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alchemyaliceTitle: On the Wings of War
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Action/Adventure/Horror, Dean/Castiel
Rating: R for violence
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.14-ish? It goes AWOL from there.
Word Count: No idea yet, but very, very long.
Disclaimer: Entirely not mine. Just playin'.
Summary: The Horsemen are not just people with fancy rings. They aren’t even demons with fancy rings. They are another species entirely, a force unto themselves, and Lucifer is kidding himself if he thinks that they are at his beck and call. They are separate. They are neutral. Dean Winchester is not built like them.
A/N: In honor of hitting 20 chapters and 60,000 words (holy shit on a stick) we are actually getting some Dean/Castiel in here. Not a lot, but it's there. Also, it's come to my attention that there are A MILLION FUCKING PLOT HOLES. When this is all over, Imma have to go back and fix that shit. This is what happens when you write in installments without a game plan. Argh.
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
He could feel it. He knew with deadly certainty that the potential was there.
It was a hum, almost spectral, like how Dean imagined photons would feel, a sheet of them just one particle thick, concentrated in that unmistakable outline on his upper arm.
That was what he needed to give back.
Dean was pretty sure he could feel his hand bruising Castiel’s ribcage.
Castiel just looked at him in consternation. “Dean. What are you doing?”
“Just. Be quiet for a second, Cas. Please?”
He concentrated on heat, and the feeble glow of light that wasn’t light that was fractured beneath Castiel’s skin. He concentrated on its echo beneath his own.
It was more than that, he was certain, however. And it wasn’t coming naturally, not like spreading violence through the cinnamon scent of war on the air. He was trying to do something he wasn’t built for.
He closed his eyes, and tried to reach the core of it, power that hadn’t been assigned purpose yet.
He was dimly aware of Castiel saying his name with increasing concern.
His hand heated, gathering up something dissipated in him, pulling it together into something hard and intent and potent.
He searched for more of that photon hum, found the roughened pieces of it under his hand, beneath Castiel’s skin that wasn’t his, the intensity of a star that’d been shredded up and was trying so desperately to hold itself together even as its edges dimmed out.
He wouldn’t stand by and watch that happen.
He didn’t.
Castiel jerked against him, like he’d been shocked.
Light exploded outward.
Dean woke like he’d been drowning, gasping for air, flailing wildly and nearly knocking over a side table with one flapping wing. He scrambled blindly to his feet, slapping one hand heavily onto the edge of the guest bed before realizing where he was and why he couldn’t see.
Omar’s spare room. Night had fallen and the curtains were drawn.
He tucked his wings back in close, praying he hadn’t done any damage, and then fumbled around for the light switch by the door. Found it and flipped it on.
Castiel lay on his back, exactly as Dean had left him that evening.
But his eyes were wide open.
Dean felt something crack in his chest. “Cas?” he said, his whole body shaking. He stumbled back towards the bed.
Castiel just watched him, a confusion of emotions flitting across his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but it wasn’t until Dean eased himself down onto the edge of the bed that he managed to make a sound.
“That,” he rasped, and then swallowed before continued, “Was very foolish.”
Laughter welled up in Dean’s chest, nonsensical, and came out like a cross between a cough and a bark. When he raised a hand to lay it on the angel’s shoulder, it shook.
“You’re talking, and we’re awake,” he said hoarsely. “What’s foolish about that?”
Castiel coughed violently, and Dean automatically steadied him as he tried to sit up. When the convulsions subsided, the angel glared at him and said, “You could have died. That piece of my grace was what allowed your body to accept the changes War’s ring made to you. Without it, you could have torn yourself apart.”
Dean pressed his lips together, and looked down at himself before looking back at Castiel. “Well, I feel fine,” he said. “So…wahey?”
That wasn’t entirely accurate.
Dean felt…changed. Like the cogs and axles inside of him had shifted just slightly and found a new set of grooves to settle into before setting into motion again. Like his programming had been altered irrevocably.
