...and no longer updated. If I publish anything more in this niche, it’ll likely be on AO3 directly. The fics/art/recs on this blog will remain as they are. (I will be cleaning up irrelevant posts/replies over the month; msg me if you want to save something.)
Follow me on my main, if interested! Otherwise, thanks for the love and support over the last two years. I love how this began as an experiment in uh, family friendly rarepairs :D but ended up with a lot of lovely people and a lot of lovely fanworks. Thank you so much!
Okay, it’s been some time, hasn’t it? This one is for @omaano because she made puppy eyes at me. Working title was literally “Happy High School AU” so that about sums it up, though there’s no school in this part. Anyway, enjoy.
AO3 mirror
———————
Michael scrolled down, skimming through his music library at a rapid pace. His eyes flickered up and down, till he found the song he was looking for and clicked play. Piano, rhythmic drum beat and pleasing vocals filled up the silence of the room. Satisfied, Michael smiled, put down his iPod down and turned around to look at Lucifer, who was currently laying on Michael’s bed with his arms behind his head.
It was his favourite place as of late - in Michael’s house anyway - no matter if Michael himself was there to keep him company or not. Since they’ve began dating a few months back, Lucifer has been coming over every other day, sometimes even just to do his homework. He would sit on the bed with his back to the wall while Michael worked on his own assignments at his desk, conversation sparse and easy between them.
Now, on this lazy Friday evening, when they were both free to do as they please, his boyfriend merely raised his eyebrows at him, obviously not as impressed with Michael’s exceptional music taste as he should be.
friendly reminder that you are allowed to write selfishly. Your writing is allowed to be self-indulgent. You can have self-insert characters. Your stories can be pure wish-fulfillment.
Sometimes we get so caught up in wanting to please the theoretical reader that we forget our writing is first and foremost for us. It’s our art, our self-expression, and we do it for our passion and our joy.
Use other voices and perspectives to grow your own perspective and bring more to your writing. But you don’t owe it to anyone to create art for them, the way they want it.
Title: Tears on Earth
Artist: @femmechester
Pairing: Michael/Dean Winchester
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 31,286
Warnings: Graphic description of violence, Angst, Angst with a happy ending, demon!Dean, Mark of Cain, PTSD, Hallucinations, Torture (emotional and physical), Blood and Gore, sexual content, temporary suicide (we all know how it works with the MoC)… just check the tags.
Summary: "What do you think my brother could do to me that he hasn’t already?“ Michael asked.
But it was more of the problem of what Dean - liberated, master torturer of Hell, forever bloodthirsty with the Mark of Cain painting his world in black - could do to him. Especially when he was rather determined to test whether Heavenly Swords were really made beyond breaking.
Fic Link: AO3
Art Link: Tumblr
Make sure you check out Femmechester’s awesome work! They go really nice with the atmosphere of the fic, you really shouldn’t miss them!
Also I’d like to thank @disizletzi for her awesome contribution to this fic! Without her I would have dropped it a hundred and some more times, and her input for demon!Dean was amazing and super insightful! Like wow, for real! Thank you for suffering through this with me!
And also my boyfriend, who had a major part in this fic’s taking off :)
And @thisphenomenalcage for the additional motivation. You know what I mean ;D
Woohoo, look what’s finally up! And it promises to be as painful as the last rpbb~ And is now a good time to bring up my penchant for making lofty promises I don’t intend to keep while day drinking...?
Omg, is this fem-vessel!Michael?? (S)he is gorgeoussss! Absolutely no need to be insecure, the composition is perfect–the form and the shading. I love the light to dark intensifying from one side to the other. And the armor too, what with the lines and texture and light so on point. Ofc, as with the draft, I adore the eyes! She’s so…symmetrical :D
This is such a fabulous piece frufru–I love it to pieces .3.
EDIT: OK so apparently this is based on my selfie?? I mean, prayer circle for frufru’s obviously malfunctioning eyesight, but LOOK I’m Michael’s vessel! This is all I’ve ever wanted! Peak fandom bliss achieved–god bless.
Most people can’t say they know, really know, their guardian angels.
Some days, Michael wishes he couldn’t, either.
