FIC: Black Clouds (DMN: Michael/Raphael, R)
TITLE: Black Clouds
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
FANDOM: Supernatural/Dogma AU
PAIRING: Michael/Raphael (hints of Loki/Castiel, Loki/Pestilence, Castiel/Dean and Loki/Pestilence/Castiel)
PROMPT: hc_bingo: hookers
MEDIUM: fiction
RATING: R
SUMMARY: When Michael breaks free of the cage, he finds Heaven a changed place without hope
WORDS: 2,292
NOTES: From an AU world in which Jeremiel is Heaven's Big Bad, Michael and Raphael are the good guys, and Loki and Pestilence have a tonne of history. Spoilers through Season 6 of Supernatural. For believeinthis.
In the end, he chose to survive.
The tremors that shook their prison reached a crescendo and a fissure formed through the door.
Lucifer turned to him, no longer cocky, no longer smiling. "Think, brother. Think of what they must be doing."
The thought had crossed his mind repeatedly since the first shudder - what chaos must reign to disturb their heavily-protected cage? What were his brothers and the demons destroying to rock the very foundations of Hell?
So, he stood beside his brother and prised open the crack. The light of Earth pierced their darkness and then-
There was freedom.
Taking a moment to lift up the soul of the Winchester boy, Michael hurtled it towards its vessel and then accepted Lucifer's hand to stand upon the surface.
With the nod of broken commanders, they parted and Michael allowed the King of Hell to return to his throne.
He relinquished his fraying vessel and set it upon the ground, retaking his form of old. It fitted like a well-worn glove, but he felt the absence of his sword keenly. Weariness pressed down upon him and he knew he must seek healing and absolution - forgiveness for leaving and trapping himself for what should have been eternity.
So, he sought out Raphael.
~
When he landed at Alexandria, he could not comprehend what he saw.
The city's mortals moved, oblivious, as the Great Library stood in ruin, soaked in the blood of angels and demons. Michael felt dark fingers clutch at his heart - and he ran to the doors, desperate, pushing them open with what remained of his flagging strength.
Darkness. Desolation. There was nothing living in this place.
He swayed on his feet, suddenly exhausted. He had never considered, in those weak moments when he had contemplated escape, coming home to...nothing.
If there was no Raphael, there was no hope.
Suddenly - a spark in his Grace. Someone was here. Angels.
Michael hurried into the sanctuary and knelt before the altar, fingers clawing at the loose slab that protected their last stronghold. It flared blue beneath his palms and then lifted.
And there was a sword at his throat.
"Loki," he rasped and the sword was dropped, a strong arm gripping him as he fell to black.
~
Michael came to on a pallet in the space beneath the sanctuary. In the opposite corner, Loki was in council with the young rebel angel Castiel, drawing plans on the floor in the dust.
"You will tell me what has happened."
Loki looked up and nodded grimly. He crossed the room and sat before Michael, as the archangel struggled to sit up, refusing the proffered hand.
Castiel lurked behind, clearly uncomfortable being in the same room as the angel he had stood against. Michael did not give a fig for his discomfort.
"Jeremiel has taken Heaven."
Michael felt his gut wrench at the thought of that toadying manipulator ruling Heaven. "Go on."
Loki scowled. "He has made a deal with Crowley - he will leave him with Earth if the demon brings him...tribute. Fallen angels. Prophets. Traitors."
"Crowley? The crossroads demon?" The little upstart may be irritating, but he had never wielded any power.
"King of Hell."
Castiel's voice was gruff but quiet. He looked tired and old beyond his years, a perfect mirror of Michael - perhaps he had also left someone behind to hide in this squalor. Perhaps he was finally reaping the fruits of betraying his brethren, no matter how loyal his intentions.
Loki looked at Castiel with a particular tension, one with which Michael was intimately familiar - it seemed his first warrior had turned to angels for his solace once more.
And so he had to ask-
"And what of the Horsemen?"
Loki's face paled and Castiel looked away. Michael frowned.
"What? Have they fled? Taken sides?"
It was clear Loki would not meet his eyes, sword twisting in his hands. It was Castiel who eventually spoke.
