AN: Okay, I know that there's a whole slew of people who loved the finale. I am not one of them. I thought it was trite, and self-important, and anti-climactic. I'm fine with the beginning -- the demon blood drinking was appropriately disgusting, Cas was adorable, the speeches were as sappy as anticipated, and Mark Pellegrino knocked it out of the park. It was the battle that killed me. So. Rewriting the battle.
It was just an empty field. A few, lonely crows flew overhead, and a gentle breeze made the grass dance. Two men stood in the middle of the field, both young, both with empty, clouded eyes.
"It's good to see you, Michael."
The taller one was the first to speak, his voice the dull, calm roar of an ocean in the distance. There was power in his voice, and pain.
"You, too."
"It's been too long." Despite the words of welcome, neither man moves. Their hands are balled at their sides. The grass sways a little more, and beneath their feet, the dead cry out. They can feel it coming, in the same way that the thousands who have died beneath the twisters can feel it, in the same way that the homeless man dying of cold in Detroit can feel it.
"Can you believe it's finally here?"
"No. Not really."
But they both believe it. Neither is surprised. They've been waiting centuries for just this moment, for just this place. What he means, is that he can't believe it's happening like this. Can't believe that his brother has dressed up in his Sunday best, and he's just wearing last Thursday's dirty overalls. Can't believe that nobody in Lawrence has recognized the signs, can't believe that their father is still, still absent.
"A part of me wishes we didn't have to do this."
"Yeah. Me, too."
Neither one of them is lying. The tall one moves, finally. The slightest twitch, the tiniest movement of a hand. He's been away from home longer. He's forgotten the strength in stillness.
"Then why are we?"
"I have no choice, after what you did."
The words come easily. Words that the angel has heard his entire life, passed down, hearsay from the angels who had been in Heaven for the whole of it. He hadn't been. He'd been tending the garden with Joshua – tending the people, really. Teaching Adam and Eve how to care for the thousand different plants and animals. He'd returned home to hear that his little brother had rebelled, had been cast out. And then he'd been sent down, again, to the garden, again. He'd been handed a sword and told – ordered – never to let anything in the garden again. He'd been handed a flaming sword to kill his brother.
"What if it's not my fault?"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Think about it. Dad made everything. Which means that he made me who I am. God wanted the Devil."
No. That can't be right. That isn't right. God is good, and God is great and. . .and nobody knows the mind of God.
"So why?" his brother is moving again, in that glorious meatsuit, all earnest eyes and placid voice. Lucifer has always been calm. "Why make us fight? I just can't figure out the point. . .we're going to kill each other. And for what? One of Dad's test, and we don't even know the answer."
But Michael knows, remembers. His father does not give tests. Lucifer has given tests and temptations, but never their father. He closes his ears and his heart, a little more, to his brother's pleas.
"We're brothers. Let's just walk off the chessboard."
"I'm sorry."
And he is. He's sorry that the fight has come to this. He's sorry that the Apocalypse may just destroy the world that his father so loves. He's sorry that – dressed in this second rate body – he may not be able to win. He wonders, briefly, if his brother has a back-up plan. Has he even thought past this battle?
"I'm a good son, and I have my orders."
"But you don't have to follow them."
"What, you think I'm going to rebel? Now? I'm not like you."
His brother's face closes off, just the tiniest bit. A drop of hope dies, and Michael hates himself a little for taking some of the light from his brother's eyes. Luci has always loved the light – that is Father's greatest cruelty, trapping him away from all that is bright and beautiful.
"Please, Michael . . ."
There is the plea, and Michael forces himself to remember the moment when his father placed the burning sword in his hand. Forces himself to remember the sense of power, and the burning, crippling pain as angelic flesh seared to the burning metal. Pure goodness and human technology. . .anathema.
"You know," he says, thinking of sacrifice, of blood on a cross, of two brothers nearly torn apart by Luci's selfish desires, "you haven't changed a bit, little brother. Always blaming everybody but yourself. We were together. We were happy. But you betrayed me – all of us – and you made our father leave."
"No one makes Dad do anything."
Michael thinks that may be true, but he also remembers returning home, to emptiness, to tears and accusations.
"You're a monster, Lucifer. And I have to kill you."
All of the light has died in his brother's eyes, now, and it is only cold, deep, and dark – the emptiness of hell that stares back at him.
"If that's the way. . .then I'd like to see you try."
Michael opens his fist, prepared, with a jolt of fear, to accept that crown of thorns from his father again, that searing pain, though he wonders whether this body will be able to accept it. He's not sure it's strong enough.
This isn't the way it is supposed to go, these two mis-matched vessels in an empty cemetery. It is not the way that it has been foretold.
It is almost a relief, then, when battle is delayed by the sound of earthly wailing, a twisted mass of black metal, and a cocky, impertinent youth learning out of the travesty to say "Sorry. Am I interrupting something?"
It is almost a relief, but it is not, because Michael knows himself, and he knows the Devil, and he knows that this night, in Lawrence, Kansas, the world must end.