Then again, he figures their guardian angels aren’t all brash, loud-mouthed assholes, the way his is. Decanus, just call me Dean, takes way less time, hasn’t ever been anything like what Michael was raised to believe angels were. Ever since he appeared in Michael’s shower, coming to him in a burst of light and color and smoke. Materializing under the hot water with his wings flared out, massive white pinion feathers and gold streaks along the edges, and it had only been Dean’s mind, steadying Michael’s legs, that had kept him from slipping and falling. Michael still remembers Dean’s eyes raking up and down his body, an appreciative smile curling his lip. He’d taken a step back, amused expression on his face, and he’d said:
“Well, you sure have grown up fine.”
By the time Michael’s fist came out, Dean had vanished. Reappeared a few hours later, still naked, still hurt, but through about five cups of coffee plus Michael’s very sleep-deprived brain, he’d managed to convince him that no, Michael wasn’t hallucinating; no, Dean wasn’t Satan in disguise; yes, Dean was “that guardian angel” that Michael had dreamed about, on and off, since he was a little boy.
“Why, um.” Michael had hesitated, staring at Dean, all long freckled limbs and overly bright green eyes, his hair sticking up in spikes like it was something he’d just remembered at the last minute. Far more attractive than any angel had the right to be. “Why are you here?”
Dean had flashed him a quick, nearly devilish grin, perfect line of straight white teeth, and Michael had to look away. Desire rising hot and fast in his stomach even as he clutched at his cross, closed his eyes.
“I don’t get detailed orders,” Dean explained, and if there was something bitter in the back of his tone he was doing a damn fine job of hiding it. “I just hear what God wants, and I get it done. Most of the time,” he’d added, still grinning, nudging his bare ankle against Michael’s, and Michael had to get up, walk to the other side of the room.
Ignoring canon, cont’d. Undercover!Michael, who is actually terrible at being undercover, catches up with Dean to talk about their feelings.
michael/dean
word count: ~1000
warnings: ignoring canon, michael is a boob but not entirely a dick.
It was just his luck, Michael figured— for once, he and Dean were on the same page, and it was because they were both thinking how this was probably a colossal mistake.
As things stood, Michael wasn’t supposed to be wandering off to places without Lucifer’s Amara-free seal of approval. And Dean wasn’t supposed to be hunting for another Hand of God without Sam. And certainly, neither of them were supposed to run into each other and then decide to catch up over drinks like old friends who totally weren’t involved in a huge messy fight about the end of the world.
But there was the end of the world, and then, there was The End of the World. Amara was decidedly the latter, so here they were, lounging in a semi-dark corner of the friendly neighborhood dive bar while the Hand of God rested contentedly inside a hideous, though well-warded, carpetbag under the table.
“So, lemme get this straight,” Dean drummed his fingers on the cheap, stained-wood table. “You secretly escaped from the Cage in our half-brother’s meatsuit, and you were…undercover this whole time?"
“We had to make sure Amara didn’t know. If she thought Lucifer posed the only threat, she won’t account for much else.” Michael watched his own bottle drip condensation on to the coaster. He had his own questions for Dean on the matter, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers just yet. Amara and her brazen possession of his true vessel struck a nerve with them both.
After taking another swig of beer, Dean scoffed. “Does that matter?” he asked plainly. “She destroyed, I mean, literally swallowed an army of angels. Somehow, I doubt God’s sister worries about the cavalry comin'."
“No,” Michael allowed. “But the finer points of strategy were never her forte. It’s why we were able to seal her away in the first place."
Dean raised his eyes at that. “Right, so what was that about?”
“She had to be locked away for Creation to happen.” said Michael. “None of this—the universe, your planet— would exist if she wasn’t."
“Right, ‘cause she’s the Darkness,” Dean suddenly smirked, sharp with contempt. “Hey, that why your Dad figured it was no big deal? Y’know...telling us to kill our own brothers? Because that’s how He did it?"
Michael felt his vessel’s lungs empty in surprise, its skin break into goosebumps under a chill that coursed past his body to strike at the core of his grace.
“Dean.” he warned softly. The whole room trembled around that syllable, shaking at the seams until several lights blew out in a shower of sparks and plunged the bar into further dimness.
