The Middle Eight
Written for the prompt by sarahlizzie 'Dean/Michael in Young John's body'. Michael has a little more than a heart to heart with Dean before sending him back to the future at the end of the episode.
I've been holding on so tight.
Look at these knuckles -they've gone white.
I'm fighting for who I wanna be.
I'm just trying to find security.
But You say 'Let it go', You say 'Let it go.'
You say 'Life is waiting for the ones who lose control.'
You say you will be everything I need.
You said if I lose my life it's then I'll find my soul
You say 'Let it go'.
Well it's hard enough to hear,
Harder still, to move beyond this fear.
We know there's nothing I can bring,
So tell me what do you want from me?
But You say 'Let it go', You say 'Let it go.'
You say 'Life is waiting for the ones who lose control.'
You say you will be everything I need.
You said if I lose my life it's then I'll find my soul
You say 'Let it go'.
What do I love? What do I hate? What will I lose? What will I gain?
How do I save my soul?
What if I bend? What if I break? What will it cost?
What will it take for you to save my soul?
But You say 'Let it go', You say 'Let it go.'
You say 'Life is waiting for the ones who lose control.'
You say you will be everything I need.
You said if I lose my life it's then I'll find my soul
You say 'Let it go'.
Let It Go – Tenth Avenue North
Thought that song was suiting, but 'In the End' by Linkin Park can also apply, I think.
It wasn't normal, not by anyone's standards. Granted, Winchesters made a living off of 'weird', but talking to a 1978 version of your father as the current host of the Archangel you're meant for wasn't even on Dean's scale.
Add to the fact that the guy was way too sure of himself – classic Angel – and was talking about killing their brothers, one of which had just been zapped back into the year 2010 and with Dean's mother lying unconscious on the floor…Yeah, that paints a picture.
John Winchester of 1978 was very different to the man Dean had known as his father, looks-wise. Dean could obviously tell where the pale green eyes he'd had in younger years had come from. They had the same general face – green eyes, strong jaw, even the half-smile Dean had seen earlier.
And now Michael was in him, and the whole 'Holier than thou' thing didn't fit young John. Different to Castiel and Uriel, Michael seemed more human, more at home in John's skin, and that thought kind of freaked Dean out; Michael could be pretty convincing as a human. Dean might as well have already met him a thousand times for how easily he blended in.
What would it be like to share space with an angel?
It's in a Hunter's nature to be curious, and of course Dean was. It was only human to crave power, to be unsatisfied with not knowing, to be afraid of knowing too much.
"I still love him, but I will kill him because it is right, and I have to. Because I am a good son." God, Dean remembered that – the certainty, the faith in an unknowable plan, in a father that one couldn't even begin to understand, that was never around. Michael was, by nature, created to follow Daddy's orders, just like Dean. But how could the Archangel still be so sure? When John had told Dean that he might – might – have to kill Sam…even then Dean knew he would never be able to carry out that order, not even when it was coming from the mouth of his own father. He'd die first.
"You haven't even tried." Finally, Dean found his voice. The protest was weak, sounded flat to his own ears. "You won't try."
Michael's head cocked to one side, in that way that all Angels seemed to do – what, did they, like, teach a head-tilt class up there? – smiling in a serene – and in Dean's mind, condescending, like indulgence in a child that's throwing a tantrum – way. "Lucifer is…stubborn. He's the little brother, with his own powerful toys and life. He won't listen to me or our Father. I'm sure you can relate."
"Stop trying to compare your problems to mine! My fights with Sam don't cause a freaking Apocalypse!"
Michael smiled again, this time sadness clouding his eyes like a shadow. "Yes, they do." Dean opened his mouth to object but was silenced as Michael continued; "The size of our problems does not decrease their similarities, nor lessen their significance. You are a human, I am the most powerful Archangel in Heaven, but we must both play our parts and come together to defeat our brothers. The fate of the world depends on it."
Dean was getting dangerously close to punching Michael. Only the memory of what punching Cas had been like held him back.
"If I say 'Yes', people die."
"I can't say 'Yes' to Michael! He'll roast half the planet!"
"Look around you, man! Half a planet is better than no planet at all which is what we've got!"
"Sam will die." Dean hated how his voice cracked on the words.
"I never said that," Michael replied, expression changing, closing into an icy mask of hard anger, as though Sam's death was a personal insult against him. He took one step forward, then another, until he had the Hunter pinned against the kitchen unit. This close, but not touching, Dean felt like a filter had been lifted – Michael's presence was barely held back. Warmth suffused the room, heat like Hell; bright light gleamed in young John's eyes. The lights flickered overhead, occasional brightness giving the barest teasing glimpse of Michael's shadowy wings against the walls, the ceiling. Those wings were huge.
They were different than the solid black of Castiel's, or the lightning-shape of Rafael's. The shadows were definitely wing-shaped, the outline black with skeletal lines running through them, marking out the bones. The rest was white space, pure radiance…but not really. It was like the white was made of water, and someone was shining a light through the moving surface, creating ripples of light painted on the walls between the solid black of Michael's wing bones, like one sees on the ceiling of an indoor swimming pool. Whenever they moved, the water-waves became agitated and moved with it, solid white ripples against nothing.