"Disbanded by Crowley. War is gathering a force amongst spirits and Famine is minding his own business. No one has seen Death."
There was a notable absence. "And Pestilence?"
Loki got up and walked away, swinging his sword and knocking aside the thick cobwebs. "Captured. By Jeremiel. With..."
He trailed off and then turned back, face distraught. "They took Raphael."
Michael started to his feet, feeling a sudden need for violence. "And you allowed this?"
Loki growled. "They attacked me and left me for dead. I defended them to the last moment, Michael. When you had abandoned us."
"I was completing Our Father's work! You were screwing with Horsemen and running from Judgement!"
They stood in stunned silence, shocked at the words that had passed between them. Michael looked away, hand shaking. Loki laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"We can retrieve them."
Michael whipped around to Castiel. "What?"
Castiel shrugged. "We have you now."
Loki looked at him as if he were insane. "They're in a heavily-guarded prison. And we are wanted."
Castiel fixed him with an indecipherable look. "You know when they are permitted to leave."
Loki's face flushed an ugly red. "Don't talk to me, Cas."
"You can't hide from the truth, Loki. That is the only reason I have hope for this plan."
Michael stepped between them. "Leave? What kind of prison is this?"
Loki was silent. Castiel sighed. "Perhaps we should show you."
~
It was a dingy nightclub in Brooklyn, filled to the brim with filth. Michael spotted vampires and werewolves, fallen and reigning angels, the worst demons and someone he was certain was Famine.
Castiel appeared at his elbow, tugging Dean Winchester by the arm. "We will split up. Remember this is observation."
"I will decide that," Michael said coldly. He saw Loki and Castiel exchange glances before Castiel disappeared into the crowd with Dean. Loki watched them leave.
"He's missed him."
Michael clenched his fist, itching for the borrowed sword he carried. He did not have time for Loki's conquests. "You've had time on your hands."
Loki brushed his shoulder, leaning close. "I have done everything in my power to save them. Do not judge me for drawing comfort where I can."
He walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Michael fixed his eyes on the stage, unsure of what he was about to see. What was so horrific that it could not be spoken aloud? Was he about to witness the torture of his Raphael?
And did they truly expect him to ignore it?
The lights dimmed. A thrill of a whisper ran through the crowd. Anticipation.
A single spotlight.
And Balthazar stepped into it.
"Ladies, gentlemen, monsters of all persuasions - welcome. Let us begin."
The stage lit up. Five prisoners, tied to metal poles - two loyal generals, a demon woman, Pestilence, and Raphael. Beaten, but not marked, bruises fading on their vessels' skin.
"The first - oh, the special one. Our archangel."
Balthazar ran a finger down Raphael's cheek and Michael's hand closed around his sword. There was a murmur of appreciation in the crowd. What was this perversion?
"Shall we start the bidding at one soul?"
Greedy hands shot into the air and Michael felt sick. An auction. For Raphael.
An event that had been repeated many times.
Oh, Lord, it could not be borne.
"Three souls - and oh, four souls! Well done, my darlings. You know value when you see it. Five souls!"
He must remain calm. He met Loki's eyes across the crowd, felt his Grace attempt to pacify him. Then, he watched his warrior's eyes return to the stage, flooded with pain at the fate of his supernatural lover.
The fate shared by Raphael.
"All closed at nine? Going once, going twice - and sold to that charming vampire over there. I hope you can keep up, love."
Raphael. Submitting to a vampire. It could not come to pass. Not while he stood free.
Michael took flight. The chaos caused by angelic winds thundered around him, but he was thunder and justice. He would take them all.
Dean Winchester threw a net over Balthazar's head and threw a match; it exploded into a blaze of holy oil, causing the angel to scream. But Michael only cared about securing his hand around Raphael's wrist, striking the defiled restraints from his hands and feet.
Loki was clutching at Pestilence, struggling to keep her from falling, as Castiel wrenched the chains from her limbs.
The other prisoners were crying out for salvation, as the patrons fled the place, none wishing to face the wrath of an archangel.
And then, silence.
A slow clap.
