A/N This is completely AU from the end of season five on. Michael is in a female vessel since it was a change of pace and it felt right for the course of the story being told. Rated T for language and some violence.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

XX

"What is it you are so fond of telling me? Oh yes, fuck off."

The door slammed behind her with frame shaking force, a rattling dirge echoing from the nearby window. Banging on the wall just as loud with a 'keep it down' yelled out a moment later. Sam was side eyeing him from the table while looking all tense and put upon, chin resting on one hand as free fingers tapped in fast staccato on the laptop case. Dean felt that look had to be a younger sibling from birth thing as his brother chewed his lip, eyes all scrunched and judgey.

Six months. That's how long it had been since Michael was ditched with them, complete with a sex change and all her rage and arrogance still quite firmly attached. Though she definitely wasn't still singing her Daddy's praises anymore, so there was that, though Dean would argue it wasn't a good change. Or how Michael wouldn't even look at God when he said bye to her before skating off to his vacation or where ever it was that divine dead beat dads go.

What he had gotten, however, was a miserable, pissed off, bound up archangel who hated everything. Each thing of human life seemed to offend her more than the last; dripping with disgust over eating and toilets and making sharp tongued remarks about living with primates. Wasn't like she had bothered to endear herself those first few weeks; all sullen with each word formed like an invitation for some sort of physical altercation.

Sam cleared his throat and Dean shoved his hands into his jean pockets, trying not to look as irritated as he felt. Everything was irritating right now. Hell, in this craptastic joint he wasn't sure if his bed came complete with a complementary side of mold yet.

"What?"

"Don't you think you should, you know, go after her?"

His brother still had that peeved look, hair flopping around his face as he sat at the table that permanently listed due south. The place reeked of mildew, some sort of plumbing flood from a month ago that they were assured was getting fixed, completely one hundred percent safe. Knocked the rooms to half price which meant more whiskey money and just marginally better than sleeping in the car.

"No," Dean answered because really, not everything was his damn fault.

"Dean," his brother sighed, shifting his oversized bulk with that glower setting in further. "She's a bound archangel. You know what heaven would –"

"Yeah, and what do you want me to do about that if it happens, Sam? Because it doesn't matter if I'm with her or not if they come a knocking and I doubt we can all join hands and sing Onwards Christian Soldiers. Hell, I'd be willing to tie a ribbon on her and pay the airfare if they took care of her instead."

"She was given to you."

Dean kicked the bed leg nearest him because Sam always played that card. Always, because Sammy had dream eyes still when higher powers were involved. Well, he said screw the alcoholic, wormy prophet of the Lord who had turned out to be God. Who had the nerve to come to them after letting Cas be all exploded in his kitchen. Chuck, all false apologies and nerves, handing over Michael like he was her partner or some crap. Like he was some highly rated angelic babysitter for when Daddy couldn't be bothered to fix His mess. It had been that moment that Sam had shown his true traitorousness by not letting him just shoot Chuck. Or God. Maybe Guck.

He stared up at the ceiling to contemplate, swearing that the seeping water stain was actually spreading in real time. Little brown fingers across the false suspended tiles and he was fairly certain that it was coating a new tiny pin prick hole every few seconds or so.

"Dean." Sam's voice was harsher. "Man, you got to at least try. I mean she helps us."

"She yells. Calls you 'Lucifer's vessel' and me just 'you' half the time. Don't tell me you're all wishy-washy over the king of the flying dickless brigade."

"She hasn't called me that for a while now," Sam said quietly, going back to chewing his lip and Dean cursed under his breath. This was his answer. Sam had let his heart bleed all over everything again. "You don't see –"

"I see her every day, Sammy. From the moment I wake up to when I go to sleep. She's like a gnat you just can't flatten."

"You could try actually talking to her. Instead of treating her like something stuck to your shoe."

"Oh that's rich, Sam. Really?" Dean knew he was pushing seeing the tightness to his brother's face, lines all worn in and etched in stark relief. "You want to tell me that you forgive her, huh? That it's all okay and we can go host flower circles and take up tea drinking together?"

