Part Seven

"Dean."

Dean blinked awake, staring up at a cloudless, blue sky. For a moment, he just lay where he was, not understanding how he could be staring up at the sky so clearly. The sounds of people talking and children laughing rang in his ear. He sat up, realizing that he had been laying on a bench.

"Son of a bitch," he murmured to himself as he looked around. There were people walking around and children playing on the playground. He watched as one of the kids slid down a bright red slide, giggling the whole way. He couldn't help but smile as the kid started to run back to the small line forming for the slide.

The kid reminded Dean vaguely of Sam when he was younger. They had the same mop of brown hair and eyes that glowed with enthusiasm. He couldn't help but watch as the kids took turns sliding down. Another boy approached him just as he was getting ready to climb up the ladder. Instinctively Dean tensed up, getting ready to intervene in case the kid tried anything. The boy was older, not by much, and taller, and Dean was sure he could easily push him out of the way if he wanted to. But he caught a glimpse of the smile on the other boy's face, one full of affection and awfully familiar.

The boy ruffled the smaller boy's hair playfully and said, "Hey, Sammy."

Dean froze when he heard his own voice. Younger and higher pitched, perhaps, but there was no mistaking it.

"Lawrence, Kansas. May 7, 1988. Sam just turned five. You were nine. Your mom took you two to the park while your dad was working at the garage that day. You two had ice cream afterwards."

Dean turned to see a younger man with dark hair sitting beside him. He looked vaguely like a younger version of John Winchester. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew this wasn't really his dad. "Michael," he acknowledged. "We're inside my head, aren't we?"

"Yes," Michael said before lapsing into silence. There was a loud thud of bodies falling to the ground and the two turned their attention back to the memory. Dean found himself watching as his younger self started wrestling with another boy as Sammy looked on unsurely. He remembered that day. The boy had come up to them just as he was messing with Sam and decided that while the two had been distracted, he'd push past them and make it up the slide without having to wait in line.

Dean noticed because the kid shoved his brother down right in front of him and there was no way he was going to get away with hurting little Sammy without Dean getting a word in. He'd tackled the boy without a thought, surprising him as he landed on the boy's stomach. The two started to roll on the grass, trying to pin the other. It went on for a few minutes before some of the other kids started to take notice and form a small circle around them, and then a few of the adults. Mary had been one of them. She had run over after hearing the commotion and pushed her way through, shouting at a few people, "Move! That's my son!"

There had been a couple complaints on how Dean was violent and he should know better than to tackle another kid. The boy's mom wasn't pleased but once Dean explained what happened and that the kid pushed Sam first, Mary got into the woman's face about her son's disgusting behavior. They left afterwards and went to get ice cream to make up for what happened at the park.

Then dad came home for dinner and Dean got to explain all the things that happened. He remembered John's eyes widening at the story but in the end they were all grinning and dad leaned over to give Dean a big hug and told him how much of a hero he was. Then they all had the meatloaf surprise mom made and then the apple pie for dessert and by the end of the night, Dean was feeling pretty happy with how the day turned.

"It's a good memory, I'll give you that," Dean said finally. He watched as the scene continued to slowly play itself out.

"One of your favorites, if I'm not mistaken," Michael said.

"Yeah, guess so," Dean nodded. He turned to look at the angel. Michael was still focused on the memory playing itself out. "As much as I love reliving my past greatest hits, I take it this ain't exactly a social visit." Michael said nothing. Instead he looked down at his hands. It was such a human thing to do that the gesture looked strange on an angel. Dean cleared his throat. "So, what's going on, Mike?" The nickname slipped out before he could help himself. He'd taken to calling the angel by the shortened version of his name as a joke the first time he met him years ago, when he'd been on the hunt for a djinn with his father.

Michael didn't seem to notice the slip, or he just didn't care. He sighed, another human-like behavior that felt wrong coming from a powerful angel. "You're correct. As much as I would love to just come here to talk with you, this is not, as you put it, a social visit."

There was a joke on the tip of Dean's tongue about the formal way the angel always spoke, but it quickly died when the angel looked back up at him. There was no hint of affection or playfulness that Dean sometimes saw in the angel when he came to visit Dean through his dreams. His gaze was dark and serious and Dean knew when to keep quiet. He nodded, appreciative of Dean's seriousness to the situation.

"As you know, my home is up in Heaven. There are other angels, my brothers and sisters, some not as powerful as I and some who are. We cannot take form here on earth but certain, special, humans can agree to become vessels if the need arises. You are one of those vessels. You remember that you said 'yes' to me when you were four years old to save your mother's life."

Yes, he did remember that story. Michael had told him that he'd become the angel's vessel when he was really young. It was how they became connected and how Michael could visit his dreams when he wanted to. Michael also told him it worked the other way too. If Dean prayed to Michael, just to him, the angel could hear him and answer the prayer. If Dean was ever in trouble, the angel said he'd be there.

"I promise, Dean. To the best of my ability, I will answer your prayer," Michael had said.