He couldn’t tell whether it was just his Horseman side changing, or all of him. Hell, he didn’t even know if there were sides to him any longer.
Castiel was shaking his head, a minute movement of both disapproval and (though perhaps it was Dean’s imagination), fondness. “You should not have risked it. I would have died peacefully for you.”
“Yeah, and I wouldn’t have been peaceful ever again,” Dean replied.
Castiel looked up at him, almost comically exasperated, given his current state of repose. “You need to begin forgiving yourself for things outside your control.”
“And you need to be there to help me do that.”
Castiel cocked his head, like Dean had surprised him, but Dean just looked at him steadily. He realized belatedly that he was exhausted, too exhausted to not be honest at this point. The sleep he’d had was no sleep at all, and now everything, from Abaddon to the dream was hitting him.
Roughly, he said, “Move over.”
With some difficulty, Castiel did, his movement eased only slightly by the fact that Dean had stripped him of his coat and jacket earlier in order to get at his wounds. Gracelessly, Dean rolled from his perched position on the edge of the bed onto his side beside Castiel, wings flopping around awkwardly before one came to rest off the side and onto the floor, while the other seemed to hover uncertainly before Dean eyed the watchful figure beside him and then deliberately lowered it over the both of them. It was large enough to cover them both, spines retracting slightly to create dimples in the mattress and nothing more.
Dean looked at Castiel’s face, a face that housed something far more than just a human brain and an assemblage of bones and nerves and muscles, and said, “You’re. You’re not allowed to sacrifice yourself for me, okay?”
Castiel looked at him like he’d gone slightly insane. “Dean,” he said. “That’s the very first thing you asked me to do.”
Dean gritted his teeth in frustration, and scooted closer. “That was before I knew you. And that wasn’t for me; that was for everyone.”
Castiel raised a sardonic (and scarred) eyebrow. “They often end up being one and the same.”
Unconsciously, Dean’s wing tightened, pulling Cas towards him. Castiel went; though perhaps only out of lack of motivation and strength to do otherwise. He rolled to face Dean, bandages glowing faint gray in the filtered starlight coming in through the shaded window, the only features discernable his steady blue eyes.
Dean gave in to impulse, and placed his thumb on the hard edge of Castiel’s cheekbone before sweeping upwards, chasing the shadow. “You’re the only one who’s ever believed in me, from start to finish,” he said.
Castiel blinked slowly. “I’ve had doubts,” he said baldly.
Dean nodded. “But you’ve always come back.”
For the first time, Castiel moved of his own volition, and it’s to raise one hand to close over Dean’s. “You’ve given me good reason to,” he allowed.
“Cas,” Dean said, looking steadily at him through the darkness, “You’re not just a soldier of God anymore. You’re not disposable. You’re…you’re my soldier, now. And I don’t want you to die.”
“And I have never wanted to,” Castiel replied, as if that had ever been questionable. His innate fierceness that always scared Dean at some visceral level had always been testament to that.
“But even. Even for me,” Dean said, still tracing that hard line of bone beneath skin, needing to confirm its reality. “You can’t. Because you’d take me with you, okay? That’s just…how it is. So don’t. Okay?”
Castiel…frowned. “Dean?”
“Don’t make me spell it out for you any more, Cas, because I’m too goddamn tired for it. Just…don’t do it again. I’m not stopping the Apocalypse without you, and that’s fuckin’ it.”
Castiel watched as Dean’s eyes slipped to half-mast, and then shut. His hand remained tight on the plane of the angel’s face, and Castiel shifted just slightly under it.
Enough to tilt Dean’s head towards him; close enough to press his lips to his brow.
***
“Are you…okay?” Sam said eventually.
“Sure thing, kiddo. Good as new.”
Sam blinked at the archangel for a second, and then said again, “Are you okay?”
Gabriel finally looked at him, unreadable expression twisting at the corner of his features. “I’ll be fine. Nothing a few days’ recovery won’t fix.” He seemed to adjust his shoulders, like they weren’t quite the same as how he’d left them, and then he looked at Sam. “And how do you feel? Back to business as usual?”
