Michael can relate to a lot of what Dean Winchester thinks and feels. Their similarities fascinate him now, make this body feel like he's come home after a long time away, but later it'll undoubtedly unsettle him. If they are so alike, why did he refuse him the first time? What went wrong?
These thoughts touch on a shared history Michael no longer remembers, so they're a problem shipped off for a future version of himself to grapple with.
He senses that the easy camaraderie of this partnership is unearned and tempers it with a touch of his ego (why should they feel guilt for what they enjoy?) but there is a part of him that also feels the gaps. One that doesn't mind the thought of having to put in effort, that thinks that working at it will make it all the more valuable. Maybe later, Dean can visit Solvunn, or Michael's Domain. Maybe they can fight some lesser beasts than this, together or apart. Michael thinks he'd prefer together after this experience, but just as this unity has been a learning experience, perhaps there's more to be discovered about themselves fighting side by side in separate forms.
For now, he considers the proposal of a nap. Resting is the only way to recuperate his spent grace and rest is coming for him one way or another, but he hadn't considered mortal-style sleep. Being unconscious for several hours at their weakest does not appeal.
I don't know about that.
But he's not fighting it. Their wings wrap around them, part blanket and part shield from anyone or anything that might stumble across them while they're out. With the demigod dead and surrounding people and animals long since chased off by the rumbling of the earth and the roaring of a multi-headed monster, it's unlikely anything is around to find them. Michael doubts that even the scavengers would be tempted by the demigod's poisoned remains.
You go first.
Show him how it's done, and maybe he'll figure it out and follow along. Experience tells him that they—no, this part must be all Dean, because Michael's never slept before—are prone to nightmares. Michael settles in, watchful, straightening messy thoughts as they come like combing fingers through hair. The darkness of Hell shifts to that of night along a forest road, the straps on the rack just the seat belt holding him in the driver's seat. The form of a demon dissolves and it's just dad, bringing home a treat for after dinner. A knife in their hand dulls, becomes better suited to cutting the pie on the table that replaces a struggling victim. The yelling in the kitchen quiets into friendly, indistinct chatter and smiles around the dinner table.
Sometime later, as if lulled by the ebb and flow of the tide, Michael drifts off too.
no subject
These thoughts touch on a shared history Michael no longer remembers, so they're a problem shipped off for a future version of himself to grapple with.
He senses that the easy camaraderie of this partnership is unearned and tempers it with a touch of his ego (why should they feel guilt for what they enjoy?) but there is a part of him that also feels the gaps. One that doesn't mind the thought of having to put in effort, that thinks that working at it will make it all the more valuable. Maybe later, Dean can visit Solvunn, or Michael's Domain. Maybe they can fight some lesser beasts than this, together or apart. Michael thinks he'd prefer together after this experience, but just as this unity has been a learning experience, perhaps there's more to be discovered about themselves fighting side by side in separate forms.
For now, he considers the proposal of a nap. Resting is the only way to recuperate his spent grace and rest is coming for him one way or another, but he hadn't considered mortal-style sleep. Being unconscious for several hours at their weakest does not appeal.
I don't know about that.
But he's not fighting it. Their wings wrap around them, part blanket and part shield from anyone or anything that might stumble across them while they're out. With the demigod dead and surrounding people and animals long since chased off by the rumbling of the earth and the roaring of a multi-headed monster, it's unlikely anything is around to find them. Michael doubts that even the scavengers would be tempted by the demigod's poisoned remains.
You go first.
Show him how it's done, and maybe he'll figure it out and follow along. Experience tells him that they—no, this part must be all Dean, because Michael's never slept before—are prone to nightmares. Michael settles in, watchful, straightening messy thoughts as they come like combing fingers through hair. The darkness of Hell shifts to that of night along a forest road, the straps on the rack just the seat belt holding him in the driver's seat. The form of a demon dissolves and it's just dad, bringing home a treat for after dinner. A knife in their hand dulls, becomes better suited to cutting the pie on the table that replaces a struggling victim. The yelling in the kitchen quiets into friendly, indistinct chatter and smiles around the dinner table.
Sometime later, as if lulled by the ebb and flow of the tide, Michael drifts off too.