Chapter Text
Rebecca Klein rubs her temples. Hard.
She likes to think of herself as a good person. The Dean of UNC Chapel Hill is not particularly religious, per se—she went to church with her parents as a kid, but in her teen years they had a discussion (read: fight) about how she couldn’t see a world ruled by an omniscient, benevolent God who allowed genocide, racism, and other atrocities. But she spends a Saturday once a month buying groceries for the local homeless shelter and donates a good amount of her income to charity. That should count for something.
Apparently, those actions don’t count enough to prevent a self-proclaimed Angel of God from materializing in her office. He’s certainly very polite, but refuses to leave and straight up laughs when she threatens to call security. He points a finger to her office phone, which explodes.
Hence her current situation.
Someone by the name of Adam Milligan needs to finish college here, and then go to the medical school. A person who, if she’s hearing correctly, is legally dead. And whose SAT scores are over ten years out of date. There are rules, dammit.
The angel nods, thoughtfully, and snaps his fingers. All public records of Mr. Milligan’s disappearance have disappeared, and he now has files from a high school in Maryland with a perfect SAT score.
Rebecca Klein is going to need a lot of vodka to handle this.
When Michael asked him where he wanted to go after leaving the Kansas bunker, Adam gave a noncommittal “anywhere. Except Hell.” Evidently, Michael hadn’t gotten the finer points of humor yet.
They ended up throwing darts at a map of the US, because secretly Adam had always wanted to make a personal decision that way. Chicago, his first hit, was far too crowded. Too high a chance for Michael to spook a store clerk, or for Adam to bump into a surprise demon. The second dart (that didn’t miss) landed in North Carolina.
Against his loud protests, Michael put Adam to sleep while the angel dealt with matters of college enrollment.
Not that he’s not grateful that he has a chance to go back to a normal life—it’s everything he’s wanted for literal centuries now—but he wishes Michael had let him in on the meeting. The dean probably wants his internal organs on a pike now, based on Michael’s synopsis: “Completely unreasonable. Had she spent less time screaming and more time listening to ‘do not be afraid,’ we could have been done in 15 minutes, but no, she insisted on screaming louder. Honestly.”
Well, Adam supposes he has Michael to thank, as he starts unloading things into his new apartment. Turns out he’s going to try college with an archangel inside of him after all. Dorms were an option, but then again, no. Just because it seems most Gen Z college students are utterly unfazed by cryptids (it was disturbing to overhear “oh yeah, Zach was eaten by a Wendigo, poor guy. I put the whole thing on my TikTok”) doesn’t mean that Adam and Michael don’t enjoy their privacy. It’s nice to wake up and watch Michael sitting on the side of the bed, grinning slightly and asking “What’s the plan today, kid?” And it’s nice to not have to feel self-conscious about it.
Back in another life, Adam had been planning to go to medical school. His mom was a nurse, and the doctors always made her work incredible hours. She’d come home exhausted, with new gray hairs Adam would pretend not to notice. So Adam decided early on that he’d grow up and make things better.
Hey, if they’re checking off old life goals, may as well get that one too.
“That’s very noble of you,” says Michael as he crams pots and pans into the cabinets.
“Wanting to make the world a little better for someone else is just human, man. Any guy off the street would probably say the same.”
“No,” says Michael softly. “No they wouldn’t. Not like you.”
The girl next to him in Ochem asks Adam out to lunch. He accepts, because he’s polite, but he pointedly steers the topic of conversation to his boyfriend from back home in Maryland, who he cares about very much and makes him so very homesick all the time. In the background, Michael gives him an unimpressed look. That’s probably the closest an archangel can ever get to gagging.
Hey, you can never have enough friends, right?
It turns out that Adam and Carrie get along nicely, actually. They have shared interests in community activism and zoology, borne of childhoods filled with Zoobooks. Honestly, Adam’s forgotten about his little social faux pas until he gets an email from the university telling him he’s received a package.
