A/N: I actually wanted to write something like this (but more Winmillcest-y) as a multichapter story, but you know how I am with all my muses, no? I had fun writing it as a drabble for you, though, and there may yet be more in the future for this broken Adam. Enjoy, my darling! ♥
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Adam sits facing a large window, through which sunbeams filter to halo over him. He knows because, when he reaches out a hand, the glass is cool, slick, against his palm, the sun's rays warm across his upturned face.
It's familiar for him to be this way and some may say that he's forgotten again, but change honestly terrifies him these days, even if the alternative, inertia, means no one cares. Sam, Dean and Bobby can abandon him here, can forget to feed him or put him down to bed, forever, till he withers away to dust in the rickety old wheelchair they'd stolen from who-knows-where. This is pleasant.
He doesn't hear wings flutter so much as feel the otherwise still air of his room displace, a sadness that is not his washing over him. He turns his head as far as he can, unable to wheel the chair around, and mouths a name. Michael.
The archangel shines brighter than the sun above, precisely the way he had, so many centuries ago, in the beautiful room, but that was once upon a time, when Adam actually had the ability to consider so much else – nature's panoramas, human faces, good and bad sounds. Now, he only sees that light, only hears angel-song and mankind's strongest emotions. He can't even tell someone when his bladder acts up. That can put things into perspective.
Michael's light bears down on him, arching huge over Adam's fragile human frame, but it isn't scary anymore. He and Lucifer have done their very worst already and Adam no longer bothers trying to be anything but a receptacle for them.
Michael touches his cheek – with a hand that isn't a hand – and Adam leans into him, relishing a reprieve from the constant ache that assails his broken body. Music fills the emptiness left behind. It doesn't broach his ears, but the delightful buoyancy that makes Adam's fingers and toes tingle reminds him of music, nonetheless. It's Michael's way of speaking to him.
The notes are lilting and sweet, welling with vertiginous highs and stomach-dropping lows, thrumming with Adam's blood through his veins. His soul is a harp with torn strings and Michael is slowly, surely, mending him for a final performance.
Adams sighs contentedly and extends a hand. It's invisible to him, ironically enough, yet he knows the exact moment that it passes through Michael, finding purchase in his gossamer wings. Really, it makes sense that he can't see himself – that he is nothing allowed to experience everything, perhaps undeservedly. He's always been Plan B.
“I am so sorry,” Michael trills, his lament rebounding between his own grace and Adam's welcoming soul.
Adam feels his lips quirk without his permission. His brothers are unaware of Michael's presence. If they weren't, he would feel their cacophonous panic, their disgust, much closer to him. Instead, there is only Michael, the beautiful, destructive being who had torn him apart, then pieced him back together again.
It's okay, he thinks, with all his measly mortal might. I forgive you.
SPN, Michael/Adam, Do No Evil, Sensory Deprivation, PG!
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Adam sits facing a large window, through which sunbeams filter to halo over him. He knows because, when he reaches out a hand, the glass is cool, slick, against his palm, the sun's rays warm across his upturned face.
It's familiar for him to be this way and some may say that he's forgotten again, but change honestly terrifies him these days, even if the alternative, inertia, means no one cares. Sam, Dean and Bobby can abandon him here, can forget to feed him or put him down to bed, forever, till he withers away to dust in the rickety old wheelchair they'd stolen from who-knows-where. This is pleasant.
He doesn't hear wings flutter so much as feel the otherwise still air of his room displace, a sadness that is not his washing over him. He turns his head as far as he can, unable to wheel the chair around, and mouths a name. Michael.
The archangel shines brighter than the sun above, precisely the way he had, so many centuries ago, in the beautiful room, but that was once upon a time, when Adam actually had the ability to consider so much else – nature's panoramas, human faces, good and bad sounds. Now, he only sees that light, only hears angel-song and mankind's strongest emotions. He can't even tell someone when his bladder acts up. That can put things into perspective.
Michael's light bears down on him, arching huge over Adam's fragile human frame, but it isn't scary anymore. He and Lucifer have done their very worst already and Adam no longer bothers trying to be anything but a receptacle for them.
Michael touches his cheek – with a hand that isn't a hand – and Adam leans into him, relishing a reprieve from the constant ache that assails his broken body. Music fills the emptiness left behind. It doesn't broach his ears, but the delightful buoyancy that makes Adam's fingers and toes tingle reminds him of music, nonetheless. It's Michael's way of speaking to him.
The notes are lilting and sweet, welling with vertiginous highs and stomach-dropping lows, thrumming with Adam's blood through his veins. His soul is a harp with torn strings and Michael is slowly, surely, mending him for a final performance.
Adams sighs contentedly and extends a hand. It's invisible to him, ironically enough, yet he knows the exact moment that it passes through Michael, finding purchase in his gossamer wings. Really, it makes sense that he can't see himself – that he is nothing allowed to experience everything, perhaps undeservedly. He's always been Plan B.
“I am so sorry,” Michael trills, his lament rebounding between his own grace and Adam's welcoming soul.
Adam feels his lips quirk without his permission. His brothers are unaware of Michael's presence. If they weren't, he would feel their cacophonous panic, their disgust, much closer to him. Instead, there is only Michael, the beautiful, destructive being who had torn him apart, then pieced him back together again.
It's okay, he thinks, with all his measly mortal might. I forgive you.
And together they sit in the sun.