The sleek pearl handle of the .45 colt felt sure and steady in his hands, as if he had been born clutching the thing, which he reflects, he might as well as have been. Running at a crouch, half hidden by the luscious undergrowth, looking down repeatedly to check that there are no brambles to trip him up. He really doesn't want to be up close and personal with the ground right now. His breaths are coming in short pants, anybody else would be on the floor but he's been doing this his whole life, its second nature to him by now. He doesn't know why he's running exactly, but he does know that if he stops… well he doesn't want to think about that. There's a clearing up ahead, he can see it through the trees, but that's not what caught his attention.
There's someone in the middle of it.
They're alone, so far as he can tell, and they look unconscious. It's hard to be sure exactly, but that might be because of the huge wings obscuring most of the body.
The wings are enormous, a gorgeous rustic red colour that look invitingly soft. He's not stupid though, and certainly not blind, he can see that they were designed to be weapons, can clearly see the wickedly spiked flight feathers, even pinned with giant silver meat hooks they're a force to be reckoned with.
He thinks they look awesome.
The owner of the magnificent wings looks up suddenly, startling him; after all he had thought the guy to be unconscious only a few seconds ago. The guy, because he was definitely a dude with the beard like the one he was sporting, looked like he should be unconscious with the amount of pain shown on his face and eyes, but was somehow stubbornly clinging onto consciousness.
Dean ran forward, keeping an eye out for demons, monsters, the supernatural fugly responsible for this, trying to help the poor bastard stuck in the meat hooks.
"Hey, hey! Buddy look at me, yeah that's it, I'm here to help, I'll get you to a hospital alright? I'm Dean, who are you?" he demanded of the guy, silently wondering where the wings had come from… and what people at the hospital would say about them, while trying to find a way to get rid of the hooks keeping the wings captive.
"Dean, I need you to help me." The poor guy sounded in agony. Dean was going to be happy when he finally ganked… whatever it was that had done this.
"Yeah, I'm going to help you, just hold on a sec, I need to get you out of these hooks." He replied, trying to figure out faster how to get rid of the bloody chains. No pun intended.
"No, Dean you need to listen to me carefully, stop what you're doing and look at me." The guy was out of his mind! Suspended two foot of the ground from meat hooks shoved through freaky, unexplained (awesome) wings… and he wanted to chat! Nevertheless dean did as asked, some hidden voice in the back of his brain urging him to go along with hanging guy, at least for the moment.
"Alright, I'm looking at ya, what do you need my help with if not these huge ass chains?" he asked rhetorically, still reeling from the thought of this guy literally hanging by tattered, bloody wings (which has gotta hurt) and just wanting to talk.
"Dean, you're dreaming. You're still in bed in your motel room; I'm still unconscious in this Godforsaken place. I've just reached out to your subconscious through our bond-" Dean stepped back a little shaking his head in disbelief.
"Listen buddy, I don't know what these sick sons of bitches have done to you, but this is the pain talking-"
"NO! Please I don't have much time! I'm Michael, you are my vessel Dean Winchester, and I really need your help. What you are seeing right now is really happening to me, I don't know where I am but you have to help me." Dean gaped in disbelief. This couldn't be Michael. For one he was a freaking Archangel! Not many things could trap, and definitely not hurt, him to this extent and Dean couldn't see any burning holy oil around him.
"I know you don't believe me Dean but please, I really need your help. There are Enochian engravings on the chains, that's why no holy oil is needed." He had read Dean's mind! There was no way he could have known the holy oil thing if he wasn't an angel and nobody could have known what Dean was thinking without reading his mind. That really was Michael up there.
"Shit! How can I help? What do I need to do?" Now he was scared, if whoever it was (and Dean had a nasty feeling it was Lucifer) could trap freaking MICHAEL the ARCHANGEL and SWORD of GOD, what could Dean possibly do to help?
"When you wake you have to call Castiel, there is a spell Angel's can do to find other Angel's. We use it during battles to determine which Angel's have died and who are simply missing. My brother has me. You will need a weapon to get past him."
"Alright call Cas, that I can do, and the spell sounds doable as well, but Lucifer?! And we don't have a weapon against him! I-"
"Dean, calm down. I'm still an archangel, these restraints can't dampen all of my power. I will send you my blade. You are my vessel, so you can use it, but do not and I MEAN do not let Samuel or Castiel even touch it. Otherwise it will be rendered useless. Do you understand." Michael sounded… affronted at the unintentional slight on his powers, it seemed he really didn't appreciate being underestimated.
"Alright. Yes I understand." Dean wasn't stupid, he could see that Michael was in a really bad way, he couldn't (wouldn't) fuck this up.
"Thank You. And please… just hurry up. I don't think I can hold on much longer." With that Dean shut his eyes… and woke up in his motel bed.
He lay there for a second, slightly disorientated from the dream, half believing that it was all just a giant trick to get him to say yes. Until he felt a length of cold steel in his hand. Sliding it out from beneath the covers he stared at the object in his hand dazedly before yelling for his brother to get his ass out of bed, fully convinced of the reality of his dream.
The object in his hand being none other than an Archangel's blade.