Luckily, the sound of other patrons yelping in shock and the acrid smell of burnt circuitry seemed to snap Dean out of it, and he groaned in dismay at his own behavior. Michael didn’t miss the way he rubbed at his forearm either—the spot where Amara’s seal used to be at the time when Dean Winchester was all that stood between Creation and the entirety of her oblivion. The same spot where she no doubt wormed her way into his soul.
“Shit. Hey, look,” Dean exhaled and steeled himself like he was about to ask for something more terrible than drinks with his old antagonist. “Your batteries are full. There any chance you can make this stop?"
Stop what? Michael opened his mouth to ask, but it quickly dawned on him when he saw the haunted look in Dean's eyes. “You were angry on her behalf.” he realized, although any concerns about blowing his cover faded under the razor bite of ill-concealed, possessive chagrin. “You and Amara, it’s—"
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare say desire!” Dean growled back. He was angry again, but now he exuded fire instead of reptilian disdain. “It ain’t that, or…love, or—"
“You don’t drown in quicksand because you love the earth,” Michael lifted his chin and stared meaningfully at his true vessel. “Her gravity is simply more powerful than what you are."
“Amara is an abyss, Dean,” he continued softly, after a pause. “All of Creation circles her mouth eventually. It’s nature; you might even say destiny, but it is not love."
Dean hid the despair flashing across his face by draining the last of his beer. “So, what do we do?” he asked, massaging his forehead restively. “How do we stop her?"
His body slumped back against his chair in a gesture that Michael himself understood rather well these days. In lieu of an immediate answer, the archangel took the first sip of his own beer, and quickly made a face at the taste of microbes and molecules.
“With what’s left of Father’s power, I suppose,” he answered, sounding doubtful even to himself. “She has to be locked up again, and this time, we’re going to throw away the key. Or, at least, that’s the plan, but I’ve…”
Michael frowned at the admission pivoted at the tip of his tongue. For the first time, he was about to sound less than confident and he didn’t like the reason why. At all. “I’ve never fought alone before. Father was always there to guide me; if not with His presence, then—"
“He left you a manual, but only till the apocalypse,” Dean finished and nodded wryly. “Yeah, I know how that goes."
“It’s not easy."
“No, it ain't,” A mirthless smile pulled at the hunter’s lips. “But you gotta keep going anyway. No matter what.”
“And it’ll all work out in the end?” Michael folded his arms and glanced out over the crowd before turning back to present company. “Is that your advice? How romantic."
“Well, it’s all us unimportant little ants got,” Dean frowned in mild exasperation. “If you or your feathery frat brothers know something we don’t, I’m all ears."
Michael conceded to his point with a shrug. He couldn’t exactly argue, given their history. “I don’t have to tell you that Amara is a whole different ballgame. Even for us."
“Nah,” Dean agreed, only a little bitter about the fact. He stole the beer Michael obviously wasn’t going to drink and raised it in a mock toast. “But we’ll make a believer outta you, yet."
for @maandarinee who requested dean/michael and #10: “I’m sorry for your loss.”
pairing: dean/michael
word count: 870
tags: canon-divergent, alternate s5 finale, vessel!dean, canon character deaths, hurt/comfort
author’s note: i’m not actually sure what this is so… i apologize, i’m new to this pair /hides face
‘100 Ways’ drabbles • reserve a prompt?
[ao3]
It’s a strange thing, Dean thinks, to watch his body move but not be the one in control. It’s not even out-of-body, because he’s definitely still there, just… in the backseat. While an archangel makes all the decisions.
Through his own eyes, but not, Dean observes as Michael uses the Horsemen’s rings to open the portal to the Cage. He wishes he could look over to his left, where Sam’s on the ground, restraining Lucifer through sheer willpower. He smiles to himself, despite it all.
Originally my Valentine’s Day fic. now drunkenly edited after night’s episode bc how dare? Michael not be topside with his brother?? pining over true vessels??? while making out????
michaelxlucifer
Word count: ~1500
Warnings: Definitely canon divergence, yeah
St. Valentine’s Day-- a popular night to be out, it seemed. The bar was filled to the brim with humans, a swarming crush of hapless souls desperate to make the night count. The alley behind the bar was quieter. There was just one guy in the throes of a bad trip, one lucky recipient of a blowjob, and finally, Lucifer with his fingers curled around the throat of a cupid.
