This was a good vessel. Not a surprise. It was his vessel. The Vessel. Every nerve, muscle, bone and sinew of this body had been crafted to fit his Grace. Even the soul, pesky as it was, was a perfect compliment to him.
Michael, the last remaining Archangel of this world and his own, stared at his reflection, admiring the body he had claimed as his own. In his head, Dean Winchester was just a thought, locked away in a fantasy world with no clue as to his predicament in real life.
But right now, it was somewhat damaged.
A burning pain in his arm, growing more intense by the second, brought his attention back to more urgent matters. Slowly, he unbuttoned his vest, his shirt, undid his tie.
The two-pronged wound on his bicep was festering, sapping his strength. Michael held a hand over it, tried to focus. When nothing happened, he frowned. He couldn't heal this on his own. Not when it was burning into his essence. And yet, there was no one else left with the power to heal it for him. He had killed the ones who might have been able to help him. His brothers, Lucifer and Raphael, and sister, Gabriel… Their counterparts from this world…
There was a knock on the door of his office. Michael pulled the shirt back on. "Enter."
A woman stepped in- a skinwalker. "Sir, we just heard that Sam Winchester is closing in on your… Experiment facilities."
Michael resisted the urge to sigh. Samuel was proving to be a very annoyingly persistent pseudo-brother. He spared a moment of gratitude that Dean wasn't conscious. The name of his brother always awakened some sort of vigour in him. It was sickening.
"Good job letting me know," he answered casually, gesturing for her to leave. The door closed behind her and Michael turned away from the mirror. The wound would heal on its own, albeit slowly. He would have to be a bit more careful until then. He was considerably weakened by this skirmish with that girl.
Or…
He stared out the window. That girl, who'd attacked, had been from a different world. He could sense it. Her weapon had been something he'd never seen. Obviously, there were many different worlds, many stories and drafts.
If he could somehow find his way to that particular world, he might find a way to heal himself faster. He couldn't afford to be the slightest bit vulnerable for even the shortest amount of time.
Maybe he could even find the weapon he'd been stabbed by.
Michael closed his eyes, thinking, recalling the ingredients for the spell that the Lucifer of this world had shown him. For a second, he thought of his own brother. He'd been stronger than the Lucifer of this world, though less prone to cleverness. And yet, he'd died by Michael's hand, breathed his last in Michael's arms. The Lucifer of this world… Michael had hated him. For the resemblance, for the differences, for not caring that Michael had killed his counterpart and then refused to leave the body for days.
He shook his head. There was no point to sentiment. He had an alternate world to find.
The ingredients were easy to find. He had his own Grace, of course. And his followers gathered the rest.
The only question was: how was he to find his way into that particular world? The one where his attacker hailed from?
According to the spell from the demon tablet, he would need an object originating from that universe. That wasn't something he could procure. The angel tablet had different instructions, simply to focus on the world he was aiming for.
That should be easier. He had no clue what this world looked like, but if he focused on the girl…
Closing his eyes, Michael began to chant, using his blade to cut his palm, letting his Grace drip into the bowl of herbs and bones. He thought of his attacker: slender, lithe, grim face and dark hair, darker robes.
He could feel the fabric of the space around him fracture, reality tearing itself apart for him.
His mind wandered. Was there a world out there where Lucifer had never Fallen? Was there a world in which Michael and all three of his siblings had made peace with each other? Was there one where Father was still with them? Or one where he and Lucifer…?
The spell finished, Michael opened his eyes and found a golden thread suspended in the air before him.
He smiled and stepped through it.
The first thing Michael noticed when he stepped through was the heavy, pungent scent of Grace. Like the world was blanketed with it.
It was nighttime and there was silence all around, broken only by the sound of nocturnal creatures.
There were no stars in the sky, covered by purple-grey clouds; there was a storm approaching.
The portal behind him disappeared and, at the same time, the wound on his arm flared with pain, severe enough to make Michael groan and stumble to one knee.
