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He does not observe Earth often.
Well, that isn’t entirely true. He observes Earth more than necessary, letting his gaze travel through the metaphysical spheres of Heaven and out to Creation - the last remnants of his Father’s work. But his perspective is usually panoramic, sweeping in wide angles, never focusing on the smaller creatures. Favouring the mountain range over the pebbles that compose it.
But this time…This time he makes an exception.
The mother is called Mary. Michael is not sure whether this is auspicious or ironic. Perhaps a lesser seraph thought it necessary - history is nothing but a wheel spinning on itself, after all. The house itself is far from a stable, though - warm, stone chimney, cozy furniture and walls that are still fresh from the moving-in painting makeover.
She stands alone in the bedroom. Had Michael been physically present, with a body that warranted the use of spatial descriptors, she would have her back to him. Her blond curls cascade down her back, almost glowing in the subdued light of the bedside lamp and late afternoon sun, and Michael almost understands why she was chosen for the Morningstar’s mother. Her feet are bare, toes idly digging into the soft blue carpet.
She did not notice him, of course, when he landed lightly in the cerulean-painted room. It has been centuries since he has last let a human sense his presence. He is not even fully there, only sending a projection for fear of disturbing the local meteorological conditions.
A fact that does not seem to deter the infant nestled against Mary’s chest, as he stares over her shoulder, right at Michael with wide, blinking blue eyes. Dean Winchester, Righteous Man and true vessel of the first archangel, is so very, very small. Barely a fifth of his mother’s size, with a head that still wobbles dangerously from side to side, too heavy for his neck. Thin blond hair swept away from his face by Mary’s tender hands. Short fingers idly curl into loose fists, and stumpy feet idly kick the air. Michael studies him with the detached, uninvolved manner of a lion surveying a mouse.
Briefly, he wonders what Lucifer would think of the human. He chases that thought away.
With a loud babble, Dean lifts a tiny hand over Mary’s shoulder, grasping at the air.
“What’s so interesting there, Dean-o?” his mother coos as she bounces him on her arm. Dean does not take his eyes away from the spot where Michael’s form conglomerates, like particles around a nucleus. Michael is not sure what exactly the infant sees.
The mother sends a curious glance behind her. Innocent at first, but Michael recognises the sharp wariness around the edges of her eyes, scanning for potential danger. They glaze over the archangel, focusing on the wall behind them, before her shoulders relax again. No threat here.
“Alright, bed time for you.” She moves to the crib while Dean coos again. A few hiccups escape his mouth when she settles him on the sheets, but they soon die down at his mother’s hushes. Outside, the sun has just started its descent - it’s approaching summer, and a soft breeze rustles the bright-emerald leaves outside. It has been a few months since Dean Winchester was born - Michael supposes neither his timing nor the weather make for a great nativity scene. He has been pondering his decision to visit ever since the flicker of awareness had appeared inside him in January.
(It was the first time he breathed in a long while. The gears have finally started to shift into motion.)
Watching the domestic scene, the fated mother tucking her child in and pressing a light kiss on his forehead, Michael almost feels out of place. A deep feeling, unsettling and new, that he is intruding.
With padded footsteps, Mary pulls the curtains closed, and the room’s golden glow gives way to blue-grey shadows. She flicks on a device that crackles to life, and a blinking red light weaves itself among the cool tones. With a final kiss, she leaves the room, closing the door with a barely-there click.
“All settled?” comes John Winchester’s voice, muffled behind the wall.
“Yup. Little man was calmer than usual this evening.”
“Looks like he finally wore himself out.”
A hum, and the voices grow weaker as they move downstairs.
Michael contemplates flying off, when he catches Dean’s gaze in the half-light, and pauses. His vessel’s eyes are open wide, and if Michael concentrates he can see the glow of his own grace reflected in them. He is wrapped in a white cotton sleepsuit, and a stuffed puppy sits discarded next to his tilted head. He is so frail, and the feeling of inadequacy only grows stronger.
He comes closer anyway, and holds out his projection’s…well, not his hand, per se. Still, Dean bats at it curiously, frowning as he swipes only at air.
“You don’t understand any of this,” Michael murmurs, a melody-buzz that resonates oddly within the room. The device on the bedside table crackles with static. Dean does not react, aside from a half-hearted kick at his covers. Michael tilts his head. “You are…limited. You are human.”
Dean coos.
“Will you be any different, once you are old? Will you truly understand what it means for Father’s plan to finally unfold?”
When you say yes, will I be as frail as you are now?
Are you truly so similar to me?
As if picking up on the shifting moods that a toddler cannot possibly comprehend, Dean grows suddenly agitated. His face contorts from sleepy, peaceful bliss to distressed grimacing. Michael quickly withdraws at the rejection, moves away from the crib, though this only seems to upset Dean more. Short cries escape his mouth in bursts.
There’s a sound at the door, and John Winchester enters the room in a rush, already murmuring words of comfort.
“Come on, come on, I’m here,” he murmurs, and takes his son in his arms. “Having trouble sleeping, are we?”
Dean writhes a little against his chest, but his father’s bounces and gentle strokes on his back soothe him easily enough.
“Come on, Dad’s here now. It’s okay.”
The pang of loss that burns through Michael right then is enough to make up his mind. The wind picks up outside as he stretches his wings - despite his precautions, it will most likely storm tonight. He sends one last look towards his vessel; he’s already falling asleep, head bobbing limplessly against John’s shoulder, turned away from Michael. John is watching him with a soft, amused expression.
He rises up, leaves the Father and the Mother and the house, its stone chimney and its baby blue walls that are destined to burn one day. Soars through the clouds, past the stars and into the Heavens, until his senses settle back into their natural, panoramic view. Angels flit around him, greeting him while reverently keeping their distance. His flight is not a cowardly retreat - it is wisest to keep his distance from his vessel, he reasons. All will be as it should without the need for his interference. Leave the human with the humans until he is old enough to serve alongside Michael.
He does not say goodbye to Dean.
He will see him soon enough.