Scene from an Alt!Dimension
Chapter 2: Farewell Encounter
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Summary: In that alternate universe, word of the miraculous defeat of the angel brigade has reached other encampments. Now many are streaming into the relative safety of the camp; among them is a man who claims he knows Mary Winchester. Missing scenes from Season 13. Crowley Lives! Slight-AU Vignette
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In the aftermath of the angel attack and its successful defeat, people began streaming into the relative safety of the small encampment of survivors nestled in the forests of northern Washington. Mary spent her days assisting in the erection of temporary shelters, discussing battle tactics with the ragtag rebellion that was quickly forming around the now-idolized Nephilim, and wondering if there would ever come a day when the world was not in need of saving.
She was avoiding a meeting of rebel leaders regarding potentially combining magic and technology, spearheaded by a feisty redheaded hacker, when Bobby found her.
"If you're about done making that tent look all dilapidated chic, there's someone just arrived who says he know ya."
There was no way in hell that could bode well.
"What do you mean, knows me?" Mary let the tarp she'd been fighting with fall to the side and joined Bobby up on the path. He turned and started back the way he'd come, and Mary fell in step beside him. "Me, as in Mary Campbell? Or me, as in Mary Winchester?"
"Seems to be the latter," Bobby replied, pushing back his beret in consternation.
"You get a name?"
"I get the feeling you're gonna know 'em when you see 'em."
"You got something you want to tell me, Bobby?" Mary had grown rather fond of the old hunter, despite his terseness and occasionally belligerent manner. She was acutely aware of how much she owed the Bobby from her own reality, for the part he played in raising and protecting her boys. That this Bobby had never known Dean and Sam Winchester didn't alter the gratitude she felt towards the gruff soldier.
"Never told me his name. You'd think saving a man's life would earn you a little appreciation, first name basis at least, but that ain't the way of the world no more." The path continued on into another part of the camp, where more established newcomers mingled with camp residents over cooking fires, bartered rations and generally sought community. Here, even wary loners, unwilling to pitch even the most temporary of tents, gathered for a bit of companionship.
"Found him half dead not far from where you and yours came through that rift. Likely not too long after. S'what got me thinking there's a chance the two of you know each other."
Dread began to curl in her stomach. The rift had reopened. And one of her boys – Dean, Sam, maybe Castiel – had come barreling in to rescue her, only to be injured and stranded in this gray nightmare.
Why did they come through the rift alone, unprepared? Why hadn't they told Bobby who they were?
And more importantly, why were they here at all?
In her long months of capture in Michael's prison, Mary had consoled herself with thoughts of her boys. She had imagined their shock and dismay as the rift closed behind her. Imagined the stupidity caused by grief. And eventually, the acceptance that she was gone, the hunter pyre lit in her honor. She had tried to reach across realities and envelop both her boys in a last, loving embrace. Say she was sorry, and proud, and goodbye. It had been comforting, to imagine that.
And now, that soothing reality was being ripped away.
"Luckily, I had a little hidey hole not too far from there, for emergencies and such. Patched him up best I could, waited out what seemed like the inevitable. But," Bobby shook his head, "the world's a messed up place. People you think are gonna make it, die. And those you think ain't going to pull through, do just fine. Dropped him off at another camp couple days later. Didn't think much about it, other than if the angels or somebody from some other universe showed up looking for him, I didn't want to be anywhere nearby when they found 'em."
Bobby chuckled to himself. "That's what living in a hell-scape does to ya. Alternative realities and all that? Just one more dang thing you gotta survive. Guess'n I shoulda mentioned it to ya sooner."
"We've all been rather busy," Mary managed.
They parted ways then, Bobby heading back towards the meeting Mary was so intent on avoiding, and she quickened her pace, continuing deeper into the camp.
Only to stop dead in her tracks.
Ahead of her on the path, looking equally stunned, was Crowley.
Considering the last she had seen of the demon was a half-conscious corpse out in the wasteland, done in by his own angel blade and a heroic impulse Mary had not been aware he possessed, seeing Crowley alive was as much as shock as his appearance.
Had she not been looking for a familiar face, Mary would never have recognized him.