“Please,” the cherub begged. “I was just trying to do my job. I won’t...I won’t tell anyone. Please, brother.”
Ah. It had been too long since he’d been addressed as such by the host. It was almost enough to make him spare the little fellow. Almost.
When the spray of blood from the cupid’s exploded vessel cleared, Lucifer surveyed the rest of his alley-mates and smiled. “Carry on,” he drawled, brushing past various expressions of shellshock. “Just doing a little housekeeping.”
--
Little Castiel certainly maintained an interesting vessel. It was noticeably attractive, but his look of angelic constipation did wonders to keep the rabble at bay. In fact, by the time Lucifer made his way from door to counter, everyone who’d sent him a second glance thought better than to approach, which left him free to cut a straight line through the crowd toward the one person who was too focused on a far away game of pool to see him walk in.
“You know, Michael, you really shouldn’t be this close,” he murmured, just for the satisfaction of seeing the other archangel jump.
He wasn’t disappointed, but the gratification didn’t last long either. Michael went from startled to disapproving in record time.
“Lucifer, did I just sense--”
“Yeah, you did,” Lucifer interrupted testily. “Do feel free to thank me for watching your back when you couldn’t be bothered.”
Michael’s response was a reproachful, yet predictable frown. But it wasn’t was if he had a leg to stand on; not when he’d allowed himself to be distracted by Dean Winchester for the better part of an hour.
Actually, half the men in this bar were glancing enviously in Dean’s direction, but only Michael looked personally offended at each and every woman in the group coyly lining up so the handsome, unattached stranger could ‘teach them pool’. In any other instance, Lucifer would have been happy to leave his brother to his Dean-shaped problems. However, these weren’t normal times.
Pushing himself into Michael’s space, Lucifer wasted no time pressing his lips to this brother’s. It helped that Michael looked good in his new vessel, limned in real light as opposed to the stormy darkness of their shared confinement-- a circumstance for which they had Rowena to thank. For all that the witch was ambitious and clever, the true intricacies of heavenly architecture were a bit beyond her. She had been too starstruck by her celebrity crush, who only had eyes for his true vessel, who in turn only had eyes for his inconvenient rescue party, and the whole doe-eyed daisy chain had overlooked the other, very incendiary, occupant of the Cage.
Lucifer hadn’t lied when he said prison life didn’t suit Michael, but no amount of show tunes or self-love could keep him from seizing the opportunity to escape. So while Lucifer stumbled through his dubious reunion with Sam, it was Michael who ruthlessly stitched Adam Milligan’s unraveling body together long enough to slip from the Cage undetected.
It pushed the lowest bounds of what could pass for a vessel. There were parts of Michael's grace that would never again be the same, thanks to this furtive dash from Hell. Lucifer didn’t even have to look very deeply to see unsettling clusters of dead grace standing out like sunspots against Michael’s usual incandescence.
But all this pain wasn’t without its tactical silver lining.
Their most ancient enemy didn’t know that Heaven’s general walked the earth. Given that Raphael and Gabriel were out of the equation, given the near decimation of the angelic host, given that Darkness was turning Creation inside out and their Father still preferred to play hideaway, the element of complete surprise was the only real advantage they had against Amara. If they could keep it, of course.
“Brother, I’m serious,” Lucifer dragged his fingers along the rough expanse of Michael’s cheek. “She’s bound herself to him now. You don’t know what she can see."
Michael pulled away brusquely. “I know,” he replied. Although, the tightness in his jaw implied he was less than pleased about it.
Lucifer made an irritated noise. He understood, of course: to be near a true vessel after enduring Hell was euphoric. The need to scrub foreign stains of darkness from the person made perfect for them, desperate. But they were well and truly at war, and if he had no more tenderness left to spare for vessels who’d rejected them one too many times--
Dean’s brash laughter carried from his end of the room to their’s, and Lucifer braced under a wave of heartsickness for Sam. He closed his teeth around the tip of Michael’s ear, tasting the grace simmering just behind the skin of this brittle vessel.
