Michael woke with a grunt, his hand immediately flying over to rub at his neck. It felt so sore and stiff, he hissed as he dug his fingers in the muscles with an attempt to loosen them. When that didn't help, Michael forced himself to get up damn chair and stretch. His arms shot up as if he was trying to reach a high branch, his shirt riding up revealing his vessel's hips and abs.

A yawn broke from his lips and on instinct he tried to cover it with his mouth. Glancing over at the kitchen, a routine pulled on his muscle memory to go and make some coffee. But he didn't like coffee, his vessel did, brewing a fresh pot every morning. Still, Michael liked the residual feeling of a repetitive action, so he walked out to the kitchen, heated some milk and made himself some hot chocolate.

He hummed at the first sip, his eyes falling closed as he enjoyed the taste of it on his tongue. A small smile tugged his lips, strange form of content filling his chest. He could almost call it happiness, because he had never felt so good.

Despite his sore neck.

But then Michael remembered his guest, a pang of guilt jolting him for forgetting and he turned to view his bed through the doorless frame of his bedroom. He gasped, the cup in his hand dangerously tilting and threatening to spill, but Michael was too focused on the sight before him to really notice.

Dean's bandaged leg was still in the same spot, but the other one was bent at the knee, sprawled down on the bed, his legs spread in an almost inviting way. The hunter's right arm was lying straight, mimicking his bandaged right leg, drawing a parallel, but the left hand was resting on his abdomen. His chest were slowly rising and falling in a steady breath, calm and composed.

The hunter's head seemed slight elevated, a subtle stubble caressing his face. His plump lips were parted as he breathed, looking so tempting for some reason, as the morning light accentuated them and the freckles on his nose and cheeks.

But the really breathtaking thing were those two emerald eyes, watching the archangel and following his every move.

Michael gulped, the look in Dean's eyes seemed so judgemental and resentful as if the hunter could see through the facade and straight down to his swirling grace, as he knew just who it was that was standing merely five feet away. No, Michael was projecting, there wasn't a way for Dean to know this. Besides, the hunter was probably assessing him to try and determine if he was a friend or a foe.

Michael would like to be the former.

The thought startled him out of his daze, and Michael tipped the cup straight and placed it back on the counter before slowly moving towards the bedroom. Something unfamiliar flashed in Dean's eyes, and Michael raised his hands a bit, not quite in a surrender mode, but close enough to show the hunter he was unarmed.

Slowly, he came into the room and moved to the side of the bed, Dean's eyes watching his every move, eliciting a strange wave of tingles fo run down Michael's spine, but he disregarded it, focusing on Dean. He reached, took an unopened bottle of water of the nightstand and offered it to Dean. The hunter's brows inched closed as he glanced down at the bottle then back up at Michael.

The archangel opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't seem to be able to find the words. Instead, he uncapped the bottle and took a long sip, swallowed and then offered it to Dean again. This time, the hunter took the offered drink and gulped nearly half of it before he choked and started coughing. Michael rushed leaving the bottle on the table to help Dean rise up to clear his throat.

"Thanks." Dean said with a rough voice and Michael paused, wanting to say something, but felt so tongue-tied that he just ended up nodding, then turned to recap the bottle just so he would have something to do.

"You a hunter?" Dean questioned as he tried to settle back on the bed, and Michael looked back at him, confused. Not by the question itself, but more like the fact that he chose to ask that, instead of his location or previous events. Before Michael even got a chance to answer, Dean kind of did it for him.

"I mean, if the devil's trap, salt lines and hidden weapons are anything to go by." Dean said and Michael glanced around, for the first time noticing these things. They were his vessel's, not his, but he still instinctively fixed the salt lines every night, not even noticing he was doing that until now.

"Did you by any chance take down the son of a bitch that did this to me? The werewolf?" Dean kept going, drawing Michael's attention, and for the first time he actually answered the hunter, albeit with a nod, not words. He just wanted to ease his mind and make sure he knew, there was no threat out there.

"Good. That's good..." Dean said, trailing of for a moment. He squinted his at the archangel as if he was back to assessing him and Michael, needing something to do, grabbed Dean's phone from the nightstand and shoved it in his hands.

"Yeah, no signal, I know. You got a sat-phone? No? I suppose I am stuck here for a while then, huh?" Dean said and looked back up at Michael. His gaze was so heavy, his eyes so green, Michael couldn't stand to have them watching him like that, but at the same time he wanted to be all they could see and he just couldn't tear his gaze away.

Dean huffed a smile, lifted his hand and reached it out. "I'm Dean."

Michael blinked down at the offer hand, then back at the hunter as if he just broke some sort of a dream by saying his name out loud and shit, this was real, this was happening and Michael's throat closed up on him as he stared at Dean for a moment, then abruptly turned and ran out to the kitchen.

"Alright..." Dean said closing his hand before lowering his arm. The man was out in the kitchen, fidgeting with some pots, and Dean looked down on his leg, sighing. With no signal and no way to tell Sam where he was, it was clear that he is stuck here for a while. Well maybe that guy could go to town and make the call for him, but Dean wasn't so sure he wanted to be alone.

Another sigh escaped him, but he did see the good side. The guy seemed trustworthy, a fellow hunter and apparently a good guy if he was willing to waste the magical creme to ease Dean's pain. He was odd, but Dean supposed he could have ended up with worse. Or dead in a ditch. Looking around the room, he took in his surroundings again, not as a hunter, but just as a curios person.

There was a tall cabinet next to the door, the lower part filled with books, the top closed off. The shelves around had more books, but also a baseball trophy and a increased baseball, probably signed by someone famous. There were a few frames with pictures of the guy and a woman, something for years ago. There was another one of him holding a huge fish, posing by it with a wide smile.

And then, there was another picture of the guy, standing and pointing to his truck and the logo of his business. Dean smiled and called out to the man. "Mike's Home Repairs. Guess I know your name now, Mike."

A large crash echoed from the kitchen, plates breaking and pots rattling on the ground, surprising Dean, but not making him drop that wide smile of being right.