About 11 years ago, I sat down to write a platonic Sam & Dean snapshot for a challenge table, and I decided it would be about Dean saying yes to Michael, because in that AU, Michael could have also chosen Sam. This was early season 5; so much was possible lol

A few things happened-

I was severely restricted because I had to keep it to less than 1,000 words—which is cool as a writing exercise, but not particularly cool as a chapter of something larger.

I never intended it to be something larger, but then during a bus ride to another part of the college campus, an entire story basically info dumped itself into my brain. I didn't write down as much of that as I wish I would have XD But, I remember the most vividly important bits—which is good, because I only made it about 6 chapters in before I got distracted and flitted elsewhere.

It's kind of a good thing, though, because I wasn't yet ready to write wincest, and this story needs wincest. It is primarily a destiel and Sam/Michael story, yes, but it really at its core wanted and needed to be a poly story—but I kept shying away from that. Part of it was because I wasn't quite ready, but I have the benefit of my own memories, and I know that quite frankly, the biggest part of it was being afraid of how people would react, because that was juuust on the cusp of the vocal minority of destiel fans who hated wincest starting to become more vocal. I was afraid of being yelled at, and of driving away readers.

I'm not afraid of those things anymore; I'm in a place where I can do whatever is best for the story. So, I can tell you at the outset that it's probably going to be a poly configuration of Castiel/Dean, Dean/Sam, and Sam/Michael. All three relationships will likely by the end coexist at the same time—if the wincest ends up being mostly physical or only temporary, that's unlikely, but possible. I want to give this story the chance to go the way it needs to.

What I had before was stuff I was proud of—but I'm still a better writer now, so I will be making some slight edits. So, if you read the story years ago, you may be in for some slight non-enormous changes. I cannot promise any kind of update schedule, both because life and also because I'm working on a long fic that will probably become my 2021 Big Bang at the same time. I do, however, really want to see this through.

But, because I respect that for lots of you, the old version is still important, I'm not replacing chapters- I'm just starting fresh here. You can see those first chapters as a…rough draft of possibility, or as the original, and this as the reboot. If any of you are still coming back to read this after all this time…thank you so, so much.

…now after all that, onto the show.

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There were a million articles that described how to identify a dream. In his desperation to try and make Dean address the nightmares they didn't talk about that hadn't left him since hell, Sam had read Dean several of them. The reminders could flick through his head rapid as a flip book, memories of Sam lit by the glow of his computer in a dozen different roadside motels.

There's a lot of lore that says you're not likely to look down at your hands in dreams, so try to force it—you might have extra fingers, or your hands might be blurry. That can tell you you're dreaming. If you know you're dreaming, sometimes you can learn to change the dream, or decide to wake up.

There's anecdotal evidence that at least a significant number of people are unable to read in dreams, or at least can't read consistently. It's a little like the hand thing; if you think of it, and if you're somewhere you can deliberately look at words, that might help shake your mind out of it.

This test might be the easiest one for you—check your weapons. If they aren't where you know you would put them or you aren't wearing them, you know you're dreaming.

Even when they didn't help, every one of Sam's attempts had still settled on him like balm, and he'd never said. If they made it through this—hell, if they got even a few weeks past freeing the devil—they might shift back to a good enough place to tell him how much it had meant.

When Michael came to him, he didn't need a single test, even if he could have remembered to do one. There was a stillness to Bobby's house around him that didn't feel quite right—and no world in which there would have been a man he didn't know up here in the spare bedroom they'd shared since they were kids, not while Sam was asleep.

"I'm dreaming," Dean said. If Sam was right, the certainty would give him some power—though he wasn't at all sure what power that might be when his dream was in someone else's hands.

The red haired stranger at the foot of the bed had an easy smile. Leaning against the wall, he didn't look like he felt the slightest bit out of place. "Yes, Dean. You are dreaming."

The bedside rug gone threadbare from years felt hard and real under his bare feet as he stood up—he could feel the circle where he'd dropped a cigarette trying to smoke up here when he was 15. "Alright. And who are you? Angel? Demon? You know at this point, I really don't give a shit. " Dean stepped closer, closing distance.

Whoever he was, his soft laughter grated against Dean's pride. He wouldn't be fucking cowed or condescended to; not in his own goddamn head. "What do you want?"

"I'm Michael."

The tension that shot up Dean's spine and took him back a step was all instinct. Away from the threat; still solidly between it and Sam. He'd been building that reflex his entire life.

"Relax, please," Michael said. There were no lines of tension in him, no hint of movement. An alligator, too, went completely still before a strike. "I have no intentions of taking you by force."

