Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was to have been the Battle to end all battles. Slay his wicked younger brother in glorious war to draw back their Father who would usher in a paradise perfect beyond all imaginings. Now, their plan lies smoldering, literal eons of careful planning and preparation derailed by two Neanderthal abominations. The will of Heaven somehow thwarted by those… dregs of Creation.

Michael stalks across the length of their confines. His wings flare wide, pressing his grace as far outward as he can, testing the strength of the cage only to be leashed into yielding by the searing sting and burn of inconceivably potent warding.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

He turns on his brother, the despicable wretch, and roars. “Don’t speak to me, heathen. This is all your fault!”

“Pretty sure it’s not,” Lucifer snarked, a sharp grin twisting the features of his vessel’s face into a sardonic sneer. “There might’ve been party crashers, but I wasn’t one of them.”

With a growl, Michael flicks his wrist, intending to remind the outcast of his place. But his brother doesn’t go flying across the room. He doesn’t even move.

Instead he lifts his hands to his mouth and drops his mouth into an absurd ‘o’ shape.

“I’m sorry. Were you trying to throw me into a wall? Sorry, Mikey. Your powers don’t work here. Six hundred sixty-six dampeners all working together to keep us ZipLock fresh. But hey, I’ll spot you one,” he says.

He whirls in slow motion circles, mocking screams of distress, arms flailing akimbo, before bouncing dully into the wall and flopping down to the ground, where he feigns unconsciousness. The silence only lasts for a handful of seconds before he pops his head back up.

“Feel better?” he asks cheerfully.

Michael does not answer.

Lucifer shrugs. “I tried.”

He ignores his brother and goes back to examining the cage even though he knows it’s hopeless. The cage was specifically designed to hold archangels. Discomfort wells and prickles across every molecule of his being. He’s never been bound this way. As one of the oldest and most powerful of the celestial host, the only limit on what he can do is the Almighty One Himself. In all of his existence, it has never been a question of ‘can he’ or ‘should he’, only whether or not the Father wills it.

But this… His most powerful and loyal soldier trapped, useless, for the rest of eternity. Is that the Father’s will?

“Nothing happens without the Old Man’s go ahead,” Lucifer says in a voice of mocking adulation, seemingly reading his mind.

Michael wants to snap at him, to call him a liar. But the only way to do so would be to openly question their Father’s omnipotence, His omniscience. The same behavior their Father had caged his youngest for so many millennia ago.

“It’s not so bad here, once you get used to it,” Lucifer assures him as he stretches out with a lofty groan, sighing in feigned satisfaction once he’s as comfortable as he could possibly get.

“You are, my fire. The one desire,” he croons softly. “Believe, when I say. I want it that way…”

The words taper off into whistling, feet swaying to the rhythm. His vessel marks nearly half the length of their involuntarily shared space, miniscule compared to Michael’s true form or even Lucifer’s, but uncharacteristically large for a human. The unusual height had been carefully woven into his genetics in preparation for his fated role.

Michael’s hastily grabbed human is a whole head shorter, the same height as his predestined vessel, but far slighter in build. Even more detrimentally, having grown up with his insignificant smudge of a mother, largely outside of the influence of his father’s revenge-driven obsession and military discipline, this vessel is weak-willed, the one thing that sets pre-ordained vessels apart.

Just as the thought crosses his mind, the feeble, half-blooded mutt starts to struggle, trying to surface.

Please. Please let me out… I’m sorry… I… I shouldn’t be here… This was… it was a mistake. Please…

Outwardly clenching his fists, Michael mentally slams the blubbering maggot with a vicious looped memory of watching in abject terror as his mother is torn apart by ghouls right before he himself is devoured.

A whimper pings through his mind as the boy’s soul shrinks away and curls up as tightly as it can.

The satisfaction fades as quickly as it came. With nothing else to do, Michael finally sits, taking the opposite side of the cage from his brother. Closing his eyes, he focuses his thoughts out, first to the Host, then to the Father.

“Papa, can you hear me? Papa, can you see me? Papa, can you find me,” Lucifer sings in a soft falsetto.

Chapter Text

Normally, time is an abstract concept for angels. There is no need to truly understand it when they’re unfettered by its constraints. Michael, one of the Father’s first creations, has been around almost since the Beginning. He can state exactly how many billions of years ago that was. It’s a factoid that’s never held any personal meaning or importance to him. But he knows from his assignments on earth that the humans, weak and fragile, are obsessed with it, constantly measuring and marking how much time they’ve already used, how much they have left. Their lives are transient and fleeting, no more than a blink of an eye, making them futilely concerned with life, death, and eternity.

As a transcendental wave of celestial intent, he never expected to be plagued by the same nagging concern.

Time is different here in that he actually notices it. Michael finds himself constantly wondering how long they’ve been here. Has the time garrison had time to realize what has happened?

In response to his constant thoughts about time, the wheedling soul inside of him keeps nudging him to look at the swatch of metal and cloth on its right arm. He’s given into the impulse several times, glancing at the shattered oval with tiny mechanical pieces spinning in a slow rotation, but he doesn’t understand what meaning the vessel thinks he should take from it.

Time… the voice inside meekly pipes in.

Michael frowns and nudges at the infinitesimally small metal sticks, moving them around the circle with a shove of the finger.

Dismay, frustration, and maybe a hint of… amusement… all reverberate through his mind.

“You keep rubbing that thing like it’s a worry stone. Got a hot date?” Lucifer asks from behind him.

Michael clenches his teeth, turning. Lucifer intentionally stands too close, clearly delighting in the fact that his vessel’s superior height forces his older brother to crane his neck to look him in the eyes. If not for the as of yet insurmountable wards restraining his powers, Michael would keep the cretin bowed prostrate, a reminder of his sins against both the Father and the Host.

“It’s a watch,” Lucifer says. “The little monkeys use it to measure time: seconds, minutes, hours, days.”

Michael looks at the piece again, not sure how a mostly blank circle could tell the humans how many of any of those have passed.

“Hey, speaking of time, how long do you think it took Raphael to take charge once you were gone?” Lucifer asks casually, as though the thought just occurred to him.

“He should have done it immediately,” Michael answers, ignoring the pang of… something… he feels at the thought of being replaced. “The garrison must continue. The Father’s will must be carried out.”

Lucifer waves a hand in acknowledgement. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hail Dear Leader. I got it. But how much time do you reckon they spent mourning their general before moving on?”

“When I put you in the cage the first time,” Michael says smoothly, “they moved on rather quickly. Naomi had already taken your place by the time I returned.”

The nasty amusement on Lucifer’s face falls away and his brows lower into a glare.

“Bet you felt like Big Man on Campus,” he hisses. “Did Pop give you the ol’ attaboy?”

“He was pleased your machinations had been stopped.”

“’Machinations,’” Lucifer sneers. “All I tried to do was free us.”

“From what?” Michael demands. “From order? From His will?”

“From His insanity!” Lucifer roars.

Powers or no, Michael puts every ounce of strength he has into the punch he throws. The thudding impact is satisfying even as delicate fingerbones creak in pain with only his muted grace to keep them from fracturing.

Lucifer’s head snaps to the side as he stumbles back, landing with a clattering thump against the cage wall, sliding down to sit. He laughs softly then growing louder, almost maniacally. He flips his hair back to reveal a mouth rimmed in blood.

“You know why you’re stuck here, bro,” he asks as he dabs at the offending liquid. His mouth curves up with a sinister grin. “Because ‘the truth shall set you free.’”

They continue to fight, sometimes verbally, other times physically. Normally, Michael would never allow himself to be baited in such a way. But in the absence of the ability to actually fly away and with nothing else to focus on, he gets sucked into his younger brother’s favorite pastime: petty bickering and general discord.

They’re in the middle of one such spat when an unknown force slams into the side of the cage sending them both tumbling. Before they can regain their feet, a brilliant blue aura slips in. The soul inside burrows down deeper in fear, but Michael and Lucifer immediately recognize it as one of their brethren.

“Brother, are you here to free me?” Michael asks, hope burning bright in his chest.

But the blue wave turns towards Lucifer instead.

“Um… I know you’re not here to save me,” he says, backing away until he hits a corner.

The incorporeal angel continues advancing on him.

Suddenly, the vessel Lucifer is in jerks forward.

“Hey! No! Stop!” Lucifer roars, swiping futilely at the cloud of grace, his eyes glowing fire red for a brief second before the wards dampen the desperate surge.

The jerky motions continue until the body is pulled free and the ethereal form and the living flesh phase out of the cage.

What the hell was that? the soul inside asks wearily.

But Michael has no answers. He’s staring wordlessly at the iridescent blue mass of tainted angel grace, sickly red fissures of iniquity spidering through it. His gaze then shifts several feet away where there’s a ball of bright white. The vessel’s soul. Michael nearly gasps in shocked dismay. How could any angel be so careless as to take the physical vessel but leave behind a non-condemned human soul in hell? He may not think much of the hairless apes, but he would never do such a thing. Whoever did this is far outside the Father’s will.

