They're in the same boat if Chuck ever makes an appearance in Abraxas. Michael's plan is to count on that first week of powerlessness to make no exceptions and commit patricide. It's that or suffer his Father's wrath a second time.
After the holy oil trap and the handcuffs, one might expect him to be wary of a Winchester's approach. An archangel is an archangel is an archangel, though: arrogant to the end. He and Dean have established (an admittedly fragile) trust in spite of their past conflicts, however, and this is the Horizon. What could he possibly do to him here?
While he's not expecting harm, somehow he expects what Dean actually does even less. There's a blink, wings flaring behind him—unseen, but maybe not unheard. Sympathy? He didn't realize he'd made that much of an impression. Dean's not good at apologies, and he figured the end of their close collaboration would cut him off from that deep well of feeling the man has for those close to him. Apparently not.
Still, he's a bit young to be talking to him like that. Michael's pride wars with the side that's charmed by the act. Like a dog bringing its favourite toy over to cheer someone up.
The anger always wins. There's a flash of blue in his eyes. If Dean were one of his younger siblings, he'd have a broken arm. He isn't, though. They're archangel and vessel, even face to face instead of sharing a body, so he's under the same immunity as Michael himself is. Michael's rage finds no target before him.
This bar could really use a second floor for him to march up to.
"I don't need sympathy. He created the universe, and He was a monster. Of course it would be filled with loss, disappointment, the deserving rarely getting their due. What matters is that it's over, isn't it?"
Not just Chuck's reign, but Michael's part in the story. He looks at Dean, gaze hard. He thinks the man will understand him. He remembers that week they spent joined, the need to fight always shadowed by the desire for rest. And that was after only eight hundred years. How heavy would that anchor feel if he'd lived as long as Michael has?
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After the holy oil trap and the handcuffs, one might expect him to be wary of a Winchester's approach. An archangel is an archangel is an archangel, though: arrogant to the end. He and Dean have established (an admittedly fragile) trust in spite of their past conflicts, however, and this is the Horizon. What could he possibly do to him here?
While he's not expecting harm, somehow he expects what Dean actually does even less. There's a blink, wings flaring behind him—unseen, but maybe not unheard. Sympathy? He didn't realize he'd made that much of an impression. Dean's not good at apologies, and he figured the end of their close collaboration would cut him off from that deep well of feeling the man has for those close to him. Apparently not.
Still, he's a bit young to be talking to him like that. Michael's pride wars with the side that's charmed by the act. Like a dog bringing its favourite toy over to cheer someone up.
The anger always wins. There's a flash of blue in his eyes. If Dean were one of his younger siblings, he'd have a broken arm. He isn't, though. They're archangel and vessel, even face to face instead of sharing a body, so he's under the same immunity as Michael himself is. Michael's rage finds no target before him.
This bar could really use a second floor for him to march up to.
"I don't need sympathy. He created the universe, and He was a monster. Of course it would be filled with loss, disappointment, the deserving rarely getting their due. What matters is that it's over, isn't it?"
Not just Chuck's reign, but Michael's part in the story. He looks at Dean, gaze hard. He thinks the man will understand him. He remembers that week they spent joined, the need to fight always shadowed by the desire for rest. And that was after only eight hundred years. How heavy would that anchor feel if he'd lived as long as Michael has?