Michael shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “Lucifer..."
“That’s me,” Lucifer dug his nails into the side of Michael’s throat. “New dress, same old bunk buddy."
“You’re wearing Castiel,” Michael retorted with no small amount of distaste.
“So what?” Lucifer asked without pulling away. “Is it weird because he’s our baby brother or because he’s the only angel you want to smite more than me?"
“Can’t it be both?"
Lucifer grinned against Michael’s temple because, apparently, it wasn’t beneath their firstborn to be grumpy, but at least he wasn’t mooning over Dean when he was. Lucifer followed his restless gaze out the window to the dusky sky outside. “The choirs, Lucifer,” Michael was saying. “I can’t believe I hear so few of them…"
It had been a while since Lucifer heard any of them. “I’ll take your word for it.” he replied dryly, but sighed when Michael’s stormy rumination upon Castiel’s sins didn’t fade. With a single gesture, he rearranged the bones in the seraph’s vessel and brightened its hair until it shone like a halo under the dim lights.
He nipped at Michael’s shoulder when it was done. “Better now?"
“Hm...?” Michael’s heartbeat sped up, but for all the wrong reasons, of course. Dean Winchester was making his way toward the bar.
Lucifer watched his brother stare, eyes wide with open hunger for his true vessel, and unsubtly kicked his shin. “Let’s go.” he demanded. “If you’re going to blow something, I’d rather it not be your clever disguise.”
--
There was another thing he hadn’t been entirely facetious to Sam about—moving to LA. It was as good a place as any, especially while it held on to the last vestiges of sunlight that settled mutely atop their chosen perch, and limned Michael’s back until it was impossible to tell where that sunlight began and his grace ended.
“I might pass on the crime-solving gig, though,” Lucifer said, winding his fingers through Michael’s dark hair as his brother kissed a hurried path from brow to throat. “Eventually, it’ll all come back to her. Not much of a mystery there...”
“If you say so.”
Lucifer felt Michael settle comfortably between his legs and take nominal advantage of the friction there, but he was too distracted to try for much else. They were both aroused, unquestionably, but trust his big brother to be consumed by random imperatives even in the midst of all this.
Michael cupped one side of this face before stating plainly, “Lucifer, we’re at war."
“I noticed."
“We have to act while she’s wounded, with or without the Winchesters.” continued Michael. ”We can’t afford to waste time."
As if Lucifer had other ideas. “Mm, so might I suggest you spit it out?"
“With Heaven as it is and Dad being…well.” Michael’s eyes turned bright, green irises reflecting the light of Lucifer’s grace. He looked truly perturbed. “Brother, for once, I’m uncertain about the end of this fight."
Oh, of all the worthless--
“I want you to take care of yourself."
Lucifer stilled, raising his eyes to meet Michael’s staring back with a vehemence he’s only seen a few times before. Indeed, these things had been much easier in that Before—as easy as wrapping Michael (ever on the way to engage some enemy on their Father’s behalf) in his bountiful white wings and whispering I love you, brother, make sure you come back to me.
Nowadays, it was more difficult. Nowadays, there were fewer wings between them than teeth, to be bared against the very real possibility that they might lose each other without a chance to say goodbye.
But in this moment, Lucifer nipped at his brother’s thumb as it strayed too close to his lips. “I’ll be fine, Michael,” he replied. “Don’t worry about me.”
Do you still do that ask-thing with characters and headcanons? If so, I'd love to see something with SPN Raphael (they need more looove !) with numbers 6,8,9,13,16,17. Sorry, I got a bit carried away with all of those... ^^' But Thank you!!!
Sure, anon, we can headcanon about Raphael. I’ll use the same pronouns you did :)
6. Hugging headcanon >> Ok so. There was a story on the radio once, about master sushi chefs. When you go to their restaurants, they don’t sit around waiting for you to place an order. They observe you, make small talk, and start putting custom sushi on your plate based on what they inferred from the conversation. You’re served the meal you need, not the one you pointed at.Same with Raphael and hugs. You don’t ask. They give you the kind of hug you need, and you walk away feeling weirdly comforted, or energized, or rejuvenated. And they’ll never tell you their secret, because they enjoy being known as the mystery hug master.
