What Isn't And Came To Be
Chapter 5: Winning
This was taking too long! Crowley shifted on the balls of his feet, adjusting his grip on the emotional little ball of fluff that snivelled against his chest, and barely contained a sigh.
He looked around the R.V, bored.
Humanity, they were always leaking something, or crumpling under the weight of all their little feelings, it was surprising they got anything done.
Feelings, he scoffed again to himself internally, eyes roving restless over the cluttered motor home interior.
The ugly-as-sin décor from the late 70's, and scrawled wardings in industrial black spray paint hadn't improved any, since he'd last been holed up here. Hiding from Castiel, after the angel double crossed him and swallowed down all those purgatory souls. The feathered idiot had dubbed himself 'the new god.' But Castiel got his just desserts for the double cross. They all had, hadn't they?
His eyes did a full circuit of the rundown vehicle in 2.4 seconds flat, and came back to rest on the boy, still asleep in the plaid armchair.
Johnny Chadwick, eight years old and high functioning autistic.
Most loved son of the only Prophet.
MacGuffin.
Leverage.
He eyed the child jaundicely and felt his gut clench.
"You've changed since you started drinking my blood, it's my fault, Sam's fault. Kevin's fault.
We've all infected you… with the things we care about." The prophet had said that, and he had an inkling she might have the right of it.
Killing a shifter wearing the boys face (to dress up the double murder scene for the husband and family) had been far too difficult for his liking, near on impossible truth be told.
What other reason could there be. The boy meant nothing to him. The shifters even less.
At least he'd gotten to work out a little frustration, killing her doppelgänger. Got to kill her for getting herself killed, and trying to leave him.
He ground his teeth and looked away from the waif,
His own personal brand of heroin, she'd said. He was better than that, she'd said. Likening him to the sparkly vampire out of those novels idiot teenaged girls got moist over.
If he was the vampire of the piece, that made her the pointless little chit with all the agency of a cardboard cutout and the depth of a puddle.
He smirked to himself and petted her hair.
Yes well, if the shoe fitted.
Even so, she was right in that at least he was better than that.
He promised himself again he'd stop the blood, and get clean.
It was then his eye caught on a glint of silver on the floor by the door.
A sharp little paring knife, out of place, laying there.
The play of light along the stubby little blade was oddly disrupted, as if it were dirty or the surface marred.
He narrowed his eyes and flicked his wrist to call the blade to his hand.
It didn't move.
What the Hell?
Dropping his arms, Crowley stepped away from the prophet sharply.
Anger kindling as he took the few steps to the door and bent down, to pick up the knife between thumb and forefinger. Examined it.
Realised with a burst of hot irritation that the blade had been amateurishly engraved.
What was it with this woman and her arts and crafts projects?
Holding the pathetic little weapon away from his body as if he were holding a dead mouse, he swung back to glare at the tear stained prophet.
Waved the weapon between them, brow arched, just so, in enquiry.
"Planning on killing me, Pet?"
The woman's eyes flicked down to the blade in his hand.
"No," she shook her head in denial.
But the way she backed up and sidled between him and her son was hardly blameless.
"Tell me then, Darling," he spat the endearment at her like it was a curse, and saw her flinch. "What other possible reason would you have for a blade with these symbols carved on it then, hmm?"
Her bottom lip trembled, cue the waterworks. Her eyes cutting sideways past him, to the door.
But, instead of attempting to flee or dissolving into a wash of repentant tears, she pulled herself together and took a shakey breath.
Squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
"As I understand it, Crowley, neither a Devils trap nor that binding sigil could do anything more than keep something demonic pinned down." She said carefully. "You might not believe me, but I'm not an idiot.
I didn't make that knife for you.
I made it for if you didn't come back.
I actually did what you said, and prayed you'd come home."
Her hand reached behind her and rested on her sleeping son's leg, and tangled white knuckled in the fabric of the boys clothing.
"The child dies at the end of Cujo, Crowley; because the mother waited too long.
I … I wasn't going to let that happen to Johnny. Not now… now he won't just die." Her voice broke on the last two words and a tear slid down her cheek.
"I-I thought if the worst happened, if you'd left us here to die because you weren't coming back… a devils trap and the binding sigil might work on the hound. That if I got really lucky, it might just stop it.
That it might give us, or just Johnny a chance to run."
He tilted his head and stared her down with narrowed eyes.
"Run where exactly?"
"We're in America, somewhere in Nebraska from the radio.
So… Sheriff Mills, in Sioux Falls, South Dakota."
She hadn't just been sat here watching daytime television, while Daddy was at work. She'd been planning plans and scheming schemes.
Not Bella Swan this one.
Considering everything, it wasn't an utterly stupid plan.
Granted, Juliet would have probably ripped her to bloody rags. But the boy. Conceivably he might have made it. Juliet wasn't the best at multitasking.
