|Dean Winchester hugs baby trees (withgunsdrawn) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2013-09-27 00:40:00
|Entry tags:||dean winchester|
Who: Dean, narrative.
What: Dreams of Archangels~
When: Some vague point between now and before now.
Notes: This is crap. It is completely non-action, introspective examination of what Dean's Micheal-harassment looks like. I promise, this sucks.
Rating: Highish; violence/torture
Micheal was calm, quiet. He did not raise his voice, and he never actually did any harm to Dean - not even dream-harm, the kind that was reversed so it could be repeated over and over, the kind that reminded him of the Pit. He simply stood, watching, most of the time. Most of the time, he looked like Dean. Sometimes, it was John Winchester who stared at him, eyes devoid of warmth but somehow still carrying an eerie compassion that never sat right in the eyes of either shape he chose.
He moved all wrong, too; there was a certain fluid grace to angel movements that did not exist in humans. It was hard to pick up on, in reality - when he was awake, it wasn't like he'd be able to pick one out of a crowd if he didn't know the vessel already - but in the dreams, it was exagerrated. It was feline, but it wasn't - it was almost serpentine, but it wasn't that, either. It was just... eerie. The whole damn thing was fucking eerie, and he was getting tired of it.
Most of the dreams ended the same way - Micheal would warn him, I grow tired of waiting, Dean Winchester, all cold and smooth voice, no matter the body he wore he never sounded like Dean or like Dad, he was Micheal, and that was all he was. His face meant nothing.
From there, the dream would end one of three ways -
Sometimes, Dean saw Sam as Lucifer, bloodied bodies at his feet and a serene, angelic smirk on his face. Some of the bodies were faceless (some literally, and some he simply did not really see) and others were vivid - family and friends. There was fire and smoke and the sky was turning red.
Sometimes he dreamed of Juliet and Ben, screaming as unseen forces tore them apart - skin from muscle, muscle from tendon and bone, bone from bone. Piece by piece, screaming for longer than they should, they shouldn't be alive but they are and then they aren't, and there's Micheal's voice again, I grow tired of waiting, Dean Winchester.
Most often, Dean finds himself standing in a bright, heavenly field. He isn't alone - everyone is there. Both of his parents, and Sam, and Adam. Juliet. Ben. And Ruby and Emily, somehow, and he knows that is an exception made for him, that Heaven allowed them because Dean did what they asked, and everyone is happy and there's an air of peace. Everything is clean and bright, and there is a looming mountain behind them, a golden city ahead, and long after he wakes, that image sticks in his mind, just behind his eyes, even more vivid than the other two combined.