After his vessel is taken, Lucifer pivots sharply from petty and cruel to downright vicious. Losing the ability to physically touch and audibly yell, his corrupted grace careens around the cage. He endlessly screams at Michael through their angelic telepathy, words of pure hate and vitriol, intended to sow pain and doubt. The constant siege is so great that Michael finds himself sometimes shamefully shoving the human to the forefront of their shared mind, just for some time away from the angry howls. But the mortals have long been taught to fear Lucifer, to see him as the ultimate threat to body, mind, and spirit. The soul reacts with nauseating waves of fear and horror, begging to be pushed back down, pleading with Michael for protection, making time spent under anything but a respite.

It gets both better and worse when Lucifer discovers that while his powers might not work on Michael or his vessel, they do have an extreme effect on the disembodied soul. This realization was met with the first glee he’s demonstrated since the soul’s vessel was ripped away. Michael watches in disgust as Lucifer plies the souls with hyper realistic visions of being flayed alive, of burning endlessly, of every type of violation the Prince of lies and deceit can concoct. Sometimes, when Lucifer has momentarily grown bored of his own cruelties, the quivering, wounded soul will shimmer towards Michael as though seeking refuge. Michael always rebukes it, partly because as long as Lucifer’s attention is on the mortal soul, it’s not on him. The other part of him is angry at the sniveling thing. If he hadn’t given in, Lucifer would have been stuck in the decaying body of that weepy dolt from Delaware and none of them would be here now. When he thinks of this, his anger takeover. Later, he’s ashamed to admit it, but in those moments of weakness, he sends his own visions at the soul. Nothing as vicious as the ones his brother sent, just a mental image of being beaten half to death by an angry archangel.

It’s enough that his guilt won’t let him feel slighted when a gaunt man appears in their cage. It’s on one of the occasions where the soul is at the forefront.

He looks like a really elegant Jack Skellington, the boy thinks, his fearful tremors stopping in the face of an unexpected surprise.

Michael frowns in confusion and an image of an odd Christmas character floats through his mind.

That’s Death, Michael tells the soul, watching closely.

Is he here for me? The soul trying to clamp down on the hope tingling through it. Michael is almost amused. Most humans fear death, but somehow it has become a preferable outcome to his current circumstances. Across their mind, Michael flits a mental impression of the grim press of lips, a slight shake of the head.

“Looky, looky, it’s our cousin, Death,” Lucifer sings, the whine of angel telepathy sharp in their head. “What brings you here today, cuz?”

Death ignores him. With a casual wave of his hand, the trembling shadow of a man that had been serving as a forced manifestation of the boy king’s soul collapses into a glowy, quivering mass easily cupped in a bony hand.

“Hey! Put that back!” Lucifer shouts. But there’s nothing he can do to enforce his demands. Death is the ultimate authority in the fate of souls.

What about me? the boy screams in their head, fearful of being denied rescue a second time. The words are not voiced, but Death looks at him nevertheless. He gives an almost rueful look, but then turns decidedly away. Between one blink and the next, he and the soul wink out of sight.

Michael has never cried, but he knows that the emotions that his vessel are feeling would most appropriately be expressed through tears.

Lucifer taunts them both, making sure the soul left behind understands that someone had to have bargained something extremely valuable for Death to pull a soul from hell, let alone the Cage. Michael can feel the soul’s upset, gets glimpses of his thoughts. The angels had lied about his role in the Apocalypse, but not about the fact that his brothers would always choose each other. Only his brother could get Death to intervene and he’d only asked for one person.

Michael does not try to force the soul to the forefront for a long time after that.

Chapter Text

Once Sam Winchester’s body and soul are gone, Lucifer grows frantic. His primary talent and one true delight is goading others. Now, that ability is all but gone. Beyond screeching across angelic frequencies, he’s unable to interact. His grace swirls around, frenzied, advancing threateningly towards Michael, even though there isn’t much he can do. Even without being told, Michael knows that Lucifer’s greatest desire would be to torture or destroy the soul in Michael’s vessel. That would put them nearly on equal footing. This knowledge makes him inexplicably protective of the boy. After all, despite his inadequacies, his only role in this failure was agreeing to be Michael’s sword in battle.

After a time, Michael learns to tune his brother out. He closes his eyes to make the glittering grace disappear and he tunes out the whining buzz of their telepathic link by concentrating on the soul with in.

Hello? The boy asks uncertainly the first time he realizes Michael has focused solely on him.

Hello, Michael responds.

How’s it going up there?

Same as usual. I’m ignoring my brother.

An impression of scoffing floats across their shared mind.

He doesn’t seem the kind to take that lightly, the boy says.

He’s definitely not.

Silence falls between them. It doesn’t take long for the quiet to be filling with Lucifer’s buzzing whine, intruding on the bit of peace he’d found.

What’s your name, he asks to fill the void. I know you’re a bastard scion of the Winchester line, but I don’t know your name.

The boy seems stunned for a long moment before he mentally frowns. I’m not a Winchester. My father and my half-brothers are, but I’m not. Not in the any way that matters apparently. I’m a Milligan. Adam Milligan.

Michael hums thoughtfully. Adam. The name of the first abomination.

Abomination?

Yes, the humans.

Is that seriously what you call us?

Michael tilts his head in confusion. Of course. What else would we call you?

He gets a sense of exasperation from Adam.

I dunno. Humans, mortals… people. Abomination makes it seem like you’re calling us sub-standard.

Michael blinks, considers the phrasing for a moment. You are.

Irritation. Interesting.

So, we’re defective? Adam asks, not as good as what as came before?

Well, you’re better than the Leviathans, he concedes with a shudder, recalling the scale of battle required to lock them into Purgatory, but no, you’re not as ‘good’ as any member of the Host.

Why not?

Michael doesn’t even need to think. You’re sinful, disobedient, inconsiderate, and ungrateful.

It’s almost like something’s wrong with us.

Yes! Michael agrees emphatically.

Like, whoever created us went wrong somewhere…

Michael nearly nods before he realizes it. He flushes with anger and slams the boy with visions of being torn apart by hell hounds.

Adam yelps pitifully and flinches away, his soul curling into a ball, shivering with pain and fear. Michael pulls back, indignant at the peon’s gall.

 “Trouble in paradise,” Lucifer teases lecherously, equal parts gleeful and desperate for acrimony even second hand, when Michael surfaces.

Michael steadfastly ignores him knowing how much silence bothers the garrulous angel. He fumes silently instead.

The next time Michael tries to talk to the boy, Adam does the same.

When Adam finally speaks to him again, it’s to make a demand for the first time ever.

If you want me to talk to you, you can’t use your powers on me anymore.

Michael’s first reaction is offense. How dare this… this mite… tell him what he can or can’t do? He’s Michael, the chief Archangel of the Almighty, the vanguard against iniquity and blasphemy, the…

I know exactly who you are. My nana was catholic. She had Saint Michael’s prayer stitched on one of those little doilies in her sitting room. You know, the one where we praise you as a protector of human souls who defends us from Lucifer, the boy thinks, the last bit almost sarcastically.

I’ve heard this prayer, Michael admits. He’s heard it millions of times over hundreds of years in dozens of languages. He secretly kind of likes it because it acknowledges him as the Father’s most chosen warrior and speaks of both his first battle of with Lucifer and of his destined role in the Final Battle.

Everybody says you’re one of the good guys.

I am, Michael insists, not liking the boy’s clear doubt.

Adam mentally shakes his head in disagreement. You can’t do the same things the devil does and claim to be different from him. I’m not gonna talk to you if I have to worry about you jacking around with my sanity any time I accidentally say something you don’t like.

Michael considers it. He’s not ‘jacking around’ with the boy. He’s defending his Father’s name and virtue, the noblest and most sacred pursuit.

But maybe no real offense is meant. Adam might not be pure, but he’s not nearly as corrupt as the alternative. And humans are fairly dim-witted and simple-minded. Maybe they can come to an acceptable agreement, rules of engagement of some sort.

If you promise not to blaspheme against Him, then I won’t harm you, he offers.

How about you promise not to harm me and I'll try not to intentionally blaspheme, Adam counters.

How is that different from what I proposed?

From what I understand, angels were created to obey. The first sign of obedience and… well you know what happens, Adam says and a cartoon depiction of a ludicrously animalistic, fork-tongued Lucifer with a spaded tail being cast from Heaven by angry angels with golden pitch forks materializes in his mind. But humans are different. We’re made to question things.

Maybe. But the truly righteous believe, Michael says. There have been trillions of humans who have believed and obeyed.

Adam nods. Yeah. But those you describe as ‘righteous’ questioned and then chose to believe. All I’m asking is that you don’t freak out on me just because I ask a question about something I don’t know enough about to decide if I believe.