In short, they were quite awesome.
It took a moment for Dean to find his voice again. "Holy Hell," he breathed, eyes wide as he tried to reach out and touch them, as though the wings would become corporeal under his questing fingers. Michael chuckled, anger passing with Dean's blasphemy. Humans are so fascinating.
"Dean." He reached up, took a hold of Dean's chin, long fingers splaying out over his jaw as he forced their eyes to meet. He hoped the sincerity showed in his eyes, his words; "I have to kill my brother. It is written, decided. But I would never hurt Sam. I would never force you to destroy your brother."
It was weird, hearing that from the man who, not thirty years later, would ask him to do exactly that. But this wasn't John. This was Michael, a fuck-powerful Archangel who needed to use his body.
Dean still can't think that without making it sound dirty.
"If I say 'Yes' to you then Sam will say 'Yes' to Lucifer. You'll have to kill him anyway," he said, pained at the thought of his little brother dying by his own hand. Well…it wouldn't technically be him or Sam, but still, the point remains valid. He felt the power of Heaven surging through him at Michael's touch, barely restrained at all through the thin layer of skin. It brought tears to his eyes and he wanted to look away, but was unable to due to Michael's fierce gaze.
The Archangel shook his head, shifting his hold on Dean's face; hands now cupping his cheeks, and making sure Dean had no choice but to meet his eyes. It was all there in the pale green gaze – the power of Heaven, and the sadness and the sincere desperation, burning so brightly it was a wonder Dean didn't go blind.
Michael suddenly leaned back after a moment of silence. "I will not kill your brother," he said. Dean didn't realize how close Michael had been until there was breathing space between them once again. Cold air rushed onto his skin, overheated by the wrath of Heaven, making him shiver. The Archangel's presence was starting to get to him; he felt exposed, vulnerable under that all-knowing, burning gaze. It made him flush.
God, this is just embarrassing. His thoughts were a self-deprecating growl. He was reduced to a bumbling fool, flustered in nothing but a look, a flash of wings. He really must have a thing for wings, remembering his fascination with Castiel's and the awe with which he'd seen Rafael's. Fucking angels and their fucking wings.
"How can you promise that?" Dean gave himself a mental pat on the back for keeping his voice steady.
"Not only do I promise it, Dean, I swear it. Bound in blood," Michael replied, crowding the Hunter's personal space once again. Michael reached around Dean – and yeah, Dean's mind totally started giving him dirty thoughts at that – pulling out the small knife that he knew the Hunter kept close to him at all times. Dean's brow furrowed, confusion on his face mixed with a slight wariness – he didn't like being unarmed; felt naked without his weapons.
Michael held out his forearm, running the blade along it, a long cut from his wrist to half-way up his forearm. Blood welled up and out immediately at an alarming rate, and though Dean knew Michael was at no risk of injuring himself, he did worry for his father. That much blood loss was never good for someone, let alone someone with an Archangel inside them.
Michael dipped two outstretched fingers into the cut, gathering blood around them, beginning to chant something in Enochian as he did so. Dean didn't bother trying to translate; his eyes were on the blood. Images of Hell flashed behind his eyes – souls, pained and screaming as he would slice into them and dig around inside, reaching with a searching hand until he closed around the liver, the heart, the lungs and he would pull. There's nothing more satisfying than the crack of bone to get one going.
That's what Alistair always used to say.
There's also nothing like feeling warm blood running down your arms as you go elbow deep inside a person's chest cavity. Dean had truly hated himself when he got back from Hell for enjoying things like that, and even to this day blood still can really get him going. He loves the hunt, he loves killing supernatural, evil sons of bitches, and he loves spilling their blood, the visceral thrill of victory over something more powerful than he was.
Michael was no exception.
Dean snapped out of his thoughts when Michael's bloodied fingers touched onto his forehead. The Archangel was still chanting Enochian, frowning a little in concentration as though Dean hadn't just slipped down Memory Lane…but there was a smirk on young John's face, a knowing look in his eyes when they met Dean's own.
Fuck it, he knew. He knew what his blood would do to Dean.
And he'd hated that his brother was addicted to demon blood. Honestly; hypocrisy, thy name is Dean Winchester. But it's not the same – Dean told this to himself every night – there's a difference between thinking about it, longing for it, and banging a demon while sucking her dry. Dean's fascination, sick obsession with blood was so, so different from Sam's addiction.
Whatever helps you sleep at night, pal.
Again, Dean snapped back to the present – past – when Michael reached back down to his arm, gathering more blood from where it was welling up, pooling around the long cut, running to encircle the forearm and dripping onto the floor. Angel blood. What was that like? Probably a dangerous trail of thought, but Dean lived for danger. He shot it full of lead rounds and left it for dead.