His brother ran a hand over his face then through all that hair making it stick out in so many crazy directions that he looked like a kindergarten's art project on acid. There was a distinct look in those eyes that said Sam was very slowly and very carefully counting backwards from a very large number. Dean swallowed a bit of his anger. It wouldn't help to have both of them pissed off and glaring, though at least Sammy had his own room. Something Dean sorely wanted to point out right now that he would appreciate, instead of always getting the angry woman cursing him out in bathrooms in her native babble. Not to mention the fear she might accidentally stab him during one of her nightmares as she still had issues with sleep and waking up.

Not like she talked about what that was all about either.

"You're too much alike."

"Oh dude, come on. That's a low blow."

"Would you just go keep an eye on her?" A huff of air, moving hair from Sam's face and Dean felt strangely threatened. Like Sam was planning some sort of fight if he didn't shag ass out to go get her.

Where the hell could she go? She had such short legs, wasn't like she could get that far very fast. And that wasn't even getting into just what he was supposed to do with her when he found her since he doubted very much she wanted to go any place with him. All civilians would see would be him trying to drag a smallish woman off and he abso-fucking-lutely didn't need that kind of attention, thank you very much.

Another bitch face and Dean was out the door, half tempted to slam it just to piss the neighbors off more out of spite.

XX

Turned out she didn't go far because what she wanted was two hops down. The place was the epitome of seedy with the reek of beer and stale sweat, his feet making a sticky squelch as he made his way in. Everything was dim, as if it wouldn't seem so damning if things were only half lit and partially invisible. Outside of the obnoxious glare of the neon sign over the bar proper. Dean had half a mind to ask if the owner was stupid or if it was a brilliant business plan to induce vomiting from its ugly brightness to get people to buy more for now empty stomachs.

Two men were by her as she perched on a high stool, her feet not quite reaching the ground. She downed the shot then hit the glass against the counter, sharp impatient crack summoning her next round. Those two goons thinking she was going to get wasted, well, Dean had to chuckle. She may get herself wasted but she could kick their asses drop dead drunk and blind folded. He'd almost pay to see the alley fight, along with Michael on her knees sick afterwards.

There was a strange twinge of guilt over that last thought that he brushed away.

"Heya, buttercup," he said, shoving his way past one of the men to take the stool beside her.

"Dean," her voice was low as she didn't even bother to look over. Eyes fixed straight ahead on the fractured light reflecting off all the glass. "I thought I made myself clear."

"Yeah, well, you act like I have a choice."

Something bitter sounding, a laugh half caught and twisted came out of her as she knocked back the next shot. "Sam guilted you, didn't he?"

"Mike –"

"Shut up," she hissed, grabbing his wrist.

He let himself be dragged off the stool and towards the back since it was better to not rile her up more when she got into one of these moods. Of course she picked a booth all the way in the back that even if the light had been working would still seem to suck all the shadows towards it. Releasing him, she slid in raising a hand towards the wandering waiter this place somehow had for more drinks. He could leave, threaten her even but she would be unfazed. Dean knew why, wasn't like he hadn't been carrying around that same attitude for years as he sat himself across from her.

There was silence between them and he didn't know what to say as she scratched her nails against the unfinished table top. It was a strange dichotomy that she seemed to like dresses covered in flowers and the color red when her eyes constantly seared angry and dark. Even on the day God dragged her on over she had looked full of resentment and hate as dear old Dad had promised them Adam's safety and weren't they grateful that He had rescued Sam?

In the gloom he could still see the raised welt of her last injury working on healing, skin still discolored and ugly. It stood out against how delicate her hands were, vibrant blues and reds, a testament to her current condition.

Two shots arrived but to his surprise she didn't just down it one go. A good portion of him didn't want to know how many she had had before now. He opened his mouth to say something to break this uncomfortable quiet before it dug in more but her eyes sharpened at once.

"Could you not?" she asked, voice still harsh. "I would rather not hear your lectures on proper etiquette and how terrible it is to 'care' for me."

The air quotes were embedded right in there and Dean always wondered if Cas picked up that weird habit from this angel.

"It would help if you weren't such an ass all the time. What the hell is eating you now?"

"I miss who I was."

She looked taken back by her liquor loosened tongue, pushing a hand firm against the table as if to steady herself. Dean thought it might be one of the only truly honest things out of her mouth since she had been dumped with them.

