I'll probably write at least one more after that, but again, no ETA.
Summary: Dean saves Michael and then has to take care of him.
Word Count: 800
When Dean returns to the hotel, he doesn’t know if it’s a relief or worrying when Sam isn’t there. Probably noticed he was gone and went looking. If he wasn’t out gallivanting with Ruby again, that is.
Still, it doesn’t hurt that he can clean up the angel in peace. It’s awkward, peeling the clothes off an angel’s vessel, but if he’s going to even begin to clean up all the blood and wounds, it has to be done. He hasn’t seen an unconscious angel before, but then, it’s not like he’s been palling it around with the douchebags. Except Cas, and Cas is pretty quiet.
Michael is a little too quiet for his liking, right now. The buzzing, the waterfall, it’s all gone, leaving an uneasy quiet.
The vessel squirms around a little when he puts it in the bathtub, but there’s all too much in the way of blood, so much that all the water turns red. He starts scrubbing the blood out of the dark hair, and there’s a soft sigh as Michael nudges further into the gentle touch. He looks like he’s been in Hell, and, well.
Dean is feeling sympathetic. Probably more than the angel deserves. But he patches the guy up, uses first aid supplies that will need to be replaced. He sits back, feeling a little proud of his work.
Maybe it’s because all of this, it’s suddenly not complicated. It’s simple. He’s been craving simple. Bad guys, shoot. Good guys, help.
His vessel pretty much fits in Dean’s clothes, though the pants are a little short. And tight. He’ll get better clothes later. Sam’s a giant, and maybe the angel would fit those clothes better, but he doesn’t particularly want to paw through his brother’s things. Maybe there’s something there he won’t want to see.
The vessel is, well. He’s not bad-looking. If he had to try to pick a vessel almost as good looking as Dean Winchester, he was doing pretty well. The hair’s black, a little messy, which was hard to pick out among all the blood caked into it. The face is strong, handsome, charismatic. The face of a leader.
He had kinda expected the guy to maybe look in his thirties, not his mid-twenties. But then, angels didn’t really live up to their little propaganda lines, anyway.
Suddenly, hands are flailing, and Dean has to again give really sucky comfort. He sucks at this. “Hey, it’s okay, feathers. I got you.”
Surprisingly, Michael relaxes instantly, brilliant green eyes focusing on his face. “Dean. You came.” The voice is still gravelly. From lack of use? Likely, considering he breaks into a coughing fit. “Thank you.”
Despite everything, gratitude was the last thing he’d been expecting. “Excuse me?”
“We should get moving. I didn’t have the strength to kill, only to banish…” More coughing. They’ll be coming back? That sucks, but isn’t entirely unexpected. But there’s a problem. “Sam.”
Ah, there’s a look he expected more of the time, coming from angels. It’s a ‘are you entirely stupid?’ look.
“What?” It’s oddly really hard to get really mad at the guy. Which, yeah, okay, that makes him more paranoid than before.
“Angels speak mind-to-mind. Humans have things called ‘telephones’, do they not?” There’s a hint of humor, which is something anyway, even as he glares. Michael looks completely unruffled as he stands gingerly.
“Well, forgive me if I was a little distracted at the moment!” They have to leave. It’s not safe here. He needs to warn his bro. Michael is not driving. He trusts him, but not that much. Sam will panic when he hears someone’s voice other than Dean’s on the phone.
Ducking around the truth isn’t helping them, and perhaps a little trust right now is exactly what they need. “You talk to him.”
Michael gives a look that is surprisingly close to one of Sam’s bitchfaces, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips. He doesn’t argue as the phone is tossed to him, although he does hold it awkwardly with the bandages on his hands.
“What?” Everything’s nearly packed up, including—there’s something else he missed—Sam’s stuff. He stuffs the rest in the duffel and throws it to Michael, who sways but does not fall. “You okay?”
“Far from it, Dean, but…I will be.” The smile is tired but there’s hope there. “It’s a perfectly fine choice as a commander. It’s just…there’s so many choices.”
“Welcome to free will.” And then Dean realizes the other thing the angel said as they walk out to the car. “Don’t call me a commander.”
“Well, I suppose I can do that.” Suddenly, Michael looks all of the thousands of years he’s lived, wise and amused and hopeful and impossibly exhausted. “After all, I’m not a commander anymore, either.”