Michael brought the newly-coated fingers back up, pressing them gently to each of Dean's temples, his forehead again, his eyelids, over his cheeks and lips. Once or twice he let a few drops of his blood land on Dean's neck, swiping through them with his thumb to spread them around, chanting all the while. Dean thought he could have heard the word for 'Servant' or 'Covenant' or something, but that's just guess-work. Castiel would have to teach him Enochian one day.
The smell was at once fantastic and nauseating. Nauseating because with each inhale, the scent of rust and copper surged into his brain, spiking the reflex to vomit, remembering the worse parts of Hell, when he himself had been on the rack, the one to be tortured…and Fantastic because the rust and salt smell was heavy in the air, dizzying, driving him insane with the thought of blood, an Archangel's blood, spilled for him. It seemed like the ultimate victory, to be covered in your enemies' blood, the symbol for complete dominance. Dean couldn't help his body's reaction – after all, he had to be a little insane already, right? A little like a demon – as he began to harden in his jeans, each inhale of blood through his nose and mouth sending all his brain cells southward.
Unbidden, his tongue flicked out over his coated lips, tasting the crimson liquid lightly, almost hesitantly, unsure if, like demon blood, this would prove to be dangerous to him. All he tasted was power, pure, raw and cold slicing through his system. It screamed 'danger', 'hunt' and adrenaline pumped into his system, driven by his suddenly rapidly-beating heart. His head felt cold, but the rest of his was suddenly too hot, too warm, like he was back in Hell. The thought wasn't entirely unpleasant.
Yeah, his warning bells were fucking exploding from thinking things like that.
Finally the Archangel was done, drawing his drying fingers away and allowing the cut to heal itself on young John's arm. He smirked, just a little – such a human gesture, it was startling – as he brought the bloodied digits up to his mouth, closing his lips over them. His cheeks hollowed out as he began to suck, and Dean could only imagine the tongue working around his fingers, licking them clean.
Jesus fucking Christ. Dean was glad for the sink supporting him otherwise he'd have had a very embarrassing collapse. Michael's eyes were dark, the outlines of his wings heavy against the white-painted walls. They seemed to shudder every time Dean breathed, blinked, looked at them as though they had a mind of their own.
Poor human looked like he was going to start hyperventilating. Of course Michael knew about Dean's…unusual fetish – well, not that unusual, but considering Dean's background it seemed kind of surprising. After all, it was just good sense to learn about one's vessel. Oftentimes Angels had taken the form of a human without thought to the consequences, and the results were always messy. Michael had hoped that it wouldn't come to this, but here they were.
"The Covenant is made," he said, finally pulling his clean, wet fingers from his mouth with an obscene 'pop'. He figured he should stop before Dean either had a heart attack or mauled him.
After a few false starts Dean managed to reply; "What…What did you do?"
Michael cocked his head to one side, studying the human. He was beginning to realize why his Father had warned him against this in the first place – Dean looked far too tempting, panting, flushed and shaking, covered in Michael's blood. It stood out beautifully against the golden skin, red really was his color.
"I made a pact, with you. Bound in blood," Michael said, repeating his previous words with a smile. "I will never harm Sam. Physically incapable of doing it, now. By the will and power of the Father, Sam is safe from me." He cocked his head to one side again, noticing how Dean's eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"What's the catch?" he demanded, and Michael gently shook his head.
"Always so suspicious, but you wouldn't be Dean if you weren't," he replied, taking a step closer. The scent of blood wafted anew around Dean, forcing the Hunter to close his eyes or risk jumping the Archangel. "Look at me, Dean." Reluctant, but obedient, Dean opened his eyes and Michael found himself staring into the dark green again. "There is no catch. I'm giving this as a peace offering between us. If Sam's wellbeing is the only thing holding you back, then I've taken it off the table."
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
"Isn't it obvious? I'm created to love humans, Dean, to protect them and this planet with all that I am. I can't do that properly if you don't say 'Yes' to me. You will, eventually, you know. You will obey, you will submit, and when that happens I'd like the act to cause as little anguish as possible." Dean's eyes narrowed at Michael's confidence, low growl of displeasure rumbling in his throat. Michael merely stepped closer, one formidable creature facing another, their bodies just touching until Michael took the initiative, leaning down to lick a swipe right up the side of Dean's neck. He could taste his own blood, and the flavor was sin.
It was a fucking turn-on, smelling himself all over Dean. Like he was marking the Hunter, claiming him.
Who knew Archangels could be such sexual deviants.
Well, Dean should have learned from Gabriel.
Dean shuddered heavily, biting back a moan as he felt Michael's warmth gather close again, and he could almost feel the feathers of the Angel's wings, surrounding him in their soft, sensuous caress. It was all too easy to imagine those giant wings, pure silver and feathers rippling as though made of water. Seriously, what is it with him and wings?
Michael's tongue bathed Dean's neck, licking him clean of his own blood and bringing the Hunter to nothing more than a shivering mass of want by exhaling on the cooled skin, raising goose bumps. Dean smelled like musk, arousal, gun oil and leather. Like blood. He smelled like a killer and a Hunter. There are no lies with scent.
