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michaelmilligan · 2 years

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Endversetober Day 24: Home

(explanation post) (compilation post)

It took a while before Michael and Adam had recovered enough to get out of bed, and then some more time until they managed to do anything more exhausting than to walk a few paces.

Comparatively, the recovery was quick, of course. They had broken so many bones that most at the camp had believed they would never stand up again at all.

Still, for Michael, it was a very slow and difficult process. Adam tended to agree, though at this point he had practice with just hanging out in the back of his own mind and waiting for things to happen.

By now, Adam had introduced himself to the people at the camp, and had given them a brief outline of who Michael and him were. At first, a lot of people didn't seem to believe them, but as time went on, they could see the difference between them, clear as day.

Michael's posture was different, Kevin had told Adam once, so he could spot if it was him even when he had his back turned to him. That plus the different ways they acted, down to the way they talked, eventually convinced people that they were separate people.

Whether or not they believed that Michael was a supernatural being differed from person to person. Some seemed to think Adam just had a split personality.

Adam didn't argue with them. If they didn't want to believe in angels, that probably fell under religious freedom or whatever.

One day, though, it got more difficult to ignore the theological implications in the room. It was the day that more survivors walked into the camp.

Angel survivors, to be precise.

Raphael was the one who asked to speak to the leader, which made people lead them to Rufus's cabin. They talked for quiet a bit in there, angels and humans loitering outside, throwing each other wary looks.

Gabriel had stayed outside with the others, possibly to keep them calm, since he was busy mingling with his own, and obviously trying to draw them into conversation with the humans.

At some point, he dragged Samandriel over to a group of people Adam stood close to.

Upon noticing him, Gabriel seemed to forget he still had a hand around Samandriel's arm, and just blinked at Adam. “Michael?” he asked incredulously.

“No. I mean, yeah, technically, but not right now.” Adam sighed. “Hang on a second.”

To everyone's credit, they only flinched a little bit as Michael and Adam traded control. Apparently, with Michael's grace still low, their eyes didn't flash so much as they rolled back into their head.

It was a neat party trick, Adam supposed, though he could have lived without children running away from him screaming.

“Gabriel.” Michael looked his brother up and down, eyes coming to rest on the sad excuse for wings that were just barely visible to him anymore. “You look horrible.”

“Thanks. Right back at ya,” Gabriel said sarcastically. “Where the hell have you been?”

The other angels, who must have heard their commander's name, drew closer. In turn, the humans started backing away.

“Incapacitated,” Michael said, and glanced at Samandriel. “I'm sure you know the feeling by now.”

Gabriel nodded seriously. “Something is wrong. Even our powers are failing.”

“Heaven is closed to us. Our connection to our Father...” Michael broke off, shaking his head.

“I haven't been connected to Heaven for a long time, and I was always fine,” Gabriel argued. “But now... it's like someone turned off the tap. The well is running dry. We're out of gas in the middle of a-”

“I get it,” Michael interrupted his brother's rambling. On second thought, Gabriel looked a bit frantic, the measly remains of his wings twitching erratically.

“Can we stay here?” an angel asked anxiously, stepping forward.

As Michael fixed his eyes on them, a pang of sadness echoed through his grace. There was still a glimmer of something non-human in his brethren, but it was so weak he had trouble making out who this even was.

“That's not my decision,” Michael simply said, much to the chagrin of the group.

“Well, will you ask them for us?” someone else asked hotly.

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Raphael is already doing that.”

They just want to know you're on their side, Adam told him. They're scared, they need to know someone is taking care of them.

Raphael is, Michael said curtly.

It was still weird that his voice was so small, no longer the booming voice of an archangel. Still undeniably Michael, though.

You were their leader for centuries, right?

Millions of years, actually.

Oh, okay. Wow. Um... you think maybe they're used to you calling the shots, so now they're looking to you to call the shots?

Probably.

Adam sighed. And are you gonna take that responsibility, or are you gonna be a little bitch about it?

I'm not a- I don't have to listen to this, Michael grumbled.

You kinda do. With Michael being so weak right now, he couldn't just keep Adam down. Not that he'd ever really done that, except during his fighting frenzy, which had probably been unintentional. But he could have, at any time during their acquaintance, and there was practically nothing Adam could have done to prevent it.

Now, it would be an almost even struggle.

“Don't mind him, he's just being a stubborn ass,” Gabriel told the congregation at large, just as Adam and Michael traded control again.

“I'll put in a good word for you.”

Gabriel looked at him suspiciously, searching his face until he apparently found something. “And who are you?”

“Adam.” He extended his hand, but Gabriel didn't take it. “I'm the original owner of this body. You know. Before the archangel rented it out. Grew it myself for nineteen years.”

