What Isn't And Came To Be
Chapter 13: The strange properties of post-it glue
Crowley stepped onto New Zealand soil beside the rear entrance of the prophet's former home.
The structure was still mostly intact, except for a few windows and the door, which emergency services had broken in.
The interior of the little suburban house was a water logged, blackened mess.
Even from outside the house, behind the police tape, the garbage reek of burned wood, plastic, fabric and a thousand other things caught his nose.
He fancied he also caught the subtle undertones of charred flesh beneath all the other smells; reminiscent of the pits of hell, and the never ending plumes of smoke which had risen from crematories attached to the Nazi death camps.
It seemed a splendid idea, looking at the carnage, to take a few photographic keepsakes while he was here. They would, he thought, underline marvellously how Over her previous life was.
Pulling the prophet's little red iPhone from his pocket, he opened the photo app. Was lining up a particularly artistic shot through a broken, charred window, to show the barely recognisable skeleton of the kitchen where he'd first laid eyes on his prophet. When the phone gave a series of bleating beeps to indicate a number of missed calls and messages.
Apparently the husband hadn't cancelled the phones service yet.
Never one to refuse such temptations, he decided to indulge himself in a little voyeurism.
She was his now, after all. Everything she was or had been, was his to indulge in, use, or discard. King's prerogative.
"Hi, you have seven new messages. To listen press 1..."
He tapped the appropriate number.
"First new message, recorded May 18th 11:22am," the mechanical message service announced, before beginning play back.
"Hello my love, guess you're at your appointment or driving." A surprisingly high male voice filled Crowley's ear, reminding him of nothing so much as an over enthusiastic Jack Russel terrier. "Just letting you know, I'm headed up the coast. KCDC had a door reader die. Call me when you can. Love you."
"Message ends.
To save message press 5, to delete press 4…"
He pressed 4, summarily.
"Next new message, recorded May 18th, 12:40pm."
"Hello, Mrs Chadwick? Uh, Michele, this is Janelle Demi, Johnny's teacher, can you call me back as soon as possible, please…"
Crowley pressed the 4 again, beginning to feel bored.
"Next new message, recorded May 18th, 1:04pm."
"Michele, where the heck are you?" The husband's terrier voice didn't sound at all chipper now. He sounded upset, and slightly out of breath. Rapid bootsteps underscored his words.
"You need to call the school or go down there. They just called me, said they can't get hold of you either and that they can't find Johnny.
Mrs Demi was in tears!
I told her to check the hedge, and the playhouse. That's where you found him on sports day, right?
I mean seriously, the school is fully fenced and he's too short to open the gate without help, and he's not exactly likely to get lured out of school grounds by a stranger, is he? No!
Crap, crap crap, pick up the phone, Your freaking me out and I'm an hour away here.
Michele!
Are you okay?
Look, you aren't answering, Johnny's missing, I'm coming home. Boss is going to be pissed, but hey.
I'm gonna call Karen, get her to come check on you… If everything's fine, then, you can call me an idiot later, okay… But, I'm… just… freaking out and it'll serve you right for not answering the phone.
Call me back, please!" There was the sound of a car door slamming, a jingle of keys and a car revving into life, before the call cut off.
Crowley frowned to himself and mashed the 4 again, an unpleasant twist-tugging sensation in his chest was making itself known again; as it had, while stabbing the shifter with the son's face.
The husband's evident distress was not as amusing as he wanted it to be.
He listened with only half an ear to the next few messages.
"Next new message, recorded May 18th, 1:08pm."
"Hi Michele, Karen here, I just got a call from Phil, he says Johnny's missing from school and he can't get hold of you. I'm coming round, see you in a few."
"Next new message, recorded May 18th 4:00pm."
"Hello Mrs Chadwick, This is Anita I'm one of the vets at Maidstone Vets. I'm trying to get hold of you regarding your black cat, Slinky. We've just had a passerby bring her in to us… she's going to be okay… it's uhh… it's probably better if you call me. Our number here is 5285927."
"Next new message, recorded May 19th, 8:30am".
"Hello Mrs Chadwick, this is a courtesy call from The New Zealand Animal Companion Register, we've just been contacted by Maidstone Vets. Your cat Slinky was brought in to them last-night…"
"Next new message, recorded May 22nd, 8:35am"
"Mrs Chadwick, this is Anita from Maidstone Vets again, we have been trying to get hold of you for three days now, about your cat Slinky. She was bought in to us covered in burns, and since you haven't contacted us or responded to any of our calls to your cell or home numbers I can only assume you have no interest in the health or wellbeing of your pet.