Odd, no one ever sends Adam mail. Probably a mistake. (It’s not like he has any family to send him any. It’s not like his chest tightens a little bit when a friend receives a box from a parent, making him remember freshman year in Wisconsin all those centuries ago.)
At the package center, a slightly-put out employee hands Adam a box larger than his torso. Lo and behold, the top of the box reads: “To: Adam Milligan, 560 Paul Hardin Dr., Apt 117. Chapel Hill, NC 27514.” And in the “from” section:
Michael Milton. 1517 Eutlaw Pl., Apt 462. Baltimore, MD 21217.
Adam’s going to hide in a corner until the blushing stops.
“Imagine this string I have is part of a violin,” Professor Klotsa had said in lecture. “When I pluck it, the energy I give moves down to the end of the string—” she used her arm to whip a giant demonstration string like a slinky, making oval wave patterns—“and bounces back as a standing wave. Now, we currently have two nodes, and we call this the first harmonic.”
Adam never particularly liked physics, but he did enjoy music, in a way. Michael said that he didn’t have the same musical talents as other angels, being a soldier and all, but all the same, Adam would sometimes climb to the roof of his apartment at night with a guitar he’d bought and the archangel would materialize next to him, listening as if he’d scored tickets to a Carnegie Hall concert. Adam played rather simple stuff, really. Basic chords his mom had taught him as a kid. Wonderwall, on a good day. The angel hung around anyhow.
“If the note I’m playing here is ‘G’, then I can also make a higher note of ‘G’ by increasing the number of nodes, bringing us to the second harmonic. We can further complicate by changing from a string to a open-ended tube, like a clarinet, and we get two antinodes…”
Adam’s back on the roof again, finally done with the latest problem set. The night air is warm, much warmer in North Carolina than fall ever was in Minnesota or Wisconsin, and it has him thinking: sound needs a medium to travel through. Usually, sound travels through air, and in that air-in-an-open-ended-tube sound turns into a standing wave, or as a normal person calls it, music. But sound doesn’t necessarily need to use air. Not really.
Reaching into their shared connection, Adam pulls at Michael’s grace, a silent May I? It’s a formality. Michael’s said before that he’s welcome to use a bit of grace whenever he needs, so long he’s not going to fry his eyebrows off, but Adam asks every time, the same way the angel always asks before taking over their body in non-emergencies. Michael lifts an eyebrow as Adam spools grace around him, making a small cocoon of unadulterated power. His fingers come to the guitar.
Sound needs a medium.
“I heard there was a sacred chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord, but you don’t really care for music do you?” And it does go, the 4th, the 5th, harmonics passing through angelic grace with all the power of a ancient spell, reverberating around and around in a tiny bubble for the two of them. Michael’s apparition goes ramrod straight, jaw comically wide open.
“That…I…you…”
I know, Adam sends across their connection as he keeps playing. I know.
Most of their life is blessedly mundane. Awaken, attend class, complain about exams, play board games with friends, spectate at occasional football games. Go to their shift in an ironically-named crafts store (“Adam, could we apply to work anywhere else? Anywhere?) twice a week. There exists a stark difference from the life Michael once had, but he has grown tired. He does not wish to command garrisons anymore, he simply wants to see Adam wake up a little groggy as the sun hits him in the morning, backlit with a incandescent glow that speaks of warmth and joy and life. He desires to be selfish. He buries the image of Adam, banging his head against a blackboard as he tries to figure out an Organic Chemistry problem, deep inside his grace for rainy days. A treasure for him, and him alone.
“Hey Michael, you made all this stuff, right? You can explain it.”
Michael scoffs. “I do not know who Misters Morita, Baylis, and Hillman are, and even if I did, I doubt I would understand the human notation used for this discipline.”
“Jeff, he says he doesn’t know.”
