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Here in this room,
I'm chasing down my demons, I can hear them breathing.
It’s Dean’s worst nightmare. Sam is gone, trapped wherever the Devil, his torturer, wants him. That’s Dean’s main worry, his main fucking concern - but he’s also scared out of his mind for Jack. At first, he couldn’t have cared less about the kid, but after seeing him choose family and the same values that he’s been fighting for all his life, he’s more than warmed up to him. He’s part of the pack now, which means he’s under Dean’s wing, and he can’t believe himself, can’t believe he let them both be snatched out from right under him.
He feels claustrophobic, like he’s stuck in his skin. It’s completely fucking ridiculous to think that there are, on average, seventeen thousand decisions that he can make in the course of the next few hours, but none of them are going to get him to his brother before something devastating happens. It’s even more insane that this is the reality of his situation. But it is, and Dean doesn’t know what he’s going to do besides go insane.
Then, Michael speaks.
But who knew:
You would be my comfort, you could bring me healing.
Eight years ago, Dean was asked a question. Eight years ago, he was offered a role to play in a game of poker with stakes higher than anyone could’ve ever imagined. Naturally, he’d turned it down - what godforsaken idiot would’ve accepted? The wins were sparse and few, and the losses uncountable.
But even though he’d said no, yelled no countless times at the ceiling and whoever was tuned the fuck in to Winchester radio, he’d lost. That game had ended when he’d lost Sam.
Now, a hell of a lot of good choices and an infinite amount of bad ones later, Dean couldn’t believe they’d ended up right where they’d promised themselves they’d never be again.
If they’d had the time, he’d have sat and worked through it over a beer. If he’d had time, maybe he’d even talk it over with Cas; try to get a level-headed third opinion about things. If there’d been time, Dean would have thought it through.
But time is the last thing they have on their hands, and it’s slipping more and more through their fingertips with every passing second. There is no time to work things through, there is no time to talk to Cas, and there’s certainly not any time to waste when Jack and Sam’s lives are on the line.
It’s ironic, Dean thinks as he listens to what Michael has to say, That the one who caused him and Sam so much grief in the first place is the only one that can save them all this time around.
If my friends are gonna let me slide,
How come you never left my side?
Before Dean makes the decision he knows he’ll regret, he takes a moment to think of all the people he knows, or knew, who would do as much for him as the daunting Archangel staring him down promises to achieve.
Dean thinks of Bobby and Ellen, of their wisdom and wits. He thinks of Jo’s fiery determination despite her inexperience. He thinks of Crowley’s never-take-no-for-an-answer attitude, of Charlie’s optimism in the face of despair, and of Kevin’s resilience despite his anxiety.
He remembers Benny’s faithfulness, and a pang of sadness hits his chest as he thinks of the vampire’s casual smile. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear his voice; “We’ll sort this mess right out, brother. You’ll see.”
Grudgingly, he recalls Ruby’s dedication to her cause. He remembers Eileen’s fighting spirit, Bela’s cunning, Jody and Donna’s warmth, Claire’s refusal to accept things the way they are. He thinks of Gabriel’s loyalty, of his love for his family.
Dean loves his family. And he won’t let them down.
Before I go, make it last all night,
While I slip into the great divide.
“This is the end of everything,” Michael says grimly. A final warning; indeed, the very same sentiment that had kept Dean from saying yes all those apocalypses ago.
“Not everything,” Dean counters immediately. It can’t be. To sit back and accept the end would be to murder what little family he has left - and that isn’t happening.
It doesn’t have to be the end of everything, Dean decides there and then, It might have to just be the end of me.
Stepping out of body, no matter what you call it,
I'm a kamikaze.
Being tied to an angel is like being strapped to a comet, Jimmy Novak had said. If angels were comets, Dean had shuddered to think what an Archangel riding his ass would be. He remembers clearly the burned out husk of a man left by Raphael, remembers Cas’ warning that he would not be kindly spared the same fate - even if Michael pretends otherwise.
Come to think of it, Dean realises he doesn’t know what it’s like to be possessed. Sure, it wasn’t too long ago that murderous Khan Worm had crawled into his ear and taken control of his actions, but a pocket-sized maggot motherfucker brewed up by Purgatory had to be a milk run compared to having one of God’s main wingmen holed up inside his head.