The Archangel could smell how much this human desired him, and not just in the immediate present, not just in the sense of lust. Dean would love to just let go, to let someone else take control of him and lead him in the right direction. He was a follower as much as he was a leader. Michael could relate, and even better, he could help.
"Let me take care of you, Dean," Michael growled, his voice low and seductive as he bit down just lightly on the skin below Dean's ear, one hand pulling gently on the Hunter's head to expose more of Dean's throat to him. The Hunter was surprisingly submissive against him, leaning back against the kitchen countertop, soft panting beginning to fill the room, along with a quiet groan when Michael shifted his thigh forward, worming between Dean's legs and pressing upward with steady pressure, allowing the Hunter a point of friction against his growing erection. "Submit to me."
At once Dean tensed, leaving Michael to soothe away the sudden wariness with another low laugh, the sound more like gravel than the usual honey of an Angel's voice, and he kissed Dean's neck, just over his racing heartbeat. "Not like that. I would never take advantage like that. Let me take care of you, Dean. You need to relax, let go a little." There was another low chuckle, the sound vibrating through Michael's body and transferring to Dean's own, to leave the Hunter to clutch desperately at the Archangel's body, biting his lip as he pressed his face into Michael's neck. A needy whine that he would never admit to giving made its way to Michael's ears and the Archangel smiled.
"I can show you that I really am the good guy." Dean was hardly listening anymore, too distracted by the presence of the Angel. In the back of his mind, he knew that this was his father's body – eww, his father's body – but with Michael inside of him, that little detail seemed negligible. Like with Castiel, Dean hadn't even given a second thought to the man he was possessing until Jimmy was found on the floor of an abandoned warehouse. When the Angel was allowed in, it was like the human just ceased to exist. Castiel was always Castiel. Michael was Michael. Once Sam said 'Yes' to Lucifer, he wouldn't be Sam anymore.
Maybe that's why Dean is so afraid. He doesn't want to be left behind, yet another casualty of war. Strange for someone who seemed to sacrifice themselves on a regular basis.
Humans are so fascinating.
Michael hummed softly when Dean's hands began their tentative exploration, moving down the lightly muscled arms of his vessel, running hands down his back. The Archangel shivered at the barest brush down his spine, dulled by clothes, but the area was especially sensitive to all Angels. Where their wings met their body – even if humans couldn't see them – was incredibly responsive, and Michael found himself pressing closer under Dean's touch, low growl turning into a purr when Dean's fingers dipped under the shirt he was wearing, warm skin on warm skin.
The shadows of his wings quivered with every sweep of the Hunter's hands across his spine. Sometimes light, sometimes hard, always teasing, never quite where Michael wanted him to be. Dean seemed to have this way about him, even with Angels.
As the Hunter gained confidence, assured that Michael wasn't going to smite him for being touched, he tightened his hold around Michael's waist, bringing the both of them closer together. Gently, skilled, he moved his hands to Michael's shoulders, pushing off his jacket and then the shirt underneath. The Archangel's eyes were really dark; Dean would have thought him a demon were it not for the wings still shadowing the walls, water moving through them with every shake, every touch Dean delivered onto the other man. He had to say, it was a huge ego boost to see those massive wings shaking for him, even if on the outside the only giveaway Michael had to his feelings were his eyes, near-black with lust, and his erection, firm and warm against Dean's thigh.
"And here I always thought you were unfeeling sons of bitches," Dean remarked dryly, one hand trailing straight down the center of Michael's back. The Archangel arched into the touch, low hiss of pleasure coming from between clenched teeth, the shadows of the wings flapping violently. "Sensitive, huh?"
Michael chuckled, smirk on his face. "I can't protect what I can't understand," he replied, giving that as the only explanation. His wings quieted slowly, the water-light ripples in them distorted, as though the feathers were ruffled. Dean wished he could actually see them – the sight was probably a thousand times cooler than their shadow – but given that Michael was the most powerful Archangel in Heaven it would probably end up killing him to see his wings.
Then again, Dean was his vessel, so…
Before he could even ask Michael took a hold of the back of Dean's head, forcing the Hunter to keep still as he kissed him, lips soft and warm against the human's. He could tell Dean was definitely not used to being the submissive one, but that didn't mean he wasn't exceptionally good at it; Dean's lips parted with very little encouragement, and once Michael was confident he wouldn't pull away he leaned forward, letting go of the body in favor of bracing himself on the kitchen countertop, his hands next to Dean's hips. Tilting his head, Michael deepened the kiss, learning the taste of his true vessel when Dean began to kiss him back.
Dean groaned, able to smell and taste Michael's blood in the Archangel's mouth. It made him shift forward; drive the kiss to get deeper as he chased the flavor, dueling for dominance of the kiss and losing, but even failure was delicious.
"Oh God…" he groaned when Michael pulled away, trying to chase his lips but was held back when Michael's hand planted firmly on his chest. His eyes snapped open – he hadn't even realized he'd closed them – noticing the slight amusement in Michael's eyes. Crap, I just blasphemed in front of an Archangel.