“Well sure,” responds one of Adam’s friends. “I mean, do you understand the physics of how you throw and catch a ball? I mean, you do now, of course, but five years ago you would just throw, and catch, no calculations required. I’m on the angel’s side here.” How strange it is to be defended, by a human, against another human. How strange and oddly comforting.
One of your friends too, remarks Adam across their bond.
One of Michael’s friends too. Introducing himself to other humans, talking to other humans through Adam’s voice for no explicit purpose, holding other humans in his mind as equals…what strange places Adam has taken him. How could he have ever imagined that his “True Vessel” could be someone else?
“Well HA, having the Captain of the God Squad around doesn’t always give you an edge every time,” ribs Caroline. “You owe me a soda.” Adam’s soul pulses warmly in amusement, and it sends ripples to Michael’s grace, nestled around it. He sends a pulse back. Being with people one loves, he decides. That is what humanity means.
Even anger is beautiful on Adam, in its own way. At a protest in DC, Adam joins a crowd of his colleagues as they voice their disapproval at an unjust killing of a young man, and Michael should not quite feel joy at seeing rage on his human, but somehow he does. Human life is so full of surprises. Why would anyone voluntarily stay up in Heaven?
Because they are a brainwashed halfwit who brutally subjugated and then murdered their own kind for the approval of a Father who would never give it. Because he, Michael, was so blind that he could not even see the truth when Adam discussed it openly, no, he needed that blasted Castiel to literally force the proof into his mind—
“Hey. Feathers.”
“Yes, Adam?”
Adam responds in Enochian, which takes Michael aback. “You must understand that people, even angels, necessarily experience change. To live is to grow, to improve. This is why even The Darkness could become, if not a force for good, then a force for neutrality. This is why so many humans are here today. They believe that even the worst of their kind are worthy of redemption.”
Adam’s right. Michael knows he is. But Adam is good, and kind, and Michael, if history is anything to go by, is simply not.
“That is absolute nonsense. Nonsense? Is there a word in this language equivalent to equine fecal matter? How irritating. What matters is that, in a human world, any person is capable of development.”
“But Adam, I am not—”
“You are a person. You feel love, you have friends, and you make errors of judgement. Ergo, you are a person. And so you are entitled to the process of penance and forgiveness. I declare it so.”
Hm.
Thank you, Sunshine.
Of course, Feathers.
Angels can indeed experience change. Naomi gives him a wary look from across her desk, radically different from reverence she once held for him before. For the longest time, the two just stare at one another.
“I assume you want the throne again,” she says, a note of bitterness in her grace.
“No. Not in the slightest.” The lights flicker, and Heaven is in a sorry state. It will take time and effort to repair the infrastructure alone, much less produce more angels to provide power somehow. Delegating tasks, assigning priorities, deescalating conflict, that is a full-time job. A viceroy’s job. “If I may make a suggestion, Heaven’s ruler should be chosen by the general will. It is more than evident that Father’s arbitrary decision-making led to a suboptimal initial leadership. To say nothing of who he chose as a scribe.”
The other angel remains seated and stone-faced, but subtly, Michael can tell she is impressed. After another extended staring contest, she nods. “You’ve grown.”
“So have you.” A pause, and he adds, “I know better than anyone the job can be taxing. If you decide ever need assistance, please feel free to—”
A bolt of fear rips through his being. He dashes out of Naomi’s office and begins his descent from Heaven even before the prayer reaches him: Dear Archangel Michael, I need a hand like now. Like now, now. Please.
He knows he is too late when, across their connection, there is a massive pull at his grace and he hears a roar: “MORS LUMINE!” Michael arrives at the scene seconds later, where the craft store smells of sulfur and burnt flesh. A few feet from charred human remains, Adam leans against one of the shelves, bone-white and heaving. The human meets Michael’s apparition-eyes and then keels over, painting the floor with vomit.