8. Sex headcanon >> Raphael is endlessly curious about sex, but has pretty strict preferences when it comes to their own participation. The best way into their bed is to bring something interesting to it, that falls into their approved categories. They do love their dramatic entrances though. Raphael is the one who’ll step into the bedroom, smile, and blow every circuit in your brain.
9. General physical contact headcanon >> Whether they do it with grace or actual hands, Raphael learns a lot about someone through touch. I always think they’d be very in tune with a body’s electric impulses and internal energy, so physical contact with Raphael is always calculated to make you feel how they want you to feel--whether it’s a comforted by a hug or literally punched into next Tuesday.
13. Nickname headcanon >> Nicknaming Raphael is a privilege afforded to those they respect, like Michael, or those who are too young to know better. Everyone is to know their place and refer to them by their Dad-given name tyvm.
16. Anger headcanon >> Tolerance to drama. My favorite headcanon is that Raphael lets a lot of nonsense pass because they’re either indulgent toward their bby angel fam, or because they’re genuinely curious about the psychology of someone perpetrating nonsense. That, ofc, ends when Nonsense is impeding their ability to get shit done. Then, it’s time to Set An Example.
17. Soft spot headcanon >> Raphael has a soft-spot for the endlessly curious. Any and all messes are forgiven when it’s in the pursuit of science or other types of nerdiness.
And by that I mean provided me with such massive flood of inspiration that I learnt the blessing curse of coffee - because staying up to draw and cry over headcanons and the most gorgeous fics ever definitely doesn’t mix with an early rising to go to work/school.
So I did the 2015 summary too!
Now I’ll turn into a sap, because I’d also love to thank you guys for it: @fluffygodsquad, @mariaghost, @dsha2127, @illusionofwill, @ratpenatu, @stonermicha, @disizletzi and @claranovak for sharing fics and headcanons and reading all the screeching and sobbing I leave in the tags under their work.
The entire #dominion tag for accepting me and encouraging the greatest art spurt I’ve had in years.
Special thanks to @suntosirius and @drinkbloodlikewine who somehow still make up with me tagging them into almost all of my art posts since August, but they and their fics totally deserve any and all the attention, because they are just gorgeous and gave me enough inspiration material for the next year single-handedly. Not to mention how they converted me to a new life-ruining OTP (not just one, but hush, I’m still in denial).
Bottom line is: Thank you, everyone for liking, reblogging, encouraging my art work! It means an awful lot to me, I hope to keep this, and all the wings up next year too! <3
For @thisphenomenalcage because if I remember correctly someone wished for Dean to be praised and complimented and told how precious he was. What better than from Michael, hm? :)
Read on AO3
There was something charming about the ebb and flow of the speed as one drove through the country. Miles and miles of flatted black asphalt, fields of green and sand-yellow lands, with sporadically scattered naked trees clawing at the sky, and occasionally a sleepy town on the side just when Dean needed some variety in the view and a reminder to ease his foot on the gas pedal. All of this slipping by them under a steel-grey sky with the promise of a storm that just made everything glow in a strange, sharp, grey-gold hue.
Sam was meditating in the backseat, drifting in and out of conversation.
Michael sat next to Dean; he had deserved the place, and, truth be told, he was far less disturbing up front than in the back. Plus this way Sam couldn’t mess with Dean’s cassettes. The angel’s head was a phantom weight on Dean’s shoulder, its warmth just far away that he could shift gears without trouble.
OMG Michael is such a boob and I hate hIM?? Where do i even begin on how much I loved this piece--i mean, i liked the setting in the intro; i liked michael reciting angelic love poetry that nobody understands see boob comment above! And ofc I loved Dean getting all huffy and blushy bc hello who else deserves the whole world if not him???
And so do you frufru, for indulging my sappy needs for supernatural dorks in love bc yes ofc this is soooo much better than geo-economics.
