Will Michael be amenable? Let's hope Rowena's confidence proves justified in: Aunty Rowena's Adventures In Hypnotism!
Also: I can hardly believe there are no episodes left. To the whole show. It's boggling my mind! 0-o
This time, when Michael was broken from his restful quietude, it was to the sound of a witch cooing in his chambers.
"It's time for little archangels to open their eyes," the corrupted soul informed in an ultimately grating, overly cheery lilt. "You've a big rest of the day ahead of you," the annoyance went on when the archangel in the bed did his best to ignore her presence entirely.
When he heard the witch moving to bring herself a full step closer though, he unleashed upon her his most intimidating glare. Satisfied when it stopped the wretch in her tracks.
Seeming to remember herself, the one with the flaming red hair cleared her throat and straightened, affecting a calm and confident composure as she did.
"Oh good, you're awake," she observed in her bothersome brogue.
"Where is Samuel?" Michael found himself demanding, not at all convinced that the witch's true interests lied anywhere near his own.
"Och," the woman scoffed in feigned affront, "is that any way to talk to your own personal knight in shining armor?"
"My what?" Demanded the cosmic entity, a growl playing at the back of his borrowed human throat.
"What with you having healed so well in so short a time, I'd have thought there would've grown a little friendliness between us. Considering your miraculous rejuvenation is, after all, directly attributable to my humble efforts," the witch, back to her sickly sweet cooing, insisted with an ostentatious flourish of one unimpressive, small-boned arm.
"You expect me, the preeminent denizen of Heaven, to consider extending friendship to the likes of you? Pass."
"Och, but look at it reasonably," the waif implored, her pleading growing evermore irksome as she ignored the archangel's warning glare and continued.
"The Winchesters and their angel trust me. Otherwise they wouldn't leave me alone with their dear, possessed, injured, helpless family member... would they?"
That... gave Michael pause. After all, the simpletons had barely left him alone with their precious meatsack. This witch was the first outsider they'd allowed. And they'd allowed her to perform arcane and potentially ruinous magics within his lodgings... unsupervised.
"You see, I'm one of their oldest, most dependable magical allies. Samuel has said it himself," the heedless heathen intoned with an imperious raise of her brow. To which, the archangel couldn't help but snort.
"It's true: the lad trusts me implicitly. And you trust him, don't you?"
The witch earned a withering glare for her impudence. And a second when she attempted to wave off the first. As if the one trapped where he lay wouldn't just as soon remove the arm as allow such irreverence.
...Still, Michael couldn't help but to ponder what the woman had said.
After all, only scant days previous, he himself had observed to Samuel that as his warden, the human had proven himself time and again, through both his actions as well as inactions, quite likely the only living thing on that alternate, heretical earth that did not actively wish to see him and his 'angelic reign of terror'... ended.
"There, doesn't that feel better?" Implored the witch, gesturing toward shoulders the archangel hadn't noticed letting down from their rightful, domineering carriage. "A little relaxation can go a long way," the ball of flaming red curls advised, words growing almost singsong as she drew herself a slinking half step closer.
An action for which Michael chose not to offer a swift and sure retribution. Instead compelled to concede the witch her small victory in the interest of staving off any additional histrionics.
"Now, while we're on the topic of trust, I hear that Samuel entrusted you earlier this morn' with the task of putting on these enchanted manacles all by yer lonesome?" Asked as the woman pulled the detestable things from some hidden pocket.
"A foolish decision on his part," Michael asserted, eyeing the glinting things with vitriol to match their arrival only earlier that day.
"Oh, I don't know," the witch reposed, before making a show of leaning her upper body closer, as if playing at secrecy, "I'd say everything turned out alright. Wouldn't you?"
"I'd say, where the Winchesters are concerned, it could easily have ended far less favorably," the doom of an entire planet maintained, eye not shifting from those despicable bands of warded iron.
"Yes, I'm sure it could have," the witch demurred with another dismissive wave of her hand. "But I'm also sure that the hunter who handed you a glorified garrote was confident it wouldn't. Confident enough to take the chance. And would you happen to know why our dear Samuel might regard one such as yourself with such undue confidence?" She asked, inching herself and, coincidentally, those hideous handcuffs ever so slightly closer as she did. Receiving a well earned glower for her pageantry.
"Because out of all the cosmically destructive creatures in creation, the lad's somehow, for some dafter than daft reason, come to trust you."
