ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛᴇᴏᴜs ᴍᴀɴ ( ᴊᴇɴɴɪғᴇʀ ᴀɴᴋʟᴇs ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
righteously) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
abraxaslogs2024-09-02 06:31 pm
righteously) wrote in abraxaslogs2024-09-02 06:31 pm
I'ᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴇᴄᴏɴᴄɪʟᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀsᴛ (closed)
Who: Dean & Others
When: September
Where: Free Cities; Nocwich; Horizon
What: a monthly catch-all
Warnings: canon-appropriate alcoholism, violence, and suicidal ideation possible at any given time.
Rᴇsᴜʀʀᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴ ᴀɴᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇ
When: September
Where: Free Cities; Nocwich; Horizon
What: a monthly catch-all
Warnings: canon-appropriate alcoholism, violence, and suicidal ideation possible at any given time.
Rᴇsᴜʀʀᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ʙʀɪᴅɢᴇs ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴ ᴀɴᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇ
→ ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ
He's not trying to be, right now. He's just working, if you're comfortable using a very loose definition of the word. Technically, nothing he's doing right now in the Horizon is strictly necessary, but for Dean there's a kind of meditative, ritualistic comfort in being gently tucked up under the hood of the Impala in the bunker's garage. There's a familiarity to the open bottle of beer at his side that he takes a swig from now and again. Changing his oil, or tuning her up, or whatever, is a time where he can feel zen enough to let his mind wander, to let himself think calmly about stuff.
Evidently, the subject of today's meandering is Michael, and the way things are different. The way their last few conversations have been... not so bad. The way things were in that other reality. And, yeah, maybe the vague notion that maybe he ought to extend some kind of hand. Make the first move on what can't really be called an olive branch, seeing as they've had that for a long time now, but maybe something a little bit more than that. He just hasn't decided yet whether or not that's a stupid idea, and he doesn't want to pull the trigger if it's gonna wind up with him getting laughed back to the bleachers for having the audacity to even think about it.
Building something with this particular angel is not a notion he'd have thought he'd ever consider, even just two short years ago, but this place is weird and his life is weirder. )
no subject
He wonders what it is that's making Dean's thoughts circle back to him often enough that the pattern of his thinking reaches him. Michael wonders about Dean now more than he did back when he was nothing more than a suit, a sword to be wielded against the adversary. He'd been pretty damned certain he knew exactly who and what Dean Winchester was back then; now, he knows better. Dwelling on the well-being of his vessels is no surprise to him, though. It's something that Michael has come to find is an inevitable consequence of the experience. It's natural to him to think about the living pieces of systems he's been part of—especially those more concerned with the survival of those around them than their own. Winchesters are equal part resilient and self-destructive. Michael spends more time than he cares to admit wondering how Adam is doing, too, but at least Adam knows what it is to live a normal life in a way Dean never has.
Why he'd be a focus of his temporary vessel is less clear to him. Is it the same for them?
A wingbeat announces the arrival of an angel in Dean's domain, a courtesy to keep Dean from banging his head against the hood in surprise (results not guaranteed). The voice that follows makes it clear who it is.]
Of all the infinite things you could make here, you choose to make a car that still needs maintenance.
[Part judgement, part curiosity, and an easily-denied hint of amusement. No wonder the notion of Heaven had never appealed to Dean. From what he sees before him, the man's got an imagination only slightly more creative than his own.]
no subject
That little offhand comment about his car goes unanswered in favor of: )
Text messages. You guys could start, just, sending text messages. You don't even need a phone, it's literally built into our brains. Hey, Dean, pucker your butthole and don't hit your head, I'm swinging by. Two seconds. That's all it takes.
( It's a stream-of-consciousness rant, but there isn't actually any heat beneath it. His mouth just runs sometimes and words come out, and usually those words sound annoyed because that's his default resting tone. It's fine. He's already over it pretty much as soon as he's done talking. )
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His posture is still a bit stiff, but that's just how the vessel fits.]
I could. [It's spoken with the dry disinterest of someone who will absolutely not be doing that, thanks for the suggestion. Whatever resistance to change Dean mounts, Michael experiences tenfold.] Do you always message before you visit someone's domain?
[He's willing to bet that's a no. Don't hold him to standards you don't hold yourself to, Dean.
Michael watches him rub away the pain of hitting his head, thinking for a moment of offering a casual heal, but this is the horizon. They don't bruise here. It's not going to leave a lasting mark.]
What are you so intent on?