Actually, your body is a reconstruction. Your brothers burned the original one, Michael said.

“Damn, for real?” Adam asked, then realized he'd said that out loud. “Uh, I mean... if Rufus is being difficult, I can ask him to reconsider. Or I'll ask Linda, and she'll yell at Rufus until he caves.”

Gabriel looked him up and down. “You know everyone in this camp?”

“Uh, yeah? We kinda live here now.”

“I mean, like... Michael lets you out?”

Adam shrugged. “Not like he's got that much of a choice anymore. But also, yeah, he's been doing that. Occasionally. He always makes me do kitchen duty. Potato skins are like, his mortal enemy.”

It's beneath me to peel a stupid veget-

Yeah, yeah. And it's not because you cut yourself on the first try, I know.

Michael pouted. With his emotions being a lot less overwhelming to experience now, just like his voice, you would expect that they would be far more clearer cut. Instead, they seemed to be a bit more vague, more muddled.

But Adam could still recognize a pout when he felt one.

He would have teased Michael about it if Rufus hadn't chosen that moment to come back out of the cabin with Raphael.

“Attention, everyone!” Conversations died down as people turned towards him, humans and angels alike. “Raphael here has explained to me what the situation is. These people are basically refugees, in some – hell, in pretty much every sense of the world. I'm sure you have more questions-” Rufus' voice became louder as murmuring started up “- and Raphael has agreed to answer them in a public forum. But for now, how about we get these guys put up in some of the empty cabins, yeah?”

“There's too many!” someone from the human side of the crowd shouted.

“They can share. Apparently they don't need much sleep or food, so space and supply shouldn't be much of a problem. Think... you know, think Michael and Adam, times twenty or whatever.”

There was more murmuring, but there were also some nods, as several people seemed to accept the situation.

“Where's the rest, anyway?” Adam asked Gabriel while Rufus divided everyone into groups to organize the integration of the angels. “There's a lot more angels than the guys you brought, right?”

“We're not actually sure where they are. I mean... some died.” Gabriel watched grimly as people scampered off to clean and repair the unused cabins. “Others, we lost contact with when our powers started fading. And then some... I don't know.”

He straightened as Raphael motioned for him to come over, and then he walked off. Looking after him, Adam could feel Michael's contemplative mood.

Did he regret leaving his brethren behind in favour of burning himself out killing zombies? Or was he just wondering how this would all play out, now that he was reunited with them?

Whichever it was, Adam would be there to talk it through with him. Not that he had much of a choice in the whole 'being there' thing – just as Michael wouldn't have much of a choice in the 'talking about it' aspect.

Adam was going to make sure of that.

#Endversetober #Midam #Archangels SPN #Angels SPN #Quick writing

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shieldofgod · 4 years

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Violence, and compromise

First Voice

Let us be circumspect, surrounded as we are By every foe but one, and he from the woods watching. Let us be courteous, since we cannot be wise, guilty of no neglect, pallid with seemly terror, yet regarding with indulgent eyes Violence, and compromise.

Second Voice

We shall learn nothing; or we shall learn it too late. Why should we wait For Death, who knows the road so well? Need we sit hatching-- Such quiet fowl as we, meek to the touch, --a clutch of adder’s eggs? Let us not turn them; let us not keep them warm; let us leave our nests and flock and tell All that we know, all that we can piece together, of a time when all went, or seemed to go, well.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay; Two Voices

His brother lives.

When all else becomes narrowed to a gray haze and pain, when all else has become the final threads between himself and oblivion, Castiel holds onto this fact like a shining beacon of light in the growing darkness: Samandriel lives.

His blade had struck true, but his Father had intervened after. The angel tablet is safe. He has not failed at this one thing, this one attempt to try to save what he loves, on Earth or in Heaven. These things are truth.

But more importantly than anything else in that list, his brother lives.

Some songs echo so much longer and deeper than Heaven’s machinations.

He woke on his brother’s couch in a start; the smell of blood and paint in the air. His side hurt terribly, but it was healing at least; packed with gauze and bandages wrapped around himself holding it all together. He stared off at his brother’s small apartment, the warding on the walls, memory coming back in pieces (what of it has not been holed by Naomi) and realized that at some point, he had overheard her plans to send angels after Kemuel.

That thought was enough to drive Castiel to get up. Still wounded and reeling from it, but well enough now to fly, he left a note for his brother on the kitchen table--

I’ll be back when I can be; I will get us cell phones and bring you one.

I love you very much. Be safe, Samandiriel.

--and then made the same kind of mistake he usually made: He tried to fix things.