Obviously, the inter-world travelling had somehow aggravated it.
Michael took a deep breath, more for stability than a need for oxygen. He dimly noted he was in some kind of garden. The grass was wild, but of calculated height. There were shrubs all around, a few trees that thickened in density the further out from the clearing he was in.
Michael was vulnerable at the moment, he knew. If someone found him, with a weapon like the spear that had hurt him, then he was likely doomed.
He had to find shelter.
He got to his feet and tried to spread his wings, prepared to fly to the closest refuge he could spot. Except… Nothing happened. He couldn't spread his wings. He could feel them, simultaneously heavy and light, resting against his back. But he couldn't move them. It was as if… As if someone was holding them down. He started to feel afraid now. An angel with non-functioning wings was…
As if they (whoever it was) heard his thoughts, there was an invisible force on his shoulders, forcing him to his hands and knees on the ground. Michael gasped, suddenly very aware of how easy a target he was right now.
Instincts honed to battle, he sensed a new presence behind him. With some effort, he turned to see.
There was a woman, standing right behind him, looking down at him. She was… Ethereal, her human beauty enhanced by divinity, wearing a long white dress that made her bare arms and shoulders glow in the darkness of the night, and her face, familiar yet not, was set in controlled puzzlement.
Michael felt his own Grace sing in recognition, his mind screaming as it tried to connect to her thoughts on instinct, even as he took in these few details, trying to get to his feet at the same time.
"This is unusual, even for me," the newcomer murmured.
Before Michael could respond, call out to her, or even make sense of it, she lay a cool palm over his vessel's eyes and his real ones.
He just had time to recognize the Horsemen's rings melded to a bracelet around her wrist. Then he lost consciousness, with her name ringing in his ears: Lucifer.
He woke to intense pain over his wound and the electric smell of an approaching storm. He was shackled, he realized, from neck to wrists to knees, even his wings forcibly folded and bound.
Michael opened his eyes slowly, raising his head to find himself in a grey room. No, wait. Not a room. Just… A wall. Standing alone, with no support, with him shackled to it. The rest of his surroundings were the same garden he'd been attacked in.
The reminder of his attacker awakened him more fully and his mind snapped to attention, honing in on the angelic presence. And sure enough, she appeared before him, feet bare on the dewy grass, dress still white and impeccable, nary a sound to announce her arrival.
Michael stared at her for a few seconds. Her Grace was bright, much brighter than that of both the Lucifers he'd killed, and it hurt a little to look at. Like she was still the Morningstar, not the Devil.
"Lucifer," he finally greeted. He didn't falter. He never would, not to anyone, but especially not to his biggest traitor, alternate version or not.
Lucifer tilted her head. "Michael is dead," she mused. "As is Dean Winchester. So who are you and what are you doing with that body?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You… Aren't of this world."
Michael waited. He knew she would come to the conclusion herself. Sure enough, her face smoothed out within seconds.
"Another draft of God's?" She asked, mocking. "I assume you found a way to travel in between."
Michael didn't want to give her any answers, but he wasn't strong enough to weather any torture she might inflict on him should she got impatient. He was already feeling nauseous. What kind of wound was this? So, he replied, "It's a spell. Intruders found their way into my world, including their version of you, in a quite successful attempt to rescue the last remaining human survivors. I found a way to follow. And killed your second counterpart. Just as I did the one from my world."
Lucifer hummed in thought. "That's a serious wound. I've never seen anything like it."
So, he'd ended up in the wrong universe somehow. Michael strained to see the festering injury over his forearm. "Neither have I. It was from yet another world. It's sapping my strength. I can't heal it."
Lucifer eyed the wound, considering it. Then she stepped a little closer. "Now what should I do with you?"
"I've answered your questions," Michael said tersely. "The least you could do is offer me the same courtesy."
Lucifer smiled, gentle but insulting. "Of course, brother," she agreed. "What do you want to know?"
"What happened in this world?" He already had guessed, but he wanted it confirmed.