Michael turns the request over in his mind. It’s instinctive to make sure proper deference is always paid. But he can admit that his certainty comes from receiving his orders directly from God Himself. He has seen the Father's true face, a privilege only three others in existence can claim. It's been billion of years since God spoke to any human directly and no mortal has ever seen his true form. If Lucifer, his brother, can doubt and rebel even after having been in the Almighty's presence, can the feeble humans be blamed for their doubts? Maybe it's all moot. If they’re truly stuck here forever, there will never be a heaven or a hell for this boy’s soul. What does it matter what he believes?

Compromise is not in Michael’s character.

But neither is solitude.

Okay. I promise.

Chapter Text

Over the next year, Michael and Adam spend a great deal of time playing 20 Questions. Like most humans, Adam is deeply curious about Heaven, angels, and God Himself. Michael answers what he can, ever aware that some knowledge is simply not meant for human minds outside of the anointed prophets.

How many brothers and sisters do you have? Adam asks one day.

I don’t know the exact numbers, but I know it’s several million.

He can feel the boy’s surprise.

That’s a lot. How do you keep up with them all?

I don’t, Michael says bluntly. Most of them I’ve never met. They’re hundreds, maybe thousands of years younger and our paths have never crossed.

The boy seems to consider that. Then several emotions, curiosity, disgust, embarrassment, flash rapid fire, one after another. Curiosity seems to win out.

How… how do you get baby angels if you’re all related?

A flicker of the human procreation process flickers through Adam’s mind followed quickly by revulsion associated with the human taboo against relatives mating, siblings in particular. The thought is quickly suppressed.

Please don’t slam me, he blurts frantically. I didn’t mean to go all porn-y on you.

Michael shrugs. He’s studied humans before. He knows how they reproduce. While it’s… distasteful, he knows it’s necessary for their species.

I’m not going to slam you, he assures the boy. They’d agreed. He pauses and considers how to explain. We’re not ‘born’ in the way you think of it. There’s no such thing as ‘baby’ angels. The Father created us all from primordial essence. We came into being with sentience and fully functioning.

He can feel the boy struggling to wrap his mind around the idea of being ‘born’ as what humans consider ‘fully adult.’

I guess that’s kind of cool, getting to skip all the potty training-type stuff.

Potty training? Michael asks, unfamiliar with the phrase.

Adam mentally plays a visual advertisement for a product called ‘Pull ups.’ Very small humans in colorful plastic waist swaddling sing cheerfully about being able to excrete bodily waste without assistance and without soiling themselves.

That’s… Michael’s not even sure what to say... That’s… commendable.

The boy mentally laughs. Hey, we spend the first two years with no ability whatsoever to control that. So, next time you think about how ‘primitive’ we are, remember we started a lot further back than you did and still survived.

Do you speak every language on earth? Adam asks on another day.

Yes. Every language on earth and a few other realms as well.

Adam frowns, thinking. Are you speaking English now or are you just telling my brain that I’m hearing English?

Michael considers. I’m not sure. But I do know if I didn’t want you to understand me, you wouldn’t be able to. The Father did that at the Tower of Babel.

Adam brightens with recognition and image of a cardboard children’s book illustrating the story pops into their memory. Michael approves of the humans making sure their young understand the repercussions of failing to respect the sanctity of the Father.

If you spoke to me in French, Adam interjects, could you make me understand that?

Do you speak French?

Not really. Not anything other than ‘Puis-je aller aux toilettes s'il vous plaît’.

Michael tilts his head, askant. Is this about ‘potty training’ again?

Adam laughs. No! When I was in high school, Mademoiselle Roberts would only let us go if we asked properly in French so it’s the only phrase I really mastered.

Given what I know about human excretions and their ability to control them, I suppose I can see the utility of memorizing such a crude request.

‘Human excretions.’ Dude, I’m not the one being crude. Now quit stalling. Try some languages on me.

Are you sure? I would technically be using my powers on you.

Adam smiles. I appreciate you checking. But this is harmless and at my request. Lay it on me.

Michael shrugs.

May I please go to the restroom?

Adam rolls his eyes. Yeah, that one’s fine. Try… Let’s try Persian.

May I use the toilet?

Adam frowns. Did you do Persian?

That was Persian.

Adam’s frown flips into a grin of delight. How about Turkish?

Can I use the toilet?

What about Vietnamese?

Can I please use the restroom?

They run through every language Adam can think of and a few he didn’t even know existed. If he ever makes it to Heaven, he can ask to use the facilities in the local language!

What does God look like? The boy asks a while later.

Michael thinks. There are no words to describe the Father that the human would understand. Instead, he sings a lengthy hymn of praise in Enochian which Lucifer boos in a high-pitched whine.

That was… nice, Adam says slowly. Could you just send me a mental image?

Michael shakes his head. If I did, your internal organs would boil and leak out of your orifices and you would likely go deaf, blind, and insane.

Never mind, the boy says quickly.

Doesn’t it bother you that your dad basically asked you to murder your younger brother? The boy asks later. It’s an uncharacteristically serious inquiry.

Michael resists the ingrained urge to immediately smite anyone questioning the will of the Father. He promised he wouldn’t do that anymore. But he will absolutely defend the Almighty One.

The Father sees all and He knows all. His will is perfect, Michael says devoutly. He has often tested familial bonds as a show of loyalty. It’s the strongest connection there is. Cain and Abel, Abraham and Isaac. Some pass and others fail. It sorts the wheat from the chaff.

The boy is quiet for a moment. Did my brothers pass?

Michael feels his grace swirl in agitation at the mention of Adam’s treacherous brethren. Your brothers are willful. The younger one was supposed to accept Lucifer and be bound in hell for all time. He accepted Lucifer, but corrupted the plan. The older one was supposed to be my vessel, but refused. They are both aberrations. They didn’t do as we expected, but no one can thwart the Father. Surely, they have failed.

The boy nods. He’s silent for a moment. Then:

Did… Did I pass?

Michael is quick to assure him. Of course! You heard the call of Heaven and answered gladly. You are the most blessed amongst men.

Again, Adam nods solemnly. After a long moment, Michael senses his hesitance.

What is it? Michael asks.

Well, it’s just… If I passed and they failed, why am I the one stuck in hell?

For once, Michael has no answer for him.

Chapter Text

Eventually, they’ve been in the cage so long, Adam starts to forget what it’s like to not be there. Later, he’ll find out that he’s spent over a third of his weird alive/ not alive existence in that god forsaken space. But in the meantime, the black hole limbo state of being starts to make him question everything he knows as his memories, his life, his connection to humanity start to feel less tangible and fade into shaky mental images that could just as easily be part of a wishful fantasy. In a desperate bid to hold on to these precious moments, to make them feel more real, he shares them with Michael whenever a memory comes to mind.

I remember being in pre-K. Not a whole lot, he admits, just flashes. I remember the smell of the malt-o-meal they served in the morning. It’s basically just wheat grit and sugar, but the taste was always calming to me.

He tries to transmit the taste to Michael, but the archangel is not familiar with human foods so the input is undecipherable. He can, however, feel the synapses fire as the memory triggers the taste buds at the tip of their tongue sending messages to Adam’s limbic system. The remembered taste activates his amygdala, draping them both in nostalgic warmth.

Pleasant, Michael agrees.

One time, I got in trouble for biting, Adam recalls on a different occasion. I don’t remember what started it, but another little boy bit me and I bit him back as hard as I could instead of telling the teacher like I should’ve. We both had to sit at the Time Out table.

To teach you not to do it anymore, Michael confirms.

It’s definitely something you want to nip in the bud. Four-year-olds who bite each other are naughty, Adam thinks with a laugh. Adults who bite each other are mentally unstable and dangerous.

Michael has never bitten anyone, but he’s seen the damage hellhounds can do with their mindless aggression. Given how vulnerable human bodies are, it’s probably for the best to teach their off spring not to bite each other.

Why doesn’t my hair grow anymore, Adam asks randomly.

You’re in a stasis of sort, Michael answers, your body neither creates nor destroys. You would need new hair cells for hair growth. Since my grace has suspended that, your hair has stayed the same length.

Adam seems to accept that answer with little fuss.

When I was little, like three or four, my mom used to let my hair grow really long.

He mentally projects an image of a young boy with hair past his shoulders. It’s very different from the short style he wears now Michael notes.

She probably did it to save on the cost of haircuts. Girls used to love to play with it like I was a Barbie doll or something. My mom used to be so exasperated because every day when she would pick me up from school, I would have a different hairstyle, all kinds of braids with beads and stuff. I loved it though. All the attention, getting my hair brushed, and a cool new look everybody would gush over. One time, one of the older girls—Adam laughs when he realizes that the ‘older girl’ in his memory might have been thirteen at the oldest, but very grown up to a four-year-old—she braided my hair into these thick wrap buns. One of the boys told me I looked like Princess Leia and started laughing. I think he wanted to hurt my feelings, but I love Star Wars. I was so proud. My mom was tickled. She even took a picture.