He left his coat and jacket and shirt and tie on his brother’s floor, thinking it would be a short flight. He took off for Kemuel’s, hoping to at least warn the archangel, and was intercepted along the way because certainly Naomi wouldn’t leave that avenue open without surveillance.

They netted him like a fish and he fought all the way until he was a tangle of silver filament and heaved breaths and until his side was bleeding again.

And then he fought even harder after.

She doesn’t try to reprogram him this time. She only means to kill him, albeit via vivisection. Dismantling him slowly, until he is nothing at all but dead energy. Learning what she can of the metaphysiology behind him; she tells him as much, and she almost even sounds apologetic.

Mad, maybe. But apologetic.

Somehow, even in agony, Castiel finds that a relief. That she is not digging into his mind, and therefore thinks that Crowley has the angel tablet; that she does not know his brother is alive and managed to escape her and everything. That she only means to kill him, even if she is going to do so slowly.

He fights, of course. But some part of him is almost looking forward to the ending.

It was ten thousand thousand years ago; he danced with his brother, two flashes of light weaving around one another, drawing their wingtips through stardust and dark matter, singing because they were so happy, so joyful, that they could not help but give voice to it.

Always under it, a part of the choir singing for the Father who made it all:

Holy holy holy, the Lord God Almighty--

Before he was even Castiel, he was half a duet; before he even had a name, he had his brother.

Naomi might have sliced and diced across the edges of those memories, but they went too deep to ruin permanently. She muddled them, but they clarified again once her meddling was done.

Later, while he is dying, Castiel finds his solace in them; of a time of love, joy and song. Of a time when he was good, because there was nothing else he could have been.

There is thrice as much blood on the floor and outside of it as there is within Jimmy Novak’s mortal body; she heals that physical body before the vessel can expire, and over and over again he bleeds and bleeds, growing cold and faint and dizzy until she restores that blood again.

Normally, Castiel could tune out of the pain; now, whatever she has done to him has insured he feels it keenly, as if this flesh, blood and bone cage belongs to him and is not only something he wears. It is torture on two levels; he can feel what she does to his own self, too.

He isn’t sure anymore how long it has been. There is so much blood on his head and face that he can’t see, eyelashes matted together with it; there is so much damage to himself that he cannot even open his own eyes. She doesn’t let him lose consciousness. She drills and drills; prods with silver spikes of specialized grace, fuses and cuts.

Something goes electrical down his borrowed spine; makes him arch his back against the restraints, and then there is the smell of burning, the sound of Naomi crying out in pain, and then the weight of wings at his back. She says something, gasping, but Castiel is nearly enough beyond hearing that he can’t understand it as words.

He doesn’t know when he stopped screaming. When he lost his own voice.

He doesn’t know anything, really, except the most important thing.

She doesn’t go back at him, but it’s likely as not too late to save him, he thinks; he is only a few threads of light in the cold gray fog of his dormant grace. This time, she doesn’t restore the vessel as it bleeds; as his wings hang limp in their sockets, staining the silver and gray feathers in red, more dripping and dropping off of his head.

There is some sound of alarm, but it doesn’t really register to Castiel; he knows only that he is dying, and accepts it; knows only that his brother lives, and accepts that, too.

This time, when the dark claims him, he doesn’t fight at all.

@fracturedsword, @kemuele

#ic #fracturedsword #kemuele #s; violence and compromise #either use it as an open #or just leave it as a vignette #your choice #<3 #torture cw #blood cw

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multipleuniversesinwriting-blog · 7 years

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Title: Immortals 4

Warnings: Time skip to two weeks later, ambush, blood, violence, swearing

Word Count: 1906

Summary: Reader is taking a walk- her break from painting having caused an artist's block- and is surprised along the way. The tensions between her and Metatron grow even thicker. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You let out a soft sigh, snuggling your nose down into your scarf as you pulled your coat tighter towards you. It was beginning to grow colder out- the city that was usually shadowed with darkness and suspicion now shadowed with decay and poverty, a rather terrifying spectacle if you didn’t know how to fight.

Your footsteps were soft, softer than air, and you reached up to fix your balaclava (it goes over your head and rests on your shoulders or hugs your mouth and nose/it’s a face warmer) and then adjust your scarf. Your breathing echoed in your own ears and you couldn’t help the paranoia creeping into your heart. The sun was already gone, leaving lights from windows and a once-in-a-while working street lamp to light your way. You looked back, eyes narrowing as you attempted to see down the poorly lit street, before looking forward and beginning to make a route towards home.