"I know," he said, because he wasn't a complete bastard not liking the turn this had taken. Her well-bred haughtiness was easy; this was unpredictable and he didn't like that when it came to her.

Silence as she worked the nail of her thumb in and out of the scars on the table that the wood seemed almost to have been born with. She was stiff, shoulders just so that radiated upset, all shaky and strained.

Another swallow as she worked on her drink and he tried his, appreciating the thick warmth in his belly. Her hand was raised again, signaling for more and he wondered how buzzed she was right now. Despite being for all intents and purposes human she was still tougher on some things, still a little stronger as if all the bits of Michael couldn't quite be tamped down completely and crept out a little from under those chains.

"Look, I get you don't want to be here and the past few months haven't been great," he tried, seeing her stiffen even more. He wondered again what her Daddy had said to get this Michael instead of the aloof, devoted one. He doubted either of them was a fan of Guck, which he had decided on, or this terribly stupid plan. Along with whatever Guck had done to make her this bitter and nihilistic, well it probably hadn't been an apology. Or a very good one at any rate.

"I despise Him sometimes," she said, her voice quiet as the waiter was leaving off the next round. She was still working her thumb along the table as he felt a shiver from those words somewhere deep.

Her face was hard but she wasn't looking fully at him and Dean found himself staring because somehow in these shadows she was like an exotic danger. Some large predator of myth that people sought after to just touch in her blood red skirt and matching blouse and tan skin, eyes flashing some strange dark seduction in the dim light.

"He was always 'Mikahel, look what I've made'. Expect me to be excited for it and I was until I knew better. Because whatever he made I would have to take care of." Her eyes were on him in an instant as she leaned forward, a slight flush to her cheeks. "Do you know, Dean, what it is like to raise tens of thousands of little brothers who whine and beg and constantly do the equivalent of wiping their snotty noses on you?"

"Ah, can't say I have," he offered not sure where she was going because she never brought this crap up, ever.

Sam had tried once to ask her a question about creation. That had ended with a chair in pieces and her going missing for five hours. When she had gotten back she had told them both to shut up and locked herself in the bathroom before passing out on his bed. The one he had already been sleeping in.

He hadn't been thrilled.

A slight nod, tipping her head to one side as her hair spread like black silk along her shoulder. "You know what it's like to hold them though when they're first created. All young and sweet smelling."

Dean choked down a grin at the thought of going back and sniffing Sam. The creeped-out look alone would be well worth this.

"I guess, maybe. A bit weird. Just don't go around snorting babies as a test."

"Hmph," the sound escaped her as she traded to the fresh drink on the table. There was a slight smile of hers, the one only for him before she grimaced. As though maybe not looking like a pissed off psycho for more than five seconds was literally painful to her.

Dean figured that given her family tree it probably was.

"Stop trying to pity me."

"I'm not –"

She pointed a finger at him and it was almost like the shadows had gotten longer around them. "You do, both of you. I would appreciate it if you just stop."

"O-kay," he said, drawing out the word uncertain how to proceed. She was clearly feeling it, a slight unsteadiness to her hands now, a sway to her head but he knew the wrong thing out and the whole bar could be in shambles. Especially given she seemed to be itchin' for a fight, though he couldn't help to toss out a little fuel. "Could you maybe, I don't know, not be such a bitch?"

Something like a smirk caught on her face as an eyebrow raised.

"There's the Dean Winchester I know and loathe."

"What the hell do you want, Mikey?" He spread his hands out on the table and looked at her, frustration rising. "I didn't ask to be here either. You don't talk, I don't know what we're supposed to be doing and if you just played along, gave Him whatever it is He wants –"

"It will not happen." Her voice was curt, all amusement gone and her eyes shifted back over towards the lowlifes at the bar casting glances back at them now and then. There was an air to the two that was calculating, some low threat that wasn't quite there yet.

Dean wondered if he should be ready with his weapon soon.

"What does He want?" Since really that was the best question that they never talked about. He had been thinking this was some kind of asinine penance for her but he probably needed to stop assuming shit as that often didn't end well for him.

"It won't happen, so it doesn't matter." She knocked back the little bit left in her glass before sliding out of the booth. "Come, I'd rather go back before Sam sends out a search and rescue."