*shows up to micheanweek 4 days late with starbucks*
michaelxdean; in which michael helps out on a hunt.
words: ~1200
warnings: gore, child abuse mention, canon-typical violence, my idea of fluff
Humanity was the greatest horror. Dean knew this better than anyone, and yet if he had to do it all over again, he would still have rushed right into the warlock’s lair despite Sam’s repeated pleas to wait for backup. Instincts honed for over a quarter century did that, and once he found what said warlock was really up to, unadulterated rage took care of the rest.
Of course, going up alone against the kind of scum that had no problem using infant blood and live organs as ingredients in a spell was never a good idea, but getting to land a bullet in the monster's face was worth all the telekinetic gutting that came after.
Dean exhaled sharply, breath punched out of his lungs in a way that once again confirmed that any spellcaster this far into the dark side was also stupidly, stupidly powerful. He was pulled upright before he could reach for his gun, and pinned to the wall by an intangible, hateful energy that made his skin crawl.
“You ruined my altar,” the warlock informed him. “But not to worry. You’re no innocent lamb, but your heart will do just fine."
Dean grunted at the pain in his chest; at the horrifying sensation of muscles and sinew being wrenched apart to get at the pulsating thing behind them. His vision turned a bloody white when the first rib broke, but it wasn’t until the second began to splinter that he gathered the breath to ask for a miracle. The first thought which rose from the throes of his pain was a prayer to Castiel, but the invocation that wound around his tongue was older and much more potent than the wry soundbites he used to call on the seraph.
The syllables of this terrific poetry that tasted like warm copper on his tongue manifested as a burst of coruscating light that streamed into the windowless basement through the very pores of the walls.
Everything quaked; brick dust rained from the roof, and what couldn’t hold its structure under the force of this approaching cataclysm, shattered. Including the warlock, Dean realized, because in between gasping for air and searching for his gun, he hadn’t even noticed the harrowing whine of an angel’s true voice above far more human screams.
He stood up clutching his chest, staggering like a wounded animal in the eye of a storm made of holy light.
“You summoned an archangel? You?!” the warlock screeched in spiteful disbelief. “Who are you?!”
Dean barely registered the demand. There was a pyroclast at his back, folded into human form with deceptively sweet green eyes, who filled the acrid lair with an equally sweet, green smell of earth and pine. Michael’s footsteps were soft and purposeful as he approached. Dean sensed his grace rippling in askance.
“I’m your true vessel,” he gasped roughly, still glaring at the thing he came to hunt. “That’s gotta mean something, don’t it?"
“It means everything." Michael did not hesitate, as if the mere inkling of Dean’s wishes drew the words from his mouth.
“Good,” Dean had his hands around the warlock’s throat even before he finished that single syllable, and Michael slid his own palm over the hunter’s shoulder. Now, they were both that pyroclast—what was Michael flowed through Dean, like a river and its branch for him, but much worse for the warlock whose eyes and mouth exploded into flames. Pure holy fire seared away the monster’s flesh and the profane stanch of black magic until it was nothing more than a handful of ashes. Time seemed to slow, but the last of the embers died eventually and Dean shivered.
Tied to a comet was an apt description—it felt like his body contained a swarm of stars, and the contradiction between their immensity and his own smallness was giving his brain vertigo. Dean was only vaguely aware of Michael’s arm looping around his chest to steady him; he was fascinated by his palms, which perversely didn’t look any different even after roasting a person alive?
“Holy shit!” Dean exclaimed, when the magnitude of the act finally hit. “That was—uh…”
“I know,” Michael hummed against the nape of his neck, as if he just knew the human tongue couldn’t possibly describe what had occurred. For Dean’s part, the pain in his chest was no more, but the archangel’s normally comforting warmth made him feel more lightheaded. Divine wrath was different when it was under one’s own skin, like a solvent that was too harsh, that cleansed a little too deeply and left a patch of the world stripped bare instead of merely tidy.
Dean swallowed thickly and swept his eyes at the debris of dark witchcraft still scattered just beyond their hallowed radius. “I thought it’d be more satisfying,” he explained, more steadily than he felt. “but maybe I’m getting old.”
Michael patted his flank in response, his vessel’s fingers slipping under the torn jacket that made up Dean’s FBI disguise. “This kind of vengeance is never about satisfaction,” he replied softly, the rolling timbre of his voice pulling Dean’s attention back to into their single square space containing just them. “It’s about burning the weeds. To save the whole garden, so to speak.”