[His eyes shift to the car. It's not what he's really asking about, but it's there as an escape route if Dean wants it.]
no subject
He isn't going to bother answering that question — although, he would point out that rolling up in the Impala is kind of like a message in and of itself, and the sound of an engine and a car door slamming is ten times more of an announcement than a sudden flap of wings and an invasion of personal space. But whatever, semantics. Also, because it would mean acknowledging that Michael's technically right, but shut up.
Best to focus on the other part that requires not losing points in a score (probably) only Dean is keeping. He'll take that offered escape route, brace his hands on his hips, and glance down at the inner workings of the Impala for one contemplative moment. )
Well... ( He starts. Stops. Glances back up at Michael, and studies him in a way very similar to how he'd just been studying the car. Whatever he's turning over in his mind, he seems to resolve rather abruptly, coming to some silent consensus he doesn't seem inclined to share. ) I'll show you, you can give me a hand, make yourself useful. Today you're gonna learn how to rebuild a transmission, Mike. It's zen, every part serves a purpose, it's very utilitarian. You'll love it. Grab a beer.
( Because those are instrumental to the learning process, obviously. He nods his head at the little cooler beside the Impala's front tire. )
no subject
Michael's a whole lot more complex than a car (or thinks he is) but he doesn't mind being examined. He does mind the instructions that follow. That's a lot of orders at once from someone that doesn't have the authority to boss him around and Michael bristles instinctively, expression drawing tight. He'd been inside Dean long enough that it doesn't take him too long to reframe it as an invitation, more friendly than not. Dean's inviting him to take part in one of his hobbies. That's an interesting reaction all on its own.
Maybe even more interesting, though, is the promise of an activity that he will enjoy. Fun hobbies have been hard to come by in Solvunn. Helpful suggestions are not entirely unwelcome.
After a short moment of contemplation to reinforce that he's not going to take just any order, his posture sheds tension and his face returns to neutral.]
It's Michael. You're not in a rush, you can take the time to say the second syllable.
[The only people who call him Mike are Dean and his siblings when they're intentionally trying to rile him. Does he really want to be grouped in with the dickiest of the dick angels?
After a moment he does grab a beer—but in typical angel fashion, by summoning it to his hand instead of taking from the offered cooler. Don't look too closely at the label. It's hard to tell if it's an image of an animal mascot or a brand name on the label, the image fuzzy like a magic eye picture or a beginner's rendition of a person in the Horizon. The details weren't important enough to Michael to bother refining it.]
If this is something you think I'd like, what's in it for you?
no subject
It's fine. He's probably not headed for a heart attack any time soon, if that godly alternate reality dream is anything to go by.
He's also totally taking "Mike" back. He'll fight this good fight if it takes him years. His will to shorten people's names is stronger than his will to live. He'll keep that to himself for right now, though. He knows when to stop pushing his luck. It'll be a slow burn. They'll get there. Or, you know, Michael will just kill him, in which case... hey, problem solved.
When he shakes his head slowly in disapproval, it might be hard at first to know if it's because of the off-brand Fake Beer or over the question. Spoilers: it's both, but he's focusing on the latter. He braces one hand on the raw metal lip of the Impala's open front, absently leaning into it for support as he cocks his head at Michael. )
You know not everything has to be transactional, right? Sometimes you can just- do stuff for people without needing an ulterior motive for it.
( Followed by a soft, fatigued exhale that sounds suspiciously like: angels, man.
Or maybe it's that the way angels serve god is same the way Dean serves other people, sometimes: devoutly, earnestly, and desperate for their love. )
no subject
Michael might come around to the idea of Dean simply liking the sound of a car door closing more. The man does seem to love his car.
The fight to redeem Mike will be a longer battle, though probably not one that'll get him killed. None of his siblings died for that particular offence. Instead, he might kill Dean for saying he's desperate for his Father's love. It's a sore point now more than it ever was before, knowing with absolute certainty how little he ever mattered to his Father—though even back then, he would have contended his faith was never about affection (this is a lie, but one he tells himself, too). Of course, it might not occur to him that Castiel was once exactly as desperate to believe in their Father as he was. They only differed in what they thought He wanted.
(And they were both wrong—go figure.)
Where Dean leans into the impala, Michael leans away.]
Are you suggesting you built this part of your domain and then spent time here, never once extending an invitation, in the hopes that some day I would show up and you could show me how to rebuild part of a car?