"As flattering as that is," he purred, hand still restraining Dean as he leaned forward, nuzzling into Dean's neck and jaw, licking up one of the sigils he'd drawn there, "I'm going to have to ask you don't call out my Father's name. It's kind of off-putting." Dean flushed, shamed and, though Michael didn't raise his voice, didn't even sound angry, the Hunter felt like he'd been scolded.
His apology was swallowed by the Angel's mouth again as Michael kissed him, pulling the Hunter against his warm vessel as, once again, Dean was greeted with the taste of the Archangel's blood. He wondered if this would get to be an addictive thing, like Sam with demon blood. With every drop Dean felt power flow through him, heady and strong and seductive, the Archangel's true presence just hinted at through the crimson.
"Please," he growled, aggravated into begging when Michael pulled away again, leaving Dean feeling cold and weak in his wake. The Archangel smiled, head cocked to one side, watching him carefully, and Dean was starting to wonder if this had been his plan all along – after all, given how the Hunter was feeling at that moment, it wouldn't take a lot to get him to agree to anything that Michael wanted, if only to feel warm again, to taste the blood again. "Damn it, Michael, please…"
"Shh," Michael replied, putting a finger to his lips and smiling, before his other hand came into contact with Dean's forehead, two fingers outstretched, and the Hunter managed to close his eyes just in time. He expected to feel the rush of being smashed into thousands of tiny pieces, reassembled in a different place, a different time, but instead all he felt was soothing warmth spreading through his system, easing his racing heart and his panting lungs. When he opened his eyes Michael had stepped away, the shadows of his wings folded tightly to his back.
What the fuck… Dean wasn't sure whether to be pissed at Michael for using his Jedi-Angel tricks on him, or grateful that he seemed to be thinking rationally once again.
"You were dangerously close to saying 'Yes'. I thought you would have wanted a clear head." Dean raised his eyes to see Michael in front of him. "I don't want to take advantage of you, Dean," he said, and Dean had to bite back the retort that he wasn't some virginal girl who had had a little too much to drink. There was no advantage to take. But Dean didn't say that, because he was man enough to admit that he'd pretty much have given Michael anything at that minute. It was unexplainable.
It was very, very human.
He reached up to touch his face, feeling nothing there; no drying blood, just warm skin and a part of him missed the Archangel's blood on his face, a mark to bear that seemed much more permanent, and yet so easily gotten rid of. "It seemed to be bothering you," Michael said as explanation when Dean felt the lack of blood on his face.
Far from it. "Uh…thanks, I guess," Dean muttered, clearing his throat and trying very hard to hide his still-flushed face, his overheated body, his very prominent erection. "Wouldn't want to say something I'd regret."
"No matter how inevitable it was." Michael smiled, and normally Dean would have wanted to punch him for being so cocky and so damn sure, but in his current state he seriously doubted his ability to move. The kitchen countertop was proving to be a very stable support.
He took a step forward again, and Dean instinctively leaned into the powerful creature's presence. His heartbeat began to pick up again, eyes sliding closed, and so the Hunter didn't see when Michael's massive wings curled over him, enclosing him and pulling him away from the countertop, into the hard, lean body of Michael's vessel.
Dean physically jolted, feeling the soft caress of feathers against his skin. He reveled in the quiet hum of power that filled his ears, daren't open his eyes in case the illusion vanished with sight. Michael's hands brushed over his arms, to his shoulders, pushing Dean's leather jacket from his body to pool on the floor. Dean shivered at the touch of the feathers as they made contact with the bare skin of his arms. It was indescribable, like having warm honey and milk poured over his body – but a thousand times smoother and more pleasant. No sticky residue.
Liquid power flowed into Dean's body through his pores, the Hunter silent and still as Michael wrapped around Dean with everything; his wings, his presence, his arms. The t-shirt was the next thing to go, baring Dean's chest to the world. Michael's eyes trailed the Hunter's torso appreciatively, taking in the golden skin, the muscles, the anti-possession tattoo, and his eyes finally coming to rest on the handprint on Dean's shoulder. A small flash of possessiveness ran through the Archangel; that another being had put their mark on his vessel, but it faded quickly, replaced by lust when Dean's eyes finally opened, unsure, hesitant in the pause of Michael's touch. The Archangel smiled, letting his wings skate gently along Dean's shoulders and back, pulling him ever closer until their chests were touching. Michael had to smile at the hesitancy, the tenseness in the set of Dean's shoulders, but it was clear that Dean wanted this, wanted them, and so Michael was perfectly willing to stand silent as Dean undressed him.
Once they were both naked, clothes thrown hastily away, they stumbled towards the long leather couch, connected at lips and hips as they ground desperately against each other, desperate for friction. The shadows cast by Michael's wings were out of control, flapping uncontrollably in the face of his lust. The Archangel pushed roughly against Dean's shoulders, sending the human onto his back on the couch, to quickly cover the Hunter's body with his own. A low growl resounded from deep in his throat when Dean rubbed his shin gently between Michael's legs in a mimic of Michael's actions earlier, and the Archangel's eyes rolled into the back of his head. His wings extended and folded in rhythm with Dean's movement, Michael's head lowering to gently nip and lick at Dean's lips and jaw. One hand was braced next to Dean's head on the couch cushion, fingers tightly fisted in the leather as Michael fought back losing himself to his pleasure, and Dean let out a soft sound of protest when Michael's other hand took a hold of his thigh, gently pushing out to force Dean's legs to spread.