Sam grimaced. “Mostly?” he tried.
“Uh huh,” Gabriel said grimly. “How’s that going for you? And tell me the truth, Sammy.”
They were driving. Bobby had gotten what remained of the town into a safe house, which they’d salted and warded with every symbol and sigil they knew. Sam had taken one look at their shell-shocked faces and had a feeling that even if they managed, by some miracle, to stop everything and shut Lucifer down, the world was going to be a very different place from there on out. This was just too big, and there were too many witnesses.
He swallowed, gripping the wheel tightly, and eventually said, “I think you left something behind.”
He felt Gabriel go still next to him. “How d’you mean?” the archangel said eventually.
“It’s just…there’s this sort of slow burn. Under my skin. You know?”
“No, I really don’t,” Gabriel murmured. Then more loudly, “Does it bother you?”
Sam shrugged. “I can ignore it. But. Do you think it’s going to stay?”
“No idea. It might now. Residual energy usually doesn’t stick around, but you weren’t meant to house me, so while Cas’s vessel probably didn’t feel much when Cas left him, you might.”
Sam thought about that for about a mile.
Then he said, very seriously, “You fucking gave me angel heartburn.”
Gabriel snorted. And then laughed.
Bobby looked between the both of them from the back seat, and muttered, “Idjits.”
***
A forest was growing on Belle Isle.
It sprung to life out of falling stars like the Rite of Spring, like tectonic plates were driving them upwards, willing the trees into existence.
Nothing so natural was taking place.
Michael stood among erupting oaks and pines that unfurled like the seasons and years were sloughing off of them, mud under torrential rainfall. Great dashes of light lit up the sky like daubs of the brightest, most fluorescent paint. He could hear the awed voices of Detroit citygoers stopping to look up, pointing and filming with camera phones the meteor shower taking place.
Michael counted each and every fallen. Knew their names, as their graces sprung up and shot to new life beneath his feet. He closed his eyes to listen to their confusion, their doubt, and their final acts of flight.
“I had forgotten what it was like. Watching Heaven fall.”
Michael didn’t turn. “Not all of it.”
“No,” Lucifer said. “Never all.”
He came up to stand beside Michael, his own vessel taller and broader, but crumbling at the edges where Michael’s was gaunt and sharp. They looked like brothers, despite themselves.
“I didn’t expect you to be here, what with Dean Winchester being…indisposed,” Lucifer said eventually.
Michael nodded. “And yet, here I am.”
“Having taken some pains to get here. What is this form of yours, seventeenth century?”
“Eighteenth. A genealogical anomaly I took advantage of.”
Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “Still believing in our Father’s plan?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be here at all. As you said.”
Lucifer hummed. And then, “Then do you not understand my side of things, brother?”
The question arose quietly, and gently. Michael finally turned. “I understand doubt,” he said slowly, “When perhaps I did not before. I understand choice.”
Lucifer stepped towards him, putting a hand out. Before he could reach Michael’s shoulder, however, Michael caught his wrist and pulled it back down. He didn’t let go, though.
“What I will never understand,” he continued, looking into his brother’s face, “Is your determination to destroy all of those who would also choose with you.”
Lucifer seemed to shrink into his vessel, his light receding. Michael felt its absence keenly, but didn’t let his expression change. “You’ve learned nothing, then,” Satan said, pulling his wrist away. “Even after all these millennia.”
“I’ve learned enough,” Michael said steadily.
“A blind fool no longer,” Satan murmured. “But a fool nonetheless.” Then his eyes slid downwards. “You would draw your sword upon me now, Michael?”
“Only to give weight to my word,” Michael replied. The blade was loose in his hand, green with the reflection of bursting leaves and reaching saplings.
Lucifer’s eyes flicked down at the weapon and then back up. “That’s not even yours,” he accused. “Where is the Sword?”