Michael looked into Jeremiel's eyes and stepped in front of Raphael. Loki wrestled Pestilence behind him, her arms gripping his waist as she knelt on the floor. Castiel stood between them as if this were his fight alone, his eyes flitting to Dean in the shadows.
"I wish I could say I was surprised. But as soon as I heard about your little prison break, I knew it was only a matter of time before you spoiled my party."
Jeremiel stood surrounded by his flunkies, sword idly twirling from his hand. He had never been a warrior. Always a backroom dealer, a manipulator of prideful angels with too little loyalty and too much greed.
"Allow us to leave and I may spare you your life."
It was a deliberate lie, but it may allow him time to send Raphael to safety. A quick glance back confirmed that his angel had one flight in him, could probably back it into the sanctuary before anyone caught him.
But Loki would not leave the Horseman and there were their other brothers to consider.
It would have to be to the death.
Jeremiel laughed. "Please, Michael. You have three angels, your broken friends, and a reject vessel in the corner. Whereas I have...Heaven. Don't be naive."
Reject vessel.
The words tumbled through his mind in an instant and Michael knew what he had to do. He saw Castiel look at Dean with distress, but the hunter's eyes were clear - he understood the way out.
It would only take a moment. Perhaps the man would leave with his mind.
"Now." "Yes."
Michael shed his vessel and rushed for Dean, who was already running. They collided on the dancefloor, the Michaelsword, as one.
And Michael swung his sword into Jeremiel.
With blinding light, the archangel exploded into nothing - and Michael let go.
Dean Winchester fell to the ground, and Castiel knelt beside him. Jeremiel's host of angels fled and Loki lifted Pestilence into his arms, murmuring in her ear.
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned - and saw his Raphael, battered and broken, but never beaten. Never lost.
"Home," Michael said, and it was done.
~
Michael left Pestilence in the infirmary, sleeping like a mortal, with Loki keeping watch over her. She had not spoken yet he had seen her eyes. He had seen enough.
Dean Winchester and his brother were frozen in the sanctuary, their souls protected until their bodies could withstand their light.
Michael entered the library and approached the diminished figure in the grand chair, leaning his head against the wood in exhaustion. Michael took his customary place on the arm of the chair, hand trailing in Raphael's hair.
He flinched.
Michael withdrew his hand, unfathomably upset. Raphael made a noise of distress.
"It is not your fault."
"You want to touch me. I am denying you."
"That was never what mattered to me."
"I am not the one you seek."
"You are Raphael. That is all I seek."
The words moved like water, but the real conversation was beneath, Michael's Grace reaching out to soothe Raphael's turmoil.
"I cannot forget."
The three words cut at him, but he persisted, wrapping his Grace around Raphael until he could feel the spark of warmth within. He pushed no further and Raphael could not give, but it was a start.
~
Loki had always healed Pestilence. It was something that Michael could not even begin to fathom, but it would always work. Now, when he touched her, it was not enough. She remained mute, withdrawn.
When he kissed her, she mustered a smile, but there was no joy.
So, Loki took her to bed.
Castiel and Michael waited in the library like expectant fathers, eager for news of this healing. It sounded ludicrous and absurd, but Pestilence had always craved the furnace of the flesh and perhaps it was the only language she really understood.
After an hour, Castiel got up and left him. He heard a distant door open and the sound of voices, before the door was once more closed.
When he next saw them, Pestilence was sprawled on the rug in front of the infirmary fire, her head in Loki's lap and Castiel's hand resting on her thigh.
~
The way to Raphael would not be through flesh.
Michael was tactile, delighting in his vessel's human quirks. Raphael was detached, revelling in exercises of the mind and a warm Grace.
So, Michael climbed the stacks to Raphael's private books and withdrew one from the shelf. He wandered through Alexandria, looking for Raphael's disappearing place, and finally found him on a bench in the garden.
Michael sat on the floor, cross-legged like a child, and opened the book to the first page.
"I sing of arms and of the man-"
Homer's words flowed from his tongue and he watched Raphael close his eyes, undertaking his odyssey with the Greek hero, becoming whole through the words of his favourite book.
When, finally, the book was finished and dusk was falling over Egypt, Raphael looked him in the eye and smiled.
"I will live. To survive is not enough."