[Michael's tone is as dry as it gets—but smug, too. That would certainly qualify as the freakish level of devotion and desire to please that can be called nothing other than angelic. He doesn't think they're there yet. He thinks it's more likely this is something Dean set up for himself. There just happens to be an overlap between the entity that is Michael and the entity that is Dean Winchester. It's not something that either of them is necessarily comfortable with but that doesn't make it go away. They've both felt it, and they've seen it work as efficiently as any fine-tuned machine.]
no subject
Shut up, pay attention, this part's important and if you put it together wrong it's gonna kill the whole system. So this is called a torque converter-
( And so begins a half an hour or so of perhaps surprisingly patient, thorough education on what each part of a transmission system does, what it's called, what it's for. It's nice, in a way. Probably the longest conversation they've ever had, even if it's only one-sided at this point — and it feels calm, and peaceful, and a little tranquil. Nothing is inflammatory, nothing is controversial, no part of it feels like walking on eggshells or broken glass. He is a limitless, bottomless well of uncomplaining explanations and competence here, in this place, his favored domain of understanding machinery.
With cars, all problems can be understood and fixed. Every piece plays a role. Everything makes sense, everything comes together like a puzzle, falling into place to make a cohesive working system.
After the explanation comes the practical session, and here is where his lecture finally comes to rest to give space for small-talk while his hands and his eyes are occupied with the act of disassembling something — with Michael's help and his extra pair of hands, if he's inclined enough to actually get hands-on with this impromptu, wholly unnecessary lesson. )
no subject
There are flashes of familiarity in the lesson. He retains enough of John's memories that the inside of a car isn't an entirely foreign environment. It's the difference between seeing a photo of an airplane and being asked to fly one, though. Those memories don't come with enough context to do any of what Dean is showing him now, which is all that stops him from reminding Dean that your father was a mechanic, you know when he explains something obvious. Given the right tool, he wouldn't know the next step.
Michael's contributions to the effort consist mainly of nodding and making affirmative sounds, but they get to the point where he's passing over parts and applying a tool while Dean directs. To absolutely no one's surprise, he is excellent at following instructions.]
This keeps your mind off of things?
[That seems like what this is, to him. More of a distraction than true fun.]
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Well- you know. Yes and no. Not exactly, it ah- ( Clink, something finally gives, come loose, and he peels the part out to wipe the grease off with the towel hanging out of his waistband at the hip. ) It gives me some distance, I guess you could say. Makes it easier to think things out slowly, without getting all-
( Vague gesture. He means: emotional. )
If half my mind is on the work, the other half has less room to run wild. It's grounding.
no subject
In my experience those are different problems entirely.
[If he's emotional, he's probably mad; if he's mad, he's not thinking. What purpose does car maintenance serve for him, then? A buffer between him and Dean, if nothing else.
(He guesses Dean might say not every activity in life needs to serve a set purpose.)]
This isn't so different from vessel maintenance, in concept.
no subject
Instead, he stills and shoots Michael a bemused, faintly discomfited look. )
Vessel maintenance?
( Please don't let this explanation be gross. )
no subject
You're the one that compared us to a robot. Don't tell me you object to being likened to a car.
[Is it because it doesn't have laser cannons or something?
He means it in the general sense, anyway, not Dean specifically. Michael's current body is definitely an empty vessel. If he's not at the driver's seat it will stay parked wherever he leaves it.
There's a pause as he considers how to put what he means. It's tough to explain without making it sound flat, the way telling him about fixing a transmission would not have been the same as showing him.]
You woke up without injuries, didn't you? [Back then, near the end of the speculative future, after their cooperative effort.] Without sore joints? Bodies in use incur wear and tear same as anything else. Every part serves a purpose. They can all be fixed, just like this.
[He motions at the car and at what's under the hood. Obviously he's using grace instead of taking organs out to wax and polish them, but it's similar nonetheless.]
no subject
His defensive posture lessens slightly as Michael continues, but it's clear he's been momentarily distracted from disassembling whatever nebulous Car Thing he'd been focused on a second ago.
He chews on the inside of his cheek for a contemplative moment, dropping his eyes down to the engine without really seeing it. )
You know you're not the first version of you I let in, right?
( Michael probably picked that up through-- Jaeger memories or whatever weird leftover grace fingerprints might have been smudged along the inside of his walls, but he wants to check, first. )
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Michael's attention shifts entirely to Dean, eyes focusing on him as if he can still catch glimpses of foreign grace around the edges of his soul.]
I didn't recognize it at the time. I wasn't myself.
[He'd felt the traces of something in there with him, but he'd been without too many of his memories to be able to give it context. Also, he's still never met his other self. Maybe he'd recognize him more easily now that he knows the frequency of his grace.]
What was it like?