Michael looked at him neutrally. “It belongs to Dean Winchester now.”
Satan unfurled in anger. “That child is the new hand of righteousness?”
“So it seems.”
He started forward, “And that does not inspire you to rage? That our Father who we gave everything to chose to bestow his glory, your honor upon an abomination?”
Michael stopped him with the outstretched blade at his collar. “You said it yourself,” he said. “I doubt Father’s hand is at play.”
“Then what--? I do not understand you,” Lucifer snapped. “I should kill you right now just to relieve you of this misplaced indignity.”
“Funny,” Michael said thinly. “I was rather thinking the same thing.”
“You couldn’t kill me with that toothpick even if you tried.”
Michael lowered the sword. “And you couldn’t kill me with the graces of our fallen brethren all around us. Angels who chose humanity over evil.”
“Paltry protection,” Lucifer sneered, “Springing from a paltry species.”
“You call me blind, and yet you’re the one who continually refuses to see,” Michael shook his head. “Is it so terrible to find greater value in flaws fought against than perfection squandered?”
“You’ve become even more like Father in his absence. I pity you.”
“And I take pity upon you.” Michael moved forward. “Please, Morningstar. This will end badly for you. You may not fear me, but you should fear what is to come.”
Lucifer only withdrew further, brimstone accumulated from the Pit seeping off of him, killing off the grass beneath their feet. “I won’t be your mercy kill, brother,” he growled. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
Michael blinked slowly, and looked unimaginably old. “Wouldn’t you rather be mine, than Dean’s?” he asked.
Lucifer snorted. “The day that boy becomes Horseman enough for me to fear him, will be the day I set down my sword forever.”
Michael nodded in resignation. “Then I will see you upon the water,” said he.
Lucifer’s smile was crooked and unkind. He dipped a comical, rolling bow before disappearing.
“Choice,” Michael murmured, as angels continued to fall. “Always squandered.”
Chapter Twenty-One.
Author: Alchemy Alice
Genre and/or Pairing: Action/Adventure/Horror, Dean/Castiel
Rating: R for violence
Warnings/Spoilers: Up to 5.14-ish? It goes AWOL from there.
Word Count: No idea yet, but very, very long.
Disclaimer: Entirely not mine. Just playin'.
Summary: The Horsemen are not just people with fancy rings. They aren’t even demons with fancy rings. They are another species entirely, a force unto themselves, and Lucifer is kidding himself if he thinks that they are at his beck and call. They are separate. They are neutral. Dean Winchester is not built like them.
A/N: In honor of hitting 20 chapters and 60,000 words (holy shit on a stick) we are actually getting some Dean/Castiel in here. Not a lot, but it's there. Also, it's come to my attention that there are A MILLION FUCKING PLOT HOLES. When this is all over, Imma have to go back and fix that shit. This is what happens when you write in installments without a game plan. Argh.
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
He could feel it. He knew with deadly certainty that the potential was there.
It was a hum, almost spectral, like how Dean imagined photons would feel, a sheet of them just one particle thick, concentrated in that unmistakable outline on his upper arm.
That was what he needed to give back.
Dean was pretty sure he could feel his hand bruising Castiel’s ribcage.
Castiel just looked at him in consternation. “Dean. What are you doing?”
“Just. Be quiet for a second, Cas. Please?”
He concentrated on heat, and the feeble glow of light that wasn’t light that was fractured beneath Castiel’s skin. He concentrated on its echo beneath his own.
It was more than that, he was certain, however. And it wasn’t coming naturally, not like spreading violence through the cinnamon scent of war on the air. He was trying to do something he wasn’t built for.
He closed his eyes, and tried to reach the core of it, power that hadn’t been assigned purpose yet.
He was dimly aware of Castiel saying his name with increasing concern.
His hand heated, gathering up something dissipated in him, pulling it together into something hard and intent and potent.
He searched for more of that photon hum, found the roughened pieces of it under his hand, beneath Castiel’s skin that wasn’t his, the intensity of a star that’d been shredded up and was trying so desperately to hold itself together even as its edges dimmed out.