"God, doesn't that sound wrong."

"Very good." Michael smirked, and his stillness broke. He moved as if uncaring that Dean mirrored him, following the line of the dresser until he stopped at the halfway point and leaned back his hands splayed across the old wood that in reality was covered with odds and ends. Here, in the dream, it was bare—if he made it out of this dream, he could tell Sam. Another sign. "Trust me, even if I could force you, I wouldn't want to. The very idea is repulsive, I assure you. Whatever Zachariah may have done to you, he did not have my consent. I have never coerced a vessel by cruel means, nor do I intend to start now."

Another step back pressed the edge of the bed into Dean's thigh. Throwing his hand back, if he had to, he could wake Sam—and in a dream, that would probably do fuck all, but he couldn't be sure the level of reality he was working with, here. He had to plan as if it mattered, in case it did. "So, what, you think you can get in my head, try to make friends and change my mind? Sorry, pal, but I have no intentions of being anyone's fucking clothes. This is my body and I'm keepin' it."

"I wouldn't hurt you, Dean."

"Fucking please. Jimmy—"

"Castiel has taken only one vessel before now, did you know? He isn't too familiar with how it works, how to best care for his host. He is learning, however." Michael's eyes soften, seemed something far too close to kind. Even with distance between them, Dean could see that they were an unusual shade of grey, light like fog. It should have looked more unsettling.

Michael gestured at his own chest. "This man, Aaron O'Conner, gave me his permission, and when I took his form in 1965 I lived with him for two years before leaving him, and he returned to his family without consequence."

"Without consequence? They didn't wonder where the hell he'd been for two years?"

Michael's shrug would have given him another reminder of how inhuman he was, if he'd needed one. He hadn't.

"He sorted it out. But just think, Dean, how much easier it would be on you. Your family already understands."

"I already told Zach my answer to this question, but if you want to hear it for yourself, fine." Dean's chin tilted up, his stare unblinking. "No."

"That's the answer you gave to him, and as I said, he was wrong to approach you that way. I would've come on my own, in time. I've never liked Zachariah or his methods. On the other hand," He smiled, warm. "Castiel and I have been close brothers for generations."

Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise, a match to the jolt in his stomach. Cas hadn't said anything—but then, under the circumstances, there hadn't been an overwhelming amount of time. Still, there was the edge of a sting to it, an uncomfortable echo. He was so goddamn tired of fumbling in the dark. "And what does he think about all this, huh?"

"He would rather I didn't take you, but his reasons are…" The flick of Michael's eyes to Dean's left shoulder seemed to bore through the cotton of his t-shirt. "Anchored in emotion and possession rather than reason. He knows I will not harm you. And that for the sake of his feelings toward you I will be even more careful to return you to him and the rest of your family undamaged."

Undamaged. God, it made him sound like furniture. The revulsion couldn't settle; it felt like something clawing at his stomach from the inside out. "No. Hell no."

"Dean," Michael sighed. His regret was so palpable, it almost sounded real. "You leave me no choice."

"What happened to 'I won't take you by force', huh?"

"I won't. But I didn't want to bring this up." Michael stepped forward, his eyes darkening just enough to be noticeable. Less fog, more a thunderhead before a storm. It flashed through his mind that the true form of this one had to be fucking terrifying, a real Revelations monstrosity with screaming heads of inhuman wrath and eyes on his goddamn teeth. "You are not the only one of your bloodline, Dean. I have received another offer. And if you don't allow me, he is willing."

Automatically his eyes flicked to the bed, to the version of Sam in his mind that slept undisturbed. The urge to reach back and grab his ankle was almost overwhelming.

"That's right. The little brother you have sleeping beside you now, the one you've tried so hard to protect, he will let me take him, Dean. He has told me as much. I walked his dreams tonight also."

"You son of a bitch, you had no—"

"I had every right, Dean. You have given every indication of being unapproachable."

The rise in Dean's heartbeat mirrored his desperation, easily drowning his revulsion out. He had no drive that went deeper than this, no hierarchy of needs without Sam at its core. "He has demon blood," Dean said. It was vehement, triumphant. He had never been happy for that fact, until that very moment.

Michael only hummed. "He's learning to control it, more and more every day. And my presence will overpower it."

It was either the dream or the cloud of adrenaline; Dean had barely noticed that Michael had pushed away from the dresser, that the two of them had come so close in the space between where he'd been and Sam's side of the bed. Dean was close enough now to feel heat from the archangel's body, the raw power radiating off his frame to pound like bass against Dean's chest, out of tempo with his heart.

"You're a real bastard, you know that?" Dean said. "He's been through enough."