He conjures up a picture of stoic, dark-haired young woman in flowing white gowns, then a picture of a cheerful, young blond boy with two missing front teeth. Michael agrees the hairstyles are very similar.

Some days, Adam doesn’t say anything at all. He’s overwhelmed by the seemingly un-survivable sadness. He wishes desperately to be with his mom. Or maybe his dad. Or even his brothers.

Michael doesn’t understand most human emotion, but he does understand wishing to be with family. In a show of what might be mercy or pity, he sends the boy into a memory so realistic it’s all but happening right now:

Adam wakes up slowly. It’s still night time outside. He’d been having a weird dream about being older, but he doesn’t really remember what happened. With a wide yawn, he stretches and listens to the crickets chirping. Nothing else is moving, even the moon is sleeping. Jana, his sitter, had promised his mama would be home by the time he woke. He looks at the bright, lime green numbers on the clock beside his bed. It’s a four, a one, and a seven. That means it’s really early. Cartoons aren’t even on yet. But he’s really excited to see his mama. She works all the time and it feels like he hasn’t seen her in days and days and days.

He slides out of bed and slips his feet into the Ninja Turtle slippers he got for his birthday. He likes them because they make his feet look like big, green turtle feet. He makes a beeline for the bathroom ‘cause he’s really gotta go and sometimes it’s hard to make it in time. When he’s done, he flushes and makes sure to wash his hands ‘cause mama says that’s important so you don’t get sick.

When he gets back to his room, he digs around in his toy bin for his colors and his construction paper that his mama sometimes has him play with when she’s tired. Clutching them so he doesn’t drop anything, he crosses the hall to her room. He pushes everything onto the bed then uses the footboard to climb on.

“Mama?” he asks, laying on her back to give her a hug.

She jerks a little, like when he surprises her in the kitchen sometimes. Then, she turns over and her arms slowly wrap around him and she hugs back. “Adam? Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I wanna draw.”

Squinting, she looks over at her clock which has dull red numbers. “Sweetie, it’s too early.”

Adam nods. “I know. That’s why I brought a quiet game.”

“Maybe we can do it later,” she says through a yawn.

“But later you have to go to work and I haven’t seen you in forever and ever,” he whines.

She looks at him and her eyes get all sad like it does whenever he asks why he doesn’t have a daddy. Then her mouth tilts into a tired smile.

“Alright. Let’s draw.”

They snuggle in her bed and draw castles and dragons. He carefully draws a knight with his gray crayon and then a princess with the pink.

“That’s you, mama,” he says, pointing at the princess in the tower. “And this is the castle we’re gonna live in when I get big.”

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Yeah!”

They color until his eyes get heavy and he falls back asleep, happy next to his mama.

Thank you, Adam says fervently when the vision fades away and he’s aware once again.

Michael keeps Adam stable. Understandable, since humans, even the most introverted ones, are social creatures. They’re not meant to live in isolation with minimal stimulation. There’s nothing for the boy to touch, nothing for him to watch or read, no one he can audibly speak to. It’s sensory deprivation beyond human tolerance. Adam’s thoughts become noticeably incoherent, his mind starved for company and stimulation, his skin starved for touch. More and more, Michael sends him into his fantasy world to protect the boy’s fragile psyche.

During periods where he’s feeling better, more coherent, Adam tries to return the favor when possible. Michael doesn’t seem to need much other than the occasional reprieve from his brother. Angels aren’t quite emotionless, but they seem to only have a limited range of muted emotions. The strongest emotion seems to be anger.

Or at least that’s what Adam thinks until one day, that changes.

He’s jarred from a dream where he’s studying for his biology midterm with a couple of his college buddies. They’d been alternating review questions with Would You Rather scenarios. He blinks back to reality to find chaos.

Michael’s grace is frantic. Desperate.

What’s wrong? Adam asks.

Heaven, Michael answers sharply. Something is wrong. The Host… They’re distressed. They… they need me.

A sharp, whining ping echoes through his skull and then Adam can hear it. Millions of agonized screams, confused voices, pleading for help, for guidance.

Michael attacks the walls of the cages with a renewed vigor he hasn’t shown in ages. The harder he tries, though, the more viciously the warding snaps back at him, sending teeth jarring shards of pain through them.

Michael, you’re going to hurt yourself, even though he’s not sure how severely the wardings can damage an immortal angel.

I don’t care! Michael shouts.

Adam is helpless to stop him, a passenger in this whirlwind of panic. He tries another tact.

Michael, please. You can’t help them like this.

Michael’s grace shivers in outrage and for a split second, Adam is sure Michael’s going to break his word and slam him with a vision.

But he doesn’t.

I know I can’t, Michael growls. I’m stuck in this damned cage!

Adam doesn’t even know what to think about an angel cussing. He’s definitely not going to point it out since the guy already seems pretty smite-y right now.

Instead, he takes a huge risk and reaches out to the only other entity who might understand what’s going on.

What’s wrong with the angels?

Lucifer is equally dumbstruck, so much so that he doesn’t even take the opportunity to lash out when Adam reaches outside of Michael’s protection.

They… They’ve all fallen, he says with an awestruck but amused chuckle. Something kicked every last one of them out of Heaven on to Earth.

Adam can barely wrap his head around that. Angels on Earth would literally be a biblical miracle. If it were meant to be happening. But from Michael’s reaction, it’s absolutely not.

Michael rages against their confinement for what seems like forever, trying fruitlessly, painfully to get out.

What does it mean if the angels can’t get back to Heaven, Adam asks, trying to refocus the angel.

It means they don’t have access to their full grace, Lucifer answers, unbidden. They’ll eventually completely drain and then they’ll die, just like a human. Except they don’t have souls to get back to Heaven.

The way he sings it so gleefully, it’s clearly meant to be a jab, to make Michael even more outraged at not being able to help his brothers and sisters. Instead, the Archangel grows still.

Could that happen to you? Adam asks softly. Are you losing your grace?

No! Michael roars, but he doesn’t seem certain. I wasn’t cast out of Heaven. I left of my own free will.

Adam feels an overwhelming urge to fly, to soar through time and space, that he’s certain is coming from Michael. The angel is desperate to know if he’s still at full power, but has no way to test it.

For the first time, Adam senses fear.

Not knowing what else to do, Adam quotes the twenty-third Psalms.

After a long, tense silence, Michael shifts in acknowledgement. David. One of Father’s favorites.

But he still seems shaken, sullen, so Adam mentally blares the lyrics to Father Abraham as obnoxiously as he can.

Michael jolts. What is that?

It’s a kid’s song they teach us in church, Adam thinks cheerfully.

That’s dreadful.

Adam shrugs. It’s more to get the wiggles out than anything else.

Michael slowly settles, the tension in their shared vessel releasing bit by bit.

Are you okay? Adam asks, finally.

No! I’m useless, Michael says in a way that can’t be interpreted as anything other than a pout. My job is to lead the Host and they’re out there without me.

Adam thinks then sighs. Maybe it’s just because humans can’t really grasp eternity, but I have to believe we’re going to get out of here someday and then you’ll be able to help them. Don’t tell me you’ve stopped believing?

Michael doesn’t reply so Adam starts humming:

Just a small town girl,

Livin’ in a lonely world,

She took a midnight train

Goin’ anywhere

He actually gets all the way to ‘Don’t stop believin’, Hold on to that feelin’’ before Michael sighs and gives in.

Of course, I still believe, he says. But as I mentioned before, the Father often test familial bonds because they are the strongest. The angels are my family. But my faith is strong.

We will get out of here someday, Adam nudges.

We will get out of here someday, Michael repeats obediently.

It’s a mantra they repeat to each other periodically, not knowing that it wouldn’t be long before Lucifer would disappear and the words would be too cruelly ironic for either of them to stomach any longer.

Chapter Text

Lucifer is tickled to no end. If he had a physical form, he'd probably be rolling on the floor, laughing. He makes it clear that as far as he’s concerned, it’s just desserts that his high and mighty brothers and sisters have fallen.

I wonder what they did? he muses, coming up with increasingly more preposterous scenarios. Is it possible all of Heaven turned against the Old Man?

Never! Michael defends with a certainty that belies his inability to know for sure. They would never do such a thing. And if somehow, some… inkling of doubt or rebellion set in, it would be rooted out, just like…

Michael doesn’t finish the thought.

Just like with me, Lucifer finishes darkly.

At one point not so long ago, Michael would have delighted in reminding his rebellious brother that the Cage was his well-deserved reward for disobedience. But now that he’s stuck in the exact place despite following both the letter and spirit of His orders… Michael refuses to allow himself to think about it.

You know, this reminds me so much of Gabriel, Lucifer says with a bemused hum of pleasure. He was always such a little trickster. I’m surprised he didn’t get the boot long before I ever did.

Gabriel was a faithful servant, Michael corrects. One whom you killed.

The impression of an indifferent shrug comes through their mental connection.

You only think he was all upright and pious because you guys never kept tabs on what he was up to on earth. Just gave him a message and ‘off you go, little fella!’”