He wouldn’t stand by and watch that happen.
He didn’t.
Castiel jerked against him, like he’d been shocked.
Light exploded outward.
Dean woke like he’d been drowning, gasping for air, flailing wildly and nearly knocking over a side table with one flapping wing. He scrambled blindly to his feet, slapping one hand heavily onto the edge of the guest bed before realizing where he was and why he couldn’t see.
Omar’s spare room. Night had fallen and the curtains were drawn.
He tucked his wings back in close, praying he hadn’t done any damage, and then fumbled around for the light switch by the door. Found it and flipped it on.
Castiel lay on his back, exactly as Dean had left him that evening.
But his eyes were wide open.
Dean felt something crack in his chest. “Cas?” he said, his whole body shaking. He stumbled back towards the bed.
Castiel just watched him, a confusion of emotions flitting across his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but it wasn’t until Dean eased himself down onto the edge of the bed that he managed to make a sound.
“That,” he rasped, and then swallowed before continued, “Was very foolish.”
Laughter welled up in Dean’s chest, nonsensical, and came out like a cross between a cough and a bark. When he raised a hand to lay it on the angel’s shoulder, it shook.
“You’re talking, and we’re awake,” he said hoarsely. “What’s foolish about that?”
Castiel coughed violently, and Dean automatically steadied him as he tried to sit up. When the convulsions subsided, the angel glared at him and said, “You could have died. That piece of my grace was what allowed your body to accept the changes War’s ring made to you. Without it, you could have torn yourself apart.”
Dean pressed his lips together, and looked down at himself before looking back at Castiel. “Well, I feel fine,” he said. “So…wahey?”
That wasn’t entirely accurate.
Dean felt…changed. Like the cogs and axles inside of him had shifted just slightly and found a new set of grooves to settle into before setting into motion again. Like his programming had been altered irrevocably.
He couldn’t tell whether it was just his Horseman side changing, or all of him. Hell, he didn’t even know if there were sides to him any longer.
Castiel was shaking his head, a minute movement of both disapproval and (though perhaps it was Dean’s imagination), fondness. “You should not have risked it. I would have died peacefully for you.”
“Yeah, and I wouldn’t have been peaceful ever again,” Dean replied.
Castiel looked up at him, almost comically exasperated, given his current state of repose. “You need to begin forgiving yourself for things outside your control.”
“And you need to be there to help me do that.”
Castiel cocked his head, like Dean had surprised him, but Dean just looked at him steadily. He realized belatedly that he was exhausted, too exhausted to not be honest at this point. The sleep he’d had was no sleep at all, and now everything, from Abaddon to the dream was hitting him.
Roughly, he said, “Move over.”
With some difficulty, Castiel did, his movement eased only slightly by the fact that Dean had stripped him of his coat and jacket earlier in order to get at his wounds. Gracelessly, Dean rolled from his perched position on the edge of the bed onto his side beside Castiel, wings flopping around awkwardly before one came to rest off the side and onto the floor, while the other seemed to hover uncertainly before Dean eyed the watchful figure beside him and then deliberately lowered it over the both of them. It was large enough to cover them both, spines retracting slightly to create dimples in the mattress and nothing more.
Dean looked at Castiel’s face, a face that housed something far more than just a human brain and an assemblage of bones and nerves and muscles, and said, “You’re. You’re not allowed to sacrifice yourself for me, okay?”
Castiel looked at him like he’d gone slightly insane. “Dean,” he said. “That’s the very first thing you asked me to do.”
Dean gritted his teeth in frustration, and scooted closer. “That was before I knew you. And that wasn’t for me; that was for everyone.”
Castiel raised a sardonic (and scarred) eyebrow. “They often end up being one and the same.”
Unconsciously, Dean’s wing tightened, pulling Cas towards him. Castiel went; though perhaps only out of lack of motivation and strength to do otherwise. He rolled to face Dean, bandages glowing faint gray in the filtered starlight coming in through the shaded window, the only features discernable his steady blue eyes.