"I give you my word, Dean, I will take care of him."

"You won't lay a goddamn finger on him."

Michael closed the last distance by stepping closer, one hand striking out viper fast to take Dean's chin in his hand. For all the shock of it, his grip was disturbingly gentle. "Is that your choice, then? Will you permit me?"

Dean couldn't bear to look at him—it was everything he had not to jerk away, but there was nowhere left to go. If he moved, he wouldn't be in front of Sam anymore—and God, wasn't there a metaphor in that. "I can tell you one thing, Mike. This counts as cruel means."

"That's unfair."

"I don't think so." With a deep breath, he gathered himself enough to look in Michael's eyes. Settled, again, like morning mist. "Tell Cas I think you're a dick, will you?"

Michael's lips quirked up, just slightly. "I assure you, Castiel will express his disapproval without your help."

Decision made, Dean allowed himself to jerk just his head away. Shockingly, Michael let him go with an easiness that seemed almost lazy. "Give me a minute with Sam."

He was awake as soon as the words left him, eyes snapping open to take in Bobby's guest room and moonlight and Sam, fast asleep and turned toward Dean in a bed too small but utterly familiar. The clutter of the room was back; he could hear the slight knock and tick of the air conditioner settling off in the attic. He was out of the dream; there could be no doubt.

His hand hovered over Sam's shoulder, deciding. The temptation was strong to let him sleep. For a moment, history came for him so thick it took his breath, his heart and head yanked violently back to Nebraska in the middle of winter, just after he'd turned 16. He'd had rough moments before, but this was the first time he was going out after something he knew could absolutely kill him—hunting the manticore, he wouldn't be with dad every minute, and Sam's voice from years ago had pressed on him like barbed wire.

If they got mom, they could get dad. They could get us.

His chin had shook more than his hand; he remembered how hard he'd had to bite his lip to stop it. It wasn't the dying that scared him quite so much, not even then—that was terrifying, of course, because he knew it would hurt, but worse was the thought of Sam waking up to dad coming back alone.

All that had stopped him was knowing that if he woke Sam up, he wouldn't stop until he'd come with him. Up to that point in his life, the hardest thing he'd ever done was kissing his forehead, and walking out the door. He could still feel the cold of the knob burning his hand outside in his memory, the moment he'd taken to lean into the door and gasp in the cold until it hurt his lungs. If he didn't come back, Sam would never forgive him. If he'd been stronger, he could have told him goodbye without saying it, just in case.

Gently, Dean reached over, and shook his brother awake.

The sound he made waking up from a dead sleep hadn't changed that much since he was 12. "Dean?"

"Hey, Sammy," Dean murmured. It was steady; he could pride himself on that.

"Too early. Go back to—"

"Sam." That, that was all it took. His instincts tripped, and Sam came fully awake then. It was fascinating, like a thrown switch—unique, but unsurprising. In every way they knew each other more than anyone alive, even now. "Just had a talk with Michael."

Sam's eyes flashed wide with panic, his grip when he grabbed at his shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Dean, no, I told him I'd—"

"Yeah, I know you did," Dean said. He couldn't bear to hear it out loud; he couldn't bear to think it. "And I know you would. But you're not."

"Dean, no, please, you said it yourself, this is my fault, man. Let me—"

"No, no, just shut up about it, alright?" If there was ever a time he didn't want to argue, it was now. With Sam, it was always, if he was honest, but he'd said shit he hadn't yet had time to take back, words he didn't want to live with. One of these days, he'd learn to hold his tongue. "This is how it's gonna be."

His eyes were too well adjusted to the low light to miss the tears in Sam's eyes. The ache of them nearly drove him out of bed, but if this was his last time looking at Sam with his own eyes, under his own power, he wouldn't use that to turn away from him. Not for the world.

"Why? After everything I—why would you—"

"Cause I'm your big brother, that's why."

Dean looked just long enough to see it hit him, just enough for that flicker in his baby brother's eyes that was the same as it had been the first time Dean had given Sam his stuffed tiger during a tornado warning. Hunkered down in the basement under dad's arms with the siren blaring on the emergency radio, he'd looked over at Dean with such a mix of awe and hurt and love too pure and bright to be real. What could he have ever been, after that, but everything Sam needed? How could he be anything but his hero, when Sam looked at him like he had a choice not to be?

There never had been a choice, not for him, not one he could have borne. This weight, it would be nothing next to how he felt when he let Sam down.

Dean cut his eyes up to the speckled shadows of the popcorn ceiling, and spoke before Sam could cut him off. "Mike? I'm ready."

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Good Lord, when did ff get as absurd with their formatting as lj x.x