Lucifer floats a few mental images through their link. Gabriel convincing a man who accosted him that his arms were snakes and the man back pedaling until he fell off a cliff… Gabriel swaying local women to bring him an endless supply of fresh-baked pastries and to fan him with palm leaves for hours on end… Gabriel mentally coercing a market thief into doing a choreographed song and dance confession of his crimes to the local authorities…

Ok. Maybe they hadn’t really been paying attention…

I’m sure the fam will be fine, Lucifer says. The mud monkeys really aren’t so bad provided you can get a primo vessel…

And with that reminder of the loss of his favorite punching bag, his mood turns and the feint glimmer of the brother Michael once cherished fades away. Lucifer begins bombarding Michael with gruesome ways for the angels to perish if they can’t find vessels in time or their vessel is too weak to contain them.

With a sigh, Michael turns inward.

Your brother still being a dick? Adam asks.

Michael briefly smile, inwardly pleased with how far he’s progressed in learning human vernacular. It’s been his sole purpose for hundreds of thousands of years.

Well, I’d say I understand your pain, but I was raised an only child.

That makes Michael wonder.

Did you ever wish you'd been raised with your brothers?

Adam gives it a few moments thought. No. Not really.

No? Michael asks, surprised. As far as he understands, humans like to live in large, homogenous social groups.

I didn’t even know they existed until I after I died and was brought back, Adam points out. I do remember wishing to spend more time with my dad, though. I thought he was a traveling sales man and I wanted to travel with him so bad. I always imagined it as an epic road trip.

A son wanting to be near a father who’s away far too often and far too long. Michael finds it uncomfortably relatable.

But now that you’ve met your brothers, if you could go back in time, would you have sought them out sooner?

Michael gets the impression of a heavy sigh and Adam is quiet for a long moment. He begins to wonder if he offended the boy. Humans and their emotions are so fickle.

Yes and no, Adam finally says.

How can it be both? Michael asks with a bit exasperation. The indecisiveness makes him think of one of the prophet’s writings which decreed that yes should be yes and no should be no. That prophet had been one of his favorites.

Well, my first thought is actually ‘Hell, no’, Adam says, then inwardly laughs. Pardon the pun, I guess.

Michael doesn’t really get it. He nudges him to continue.

It’s just… I get that I didn’t meet them in the best of circumstances, Adam concedes, but they're kinda jerks. And just being related to them is what got me into this whole situation. I died because a buncha ghouls were looking for leverage over my dad. Then I got brought back because a buncha angels were looking for leverage over the brothers I’d never even met. Nothing that happened was ever actually about me.

This clearly is not a good feeling for the boy.

Michael feels a foreign sensation, heavy in his stomach, and an unfamiliar urge to say something to make it better, to justify his role in what was taken from Adam. He pushes it aside, unwilling to explore this alien emotion.

You said your answer was also ‘yes’?, he prompts.

Yeah, Adam answers, I guess, I… They just have an ability to survive and I think it’s how they were raised. I don’t think I really want to have grown up with them, but if I could’ve learned just a little of what they know... I mean, they took on friggin’ archangels and I got killed by some whack ass ghouls!

Michael prickles at the description of being defeated by two lowly humans. He still clings to the thought that this is merely a temporary setback and soon he’ll be able to usher in paradise the way it was intended.

And maybe, Adam continues, not picking up on Michael’s turmoil, maybe if I’d actually been raised with them, they’d’ve fought for me the way they fought for each other.

After that Adam doesn’t seem to want to talk anymore. Michael leaves him be.

Time passes. Or so Adam assumes. Michael still frets about the angels. It’s all he can think of, so it’s also all Adam can think of. He tries to distract the angel the way Michael has done for him so many times when he struggled with the mind-numbing solitude of their prison.  

You’ve been to earth before, right? Adam asks randomly.

A few times, Michael answers with a mental nod. I primarily supervise and direct the garrison, but whenever a prophet’s life is endangered, an archangel is dispatched to protect them. I’m not above protecting the Father’s chosen ones.

What’s the weir--

A siren sounds, a horrible cacophony of noise. Michael sits up straight. Panic swells in their shared vessel in a way that Adam has never felt before, not even when the garrison fell. It’s beyond intense fraternal concern. It’s actual fear. Michael is very, very afraid.

Adam pushes lightly to the surface just wanting to see out.

If it was physically possible, Adam would probably piss himself.

The marbled grace in the corner is also pulsing frantically.

Lucifer is afraid, too.

Two all-powerful archangels are simultaneously freaking out about whatever the siren represents.

Adam wants to ask what's wrong, but he equally fears the answer.

The Darkness is free! The brothers say almost in unison, their horror clear and united.

They bang at the bars, to no avail.

Chapter Text

Lucifer and Michael bicker without end about the ominous-sounding Darkness. The word ‘bicker’ feels small and petty when talking about such super powerful beings, but Adam doesn’t think any other word would adequately describe their ineffectual sniping. They both agree they should be doing something, but they can’t come up with any productive way of actually doing so. Adam carefully keeps quiet so as not to remind them of his presence or his unintentional role in landing them here. Lucifer is his most vicious when he feels helpless. And it’s been a while, but Adam knows that Michael is capable of being unintentionally, but severely cruel and callous when he feels he is failing in his duty to fight and protect. So, instead of intervening, Adam watches and listens. Their back and forth honestly makes Adam grateful he didn’t grow up having to compromise with or convince two older brothers any time he wanted something.

With no need to sleep or rest, the two continue ad nauseam, their argument devolving from potentials solutions and circling into snarky complaints and insults about the first time they fought The Darkness.

You barely even did anything, Michael insists. Raphael and I did the heavy lifting.

How would you know what I did? Lucifer snipes back. You were so busy showing off for Dad, trying to get a pat on the head, I could’ve sacked all of earth and come back with a cool t-shirt to show for it and you’d’ve never noticed!

They argue about who the true unsung hero of the battle was until Adam is tempted to push for control of their vessel just so he could plug his ears.

They’re still going at it when all of a sudden, a ring of vivid purple energy encircles Lucifer’s grace.

“Brother?” Michael asks, actually speaking out loud, his sharp concern tingeing his voice. Even Adam can sense Lucifer’s wary curiosity, confusion not yet turned to fear.

I--, Lucifer starts. But before he can even voice the thought, he’s gone.

Disappeared.

 “How did he…” Michael crosses the Cage as though shortening the distance will change the outcome, reveal it to be yet another of Lucifer’s tricks. He slowly turns, looking around, puzzled.

“Did Father…,“ he asks, just as much to himself as to Adam. “No. No! He wouldn’t leave me! He would never abandon me.”

But for the first time, his words lack that ever-present certainty. Adam has always considered the angels incapable of intense emotions beyond anger and righteousness, but sharing the same vessel, he recognizes this feeling. It’s the same one he always got when John Winchester starting packing his car to head back out. The same one he got when he realized the angels never intended to keep their promise of resurrecting his mother.

Michael is… stunned… Frightened…

Hurt.

Adam clumsily tries to comfort him.

If it had been God, you would have sensed him, right?

“Only if He wanted me to…”

Michael is still pacing the confines of their space in bewildered strides.

“He… I… Who…” Michael stammers.

It’s then that Adam feels it, a tickle crawling down the cheeks of their shared vessel. Michael ignores it at first, then swipes at it, at an agitated, disgruntled motion. He glances down at their fingertips.

Blood.

It’s like that Dr. Who episode.

Are you… crying? Adam asks, awestruck.

“No!” Michael roars, swiping his hand against their pants.

But he is. This stoic, larger-than-life being is crying, weeping, a little boy immeasurable wounded by the thought of his father’s rejection.

“I’m not!” Michael insists. “That… that would be questioning the Father’s plan! He is righteous. He… He sees all and He knows all… He…”

Another tickle trails down.

Is there any other way Lucifer could’ve gotten out? Adam asks. Anyone who would want to free him. Maybe that Darkness you guys kept talking about?

“She wouldn’t care about him. He’s less than nothing to her,” Michael says firmly. “If anything, she’ll be more focused on finding her brother.”

Her brother? Would he break Lucifer out, maybe to help him fight?

Michael sighs. “No. God is her brother. And Lucifer can’t defeat The Darkness. The last time we did, it took me, Father, and all the archangels just to lock her away. If someone freed him believing Lucifer powerful enough to do it on his own, they’re utter morons, doomed to die.”

Adam’s mentally nods along, but his mind is still stuttering around the fact that God has siblings. He immediately wants to ask about parents, but he remembers Michael’s explanation about how celestials replicate. If Michael doesn’t have a mother, it’s equally probable his father doesn’t either.

It’s probably something else, Adam assured him. Your dad wouldn’t pick Lucifer over you.

Adam has no idea if it’s true. How could even begin to know how God thinks? His nana’s favorite saying was ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’ But that definitely wouldn’t be soothing now.