[There are still so many questions he has about the other Michael. He's not sure how many of them Dean could answer, but at least this one—the one maybe no one else can.]
no subject
Michael's answer earns a slow nod, and another long moment spent clamping his teeth a little too tightly around the inside of his cheek. )
It was like every nightmare I ever had about saying yes to you. He proved every damn one of 'em right. ( The way he says it, the lilt of dark humor in his tone, does absolutely nothing to overshadow how serious he's being. ) I didn't just get rode hard and put away wet, I got-
( He starts. Stops. Starts again. )
I got chewed up from the inside out. Cars don't get to decide when they stop driving, and he took every opportunity he could to remind me, so... yeah, maybe I object a little.
( All things considered, that part at the end is fairly mild, fairly light — and it's only because from what he remembers of that reality that may or may not have actually happened, this Michael provided a very different experience. )
no subject
Thankfully Michael is not Gabriel and the images that description conjures are exactly what Dean means. Michael thinks of the way Raphael left his vessels; of the damage done to a human by an archangel if it isn't put to rights after. Is it worse if it's an archangel from another world? Was the fit just that tiny bit off, the experience just that much worse, because it wasn't the right Michael?
Michael doesn't look apologetic. These are not his sins to atone for. He does look a shade troubled, though. It's strange to share identities with someone he doesn't recognize.]
That wasn't my plan, even then. [Back ten years ago, before Abraxas, before Adam. He'd said he'd look after him and he'd meant it. It wouldn't have been what they'd had here—he wouldn't have let Dean take control, and he wouldn't have let himself be convinced to rest after—but it wouldn't have been that.] I've wondered how alike he and I might be. How much original thought went into his creation, if any. I can't say abusing a vessel is unprecedented.
[That's all the acknowledgement he'll get that the car comparison might not be all that apt.
Michael stops to think for a moment, their work entirely put aside now. If he took every opportunity to remind Dean of his lack of control, he had to have been around a while.]
How long was he with you?
[He didn't leave when he was supposed to, did he?]
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It was supposed to be for one fight. ( So yeah, way to hit the nail on the head there. ) But it lasted- I don't know, weeks? Tricked me into thinking he left for a while, too, just to help himself right back in somehow.
( Which isn't a thing he thought was possible. He thought every time needed consent, and yet.
But anyway, he's not saying this to inspire guilt, or an apology, or any of that. He's actually working up to something here; he peels his eyes up away from the engine for a second, to cast a fleeting glance at Michael's face. )
I'm not gonna pretend like you're a swell guy all of a sudden. You're still a pedantic dick with a stick up your ass most of the time, but- what I will say is this: Whatever knock-off second-hand versions of you Chuck tried to recreate in his other worlds... they don't live up to the original. You're different. I think there's a small chance you might actually turn out to be a decent guy, one of these days. Maybe. Eventually. You know, in the way, way distant future, with a lot of work.
( That last part is... mostly a joke. )
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As for Castiel, some leniency is in order. He was trained by his superiors. Letting angels empathize with humanity would only have made it harder to do their jobs and so they were all taught not to. Castiel might have broken some of his conditioning, but rewriting oneself is a slow process.
This is not a defense Michael will be voicing, because he doesn't need to talk up Castiel to Dean of all people.
He gives Dean a mock-frown for mentioning the stick up his ass. Discussion of colonoscopies is supposed to be off the table, here.]
When I'm able to diagnose and fix a car with my eyes closed I suppose. [Flat, but also a joke. He figures it wouldn't hurt his Decent Guy score though.] You're still a mouthy, self-righteous pain in the ass—but that does make you more pleasant than the majority of my siblings.
[Michael looks back at the car's still-exposed inner workings, then at the parts in Dean's hands. Are they clean yet? Is that going back in?]
It's not entirely impossible for a vessel to resist an angel, you know.
[Of course Dean knows, he was there. Still. Michael is trying to make a point. The fact that the other Michael held him captive in his own body for a time sheds light on the other reason for some the initial trepidation he'd felt—and some of the nightmares he'd quashed later.]
no subject
But that smile fades and dies pretty quickly at the return to topic.
His eyes drop back down to the hood, and his attentions seem to return to replacing that part he'd just dislodged. Like he said, it helps him... think, helps him answer this with a little more distance and a little less feeling attached to the memory. )
Yeah, I... figured that out, eventually. I managed to lock him down inside my head for a little while, a few weeks I think, but- that was never gonna last. He busted out before we could find a permanent solution, hopped into Rowena instead, and Jack was able to shut him down for good.