Lucifer looked around them. "Samantha Winchester approached me with a challenge that she couldn't win. Dean Winchester continued to reject you- the Michael of my world. So he possessed their half-brother, Adam Milligan instead. He lost. I didn't. There were many survivors left, but fewer now after I granted mercy to Dean."
Michael scoffed. "Mercy?" He questioned. "You killed him, obviously. Have you still not learned what mercy truly is?" Michael knew he seemed cruel to humans and other angels alike, but even he wouldn't call death a mercy.
But Lucifer gave him another one of those gentle smiles. "I took his beloved sister from him. He came with the intention to save her by killing me. He failed at that. So when I told him that Sam's soul had long ago withered away inside me, he lost all will to live on. He begged me for death. I granted it. So, yes, Michael, I took mercy on him. I felt his pain and I understood it." Her voice grew bitter. "But it is simply in your nature to think the worst of me."
Michael looked away. He refused to fall for her lies, not after that very first time. Once bitten, twice shy.
Lucifer came even closer. She reached out with a delicate hand, laying it over his wound, not really touching. There was a vacuum sensation and Michael couldn't stop the sigh of relief from escaping as his pain abated.
"I'm not going to heal you completely," Lucifer told him. "Not when I can't trust you."
Michael glared at her, hating that he was in debt to her, dependent on her, but also grateful for her help. "Why heal me at all?"
She snapped her fingers and the chains holding him disappeared, along with the wall.
"I grow lonely," she said, by lieu of explanation. "Walk with me, brother." She reached for his hand.
"Don't call me that!" Michael snapped, shocking himself. Why was he letting her get under his skin? "And don't touch me!"
For a moment, Lucifer looked genuinely taken aback, almost hurt. Then she accepted it with a nod. "My apologies. It must be frustrating, having to deal with someone you've already killed twice."
She began to walk.
Frustrating, Michael thought, following after her, eyes resolutely fixed on the back of her head so they wouldn't stray to the exposed skin of her back. Not the word I'd use.
Lucifer kept walking until they reached a river. The sky had grown darker still, the storm clouds ever thicker, the river itself roiling hurriedly.
"It doesn't rain here," Lucifer said, like she knew what he was thinking. "Not unless I want it to. And I only allow it on special occasions." She smiled at him, suddenly coy. "Do you remember the first rain, brother?"
Michael growled. "I'm not here to reminisce. Least of all with a traitor."
Two perfect eyebrows arched curiously, making her seen very un-angelic. It was odd and Michael didn't like it.
"If I recall…" She trailed off. "Never mind." She turned to the river. "You need rest."
"I'm fine."
Lucifer laughed, suddenly, and it was a bright sound. "Every version of you has that in common, I suppose."
Michael closed his eyes, turned away. There were some sights too dangerous- however beautiful- for him to witness. "Why should I let my guard down around you?"
"Well, what choice do you have?" Lucifer tested. "I am the only one here to heal you. Unless you want to attempt another spell, find another world more to your liking. But you know you aren't strong enough for that."
Michael didn't reply. Lucifer was right.
She sighed. "I've already killed you once, Michael," she murmured. "I don't want to do it again. Otherwise… I would have done so by now."
Michael thought he might have argued, but a mangled wing lay over his eyes and he lost himself to oblivion.
Michael woke up without shackles this time, a thick tree trunk at his back and the soft earthy feel of grass beneath him.
For a few seconds, he kept his eyes closed, pretending he was in the Garden, watching Adam and his wife from afar.
Michael opened his eyes. He was propped up against a tree. Around him, there was daylight now, the storm clouds a little abated. He could see his surroundings better, could see the rose bushes, the sweet-smelling purple-pink-yellow flowers in clusters among the grasses, and amidst that all, Lucifer, legs tucked to the side, her dress pooling over the ground. She was still as a statue, like she hadn't moved in hours, and her eyes were fixed on him.
"What were you thinking of just now?" She asked.