Dean retraces his steps back to that night so many years ago when he’d killed the Whore of Babylon. Nobody had expected him to be able to do it, and the Whore herself had snarled that he was pathetic, self-hating, and faithless. But then he’d staked her, and the snark faded from her smile as she convulsed. He recalls the initial surprise that soon gave way to grim acceptance as he sped out of the motel parking lot and off to Lisa’s.
There’d been so much to protect back then: people whose safety to bargain for, belongings to pack into a cardboard box addressed to one Robert Singer. He almost laughs as he thinks of what he’d ask of Michael now. Maybe a whiskey, neat, Dean thinks dryly. Before Michael can take his Sword, perhaps he’ll play an undignified bartender.
Abandon all your logic, and put your money on it,
I'm a kamikaze.
“Dean, Dean,” Castiel’s voice is strained.
Dean clenches his jaw, looking right at Michael. It takes everything in him not to flinch every time Cas calls his name. He’s heard his name spill from the angel’s lips more than any other word, knows how it sounds paired with every possible emotion. Relief, annoyance, sarcasm. Anguish, too, but it’s never been this stained with desperation.
“Dean, you can’t,” Cas tries again. His voice is softer this time, like he already knows what Dean is going to do. Like he knows it won’t make a difference if he begs or if he pleads. The Righteous Man was chosen for a reason; despite the coarseness of the years that have caused it to flicker, the bright flame of Dean’s soul has never been extinguished.
Dean turns to look at Castiel, eyes wide and lips trembling slightly. He reminds him, not unkindly, that Lucifer has Sam and Jack, and they’re all out of options.
Cas opens his mouth, starts to tell him You are not an option, damn it, but Dean’s already negotiating the terms of his permission to Michael. He insists, as expected, to remain in control with the Archangel acting as a source of power - an energy drink, nothing more.
There’s a glint of something in Michael’s eyes as he nods. Dean doesn’t have time to cross-examine what it could be, but his stomach drops as he realises it looks a little too much like unbridled victory.
Going down with my wings on fire,
Guess I'll see you in another life.
When Michael climbs - no, crashes, into his head, Dean realises there had never been any way to prepare him for what it would feel like. Nothing he’d ever read or heard of came close to the actual feeling of having one of Heaven’s nuclear weapons locked inside him.
He can almost see himself in third person; an outsider watching his own hands move without being able to feel what he was touching. All at once, he feels several stories tall and like he’s suffocating beneath the ground. Every movement is heavy, strained, like he’s attempting to sprint after being dragged across scorching asphalt. If someone were to ask, Dean doesn’t know what he’d tell them. He’s everywhere and nowhere in his body, eyes threatening to droop shut even with his batteries supernaturally charged.
“Come on, now,” Michael says in his - their - head. “Not slipping away already, are we?”
Dean snarls, the sound seeming to echo around him as Michael laughs. At first, a chill runs down his spine, but the Archangel quickly retreats behind a freshly-constructed wall and gives Dean the wheel. His body is his again, the queasiness of standing on a precipice fading into steely resolve as he recalls why he’s said yes in the first place. They have work to do, and family to save.
Before he can look at Cas, Dean allows Michael to bring him to Sam and Jack. He doesn’t think he’d be able to meet his eyes, anyway.
Stepping out of body, you can tell everybody:
Mama, I'm a kamikaze.
A goddamn church. That’s where Lucifer took them. At this point, Dean isn’t sure if Lucifer does it from a place of irony or bitterness; whether he’s trying to provoke his Father into responding or if it’s just muscle memory for him to return to a place of worship.
At the end of the day, he supposes it doesn’t matter. Sacred ground or not, he’s going to beat the Devil - and it’s going to be easy, and he’s going to enjoy it, because this time the son of a bitch isn’t wearing his brother’s skin.
The look of surprise in Lucifer’s eyes as he stares at Dean is almost worth the risk of fighting him in the first place. It only lasts a split-second as shock turns to fury, and Lucifer charges straight towards him. Time seems to move slower than usual, like the frames of an old movie clicking into view one after the other. If Dean was able to anticipate his opponent’s moves before, his estimation has increased tenfold with the Archangel’s power.
