theunsmiling | (no subject)

(no subject)

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.

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"You do," Michael says, even and intent.

"I don't. You just have to have faith."

Her expression is more somber than harsh -- and maybe a little sad.

"And pray."

It's such a little thing -- and yet there's nothing easy about any of it.

Michael knows.

"Tried that already, remember?"

Sam glares at her.

"Didn't help Jess, or Dad, or Dean. They all died. Where the fuck were you then, huh? When I was fucking begging for help? Faith didn't do me a damn bit of good then, did it? Or how about after, when your side fucking turned away from me?"

"Forget it. At least I know what to expect when dealing with demons. Lilith's gonna die, and I'm gonna see to it, personally. Whatever it takes."

Michael closes her eyes, breathing deep.

And then she moves forward, lifting Sam by his shirt and slamming him into the wall. The sound of solid flesh meeting metal echoes in the chamber, up through the vents, out into the wider world.

"Thy world is not and never has been mine, Samuel Winchester. Do not be so great a fool."

There's a sharpness to her delivery, frustration limned with pity.

"I have never turned from thee, though we have not been acquainted so long as all that. And this price -- "

She clenches her teeth, green eyes fair burning underneath dark brows.

"This price you speak of paying shall not fall on thee alone. Much as thy brother's was not his alone. Thou hast craved freedom before, Samuel. And now that the end of the cycle is before thee -- shalt thou not take hold of it? Art thou so great a fool?"

The noise that escapes him through clenched teeth is one of agony, but it's impossible to say whether the cause is physical or mental.

Maybe it's both.

"And just let her go? Don't you get it? I can't!"

"Then you will fall," Michael says, jaw clenching as she half-releases him, stepping back.

"And thy brother will fall with thee. Or did you forget what happened last time?"

She studies him, jade-green eyes intent and piercing, looking through him instead of at him.

"Or is that the problem? That you cannot forget?"

"He wouldn't -- he won't!," Sam yells at her, and there's no question that Michael's hit a raw nerve.

His fists clench at his sides as he begins to struggle violently to free himself of both her grasp and her gaze.

There's the sound of feathers moving, and then that living warmth -- brilliantly green -- is caging Sam in.

"And that's the heart of it, then, isn't it? What do you think is different this time, Sam? His burden of love is less? Is thine?"

"What's different is that I'm gonna make sure it can't happen again, now let go of me!"

The struggle, such as it is, has been noticed -- or so the pounding footsteps headed their way from from upstairs would indicate.

"Shalt thou choose to make me, Samuel Winchester?"

Which is to say:

Bring it.

His gift, such as it is, affords him no power over angels that he's aware of -- and even if it did, he's in no shape to use it.

Given the alternative, that doesn't mean that he's not going to try.

Michael does not budge. Not an inch.

Not a whisper.

"Thou art no Jacob, Samuel, to be wrestling with angels. Give over. Have done."

Her wings press more tightly around them, holding him back. Holding him up.

"I shall not let thee fall."

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