There's no completely safe place to leave his body, but his own domain is a safer choice than anywhere else. Michael releases his wounded form and lets it slide down into the grass, as if for a nap. His flock settles on top of it and gets to work: cleaning wounds, healing slashed flesh, and preening feathers back into place.
Michael doesn't linger. Outside of a body, he's a destructive force of the most useless variety.
He makes for Dean.
The feeling of possessing another's body is entirely unfamiliar to him, now, having forgotten that his was ever anything other than his (it doesn't look much like Adam anymore anyway, even if he did remember who that was). He settles into his fellow Summoned-god's body like he owns it, the formless howling light of his grace softening to a mild warmth as he sinks beneath the skin, weaves between bones and fills up the metaphysical hollow behind his rib cage. There's no empty space left over by the time he's seated himself within—but there's none missing, either. It's comfortable.
(Just right, he thinks, and that thought abuts an ancient memory that's not his own. Some story about a young girl and three bears.)
He recognized Dean's potential without understanding the root of it, in the same way he recognizes Lucifer and Castiel are entities more like him than other Summoned, but he didn't expect sharing a body to feel familiar in a way he can't place. Like a home he's forgotten, but where he's nonetheless entirely at ease.
I admit, I expected this to be more unpleasant.
This agreement after all is not what either of them would prefer. It's a matter of necessity. They each need something the other has: Michael's strength and experience fighting his own demigod, Dean's ability to strike the killing blow.
Dean
Michael doesn't linger. Outside of a body, he's a destructive force of the most useless variety.
He makes for Dean.
The feeling of possessing another's body is entirely unfamiliar to him, now, having forgotten that his was ever anything other than his (it doesn't look much like Adam anymore anyway, even if he did remember who that was). He settles into his fellow Summoned-god's body like he owns it, the formless howling light of his grace softening to a mild warmth as he sinks beneath the skin, weaves between bones and fills up the metaphysical hollow behind his rib cage. There's no empty space left over by the time he's seated himself within—but there's none missing, either. It's comfortable.
(Just right, he thinks, and that thought abuts an ancient memory that's not his own. Some story about a young girl and three bears.)
He recognized Dean's potential without understanding the root of it, in the same way he recognizes Lucifer and Castiel are entities more like him than other Summoned, but he didn't expect sharing a body to feel familiar in a way he can't place. Like a home he's forgotten, but where he's nonetheless entirely at ease.
I admit, I expected this to be more unpleasant.
This agreement after all is not what either of them would prefer. It's a matter of necessity. They each need something the other has: Michael's strength and experience fighting his own demigod, Dean's ability to strike the killing blow.