AN: Okay, here's where I really diverge from the show. Because, as much as I love the Impala, does it really have that much emotional charge for Sam? For Dean, sure, I buy it, but Sam? Sam? Who DID have a home, for four years, at Stanford? Who hated sleeping in the car? Who was never allowed to drive it? Who DOUCHED IT UP when Dean was in Hell? Who at one point was turned INTO the Impala by Gabriel? I am sorry, but this I don't accept.
Michael gives up on his useless vessel. It will take too long to reconnect all of Adam Mulligan's organs and tissues and bones. Too much time, when Lucifer is beyond reason now, when he is a well of betrayal and pain and hurt. But the Apocalypse must be fought today, and it must be fought on this ground, and Michael is watching as his greatest weapon is slowly pulverized.
"Sam, it's okay," the righteous man gasps, even as his nosebreaks, and one cheekbone caves in. "It's okay. I'm here."
Say yes Michael breathes, in between the pain and the hurt.
"I'm not gonna leave you," Dean says, denying. Lucifer's first return. A tooth is knocked loose.
Say yes, Michael's voice whispers through the crows overhead and the wind that has begun screaming in the forgotten cemetery. Your brother is lost. We must stop mine.
"I'm not gonna leave you," Dean Winchester's voice cracks, and Michael is not certain whether the tears leaking out of one eye are from physical, or emotional pain. There is no recognition in Lucifer's eyes, as flat and empty as hell.
Say yes, Michael says again, even as the fist falls, even as one eye, already swollen shut, is smushed and destroyed. I can fix this, Michael thinks, surveying the damage. Lucifer hasn't even gotten started.
He can feel Dean remember, recoil from, memories of hell, or the slow agonies of torture. The torture here, this day, is in being murdered by a brother. Even so, it will take a long time. Lucifer is a master. Michael can feel Winchester's resolve crumble. He forces in other memories . . .a pretty brunette woman, and a young boy. A mother and daughter. A black psychic. People who will be hurt by Lucifer, people he will destroyed. People he has already destroyed. John Winchester. Mary Winchester.
Lucifer stops for a moment, stands, a cruel smile settling across thin lips. He looks down at his handiwork for a moment, at the shattered visage and the slowing heartbeat. Glances down at his bloodied knuckles, shudders delicately.
Say yes Michael says, and he is a bit too loud now. Dean's arms come up to shield his ears, but it is too late, blood is streaming steadily out of him, now. His entire face is a map of destruction. Lucifer does not notice. He is reaching into a pocket, pulling out a rumpled tissue. Begins wiping blood of knuckles.
"We're just getting started, Dean," Lucifer says idly. "After all, I need something to kill the time until my brother returns."
Yes Dean says/thinks. Michael feels him try to mouth the words, feels the rush of agony as broken jaw and lost teeth stop. It doesn't matter. Michael doesn't need the rush of wind as permission. He flies into Dean Winchester's body, and begins healing the man from the inside out.
Lucifer still doesn't notice. He puts the tissue back. His face lights with the slightest touch of surprise, and his fingers come out holding something by a light chain.
"What is this—"
And then Michael feels as he is abruptly shoved to one side. He gasps in pain as he collides with the side of Winchester's head, as memories surge through
Christmas
This was for Dad
Bright eyes, young eyes, still full of hope. Pitiful wrapping paper, the classifieds section of last week's news
I want you to have it
Trembling hands. Barbies and sparkling wands set aside. A Charlie Brown tree in the background, no Santa, no father.
Thanks, thanks
A hospital
Where
Ventilators, pain, bandages and IV lines. And one cracked, splinted hand, reaching out, searching, blindly. Hazel eyes meet green.
Here it is, Dean. I saved it for you
Whispers of fingers
Thanks
A funeral
What are you doing, boy?
Two men stand in front of the grave, but it is the wrong two men.
He'll want this. . .wherever he is. . .
We should burn the bones, boy
NO. Bobby, just. . .no
A Hospital
I don't have anything like that.
Personal pain forgotten. Curiosity. Wonder.
I know. You don't.
Turn, half shift, a full circle now, from wheelchair to angel to man. Eyes glance down, meaning, up again. Oceans and land.
What, this?
May I borrow it?
Denial Pain Fear
No!
Dean, give it to me.
Alright. . .just. . .don't lose it.
Betrayal Love Family
A hotel
Dropped in a wastebasket
Lost eyes
Betrayal
A hand reaching out, picking it up
A Cemetery
"You kept it, Sammy."
"I knew you didn't mean. . ."
Michael is screaming now, outraged, and he can feel his brother screaming nearby. The Winchester brothers drop to his knees, curl in on themselves. Michael grabs his sword, wields it in one hand, fights through the cage that Dean has trapped him in.
"It's okay, Dean," Sam – Sam, not Lucifer – gasps, and struggles to his feet. In one hand he still clasps the amulet, loosely, the charm dangling between white knuckles. "It's gonna be okay. I've got him."
Sam reaches out and Dean – Dean, not Michael – reaches into a pocket for the rings. Michael fights his arm out, struggles not to let fingers clench around cold silver, tries to force them down deeper in the pocket, but Dean is fighting back, tooth, and nail, and the rings come out. He is grunting now, sweating, but he is still winning.
Michael curses him.
"Bvtmon tabges babylon," Sam gasps, and there is sweat running down his face now, too, and Michael is proud of his brother, proud that he, too, is not letting up the fight so easily, is not going to allow the brothers to just win.
The rings surge together, fly together, as one, the way they are meant to. The settle on the grass and then the grass is no longer there, is sucked into an immense hole, a vacuum, and Michael sets his feet in tight, refuses to move, and this much he can do. Even Dean is shaking now, afraid, and Michael uses that fear. He will not land in the pit. He will not.
"Dean. . .I. . ."
And Michael knows, now, finally, when it truly matters, that his brother has won back, if not complete control, enough. Sam Winchester will not throw himself into that pit. The Winchesters are out of moves, they are out of chances. He can wait. He curls in on himself a little, allows Dean to think he has earned back control.
"Sammy. . ." Dean holds out a hand. Michael recognizes the slump in the shoulders. The Winchester has given up. The defeat is in him again. A slight shimmer of joy floods through the angels, wings unfurl. Just a moment. Just an instant. Dean stiffens, and Michael pulls wings back inside.
The brother walk back toward the Impala. Dean's breath catches. He opens a door, slides in. Michael allows it. The brothers may need this shattered pile of twisted scrapmetal, but he does not. He reaches out toward Satan, finds him a roiling mass of emotion across the seat.
"Bitch," Dean says, but his voice breaks in the middle of the word. Sam turns to face him, and Lucifer explodes out.
It is time, Michael thinks, and he reaches out to take control himself, to end this battle, but Dean has already turned the key, has already pressed down the pedal.
Michael feels his grace flow through – finally – a perfect vessel, just as the Impala swan dives over the edge of the hole.
"Jerk," Satan spits out. Above them, the earth heals over.