“It’s ok. You’re ok. I’m here. It’s ok. You’re ok.” The angel rubs circles in Adam’s back, repeating the phrase like a prayer. Thank Father his human is safe. No, thank humanity and compassion and kindness. His human continues to shake and retch, even with the contents of his bowels emptied. Thank all the forces of good in this world that Adam demanded he learn to defend himself, just in case. Michael wraps his grace around Adam’s soul, still warm and bright as ever, and holds it. He will never let go.
Later, when Michael has resurrected the demons’ human vessels and bundled Adam into a blanket on the couch, the two of them sit in the living room, quiet. He hears intermittent sniffles. In the background, the TV plays a show about a government park employee that Adam enjoys. The angel will wait on his human to be the first to speak—when he is ready.
“Hey Michael.” Adam’s voice is hoarse, wet. Michael hates it that way.
“Yes?”
“You’ve done that before. A lot.”
The antecedent of “that” is obvious. “Yes.”
“Does it always feel like this, after?”
To any other human, and most lower Angels, he would lie. “Somewhat. Eventually one becomes desensitized to the emotion, feels guilt over the desensitization, and desensitizes to that guilt. But you, Adam Milligan, should never have to get that far. I will not allow it.”
The human looks at his hands. “I have to face my coworkers next week. I know you wiped their memories, but still.” Yes. The resurrected humans may have forgotten, but Adam will remember. He will never quite be the same after that. The world seems just a shade dimmer.
“Will you tuck me in tonight, Feathers?”
“Of course. Any time you ask.”
It’s Dr. Milligan now, which still sounds strange in Adam’s ears. 3 years of college, 4 of med school, and 5 of residency seems a long time to his peers, but he’s been through Hell. Literally. Years don’t scare him anymore.
Michael didn’t see the point, as the angel could heal people just fine, but as Adam repeatedly said over the years, daily miracles attract attention. Attention attracts demons. Or worse, Winchesters.
Adam’s brewing a cup of coffee (“I like the taste, Feathers”) when he receives an page. “Dr. Milligan to OR 4, urgent. 18 yo M gunshot wound to head. Unusual findings.” He sighs. Today is not going to be a good day.
Michael’s apparition trailing behind him, Adam abandons his sweet, sweet coffee and makes a beeline to the surgery wing. On the way, he pulls out his phone and dials Dr. Mwangi.
“Hi Sophia, what did you mean by ‘unusual?’”
Adam, on your left.
Oh shit. Thanks Mikey. He narrowly avoids crashing into an incoming stretcher as he triple-tasks. “Glowing eye sockets? No, that sounds insane. I think our intake nurses are overworked, don’t you? What do you mean, you saw it yourself? Are you sure you aren’t taking too many shifts, Sophia?” Adam puts in a laugh that is perhaps a little too high-pitched.
Oh no. Oh no no no. This is not happening.
Kid, I’m getting you out of here. We can expunge your records, move to New Zealand, start a small clinic and—”
“No.”
Adam, no, Dr. Milligan comes to a stop in the middle of the hallway. His throat is tight. How many human surgeons know anything about angel anatomy, much less Nephilim anatomy?
This is not your duty! It was not by your hand that the Nephilim was shot, and it is not right to put yourself in danger for someone you have never met! The angel’s apparition is visibly shaking.
I wouldn’t be me if we ran from this, Feathers.
I hate you.
You love me.
Be quiet.
Ten minutes later, he turns to Sophia in the OR. “Hey, can you do me a big favor? This kid isn’t going to make it otherwise.”
Sophia looks perplexed. Understandable. “Sure, Adam, what do you need?”
“I need you to say yes.”
“Yes?”
Cue a blinding flash of light. Archangel Michael meets his eyes from across the operating table. “Kid, are you absolutely sure about this?”