"Wait, wait," Dean panted softly, pushing against Michael's shoulders to force space between them. "What the hell? I'm not a freaking bottom."
The Archangel had to laugh at Dean's display. So like the Hunter to never show weakness, never admit to his desire to lose control.
"Dean, if I wasn't in this vessel, you would not be able to withstand my true presence. I can send you screaming anywhere in the world, trap you with a thought. A slight hint at my true voice and your eardrums would burst. You cannot begin to fathom the power of my being. So, tell me, what's wrong with submitting?"
The Hunter growled, trying to push Michael away again, angered when his efforts showed no effect. "I don't 'submit' to anyone, especially Angels."
"Funny," Michael muttered, leaning down once again to brush his nose along Dean's jaw, breath just skating along Dean's skin, making him shiver; "I seem to recall you swearing your service to God and his Angels. I must have been mistaken."
"The cocky attitude is really getting old, Michael," Dean growled, making the Archangel chuckle. He moved his hand from Dean's thigh – albeit reluctantly – to stroke gently against Dean's erection, fingers making a tight ring along the base to pull slowly upward, teasing. Dean's hips arched, tried to chase him but Michael straddled his thighs, held him down. When his thumb brushed along the underside of the head Dean visibly jolted, hands flying to Michael's legs before he could stop them, trying to pull the Archangel closer to him, find friction against his body.
Michael leaned down, his voice a purr against Dean's ear; "You have to be patient, Hunter. I have." He squeezed around the base of Dean's cock just briefly, enough for a warning before he continued his slow, agonizing pace.
Dean's eyes slid shut, losing himself in the pleasure of Michael's touches, his presence washing over him, covering him like a blanket of warmth and power. His attempts at more friction than just the teasing caresses came to naught; Dean was slowly but steadily being driven insane by the Archangel above him.
Fucking angels and their fucking -.
Wings. He felt them, falling either side of his body. He could feel the slight tickle of feathers against his sides and thighs, drooping down, heavy and bright. There was no orange behind his eyes, speaking of blinding white, so Dean cautiously opened his eyes.
Well screw me sideways.
Michael's wings were, in a word, glorious. It was easy to be in awe and fear of him when greeted with the sight of his wings. They were at least twice as big as Castiel's, made of pure silver. Each wing seemed coated in it, shone like sunlight even in the dim living room. The feathers seemed to move of their own accord, rippling in waves like water plants in a current. Where Dean had seen the shadows of bones the feathers were slightly more golden, a little darker and more yellow. The wings arched high over Michael's head – Dean fully believed they would be able to take up the entire room – and pooled on the floor, hung over the couch and out of the way.
They looked like they would be really heavy. Dean didn't realize he'd asked until Michael smiled down at him, the wings shaking just a little with his laughter. The action caused Michael's left wing to fall forward, smoothing between the back of the couch and Dean's side, and before the Hunter could stop himself Dean found himself caressing the silken feathers, letting the bone run between his forefinger and middle finger, smoothing down the slightly ruffled, downy feathers. Michael shivered visibly, his other wing hitching just a little along with his breath, eyes falling closed as he rocked just a little against Dean's hips, his hand tightening around Dean's cock briefly.
"Seems like having such sensitive wings would be a downfall in a fight," Dean muttered, his mind as always not quite able to go off the Hunt, sizing up his enemy, pointing out their weaknesses. His eyes flickered up to meet Michael's, mildly surprised to see that they'd darkened to an almost complete black, with a silver lining around the iris that was the same color as his wings. Dean's hand kept stroking the sensitive feathers, soothing them as they because ruffled, Michael trying to draw them back self-consciously, as though only now realizing how big of a weakness they could be once Dean pointed them out.
The Archangel shrugged, his voice nonchalant. "I don't reveal them often," he replied, and was it just Dean, or was there hidden meaning in those words? Most likely – Angels were always such cryptic bastards.
Dean sat up, pushing himself to rest against the arm of the couch, Michael straddling his thighs still, hands on the Hunter's shoulders for balance. The Archangel knew Dean felt less exposed like this, his back covered and Michael no longer quite so close physically. He let out a sound that could only really be described as a purr when Dean's hands became bolder, gently traced through the longer, thicker feathers that arched from the top wing bone and curved along the outside of the wings. Michael shuddered heavily whenever Dean's hand touched his spine or the softer underside where feathers met back.
It wasn't lost on either of them that the more powerful creature was being so open, vulnerable, trying to gain the trust of a lesser being by appearing less threatening. Michael knew it was a good tactic when dealing with humans, so as not to frighten them, or scare them away.
Dean was too caught up in the feeling of liquid silk falling through his fingers, the heat of the Archangel's presence to really be thinking like a soldier.