Michael blinked at the accusation, stunned to silence by the unexpected words.
"Now, I don't know about you, but I've come to trust Samuel's judgment over the years we've opposed and, more recently, supported each other. And because of my confidence in him... I've decided to have a little confidence in you. Just enough to extend to you the same sort of courtesy that our dear Samuel has deigned appropriate."
'Twas all Michael could do to keep his face betraying his shock when, just as Samuel had, this witch held those damnable cuffs out toward him. Displaying, as the hunter before her had, sense enough at least keep herself out of reach.
"Would you care to do the honors?"
"No." The only answer the woman would be getting from him. An answer which she once again waved away without a thought to her own well-being.
"Oh, come now, it wouldn't be such a terrible imposition," said she with the reproachful twist to her brow. "Besides, aren't you interested in showing just a wee bit of gratitude to your knight in shining armor for all she's done for you?"
"No." The heavenly being reiterated, having to force the conviction into his voice when it didn't come of its own accord.
"Not even for your best friend in this whole, wild, willful world?" Asked the witch meeting unblinking the resentful eye of one of the oldest beings in all creation. A being who, in that moment, wished for nothing more than to... to-
The archangel broke his challenging glare at the sudden, disturbing dawning of a miraculous piece of insight:
His ire was fading.
It wasn't possible. But it was a fact —he could feel it now that it was known to him— that he was somehow, unbelievably, experiencing a growing difficulty in maintaining his resentment for the woman before him.
Was it possible? That by some stroke of madness, some- some unforeseen twist of fate that he, the champion of God's true Heaven, did in fact wish to extend to this lowly servant of evil... some form of gratitude?
The string of thoughts felt foreign even as they slunk their unwelcome ways to the forefront of his mind. Almost as if, perhaps, by some devilish design, they hadn't been born of him at all.
With biting accusation on his tongue the blight of another dimension cut his gaze back to the witch, only to find himself frozen as those absinthe green eyes positively flashed with a hitherto hidden magical glow.
"Gotcha," purred a mouth curled into the most arrogant of smirks.
"No." Denied the archangel, just barely able to force the word past lips slightly parted in shock.
"I'm afraid 'yes'," the witch corrected, the twirl of a hand catching Michael's eye for a whole new reason as the appendage now emitted a visible magical glow of its own. "And now that I have your undivided attention, what say we call a truce and agree to work together? Just for the rest of the evening?"
Michael looked again to those most odious of restraints, adamant, even as he could no longer pinpoint the reason, that he didn't want them any closer than they were.
Didn't want her any closer.
"You've already worked peaceably with Samuel, what's so different about little old me? After all, he and I both only want what's best for you and his poor brother," the woman tempted. Partway succeeding when the archangel felt his interest piqued.
"Wouldn't you consider slipping on these darling relics for me? I expect they'll suit you quite nicely," the witch observed, stepping only close enough to set the chains by his side.
"Hm..." Michael thought, looking down at the cuffs. It really didn't sound like such a hardship. After all, if the woman truly was an ally of Samuel's, that would indicate her being an ally of his vessel's. And if she truly meant his vessel no harm, then what could be the harm in indulging her this trifle?
"Yes, I think you'd very much like to put those on," the witch decided, twirling her softly glowing hand as she spoke.
And for once, the woman was right: Michael did want to be the one to affix his wrists in chains. 'Twas after all far more palatable an option than allowing a body so frail and diminutive as the one stood before him attempt to do so instead.
Just imagining the humiliation if she succeeded put a bad taste in his vessel's mouth.
"You would? Splendid," said she, leaning in to move enchanted sheets to free the archangel's forearms.
"There we go," said the witch, grinning just a hair as Michael's hand began to move almost of its own accord, securing one half of the enchanted manacle to his opposite wrist before he'd had chance to give the action a second thought.
He paused though at the troubling sight of the second iron circle clutched open and ready in the fingers of his now hobbled hand. But the witch soon caught his eye with yet another flick of her hand, working to remind the archangel what he was in the middle of doing. And the fact that he'd decided it on his own.
"There we go," came the words of encouragement, sweet and soft, as the one in the bed clicked the last half of the metal pair shut. "Now, wouldn't you like to go on a nice little stroll with your dear friend, Rowena?" The woman with the shimmering eyes asked, hand once again making that strange motion, this time just within his line of sight.