And Michael touched his forehead to Raphael's, the beginning of healing.
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
FANDOM: Supernatural/Dogma AU
PAIRING: Michael/Raphael (hints of Loki/Castiel, Loki/Pestilence, Castiel/Dean and Loki/Pestilence/Castiel)
PROMPT: hc_bingo: hookers
MEDIUM: fiction
RATING: R
SUMMARY: When Michael breaks free of the cage, he finds Heaven a changed place without hope
WORDS: 2,292
NOTES: From an AU world in which Jeremiel is Heaven's Big Bad, Michael and Raphael are the good guys, and Loki and Pestilence have a tonne of history. Spoilers through Season 6 of Supernatural. For believeinthis.
In the end, he chose to survive.
The tremors that shook their prison reached a crescendo and a fissure formed through the door.
Lucifer turned to him, no longer cocky, no longer smiling. "Think, brother. Think of what they must be doing."
The thought had crossed his mind repeatedly since the first shudder - what chaos must reign to disturb their heavily-protected cage? What were his brothers and the demons destroying to rock the very foundations of Hell?
So, he stood beside his brother and prised open the crack. The light of Earth pierced their darkness and then-
There was freedom.
Taking a moment to lift up the soul of the Winchester boy, Michael hurtled it towards its vessel and then accepted Lucifer's hand to stand upon the surface.
With the nod of broken commanders, they parted and Michael allowed the King of Hell to return to his throne.
He relinquished his fraying vessel and set it upon the ground, retaking his form of old. It fitted like a well-worn glove, but he felt the absence of his sword keenly. Weariness pressed down upon him and he knew he must seek healing and absolution - forgiveness for leaving and trapping himself for what should have been eternity.
So, he sought out Raphael.
~
When he landed at Alexandria, he could not comprehend what he saw.
The city's mortals moved, oblivious, as the Great Library stood in ruin, soaked in the blood of angels and demons. Michael felt dark fingers clutch at his heart - and he ran to the doors, desperate, pushing them open with what remained of his flagging strength.
Darkness. Desolation. There was nothing living in this place.
He swayed on his feet, suddenly exhausted. He had never considered, in those weak moments when he had contemplated escape, coming home to...nothing.
If there was no Raphael, there was no hope.
Suddenly - a spark in his Grace. Someone was here. Angels.
Michael hurried into the sanctuary and knelt before the altar, fingers clawing at the loose slab that protected their last stronghold. It flared blue beneath his palms and then lifted.
And there was a sword at his throat.
"Loki," he rasped and the sword was dropped, a strong arm gripping him as he fell to black.
~
Michael came to on a pallet in the space beneath the sanctuary. In the opposite corner, Loki was in council with the young rebel angel Castiel, drawing plans on the floor in the dust.
"You will tell me what has happened."
Loki looked up and nodded grimly. He crossed the room and sat before Michael, as the archangel struggled to sit up, refusing the proffered hand.
Castiel lurked behind, clearly uncomfortable being in the same room as the angel he had stood against. Michael did not give a fig for his discomfort.
"Jeremiel has taken Heaven."
Michael felt his gut wrench at the thought of that toadying manipulator ruling Heaven. "Go on."
Loki scowled. "He has made a deal with Crowley - he will leave him with Earth if the demon brings him...tribute. Fallen angels. Prophets. Traitors."
"Crowley? The crossroads demon?" The little upstart may be irritating, but he had never wielded any power.
"King of Hell."
Castiel's voice was gruff but quiet. He looked tired and old beyond his years, a perfect mirror of Michael - perhaps he had also left someone behind to hide in this squalor. Perhaps he was finally reaping the fruits of betraying his brethren, no matter how loyal his intentions.
Loki looked at Castiel with a particular tension, one with which Michael was intimately familiar - it seemed his first warrior had turned to angels for his solace once more.
And so he had to ask-
"And what of the Horsemen?"
Loki's face paled and Castiel looked away. Michael frowned.
"What? Have they fled? Taken sides?"
It was clear Loki would not meet his eyes, sword twisting in his hands. It was Castiel who eventually spoke.
"Disbanded by Crowley. War is gathering a force amongst spirits and Famine is minding his own business. No one has seen Death."