Dean gave in to impulse, and placed his thumb on the hard edge of Castiel’s cheekbone before sweeping upwards, chasing the shadow. “You’re the only one who’s ever believed in me, from start to finish,” he said.
Castiel blinked slowly. “I’ve had doubts,” he said baldly.
Dean nodded. “But you’ve always come back.”
For the first time, Castiel moved of his own volition, and it’s to raise one hand to close over Dean’s. “You’ve given me good reason to,” he allowed.
“Cas,” Dean said, looking steadily at him through the darkness, “You’re not just a soldier of God anymore. You’re not disposable. You’re…you’re my soldier, now. And I don’t want you to die.”
“And I have never wanted to,” Castiel replied, as if that had ever been questionable. His innate fierceness that always scared Dean at some visceral level had always been testament to that.
“But even. Even for me,” Dean said, still tracing that hard line of bone beneath skin, needing to confirm its reality. “You can’t. Because you’d take me with you, okay? That’s just…how it is. So don’t. Okay?”
Castiel…frowned. “Dean?”
“Don’t make me spell it out for you any more, Cas, because I’m too goddamn tired for it. Just…don’t do it again. I’m not stopping the Apocalypse without you, and that’s fuckin’ it.”
Castiel watched as Dean’s eyes slipped to half-mast, and then shut. His hand remained tight on the plane of the angel’s face, and Castiel shifted just slightly under it.
Enough to tilt Dean’s head towards him; close enough to press his lips to his brow.
***
“Are you…okay?” Sam said eventually.
“Sure thing, kiddo. Good as new.”
Sam blinked at the archangel for a second, and then said again, “Are you okay?”
Gabriel finally looked at him, unreadable expression twisting at the corner of his features. “I’ll be fine. Nothing a few days’ recovery won’t fix.” He seemed to adjust his shoulders, like they weren’t quite the same as how he’d left them, and then he looked at Sam. “And how do you feel? Back to business as usual?”
Sam grimaced. “Mostly?” he tried.
“Uh huh,” Gabriel said grimly. “How’s that going for you? And tell me the truth, Sammy.”
They were driving. Bobby had gotten what remained of the town into a safe house, which they’d salted and warded with every symbol and sigil they knew. Sam had taken one look at their shell-shocked faces and had a feeling that even if they managed, by some miracle, to stop everything and shut Lucifer down, the world was going to be a very different place from there on out. This was just too big, and there were too many witnesses.
He swallowed, gripping the wheel tightly, and eventually said, “I think you left something behind.”
He felt Gabriel go still next to him. “How d’you mean?” the archangel said eventually.
“It’s just…there’s this sort of slow burn. Under my skin. You know?”
“No, I really don’t,” Gabriel murmured. Then more loudly, “Does it bother you?”
Sam shrugged. “I can ignore it. But. Do you think it’s going to stay?”
“No idea. It might now. Residual energy usually doesn’t stick around, but you weren’t meant to house me, so while Cas’s vessel probably didn’t feel much when Cas left him, you might.”
Sam thought about that for about a mile.
Then he said, very seriously, “You fucking gave me angel heartburn.”
Gabriel snorted. And then laughed.
Bobby looked between the both of them from the back seat, and muttered, “Idjits.”
***
A forest was growing on Belle Isle.
It sprung to life out of falling stars like the Rite of Spring, like tectonic plates were driving them upwards, willing the trees into existence.
Nothing so natural was taking place.
Michael stood among erupting oaks and pines that unfurled like the seasons and years were sloughing off of them, mud under torrential rainfall. Great dashes of light lit up the sky like daubs of the brightest, most fluorescent paint. He could hear the awed voices of Detroit citygoers stopping to look up, pointing and filming with camera phones the meteor shower taking place.
