send me urls to trashtalk yell nice things about: @illusionofwill
ok taylor is so lovely. so smol so precious. so NICE and so patient with my slow ass. they’re the only michean-shipping michael i have (and the only one that i want, lbr) and they’re SO talented in their writing and it’s genuinely been an honour knowing them with all their lovely headcanons and small drabbles and Verse Upon Verse Upon Verse of trash archangels. and i hope it doesn’t end anytime soon. <3
‘you never wanted destiny, dean. if it was about that, you would have said yes before it became your last possible hope.’ he’s looking around, hands tucked into his pockets, coat battered thin and dirty. “in which case, we wouldn’t be here.’ he’s some bitter, too. couldn’t you have said yes when it counted? you are too selfish for it, but.
his head drops some, chin touching his chest briefly, and he aches. he’s walked so far to get here, to no avail. because dean is stubborn. because his vessel doesn’t care any longer. the nearest safe base is about another three day’s straight walking, and he ran out of water yesterday. he’s not going to go any further. he lets his legs fold, leaning his back against the fence surrounding the camp.
and he places his sword in the dust besides him.
‘fine. then take this. i know you intend to kill my brother.’
if nothing else, something of his will still be able to do that.
his back is turned and his hopes are crumbling, the realization of how small his chances are becoming somewhat overwhelming to the leader. of course dean didn’t want destiny; he still doesn’t. but he wants to protect his people. all he needs is a moment, a message sent through time, a plea to his former self to allow the pride to decay and step up to the damn job. when the time comes, dean, you don’t get the opportunity to change your mind. you don’t get anything.
but he is two mere footsteps away when he hears the muffled thud, the object hitting the dirt, and the soldier turns to see a pale blade glinting up at him from the bed of murky autumn leaves. words follow — words he knows he can’t ignore.
‘ sorry to steal your thunder, ’ he offers, but the words are weaker than they were. seeing michael surrender to dean’s plan to cheat destiny again changes something in him, flickers against a hope that had dwindled too dangerously. slowly, dean’s eyes raise from the sword to its wielder. his resounding sigh is ghostly white in the cold air. ‘ you find someone who don’t mind sharin’ their cabin, then fine. make yourself useful or you’re out. ’
It would certainly be ironic, making it all the way through Croats and crowds of desperate humans at each other’s throats, and his brother’s minions, just to be shot by his true vessel at the entrance to the safe place that had been rumored to be here.
Michael raised his hands in the air steadily, looking very carefully down the barrel of Dean’s gun, and swallowed once.
“I’m not an angel, Dean, not any more. Do you think I’d let this much happen if I could stop Lucifer? I’m in the same place as you are. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t use you as a vessel any more.”
Please, Father, have a better sense of humor than this.
the gun is lowered, slowly, until dean’s weapon hangs beside his leg, fingers twitching indecisively. he doesn’t want to believe this, but he has little other choice. eventually he slides the gun into the holster strapped to his thigh, his glare remaining unflinchingly directed towards the man opposite him.
‘ so that’s it, ’ he replies after a stretch of silence. ‘ archangel michael’s crawlin’ through the mud with the rest of us. it’s over. ’ his voice doesn’t crack — thank god it doesn’t crack — but a reluctant edge of defeat creeps in nonetheless. this is where his prayers have gone. endless words, whispered to a silent night, yelled to an unyielding sky, only ever fell on deaf ears. ‘ no more true vessel, no more bloodlines, no more destiny. ’
his eyes turn away, and his body turns with them. ‘ screw you. stay out here to rot; i don’t care. ’
in which michael, in the days of the apocalypse, talks to the righteous man and learns from him. in the end, dean is willing to say yes, but it is michael who doesn’t know if he’ll be able to.
‘ hey, man, you wanna help me out here ?’ his hands are currently stuck among the strings of fairy lights — apparently buying brand new ones doesn’t allow escape from the painstaking task of untangling them. still, the plan is to get the place looking festive before sam gets back. michael’s arrival into the room is, in fact, perfect timing.