You’ve been out for long enough, trying to get inspired by what was around you to paint in your studio instead of that damn same woman. You began to sink into your thoughts- running through the pictures you’ve implanted in your mind. Right now your top pic to paint was an older building- looking upon the verge of being abandoned- in the sunset with a blanket hanging out the top floor window. No lights were on inside- yet there was a shadow in front of one of the windows, the faint white of their eyes barely being seen by you.

Hands grabbed your scarf, ripping you off the ground and throwing you into a wall. You coughed- your scream a wispy breath before you saw the boot coming towards your face. You rolled out of the way and scrambled to your feet- the street lamp across the street helping you identify how many people stood across from you- but not who they were. You snarled and someone stepped up behind you- the scuff of their boots alerting you to the oncoming danger.

You turned- and threw a punch- feeling it brush by their ear. So this person was smaller than you. Knowing roughly where everything was on them you took your fingers and jabbed them into the person's throat- grabbing them and throwing them behind you, turning and watching him land out on the sidewalk- choking and scrabbling at the ground for air. Four left. One of the larger attackers came at you- and you saw a glint of a blade before ducking to the side, skin burning on your cheek as it scrapped you. You hissed, kicking him in the side. Someone grabbed your right arm and your left hand became claws, and you didn’t noticed the sudden heat in your hand as you brought it forward- aiming for the attackers face. Thanks to the fire in your palm you could see the fear in her eyes, right before she let go and flipped away, standing back by the entrance of the alley.

You turned to get all the attackers in your sight- the fire now gone from the palm of your hand. You growled- a deep throaty sound- and blocked the female again, kicking her in the chest. The sound of cracking and snapping bones filled the air and when she landed on the ground she stayed down. You spun, almost having forgotten about the guy with the blade, and were grateful to yourself that you had turned around when you did. You grabbed the blade- the sharp triangle edges cutting your palm horribly- a terrible burn rising up where your skin was cut open.

You held back a strangled scream- throwing your other hand forward and nailing the guy in the nose once, breaking it. He swore as he pulled away- and you threw your fist forward twice more, smashing his cheekbone and then his jaw- the nerve between the hinge of his jaws being snapped and knocking him unconscious. You kept the blade, flipping it in your hand- and turned around, staring at the last two fighters. So far you hadn’t intentionally killed anyone, but the blade in your hand told you that they were planning on killing you. Your back and ribs ached, the cuts on your cheek and hand burning like crazy. The guy you had first taken out earlier was gone- disappeared during your fight- and the woman was still unconscious. You adjusted your grip on the slippery weapon- switching it over to your right hand to get a better grip on it, and stared at the last two fighters.

They both jumped at you and you danced back, nearly tripping over the body behind you, and dodged their blows, being forced onto the defense instead of taking offense. Your lips curled in anger as you kept ducking- bobbing and weaving through their blows. They worked together like a well oiled machine- as one person.

One of their fists narrowly missed you and the blade clattered on the ground as you were thrown into the wall by a punch on your jaw. Your head collided and a small crack echoed in your ears and you slid down the wall, vision blurring in and out. Hands grabbed your shoulders and you lashed out, a foot connecting with one of their legs. They stumbled back and you lashed out at the other one, throwing yourself off the wall and tackling them, your nails digging into their skin and clothes as you crawled up their body, finally losing whatever control you had for fighting.

You were fighting to live now- if you lost, you’d be dead. You screamed as you lashed out, the side of your fist bashing into their face as you stunned them, then knocked them unconscious. There was next to no chance of him surviving after this. Hands grabbed you and lifted you up, your legs flailing as you snarled and screamed- crying out as he slammed you into a wall, holding you up.

“W-who paid you?” You spat, knowing that they wouldn’t of attacked you without pay- to the world you weren't anyone special. You were another human. He- you could tell by the way he was pinning you to the wall with just his hands- smirked.

“A man who goes by Book Slayer- he paid us a lot of money to get rid of you.” He said, and your heart sank. Metatron had hired hitmen to kill you. The crestfallen look in your face disappeared as you snarled, lashing out with your feet and turning your head- biting down hard enough on his hand that you drew blood. He cried out and suddenly was off you- slamming into the other wall. You threw up your hands, throwing them in a downwards motion at him and killing him as you crushed his ribcage and pierced his lungs and heart with bone splinters- the air current gone soon after.

You stood there, bleeding and panting and in pain unlike any other. You looked around before falling to a knee- vomiting on the ground. Your body shook horribly and you panted, tears falling down your face as you gasped and cried, sobbing as you grabbed your phone out of your pocket. You pressed 1 on speed dial, and it rung twice before he picked up.

“Bluebird-” He stopped as he heard you sobbing.