Though Sam disagrees, Dean’s always thought that his strength lies in his fists and not his head. Throwing punches and dodging stabs have become well-polished reflexes, and he has no reason to think this fight will be any different.
Except, it is.
Dean is pushing as hard as he can, Archangelic grace trembling through his weary fingertips as he tries to gain the upper hand. And yet, every movement is met with double the force from Lucifer. “The Nephilim’s stolen grace has made him more powerful than ever,” Michael says gravely, “I’m afraid we’ve underestimated my brother, Dean.”
Before Dean can even begin to think of the sarcastic response he wants to snap back at Michael, Lucifer’s blows throw him off balance. He can hear the sound of Sam yelling his name, and wonders what his little brother is seeing. Wonders if it hurts to watch as much as it did for Dean to see his brother running toward him before taking a knife to his spine.
Michael is oddly silent, even as Lucifer prattles on in that self-assured cocky way that drives Dean insane. He’d have thought there’d be some emotional response - if not annoyance, then perhaps the wistfulness that Dean felt whenever Sam was led astray. But there’s nothing. The hits keep coming, and both Michael and his Sword are fading quickly.
The ringing in Dean’s ears is loud, and he’s almost grateful that it blocks out Lucifer. Beyond that, he swears he hears something else. Something familiar. Though he strains, he can’t quite make it out what it is. Turns out, he doesn’t have to - Michael’s heard it loud and clear. “Sam,” he tells Dean, “Sam is calling to you.”
And it’s not that Dean doesn’t appreciate the notion, it’s really not, but he’s been down this path before and can’t feel anything about it. How many times have him and Sam watched helplessly as the other died bloody? How many more times are they cursed to do the same?
Something snaps in Michael, turns his sandpapered human-friendly edges right back into the sharpest of points. The sympathy he’d felt for Dean before reverts into indignation. It was ironic, if not audacious, for Dean to think of his own story as a tragedy just because he’d watched his brother bleed more times than he could count on both hands.
It’s true, their similarities were what tied them together. Both Michael and Dean had been charged with the safekeeping of a rebellious younger brother who they’d give anything for, but the difference between them were astronomical. Time and time again, Dean gave in to Sam’s whims instead of doing what was right. And it was this weakness that landed them right where they are; had Dean followed his instructions as the good son that Michael was, instead of ripping up the script like a petulant child, the Devil would have been destroyed years ago.
Dean is confused at Michael’s sudden irritable temperament when he’d been relatively amicable before, but there is no room for worry right now. Glancing at the direction from which he’d heard Sam’s voice, he sees his brother holding the angel blade that Lucifer had knocked out of his grasp.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dean can barely get the words out, but he does, “What me and Sam have, it’s not weakness. It’s family. It’s loyalty.”
Sam throws the weapon, and Dean catches it just in time to sink it all the way into the Devil’s chest. There’s a flash of light as Lucifer screams in pain and disbelief. Dean jerks forward, ice-cold terror running through his veins - but the feeling is not his own.
Michael is fidgeting restlessly, holding himself back from leaping forward. Dean can’t tell whether the Archangel is longing to sink the blade deeper through his brother, or if he wants to pull it out and heal the wound. He’s surprised that he understands, but he does.
All is not lost;
My veins are seething, I can feel the freedom.
“Lucifer’s dead,” is the first thing Sam says, when Jack asks if he is.
Dean nods. His head is spinning at a thousand miles an hour, body shaking ever so slightly. He looks at his brother, sees the look of relief in his eyes as he stares at the now-empty husk of a creature that had inflicted unspeakable pain on him in the past. Poetic justice would have been for Sam to kill the bastard, Dean knows, but there had been no room for sentimentality.
“You did it,” is the second thing that Sam says.
This time, Dean shakes his head in disagreement. It may have been his hands around the angel blade, but axing Lucifer had most certainly been a team effort. He tells Sam as such, and the two stand in comfortable silence along with Jack. They’re breathing heavily, but the weight on everyone’s shoulders has been comfortably lifted.
The apocalypse they’d derailed all those years ago had almost returned to bite them in the ass, but they’d somehow managed to sidestep it once more - this time for good. With Lucifer well and truly gone, Sam could heal, and Jack would never have to live in the shadow of his unfortunate parentage. Wins are few and far between these days, and this one has felt due for a long while now.
And then, Dean doubles over in pain.
