It only took Michael a few days to adjust to the new situation, to get accustomed to being human, needing to eat and sleep and urinate. The first day he slept through, feeling so tired all the time, but still so amazed by the feeling of falling asleep. Dreams were a lot more fuzzy and he couldn't remember most of what he dreamt about, but he didn't really care. He just loved the feeling of the warmth of the cabin, one he took over from his vessel, and he loved to snuggle under the mountain of blankets and let his consciousness drift off to sleep.

The second day he felt hunger and if it weren't for the memories left behind by his vessel, he wouldn't have figured out he needed sustenance. For the first time in his life he could taste the marmalade and how good it felt to drown it down with milk. The hunter had enough supplies here to last him though the end of the winter, stored meat of rabbits and deer he hunted. It seemed like he wanted to detach himself from the real hunting, from the monsters and the supernatural, at least for a while.

Searching the memories, Michael was curious to learn that the hunter knew how to make bread, and a bit of other complex meals and he decided once he rested enough, he would try to produce some of those things. In fact, the hunters memories were so helpful, Michael relied more and more on those and on some basic instincts he started to develop that weren't there before, not like this.

The more days passed, the more that grace-blistering tingling sensation was toning down until it was nothing but an itch around the sigil he carved into his hip. The sigil wound didn't bleed much and healed fast, eventually coming down to look like a tattoo or a very elaborate birth mark. The more time passed, the less Michael could sense the world around him and the more he could actually feel it.

It was both amazing and terrifying at the same time.

It was scary to learn how fragile a human body actually was, how a simple paper cut or a stubbed toe really hurt, the latter bringing tears to his eyes. How tiring it was to do simple bring in fire-wood or shoveling away the snow, not to mention how cold it felt.

But then it was also gratifying, the smell and the warmth of the crackling wood in the fire place, the sense of pride and accomplishment of a clear porch. A soothing sensation of an anti-bruise creme or just a simple feel of a soft fluffy towel against his face.

Despite all the flaws, Michael was actually starting to enjoy being a human. At least it kept him away from the whole power struggle, apocalypse, other angels and all that. Well... That's it until trouble came a knocking. Or busted through his front door that is.

A man big and strong, coved in blood, dirt and snow came crashing through his doors, panting hard, his eyes darting all over the place before they laid on Michael.

"Please. You gotta help me... There is a mad man out there, he is after me. Look he even shot me." The man said, his expression pleading, but his eyes too dark to be truthful. Something was off. Yes, it was true, he was shot in the shoulder, the wound bleeding. Michael did a quick evaluation of his state, and of everything else too. The man crossed the salt line without a problem, stepped over the carpet-covered devil's trap, and that ruled out a few things but it still felt off.

Michael carefully stepped beside the man and looked out, the sun was setting and it was getting darker. He could see the trail the man left behind, snow disturbed and with spots of blood and dirt everywhere. These woods should be monster clear, but something was telling Michael that this wasn't just about two guys having a fight that ended bloody.

Suddenly Michael felt his... No. His vessel's instincts scream at him for turning his back to the unknown possible threat and he whipped around just too see the man's yellow eyes coming at him, his claw-like fingers reaching out and grabbing him, pushing him against the wall. A growl left his throat and Michael realized he was face to face with a werewolf.

And he was as powerless as a human.

No. Not as a human. Not that powerless. He was afterall in a hunter's vessel and as he struggled against the much more stronger were, he remembered a few things. Silver could hurt a werewolf. Werewolves heal fast. Decapitation was a good way to end them. Or burn them alive.

Seeing the blood ooze out of the gunshot wound, it made Michael question what the were said, and taking his chance, Michael stopped trying to wedge those claws off of him and pressed on the bullet wound. The wolf growled in pain, then hissed as the wound seemed to heat up, smoke coming out of it. Silver bullet. Who ever was after him was a hunter.

Using the monster's momentary distraction, Michael pushed him away, reached for the hatchet he had by the door, lifted it above his head as if he was going to chop a wood piece and plunged it down onto the wolf's head, splitting it in two. Yeah, that worked too.

It took Michael a few minutes to come to his senses, figure out what just happened and for his racing heart to calm and stop pumping adrenaline through his system. His living room was a mess, a dead werewolf bleeding out on his floor, brain mass and scull fragments all over the place. His front door was completely busted and snow was starting to fall inside, a chilly wind making Michael shiver.

Okay. He needed to deal with this, and deal with it quick. Michael took a deep breath, grabbed the dead werewolf by the legs and with great effort he managed to pull him outside and just leave him in the snow. He could deal with that later. Right now, he needed a door.

Luckily the bedroom door was the same size and shape, only a lot thinner, but they would have to do for now. With a grunt, he took of what was left of the front door off the hinges and put up the bedroom door, testing it and nodding to himself when he saw them fit. He could build into thickness to keep the cold out. But he could deal with that later.

Because right now, there was a hunter in these woods, probably hurt and maybe lost and Michael needed to see if he could find him or her. Putting on a thick coat, he stepped out with a flashlight and a handgun filled with silver bullets in case there were more of those things out there. Taking the trail the were left behind, Michael worked his way back to where the fight took place.

It was getting really dark and the small glow of his flashlight wasn't helping much, but he could still see the disturbed snow, clawed tree trunks, broken branches and blood. Searching for any sign of life he almost missed the body that was lying face down in a book on the ground.

Michael gasped at the sight of a man, motionless and bloodied, his clothes torn, and his left leg definitely broken, a bone sticking out at an odd angle. The hunter instincts immediately kicked it, the need to help grater then himself and he reached for the body, determined to do whatever was in his human power to help him if he's still alive.

When he set his eyes on the face of a fallen hunter before him, Michael flinched in surprise. Out of all the people in this world, for him to encounter this human again must have been some cruel cosmical joke, there was no other explanation.

Still, seeing his perfect vessel all bruised and battered, broken and hurt, something inside of him cracked, and a sad, sorrowful feeling washed over him. No matter what, he knew he couldn't just leave him here, there was no way he would make it out alive, no way he would survive a night in the woods.

So Michael did the only thing he could. He took off his thick coat and laid it down, then dragged the hurt hunter on top of it. He used the two sleeves and wrapped them around warmth and protection against the ground, then used the belt of it, third it around the man's legs and started the slow process of dragging a man slightly more heavier then he was back to his cabin.

Michael wouldn't leave a man to die, even if that man was Dean Winchester, the biggest pain in the ass Michael ever met.