Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. Duh. A.N. Merry Christmas, everyone! So, yeah, this chapter should have happened last month, and it turned so completely weird, and possibly Crowley went against what he'd stipulated himself (I didn't bother rereading when the bunny bit), but hey. Hopefully it's enjoyable to read.
Crowley preferred not to mull on how long it took Sam to summon him again. Hell's administrative duties hadn't become any more riveting, so frankly, any time at all was too long. He really needed to find another excuse to ditch his realm for a while and move upstairs. Well, not that he needed excuses per se, he was the king. But with his subjects, a long-term disappearance wouldn't exactly be ignored. Or if it was, he'd have to worry so much more.
So he might have been thrilled at being summoned again. Hey, entertainment was precious. Entertainment with pretty eyes and sass was even better.
Frankly, he expected Sam to want to keep the reins again. It seemed like the boy didn't get to nearly enough in his life, and hence, he shouldn't have grown bored of it yet.
But Sam's welcoming smile was a little strained, and there was something tight around his eyes. Bad day, if he had to guess. No demands were immediately being made, though, so at least he could assume Squirrel was safe and probably drinking away whatever happened.
"You said you could have - organized things yourself," Sam said.
"And I stand by that, Moose."
"Any entertaining ideas?" the hunter asked, clearly skeptical.
Crowley couldn't help the surge of pride - Sam was in a mood, and rather than doing literally anything else, he turned to him for help. Or maybe it was just an excuse to ensure their second date would be miserable, too...because he already was. Good thing that Crowley enjoyed a challenge.
"I was hoping you'd say that. I have plans. But you can't come dressed like that."
"I guess I could put on the Fed suit," his Moose huffed unenthusiastically.
"That'd be a step up, I'll give you that, but it's not quite right. If you'd just allow me, I could..."
He actually could renew Sam's whole wardrobe - and Dean's too, while he was at it - and maybe it'd finally quieten the outraged itch at the back of his mind any time he had to deal with the Winchesters. Those bodies, and they dress like that. That was the only real abomination in their lives.
Still, he couldn't very well take over entirely - yet. Maybe eventually. A man could dream.
Sam glared at him, but he didn't object aloud. Good enough for him. Moments later (so convenient, but so disappointing that Crowley didn't actually have to physically undress him...not even truly touch), the hunter was all set for their outing. A look at himself, and a bitchface coming Crowley's way. "A steampunk convention or something? Really?"
"Or something." Crowley smirked. "Just the trip would take way longer than you're probably fine with disappearing on your brother for, I suspect, so if you don't mind..." He offered his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Sam took it. Crowley couldn't wait to see his face once they were there.
Pit stop first, though. "We'll be on our way, just a sec..." A whistle, and Juliet hopped to join them. Not that his girl was technically needed, but she deserved some fun, too. Besides, it couldn't hurt.
Sam didn't even have time to object to the delay before they were on their way again. And if an invisible nose was pressed against his date, well...she was just being friendly.
There they were. Well, then, too.
Moose stared around, wide-eyed. The deepest night, darkened by heavy fog, broken only by the tremulous light of gas lamps. "We're...not in our century anymore, are we?"
"And very much not in Kansas anymore. It seemed like a waste not to take advantage of the full extent of my abilities. You know, at first I'd considered something in our own age, fitting with the vibes you started our dates on. Madame Tussaud's, maybe. But then someone had to be annoying, so. Why resist temptation?"
"Do I get to know where we are, or do you expect me to figure it out?"
"Which would you prefer?" He wasn't the only one who appreciated a challenge.
"A clue?"
"If I say we're technically in the very early morning of November 9, 1888..."
Sam's sharp inhale was distractingly pretty. "You wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I? It's not difficult to learn about you, and I always aim to leave my dates very much pleased."
"Jack the Ripper's last murder...is happening?" Sam examined his surroundings with much greater keenness now. He was back in hunting mode, and it was such a sight. Even Juliet felt the shift, and sniffed loudly, looking at him for directions. Crowley held back a smirk at what a fitting pair his two favourites made.