There was a notable absence. "And Pestilence?"
Loki got up and walked away, swinging his sword and knocking aside the thick cobwebs. "Captured. By Jeremiel. With..."
He trailed off and then turned back, face distraught. "They took Raphael."
Michael started to his feet, feeling a sudden need for violence. "And you allowed this?"
Loki growled. "They attacked me and left me for dead. I defended them to the last moment, Michael. When you had abandoned us."
"I was completing Our Father's work! You were screwing with Horsemen and running from Judgement!"
They stood in stunned silence, shocked at the words that had passed between them. Michael looked away, hand shaking. Loki laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"We can retrieve them."
Michael whipped around to Castiel. "What?"
Castiel shrugged. "We have you now."
Loki looked at him as if he were insane. "They're in a heavily-guarded prison. And we are wanted."
Castiel fixed him with an indecipherable look. "You know when they are permitted to leave."
Loki's face flushed an ugly red. "Don't talk to me, Cas."
"You can't hide from the truth, Loki. That is the only reason I have hope for this plan."
Michael stepped between them. "Leave? What kind of prison is this?"
Loki was silent. Castiel sighed. "Perhaps we should show you."
~
It was a dingy nightclub in Brooklyn, filled to the brim with filth. Michael spotted vampires and werewolves, fallen and reigning angels, the worst demons and someone he was certain was Famine.
Castiel appeared at his elbow, tugging Dean Winchester by the arm. "We will split up. Remember this is observation."
"I will decide that," Michael said coldly. He saw Loki and Castiel exchange glances before Castiel disappeared into the crowd with Dean. Loki watched them leave.
"He's missed him."
Michael clenched his fist, itching for the borrowed sword he carried. He did not have time for Loki's conquests. "You've had time on your hands."
Loki brushed his shoulder, leaning close. "I have done everything in my power to save them. Do not judge me for drawing comfort where I can."
He walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Michael fixed his eyes on the stage, unsure of what he was about to see. What was so horrific that it could not be spoken aloud? Was he about to witness the torture of his Raphael?
And did they truly expect him to ignore it?
The lights dimmed. A thrill of a whisper ran through the crowd. Anticipation.
A single spotlight.
And Balthazar stepped into it.
"Ladies, gentlemen, monsters of all persuasions - welcome. Let us begin."
The stage lit up. Five prisoners, tied to metal poles - two loyal generals, a demon woman, Pestilence, and Raphael. Beaten, but not marked, bruises fading on their vessels' skin.
"The first - oh, the special one. Our archangel."
Balthazar ran a finger down Raphael's cheek and Michael's hand closed around his sword. There was a murmur of appreciation in the crowd. What was this perversion?
"Shall we start the bidding at one soul?"
Greedy hands shot into the air and Michael felt sick. An auction. For Raphael.
An event that had been repeated many times.
Oh, Lord, it could not be borne.
"Three souls - and oh, four souls! Well done, my darlings. You know value when you see it. Five souls!"
He must remain calm. He met Loki's eyes across the crowd, felt his Grace attempt to pacify him. Then, he watched his warrior's eyes return to the stage, flooded with pain at the fate of his supernatural lover.
The fate shared by Raphael.
"All closed at nine? Going once, going twice - and sold to that charming vampire over there. I hope you can keep up, love."
Raphael. Submitting to a vampire. It could not come to pass. Not while he stood free.
Michael took flight. The chaos caused by angelic winds thundered around him, but he was thunder and justice. He would take them all.
Dean Winchester threw a net over Balthazar's head and threw a match; it exploded into a blaze of holy oil, causing the angel to scream. But Michael only cared about securing his hand around Raphael's wrist, striking the defiled restraints from his hands and feet.
Loki was clutching at Pestilence, struggling to keep her from falling, as Castiel wrenched the chains from her limbs.
The other prisoners were crying out for salvation, as the patrons fled the place, none wishing to face the wrath of an archangel.
And then, silence.
A slow clap.
Michael looked into Jeremiel's eyes and stepped in front of Raphael. Loki wrestled Pestilence behind him, her arms gripping his waist as she knelt on the floor. Castiel stood between them as if this were his fight alone, his eyes flitting to Dean in the shadows.
