May 1, 1944

A four year old boy with brown hair and a face full of freckles comes tearing across the playground, yelling his lungs out. When he reaches the boundary of the playground, he swerves and starts running in the other direction, leaping and ducking under the play equipment, as agile as a five year old can be. The other kids give him a cautious look, but nothing can distract from their play, and he is mostly ignored.

The boy, Dean, stops for a moment at the edge of the playground, breathing deeply, his eyes narrowed. In his vivid imagination, he's in Germany, and dozens of enemy soldiers are dead at his feet.

Without checking to see if the path was clear—five year olds are sometimes forgetful and careless—he runs back the other way, yelling himself hoarse. Suddenly, pain erupts as he smacks into someone, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The person he ran into starts crying, and Dean almost bursts into tears himself—almost, but doesn't. "Soldiers don't cry," his father had told him. "Be brave for me and your mama."

So instead of wailing about the pain in his hands, knees, and mouth, he looks cautiously at the other person, hoping to God he didn't just run into somebody's toddler. His mama had told him time and time again not to be so rough on the playground. To his relief, it looks like a boy about his age, maybe a bit younger. While Dean is a little shorter and stockier than the other kids, this kid is thin and willowy, with long black hair and glasses that have been knocked askew.

"I'M SORRY!" Dean yells, and then, remembering he's not in Germany right now, lowers his voice. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

The boy sits up cautiously, his crying down to a sniffle, but he takes one look at his knees and starts bawling again. "I'm bleeding!" He screeches. Dean looks around helplessly. His mother won't be back for at least half an hour, and he sees no sign of this boy's mother, either.

"Where's your mom?" Dean asked the boy, and when he doesn't answer he gets worried. Did he break this child? "Where's your MOM?" Dean yells, crouched down and right in front of the boy's face. The boy takes a hiccupping breath and gasps, "Not here!"

The other kids are staring at them now, looking fearful. Dean scoots over next to the boy and hugs him, like his mama taught him. "I'm sorry I made you sad," he says, remembering what she told him to say. "A soldier always takes care of the weak."

"But I won' get better cuz there's no one t'kiss it better!" The boy bawls, his glasses hanging by one ear. Dean hesitates and steals a furtive glance at the other kids, who are watching them earnestly.

"Stop STARING!" Dean bellows. He makes the boy cry louder, but at least the other kids go back to whatever they were doing.

Dean wrinkles his nose and bends down, quickly touching his lips to the boy's injured knees—just a quick one, mind you, he doesn't want everyone to think he has cooties. In fact, he barely even touches them, but the boy stops crying instantly.

Dean sat up and looked at him. "Are you ok now?" He asks wearily, hoping the boy doesn't have any more injuries anywhere else. The boy nods, fixing his glasses. His dirty fingers leave marks on the lenses.

"I'm sorry I didn't see you," Dean said. "I was in Germy, fightin' the Nassies."

The boy looks at him with a kind of reverence, forgotten tears drying on his cheeks. "My daddy's fighting in Germy," he says.

"Mine, too," Dean says happily. "Maybe they're friends!"

The boy's face breaks into a smile. "I bet they are."

"My name is Dean," Dean says, suddenly remembering something else his mother taught him. "What's your name?"

"Castiel," the boy says, wiping at his face. He gives Dean a suspicious look. "Don't laugh at it. It's from the Bible."

Dean, who had had every intention of laughing at it, catches himself. "It's a pretty name," he says. 'Like a girl's,' he finishes in his head.

"Just call me Cas, okay?" Castiel says dolefully. "That's what everyone 'cept my mommy calls me."

"What does your mama call you?" Dean asked. Cas blushed and mumbled, "Cassy."

Dean was silent for several long moments, fighting back peals of laughter. "My mama just calls me Dean," he choked out at last. Taking a breath, he said, "when's your mama coming to pick you up?"

"She's not coming today," Cas said. "My brother is."

"Okay, when is he coming?"

Cas shrugged. "He just said he'd be back before dinner."

Dean looked at the sun, which was already low in the sky. "That might be soon, then. Do you wanna play soldiers with me?"

Cas nodded. "I would."

The two of them spent the next hour playing soldiers. They would take turns, one of them being an Ally soldier, the other a Nazi who climbed to the top of the playground and laughed evilly, that being the most a five-year-old could do. Cas was surprisingly fast and nimble, able to scale trees when Dean couldn't, but Dean was stronger.

"Dean, come on! It's time to go home!" Dean looked down from his perch atop the slide and saw his mama, one hand resting on her stomach, the other waving at him.

"Is that your mommy?" Cas said in a hushed voice, sitting next to Dean. "She's pretty."

"I know," Dean said, feeling a surge of happiness. "My mama's the prettiest lady in the whole world. Come on." He slid down the slide, and Cas followed him. The two of them raced over to where Dean's mother was standing.

"Mama, I made a friend!" Dean cried, jumping up and down. "His name is Castiel! It's from the Bible!"

Castiel smiled sheepishly. "Hello."

"Oh, you must be Castiel Novak," his mother said, a strange look on her face. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so—"

"Please don't talk about that," Cas said quietly, and Dean's mother shut up instantly. "I'm sorry, but please don't."