"It happened, a little while ago. I've not forgotten how much against messing with history someone was." Really, that had been such a stupid position to take for the boys. As if Gavin would ever amount to anything. Now, this.. Crowley could see how changing it, even one less murder, could have had repercussions.
Sam frowned, but didn't argue. Even he knew he didn't have the high grounds this time.
"Mary Jane's very dead by now, but maiming takes time," Crowley pointed out. He would know. "Want to see who it is?"
Moose nodded, all too eager. Crowley led the way. He'd landed them close - of course he did, Whitechapel wasn't exactly the prettiest place. But catering to the boy's interests was worth it.
Mary Jane Kelley's digs fit right in with the rest of the neighbourhood. At the smell of blood and death, Juliet jumped right in, dragging the heavy cloth, that tangled around her.
Sam stretched his arm through the window too, opening the door from the inside. Which was exactly what the now victim used to do. (Crowley might have listened to a podcast himself, because he was pretty sure Sam did.) The demon wondered if he did because the door wasn't kicked in...according to the crime scene report.
The Ripper turned just in time to check on the intruders. Crowley barely held back a laugh. The man had the most hilariously oversized moustache he'd ever seen. Did he actually stick a broom under his nose, or did he manage to grow that?
"Tumblety," Sam acknowledged. Figures that the boy would know every suspect.
"You're mistaken," the Ripper retorted, before his image started to flicker.
"Oh please," said Crowley. "My mum can do so much better. In fact, literally anyone's mum could do better, if she tried, I bet." Maybe the man's appearance would have settled on any of the less ridiculous ones that witnesses had described during the investigations.
As it was, though, the flicker died and Tumblety reappeared. "It doesn't matter."
"Agreed." In the next blink, Sam had him by the throat, and tossed him out on the street. Well away from the bowls and candles the serial killer witch (obviously) had been arranging for something...not that anyone knew or cared what. Crowley could have hazarded a guess, but why think about that when there was a much prettier sight here?
Juliet had finally untangled herself, and enthusiastically followed the obvious prey. Before the man could get up again, or figure out which spell to try next, she was lying all over him, growling, teeth bared inches from his throat. Even if the Ripper couldn't see her, he could definitely feel her.
Hell, even a homeless bloke lying about had been startled awake by the commotion and was currently pinching himself. Drugs were way more common back then, but invisible hounds were clearly a first for the poor sod.
Sam was currently towering over the unfortunate witch, declaring, "This stops now." When he turned commanding like that...well, maybe it was because he was meant to be Lucifer's vessel, but - even without a hellhound at your throat - the urge to comply was overpowering.
"Yes...?" Tumblety sounded tentative. Less in a "'l'll try to weasel my way out of this," and more in a "Is this the answer that's going to keep me alive?" way.
"Once more, like you actually mean it," Crowley suggested all the same, smirking.
"Yes! Of course! I'll stop. I'll never touch a b... a woman again. Just let me -"
"What do you say, Moose? Shall we?"
"Iron handcuffs?" Sam demanded, holding a hand out like a surgeon asking for a scalpel.
"Now, what makes you think..." The bitchface thrown his way made the tease die on Crowley's lips. Of course he had some. For one, he had organized this. For another, better be prepared in any case. There were much more interesting uses for them than witch subduing, and hoping wasn't forbidden. He handed them over.
Juliet stayed put while Sam knelt down, and indulged in a friendly boop to his arm before creeping back to give him space. Rather than leaving the witch entirely, though, she lay on his legs, mouth ready to castrate him if the idiot so much as offered her an excuse. Crowley would need to let her have a treat later, she earned it.
With the Ripper secured, Sam rose again, and tugged him up too, none too gently. With a grumble, Juliet allowed it. "Now what..."