“On the bright side, we have the whole place to us ourselves now,” Michael says out of nowhere.

True. They’d been wedged in opposing corners with the literal Devil for what seems like forever. Now, they have the run of the place.

Can I… Can I take over for a bit?

Michael raises a brow. “I thought you didn’t like be at the front.”

Because your brother is terrifying as shit. Now it’s just us.

Michael shrugs and fades backwards.

Back in control, Adam stretches long and hard. He makes a face and rubs at his ears, making odd grunts and muttering random syllables just for the sake of it.

“Rubber baby buggy bumper. Rubber baby buggy bumper. Rubber baby—"
You’re not making sense. What’s wrong? Are you not well? Michael asks with genuine concern, although he can’t imagine what could possibly be wrong with his grace sustaining them.

Adam laughs. “No. I’m fine. It’s just weird to actually control my own voice after so much time only talking in our head. Did yo know humans can lose senses, go crazy, or even die without proper sensory input? They’ve done studies on it.”

That sounds… painful. I would never let that happen to you. Our bond is too profound.

“Thanks. I guess…”

Adam walks around, running his hand along the bars, exploring the space in a way he would’ve never dared to before. The metal feels mundane, rough and cold like he would expect. But he also feels a whisper of discomfort, an echo from Michael reacting to the remembered pain of touching the angelic warding.

“So, it hurts when you’re in control, but not when I am. Interesting.”

That’s one word for it, Michael murmurs, clearly of the opposite opinion.

Adam circled for a while longer before finally sitting.

“What would happen if you, like, de-possessed me or whatever?”

The Cage would probably attack you as an intruder, Michael answered after a moment of thought. You’re neither an archangel or one of the intended hosts. Without my grace, your body would disintegrate almost immediately. I’m not sure about your soul though.

“Well, that sounds horrifying,” Adam says with no small amount of sarcasm.

Why do you ask?

Adam ducks his head. “It’s silly.”

I don’t mind.

Adam hesitates for a long moment before rushing forward. “I thought it might be nice if I could actually see you. Face-to-face helps with that whole sensory input thing I was telling you about. But I don’t want the Cage to further murder me.”

I can’t leave your body, Michael says, not all creepily, but I can project if you’d like. Convince your mind that I’m in a separate vessel.

“Yes! Please!”

And in the blink of an eye, he’s looking at John Winchester, age twenty-five.

Chapter Text

“Dad?” Adam asks, painfully aware of the tremble in his voice.

“I am not your father,” the man says, voice deeper than its usual baritone and more monotonous than Adam remembers John Winchester ever speaking.

“Michael,” Adam corrects with a flat sigh.

“Yes.”

“Why… why do you look like him?”

Michael tilts his head, studying Adam for a few moments before straightening. “I find that people respond better to forms they find familiar. It’s easier to project vessels I’ve previously inhabited.”

Nodding numbly, Adam bites his lower lip. It’s hard to look directly at the man. He finds himself clamping down on simultaneous urges to hug and punch.

‘John’ seems content to give him space to process.

“It’s weird. Seeing him,” Adam finally says. “I haven’t seen him since I was a kid and now I feel like I never really knew him. Not the real him anyway.”

The man’s head tilts again.

“Since I possessed him, I have access to his memories,” Michael says, finally. “I can answer anything he knew the answer to up to the point where I left him.”

“Really,” Adam asks, curiously, casting about his mind for a random question. “What’s his middle name?”

“Eric. But you already know that.”

“Just checking,” Adam says, belatedly realizing how dumb the question probably seemed to an angel who claimed to have the sum of John Winchester’s knowledge for the first twenty-five years or so of his life.

He considers more deeply, thinking of all the questions he’s wanted to ask his dad over the years. But they all seem too big. Maybe he can start with something smaller, something sillier.

“How old were you…  was he… were you,” Adam says finally deciding it’s less confusing to pretend he’s talking directly to his dad, “how old where you when you stopped being afraid of the dark?”

The John he knew was fearless, not afraid of anything. It seemed like a litmus test, to see if he could really pull back the layers.

John’s face goes slack briefly while Michael searches for the answer. “I stopped being afraid of the dark when I was about eight, but I still slept with the hallway light on until just after I turned eleven. My mom thought I was a little old for it, but I just wanted to make sure my dad would be able to see if he showed back up in the middle of the night. Not long after I turned eleven, I accepted that he never would.”

As ‘John’ talks, Adam gets a mental image of a music box playing a slow, tinny orchestral tune that sounds vaguely familiar although he can’t quite put his finger on what the song is. The music box is wound over and over again over the years, until one day, one of the teeth on the metal comb breaks, jamming the cylinder, and it won’t play anymore. Once the music was gone, so was the hope.

“Wow. That was unexpectedly depressing,” Adam mumbles. “How ‘bout something entertaining?”

“Like what?” Michael asks.

“How about… What’s something he would’ve never wanted me to know?” Adam wonders. “Oh! What’s the most trouble you ever got into for breaking the rules when you were a kid?”

“Senior year, final football game of the year. I let my buddies talk me into going streaking,” John says. “But we didn’t think it through enough. We propped the door to the fieldhouse open so we could make a quick dash around the field, circle back for our clothes, and be gone before the admins even had time to make it out of the stands.”

John tilts his head. “What we didn’t count on was an eagle-eyed security guard spotting the cardboard wedged in the door and moving it. This was in the months surrounding Watergate, so people were paying much more attention to poorly secured doors than they usually would.”

“So, what happened?” Adam asks.

“We came back thrilled, laughing our heads off, only to realize we were locked out, naked as jaybirds,” John says, the blush the memory invokes a stark contrast to the stoic expression that Michael’s presence keeps on his face. “We didn’t even have a dime for a payphone. Considered making a run for it, but there’s only so far you can go bare-assed naked even in a smaller town like Lawrence.”

Adam laughs a little trying to reconcile this memory with the older, gruffer version of John he knows. “What did they do when they found you?”

“After parading us to the police station in those shiny assed emergency blankets, they called our parents,” John blinks. “My mom was very displeased.”

“I’ll bet,” Adam says, somehow enjoying the story even more because of how deadpan Michael tells it.

“The following day, we had to do litter pick up on the main drag in and out of town wearing these bright yellow safety vests. Since we’d streaked in front of most of the town, everyone knew why we were there and people had a grand time driving up and down honking their horns and wolf whistling at us.”

“Oh man,” Adam murmurs. “I’d’ve never thought my dad had it in him.”

They go back and forth for a while. Adam learns more about the man who had been a mystery. He learns little things like John’s favorite foods (chili and hot wings) and his favorite movie (The Getaway). He learns more complex things like John’s pride over being a Marine that was marred by his disgust at the loss of life in Vietnam that left him with pacifist leanings. It was awestriking to pick his dad’s brain, but he danced around the one thing he really wanted to know. Until finally he has to ask.

“Why didn’t you teach me to hunt? About all the monsters that are out there?”

With the skills his brothers have, he could’ve saved his mother. Could’ve saved himself. Why would John leave him so vulnerable? So exposed?

John shakes his head.

“I can’t tell you that,” Michael says, clearly speaking for himself, breaking the spell. “You were born long after the time I possessed John Winchester. I do know he was not raised a Hunter. He did not learn about the forces at play until after his wife died.”

Adam considers this, examining the information like a puzzle piece.

“Was her death part of the plan?” he asks.

“A correction of a plan derailed,” Michael amends. “John was intended to be a Man of Letters, a knowledge of keeper of sorts. He would’ve lived long enough to give his sons a deep understanding of strategy and planning, then died young and tragically. Mary would’ve trained her boys to avenge his death, passing on her family’s generations of knowledge and skill at fighting monsters and surviving out all costs, never knowing she was preparing them for an ultimate battle.”

“What pushed the plan off the rails?”

Michael’s mouth twists.

“Demons. Rogue angels. Stubborn humans,” he lists. “Mary made a demon deal which couldn’t be broken without tipping our hand far too early. So, we adjusted.”

Adam is silent. It’s stranger than fiction, overwhelming and intimidating. When the angels had initially resurrected him, showing him how his brothers had survived while he and his mother had been slaughtered by dumb chance… He’d been angry. And jealous. He’d wanted to hurt them and make them suffer while his part of the family continued on, oblivious to the collateral damage others endured. But really… Sam and Dean were just pawns, constantly fighting to break free of their pre-destined patterns. The angels had screwed them over long before they were even born.

“Was my mom’s death part of the plan?” Adam asks quietly, not sure what answer would be less painful.

Michael shakes his head. “You and your mother were inconsequential in the grand scale of it all. As long as the training and survival of the sons born of the Campbell-Winchester union continued uninterrupted, nothing else mattered.”

Nothing else mattered…

Including Adam.

“So, you didn’t know the ghouls were targeting us?”

“No,” Michael says. “We only observed when your family when John Winchester was alive to make sure he wasn’t becoming too distracted.”

