There was a soft, warm breeze. He could feel it against his skin, rustling his hair in the gentlest way possible. Which was the sign the archangel picked up that something wasn't right. There was the slightest possibility that he was out of the cage, out, for good, could you imagine? However, in reality he knew the cage was playing its favorite trick on him once more, making him feel like we was out, and then, when he believed it, pulling him back into the dark coldness of the cage. But this was new, the breeze, the hair, the skin. The cage seemed incapable of making him feel as though his had a vessel.
Opening his eyes a little quick, he squinted up at the stretch of blue above him, marked with puffs of soft white clouds. 'Don't believe you're out just yet' He told himself silently, using elbows to prop himself up into a semi-sitting position. No, this definitely right. Looking down at himself, he recognized this vessel. The strong build, short (or short compared to his true vessel), John Winchester was his name. Next, Michael ran his new hands through his new hair, before tracing his new fingers across his face. Could they one consider them new? He'd possessed this vessel before, once, for a short period of time. Only this felt different. So very different. He couldn't feel the presence of the soul of John, it felt empty, just him, completely alone. He pushed the thought aside, his movements slow and calm as he got to his feet, readjusting the dark jacket on his shoulders.
Next was figuring out where he was, and why the cage chose this spot particularly. His green eyes traveled around his surroundings, his feet moving with them slowly in a small circle. His gaze watched the tombstones, the rotten wooden crosses, the stone ones with mold growing and the words engraved in them worn down and fading. Yes, he recognized this place, how could he forget? After all, it was the last place he'd been before he fell into the cage with his brother and their vessels. He remembered that as clear as day, falling for what felt like millennia, ripped from his vessel. Then the torture from the cage. The archangel visibly shuddered, closing his eyes tightly for a second and trying not to think about that.
Once his eyes opened again, and he finished looking around, he realized for the first time that he wasn't alone. That was another sign that something was definitely not right. Yes, the cage had pulled this trick before, but never had Michael woken up presumably out of the cage with him next to the archangel. There, sprawled out on the dead grass in what looked like an uncomfortable position, lay Adam Milligan. It was unmistakeably Adam Milligan, however, Michael could clearly tell his soul had broken from the cage. Badly. The archangel couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as he moved to kneel down on the ground next to Adam, placing his hand on the human's shoulder lightly, in a measly attempt to wake him. "Adam." His voice scratched at his throat, dry and hoarse, unused for many years. Nevertheless, he forced himself to speak again, two simple words, hopefully loud enough. "Wake up."
cagedbrother