Michael was slowly but surely falling prey to his lust, his wings sending sensation shooting up his spine, into his mind and the body of his vessel. Unbidden Michael leaned forward, curling his body into Dean's, to try and get as much contact with the human's smooth, warm skin as he possibly could. Their hearts were flying under their ribs, breaths becoming heady and quick when Michael kissed Dean. Raw passion lit up between them, leaving a burning afterglow behind Dean's eyes as Michael finally, impatiently, took a hold of Dean's erection once again, mimicking every touch of his wing onto the human's cock. When Dean squeezed, so too did Michael. Every stroke was accounted for, be it quick or slow, and the pace became faster as Dean realized what the other man was doing, teaching the Angel through example what he liked, what he wanted.
Dean was flushed, sweating with the heat of Michael's presence and the warmth of his arousal, coiling tight and heavy deep in his groin. He was desperate for air, but refused to take his lips from Michael's, kissing the Archangel with abandon as he stroked him to completion, the Hunter coming with a shudder all over the Archangel's hands. Dean's fingers tightened in reflex on the downy feathers of the underside of Michael's wing, causing it to jerk in his grip sharply, and the water-like feathers ruffled in dissatisfaction.
"S…Sorry," Dean murmured, his voice low and rough from his orgasm as he gently soothed the feathers, waiting until Michael stopped trembling – well, it didn't really stop, merely lessened – against him. The Angel pulled away, allowing Dean to take in some much needed air, and when he opened his eyes they were bright as stars, shining with the true form of the Archangel.
His wings were glowing, just slightly, like moonlight, sending shards of fractured light every which way around the room as Michael moved them, tried to get them to calm down, to no avail. The Archangel was literally shaking with need and had nowhere to hide.
He intended to leave the human be, after that, send him back to his own time and hopefully not have to make an appearance until much later, but Dean's fucking hand kept touching his wings, and they were so sensitive, like all the erogenous zones on a human combined into one and amplified by a thousand, and what he'd intended to be a casual remark to see Dean again came out as a; "Dean, please…Please…"
Dean's free hand scraped gently through the Archangel's hair as Michael pressed his face into the Hunter's neck, nuzzling his racing pulse gently, reveling in the body heat and the scent of his true vessel. The light scent of sweat suited Dean, complimented the rest of him, his scent now full of testosterone, hormones of sex…Delicious.
The Hunter's voice was shaky when he spoke. "Yes…Fuck, Michael, yes…"
Of course, we're not talking about the 'Yes'. This was an agreement, a stalemate between them. Michael had allowed himself to be vulnerable, to give Dean pleasure. The Hunter was just agreeing to do the same thing. Tit for tat. That's the way the world works.
It's just another Deal.
Michael took a deep, shuddering breath, his exhale just as unsteady as he pushed his boneless body upright, using Dean's shoulders as support. There was no protest this time when Michael pushed Dean down onto his back, his stomach still slightly sticky from his orgasm, and settled between his legs. Michael leaned down, letting his tongue trail over the drying mess, licking Dean's stomach clean and delighting in the little twitches of muscle underneath golden skin.
When he was finished, certain that his human wouldn't be uncomfortable now, he slicked two of his fingers with his spit, gently easing one in after a brief look to Dean. Permission asked, and received.
Dean knew, of course, what was going to happen. But there's difference between imagining it and experiencing it. He wasn't prepared for the feeling of pressure, the burn of being stretched so suddenly. Only one finger and already it felt too full. Instinctively his muscles clamped down heavily, trying to push the invading force out, to no avail; Michael kept pushing in, past one knuckle then the next until there was no further left to go. Dean shifted on the couch, harsh grunt of discomfort issuing from his mouth until suddenly Michael pressed there.
The result was explosive. Dean arched, trying to drive his hips back onto Michael's hand, in an attempt to get that again, whatever the hell that had been. The Archangel chuckled and obeyed Dean's unspoken command, pressing once again at the small bundle of nerves, causing Dean to cry out, head pressing back against the soft leather of the arm. Michael pulled his finger out after a few more thrusts in, re-slicking the digits and easing them in again, two this time. He could tell Dean was trying to relax, to not make this any more painful than it had to be, and Michael had to admire the grace and stoic hardheadedness with which Dean hid his discomfort. His true vessel was flushed, cock already twitching again with interest as Michael mercilessly stroked the Hunter's prostate, trying to get Dean as loose as possible as, oh-so-slowly, he eased his third finger in and began scissoring, stretching Dean as much as possible.
Dean's hands were everywhere, trying to touch as much of the Archangel as he could; running through Michael's hair, over his shoulders, down whatever part of his wings that could be reached. Every press of warm fingertips against his vessel and Michael shuddered with pleasure, wings flexing and folding rhythmically, in time with the push and pull of his fingers inside of Dean's body.
The Hunter didn't think it could get any better; with every thrust Michael seemed to give a little bit of his presence over. His wings practically glowed, rippling with every movement of his feathers. The pale green of John's eyes was overshadowed by gleaming silver, right in the centre of the pupil, and in a ring around the iris.