( Which is the most high-level, detached summary of events possible, but. It does the job. Good enough, anyway. )
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Michael looks at Dean the same way he does the car, now: like he only partially understands the inner workings and moving parts that make him what he is. He doesn't know how Sam got the upper hand against Lucifer and he doesn't know how Dean did the same to the other him. Though he wonders about it, it's not a thought that worries him. He isn't in need of a new vessel and he doesn't believe Dean would choose to lock him in over expelling him. It'd be like closing an angry wolverine inside your own house.
(Maybe some of the damage he'd undone—or will undo—after their imagined fight against the demigod hadn't all been from the battle.)
A thought that does concern him is that maybe, just maybe, the allegedly insane and murderous version of himself could show up and worm his way back in. He doesn't like the sound of facing himself in a stronger vessel. They don't have Jack's power at their disposal anymore, either. Michael taps at his Fake Brand Beer and shifts it in his hand, though he doesn't make a move to bring it to his lips.]
You make it sound as if he didn't need your consent the second time around. [There's always been some wiggle room as to how they obtain that 'yes', but they need it nonetheless.] If that's true, either the angels of his world play by different rules or he knows something I don't. There's room to improve on your solution.
[Since, you know. Apparently it wasn't permanent.]
no subject
He shuts the hood with a note of finality, and then finally turns his attention back to Michael proper, his lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line. )
I don't know how he did it. He just said he left a door open, whatever that means. If there's a- door in me, I don't have the first goddamn idea how to close it, or how to even check.
( A pause, because that leads to a pretty natural next question: )
Is that- is that something you can see?
rude ghosties
however, not all ghosts are created equal. some ghosts are bastards.
helicopter mom hovered nearby demanding updates, cas did his best to bullshit a professional narrative out of dean's myraid failing attempts to wrangle the spirit(s).
Dean forms a salt circle, until one of the ghosts pops out of place, drags the board just underfoot enough to send Dean toppling, and then cracks a joke about over-seasoned floors.
"This exercise is, um, part of his warm up. It centers his mind on the spiritual plane."
Dean then chases the cackling spirit only he can see with an iron bar, appearing to wave it frantically at the air like some bizarre rain dance.
"The iron is, uh, used to cleanse the space. It must be waved. Vigorously. And emotionally. Loudly and emotionally."
Halfway through carving some runes into the board, the rug jerks beneath him, and dean's sent stumbling again, narrowly avoiding face planting on a child's bunk bed.
"He— Honestly, I don't know what that is, I think he stubbed his toe. Dean?—"
when they ghosts scrawled the rough equivalent of "fucking scrubs" across the half-carved spirit board, and dean subsequently flips it like a poker table, spraying salt everywhere, it's about time for the lady of the house to vacate. Cas shuffles her out, muttering an excuse about this part of the exorcism requiring absolute concentration, and locks the door behind her, sigh deflating him. ]
Has anything seemed more effective than not?
no subject
Up until recently he hadn't even been entirely sure spirits did exist in Abraxas. They've got a whole bestiary of other monsters, a catalog of gods, the occasional zombie, and some absolutely unbelievable leviathans, but ghost activity's been minimal to nonexistent for going on three years now.
This has been a super fun way to learn that ghost rules are slightly different here than they were back on Earth. Basic bitch salt and iron just ain't cutting it. And then began his Three Stooges routine of humiliation and failure to exorcise so much as an ant out of this friggin' house, and he stands in the center of his spirit board upheaval, scowling. )
Does it look like anything's been effective? Does it look like we've accomplished jack friggin' squat in two hours? I mean- what the hell, man? Am I losing my touch? Since when do I screw up a stock-standard haunting?
( He's got abs of steel and literal wings these days from all the Giant Fuckoff Monsters he deals with, and now he's being bested by a ghost. What the fucking fuck is this. )
no subject
dean's off on his tirade, and while cas admits he probably wasn't the most helpful, his focus is too caught up in the new and compelling quandry. ]
I'm sure it happens to everyone. Perhaps you're just nervous.
[ cas murmurs, distracted, as he crouches down by the spirit board, flipping it onto it's proper side. a lot of magic is different in this world, a lot of monsters are different. it stands to reason spirits might be the same, but maybe they're going at it wrong. ]
Are we certain it's a ghost?
no subject
( He retorts instantly, without missing a single beat. Also, how dare you compare his flaccid hunting progress today to a nervous boner. He should punch you for that.
He huffs, and then follows up with an actually somewhat useful answer. )
It meets all the characteristics. I'm still workin' on putting together an EMF meter, but- the MO's the same. The behavior's the same. Seems like it reacts to salt and iron a little, but it ain't nearly as effective as it should be.