"I wish I could say I was surprised. But as soon as I heard about your little prison break, I knew it was only a matter of time before you spoiled my party."
Jeremiel stood surrounded by his flunkies, sword idly twirling from his hand. He had never been a warrior. Always a backroom dealer, a manipulator of prideful angels with too little loyalty and too much greed.
"Allow us to leave and I may spare you your life."
It was a deliberate lie, but it may allow him time to send Raphael to safety. A quick glance back confirmed that his angel had one flight in him, could probably back it into the sanctuary before anyone caught him.
But Loki would not leave the Horseman and there were their other brothers to consider.
It would have to be to the death.
Jeremiel laughed. "Please, Michael. You have three angels, your broken friends, and a reject vessel in the corner. Whereas I have...Heaven. Don't be naive."
Reject vessel.
The words tumbled through his mind in an instant and Michael knew what he had to do. He saw Castiel look at Dean with distress, but the hunter's eyes were clear - he understood the way out.
It would only take a moment. Perhaps the man would leave with his mind.
"Now." "Yes."
Michael shed his vessel and rushed for Dean, who was already running. They collided on the dancefloor, the Michaelsword, as one.
And Michael swung his sword into Jeremiel.
With blinding light, the archangel exploded into nothing - and Michael let go.
Dean Winchester fell to the ground, and Castiel knelt beside him. Jeremiel's host of angels fled and Loki lifted Pestilence into his arms, murmuring in her ear.
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned - and saw his Raphael, battered and broken, but never beaten. Never lost.
"Home," Michael said, and it was done.
~
Michael left Pestilence in the infirmary, sleeping like a mortal, with Loki keeping watch over her. She had not spoken yet he had seen her eyes. He had seen enough.
Dean Winchester and his brother were frozen in the sanctuary, their souls protected until their bodies could withstand their light.
Michael entered the library and approached the diminished figure in the grand chair, leaning his head against the wood in exhaustion. Michael took his customary place on the arm of the chair, hand trailing in Raphael's hair.
He flinched.
Michael withdrew his hand, unfathomably upset. Raphael made a noise of distress.
"It is not your fault."
"You want to touch me. I am denying you."
"That was never what mattered to me."
"I am not the one you seek."
"You are Raphael. That is all I seek."
The words moved like water, but the real conversation was beneath, Michael's Grace reaching out to soothe Raphael's turmoil.
"I cannot forget."
The three words cut at him, but he persisted, wrapping his Grace around Raphael until he could feel the spark of warmth within. He pushed no further and Raphael could not give, but it was a start.
~
Loki had always healed Pestilence. It was something that Michael could not even begin to fathom, but it would always work. Now, when he touched her, it was not enough. She remained mute, withdrawn.
When he kissed her, she mustered a smile, but there was no joy.
So, Loki took her to bed.
Castiel and Michael waited in the library like expectant fathers, eager for news of this healing. It sounded ludicrous and absurd, but Pestilence had always craved the furnace of the flesh and perhaps it was the only language she really understood.
After an hour, Castiel got up and left him. He heard a distant door open and the sound of voices, before the door was once more closed.
When he next saw them, Pestilence was sprawled on the rug in front of the infirmary fire, her head in Loki's lap and Castiel's hand resting on her thigh.
~
The way to Raphael would not be through flesh.
Michael was tactile, delighting in his vessel's human quirks. Raphael was detached, revelling in exercises of the mind and a warm Grace.
So, Michael climbed the stacks to Raphael's private books and withdrew one from the shelf. He wandered through Alexandria, looking for Raphael's disappearing place, and finally found him on a bench in the garden.
Michael sat on the floor, cross-legged like a child, and opened the book to the first page.
"I sing of arms and of the man-"
Homer's words flowed from his tongue and he watched Raphael close his eyes, undertaking his odyssey with the Greek hero, becoming whole through the words of his favourite book.
When, finally, the book was finished and dusk was falling over Egypt, Raphael looked him in the eye and smiled.
"I will live. To survive is not enough."
And Michael touched his forehead to Raphael's, the beginning of healing.