Because of this, we will be transferring her to the local animal shelter tomorrow. Have a good day."
The cat? Her cat. Because apparently the husband hadn't thought to go looking for it after his wife and son's supposed deaths.
The man had probably assumed the blighted feline had perished in the fire.
He remembered the animal's reoccurrence in her story and the way the prophet's voice had broken speaking of it.
"You took everything from me, my home, my friends, my family, even my cat! I hate you."
It was uncomfortable to admit to himself, but just this once he didn't want to be hated. He didn't want her to hate him.
He'd spent most of his existence reviled, first as a weak, pointless sack of humanity.
Hated by his own mother and village, then by his in-laws and son.
Then as a soul on the rack, Lilith's toy and eventual right hand.
Then, finally, finally as King of all Hell.
He'd thought, eventually, if he climbed high enough, proved himself, amassed enough money or power, they'd all see his worth.
Instead they all just hated him more.
Every attempt to ingratiate himself, somehow, made him more contemptible to them.
Every action asserting his rightful dominance garnered only a veneer of false flattery to his face, and more hatred, plotting and scheming behind his back.
Like Castiel he'd been changed by the Winchesters, but unlike Castiel none of what he'd done, or the many times he'd stuck his neck out for them, had earned him a seat in the impala or a place on Team free will.
The only one who stuck their neck on the block for Crowley, was Crowley.
He'd accepted that, and thought there was a certain purity to not fooling oneself, into believing the grand lie.
But then, his snooping had uncovered a secret, a Winchester ally he'd never heard of. Another prophet, of a kind…
Maybe it was having someone know his history and write his story.
Maybe the thoughtless way the Winchesters treated the little soiled Prophet, like a tool at their convenience, had resonated with him.
Perhaps it was the likelihood of seeing Kevin Tran's demise written over in a different coloured ink; like an accident waiting to happen, he'd been unable to look away. He wanted to be proven right, about the Winchesters toxic repetitive nature. Needed to work out what uses he could put the Winchesters newest tool to, for himself.
She'd called herself useless and he'd heartily agreed, what had she called herself again? Yes, Post-it glue.
Perhaps that was appropriate because he found himself stuck with her, adhered not because of her strength, but because of her weakness.
Stupid little thing, seemed near on incapable of hate. From that first day he turned up in her kitchen and stuck his fingers in her cupcake batter; she offered him a spoon instead of trying to stab him with a kitchen knife.
They were enemies by their mere designations.
Prophet of the Lord and King of Hell. But when it all fell to pieces and Lucifer slipped his chains, stealing away Crowley's Kingdom in the most public and humiliating of ways, it had been her words of prophecy that had offered him a life-raft, a narrow escape hatch.
And when he had nowhere left to turn, and all of hell and earth had its eyes out for him, he'd found himself on her doorstep. Bloodied and covered in dirt from the shallow grave they'd dumped his evicted meatsuit in.
In that moment of his obvious weakness, instead of using it to her advantage, she'd taken him in, tended his wounds and offered him clean clothes and the use of her facilities to clean off the dirt.
She was a fool, too stupid to live.
And yet… it had been an uncomfortable revelation to be weak and not have it used against him.
Maybe that was why her subsequent betrayal with the devils trap (because she actually was too stupid to live) had filled him with such resentment. It hadn't been meant to hurt him, but it bloody well did!
It was why they were stuck playing out this game, him daring her to strike, and her failing, surrendering, yet somehow making him feel less safe with each of those refusals.
He wanted to hate her, but like with Dean, he found it nigh on impossible. There was something about her desperate attempts 'to do the right thing' that tugged an unwilling respect from him.
And here he was, stuck. Believing history's evidence, that the status quo of his dog eat dog existence was the only way, but longing nevertheless, for something ineffable, he knew deep down to be a pathetic lie. One only a complete idiot would fall for.
He wanted to hate her, it was the only way to protect himself. But he didn't want her to hate him.
"You took everything from me, my home, my friends, my family, even my cat! I hate you."
The battle for hearts and minds was won in small increments.
Crowley tapped his thumb against the side of the phone with a slow smile blooming on his lips.
…ooo0ooo…
The church was a large modern building. Aluminium joinery, pale brick work and cheery lemon yellow weather board. No spire, no bell and no surrounding grave yard.
It hardly looked like a church in Crowley's not at all humble opinion.
