John gasped as the expertly-placed kick shattered ribs and drove the remaining air from his lungs, flailed for a moment and grabbed uselessly at Michael's arm as he was hoisted up by the throat, his larynx already beginning to crumple under the relentless pressure.

Those blood vessels around his eyes that hadn't exploded from the face shot started to burst, and his vision fuzzed out completely in a uniform bloody pink wash.

No talking his way out of this one. He'd have laughed if he'd had any air left--talk one archangel down from murdering him just in time to be murdered by another. Story of his life. Crowley was going to be incredibly annoyed with him...

He stopped struggling. No point, Michael might as well be made of cast iron and his body didn't want to obey him anymore. Hurt too much. Just give it up and go. Outlived his time anyway, hadn't he?

He did wish, though, as his brain ran out of oxygen and shut itself down, that'd he got to see Kit once more before he went to Hell.