobbed infant.
Predictable one track mind. Shocking lack of self-preservation.
His views on these tendencies were mixed, it depended on whether they thwarted or furthered his plans on any given day.
Today, he was banking on her rushing in where angels (and demons) feared to tread.
Michele's small hands hovered over the fake angel blade skewering through the baby nephilim and drew back, for a moment he feared that she would balk.
Then she began to speak. A flow of soothing sounds and words.
"Oh! Poor baby, poor Jack, I know, I know, it hurts.
Shhh sweetheart, Shhh… We're going to help you…" Hands running over the child's extremities, she checked for other injuries, then cupped the infants cheek and stroked it's hair.
It was all he could do, not to perform a small dance in celebration, when the child didn't blast her across the room, to join Mary. When it quietened under her touch.
"Shouldn't remove an impaled object," She murmured to herself like she was remembering a lesson, "removal can cause worse bleeding, pack around it and stabilise, call an ambulance…"
"Crowley, we need to call an ambulance!"
He let out a long suffering sigh over the stupidity of the uninitiated. (He blamed Sam for her lack of education.) And ambled further into the room, hands still in his pockets.
Ignoring her pointless agitation he strolled over to Mary Winchester's corpse, and kicked it over on to it's back.
"Crowley!" Michele barked, demanding action from him with just his name, her green eyes leaving the child for a moment, to glare at him.
Bossy wench.
Then, and only then, did she catch sight of the dead body.
She made a weird little sound, gaze tracking back and forth between obviously dead Mary Winchester, and the skewered infant.
Mouth open with shock, she looked like a complete imbecile.
"I know it's a trifle difficult keeping up, Darling.
But junior there, he isn't exactly a normal child." He stooped to examine the surprised rictus cooked onto mother Winchester's face, prodded curiously at her char blackened hands.
There was atomised metal embedded in the blackened, exposed bones of her right hand.
How utterly fascinating!
"If the pig sticker didn't kill the child outright, one must assume, removal will do no further damage." He told her, while fingering Mary Winchester's singed locks. The hair was brittle and turned to powder between thumb and forefinger.
Weirdly, the room didn't reek of burned flesh or singed hair and the woman's clothing was unaffected.
Similar to smiting then, but different.
"How can you kn—" Michele broke off, inhaled sharply.
He looked up from the corpse again, and saw the child had wrapped one of its tiny fists around her finger.
It's eyes were glowing, a gold flare of power spidered up her arm, neck and cheek, kindled an answering golden light in her eyes.
"Mary stabbed you, how could she?… I know, I know sweetheart, I'm going to help… I'm just worried I'll hurt you worse, just hold on, okay?"
She spoke like a somnambulist holding a conversation in a dream, then wrapped her hand around the blade and tugged. The blade slid free from the child's chest with a small, wet sucking sound.
The baby cooed.
Michele blinked rapidly and looked down at the blade in her hand, appearing vaguely puzzled for one short moment.
She dropped the blade, it hit the floor with a dull clang, and she reached for the child.
The wound was already gone. The only sign a blade had ever been spiked through the infant's chest was a small smudge of blood and a frayed hole in the child's blue cotton onesie.
The blade rolled across the wooden floor and fetched up against his tesoni clad foot, making a small thud. Crowley wiped powdered Winchester from his hands with a handkerchief, and picked it up. Stood there, making a show of examining the blade.
Meanwhile Michele had picked up the child and was cradling it close. She glared narrow eyed at Mother Mary's corpse.
"That's Mary Winchester, Sam and Dean's Mother." She said tightly. No tears for Mother Winchester, no, kitten still held a grudge.
"She was with Kelly all the way through her labour, held her hands, wiped her brow. Told her everything was going to be okay, that she'd look after Jack. She cleaned him up and dressed him. Why the hell would she try and kill him, after all of that?"
"More to the point, where did she get this?" He feigned puzzlement, balancing the blade in an open palm, "it looks like an archangel blade, sure, but it isn't. No angel or demon would be fooled by it, it's an excellent replica, don't get me wrong. But angel blades, they resonate."
"Someone human? Someone that knew what Jack was, and enough about archangel blades to identify one visually." Michele mused. "But, without the ability to identify a fake by… feel?
The Men of Letters?" Her lips thinned and her expression sharpened further. Crowley felt a flash of warm appreciation, at not having to spell things out for her. People rarely doubted the answers they came up with for themselves. And if they found out the truth later, you could always claim you hadn't been the one to mislead them.
"Mary was still working for the Men of Letters, wasn't she?"
She followed the trail of bread crumbs he'd laid out, perfectly.
Repressing a smirk, he tilted his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps, I couldn't tell you, now Hess is dead."
The baby in the Prophet's arms started to snuffle softly, pawing at her shirt. "I know your hungry, sweet boy," she murmured looking down at the infant, "I think I saw some formula… Oww!" Her eyes widened in shock, and her hand rose to her chest.
Wetness was seeping through the black silk over her breast.
