#michaeladam

[shallowseeker]

So...what showtunes did Adam sing for Michael?

[13x02]

Since when do we get what we deserve?

Michael and Adam in Supernatural (2005-2020) // Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises (1926)

[masoena]

MIDAM BANG 2024 !! Kicking things off into the future.

Hello everyone, so exiting to finally be able to share this fic and open the posting period for the first-ever Midam Bang in collaboration with @seidenapfel.

This is a sci-fi take on how Adam and Michael ended up with their own bodies and found a peaceful existence for themselves not so much where but when among slightly different stars than canon verse. A canon rewrite where the Winchesters instead of tricking Michael in S15, helped him get his heart's desire and by extension Adam's. Last but certainly not least be prepared for the happiest of endings each Adam and Michael with a body of their own (no Dean Winchester was kicked out or rehomed from his body in the making of this fic).

Make sure to follow the tag #midam bang 2024 or @midambang24 to see all the amazing fics that will follow in the next few weeks because we are just the first of many Midam fics to come. Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Word Count: 10,038 words

Pairing: Michael Milligan/Adam Link to art: AO3 / Tumblr

Link to fic: AO3

[mandysdestielbookshelf]

Okey y'all I'm on a mission here 🙈

I need more Sabriel and Midam fics in my life and please let them be smutty as hell 🥵🔥

If they are typeset then that's ever better 😍

I've read 2017: A Supernatural Destiel/Sabriel Fanfic and I really enjoyed that one 😍👏🏼

[luuukaal]

The only thing from season 15 I have decided is real is Midam that’s it that’s what’s canon everything else is FALSE

[castiel-with-a-shotgun]

they deserved more screen time!

[bijoharvelle]

this is mostly for @adammilligans and for my personal grief. A little bit fix-it, a little bit coda, a whole lotta grief with no happy ending, sorry. big ol’ 15.19 spoilers!

Michael knows the minute it happens. The nanosecond. One second he’s whole and the next, there is a rend in the very atoms of his soul. He remembers the feel of being locked up in the Cage, being so thoroughly cut off from the love of his Father, the rest of the Heavenly Host.

That was nothing compared to the loss of Adam.

They were in the mountains of upstate New York when it happens. Adam enjoys hiking, he’s found and so they do this often. Trek up mountains and look out at the view. Sometimes Michael will share which of his brothers and sisters created the rock-form they’re looking our from. Sometimes they will just stand together and Michael will curl his Grace, cool and sleek, around Adam’s soul. As if putting a hand to the small of his back.

When it happens, Michael knows within an instance that it was his Father who took Adam, and he knows that Adam isn’t the only one. His senses are still all-consuming, so he knows that this is yet another tantrum, and yet another road that will lead to the Winchesters. 

Past that logic and reasoning, though, Michael screams. He drops to his knees and rages, fists pounding on gravel, his voice echoing out past the horizon. The pain seizes him and settles somewhere deep in his ribs, at the base of his sternum where he could always feel Adam most keenly. He shouts Adam’s name and, in a horrifying moment of humanity, finds tears on his face - Adam’s face.

-

Churches. Books. Paintings and stained glass. The Winchesters and another book. His most disparaged brother.

Through it all, Michael registers the world at a dull pulse beneath the steady thrum of missing Adam.

His Grace reaches out constantly, aching like a living thing, lost. He can tell that the Winchesters are grieving as well, having suffered their own personal losses. A nasty part of him that sounds nothing like Adam whispers Good. 

The Winchesters tell him about a plan, to kill his Father. They seem reluctant to share their plans with him, but Michael shades his eyes. “He took him,” he says finally, toes of Adam’s boots trailing along the bunker floor. “I would like to see him suffer.”

Shocked looks pass between Sam and Dean. Michael can feel the tiny bit of Grace that lives near Dean’s heart flare bright - he hears Castiel’s frequency briefly. When he meets the brothers’ eyes, they both seem to understand.

-

When Michael dies, when his Father kills him, he’s almost thankful. He hates that it has come to this but the weight over his shoulders is relief. He hopes his Father can hear his final thought, which is, of course is, only as long as a name: Adam.

-

When Adam comes back into being, he’s laying on the coast of a lake. Part of him knows that something has happened, but he can’t be sure what. His first thought it that maybe something came for them, some threat appeared, and Michael put him away. He hasn’t done that in a long time, and only when it was absolutely necessary - they had an agreement about such things. 

But then, slowly, he realizes that he’s alone. Not just on these sandy banks, but in his body, in his head, in his soul. He closes his eyes and desperately reaches out in the way he’s learned. Seeking Michael. “No, no, no,” he mutters helplessly. “No, please. No. Michael.” And then, screams it, “Michael!” His hands scrabble at the rocky shore, heaving himself up and casting around for anything, any bit of information, any sense of what has happened.

He’s not long for his feet, though. There’s a few bowls strewn about. A book, maybe. Adam is dizzy with loss, with panic. “Please,” he begs nonsensically, falling to his knees once more. “Please...”

When he prays, there is no answer.

Please...

[qwertyfingers]

i wrote this in a fugue state

[image description: a poem on a dark grey background with white text. it reads as follows:

Adam.

a double barreled rifle shoots through you and leaves twin exit wounds through your shoulder blades and life with a winging scapula.

you are chained inside a ballroom, then a body, then a cage the size of a bedroom shaped like the idea of hell.

the devil’s in the details, sure, but he’s pretty much just a man here.

a general without an army is only a gun.

you are a bruise on the world now and He tells you He’s sorry, how He wishes it could be different; you both try to make it different.

he holds your hand with your own hand, graces you with his grace thrumming through you. hope keeps you ever on the precipice of burning or being burned or escaping into something new.

he chases the taste of fries right out of your mouth.

end image description.]