The man in front of her was lean under the familiar knee-length black coat, a few sizes too large now and clearly patched in places. Underneath, Crowley appeared to be wearing the same battle-ready attire as the other rebels in camp, cargo pants and canvas jacket over a black shirt, crusted with dry mud and old blood. Half his face was a mottled bruise still healing. She took in his bloodied knuckles, the medic's bag from another century dangling off one shoulder, the pair of scuffed doc martens the stylish demon she had known in another world would never have worn.
Crowley looked dirty and worn. Weary.
He looked, to put it simply, as threadbare as Mary. He looked human.
And the expression on his face. Seeing it was all Mary needed to know Crowley has been through as much hell here as she had. It was full of incredulity and relief, weathered but real, and she realized the same smile was starting to spread across both their faces. Because maybe in that other world, they hadn't even been cautious allies. But in this one, they were familiar faces, reminders of home, and hope that they just might see two particular boys again.
Crowley didn't so much saunter over to Mary as trudge, legs refusing to bend at the knees and heels scuffing in the dirt.
"Mother Mary," he offered in greeting, voice course and beleaguered.
"Crowley. I'm…" She hesitated, but the giddiness engendered by the familiarity he represented was too strong. "I'm glad you're alive."
"The same."
Crowley tugged gently at the strap of his bag, seemingly both awkward at their sudden intimacy and unwilling to break from the headiness of the moment. "I never doubted it, not for a moment. Knew no matter what Lucifer or this world threw at you, you'd make it through alright. You're a Winchester, after all."
Mary didn't know what to say to that.
"What happened after we parted ways?"
"Lucifer and I managed to get captured by Michael. It's been a hard couple of months."
"I can imagine."
And he could, she could see that. And suddenly, Mary realized that as hard as it has been for her, dragged around by Lucifer, imprisoned and tortured by Michael, it must have worse for Crowley. Crowley, whose intended sacrifice had rendered him human. Which likely meant he now possessed a soul.
She tried to imagine what it had been like for the former demon, all these months. Not knowing if Mary was alive. Powerless for the first time in centuries. Vulnerable. And likely awash in the complexities and conscience of humanity. Adrift and alone in this world. She thought of the people Bobby said lost their sanity, had grown apathetic to life. It was beyond belief Crowley was even on his feet.
"What about you? How did you survive?"
His smile shifted into one closer to the demon she had known. Self-deprecating amusement, tinged with something Mary couldn't quite place. A self-awareness, maybe. "As I said, I knew you were alive. And," he gave her a pointed look, as if he expected dissention, "I know your boys will come for you. Somehow, those two knuckleheads will find a way."
Before Mary could argue his point, Crowley turned to dig in his bag. He brought out a battered book of some sort, and held it out to Mary.
"Here. Rare to find paper in this reality. Even rarer for it to not already be covered in someone else's scribblings. Bartered that blasted angel blade for it."
Mary took it hesitantly in her hands, and cracked it open to a random page. It was filled with a terse script scratched out in various colors of ink and pencil. Most of what she read, she didn't understand. Names and contact information, account numbers and sums of money. Coordinates, long lists that looked to be inventories, and counter spell instructions.
"What is this?"
"It's for Sam and Dean. Everything they'll need to close the gates of Hell from the outside, sans trials. Plus all my contacts, access to all my financial accounts and properties, lists of resources and magical artifacts that may prove useful. Anything and everything I could think of." He hesitated before continuing. "It would be fair to say that compiling this little repository of information kept me sane the last few months. It helped," he added sincerely, looking Mary in the eye, "knowing I might be able to provide some small bit of good for you lot. Kept the darkness at bay, as it were."
Mary didn't have to ask what darkness Crowley meant. While she had her own set of demons, the guilt that trailed after her and the doubt that beset even her best intentions, it was likely nothing compared to suddenly having humanity crushing down on you like that. The man she'd loved had found a similar respite from grief and depression in keeping a journal.
"Crowley, I-I don't know what to say. Thank you."
He waved her thanks away as though it might unmoor him. "Please, don't. Just make sure it gets to your boys. Wouldn't want all my bouts of fisty-cuffs over this world's limited supply of writing implements to have been for nothing. Apocalypse worlds and underfunded non-profits: two places good pens are a rare and valuable commodity."