Michael stared at her. "You," he answered flatly. "Sneaking into the Garden after Father forbade you to enter as punishment for sullying Lilith. I thought you were coming to apologize, but instead, you simply distracted me from my post long enough for your snake to trick Eve into eating an apple from the tree."
Lucifer didn't react with the indignation he wanted her to. She simply kept on staring. "And here I was about to propose we let bygones be bygones."
Michael scoffed. He sat up straighter, wincing at the pain in his arm. Human vessels were weak anyway, but at least this particular one was strong enough to keep the pain from spreading. In addition, Lucifer's partial healing from the day before seemed to have been effectual.
He looked at her closely, returning her stare. Her Grace really was bright, he realized. It hadn't just been his deliriousness when he'd first seen her. It was as bright as it had been in Heaven. But her wings…
Michael tilted his head to the side, trying to see them. She kept them hidden away, folded into herself so they weren't visible. But he'd caught a glimpse of them when she'd put him to sleep earlier and they'd looked… Damaged.
Lucifer got to her feet, extended a hand, nails elegantly cut and almost silver.
Michael's instinct was to brush her off with a glare.
But… He felt rested. Less in pain. And Lucifer looked hopeful.
He took her hand, let her pull him up. He felt his Grace react, almost violently, twisting around him excitedly, lighting up his hand and, by extension, Lucifer's.
She watched their clasped hands too, looking almost pleased.
"Interesting," she murmured.
Michael hated the utterly human way he could feel blood rush to his cheeks. And when Lucifer smirked, tilting her head to look up at him through long lashes, eyes glittering at least half as bright as her Grace, he hated the heat swooping down his stomach and the need to swallow.
So he let her hand go. He found Dean's thoughts locked inside his head and buried it even deeper, hid it behind more doors, hoping this foreign feeling would fade. It didn't.
And judging by Lucifer's smug smile as she turned away, she knew it too.
Michael cursed his Father's name in silence.
"Where are you taking me?" He asked, trying not to sound wary.
Lucifer smiled secretively. "You have a story to tell me," she said. "I'd like to hear it with a view."
She led him to a ledge and he realized too late that they were on a small hill. The outcrop was rocky, jutting out over the river. Lucifer waved a hand. Michael watched, curious, as the branches of the trees bent and twisted to form a long-benched swing.
Lucifer sat down gracefully. After a moment of hesitation, Michael did the same, feeling the discomfort after having spent millennia avoiding anything like this, anything too close to nature, anything that reminded him of Heaven. Perhaps that was why he hated Earth and humankind so much. They had, in a sense, become a prison of his own making. But he couldn't bear to look at Lucifer either, didn't want to have to identify the emotions that were beginning to show on her face. He focused on her feet instead- the graceful arches, the bony ankles.
The air was heavier, here. There was a feel of electricity all around them. The storm was getting closer.
Lucifer was staring at him. Behind the eyes of Sam Winchester, Michael could see the Archangel. Their essence, the light of their Creation- it shone, invisible to human eyes, but unmissable to a celestial being.
Michael looked away. Instead, he talked. He talked about his home, how he'd defeated the Lucifer of that world in a raging battle that lasted for days (he didn't tell her he'd spent two days kneeling over the body, refusing to leave). He told her about the intruders from the new world, the world of Sam and Dean and the other Lucifer (he didn't mention how much he'd hated that imposter, who hadn't cared even the slightest bit about anything, hadn't seemed even a little like the Lucifer he'd once known). He talked and he stared out at the river the whole time.
At some point, Lucifer had leaned into him without him noticing. Her fingers were stroking along his arm, painting invisible circles over his skin. Her cheek was a comfortable weight against his shoulder.
Michael faltered, suddenly all too aware of her.
"Lucifer," he spoke tightly.
She looked up at him, chin propped on his shoulder. Michael froze. She didn't need to breathe- neither of them did- but he could feel her breath on his lips and it was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, in a way they hadn't since…
"You'll aggravate my wound," he said. He didn't mean for it to be a whisper.