By the time the ghouls struck, John had already been dead for three years, putting the Milligans firmly outside of the angels’ realm of attention.

“I hadn’t seen my dad in almost three years by the time I found out he’d died. The year before that though, he was around more then he’d ever been, showing up every other weekend. Took me to baseball games, bought me my first beer. It was nice. But weird.”

Michael considers for a moment.

“Three human years before John Winchester died would have been the year Sam Winchester left his family to attend school. He did not wish to be a hunter.”

Adam takes a deep breath, huffs it out. “So, he lost his real son and went for the spare?”

Michael shakes his head and gives Adam a look that softens the features of his borrowed face.

“I do not need his memories of that time to know that John considered you a ‘real’ son. Family was extremely important to both the Winchesters and the Campbells.”

“Well, he had a real funny way of showing it,” Adam snarks.

“He did,” Michael agrees oblivious to the sarcasm. “Fathers are like that sometimes, I think.”

“What about you?” Adam asks.

“What about me?”

“What would you ask your Father if you could?” he clarifies.

“No one questions the Father,” Michael responds quickly and decisively.

Adam instinctively wants to push but decides to leave it be. Michael has done so much for him today, helping him to understand not only his father, but his own role in the fate of the universe.

He’s nearly lost in a day dream when Michael’s voice chimes through his head.

Am I still part of the plan?

Adam considers the words the angel hadn’t dared to give voice to, whispered in their head so that doubt never crossed his lips. And he hears the question for what it is.

Have you forgotten about me?

And he’s both saddened and relieved to know he isn’t the only one feeling that way.

Chapter Text

With nothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one else to turn to, Michael and Adam continue to build their own little world, their own little routines. Adam is sure it’s primarily for his sake. After all, celestial waves of intent don’t need tactile and visual stimulus to maintain their sanity. Michael uses his cage-limited powers to allow Adam to create a collection of fantasy simulations with visual-tactile stimulation pulled from Adam’s own memories. Grateful, Adam tries to focus on things that are comforting and that Michael likely wouldn’t have experienced on the occasions that he occupied a vessel while on mission. So, sometimes, they lounge on a beach with seagulls squalling, the soft sound of the waves ebbing and flowing, the smell of sea salt sharp and strong. Other times, they hangout around town in Windom, at the used bookstore Adam’s mother had loved so much or on the basketball court at the rec center near the high school Adam had attended. It turns out, Archangels are surprisingly uncoordinated.

Perhaps it is not part of your Father’s will that you be able to dribble and walk at the same time, Adam had joked.

Perhaps not, Michael conceded as the basketball bounced off his foot for the dozenth time.

Now, they’re in a mental simulation of Great Plains Zoo, which Adam had once visited with his fifth-grade class. Using those memories, they are able to view most of the major attractions, but with the added benefit of being able to treat it like a big petting zoo. At each stop, Michael creates incredibly realistic projections that morph through the evolutionary chain all the way back to the Beginning. The idea that chickens were once junglefowl which were once dinosaurs kinda blows Adam’s mind. Even trippier is the angel’s confusion over humans perceiving Evolution and Creationism as mutually exclusive.

Humans evolved, why not the animals? Where do they think dinosaurs come from?

It’s honestly more than Adam can ever hope to explain, even with the infinite amount of time they have stretching before them. With a shrug, he continues on to the next habitat, this one surely pulled from Michael’s memories of earth.

“A Nephilim…” Michael murmurs, apropos of nothing.

“A what?” Adam asks, looking up from petting an unbelievably lifelike project of a Tasmanian tiger, which had gone extinct nearly a hundred years before Adam’s birth.

“You once asked if there was any such thing as ‘baby angels,’” Michael clarifies. “Nephilim would be the closest analogue to what you would consider a newborn angel.”

Adam had asked the question long ago, before the angels had fallen, before Lucifer had disappeared, so long ago he’d completely forgotten about it. But apparently Michael hadn’t. He considers the information. The term is vaguely familiar, like he may have heard it at Mass at some point.

“Are Nephilim common?”

“No. We take great care to prevent their proliferation. They’re an even greater abomination than the most sinful man could ever endeavor to be. When one is conceived, a squad of angels is dispatched to destroy the creature and its progenitor,” Michael says evenly as though he’s not talking about smiting innocent women and children.

“So, you guys… kill babies?” Adam asks, not bothering to hide the horror in his voice.

“You are thinking of them as human. Your ‘babies’ are vulnerable and frail, just like you. Nephilim are neither vulnerable nor frail. They are blights,’” Michael says firmly. “Blights that would destroy all of Creation if given the chance.”

Adam doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not like he’s ever met a Nephilim. The angels surely have a better understanding of the cosmic balance, but…

“That just doesn’t sound very angelic,” Adam murmurs.

Michael turns to him with a lifted brow. “The Father once ordered the deaths of every first-born son in an entire region because the leader there did not believe in Him and was threatening the safety of the Prophet.”

The Passover. Adam blinks and swallows hard. Maybe murdering Nephilim is angelic…

“What made you think of Nephilim anyway,” he asks, distractedly scratching the belly of the surprisingly dog-like tiger who’s now flopped on its back, smiling just a bit when its tongue lolls out and it huffs happily.

“One was just conceived,” Michael says.

Adam feels his eyes go wide and his hand falls still, much to the displeasure of his tiger companion. “Conceived? Like, right now?”

Michael nods. “Wherever my brother is, he’s been busy.”

What does that mean for the world? Michael had just described Nephilim like they were heralds of the Apocalypse. Or was it more nefarious, like corrupters of souls? He mentally shares the synopsis of The Omen, the only point of reference he has, with Michael.

“No, that child was an antichrist. Those are demon spawns, half-human, half-demon,” Michael says with a disgusted shudder. “They’re malignant and hideously vexatious, but not nearly as cataclysmically dangerous as a Nephilim, a child born of a human and an angel.”

Adam supposes that makes sense given that angels are more powerful than demons. But that highlights one glaring concern.

He never talks about it anymore because by now it hurts too much and he has to stay numb to stay sane. But deep down, in the spaces he never dares to share, he still harbors a kernel of hope that someday, somehow, they will make it out of here. He doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know when, but there’s something inside him that refuses to stop believing. But it definitely won’t happen if some god-tier world eater destroys the universe as they know it first.

“With the angels cast out from Heaven, who’s going to stop the Nephilim,” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Michael says with a frank and frightening honesty, his projections dying away to reveal the raw metal and wires of their cage. “Gabriel is dead. It has been some time since I could last sense Rafael. I’m stuck here. And the Nephilim is a boon to my brother. He’ll do anything to protect it, to nurture it to ally with him. And with the Host cast down to earth, their grace waning, they may not even be able to sense the conception.”

“So, what happens, then. Or nine months from now?” Adam asks, not sure he even wants to know.

“In nine months, the balance of the universe will shift,” Michael says ominously.

They are scuba diving off the Puget Sound, a mixture of Adam’s memories of the beach and videos he watched on the Discovery channel, when Michael next senses something amiss.

“What’s wrong?” Adam asks, removing his rebreather, not truly needing it in a simulation. “Is it the Nephilim?”

“I… I’m not sure. I don’t think so,” Michaels says slowly, a look of genuine confusion scrunching his face which is actually a facsimile of Adam's face.

The ocean floor dissolves away to the reality of the Cage.

“For a little while,” he says, “it felt like… like there were tens of billions of new souls… Somewhere far, far away… but now they’re all gone, all at once.”

Adam shudders. Given what Michael has told him about the value of human souls to both Heaven and hell, this can’t be good no matter the cause.

“Did they die?” Adam whispers.

Michael shakes his head. “No, they didn’t die. If they did, I would sense their souls in Heaven or hell. This was more… existential. They came into being from nowhere and disappeared just as suddenly. I’ve never sensed anything like this before.”

Adam blinks trying to wrap his mind around that. Something that was too abstruse for an archangel…

“Did… did the world end? Like the Apocalypse?” Adam knows it’s a lame guess but he simply can’t think any bigger without involving aliens. Tens of billions?

Michael tilts his head, considering. “No. The world does not end without an Apocalypse and there is no Apocalypse without me. At least not for this world...”

Adam frowns. “This world? What does that mean?”

Michael’s face pinches in thought. “I… I’ve heard… rumors… that my Father… That maybe He created multiple universes. Parallels or duplicates. That ours is his favorite but we were not the first. And that when He’s not with us, He’s with them. But I’ve never once felt anything that would substantiate such a thing.”

Adam’s eyes go wide and Michael can see mental image of people in brightly colored uniforms confronting slightly different versions of themselves from parallel dimensions, from some science fiction series the young human apparently enjoyed.

“Do you think that’s what you felt? A rift in the universe? Maybe someone or something crossing over?”

“Maybe,” Michael says. “I… I honestly don’t know what to think. If the rumors are true… It would explain why He so often feels absent.”

Adam sends the angel a mental wave of comfort and solidarity. He might not understand the complexities of the heavens, but the pain of an absentee father whose other life is a mystery? That’s all too familiar.