"Well, when we get back, you can have a box store's worth of pens. Personally, my first priority is a hot shower and some coffee, black."
The man before her, looking and acting very little like the demon she had known, shook his head. "I gave you the book because I'm not going back, luv. There's nothing left for me there."
"What? What the hell are you talking about? There's nothing left for you here."
Crowley refused to meet her eyes, instead looking around the camp. She followed his gaze, to the little family gathered around a small camp fire, to the elderly man sharing his scraps with a dog missing a back leg.
"Quite the opposite, actually. I've always been good at seeing opportunities where others don't. And here, there are plenty. There's a clean slate. No demons pursuing an abdicated king. No one who knows my past, my sins. I've already offered my services to that little familiar firebrand, the one leading this rebellion. Right now, they need heroes who can swing a sword. After that? They'll be in need of organization, governance, real administration. Someone who can see beyond today, to what will need to be done in the future, to rebuild. That's something I can offer."
Crowley's gaze flickered back to Mary, surprisingly earnest, a whole world being envisioned behind his eyes.
She knew he wasn't wrong. What little Mary knew about Crowley, what her boys had told her, this was something he was entirely capable of accomplishing. Bean counter, an old nemesis had supposedly called him. An experienced administrator, Sam had said once, his only positive remark about their demonic ally.
It was as though she could see the plans taking form between them. While most people understandably couldn't think beyond the daily struggle for survival, Crowley was months if not years ahead of them. Building infrastructure, maintaining order, growing crops, training for defense, communicating with encampments farther and farther afield – all of it, Crowley was already plotting and outlining in his mind. Given time and the necessary resources, he was entirely capable of rebuilding the world. The only thing standing in the way were the angels. And suddenly, Mary realized that if anyone would have a prayer of restoring modern civilization after Jack defeated those winged dickbags, it would be this former King of Hell.
Crowley had sacrificed himself out of hopelessness and desperation, beset by failure on all sides, rejected by the few people he cared for. But it hadn't been death. It was rebirth, with a chance at redemption.
Mary felt envy writhe within her, and crushed it out of shame. In its wake came a feeling of abandonment.
"But what about us?" She asked, unearned betrayal rising up to color her demand. "What about Dean, and Sam?"
"That's what the journal is for," Crowley replied, motioning to the book clasped in her hand, all but forgotten.
"Okay, look. I know we've had some differences recently – "
"Recently?"
"But you don't belong here. Even if you have the best intentions, you want to help these people, this isn't your world."
"As if my world wants or needs me. Mary – " he took a step toward her. His hand brushed her shoulder, just barely, in what she suspected was a gesture of consolation.
Mary clocked him, hard as she could. Her fist connected with his jaw. It was evidence of how tired and underfed Mary was that there wasn't the sound of bone breaking. Just the whomp of force into flesh.
And then Crowley was on his back in the dirt, coat splayed and boots akimbo.
Others looked up from their places around camp fires and tents, but violence was common enough in the camps, no one interceded.
Mary stood over the fallen former demon, breathing hard, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the feeling inside her to settle.
"Well," Crowley remarked from his place at her feet, rubbing his jaw, "That's only fair. When we first met, you did warn me not to touch you. Silly me, hoping we were past that unpleasantness."
"Get up," Mary nudged him with her boot.
The man just looked at her, as if daring her to insist on her demand.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" She snapped, fury carrying away her jealousy and doubts. "Some hero, whose going to save all these people? You don't fool me, Crowley. You're not a hero. You didn't stab yourself with that angel blade to protect our world, or retaliate against Lucifer, or any other noble, self-sacrificing reason. You did it because you wanted a way out. Because you knew that even if we'd won the day, nothing would have changed. Not for you. Not after what you did, betraying us like that."
Crowley didn't wince, or blink, or look away. He met her eyes, and somehow, that just infuriated Mary even further. She tossed the book beside Crowley in the dirt.
"Admit it! You said it as much yourself: you'd given up! What did you have left, having lost Hell? You weren't going to have your power, your influence. You lost your mother, and your son, and you lost Dean and Sam after what you did. You were never going to be family."