Michael counted each and every fallen. Knew their names, as their graces sprung up and shot to new life beneath his feet. He closed his eyes to listen to their confusion, their doubt, and their final acts of flight.
“I had forgotten what it was like. Watching Heaven fall.”
Michael didn’t turn. “Not all of it.”
“No,” Lucifer said. “Never all.”
He came up to stand beside Michael, his own vessel taller and broader, but crumbling at the edges where Michael’s was gaunt and sharp. They looked like brothers, despite themselves.
“I didn’t expect you to be here, what with Dean Winchester being…indisposed,” Lucifer said eventually.
Michael nodded. “And yet, here I am.”
“Having taken some pains to get here. What is this form of yours, seventeenth century?”
“Eighteenth. A genealogical anomaly I took advantage of.”
Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “Still believing in our Father’s plan?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be here at all. As you said.”
Lucifer hummed. And then, “Then do you not understand my side of things, brother?”
The question arose quietly, and gently. Michael finally turned. “I understand doubt,” he said slowly, “When perhaps I did not before. I understand choice.”
Lucifer stepped towards him, putting a hand out. Before he could reach Michael’s shoulder, however, Michael caught his wrist and pulled it back down. He didn’t let go, though.
“What I will never understand,” he continued, looking into his brother’s face, “Is your determination to destroy all of those who would also choose with you.”
Lucifer seemed to shrink into his vessel, his light receding. Michael felt its absence keenly, but didn’t let his expression change. “You’ve learned nothing, then,” Satan said, pulling his wrist away. “Even after all these millennia.”
“I’ve learned enough,” Michael said steadily.
“A blind fool no longer,” Satan murmured. “But a fool nonetheless.” Then his eyes slid downwards. “You would draw your sword upon me now, Michael?”
“Only to give weight to my word,” Michael replied. The blade was loose in his hand, green with the reflection of bursting leaves and reaching saplings.
Lucifer’s eyes flicked down at the weapon and then back up. “That’s not even yours,” he accused. “Where is the Sword?”
Michael looked at him neutrally. “It belongs to Dean Winchester now.”
Satan unfurled in anger. “That child is the new hand of righteousness?”
“So it seems.”
He started forward, “And that does not inspire you to rage? That our Father who we gave everything to chose to bestow his glory, your honor upon an abomination?”
Michael stopped him with the outstretched blade at his collar. “You said it yourself,” he said. “I doubt Father’s hand is at play.”
“Then what--? I do not understand you,” Lucifer snapped. “I should kill you right now just to relieve you of this misplaced indignity.”
“Funny,” Michael said thinly. “I was rather thinking the same thing.”
“You couldn’t kill me with that toothpick even if you tried.”
Michael lowered the sword. “And you couldn’t kill me with the graces of our fallen brethren all around us. Angels who chose humanity over evil.”
“Paltry protection,” Lucifer sneered, “Springing from a paltry species.”
“You call me blind, and yet you’re the one who continually refuses to see,” Michael shook his head. “Is it so terrible to find greater value in flaws fought against than perfection squandered?”
“You’ve become even more like Father in his absence. I pity you.”
“And I take pity upon you.” Michael moved forward. “Please, Morningstar. This will end badly for you. You may not fear me, but you should fear what is to come.”
Lucifer only withdrew further, brimstone accumulated from the Pit seeping off of him, killing off the grass beneath their feet. “I won’t be your mercy kill, brother,” he growled. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
Michael blinked slowly, and looked unimaginably old. “Wouldn’t you rather be mine, than Dean’s?” he asked.
Lucifer snorted. “The day that boy becomes Horseman enough for me to fear him, will be the day I set down my sword forever.”
Michael nodded in resignation. “Then I will see you upon the water,” said he.
Lucifer’s smile was crooked and unkind. He dipped a comical, rolling bow before disappearing.
“Choice,” Michael murmured, as angels continued to fall. “Always squandered.”
Chapter Twenty-One.
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Date: 23 Sep 2010 17:12 (UTC)Glad you're enjoying it anyway :D