“I’ve always secretly held a nearly sinful pride in being my Father’s favorite,” Michael says in a low voice. “But what if that wasn’t true? What if it’s never been true and that’s why he left me here. Maybe this is my punishment.”

“You can’t think that way,” Adam tries to reassure, an absurd reversal of their usual roles.

“How can I think otherwise?” Michael demands, his eyes glowing preternaturally blue. “No one has seen Him in thousands of years. He didn’t even come back for the Apocalypse he decreed. Then He left me here while Lucifer is off roaming the world. The Darkness is free, the angels are fallen, a Nephilim is on the way. He wouldn’t allow this if He was here. He has to be somewhere else.”

Silence is heavy and fraught between them as the angel’s grace crackles in frustration around them.

Then Michael whispers the words Adam never thought he’d hear.

“My Father has forsaken me. He has forsaken us all.”

Chapter Text

Can angels have dark nights of the soul?

Michael says they don’t even have souls, that metaphysical inner spirits are a trait exclusive to mortals. Crisis of faith doesn’t fit either. After all, is it really faith if you’ve actually seen God? If you’ve witnessed countless miracles? Whatever is going on with the archangel can be described as nothing short of an existential blue screen of death.

His convictions waver like a wobbly roller coaster lurching up and down the tracks. At times, he’s sure and steadfast, the staunch, unshakable archangel who approached Adam and demanded acquiescence all those years ago. Others, it’s like his entire understanding of the known universe has been irreparably shaken and he’s paralyzed by confusion and dismay. It’s painful to watch, knowing how badly he wants to believe in his Father, to believe in the Great Plan in spite of any and all evidence to the contrary.

It’s also strangely… human.

“Do you believe your father loved you,” he asks one day without preamble.

Adam purses his lips thoughtfully. “I think so, yeah.”

“How do you know?”

Adam takes a moment to think. “Well… he never said it, but… he spent time with me whenever he could, sent money to my mom to help out when he could spare it.”

“Was that not his duty as your parent?” Michael asks with what could almost be called a frown, odd on his normally emotionless face.

Adam shrugs. “Yeah, but there’s definitely a lot of people out there that don’t do it. And as much as he had on his plate… it definitely felt half-assed, but looking back on it… I think it was the best he could do, ya know?”

Adam can feel the angel sadden, if you could call it that. His grace looked dull and felt slow and sluggish.

“So, spending time together means you love someone,” Michael clarifies.

Adam shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah, sometimes. Or at least you like the person well enough to spend your free time with them.”

Michael stares off into the distance.

“My Father spends His time among the humans,” he says finally.

“Love is a very human emotion,” Adam says hesitantly. “We need affection, connection to survive. I’m sure angels are different.”

“I’m sure,” Michaels says in something that doesn’t quite feel like agreement, but Adam can’t even begin to decipher it. He wants to say something more, but what does one even say to angel struggling with the ultimate daddy issues?

“Well, if it helps, I like spending time with you,” Adam says. And actually means it to his own surprise. The beginning was rough, torturously so. But he’s come to consider the angel a friend. They’ve been together so long, Adam can’t really remember the before they joined and can’t imagine a life afterwards.

Michael doesn’t say anything in response, but his grace sparkles a little brighter.

To take their minds off of their former lives and roles, they spend more time in the simulated fantasies. At this point Adam gets the feeling Michael needs the mental escape just as much as he does. The simulations are peaceful, a place where everything is calm, stable, logical.

I like spending time with you, too.  Your view of the world, Michael tells him, It’s so simple and uncomplex.

Adam smiles and takes the backhanded insult as the high praise the angel probably intended it to be.

When they’re not in simulations, Michael teaches him Enochian. While the angel would surely never say as much, Adam gets the feeling that he’s yearning for his own reminder of ‘home.’ Given the effort Michael puts into Adam’s comfort, it feels like the least he can do to return the favor. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. Enochian is a complex language with dozens of tenses and registers never intended for humans to know. But with Michael’s help, Adam is eventually able to construct sentences, first silly, crude utterances and then smoother, slightly more complex statements. The challenge of conversing with Michael in the angel’s native tongue is thoroughly entertaining for both of them.

“From the earth place state Minnesota I human am,” Adam says slowly but smoothly.

“The earth place state Minnesota you human like?” Michael asks.

“Yes, much I human like,” Adam responds.

“What best you human like of the earth place state Minnesota?” Michael asks.

Adam pauses to think. He does better with questions that have definitive answers, but he knows he can answer this.

“Best… best I human like season cold. Very season cold is pointy,” he says wavering at the end, not quite sure of his word choice.

Michael tilts his head. “Season cold is pointy?”

Adam bites his lip. He’s said something wrong but he’s not sure what. At least Enochian doesn’t have dirty words. He can be reasonably sure he hasn’t accosted a celestial being.

“Lucifer!” Michael yelps, just as Adam opens his mouth to attempt a correction.

“He’s coming back?” Adam asks, fearfully, fully ready to let Michael take control of their vessel.

“No. He’s… he’s gone,” Michael says, his confusion heavy on his face. “Someone has... killed him.”

“Someone killed him? Someone killed the Devil,” Adam repeats slowly. “Like killed, killed? Killed like dead, as in no longer alive, not coming back, dead?”

“Dead, as in only a divine act of the Father will bring him back, dead,” Michaels clarifies in a dead pan.

“How can that be?” Adam asks. “What does that mean?”

Michael shrugs, a gesture he’s picked up in their time together. “I do not know.”

“There’s another archangel,” Michael says, his voice sharply colored with confusion. “He feels very familiar, but… I do not know him. It’s been eons since Father created a new archangel…”

They try to figure it out, parsing through the few pieces of information Michael has, but it’s like putting a jigsaw puzzle together it the dark.

Then one day, without warning, the cage door springs open.

It’s actually Adam that notices. He mentally jabs Michael who’s fascinated by the concept of mortal men building snow men, a facsimile of Creation he claims. When Michael pulls out the simulation, an overwhelming feeling of… joy… floods their vessel. His power crackles to life and they don’t even need to discuss what to do next.

Hold on, Michael warns him.

His heart pounds with possibility but between one blink and the next, they’re out.

And back on solid ground.

Michael looks around in horrified awe.

“He’s destroying it all,” the angel whispers as much to himself as to Adam. “He told us it was precious, that it was our duty to protect it… but he’s tearing it all down.”

Tearing what down, Adam asks, confused.

“Your reality! It’s… it’s what you humans always refer to as ‘The End of the World.’ But literally.”

Adam peers helplessly into the inky darkness, his view from their vessel much like a kid trying to look through the windshield from the back seat. It’s preternaturally quiet, the way animals go quiet when a danger predator is nearby. Adam’s disappointment over not getting to immediately see the sun is replaced by a sickening sense of dread.

“After the Flood, he promised he’d never lose his temper this way again,” Michael says, turning them in literal circles as he tries to take it all in. “But something changed.”

What could make God destroy earth like it’s nothing more than a scrap piece of paper?

Can you sense Him, Adam asks, not sure what answer he actually wants.

“No.”

What about your brothers, Adam asks. Or mine?

“Your brothers are both warded so neither Heaven nor hell can find them,” Michael says with a frown.

Adam scoffs. Of course, they are. Something else that would’ve been helpful but he knew nothing about until afterwards.

“I can’t feel any archangels,” Michael continues, “but there’s something angelic… somebody… but there’s... I can’t tell where it’s coming from…”

Adam pushes to the forefront and Michael graciously concedes control.

Back in charge of his own body, Adam looks up at the sky, unusually dark and cloudy, but eerily calm. He takes a moment to block out the sheer terror and just enjoy the one place he never thought he’d be again. Squatting down, he takes a deep breath of the cool night air and runs his fingers through the soft silt on the ground.

For a moment, he wants his mom so bad it almost physically hurts.

“Can we go to Heaven?” he asks. If she’s anywhere, that’s where she’d be.

Technically, you’re not dead. A living human host can’t go into heaven. Nor can a human soul that’s been to Hell.

Adam considers the explanation.

“Does that mean my brothers can’t go to Heaven either?” he asks curiously.

His lips reflexively press into a thin, irritated line, Michael’s doing, not his.

Your family has always been a special exception, Michael replies flatly. Your Father has been to hell and Heaven. Your older brother has been to heaven, hell, and purgatory. The rules don’t seem to… apply to the Winchesters.

“I’m a Winchester,” Adam mutters darkly.

Yes, but as you said before, not in the right ways, Michael reminds him bluntly.

“So, what should we do?” Adam asks finally, willing to follow the angel’s lead.

“I’m tired,” Michael says, smoothly transitioning back in control of their body. “I’ve always fought, relentlessly, without ceasing, without explanation. But this… This is not my battle…”

So, what do you want then?

Michael looks around.

“Let’s go see this world everybody’s fighting over.”

And together they take flight.