#(michael.)

do you remember this

Dead End o clock

Drawn over this but with changes because Dead End isn’t a Pontiac Firebird ‘81

"Who clipped your wings, huh?" The thick scent of sulfur would have given the demon away even without the true face visible beneath the one it had stolen. Dark energy had pinned the wounded Archangel to dirty brick within minutes of crash landing into their broken little world. "I'm gonna drag you to Hell myse-" the thunderous crack of a shotgun forced the demon back, and the hold on Michael was severed. Rock salt bit into the host, and it was enough to send black smoke pouring from the bastard's mouth and high into the sky, far from its assailant and its quarry.

As much good as hunting had done, there was one thing it had stolen from Bern. The instinct to immediately help at the sight of someone crumpled and bleeding on the ground.

Thin legs has stopped halfway down the alley, and brown eyes watched the man struggle. Measuring over the barrel of a shotgun, from a face both androgynous and bland. One easy to forget, and hard to find in a crowd, even if you didn't have to look down to meet their 5'1 gaze. Exits checked, bodies checked, vantage points checked—the mental list was assessed quickly and survey says? Probably clear now, unless this was the longest of cons. Boots carried their flannel and canvas-wrapped self to the wounded man's side with an air of caution, sparing half a glance toward the demon's former host. He scrambled to his feet with his newfound agency and bolted, leaving the pair in silence.