"Michael…more, please…" Dean growled, arching again with tightly closed eyes when Michael smirked, looking up at Dean with pure lust in his eyes and very deliberately sealed his mouth around Dean's erection. "Fuck…"
And the bastard laughed.
Dean tried to stifle his moan against his fist, though fat lot of good that did him. Michael pulled his fingers out of Dean, still sucking lightly around Dean's cock, tongue teasing the underside of the head. He drew his head up, cheeks hollowing out as he sucked and let go of Dean's cock once he reached the top, licking his lips. Dean managed to pry his eyes open just in time to see Michael lick his palm, get it nice and wet and transfer the slick to his cock.
Dean would have tensed were it not for the long flight feathers stroking up and down his sides, soothing him gently, and Michael's free hand taking the place of his mouth on Dean's erection, stroking with an almost suffocating, brutal tightness. It was so good.
And it only got better when Michael pushed in.
Fullness, pressure, stretch. The Archangel braced his free hand on the couch, jaw clenched as he pushed in slowly, oh-so-slowly, fighting against every instinct to just thrust in all the way. He was well aware of Dean's lack of experience at the receiving end, so had to take it slow.
When Michael bottomed out inside of Dean, he loosed the breath he was holding harshly through his nose, opening his tightly-shut eyes to look down into the Hunter's. Dean's eyes were dark, half-hidden under hooded eyes, but the always so expressive gaze was telling Michael everything.
There were few words between them – there would be. Michael and Dean understood each other on a level that no one would really ever be able to understand. Vessel and Angel, they were specifically made for each other, to house each other and very few other people can really understand that. Yes, there are other Angel-Vessel pairs – Jimmy and Castiel, for instance – and yes, they are designed to house the Angel perfectly, but Michael is powerful, and with power comes very specific needs. Michael was the protector, the guardian, the soldier, and Dean was the perfect human for him. The true vessel.
Michael had waited a very long time to meet him.
He only wished it had been under different circumstances.
Dean took a hold of the back of Michael's neck, pulling the Archangel down to seal their lips together as, permission unspoken; Michael began to thrust into Dean. Hard, deep, slow strokes that brought his human higher and higher with each and every one. His hand barely had to move, so caught up was Dean in his Archangel's presence, burning brightly like hugging a star.
Like being chained to a comet.
He didn't know what Jimmy had been complaining about – it was glorious.
Neither of them lasted long, over-stimulated, emotions running high for Dean and the grace of an Archangel burning him from the outside and the inside. His orgasm caused his muscles to clench tightly around Michael, stilling the Archangel's movements for the briefest moment, overcome by the tight heat. Two more thrusts and Michael was done for, spilling into the Hunter, a low groan escaping and swallowed down by Dean.
The Hunter could feel the heat inside of him. Scalding. Burning.
Michael's wings flared, sending the coffee table by the couch flying into a wall, the other one colliding into the wall. Dean expected to hear the sound of bruising flesh, maybe crushing bone, not…dry wall cracking and falling to the floor. He cast a curious gaze to the side, a little amused to see that Michael's wing had destroyed the wall.
There was a muffled groan to the side of him, and Dean turned his head again to see his mother begin to stir gently. Abruptly reality seemed to hit him right in the gut; Shit…I just had sex with an Archangel inside my father while my mother was knocked unconscious just feet away!
Yeah…his 'normal' scale had kind of exploded. It lay in shards on the floor of his mind.
Mary's eyes began to flicker open, bleary from being made unconscious by Michael's power. Dean felt the Archangel's – his father's – lips by his ear. "I'll see you soon, Dean," he murmured, and Dean had just enough time to brace himself before Michael's fingers touched his forehead, sending him hurtling back into the future.
When Dean opened his eyes again he was in the motel room, back in 2010. Sam was sitting on one of the beds, thankfully whole and very much alive – Dean had to check him over compulsively before Sam convinced him he was unhurt – and Castiel was…somewhere. And Dean could still feel the heat surrounding him from Michael. His ass was sore.
So…what he thought had happened had really happened.
"What took you so long, Dean?" Sam asked, pouring himself a glass of Jack, Dean one too which he handed to his older brother. Dean downed it in one gulp.
"Nothing, Sammy," Dean replied, unable to really look into his brother's eyes. He held the glass out for more alcohol, and Sam figured it had to have been bad to see his brother look so…spooked. He didn't pry further, merely felt a little annoyed that he had to go die and had missed the big finale.
Sorry for the kind of anticlimatic ending. I was so done with this one-shot. It's been causing me nothing but grief since I was prompted it. Stopping and starting and just generally stressing me out. Haha, but I still got some Michael!YoungJohn/Dean sex in and for that I'm proud.
The title 'The Middle Eight' refers to the episode 'The Song Remains The Same', the middle part of a song sometimes labeled the Bridge or the Middle Eight. I thought it was quite clever, myself.
Sorry if there are any mistakes that my Beta or I missed.
Hope you enjoyed it, anyway. Drop a review if you feel so inclined.