Michael sat in the chair, his wrists restrained by shimmering, enchanted handcuffs that seemed to pulse with otherworldly energy. His voice filled the room, resonating with the weight of truth as he spoke. "Because God, Jehovah, is a writer," he began, his words painting vivid images of celestial tapestries and worlds both magnificent and forsaken.
As Michael spoke, wisps of ethereal light danced around him, illustrating the grandeur and complexity of God's creations. "And like all writers," he continued, his tone unwavering, "he churns out draft after draft, my world, this world, nothing but failed drafts."
Castiel, standing opposite Michael, watched intently, his expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "No, that's not right," he interjected, his voice betraying his uncertainty. "Why would he do that?"
"BECAUSE HE DOESN'T CARE," Michael replied, his voice tinged with bitterness. The magical restraints around his wrists seemed to tighten, emphasizing his frustration. "About you, me, anything."
The air crackled with tension as Michael's revelation hung in the air, illuminated by the soft glow of celestial light. "Now at first, I thought I'd do it better, show Him, be more God than God," Michael confessed, his eyes blazing with determination. "But now...I just wanna burn every one of his little worlds until I catch up to the old man."
In the silence that followed, the weight of Michael's words reverberated through the room, casting shadows that danced along the walls like specters of doubt and defiance.
Castiel's expression shifted, his nerves palpable as he voiced his concern. "And then what?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Michael leaned forward slowly, his gaze piercing as he fixed Castiel with a menacing, straight-faced stare. "Even God can die," he stated, his words carrying a weight that sent shivers down Castiel's spine.