Lucifer looked down a little. Michael followed her gaze, to where she'd been running her fingers up and down his arm.
The wound was gone.
She'd healed him. Completely. And he hadn't even noticed.
"Why did you do that?" He asked. He couldn't help the harshness of his voice.
Lucifer stiffened, pulling away. "I didn't see the point of letting you suffer," she said, lofty and unconcerned. "If you prove my judgement wrong, I will deal with you as I have done before." She paused. "Even if it pains me to do so."
Michael didn't have an answer to that. He was too busy trying to work out what Lucifer could possibly be playing at.
Lucifer smiled as she got to her feet. It was a cold, bitter thing. "You'll find your way back just fine, I'm sure," she told him airily and began to walk away.
"Wait!" Michael called.
She stopped.
"What happened to your wings?"
Lucifer turned slowly. Her eyes flashed red, a menacing sneer on her beautiful features. "How dare you ask me that?" She demanded, voice rolling like thunder. "After you-"
"I didn't do anything," Michael interrupted. "That was another me. I never did anything to you before the Apocalypse."
Lucifer glared, chin tilting up in defiance. "Well," she said frostily. "I never betrayed you. I asked you to stand by my side in front of Father and instead, you gave me up to him!" She disappeared into the foliage before Michael could say anything more.
Michael released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. What am I doing? He wondered angrily.
Time passed oddly in this world. By his best estimate, Michael would say it was three days since he last saw Lucifer. Three days since they sat on the edge of the cliff together, watching the river. She'd disappeared after she healed him and he accused her of having nefarious intentions. The weather had remained stagnant. Michael felt unmoored. Like he was fledgling again, trying to keep up with Gabriel's sharp mind while simultaneously hoping her tricks didn't land them in trouble with their Father.
He used the time to plan. Just for kicks, he woke Dean up.
"You complete bastard," the human snarled. "What the hell are you playing at?"
It was a dreamscape. There was a glass of Michael's construction between them, preventing Dean from lunging at him.
"I have my own plans, Dean," Michael answered gravely. "You don't need to concern yourself with them."
Dean scoffed, but he didn't answer, closing his momentarily. Michael, relaxed and unguarded, realised too late that Dean was trying to access the two-way communication channel set up.
"What the hell?" He murmured, eyes flashing open in confusion. "I know this place! How did- why are we here?"
Interesting, Michael thought. Dean had been here before? He asked as much.
Dean seemed reluctant to say. "Zachariah sent me here. During the Apocalypse."
Michael simply hummed in acknowledgement.
Dean's eyes grew fearful. "You're here for him. For Lucifer."
Michael smiled. Let the human assume. "Lucifer, yes. Him, no."
This time, he threw his memories at Dean, flooding his weaker mind with images.
Dean gasped, knees buckling. "Sam, Sammy," he choked, hands fisted vainly against the glass. "That son of a bitch…"
Michael frowned, tilting his head curiously. "This is not your Sam," he spoke slowly. Had Dean not understood?
Dean looked up at him, wildly. "It's still Sam," he whispered. "Still my brother- my sister. Sammy." He took a shuddering breath. "Maybe, she made different choices in this world or maybe I did, I don't know. But she's still… Still Sam. Still someone I…" He trailed off. He was weakened, from his long imprisonment. His soul would soon wither away.
Michael stared at him dispassionately. What if Dean was right? What if Lucifer was different, but still the same in the ways that mattered?
"Goodbye, Dean," he muttered. He didn't mention the Sam Winchester of his world, his Sam, knowing it would only renew Dean's strength and resolve. Instead he put him to sleep, once again.
When he returned to the waking world, he made up his mind. He got up, calling Lucifer's name with his mind, trying to feel for his sister's Grace.
Lucifer? Sister, we must talk. I have a proposition for you.
It occurred to him a second later that he'd called her 'sister'. It didn't feel as foreign on his tongue as he might have expected it to.
But there was no response, no answering call. Worry shot through Michael, amplified by some guilt.