They were interrupted. Oh well. He knew there was a chance. Not by a drunkard, or someone who was looking for a fun time with poor Mary Jane, but - oh. Them. Convenient as they were, Crowley didn't even try to hold back an annoyed huff.
It was a pair of blokes, obviously. Both because it was always safer to have backup, and because, despite all their intolerable condescension, there was at least some hope that they could scrape together a brain's worth of common sense if there were at least two of them.
Dressed like gentlemen, and looking as out of place here as Crowley and Sam were. (Just because he'd catered to the style of the time, it didn't mean that he would go for dock workers' attire; he had standards, ta very much.) Both were moustachioed, if less impressively than their murderer. One - a redhead- stood eye-to-eye with the Ripper (who was, annoyingly, an inch or so taller than Crowley himself); the other, a brunet, was even taller, though not as obscenely so as Sam. Then again, most people weren't.
The two didn't even need to introduce themselves...You could literally smell the Men of Letters stench all over them.
They glared while introducing themselves as "Mr. Greene and Mr. Brown", then demanded to know what was happening here.
Sam shrugged. "You took months to get ahold of one measly witch. We figured it might be because he's an American citizen and you were misinformed about some sort of diplomatic immunity. "
Mr. Brown went as red as his partner's hair."What makes you think..?"
"Well, better than assuming you didn't care about your citizens so long as he was only picking people out of the slums, right?" Crowley smirked.
Sam offered them a conciliatory smile. He could de-escalate like the most consummate diplomat, when he wanted to. "Anyway, here we are. Taking our own trash out, so to speak. Only, my partner seems to have misplaced our witch-killing bullets, so. If you could lend us - " And now he didn't mind changing history, did he? He wasn't that different from his brother. Give him an excuse to put someone down (yes, yes, someone who deserved it, but - details, if you asked Crowley) and he perked right up.
"This is completely irregular," Mr. Greene pointed out. Crowley rolled his eyes. Get most of their work done for them, and they complained. It made you wonder if they really liked the idea of someone getting rid of a few indesirables.
"Well, what is the alternative? Just set him free again on -" Sam waved a hand to encompass the neighbourhood.
"Of course not," Brown snapped. Small mercies. "But there are ways to organise inter-branch collaborations, with the proper papers filed and - just because you can't be bothered to follow procedure, it doesn't mean that everyone else would act like a barbarian. I'm warning you, there'll be a formal complaint on your behaviour, Mr..."
"It's Sam. Sam Page." Crowley managed not to smirk. Sam had enough evidence of Murphy's law in his life to avoid getting a possibly homonym ancestor in trouble.
"Crowley McLeod, but don't be surprised if they pretend to be clueless. We might not be the most popular...yet."
"Obviously," Greene grumbled.
Sam pointed at the Ripper, who'd been very quiet, and was probably hoping they'd be at each other's throat enough to actually fight and give him an occasion to slip away, handcuffed or not.
"We'll keep him tonight. But since you did arrest him, and as you said, it's a matter amongst Americans..You will take him back tomorrow morning, and I expect you all to be on your way to Plymouth and hence, out of our Commonwealth with all due diligence," Brown announced, in a tone of finality.
"Ok, sure," Sam agreed easily. "Take him back...from where?"
"If you'd gone through the proper channels, you'd be perfectly aware of the address of our London chapter," Brown snootily replied.
"Given that I don't, either you tell me or you bring him to Trafalgar Square, or Victoria Station, or anywhere," Sam retorted, with a shrug.
"Paddington. You'll want to leave from Paddington," Greene pointed out.
"Paddington, sure. Thanks. Paddington, then?"
The other two shared a look. "Fine. But this will be detailed in our report. "
"We wouldn't expect anything else," Moose said.
"I'll want my cuffs back," Crowley drawled.
With a last glower, the two idiots left, dragging Tumblety with them.
"So, huh, it seems we have a few hours in front of us. Let's see what the London nightlife has to offer, huh? Unless you'd rather just find a room..." he said.
