theunsmiling: (1 love is a word)
Time in Milliways is malleable, conformable -- stretchable as plastic, or clay, or spider silk. Someone in this room is taking full advantage of that fact.

Now if only the elastic properties of the human mind end up bearing out.

* * *

The first day, such as it is, Dean Winchester keeps his eyes closed. The shift between sleeping and waking is told only in the slight catch to his breathing, and the sudden stillness of his eyes behind their closed lids. He remains still in the center of the bed for hour on hour, curled into a ball, knees pressed tight to his eye sockets.

Occasionally he hums.

Michael recognizes the tune. She says nothing.

That is the point.

* * *

The second day is much the same as the first, though on very rare occasions a few muttered words will precede the humming. Michael catches a few names, here and there. Alistair. Lilith. Azazel.



The other words are not nearly so pleasant.

* * *

The third day he sits up, swings his legs off the bed, and stands.

A few hours later he moves, too, lifting up the chair and smashing it against the wall. Twice.

He spends another few hours staring at the pieces, then goes back to lying down.

Michael makes sure he remains asleep when the Loompas come to clean up the mess.

* * *

The fourth day is much like the third.

* * *

The fifth day Dean finds the mirror, puzzled at first by the way his own face moves. He leans toward it so very slowly, reaching out to touch, then frowns, startled (she would guess) by the cold of the glass.

He sits in the chair after that, still watching the mirror. He's waiting for something.

Michael is, too.

Only one of them has their expectations met.

* * *

On the sixth day Dean takes a shower.

Three times.

He neither tries to strangle himself with the shower curtain, nor drown himself in the tub.

Michael considers this a good sign.

* * *

On the seventh day Dean speaks. Believing himself alone, face buried in his hands, he gives voice to a fraction of the weariness and horror he brought back with him.

He laughs.

It is not an unfamiliar coping mechanism. Michael leaves him to it.

* * *

On the eighth day Dean tries to leave.

That's when Michael goes to find Castiel.

Her work here is, for the most part, done.
theunsmiling: (the morningstar)
Michael would be surprised that the Portal room functions for her, when of late so many of her fellow guests have been unable to access any destination at all, but she is an angel, and she can feel the increased urgency of her tasks pressing down on her -- God's hand on the reins, as it were. And so she indicates her destination and length of stay, then steps through the portal and is gone.


It's almost a strange thing to be in a world (and a city) packed full of people. Michael tilts her face skyward, letting the wind and rain -- not a product of any weather program save one, and that one Divine -- hit her face.

She doesn't get cold.

It's a momentary indulgence, for Michael has a great deal of businesss to accomplish in what might seem, to many, to be a short time. Fortunately angels are not limited to occupying merely one place and time.

Here -- she is keeping an eye on Christian's game with Lily, unseen and unheard, to all their sorrow.

Here -- she is watching Jane Andraste, a woman who can see no future save the salvaging of her own pride

Here -- she is speaking to her brothers, doling out commands and taking reports.

Here -- she is staring down the host of Faerie, disdain unfettered on both sides.

And here, oh here -- here she speaks with her brother, the one so full of mockery and lies. The one she misses beyond belief or hope of speech.

So it has ever been. But today there is something different about it. Something --

Today the Devil speaks of forgiveness, and bids Michael bear a message to their Father. And the world, thus far, fails to end.

God grant that be one thing that remains unchanged, when all else in life, as ever, is fickle as the moon -- is fickle as man.

The Devils have their hand in it, right enough, but Michael finds herself unable to see through their plans. It is this that carries her to the masked ball in Hell, this that fuels her conversation with Christian, and with the Devil, and with Lucifer.

It is this mistrust that has fueled her judicious use of human agents, like the policeman Ernie Peese.

It is this mistrust -- this 'cheating' (and she will never admit Lucifer had the right of that) -- that may save them all. For Matthew still lives, and the Cat Anna has tipped her hand.

The only regret Michael has is that Lucifer brings forth his challenge -- a duel against the Dragon Prince to prove the Prince of Lies' innocence in the eyes of Heaven -- just minutes before her five days are up.

Still. There will be other times.

And a duel will do just as well as a war, at need.

(Though she's still puzzled as to the nature of his game. It passeth all understanding.)
theunsmiling: (HEAD IN HANDS)
It's a dark room, and cold, shrouded in iron and lead, covered over in symbols to repel every evil thing under the sun, and a few things that will never see the light of day. There's one door, bolted tight, and salt sealed into the very walls.

Nothing can get in.

Nothing can get out.

All that exists inside is Sam. Sam, and his blood, and his demons.

And one angel, too-skinny and wild-haired and so very, very somber.

So very, very silent.

Maybe she's a hallucination, too.
theunsmiling: (Default)
Angels don't get frustrated, at least that's what the stories say. Some stories. The distinction is important. And perhaps Michael has always been an exception to this rule, because right now she feels little else but frustration. Christian, that Devil, is up to his games again. And Lucifer is stirring, as well. If they're in league with each other, something truly terrible will be coming down the pike ere long. Perhaps that's why she's been allowed to return.

She stifles a growl as Christian meanders his way down the street, vanishing into shadow just the littlest bit before he's out of sight.

Make him, he says. If Michael were permitted to interfere that far, that much--

Doubtless a whole host of things would be different now. She slams her helmet down on her head, muttering a little as it shoves her bangs into her eyes. She can already tell Jason's about to head outside as well, and he'll expect to see Michael in a temper.

"I'll see you next week?"

She straddles her scooter, then looks at him, dark feathered hair just poking out from under her helmet. She should probably feel a little cold, but the thinsulate lining of her windbreaker will serve to explain why she isn't shivering.

"Of course, Jason. But I think you'll have to explain the Tarot again--maybe I'll grab a book from the library."

He laughs, saying something about good luck and maybe he'll bring some of his own books next time.

"That would be great, if it isn't too much trouble. Sorry to cut things short, but I really ought to get a move on. Thanks again!"

She offers a quick wave as she revs up the scooter and heads out. Someone's got to find Lily, warn her--but first Michael's got to drop the scooter off at her place. Otherwise the neighbors will get worried.


theunsmiling: (Default)

August 2010

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