A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.

~Jean de la Fontaine

Dean started working at John Winchester's garage. His dad was impressed with Dean's mechanic abilities and had offered him a job and a bunk in the back office of the garage. A couple of days went by. Dean usually ate dinner at the Winchester's and became reacquainted with his mother's pie. He remembered why he loved the dessert so much. It wasn't that his mother's pie had been exceptionally good. Eating it again after so long t, he knew it was the familiarity of its taste and smell. It was the love with which it was prepared. Every slice of pie Dean ate after his mother's death was an attempt to reclaim something of what he'd lost in that fire.

It was strange to spend so much time with John and Mary and never tell them who he really was. But he couldn't possibly do that. He was here to discover his destiny, whatever that was, and if he hung around the Winchesters, something was bound to surface. It always did.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Dean was on the porch contentedly sitting in a rocker, watching the sun get lower in the sky. He started thinking to himself that he wouldn't mind being stuck here in the past. He could change everything; forge a new destiny for his family. But deep down Dean knew better—knew he didn't deserve a life of peace and contentment. As he dozed in the failing light, the sun's setting rays glowed orange under his closed lids. His eyes darted back and forth as the orange glow of the sunset morphed into the burning glow of sulfur, and the bird calls became frenzied shrieks of agony and sinful delight.

Dean awoke to the sight of Mary's face. She put a hand on his cheek and gently slapped him one more time when he stared at her with unseeing eyes.

"Dean? You with me?" Mary's eyes were soft, but they were also hardened into a serious gaze. It felt as though she were seeing into his very depths. He shied away from the penetration, ashamed. The motion didn't go unnoticed. Mary only looked harder at him. The look demanded irrefutably, yet gently, "Tell me."

"What's that for?" Mary asked when Dean stood up and walked into the living room to get as far away from her touch and gaze as possible.

"Sorry," Dean said.

"You know I'm no stranger to stories of war. You can tell me."

Risking another glance at his mother Dean said, "It's just, you remind me of my mother…and…the things I've done in my life, in my job… I picture my mom looking at me and seeing what's inside…" He sat down on the couch, desolate, "there's no forgiveness for someone like me."

"Dean." Mary put her hand on his cheek and forced him to look her in the face—meet her sapphire eyes filled with motherly tenderness. "I don't know all the things you've done, but I do know better than most about the evil that exists. I also know that although there is great evil, unconditional love is stronger. Now, I cannot speak for her, but I can tell you that no matter what my son (she placed a gentle hand over the bulge in her middle) did, nothing could make me stop loving him."

That was too much for Dean. The walls broke down around him and the floodwaters burst through. Shuddering sobs shook his body as his mother wrapped her arms around him, and she stroked the back of his neck, whispered comforting phrases into his ear.

He wept until there were no more tears, until he felt a pain keen through his soul like a sharp knife. It was hope—hope of forgiveness, of atonement, for redemption. Suddenly there was a crash outside.

Dean pulled himself together and told Mary to stay inside—he would check it out. He stepped outside and instantly felt himself being grabbed by the coat and shoved into the wall of the house, his head banging against the paneling.

Once the buzzing ceased in his ears and the spots quit dancing in front of his eyes, Dean viewed his attackers. Angels. There was no mistaking the superior stance and just plain douche-baggy attitudes. What Dean saw next startled him, however. It was John, but not John. It was Michael in his Dad's skin.

"Hello, Dean. It's time."

"Nah, uh, I don't think so, princeling. You still need my say-so! How did you con my Dad into it this time?"

"Oh, this is not your father. I merely take on the appearance of my last vessel, when I am without one. Most men wouldn't be able to see me as you do in this form. What they would behold would kill them."

"Guess maybe you're just not all your cracked up to be." Dean retorted.

"No, that's not it," Michael said patiently, "It's because of you, Dean. It's because it's time to fulfill your destiny."

"I don't believe in destiny. You can't make me do anything. Remember that whole free-will thing your Father came up with? Come to think of it, I should probably thank him for that. Might be the one thing I'm grateful for."

"There are ways around it," Michael said, directing Dean's attention to the window. Dean followed the angel's gaze and saw his mother through the darkened window.

A light descended upon the room and over Mary's head. The language the glowing light emanated was no earthly tongue, but consisted of melodious notes with heavenly quality, yet Dean understood it.

"Who…? Who are you?" Mary quaked.

"I am an angel of the Lord." Dean's mother fell to her knees. Michael had visited Mary with a sweet presence throughout her pregnancy—and though she recognized his presence she hadn't known who it was. Mary believed in angels (but she didn't know why she was convinced of their existence because she didn't remember the last time angels came to call). Angels were the only supernatural thing still sacred to her. She trusted and prayed that they would protect those whom she loved.

"What do you want?"

"In a few years a demon will come to your home to be paid back a debt—a debt you took on to save your husband. At that time your son will be in danger."

Mary looked down at the child in her womb and distress filled her eyes.

"I can save your son, but it will require a great sacrifice."

"I will do anything!" Mary accepted readily. She'd already put her trust in a demon to save John. Could a mother do less for her child? This was an angel, after all. Could Michael want something worse than Azazel? Impossible. He was an angel and angels were good.

"I will call on your son and ask something of him when it is time."

"What will you ask of him?"

"To show his devotion to me, as you do. In return, I will also bestow upon him a great honor."

"Yes, anything to stop the demon."

"So you accept this responsibility in the name of your son? As his mother and guardian you entrust him to me?"

"Yes."

With that the presence disappeared and left Mary alone kneeling on the wooden floor.

Dean's gaze shifted from the window and he looked at Michael in disbelief.

Michael laughed, "Did you really think I would let the fate of the world hang on the chance of gaining your stubborn consent? What the world requires now is sacrifice. Your mother was willing to do what was necessary. Are you? "

"She didn't know! She thought she was saving me! She wouldn't have sacrificed one son for another if she'd known the truth."

"Are you so sure, Dean? After what you did in Hell?" Michael clucked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "You're more of a devil than Sammy ever was, even with the demon blood in his veins."

Dean swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He closed his eyes tightly, attempting to recall his mother's arms around him, her words of assurance. Instead, he saw Alastair's face grinning in approval as Dean raked instruments of torture across the body of the soul before him. Dean opened his eyes widely, desperation and despair running ubiquitously over his face.

"Then why would you want someone like me for a vessel?" Dean's voice was muted and yet rang with the knell of defeat.

"I'm an archangel, Dean. There's enough grace in me to make up for what is lacking. You are nothing more than a broken shell of a man. I can fill it." Michael smiled. "I was going to try to obtain your consent, you know—even though Mary gave it in your stead."

Dean looked up, his eyes dead and his face expressionless.

Michael continued, "It makes the process so much easier and…less painful for the vessel. Not that that really matters, but I find the vessel's suffering highly irritating—much like an itch. But, no matter. You are so broken and defeated it will be a 'cakewalk', as you say."

Michael's form transmuted into a terrifyingly bright light and engulfed Dean's being. It…HE was inside of him. Dean could feel Michael in his head; feel his own thoughts being stolen from him as the angel usurped his body and mind. Every private feeling, thought and action of Dean's life was being ripped open and laid bare under the angel's inspection.

A scream tore from Dean's throat as the process reached its climax. White light shot from his eyes, nose, ears and mouth as his scream increased in volume and pitch.

Then it stopped.

Michael raised Dean's head, rolled his neck in attempt to familiarize himself with the vessel, and walked off into the night with a regal gait foreign to Dean's body.