But a church it was, he could feel it from where he stood in the gravel parking lot, beside the silver MPV that belonged to the Chadwick family; hallowed ground, though not hugely powerful or strongly entrenched.
It was not enough to prohibit his entry, but walking in through the open front doors still gave him something like a mild tension headache.
The King of Hell looked around curiously. The funeral was an hour away and the building was quiet.
Walking into the main auditorium he spied two coffins on the raised platform. One big and one small, side by side. Glossy wood topped by wreaths of flowers, the smaller one covered in dozens of hand drawn cards.
He had just raised the prophet's phone and snapped a few keepsake photos, when he realised the sanctuary wasn't entirely deserted.
A red headed woman sat in a pew near the back.
For a fleeting moment, he mistook the redhead for his mother and assumed that once again reports of her death were fallacy. That, Rowena had discovered another of his foolish attachments, and mistakenly come to gloat. "I'm your mother dear, who better to crush your shrivelled heart."
But the red head wasn't his mother, she wore glasses and her long hair was more carroty. Her makeup and outfit were far too understated for mother.
"Are you with the undertakers?" The woman asked, in what was a surprisingly un-New Zealand accent, most likely Upstate New York. She eyed him with a faint air of mistrust. Whether that was for his suspected occupation or for some other reason, he couldn't tell.
"Phil's in with the reverend-minister-pasta or whatever the fuck they call the leader of the church."
The woman swearing in the middle of a church sanctuary was delightfully irreverent.
"I believe the notice board outside used the term Pastor." He pointed out mildly.
The woman flushed slightly, but didn't apologise for her language.
"Mmm," her lips thinned, "his office is down the hall to the right. I think they're doing a prayer circle or something else religious."
"Hmm, best not interrupt, then. I take it, you yourself aren't religious…"
The redhead laughed. "No, to be honest I'm a little surprised I didn't burst into flames walking in the front door."
That bought a small huff of amusement from his throat. "I can understand that reservation. Utterly. Yet, here we both are."
The redhead turned and glanced at the caskets on the stage, blue eyes glossy with unshed tears, behind the lenses of her understated glasses.
"Here we are," she agreed swallowing. "My hobbit finally got me through the doors of a church." Her face twisted in grief.
"This was a stupid fucking idea! Flying half way around the world, for a funeral. I never even met her, not really…" the woman sniffed, shook her head and wiped at her eyes with the heel of her palm.
Crowley offered the woman a empathetic smile and his handkerchief.
"Yet here we are. My guess is, you did know Michele, or you wouldn't be here." The woman waved away his handkerchief, pulling a Kleenex from her purse and gave him a watery smile.
"Thank you, Mr…?"
"Katz, Thomas Katz.
And no, my dear, I am not, as you falsely surmised, in the employ of the undertaker. My relationship with the deceased, was also… complex."
"Are you…? Your accent, you're English right? Are you another one of her internet friends. Do you…" she blushed prettily, "write fanfiction too?"
"No, we simply moved in the same circles for a while. Michele was—" he paused searching for the appropriate word, "kind, when things went very wrong for me. In my own way, I suppose I'm repaying her; and that astounding lapse of judgement on both our parts brought me here today. To a church. Meeting you."
"Oh," the redhead looked disappointed.
"I have however, read her work."
"Really? You know what Supernatural is?" She sounded a trifle disbelieving of that.
"I assure you I am fully versed in all things Winchester, though, I always thought Edlund ought to give Crowley more page-time. Dashing demon, King of Hell. He's got far more sex appeal than that overly repressed beaten down Angel, Castiel."
"You're just saying that because you share an accent."
"I can assure you, that's not the only thing we share."
The woman frowned, cocking her head and eyeing him up and down. He fancied her eyes lingered a moment longer below the belt than upon his face, her brain obviously going the prerequisite naughty places.
Mirroring her head tilt and once over, he raised a brow chidingly. "Contract negotiations, Luv."
One slim, fine boned hand rose to her face, as did a rosy blush. "Oh you're a lawyer!"
"What else could I possibly mean," he smirked, gazing at her from under lazy lids.
There was the sound of a door opening down the hall.
"Unfortunately that's my cue." He said reluctantly, thinking of the phony life insurance policy and substantial check he carried.
"Phillip and myself have business to attend." He favoured her with a counterfeit expression of grief.
"Before, this life bids our dear Michele, goodbye.
It was a pleasure chatting, I hope we talk again—?"
"Celine," the redhead supplied, "my name's Celine Naville."