And that apparently was that. Dean tried not to fume as he finished off his own, adding a little bit extra to the money pile on the table before catching up to her.

XX

Great big puppy eyes shining at them when they got back was not what he needed. Sam looking like that meant he had probably been sitting here stewing instead of putting his oversized brain in gear to see what they were hunting. Not that it would get him away from his current situation, not really, but it would reduce the time spent in a room that he was fairly certain could support a dazzling collection of new life forms from its smell alone.

"Dean," Sam began, watching Michael sway a little, eyes bright and almost glassy next to him.

"Dude, just don't. She was already deep into it when I got there."

Sam scowled, which seemed to be a permanent feature to him now. His face went all crinkly in that endearing and just infuriating way of his that meant he was going to launch into some sanctimonious tirade when Michael mercifully cut him off.

"I am not a child. I am older than the universe," her voice hard even with its thickness from the booze, her fingers curled tight at her sides. "Do not lecture me, Samuel Winchester."

With that she was marching to the bathroom, door shutting somewhat politely as Sam leaned back in his chair. Sounds of water and Dean idly wondered if the shower or these walls had more water. There was no way he was touching them to find out, the humid feeling was enough.

"Should I even ask?"

"Nope," he said as he flopped down on his own bed, appreciating that it seemed dry. At least the top part. And really, that's all he needed. He could feasibly avoid touching ninety-percent of the rest of the room if the bed was alright.

"Fine, then I'm going out. I don't even want to stay next door to the two of you."

"Sammy," he tried only getting that look again as the keys to Baby were swept up in his brother's giant fist.

"I may just sleep in the car. Or in a ditch. Or I don't know, somewhere away from here until you two figure out your shit."

"Fine, whatever bitch."

Sam's lip curled up in something that was pure frustration and a sign that his brother was just done. Dean tried to shift his eyes towards the TV, noticing the pizza box on the table finally and making a note to raid it when Sam stormed out. Because that was where this was heading, he didn't need a road sign for that outcome.

"Do you two even talk or just drink to repress? Newsflash Dean, the Winchester way isn't the greatest."

Dean rolled his eyes and shook out his shoulders trying to get comfortable. There wasn't a right word to say outside of promising something that he certainly wasn't going to be doing. At least she was quiet in the bathroom and not swearing him out in that garbled mess she called words. For once she wasn't overly upset at him, just at life in general, and that at least guaranteed a quieter, less confrontational night.

Another glare and his brother was gone, Baby starting up and Dean just did not have the energy to have multiple knockdown, drag out fights in the same night. Both of them being occupied, well that meant he could have Dean time now. Maybe push the remaining chunks of his sanity back together into some kind of functioning mass before they broke it again. There was even some whiskey in his bag and he kicked his feet up, pizza claimed and beside him, happily channel surfing.

After passing through a rather eclectic array of shows including one hawking exercise hula hoops with women in some questionable clothing he realized the shower was still running. A quick glance at the clock told him that, yep, it had long gone past the normal shower time.

"Mike?" he tried after knocking didn't raise her.

The knob almost clammy turned in his hand as he pushed the door open to a face full of steam and the archangel not in his immediate sight. Some terrible strange fear that she had fallen or worse, had escaped till he realized there was no bathroom window in this joint.

"Get out." Her voice was barely audible through the sounds of water, muffled further by the dingy shower curtain still stubbornly hanging by four rings alone.

He crept closer, resolute and feeling already out of his depth but he had to look to know she wasn't bleeding out or something even more terrible. Like trying to conduct ancient spells or other such nonsense because he was still pretty sure she was tempted to try something outrageous if it got her out. Like her one plan of actually contemplating binding Death which Dean was certain would have gotten them all violently murdered.

"I said get out," came the hiss like she knew what he was doing exactly and he sighed.

"Look, I just need to know you're alright."

"Despite what Father, or your brother for that matter, want you to think I am not your responsibility or something broken for you to fix. So do us both a favor and leave."

"Not happening," he said through gritted teeth and pushed the curtain back.

This, this wasn't what he been expecting to see.