Let them talk,
It's not about the crown, we could share the kingdom.
Though it’s only really a few seconds between the first crash of pain and the next, time seems to pass differently within Dean’s own body. As Sam rushes to his side, trying to figure out what the hell is going wrong, a horrifying reality is sinking in for Dean.
Each pang of pain is a screw turning and a hinge breaking as the wall Michael had raised to give Dean control begins to crumble. According to their agreement, with Lucifer dead, Michael was to return to his previous vessel. But as the seconds tick by, it becomes clearer and clearer that he has no intention of doing so. Instead, he unfurls himself in all his glory; pointed wings and scales stretching into every crevice.
It’s a painful process for any human vessel to undergo, especially with the sheer size of any angel, but Michael soothes Dean’s pain and assures him it won’t be much longer until the link is complete. “You are my true vessel,” he reminds the human, “You were made for me; we were meant to be part of one another.”
And although he won’t ever admit it to anyone besides Michael (from whom he can’t hide his thoughts), Dean feels it. As the Archangel assumes full control, it feels almost magnetic the way he snaps into place within his vessel. Michael’s grace, the essence of his being, seems to spill within their bloodstream and trickle down to each fingertip. Though they remain separate entities for the time being, Dean knows that Michael intends to bind them together as one heartbeat, one train of thought.
All at once, he feels alone in his mind yet completely claustrophobic. He’s surrounded; trapped as his body obeys its’ new master. Dean wonders if this was how Sam felt when he let the Devil in. He recalls the way Lucifer toyed with him, let him believe it was possible for Sam to have grasped the reins so easily before snatching that hope away. He isn’t sure if bitter taste in his mouth is his own, or if Michael is also displeased with the memory.
“You misunderstand me, Dean,” the Archangel says pityingly, “I meant it when I said that you and I are connected in ways you can’t begin to imagine.”
Through the discomfort, Dean manages a staggered, “Can it, six-winged dickbag.”
Michael has the audacity to laugh - but then again, if beating the Devil and inheriting your very own custom-made meat suit isn’t a cause for celebration, what is?
“Eight-winged, actually. Can’t you feel them?” He stretches his wings, and Dean pauses as he realises that he does feel them. He’d been flown places by Cas and other angels before, but this felt different. For a moment, he almost wants to take them on a test run. “We can,” Michael tells him gleefully. “They’re your wings now, too.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Dean snaps out of it, the initial feeling of awe quickly replaced by irritation. If choking on his own blood in anguish couldn’t convince him before, a new pair of wings certainly wouldn’t.
“Listen, Tinkerbell,” he grits his teeth and tries to focus, “Take your wings and shove ‘em up your ass, I don’t care. Just get back to your own fucking vessel.”
“Shoving four pairs of wings up a human anus would hardly be comfortable, Dean, but if you’d like to experience it, I’m willing. This is our body, after all.” The smugness in Michael’s voice is unmistakeable, especially as he emphasises on their shared vessel.
Okay. Okay, shit. Dean regroups, trying to find a corner in his mind that isn’t occupied by Michael’s taunting laughter. It feels like he’s trapped in an echo chamber, or one of those funhouse mirror halls at travelling carnivals where every reflection is distorted and sound comes from all around and nowhere at all.
Dean reminds himself to take a second, to stop and breathe. He remembers Sam being afraid of the clowns at those carnivals, and what Dad always told him. If it bleeds, you can kill it. First you find out what it is, then you can figure out how to kill it.
Stepping out of body, no matter how you call it,
This is suicidal, honey, nothing you can do about it.
Angels. He needs to think of the angels. What does he know about them? They have no sense of humour, they fight in garrisons, they need consent to enter a vessel, certain symbols will banish them, they - Wait. That’s it. Angels need consent to enter a vessel, so if he revokes his consent - Yes. Sam had ejected that fucker Gadreel before, hadn’t he?
“You equate that traitor with me, the oldest Archangel?” Michael’s voice is low, threatening. A wave of pain wracks through Dean’s body. Whether it’s meant to punish or disorient him, he isn’t sure, but he can’t maintain his energy for much longer.
In a strange sort of way, Dean wishes he’d been possessed before, just so he’d know where to find the emergency escape hatch. Now it’s like he’s a prisoner inside a home he’s known all his life - but the entire floor plan has been rearranged.