Instinctively, Dean wrapped Michael’s arms tighter around himself, to ground the angel as much as himself. “Yeah, well, maybe it’s best if I stick to my own weed-whacker from now, and leave yours to you.”
Michael laughed at that, and the swooping plumes of light that Dean now recognized as the archangel’s wings threw dramatic shadows against the decrepit walls. “Whatever you say, Dean.”
-
From the fringes of the operation, Dean watched the local police raid the warlock’s house and a team of paramedics receive a shivering kids who’d gone missing over the last few days. There was nothing more heartwarming than the sound of families reuniting. Unless, of course, it was his own.
“That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done!” Sam was yelling, despite the police chief and at least one deputy side-eyeing his decidedly un-FBI like behavior. “All you had to do was wait a couple minutes and—“
“Come on, Sam, you’re making a scene,” Dean interrupted, flashing the cops a placating gesture before turning back to his infuriated brother. “You know damn well you’d have gone in after those kids, too. And it all worked out, didn’t it?”
Sam looked anything but impressed. “Did it?” he countered. “Dean, do you have any idea how lucky you were that an archangel happened to have his ears on?”
The beginnings of Dean’s reply were lost in a sudden flutter of wings, and Michael’s formidable reappearance to inform them that the lair had been purged of supernatural booby traps.
“Trouble in paradise?” the angel asked, looking at the two of them over a small bundle he held in his arms.
“Eh, Sam’s just hangry,” Dean replied and promptly earned an appalling bitch-face from his brother. The hunter frowned warily when the bundle in Michael’s arms began to move. “Uh, what is that?”
“Oh, this?” Michael asked innocently even as he deposited said ‘this’ into Dean’s arms. It was a baby, one of the ones kidnapped by the psycho they’d just taken care of, and whose cherubic serenity lasted for two whole seconds before the crying began.
“Oh man, come on—“ Dean floundered, but it wasn’t long before the sound attracted the attention of a paramedic and a tearful woman who’d been restlessly hovering behind the police tape. There was a general ruckus headed their way after that, led by desperately relieved mantras of ‘you found her, you found my baby!’
Michael smirked at Dean’s bewildered look. “This is the satisfying part.”
3: What's your favorite line of narration? >> The flashbacks tbh. Bc I’m a sap and they were a relief to write after the sad shit.
They were happy together, once.
Michael remembers endless summer nights in their spacious back garden— Lucifer, his brighter half, finding any excuse for them to touch; Raphael’s rampant curiosity taking her far from their orbit and back again; Gabriel, easily excitable and sticky sweet.
He remembers all of them lying down and gazing up at the very distinct lack of stars against a sky rendered pitch black with smog and pollution.
It’s dark up where heaven is, Dad had said then, because all the angels are down here.
4: What's your favorite line of dialogue? >> The Confrontation, I guess?? No matter how it turned out, that was something I wanted to address. My views on that bit might or might not have changed since I wrote this fic, but yeah it’s out there.
“We were happy! We were happy together!” Michael snarls back, and stands up to direct all his formidable attention on his little brother. His clenched fist presses the silk of his tie against the raw skin of his palm, and the pain pushes him over a reckless line he’d lingered on for years, but never crossed.
"I loved you so much, Lucifer, why wasn’t I good enough for you to stick around? Why wasn’t I worth more than your pride?”
Lucifer actually looks dismayed at the question; Michael can see his eyes brighten, but he bought this upon himself. If nothing else tonight, he would learn to leave locked doors shut.
“That is unfair.” the reply is quiet when it finally comes. “Don’t you think I would have given anything for you to stand with me? I don’t know; maybe then, Dad wouldn’t have taken you for granted as much as he did.”
I mean, it was a little difficult trying to fit Michael into the role of a corrupt church official, but materials like Souryo Fuyumi’s Cesare and the Canal+ Borgia series put forth really well rounded characters so it was easy to justify. And ofc it helps that I was really into Cantarella for a while in highschool, and that is pretty much a renaissance michifer AU so.
Thanks for that! Good to see that Ren-AU attended to <33