He set out through the forest, trying to think. Where would she be? Did she even have any other beings to talk to? Any demons? Humans? Angels?
The latter two weren't very likely.
So, demons, then. Did she hold court with them? Like a magnanimous ruler?
As much as Michael hated demons, the thought of Lucifer willingly taking charge of corrupted souls made him smile. The Lucifer he'd known hated being chained down by responsibility. He'd valued freedom. He couldn't imagine this Lucifer being any different.
Somewhat unconsciously, he walked uphill, towards the rocky outcrop where he'd told her the story of his world. Sure enough, he found her there, sitting exactly where she'd sat the first time.
She didn't react to his presence, though there was no way she wasn't aware of it.
Michael took those few seconds of precious silence to look at her. Her wings were still hidden. There was still that heavenly essence to her Grace that really shouldn't be there. It was supposed to be dark and corrupted, not so bright and impossible to look away from.
"It's the Vessel," she spoke up, somehow knowing what he was thinking. "Sam Winchester. My perfect counterpart. The perfect host. The act of possession… Fixed me entirely." She paused, looking back at him with a half-smile. "Almost entirely."
Michael joined her, trying not to seem cautious and distrustful.
"I was calling for you," he said. "Why didn't you answer?"
Lucifer blinked, a delicate furrow appearing between her brow. "I didn't hear…" Realization stole across her face. "I couldn't hear you," she said flatly.
Michael frowned. "You can't hear angel radio?"
She gave him an amused look. "That's what you call it? Angel radio? How utterly human of you, brother dear."
He ignored the warmth in his stomach when she called him 'brother', never mind that he'd told her not to. "It was coined by Dean," he told her sternly. "I have him in my head all the time. As much as I try not to pay attention, his thoughts are loud." They were quiet now, of course, given how weak the human soul was becoming over time spent locked up.
Lucifer nodded, like she understood. "Yes. It is quite difficult to not be overcome by a human mind. They are… Surprisingly resilient." Her tone turned back to mocking. "Especially, since you, clearly, don't have much practice."
Michael, without thinking, used his wing tip to flick the back of her head.
Lucifer, for the first time since he'd arrived in this world, looked shocked, disbelieving that he would do something like that, hand half-raised as if in defense. Like she'd been expecting an attack from him.
Michael, just as surprised at himself, covered it up with a raised eyebrow.
A slow smile curved her lips and Michael, again, felt that heat curl in his gut, making him want to look away. But he held her gaze, defiant, counting it as a win when she looked away first.
He wasn't sure what kind of a competition it was, or when it had begun.
"What did you have to say to me?" She asked.
Michael almost asked right then. But Lucifer looked serene, at peace. And, really, he'd been the only one talking ever since meeting her.
"May I ask you something instead?" Privately, he mused that she had deflected his earlier question with a tease. "What makes it that you can't hear angel radio?"
To his instant regret, Lucifer tensed, limbs locking visibly as she turned to him. "How can you, of all things on this earth-" She cut herself off, still glaring at him with flames in her eyes. Hellfire. "How do you not know?" She demanded.
Michael held up a placating hand. "Things are different in this world from mine, Lucifer," he reminded her, trying to be soothing. "Tell me." He hesitated. "Tell me about your wings as well. Why do you keep them hidden?"
Lucifer looked away. Her form was somewhat trembling, he realized. He had the urge to reach out, settle a calloused palm between her shoulder blades, or cup her face so she didn't have a choice but to meet his eyes, tangle their legs together and tackle her to distract her the way he used to in the Beginning of his world. But they weren't exactly children anymore, they weren't the same angels they used to be. It was a bad idea, that kind of proximity, so he kept his appendages to himself and waited for Lucifer to reply.
"Michael… He… You set my wings on fire." The words weren't a whisper, but spoken in a low voice, tight with anger and grief that Michael remembered from millennia ago.
But the message didn't sink in until a minute passed. "I did what?"
