alchemyalice (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alchemyalice) wrote2010-08-07 11:14 am
alchemyalice) wrote2010-08-07 11:14 am
Entry tags:
Hollowed and Whole
Title: Hollowed and Whole
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Michael
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 'Song Remains the Same'.
Word Count: ~800
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kissbingo, prompt: chest. He fills every inch of him, articulated and careful.
It would be insanity, were it not for the caveat he’d slipped in at the last moment, one that had made that impossible angelic head tilt, and then, unbelievably, acquiesce.
Sam will never believe it. But Dean will make him.
They both will.
There is light enveloping him and consuming, and Dean doesn’t ask how it will all fit, but he’s sure it will all the same in a sort of dizzying rapture of knowledge that he already knows isn’t entirely his own. For a moment that feels like an eon, light is all that he can feel, taste, or touch, and it roars in his ears like a storm. It escalates.
And then it’s gone.
Everything’s a blank darkness, but Dean’s pretty sure that’s just the contrast. He blinks slowly, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Or rather, he tries to blink, but something happens between his brain and his muscles where the signal just…dissipates.
Dude. Blink, or you’re gonna make us go blind.
His eyes very deliberately shut, and then reopen. The view is fuzzy, but slowly returning.
“My apologies.”
Michael sounds strange with Dean’s voice. Not as low or raspy, but more resonant. Dean’s always prided himself on having a trustworthy, firm voice that can get people believing he’s anything from a cop to a janitor. But he’d kill to have this kind of tone. It’s the voice of someone with the authority of nations.
Or, you know, God, as the case may be.
Dean feels his arm lift, and his hand flex. The joints feel stiff, like there’s too much around them, inside them. Michael recedes slightly, and they loosen, become supple.
You remember my end of this bargain?
“How could I not?” Michael says. It’s overpoweringly alien, hearing the voice that’s his and isn’t, with his cadence and not-his formality.
Right. Have at it, then. And he can’t quite suppress the shudder of trepidation, but he’s gone this far, this is his last chance.
There’s a moment of stasis, and then like a nuclear bomb in slow motion, there’s an expansion, billowing from somewhere indefinable, outward. Then Michael is filling every inch of him, articulated and careful.
And Dean’s life is flashing in front of them both, every emotion, every action, every reason piling up, scrolling like microfiche, pummeling them. More than seventy years, forty too many, passing in a breath. Dean, frozen in his own body, waits and prays.
Sam leaving. Dad dying. Meg and Azazel and Ruby and Zachariah and Gabriel, memories of people lost and people against all odds, saved.
Let this be enough, he thinks.
Michael is inscrutable even while sharing head space. Dean feels him narrow eyes that aren't his own, like he's searching for what Dean wants him to see.
Memories flow, overwhelm. The hellscape rises from his subconscious like an abyssal beacon of fire and darkness. Dean shudders, and then Michael does too.
…and then finally, Dean feels it.
The deep thrum of Michael’s grief. Understanding.
And then, impossibly, love.
“I’d forgotten,” Michael says, and horribly this is more familiar, this is Dean’s voice sounding like Dean when he's all choked up with grieving and exhaustion. “Oh Father, I had forgotten.”
Dean feels, in this strange half-conscious way, how Michael recedes then, folds back so that Dean can feel his mind reconnecting to the nerve endings and muscles and hair follicles. He blinks of his own volition. “Michael?”
Michael doesn’t speak. He can’t, not when he’s folded back like this, Dean in full control of his own vocal cords. But Dean hears him anyway.
My father taught me to love mankind. But he never showed me.
Dean breathes numbly.
“So you understand. You know why I want to save us,” he says. He realizes that he’s looking around, like he wants to lock onto Michael, he wants to look into the eyes of the creature whose two-second experience of Dean’s life will decide whether the world lives or dies by his hand.
It isn’t so unreasonable a request, Dean feels.
But Michael is everywhere and nowhere, and at the same time right here with him. Dean can search the horizon all he wants, and he won’t see a thing.
So he does the next best thing. He raises one hand, and presses it against his chest, palm flat against the anti-possession tattoo. Like he can reach in and grab Michael’s hand. "Do you understand?" he asks again.
Yes. Yes, I understand.
And then Dean feels it. It’s a press of light and warmth and fathomless adoration—that’s the only way he can describe this gentle touch that doesn’t so much hit him as caress the molecules of his body, impressing itself into the concave surface of his ribs.
He feels Michael’s lips (or whatever the angelic equivalent of lips is) like a shiver of intimate contact against bone and sinew and muscle, and against the soft tissue of his lungs and his aorta. A kiss upon his heart, from the inside of his chest.
He exhales like he’s been punched, and presses his hand harder over the tattoo.
Thank you, Dean Winchester. You have saved me from a grave error.
Dean breathes deeply, and pretends the surge of hope and affection he feels welling in him belongs to the entity that isn’t him in his skin.
“Well, good.”
Let’s save the world, then.
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Michael
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 'Song Remains the Same'.
Word Count: ~800
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: For
kissbingo, prompt: chest. He fills every inch of him, articulated and careful.It would be insanity, were it not for the caveat he’d slipped in at the last moment, one that had made that impossible angelic head tilt, and then, unbelievably, acquiesce.
Sam will never believe it. But Dean will make him.
They both will.