"Yeah, no." Sam's bitchface was especially stern.
"Not even one in a much, much nicer part of town?" Hey, trying didn't hurt.
""Or we could just skip forward, per se. Unless you're too exhausted to..." Sam shrugged.
"I have a feeling that after ensuring the little witch is dealt with, you won't want to hang out anymore. "
"Look, I might not know this era and place as well as someone else would, but I have a feeling that the entertainment in any place that's still open at 4 am is going to be much more Dean's thing than mine. Fuck, drink, play, and...oh yeah, add all the drugs. It doesn't really sound entertaining," Moose replied.
Crowley sighed. "Point. What about the places that aren't open, then?"
"What?"
"Don't tell me you object to a little breaking and entering. The British Museum? Madame Tussauds? Hell, we might as well pay a visit to Victoria herself if you want. It might be funny."
That got a laugh out of his Moose. Mood succesfully lifted. "Imagine the formal complaints if we did that. You know, I'm half tempted to look through the archives and see if there's still a copy around. Still, no woman deserves to have her dreams troubled by that kind of invasion. Now, huh, if you were serious about Tussauds...it does seem fitting. Besides, I'm pretty sure they've changed some of the exhibits, so even if I had the time to come back, I'd never see what I could now."
"Let's go." Crowley held out his hand again. There was no need to go ambling or look for a cab. Handling every single molecule of Sam, even for the blink of an eye...it was a show of trust, and a little bit of a high. Not that he'd admit it.
This time, the museum was much more in line with both their interests. The soft, quivering gaslight made the wax recreations feel much more real than any modern experience could. Sam's smile widened with every depiction of true crimes, tragedies fixed for the curious eye. Crowley, of course, had a master's interest in the craft - not sculpture, but the most efficient, artistic or cathartic (sometimes you just needed to express your feelings) ways to murder someone. If some bloke either very late or early noticed a flicker, and would later ramble about ghosts in the creepy building...well, the owner should have paid them for the advertising.
They took care to run away before anyone legit might decide to come in, if only to make sure the place isn't completely freezing for the visitors to come.
This time, though, the sun was up, and they did wander a little, just because they could. Of course, they still found themselves at Paddington in time for the first train to Plymouth.
This time, Mr. Greene had apparently been deemed enough to hand over the prisoner. They actually got on the right train, and if the door of the empty carriage they settled in was blocked 'by accident' right after, well. These things happened.
Crowley could have teleported them again, but he thought Sam might like a chance to pick the Ripper's brain. Juliet sleeping on his feet was all the encouragement the witch needed to, if not act polite or prove chatty, at least satisfy any curiosity.
"What do we do, then?" Moose asked, when they got off at Plymouth.
"Well, given my abilities, we could deliver him via ship like they expect us to, and go back home two hours later than we left...or five minutes," Crowley offered.
The bitchface wasn't unexpected. "Fine, yes, a few months of cruise might be slightly over the original plan. Well then, we could teleport him back to the States. Or we could just put him on a ship and send a telegram to the American Men of Letters, so he'll have a welcoming committee. Their problem then." The demon shrugged.
"And how do we know that he won't hijack the ship or something?" So Moose had enough of Tumblety already. Interesting. As enigmatic as his murders had been, he wasn't an especially brilliant companion.
"We could send Juliet as an escort. Nobody's going to notice, and if he misbehaves, she'd love an excuse to actually have a snack. Just a body part or two, you understand..."
The witch blanched. Sam smiled. "You know, that might work...if she's well trained."
Juliet huffed. "Now, don't insult her," Crowley said...and marvel of marvels, Moose actually apologized.
Figuring out a ship, buying a ticket, and sending a telegram was quick work. Soon, they were watching Tumblety, standing pale on the deck and glaring weakly at them. Crowley could see Juliet happily waving her tail, too.
"So, home?" This time, it was Sam offering his hand to Crowley first, with a little smile.
"Sure." The demon was very, very satisfied with tonight. And himself.