Lucifer looked at him, eyes sharp and bright. The smell of Grace filled the air, strong and sharp. "You burnt my wings. With holy fire. Because Father commanded you to. And then…" She laughed, sharp and caustic. "He made it so I couldn't hear other angels. At first, I thought it was because the Cage was so deep down, so well-hidden and warded that nothing can get through." Her features twisted into a sneer. "But then I was free, I was here… And I still couldn't hear any of our brethren." She shook her head. "It is- was almost as lonely as the Cage."
Michael shook his head, denying it. "No. No, He would never do that. And I would never hurt you like that."
He hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant it to be so sincere, but it was. He couldn't hurt Lucifer like that. Even in his own world… Their battles had been short, messy, but not brutal. Michael had ended it as fast as he could, not wanting to cause pain to his brother. Of course, the doppelganger he'd killed hadn't mattered to him at all, so Michael had had no qualms about hurting him.
But this one? This Lucifer, who called him brother and smiled at him like they shared a secret and healed him without strings attached, who somehow trusted him not to take advantage of her faith in him… Michael couldn't imagine hurting her either. Except she was. Hurting. And he wanted nothing more than to soothe that ache, if she'd let him.
"I never did that," he told her quietly. "Not in my world."
Lucifer observed him, careful and wary. "I never tricked Michael in this world," she admitted. "I asked him to leave Heaven with me. But he betrayed me." She finally turned away.
Michael felt something in him rebel, something old and long-buried stirring to life, crying out for his sibling. He turned away too, unable to keep looking at her when he could feel Dean Winchester tossing and turning inside his mind, intruding in his thoughts.
Dean…
There was a dark, gaping pit suddenly opening in his stomach.
This feeling, this ache of nostalgia, this desire… What if it wasn't really him? What if it was all Dean's? Dean's love for his Sam, Dean's desire for his brother. What if he was simply being bombarded by his Vessel's emotions?
"Brother?" Lucifer was looking at him again, perfect features back in place save the concerned tilt of one thick eyebrow.
He stared at her, trying to segregate all the sensations he'd had since arriving here.
Had the initial hate been his own, or Dean's reaction to seeing his beloved soulmate possessed? Was the subsequent interest his own, or Dean's grudging acceptance of defeat? And now this… Did he truly feel certain emotions towards Lucifer or was it Dean's soul-deep attachment to any iteration of Sam?
"I need to be alone," Michael managed to spit out. He got to his feet, ignoring Lucifer's worried expression when he stumbled slightly on his feet.
And, like a coward, he flew away.
This can't be happening. It can't be real. It can't be real. It can't be real. Why is this happening?
Michael stood on a mountain top. His Grace was upset, his wing feathers shaking, everything suddenly seemed like too much. Human bodies were just not built for an angel's sensory input. It was difficult to regulate it for long periods of time. If his Vessel were any other than Dean, it would have imploded or exploded or burnt up or shrivelled into a husk long ago.
But, then again, if his Vessel had been any other, perhaps he wouldn't be so conflicted about how he felt versus how Dean felt. With that thought, he closed his eyes and dove deep into his mind. He found Dean, wrapped in a fantasy that Michael had created.
Michael paused for a few moments, watched the memory of Sam Winchester, sitting at a table and looking at his laptop, as Dean walked up behind him to place a kiss on the side of his head.
Michael snapped his fingers. The memory dissolved.
Dean started, staring at him in shock and incomprehension. Then, anger and hatred took over.
"You son of a-" He stumbled where he stood, knees buckling. His form flickered. "Stop playing like this," he said through grit teeth.
"You've grown too weak," Michael said quietly. "You're dying."
For a second, Dean looked almost at peace. Then panic stole over him. "No. No, fuck you, I'm not dying. I can't. Not here, not now."
"This is your own mind, Dean," Michael said, trying to be soothing and not impatient. "What better place to die?"
Dean looked almost disgusted. "In my head?" He screeched. "While Sam is out there, going crazy, looking for me- if I'm dying, I'm gonna do it with him. Next to him."