There is light enveloping him and consuming, and Dean doesn’t ask how it will all fit, but he’s sure it will all the same in a sort of dizzying rapture of knowledge that he already knows isn’t entirely his own. For a moment that feels like an eon, light is all that he can feel, taste, or touch, and it roars in his ears like a storm. It escalates.
And then it’s gone.
Everything’s a blank darkness, but Dean’s pretty sure that’s just the contrast. He blinks slowly, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Or rather, he tries to blink, but something happens between his brain and his muscles where the signal just…dissipates.
Dude. Blink, or you’re gonna make us go blind.
His eyes very deliberately shut, and then reopen. The view is fuzzy, but slowly returning.
“My apologies.”
Michael sounds strange with Dean’s voice. Not as low or raspy, but more resonant. Dean’s always prided himself on having a trustworthy, firm voice that can get people believing he’s anything from a cop to a janitor. But he’d kill to have this kind of tone. It’s the voice of someone with the authority of nations.
Or, you know, God, as the case may be.
Dean feels his arm lift, and his hand flex. The joints feel stiff, like there’s too much around them, inside them. Michael recedes slightly, and they loosen, become supple.
You remember my end of this bargain?
“How could I not?” Michael says. It’s overpoweringly alien, hearing the voice that’s his and isn’t, with his cadence and not-his formality.
Right. Have at it, then. And he can’t quite suppress the shudder of trepidation, but he’s gone this far, this is his last chance.
There’s a moment of stasis, and then like a nuclear bomb in slow motion, there’s an expansion, billowing from somewhere indefinable, outward. Then Michael is filling every inch of him, articulated and careful.
And Dean’s life is flashing in front of them both, every emotion, every action, every reason piling up, scrolling like microfiche, pummeling them. More than seventy years, forty too many, passing in a breath. Dean, frozen in his own body, waits and prays.
Sam leaving. Dad dying. Meg and Azazel and Ruby and Zachariah and Gabriel, memories of people lost and people against all odds, saved.
Let this be enough, he thinks.
Michael is inscrutable even while sharing head space. Dean feels him narrow eyes that aren't his own, like he's searching for what Dean wants him to see.
Memories flow, overwhelm. The hellscape rises from his subconscious like an abyssal beacon of fire and darkness. Dean shudders, and then Michael does too.
…and then finally, Dean feels it.
The deep thrum of Michael’s grief. Understanding.
And then, impossibly, love.
“I’d forgotten,” Michael says, and horribly this is more familiar, this is Dean’s voice sounding like Dean when he's all choked up with grieving and exhaustion. “Oh Father, I had forgotten.”
Dean feels, in this strange half-conscious way, how Michael recedes then, folds back so that Dean can feel his mind reconnecting to the nerve endings and muscles and hair follicles. He blinks of his own volition. “Michael?”
Michael doesn’t speak. He can’t, not when he’s folded back like this, Dean in full control of his own vocal cords. But Dean hears him anyway.
My father taught me to love mankind. But he never showed me.
Dean breathes numbly.
“So you understand. You know why I want to save us,” he says. He realizes that he’s looking around, like he wants to lock onto Michael, he wants to look into the eyes of the creature whose two-second experience of Dean’s life will decide whether the world lives or dies by his hand.
It isn’t so unreasonable a request, Dean feels.
But Michael is everywhere and nowhere, and at the same time right here with him. Dean can search the horizon all he wants, and he won’t see a thing.
So he does the next best thing. He raises one hand, and presses it against his chest, palm flat against the anti-possession tattoo. Like he can reach in and grab Michael’s hand. "Do you understand?" he asks again.
Yes. Yes, I understand.
And then Dean feels it. It’s a press of light and warmth and fathomless adoration—that’s the only way he can describe this gentle touch that doesn’t so much hit him as caress the molecules of his body, impressing itself into the concave surface of his ribs.
He feels Michael’s lips (or whatever the angelic equivalent of lips is) like a shiver of intimate contact against bone and sinew and muscle, and against the soft tissue of his lungs and his aorta. A kiss upon his heart, from the inside of his chest.
He exhales like he’s been punched, and presses his hand harder over the tattoo.
Thank you, Dean Winchester. You have saved me from a grave error.
Dean breathes deeply, and pretends the surge of hope and affection he feels welling in him belongs to the entity that isn’t him in his skin.
“Well, good.”
Let’s save the world, then.
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YES.
(Literally, hah.)
Beautiful, honey.
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This is beautifully written. Just...exquisite. I love, love, love the way you write Michael in Dean's body. Lovely imagery, and very emotional.
All in all, an awesome job. This is going on my Favorites list for sure. :)
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But I'm really glad you enjoyed it. I love writing Michael, he's very fun to explore. Thanks for reading :)
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This was just perfect!
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Loved it :)
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beautiful
(Because yes he wants to be INSIDE Dean! 8D)
That was lovely, as always.
Winged Golden Tiger
Re: beautiful
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I wonder if labelling it with a Dean/Michael might put some anti-slashers off reading it, when it really isn't slashy at all....and it is a little gem.
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Re: the slash thing--well, I figure since it's kiss bingo and the two participants are male (-ish, in Michael's case) the categorization of slash was sort of a foregone conclusion. And I wouldn't want to tell people its gen and then have them find it too slashy for their tastes. So, eh? I guess I'm just erring on the side of caution :P
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&hearts
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