In a chiding voice not unlike a mother soothing a petulant child, Michael says softly, “Being possessed wouldn’t give you any insight unless you’d been possessed by an Archangel. But you can keep trying, if that’s what would make you happy.”
Dean recoils, furious. “You don’t give a rat’s ass about what would make me happy.”
“Now, that’s simply not true,” Michael sighs in faux-weariness. “You’ve done me a great service by allowing me to have my perfect vessel. Why would I not want to reward you?” He pauses. When there is no immediate reply dripping with snark, Michael continues. “Now that you and I are allies, there is nothing you cannot have. What do you desire; your parents back? Perhaps justice on all those who wronged your family. You can have it, Dean. Say the word and I will give it to you.”
The silence continues, so loud that they can both hear Sam’s panicked cries. The sound shakes Dean out of his stupor, and a shudder rips through him. He’s tired, so tired, but before he gives up, he’ll try one last time for Sammy.
“You would do that for me?” He asks, voice quivering in what he hopes sounds like disbelief. Unbelievably, Michael seems to buy into it as he makes a sound of approval, loosening the hold he has around Dean now that they’re on the same page.
Archangel or not, you’re all naïve motherfuckers, Dean thinks bitterly. He uses the space he’s just been granted to shove as hard as he can, slamming Michael against the confines of his mind. The Archangel growls in rage, almost losing his footing from the surprise attack. Dean shoves with all his might, desperate to eject the unwelcome intruder. He feels Michael slip, and pushes harder but is met with a scorching heat surrounding him.
Expelling Michael is futile. Dean sees that now.
Before he lets go, he knows he has to at least warn Sam. With the minuscule remainder of his strength, he yells out, “We had a deal!”
Everything screeches to a stop, like he’s been paused mid-movement. The last thing he feels is his body going limp, and when he next moves, the bind around him feels heavy and cold. Chains, maybe. It’s too dark to know, and all he wants to do is close his eyes. Maybe he’ll open them to find it had all been a dream. Maybe he won’t open them at all. Either way, it’s not up to him anymore.
Stepping out of body, you can tell everybody.
Mama, I'm a kamikaze.
Dean doesn’t know much of what is happening these days. He honestly doesn’t even really know when “these days” are. Michael keeps him secluded in the corners of his own mind. At first, Michael had allowed Dean to wander through memories and delicately crafted scenarios, but the hunter hadn’t taken the bait and always found a way to end the illusion.
Though he was impressed, Michael was mostly annoyed that Dean was so vehemently opposed to them working together. He’d had such high hopes for his vessel; so many plans of the grand whimsy they could explore and toy around with the world together. In some ways, he still held hope that Dean would eventually come around. Even if it took centuries or millennia, they’d one day see eye-to-eye. Michael didn’t even think he’d have to wait too long; once Sam Winchester was on his deathbed, he was certain Dean would beg for his help in sustaining his beloved brother.
For the time being, Dean Winchester is a gnat buzzing around in his head. Humans had never and would never be anything remotely close to competition for any angel, let alone an Archangel, but this one never seems to stop trying. Dean completely exhausts himself attempting to gain ground, and when he’s tired himself out like a child after a tantrum, he recedes into the shadows until his energy has replenished enough to start all over.
Sometimes, Michael plays along: he lets Dean take control of his hands and only cuts him off when he starts to dial Sam’s number, gives Dean control over his breathing and feels the way he gasps for air like a drowning man, allows Dean to tap his leg in frustration while Michael sits idle on the side of a road and people-watches in fascination. These small freedoms are trivial, but they are also necessary to remind Dean who is truly in control.
They don’t speak anymore, not really. The Archangel attempts conversation at times, but Dean either refuses to acknowledge it or blurts out a string of creative curse words that make Michael chuckle in amusement. He doesn’t mind; there’s nothing Dean could tell him that would surprise him, and their current arrangement does seem to be working well.
He doesn’t make the same mistake of underestimating Dean, keeping him locked securely right where he wants him under supervision at all times. If there’s anything that the history he’s found out about this world has taught him, it’s to never turn a blind eye to the Winchesters. They have a reputation, and though Michael is ready to expect the unexpected, he isn’t too worried.
They’ve never seen anything like him before, either.