Adam wants to vomit. He wants to go home and not wake up until tomorrow. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
7 hours later, Adam thinks he’s in hell again. Michael tried his best, but the General of Heaven is no expert on angel medicine, and they’re flying (ha) by the seat of their pants. He’s lost Mr. Kline about three times now and drained at least half of Michael’s grace.
“I think you did it, kid.”
Adam’s got a killer headache. Might even need brain surgery. “Ha. Haha. I think we did, Feathers. Let’s just sew this guy up and go to sleep and never wake up.”
Adam. Do not speak that way. You hurt me when you do.
Sorry Michael.
In true Winchester fashion, the name in the records was “Charles Holley.” Adam will have none of that bullshit and re-enters in the correct “Jack Kline.” They owe him and he reserves the right to be petty.
He drags his exhausted body to the waiting room, where Dean does not look good at all. On the whole, the years have been kind to him, but the past 12 hours have not.
“Mr. Winchester?”
Dean’s head snaps up, no longer staring into the middle distance. “I’m Dr. Milligan. Your son went had a rough go of it, but the surgery was a success. Frankly, it was a miracle.”
Three miracles, actually.
Michael, when did you get sense of humor? I’m a bad influence.
“So he’s ok?” Dean is, based on his expression, not pleased at all to see a familiar face.
“Yes. If you could follow me, and we could discuss his condition in his room?”
The second the door to Jack’s room closes, Dean lifts Adam by his lapels and slams him into the wall. “Listen Adam, I don’t know what your game here is, but—”
Adam is forcibly yeeted into the figurative back seat as a pulse of white light throws Dean across the room. “Lay your filthy hands on him again and I will smite your worthless—”
Nope.
“Sorry about that. He’s…concerned for my welfare. Michael, I can handle this. Really.” He’s far too tired for this kind of soap opera. “Listen Dean, I want you here even less than you do, if you can believe it. Let’s all settle down and you can go on your merry way as soon as humanly possible.”
A curt nod. If looks could kill…well, then smiting would probably be happening.
“Jack’s fine. I wouldn’t spend 7 hours operating just the screw with you, y’dig? I’m exhausted, Michael’s exhausted, and I’m sure you are too, but he’s fine, and he’s going to make a full recovery. Probably by tomorrow morning, actually. When he does, he’s legally 18 according to the paperwork, so he’s going to sign a discharge form against medical advice, and the three of you musketeers can watch over him for the rest of his recovery time. Cool?”
“Yeah,” Dean nods gravely. “Adam, why are you here? Of all the hospitals in the country?”
“Because apparently, the universe hates me all that much and coincidences do happen, Dean.”
“Well…thanks.”
“I would say ‘no problem,’ but again, I really just want to go back to my normal life, with normal grocery shopping and shit like that. Oh, and Michael says ‘scram.”
Dean chuckles. “Tell him to fuck off.”
“Noted. Oh, and Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“From my limited understanding, your dad wasn’t a particularly good parent. You want to, and you can do better. I can feel that you care, but I’m some sort of psuedo-Nephilim. Tell Jack he’s important to you. Tell him that you love him. Apologize when you screw up. Build a hotrod together. You know, mushy dad crap.”
“I take it that because I owe you I have to just take that, huh?”
“Yup.”
Sam and Castiel return from wrapping up whatever business involved Jack getting shot, and Adam’s halfway through explaining the situation to them when the kid wakes up. Disoriented, he looks wildly around at the hospital room, then his three dads, then Adam and Michael. “Uh, so I’m guessing you two saved me, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
“Um, I know it isn’t much, but thanks. How can I pay you back?”
Cut out that abominable grace of yours and shove it up your—
Michael!
“Just do the thing, yeah? Shaving people, punting things,” he says. “And actually go to school and see the ‘normal world’ a bit. You always have a choice about whether or not you want a normal life. I’m sure Sam and Dean agree.” The last line has a slight edge to it.
“Come by for dinner sometime.”
“Maybe.”
“Can I call you Uncle Michael?”
Don’t push your luck, kid.