That had come out harsher than she had meant it, but now that she's started, Mary couldn't stop. She was shouting now, and tears began to form in the corners of her eyes.
"They trusted you! They believed in you, and every time, you let them down. Just like always. You were never going to be what they needed you to be, were never going to be there for them when it mattered. Going up against Lucifer, taking the risk of ending up in this hell – that wasn't doing the right thing. It was doing the easy thing. Escaping all the heartache and the loneliness and the mistakes. But no matter what you do, or how far away you try to run, it is always right there behind you. And that," Mary jabbed a finger at the man on the ground, seething, "that is never going to change."
No escape. Even in dying for the people she loved, there was no escape.
For a long moment, the air was tense. Crowley just continued to stare up at her, calm and resolute. Mary took a step back, startled.
Around them, the normal noises of the camp resumed.
Crowley looked at the ground, as if considering, and then pushed himself to his feet.
He smoothed out his patched coat, settled the bag strap securely on his shoulder, and dusted off his hands. "Feel better?"
"I…"After such an ardent outburst, what was there to say? Mary ran a hand across her tear-streaked face and through her snarled mess of hair. Crowley gave her a moment to compose herself, before letting out a sharp sigh that echoed Mary's own tangle of emotions.
"Here's the thing, luv. You're not wrong. About any of it." He bent, and picked up the book, wiped the cover off with a deft brush of one hand.
Then, he held it out to her.
"About either of us."
Mary opened her mouth, choked on tears, coughed to get air in. The man in front of her waited patiently. Slowly, she reached out for the book.
Crowley passed it to her, then gently rocked back on his heels. "I don't know what you did that got you here. Other than that it clearly wasn't motivated by noble intentions. Not entirely, anyway. We've got that in common. The difference between you and I, Mary, is that the boys will forgive your transgressions, whatever they may be."
Suddenly consumed by the creases in the journal's cover, she forced out "You can't know that for sure."
"I'd like to think, after our years of various misadventures together, and a little perusal through a particular book series, that I know Sam and Dean rather well. And if there is one thing those two care about above all else, its family."
When she could bring herself to look up, Crowley seemed to be considering her. "So really, you needn't worry. They'll be along soon enough, and you'll find yourself clasped in the safely of their flannelled arms, all errors in judgement behind you."
Mary took a deep breath, and forced herself to acknowledge how much she had been dreading her sons' arrival. Because while there would be the joy of reuniting, it would inevitably be followed by the recriminations for her foolhardy and self-serving actions before the rift closed.
Because at the heart of it, she hadn't gone up against Lucifer to protect Sam and Dean, or to buy them time, or even as justice for everything the archangel had indirectly forced her to suffer.
Mary had done it because she had wanted an easy way out, a meaningful death, and someone else to blame for her choices.
For her husband's suffering.
For Dean's lack of a childhood.
For Sam being used as a pawn by Heaven and Hell.
But there was really only Mary. And as much as she wanted to run away, as much as she feared that having inadvertently betrayed and failed her sons for a second time could only lead to further suffering for all of them, she had to go back.
Go back, and try to make amends.
"You're right," she admitted. "Because that's who Sam and Dean are. It won't be easy, but I know they'll forgive me. And," Mary added, "that's why you have to come back as well."
The former demon cocked his jaw and looked away. "As you so adamantly pointed out just now, I am not, in point of fact, family."
Remorse surged through her in an instant. "Crowley-"
"And," he interrupted, "as I said before, I have the opportunity here to lay claim to a clean slate. I'm hardly about to mar that with a belated induction into the Winchester family."
Mary huffed. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Crowley eyed her for a moment, that old calculating stare as familiar as it was unsettling. Then he hefted his bag, and turned on his heel.
"It means that I'm not about to abandon or jeopardize the world on account of family. No matter how much it hurts. Give my love to the boys when you see them."
Uncertain of what to say, either in castigation or encouragement, Mary watched Crowley walk off into the camp, this departure weighing heavier than his death ever had.
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Thank you for reading! There will be a third and final chapter, at the conclusion of Season 13, when we know how the canon pans out. Reviews and messages are much appreciated, and encourage more work.