Knees drawn up to her chest, face buried against them sat Michael on the floor of the tub, drenched by the still falling water. She didn't even bother to look up and he took in the long scars down her back, the ones telling of how she had become between him and a Lamia a few months ago. A slight pink color, probably made worse by the water, that should have been along his chest instead.

Images came unwanted, of how she had been draped across the back seat; he trying to keep the blood in her body as Sam drove like a maniac down dark roads. The house they had just set on fire some bright bloom of death in the night behind them. Michael seeming all too human, drifting in and out of consciousness under his hands. Fingers flexing useless against the seats as she tried to murmur how she wouldn't die, not really, but it didn't make the deep wounds better as blood pumped like hot soup against his palms.

He had fucked it up so badly that night. Hadn't been focused, still all bent out of shape over –

Stop thinking, he told himself and reached out to check the water. At least this place had a decent water heater, probably brand new seeing their troubles as the water was close to lukewarm and not complete ice yet. Well, either that or not many wanted to hang out in the land version of Atlantis even if it was the only place in town.

"Hey," he said quietly as he kneeled by the side of the tub, her body still.

No response and he reached out, moving some of her clumped hair back. Most of her features where hidden, just the corner of her eye and upper cheek were visible, the tension evident. Carefully, so very gently because she was so damn volatile, he brushed his thumb along the upper part of her cheek. Something about her, vulnerable and the sounds of her heavy breath turned familiar inside him.

"I'd like to get you out of here. Just that. Rather not have you sitting in here like this all night."

To his surprise he got a nod, as much as she could manage with her head buried against her knees. Something close to acceptance about this whole screwed up situation and he pushed himself up.

The room without water running was suddenly too still, the steam as a lazy veil that pushed along the ceiling before trailing downwards. Everything seemed to ascribe to a dingy white except for the curtain that had streaks that attested to harsh chemicals and bad times. He handed over a rather scratchy towel that stank with bleach when he realized she hadn't brought in clothes with her.

"Right back."

The main room was stark and cold compared to the weird bright haze of heat in the bathroom; TV almost blaring even though he had left it low. Rummaging around in her bag he pulled out a shirt and soft pants that she liked to sleep in, of course with red in them which made him smile slightly.

When he got back to her he had half expected the door closed and locked, or her defensive but instead she was standing in the tub wiping off the dampness clinging to her skin. Full display and he turned, cleared his throat knowing that she would have known he had come back long before she'd acknowledge him. Wasn't like he hadn't seen this before, back when he had to cut off her clothes and drag her skin back together to try to keep her bodily fluids where they belonged. How she hadn't made a sound as he stitched her up, didn't move or complain. Just let him fix her, touch her.

Stop thinking, he told himself again as he helped her into her clothes not looking at her back. Her body was obviously still well into sloshed territory as she swayed. Something about the lighting in here made her almost haunting, like if dad had been a chick he would have looked close to this except with a tan.

Those not being particularly helpful thoughts, which he blamed on his own buzz, he kept himself busy toweling down her hair so it was just a bit wet before leading her back out. She stopped between the beds, her feet still fidgety under her. At least they already shared a room, he wouldn't want to leave her alone if she was still this drunk a couple of hours later.

"Dean," she said, staring up at him as he maneuvered her to sit on the bed.

Little hands grabbed his shirt, pulled him down. Fingers on his face, against his lips as she was inches away, her breath hot and whiskey soaked. For a moment he sank towards her, feeling something stir in him before he got a grip on reality.

"You're pretty blasted."

"Yes," she agreed tiredly and Dean knew that had been the wrong thing to say. She swung her legs up on the bed, pulling at the sheets to get herself under them. "The TV doesn't bother me."

Feeling rather sheepish just standing by her bed like some creepy stalker or worse, like Cas, he went back to his own. Flipping through the channels idly, closed captioning coming on when he pressed mute. There had to be something relatively mind numbing to watch to keep him from glancing over, her back still firmly towards him.

The bottle beside him was getting steadily lighter before he was being woken up by Sam. His little brother in some kind of frenzy waving paper in his face with little black squiggles. He squinted and glanced over at the other bed, the haze of booze and just waking up muddling his head.

All her things were missing, even the sheets pulled back up and he finally registered what Sam was saying.

"She's gone."