Michael stared at Dean for a long moment. He could help him live, strengthen his soul and let it last longer. At least long enough for a final reunion with Sam.
But he also needed to understand his own feelings towards Lucifer, had to know that he wasn't being blinded by Dean's feelings. He had to know… If he could truly love Lucifer again.
He couldn't do with that Dean still in his head, sharing mindspace, their emotions overlapping, even if their thoughts didn't.
No, Dean had to go.
My apologies, Sam Winchester, he thought silently. Then he reached out and placed his hand on Dean's face, palm curving over his cheek.
Dean flinched, tried to lean away, but Michael held him firm. He focused, sharp and ruthless, power flooding the small space between them.
Dean screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
"I truly am sorry, Dean," Michael murmured. "But I can't take any chances. It's about my sister. You know what that's like."
Dean Winchester died, not with a bang, but a whimper that sounded like "Sammy."
When Michael opened his eyes to the real world again, he was unsurprised to find Lucifer standing in front of him. A warm feeling sparked in his chest, the same one that had scared him a short time ago. And suddenly, without Dean clouding his mind, his thoughts were clear. Who had he been trying to kid all this time? He knew what he wanted.
Lucifer's face was set in confusion and annoyance. "Does it not get tiring, flying away from me?" There was a hint of hurt in her words.
Michael stared at her. "I wasn't flying away from you," he said blankly.
She raised her eyebrow. Her lips twisted delicately in skepticism. How had Michael never stopped to appreciate how beautiful her Vessel was? How it was perfect for her demeanor, her personality? How it somehow exactly conveyed the sum of who Lucifer really was?
Without thinking, Michael stepped closer to her, cupping her face in both hands. She froze. He swept a thumb over her lower lip. Her eyes widened, a hint of Grace edging in, turning the sclera a tint of red.
Slowly, Michael slid one hand across her shoulders to her back, fingers splaying over her wing joints. He could feel them, and they shuddered under his touch. He moved his other hand to her temple, index finger finding the vein there. He could feel her pulse quicken.
"Michael." She was wary, half-afraid. "What are you doing?"
"The brother you loved, the lover you trusted- he destroyed your wings," he told her softly. "And the Father you worshipped, more than any of us- it was Him who forced your mind to remain devoid of our brethren's voices." He paused. "I'm setting both follies right."
With that, he pushed his Grace into her.
Lucifer gasped, crying out in both pain and pleasure, knees buckling. Michael caught her without effort, holding her upright as her wings appeared. They were broken, indeed, and greyed by soot, the feathers singed and bent and broken. But as he watched, they straightened, healing, ashes disappearing into wind. The feathers flashed blue with his Grace before turning white, pure and soft and perfect as they had once been, brighter than the brightest star, Heaven's most beautiful, only the very tips of the feathers tinted a fiery red, a reminder of her time in Hell.
And he finally heard her, in his thoughts, her voice as loud and clear and melodic as any Archangel. Michael, Michael, my wings, Michael, thank you, I love you, I love you, Michael, thank you-
She steadied herself, caught her bearings, but didn't leave his loose embrace. Her eyes were glowing when she looked up at him, her Grace still red. He could feel that too, could feel her essence twisting with his own. Vessel aside, how had he not stopped everything just to bask in the beauty of the angel she was?
"Michael," she whispered. "Why?"
Somehow, Michael forced himself to breathe. With great difficulty, he tore his gaze away from her and looked up at the dark sky. The clouds were the thickest they'd been since he arrived, the smell of an oncoming storm now mingling the scent of Grace. The wind was stronger too, ruffling their feathers.
He looked back down at her. In the dim evening light, they were both glowing faintly.
Michael remembered what Lucifer had asked him on his first day here. He repeated the question to her now. "Do you remember the first rain, sister?"
It didn't matter who leaned in to close the distance. All that mattered was that their lips met in a kiss, gentle and earth-shattering, and above them, the clouds broke.
Rain fell.