There was an uncomfortable silence as Dean looked confusedly from Cas to his mother. "What? Don't talk about what?" He asked.

"Nothing," his mother said cheerily. "Come on, Dean, let's go home."

"But Cas's brother isn't here yet," Dean worried. He looked to his new friend. "Will you be all right? It's almost dark."

"I'll be fine," Cas assured him. "Michael's usually late. It's okay."

"Okay," Dean said. "Bye, Cas."

"Bye, Dean."

Dean followed his mother to the car and got in. "Is Daddy back yet?" He asked the question every day, and every day he got the same answer, but it didn't stop him from asking again the next day. On today, however, instead of his mother shaking her head and saying, "No, not yet, sweetie," she looked at him sadly. "We'll talk when we get home," she said quietly, and Dean was frightened at the tone of her voice. She sounded so sad.

Dean was afraid to talk on the way home, anxiety eating at his stomach. When they pulled into their driveway Dean clambered out of the car, shutting the car door by himself. He followed his mother up the steps to their house, into the livingroom, onto the couch.

Dean's mother sat next to him and hugged him against her. "Dean, you know where Daddy is, right?"

Dean nodded. "He's in Germy, fightin' Nassies."

His mother nodded. "Well, Dean, sometimes the Nazis fight back. Your…your daddy was scouting with fourteen other men, and the Nazis surprised them."

"But Daddy killed them all, didn't he?" Dean asked, and tears sprang unbidden into his eyes. "Tell me he made 'em all dead." He could see tears in his mother's eyes as well, and that made him want to cry even more. "Tell me he's okay, mama!" He shouted, and his mother started to cry. Horrified that he had made his mother cry, he started to cry too, and she pressed his head to her chest.

"I'm so sorry, baby," she whispered. "Daddy's not coming home."

May 2, 1944

The next day Dean sat alone at the playground, on the swings. He had cried himself out last night, and he felt bad for it, because how could he be a soldier like his father when he cried?

Despite his misery he kept an eye out for Cas, but the dark haired boy didn't show up, and this only worsened his mood. Dean hoped he was all right. Now he felt guilty for not asking his mama to take Cas home last night. What if something had happened to him?

He sat in the playground, alone, for what seemed like an eternity. His mother wasn't there yet, and it was starting to get dark.

He was huddled under the play equipment, where no one could see him, when a car pulled up. Finally!

Dean crawled out from under the play equipment and rushed over, but he slowed to a stop when he realized it wasn't his car. From inside, a tall teenager with brown hair looked at him. "Dean Winchester?"

Dean nodded.

"Your mama's in the hospital, havin' her baby."

Dean sucked in a breath. "Right now?"

The guy nodded. "Right now. Told me to come get you."

Dean's worried, fearful five year old mind didn't think about the fact that this could very well be a trap. Worry for his mama overshadowed everything else, and he found himself getting into the guy's car. The guy smelled bad, and it was only years later that he would recognize that scent for what it was—alcohol.

"Who are you?" Dean asked. The guy shook his head. "No one you know."

"I mean what's your name."

"Michael Novak."

"You're Cas's brother!" Dean gasped. "Is he okay?"

Michael gave him a quizzical look. "Uh, yes. Why wouldn't he be?"

"I was just worried," Dean explained. To his relief, he could see the hospital in the distance. When Michael parked, he and Dean rushed inside, Dean nearly jumping up and down with anxiety. The lady at the desk was taking far too long to find his mama's room number, but finally she did, and they set off down the hall.

When they came to it, Room 66, Dean tried to rush inside, but Michael caught his arm and held him back. He knocked on the door three times, and after a moment someone opened it. A pretty nurse with yellow hair stopped short when she saw Michael. "Um, can I, help you?" She asked.

"This kid's mother is in there poppin' out a brat," Michael grunted. He pushed Dean forward, then turned around and left. The nurse stared after him before saying, "Come on, kid." She turned and led him gently into the room. His mother was lying there asleep, and for a moment Dean feared she was dead before he saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

The next thing he noticed was a small, pink thing in a crib next to her.

"Is that my new sibling?" Dean asked quietly, using the word his mama had told him, and the nurse nodded. "It's a boy. You've got a brother."

Dean walked quietly over and looked at his new brother. It didn't look much like a person.

"We normally don't allow people back here," the nurse said. "You're lucky."

Dean lingered at his brother's crib a moment more before walking around it to stand next to his mama. "Mama," he whispered, afraid that if he spoke too loudly he might injure her. She looked so fragile. She stirred in her sleep, then opened her eyes. "Oh," she said quietly. "Dean, it's you." She struggled to sit up, smiling. "You have a new baby brother."

"I know," Dean said. "What's his name?"

"I don't know yet," his mama said. "A name is a very important thing. I've got to think about it a while."

"You should name him Adam," Dean said solemnly. "That's from the Bible."

His mama smiled. "I'll think about it, baby." She looked to the nurse. "I have an aunt who lives in the next town over," she said, each word taking an effort to say. "If you could call her…"

The nurse nodded. "Will do, Mrs. Winchester," she assured her. Putting a hand on Dean's shoulder she said, "Come on, sport. Your mama needs rest."

"Goodnight, mama," Dean whispered. His mama smiled, her eyes closed.

"Goodnight, baby."