November 17, 1983
Moonlight spilled over the Impala, emanating the newly polished black hood. The dashboard was piled with empty bottles and pulsated with the turning wheels of the car. Another down of whiskey, another memory provisionally erased from his mind. His clouded eyes were a byproduct of his dreary existence. Every image of her burned, withering away to ash behind his retinas. Her warm fingers still lingered on his chest, soothing his constant doubts, as were her lips on his, soundlessly telling him to ease his mind; that everything would be alright by sunrise. However, tonight this was not the case. Tonight she was gone.
But he was bound to get her back.
He slowed the Chevy to a sharp curb, turned off the ignition and stepped out warily, his gun intertwined in the back loop of his jeans. He wasn't about to walk into a fight unarmed, not again. Her beautiful face flashed once more before he began almost absentmindedly scratching his fingernails into the dirt below, planting the necessary items. He patched the dirt and waited, as his weeklong was suffering about to pay off.
The sound of suede shoes pounding on the gravel woke him from his musings. He darted his eyes to the direction of the wind, the direction from whence the steps came. A man stood before him, damper in a black trench coat, slacks and tie. He smirked devilishly, a hint of amusement as the words rolled off his British tongue, "Hello, darling."

"I thought crossroad demons were supposed to be women." John's voice came out rougher than he intended. The demon only chuckled at the remark.
"What, I'm not woman enough for you?" John sighed. This would take much longer than he originally intended; the only thing worse than a straight-from-hell, ready-to-fight demon was a fast-talking silver-tongued demon.
He stepped closer, the darkness engulfing the left side of his face. His hazel eyes gleamed wickedly with the starlight; he ran his fingers through his stubble, glancing around his surroundings. He suspected something; a trap. "No Solomon? I'm genuinely surprised."
John didn't falter. "No trap, no tricks, no fight, I'm here to make a deal, that's all." The demon nodded.
"Well even if you were here to tango, no offense," he assured bluntly, scoping John up and down, "but I could take you." He paused before squatting and crossing his legs like a preschooler at story time. He rested his hand under his chin for the "listening" effect. "Your wish is my command, Boss. What can I do for you?"
"It's my wife," he blurted. He bit his lip, pained at the thought of Mary.
The creature chuckled again. "Trading your soul for Viagra, are we, mate?"
"That's not-" He stopped himself. His patience would only extend so far; he had to remain neutral or he would walk away with nothing, or, even worse, soulless. "My wife, she-she died a couple weeks ago," he choked, swallowing a hard lump in his throat, "I- want her back."
The demon nodded and moved his eyes to the ground, as if absorbing his pain with his own experience of loss. "I see," he said, his tone slightly softer, "well, you do understand if you want her back, it would be a limited-time offer." John nodded slowly.
"I am aware."
"Ten years," he replied, shifting his eyes to John's broken ones again, "ten years for your soul and-"
He looked at John, really looked at him, pulling himself up and cocking his head, suddenly both bewildered and fascinated. "Wait, are you... John? John Winchester?" John nodded again vigilantly.
"How did you-"
"I'll be damned," he exclaimed, examining the human. "Tell you what, new deal."
"What new deal?" he bellowed.
The demon crossed its hands behind its short vessel's back. "I will restore your wife's life..."
"Under what terms?" he added circumspectly.
"If you provide me your son's in return," he finished, his evil smile returning to his façade.
John stood appalled, his forehead gleaming with new sweat. "Are you out of your mind?"
"I prefer the term 'mentally incapable' but perhaps, yes," he agreed sadistically.
"Which-"
"Dean Winchester, the eldest boy," he confirmed.
John crossed his arms stubbornly. "Why? What does my son have to do with this?"
Suddenly, a flash of lightening jolted across the terrain and large pair of black wings divided the two species. Each feather fluttered magnificently before retracting into its body from whence it came. The figure was tall, relatively handsome with wide eyes and jet black hair and formally dressed in his beige trench coat, concealed tuxedo and blue tie strung loosely around his neck. The demon's low voice came out menacingly, though ever so casual.
"Honey, if you don't mind I'm sort of in a business arrangement." The new figure craned his head to John, his aqua eyes staring into his soul. John, all the more confused, shifted slightly in his stance.
"Who-who are you?"
"I am Castiel, angel of the Lord," the raspy cherub replied.
"Angels exist?" he asked, staring incredulously.
"Unfortunately," the demon muttered.
"Pipe down, Crowley," he said gruffly, using one hand to impair his vocal chords. The demon, Crowley, grasped his throat, barely cursing something under his breath. "Minus the halo and prissy white wings as your kind depicts us, yes. Your son," Castiel began meticulously, stepping closer to John and practically ignoring the personal space rule, "he is very important. He was born unto this earth by God's creation to be the vessel of the archangel, Michael. He is to fight in the nearing apocalypse."
John stepped away, his breath on his neck making him a tad uncomfortable. "Just give me a minute to comprehend that you're real," he said, absentmindedly rubbing his forehead. He began again a minute later, only this time with one vacant detail. "What about Sam, my youngest son?"
Castiel's eyes wavered slightly, holding his own breath; he said leniently, "Sam is also a vessel of an important man... though he serves for a different purpose."
"What is that supposed to-?"

Before he could finish, Castiel closed his eyes and placed two fingers on his damp forehead, and they were teleported to the outside of his home. Castiel removed himself and gestured he look through the large glass window into Sam's nursery. John did as he was told. This Castiel guy was an angel; he could probably shatter him in a thousand pieces if he so pleased. He cupped his hands and pressed his nose to the glass.

"Go to sweep, Sammy," Dean's tiny voice sang, smoothing the thin hairs on Sam's forehead. Sam's crying penetrated through the film, causing John's weary body to jump a little. Dean didn't seem to be fazed by the child's high-pitched scream; he simply crawled carefully over the cradle until he sat next to his brother's small head and continued caressing his hairs with his own smallish fingers. "Everything will be awight," he continued in a loud whisper. Though Sam in his infant stage had the incompetence to understand any form of vocabulary, Dean's notion seemed to somehow seep inside enough to shut his eyelids and render him comatose. Dean smiled before kissing the top of his head and separating himself just enough for him to stay asleep. He leaned his back against the bars, gazing at Sam watchfully before eventually falling asleep as well.

"Well God dammit," John thought aloud with a wide grin, removing his hands after Castiel's icy ones tapped on his shoulder, "I thought that child would never sleep. I would hold Sam in my arms for hours, but he never settled, not once. He would always squirm and kick and fight me to be put down."

Castiel nodded. "Dean serves a greater purpose other than the vessel of an archangel," he said, his blue eyes gleaming with prospect, "he's also one of the greatest men to walk amongst the earth. God has the deepest admiration for him. He will doubt this highly, but," he paused, and for a second John could have sworn he saw the angel smile, "his intentions are divine."

"How do you know all this anyway?" John asked. He wasn't aiming to be rude; it was more of an inquisitive question.

"I'm an angel, I'm merely a messenger of His word," he said modestly, adjusting the collar on his coat. John darted his head to the ground and back through the window once more, both children had remained unmoved.

"You're not half bad, Ca—" He stopped abruptly when he realized no one was behind him. He smiled, justifiably smiled for the first time in weeks, and craned his head to his sons again. He realized with or without Mary, his life was complete. He was oblivious of the two people that mattered most in his life: Sam and Dean.