"Hm..." Michael thought of the stroll he'd taken just earlier that day and of how pleasant it had been to stretch his legs and pretend he wasn't prisoner to a hoard of halfwitted hooligans.
"You would? Oh wonderful! Just let me take care of these ghastly covers and we'll be on our way," the Scot said, moving forward and reaching out for the bedclothes with the hideous red paint splashed across them.
For a moment, as the witch drew close enough that the archangel could make out the finer details of her intricate face paint, he caught himself wondering why it was he was allowing such proximity from a mortal as denigrated and demented as the one lifting the sheet from him.
But with the flashing of a friendly, reassuring grin, Michael was reminded of the trust they'd built over their long and storied acquaintanceship and so settled while his visitor went about her business.
"Ready?" Asked the woman discarding the now folded sheet off to one side.
"Yes. Let us be off. A constitutional will do us both some good," he agreed easily. Confused as to why it felt like his face wanted to hold onto a harder, more hateful expression.
He could never hate the woman. After all, they'd known each other... how long again?
"Alright then, up you go," the witch said with a sweep of her hands, drawing Michael's attention back to their most pleasant of plans.
He made his feet without trouble and allowed his company to conduct them to the exit, where she held the flap open for him and followed only a half step behind.
Oh. He'd forgotten. This was a medical ward. No wonder he'd been in bed.
"Ah, such a lovely day, wouldn't you say?" Asked the woman taking in a lungful of their new surroundings.
"Agreeable," Michael allowed, the both of them starting for the ward exit at the witch's gesture. An exit at which the archangel was met by the rather surprising sight of two strangely familiar, slovenly humans, standing one to either side of the port and staring, wide eyed and open mouthed.
Like frogs out to find themselves a fat fly to lure to its doom.
Michael couldn't help but chuckle as he passed the blank faced pair. A pair who chose that moment to stagger back as if having taken a stiff blow to the face. One of them, at length, recovering insomuch as allowed him stutter out a few nonplussed words at the unconcerned witch's back.
"Rowena, are you-"
"Ah-ah, no need for worry, dearies, the cur's been cuddly as a kitten since he woke," she cajoled without a backward glance.
"Manners, my dear, manners," Michael tutted, not appreciating the slight even if it was all in good fun.
"Apologies. Sometimes my mouth gets a bit carried away from me," the witch assured with a polite incline of her flaming mane.
"Think nothing of it," her company insisted, repaying the courtesy in kind.
"See, Samuel? Cuddly as a kitten," the witch threw over her shoulder, back towards the two figures trailing meekly several feet behind their perambulation.
No doubt the witch's flunkies, along to assure their time about be as pleasant as possible.
Suddenly curious as to where it was the two of them were going, Michael addressed the friend to his side with a query.
"Is there a particular occasion for which you have invited me out this eve?"
"Oh, nothing to concern yerself over," said she with the glowing green eyes. "Your hapless relation and I are simply ready now to scoop you up out of this poor boy's body and seal you away inside another, less occupied one."
Hm, the woman had a rather macabre sense of humor, Michael thought in concern to the sound of her highly amused chuckles.
At the surprised laugh from one of her lackeys though, he was reassured in the joke's harmlessness and so offered an amused scoff of his own.
"You never fail to charm, do you," he asked when the redhead had settled.
"Oh, I do my best," she demurred, nodding as she waved them over to and through a softly glowing doorway, where unfolded before Michael's eye quite the interesting scene. At the center of which stood a familiar, almost familial figure, looking up from his business as the two of them entered.
"But I couldn't have done this without my perfectly proficient assistant. Perhaps you'd like to thank Castiel for all of his hard work?"
"Thank him? I hardly know the cherub," Michael insisted, smirk playing at his lips at the well placed snub.
"Och, now who's not minding their manners?"
"It's fine, Rowena, I've been called far worse. By him. Let's just be on with this. While the enchantments are fresh," advised the angel with the slight pinkening to his cheeks.
"Of course, of course; I wouldn't have it any other way. All we've to do now is wrangle this wily one and we're ready," the witch said with an ostentatious preen.
"The only wily one around here would be you, my dear," Michael said, perplexed when the quip brought the chamber to a rather lengthy, awkward silence.
"...He must be more deeply influenced by your magic than I'd imagined possible," observed the one in the rumpled topcoat.
"Oh but he is, Castiel, and he's been so good about it too," insisted the overly excitable woman.
