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The grass is dying around you, a sweet pungent smell invading the putrid body you inhabit. The rot, the copper, the decay- it is all within and without, and through these submissive atoms you worship your Father; you have never loved or hated Him more than you do at this moment.
You use the body surrounding you to crush the pest lying beneath your feet, the older brother (not yours, never yours; you’ll never get the privilege- the horror of satisfaction- to kill Michael, to see Michael as there is no prospect of Michael in your ever-seeing eyes without killing him) that tried to get in your way. There is a dull ache in what remains of Sam’s will and presence around you, it reverberates weakly to diminish like a purplish bruise, like a human mind wrapped in an Archangel’s Grace, suffocated by It. Sam seems to go away with Dean as if the last shreds of him were so interwoven and dependant on the older brother that he ceased to exist without him.
Lucifer acknowledges it for the lie it is; he is the younger one, he knows what it is like to lose the influence of the elder, the protector in the act of betrayal, and he has turned out fine.
The rest of Them will see just how fine when he is done here; when the Earth is lying dormant, gasping dying at his feet. When all those animals Father claimed to be His are eviscerated. Then it will be again Their turn; the sorrowful ending of the interrupted battle.
Lucifer is surprised when he looks around; amused. His smile blooms, cruel with whitish teeth and quirking lips to see the horror on the second Dean’s face. The Dean that shouldn’t be here, the one that still doesn’t know how much he’s lost already (just by being born, but Lucifer supposes it’s Michael’s role to seduce the older Winchester, not his; he’ll tell nothing of the secrets he knows). Dean from five years ago rages and whines, desperate and unbelieving. You let him look, get his fill: Sam silent and unresponsive to him while Lucifer talks, and talks, and talks. And Dean, who tries to reach deeper, further beneath, finding nothing.
The rose you stroke is soft and so breakable, like the thing around you, and you want to tell the pest talking to you about that, too; about how much damage is done to the vessel while it is worn by an Archangel. How much you don’t care (how you aren’t capable of caring). You suppose that Michael won’t tell him that. The leader of the Heaven’s Host can be as manipulative as was his wont, speaking of duties and love, and responsibility and goodness while killing you with his fires, of destiny of which he knew nothing of, of Father’s will that he followed and didn’t know entirely. Blind fool enlightening another. You wish you could fly far above them to see it, melt into tiny shadows beyond their minds and perceptions to be a witness to this comedic battle.
(because the irony of this is,
Lucifer is a part of God’s plan;
and Michael hates him for it
what is his blessed reward, then,
other than hatred, disappointment
and gore?
other than gone lights and holes of deep tears
while he fell for these damned, doubly damned,
damned forever and for eternity
monkeys and worms who are the cancer of this
planet?)
He would fold his wings, let them fall to the ground like he didn’t allow himself when asked to kneel before Man, crouch down and drink in the sight, listen to the arguments Michael made, trying to catch the lies he never managed to spy before it was too late, find the deceit in his brother’s words while Michael argued for the necessity of Lucifer’s death.
He would get free of the last threads weaved between them by their Father during the Act of Creation. And then for the second time in history, Men will discover fire.