“H-help me- I-I’m a block away from the house- I-I’ve been attacked a-a-and.” You were cut off as you coughed, beginning to choke on the mixture of tears, snot, and air. Probably some blood in there too.

“I’m on my way.” He said quickly, hanging up. You put your phone into your pocket, using the wall as support as you moved out of the alley, continuing to head home. You didn’t want to be there when the others woke up.

You spotted Gadreel as soon as he spotted you, and he put pedal to the metal, coming to a screeching stop besides your battered form. He jumped out of his car, jumping over the hood and helping you into the passenger seat.

“I’m taking you to the hospital-”

“N-no, Gad… just- home.” You whimpered, trying to calm yourself down as you hovered your right hand over your left palm. Your right palm glowed a soft green and you couldn’t stop the pained scream that left your lips, some liquid flowing out of the cuts before they healed, almost flawless aside from the pearly skin. Gad glanced at you worriedly as he pulled into the driveway, practically flying out of the car and running around to your side, being gentle as he pulled you out.

He entered the house and right away your eyes landed on Castiel and Anna, Samandriel standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching worriedly. You groaned as Gadreel jostled you, your ribs flaring as well as every other bump and bruise, cut and crack on your body. He set you down in the living room- where you were gasping for breath, shaking horribly, and still crying.

“What happened?” Anna asked softly, since her trying to read your emotions was becoming overwhelming. You bit your bottom lip- coughing a small bout before hovering your hand over your ribs. It glowed softly again and you gritted your teeth, body tensing as you pulled away from the couch slightly- your scream starting and dying in your throat.

Once your ribs were healed you moved to your head- nearly blacking out from the effort it took to heal it. Your body went limp for a moment and Gadreel grabbed your face in his hands- his hands cold compared to your body. You groaned, moving your hand slowly to your back and healing it.

You sagged with relief, finally having healed every major injury- when Metatron entered, curious as to what was going on. When he spotted you on the couch he paused, and you looked up to see who was in the doorway.

You froze, right before throwing yourself off the couch and tackling him, weariness and pain forgotten, screaming bloody murder the whole while. You got in three wicked good punches, breaking his nose and giving his right eye one hell of a black eye later one, when you were dragged off. You screamed, snarling like a vicious animal.

“It was him! It’s his fault!” You screamed, and everyone came to a pause, even your thrashing. Gadreel let you go and you stood up, snarling.

“He hired mercenaries to kill me!” You spat, tears still streaming down your face as you struggled with the tornado of emotions. “He tried- to fucking kill me!” You shouted, hands beginning to warm up as fire slowly crawled up your hands and arms.

“(Y/n)- you need to calm down.” Gadreel said, stepping in front of you to grab your face, holding it gently between his hands. You simply reached up and moved him- catching the collar of his shirt on fire as you grabbed it and tugged him to the side. You took a step towards Metatron- who was now standing- and held up your right hand, glaring at him.

“I’m going to kill you.” You said softly, and then cold, very cold hands, were grabbing the back of your neck and upper left arm. Your fire winked out and you watched the ice crawl down your arm, and could feel it crawling down your neck before you sagged- body shutting down.

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multipleuniversesinwriting-blog · 7 years

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Chapter 4

Title: Immortals 4

Warnings: Time skip to two weeks later, ambush, blood, violence, swearing

Word Count: 1906

Summary: Reader is taking a walk- her break from painting having caused an artist's block- and is surprised along the way. The tensions between her and Metatron grow even thicker.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You let out a soft sigh, snuggling your nose down into your scarf as you pulled your coat tighter towards you. It was beginning to grow colder out- the city that was usually shadowed with darkness and suspicion now shadowed with decay and poverty, a rather terrifying spectacle if you didn’t know how to fight.

Someone grabbed your right arm and your left hand became claws, and you didn’t noticed the sudden heat in your hand as you brought it forward- aiming for the attackers face. Thanks to the fire in your palm you could see the fear in her eyes, right before she let go and flipped away, standing back by the entrance of the alley.

Your back and ribs ached, the cuts on your cheek and hand burning like crazy. The guy you had first taken out earlier was gone- disappeared during your fight- and the woman was still unconscious. You adjusted your grip on the slippery weapon- switching it over to your right hand to get a better grip on it, and stared at the last two fighters.

“Bluebird-” He stopped as he heard you sobbing.

“I’m taking you to the hospital-”

“It was him! It’s his fault!” You screamed, and everyone came to a pause, even your thrashing. Gadreel let you go and you stood up, snarling.

#change in layout #probably not consistent with the other layouts #blood #violence #fighting #immortals #supernatural #gadreel #metatron #lucifer #powers #fire #confusion

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