His first assumption was blood, then, he realised what he was looking at and raised an eyebrow intrigued.
"Let's just assume he doesn't want formula, shall we?" He observed mildly.
Michele didn't respond, staring down at the child in her arms, utterly gob smacked, amusingly caught up in her little moment of body horror.
She just stood there with the child bleating away, scrabbling at the fabric of her shirt.
A thought occurred to him then, and he turned back to the corpse at his feet. Felt around under the clothing.
Mother Winchester showed no signs of budding lactation.
Well, well, Ma Cherie ought to be flattered.
She didn't look flattered, she looked decidedly flustered.
When he'd walked the earth as Fergus MacLeod, wet nursing had been a respected profession, everyone with a certain level of affluence farmed out their infants to one.
Nowadays, in western countries, nursing someone else's child seemed to have become oddly taboo.
Yes, he could tell from her face that the thought of allowing the child of Satan to suckle at her bosom, was utterly scandalous to the poor things sensibilities. How delightful!
"Come now Pet, you have to admit it's convenient."
She pouted at him then, her face militant. "For you maybe! You planned this, didn't you?" She accused.
Impertinent wee chit. He imagined grabbing her by her hair, dragging her into the other room, and tossing her down on the bed on top of Kelly Kline's corpse, tearing open that borrowed shirt she was wearing. Imagined the feel of tearing silk under his hands and the sound of the buttons pinging across the room helter skelter, the feel of her struggling against him as he forced the little monster down onto her tit.
It would be easy. It would be fun.
But sadly, what it wouldn't do was facilitate buy in.
"I really didn't," he answered mildly, "the lore on nephlim is patchy at best. Besides, not so long ago, many women died in child birth. Wet nursing was a respectable and honoured profession. Considered an act of charity towards the unfortunate. My own son, Gavin, wouldn't have survived to adulthood if it hadn't been for..." He cut himself off, turning away towards the door. "Anyway, if you are so parsimonious, you can't bare to lower yourself to an act of age old Christian charity. There is that can of manufactured, substitute muck in the kitchen. I fully understand, the poor motherless thing will probably survive."
Michele looked down at the child in her arms and her face softened.
"No Crowley, you're right. Breast is best." She sighed her cheeks warm with her discomfort.
"Besides, baby formula round Johnny. Not a great idea."
He tilted his head asking for explanation.
"About five months after Chris was born, some psycho threatened to poison baby formula as a protest about the conservation department dropping 1080 poison, to kill possums. It was all over the news and Johnny heard about it." She winced remembering. "Ever since he's had it in his head that the stuff is poisonous, won't believe anything else. With everything he's been through in the last few days …" she grimaced and sighed. "Watching his mother and her new friend, the King of Hell 'try to poison'a baby might be the straw that breaks the camels back."
With that she seated herself resolutely in the wooden rocking chair Kelly Kline had purchased, and reached up to unbutton her shirt, then blushed bright red, "just… umm could you… not watch. Please?"
He was tempted to push it just to see her squirm, but decided against being bloody minded. It wasn't like he hadn't seen all her assets already.
He turned and picked up Mary Winchester's corpse and draped it easily over his shoulder.
"I'll just go take out the trash then, shall I?"
"Crowley?" Michele looked up then, from her place on the rocker with the baby in her lap, he looked back with the corpse draped over his shoulder.
"What?"
"Can you… bring… her here a sec'"
Frowning he acquiesced, mostly out of curiosity.
Michele stood again and held the baby close to Mary Winchester's body.
"Her name was Mary Winchester," she said. "I'm not going to say she was always a good person, or that I liked her, but you killed her, Jack. And now she's dead, gone… like your mother. Kelly.
Mary had son's too, Jack. Sons that cared about her. Mary's sons were my friends and we lost them in another universe, and Castiel too, because of helping you.
We are going to do our best to look after you, to give you the life your mother wanted. We'll be your family. But this." She gripped the child's hand in hers, jaw clenched, pushing the infants hand against the corpse, like someone rubbing a puppy's nose in a mess it had made.
Was she utterly insane, or just stupid? The proof of what the thing could do was right in front of her.
"Killing people, it isn't the way! Do you understand me Jack Kline?!" She continued fierce and implacable. "People are going to do things, things you don't like and maybe they'll scare you or even hurt you. But you mustn't kill them. Have I made myself clear?"
The child whimpered, it's crystal blue eyes turned up to the little prophets green ones.
Michele nodded once as if an understanding had passed between them, and sighed wearily looking exhausted.
And Crowley realised then, that she was neither stupid nor ignorant. She'd known the risk.
"Thank you Crowley." The corner of her mouth quirked, in a faded unhappy smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Hurt you more than it hurt him, pet?
"I figured, kind of an important teachable moment. Not one of my usual ones. But important. Before this, don't pulled the pussy cat's tail, was more my speed." She dropped her eyes back to the child with a grimace. Looked all out to sea.
"Come on little lad, lets get you fed. Maybe then, we can go home to Johnny."