"What in Heaven's name are the two of you talking about?" Demanded a Michael growing rather vexed by the conversation's exclusionary nature.
"Oh nothing at all important, deary; pay us no mind. We're just finishing up anyway," the witch insisted with a self-deprecating toss of her hand.
"Very well," the archangel grumbled, still not pleased with his treatment but willing to let it go for the time being.
"Can you get him situated? I need only another minute with his new vessel and we can begin the transference," Michael heard the lower angel instructing his host.
"It'll be two shakes," assured the woman who'd invited him there, almost giddy with anticipation over something or other.
"We'll need those sigil's out of the way as well, otherwise they'd impede the process."
"Not a problem. After all, I have thought of everything," said the witch to her assistant, before waving for her walking companion's attention.
"Would you be a dear and change into these?" She asked, producing a set of cotton pajamas from... a summoning flourish of one magically charged hand.
An action which had the other, lesser angel pinching his face into quite the sour expression. One which Michael couldn't help but smirk at. Openly. Even as he bent to unlace and remove the clunky shoes in the way of changing out his vessel's heavily paint marked pants for the clean and crisp pair he'd been so thoughtfully supplied.
Hm... the ever so slightly more comfortable guest wondered as he situated the new waistband just so, how was he to go about changing overshirts with no free arms?
"Oh, silly me, let me help you with those," offered the Scotswoman when she noticed the one she'd invited staring at the chains about his wrists.
"Much obliged," he said with a nod as she removed the obstruction to his task's completion.
"Rowena-"
"Well, you can't expect the poor thing to change out of this wearing handcuffs, now can you?" The witch insisted, indicating the hopelessly soiled, collared, once plaid shirt her company was more than happy to be rid of.
And with that, Michael was once again given a good chance to smirk at his inferior's soured expression. Even as he peeled the ruined piece of clothing one half at a time off his vessel's nearly healed, lightly tender trunk. Satisfied only once he'd situated the new, pleasantly soft material over the yet serviceable undershirt and finagled the last button through its corresponding fastening.
"Now that's better! Oh, but- but what's this? Why, Castiel, your relation looks positively exhausted, doesn't he?" Beseeched the woman with a worried wave of her hands.
"Uh... yes- Yes he does. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever seen him so tired," said the seraph, at length, corroborating the witch's claim.
"My, my," said she with a tut. "It's a good thing we have a nice little space he can lie down, isn't it, Castiel?"
"Yes. It sure is a good thing we have this sturdy, reinforced, seventy year old oak table for him to rest his tired head on," said an angel it sounded like was struggling to remember how to speak at all.
A thought which pulled a chuckle from the throat of an admittedly drained archangel.
"Oh, it's worse than I thought: the poor thing's gone punch drunk," declared the unduly distraught woman.
"That is regrettable. Perhaps he should take this opportunity to avail himself of our unpadded, heavily enchanted, wooden tabletop. And lie down?"
"Yes, I think that wise," Michael admitted, dismayed to have found the simple act of standing upright grown suddenly... difficult.
"Over here, dear. You'll be quite comfortable," assured the one whose shimmering hand led the way to a well hewn table. One which Michael readily laid his vessel upon. Relaxing into the surface as he felt the weariness of every muscle lessen with his new, horizontal position.
"I've never seen him so at ease," remarked Castiel as he drew up beside the now occupied table.
"Yes, I know, and that's why we must start immediately," allowed she with the lightly chastising tone.
"Now," restarted the witch, turning eyes which positively scintillated with power to bore into the one lying supine upon his slab, "it's time for little archangels to close their eyes."
And, strangely enough, at that exact moment, Michael's eye did close.
Stranger still was how very little the coincidence seemed to concern the all powerful being.
"Sleep now, dear, and let us work our magic," he heard in a distant sort of way. As if the words had been spoken from across a large hall. Though he knew the witch was stood barely farther than where his elbow lay.
"Yes, and when you wake, brother, you and Dean both will be free of your prisons," intoned the feathered impudence to his other side.
"Don't... call me..."
And before he could finish his rightful rebuke, Michael was returned once more to that restful quietude the witch had so rudely broken him from.
Huh, what do you know? Aunty Rowena pulled it off! And now everyone is going to have the most pleasant time possible with the transference.
Hopefully Sam and Mary don't worry a couple holes in the rug waiting for the good news!