Michele turned away and picked up a sheet of paper and a bulky envelope from beside the armchair, holding them out.
Short and to the point, the unsealed sheet on top read.
"Hello my name is Johnny Chadwick. I'm 8 years old, autistic and really scared right now. Please don't touch me.
Please can you help me find Jodie Mills, she's a sheriff in Sioux Falls, South Dakota."
The envelope was likewise addressed to Jodie Mills.
"If we both got out of here, I hoped Sherif Mills would help me get to North Cove Washington and find Jack. Otherwise… I just hoped Jodie would help Johnny."
He hummed in the back of his throat, holding out an imperious hand for the papers.
Reluctantly she released her hold on the boy, and took two cautious, halting steps forward. Coming just close enough to hand over the papers.
He clenched them in a tightly balled fist. Perhaps she wasn't a traitor, perhaps she was telling the truth, but it still irked him that she'd had so little faith in him.
Allowing a fit of pique to incinerate the pages to ash, he tossed them back in her face.
She flinched and swallowed convulsively, ashes caught in her hair like snowflakes.
Stood there in front of him, breath coming fast and frightened between parted lips.
"I saved your bloody life!"
Again she flinched, her fists balled at her sides, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his words.
He let the silence stretch and studied her, waiting to see what she'd say or do next.
Usually at this point of proceedings they made excuses or started to plead. The more manipulative ones, usually the women (but not always) would fall back on the mainstay of trying to fuck him.
Instead of any of the usuals, Michele let out a small huff and sank to her knees on the dingey linoleum, by his feet, head bowed, and simply stayed there.
Crowley licked his lips, frowning, and peered down at the woman.
Not what he expected….
But… oddly gratifying.
A feeling began to build in his chest, as if created and amplified by the first moments of stillness he'd had since everything happened.
It crested higher and higher as he stood there, looking down.
Until the euphoria crashed over him like a wave breaking against the shore.
He'd done it!
Beaten fate.
Beaten the schemes of God himself.
This, this here and now surpassed everything he'd ever done before, even when he asended to take his place on the black throne of Hell.
No one had surrendered this to him out of apathy.
He'd played the game God himself said he couldn't win, and won.
Lucifer, God's favourite, was not just caged but tossed out of the universe.
He'd finally grown enough balls to kick his toxic relationship with the Winchester's, God's go-to team, to the curb.
Castiel was history, and heaven down to a handful of angels, cowering behind the pearly gates.
And this here, this was the cherry on the top.
The only Prophet of the Lord, down on her knees before him, submissive and subservient.
Waiting upon his whim.
The heady, sudden realisation, and the strange little gesture gave him more satisfaction than the entire backstabbing hoard of Hell cheering his name.
He'd earned this!
Staring down at her, he gloried in his moment.
Gloated in it.
The euphoria of his utter supremacy.
Finally, he bent. Hand falling heavy in a proprietorial caress.
An indulgent benediction.
The Prophet tensed, trembling beneath his hand. Flinched like he was going to burn her, and he could, exactly as he had with the paper.
She understood now.
He dragged his fingers slowly down her cheek, smearing the ashes of her petty plans, to run away and leave him, down her skin, and cradled her eggshell skull in the palm of his hand.
Remembered how it had felt stabbing the shifter wearing her face.
He forced her chin up slowly to take in the full visual.
Her brimming green eyes, gazed up at him fearfully from under those dark tumbled locks.
Her terror pale cheeks, marked by tears, blood and ashes.
The way her white throat stretched painfully in his grasp, pulse drumming away hummingbird fast in her oh so snappable little neck.
It really did it for him.
He could do anything he wanted and nothing and no one could, or would stop him.
He owned her.
As if hearing his thoughts she closed her eyes, tears leaking down her cheeks.
"God as my witness, Crowley. As long as you hold my son's soul, I'll never raise a hand against you or willingly leave you.
You've won." She vowed, misrible and defeated, eyes still closed in utter collapse.
He froze at the words.
A small shiver tracing down his spine.
It was everything he wanted to hear.
But, was there something prophetic and vaguely dischordant moving just underneath the words?
A sudden fleeting urge to shake her and demand she look at him, fluttered low in his belly.
A need to check her eyes for the blooming flare of gold light.
But he rejected the impulse summarily.
Dropped her back to the floor with a mocking curl of his lips and turned away to retrieve his glass of scotch. Drowned the tiny flicker of unease with a long swallow.
He didn't hold her son's soul. He'd just led her to believe he did.
But he was a demon and knew in the end, belief was everything.
Ambling back over to her, he caught her eye meaningfully.
"While usually I'm all for scantily clad woman on their knees in front of me, Pet.
Right now, you and I have a little hell to raise."
"Jack." Her comprehension of his witty little play on words pleased him no end.