English is not my first language and the chapter wasn't proofread by Beta. I try my best, but it doesn't change the fact that there are mistakes.

Chapter I

Coming Home

"Dean Winchester is saved!"

Dean coughed as stale and stuffy air filled his newly restored lungs. It was too dark to see anything, so he tried to orient himself by feeling his surroundings with his hands. Rotting wood, he realized after some wiggling. He was lying in the box of rotting wood.

A coffin. The angel dumped his ass into a coffin.

"You son of a bitch…" Dean croaked as he rummaged around his pockets for something useful. "Saved, my ass…" he resumed grumbling until a crooked smirk slipped on his lips when he found his old trusty lighter.

Dean looked around the tight space once again, a lit lighter grasped in his hand this time.

The longer he stayed here, the more his head hurt. And it wasn't just because due to lack of oxygen or too much dust clogging his respiratory system. The entirety of different memories convoluted into a massive, jumbled mess; dozens of his previous reincarnations lapped over each other, intertwining and mixing with eons of Michael's angelic recollections. The cheering voices of all his younger siblings in the corner of his mind were definitely not helping either.

But Dean had no time to fix it right now. He really needed to get topside before the air ran out and his body died again.

That would be kinda awkward.

Dean pried the rotting wood board of his coffin lid, quickly covering his head from the sudden gush of dirt. Zombies had it tough. He swore to never make fun of them ever again and was just grateful for small mercies—the ground seemed to have been softened by the brief touch of an angel's true form. While the whole ordeal of crawling out of one's own grave was not an easy task, it still was easier than Dean anticipated.

When he finally reached the top, his lungs screamed, his arms ached, and he felt like a supernova just went out in his head. After a deep breath of fresh air, Dean pushed his tired body farther from the hole. Once he finally reached the refuge of tall, dry grass, he let himself collapse into a boneless heap.

For some time, he just laid there, panting and exhausted, shielding his eyes from the too-bright sunlight, but content to be warmed by gentle rays.

The grass moved in steady waves, rustling and murmuring, dancing in the wind. Gradually, the song of crickets and the chirps of birds came back and lifted the blanket of the unnatural, eerie silence from the surrounding forest.

Dean let his mind wander, basking in the splendor of his Father's creation: the sky above and the soil beneath, encompassing nature, rich with flora and various animals, including His greatest masterpiece—humans.

So, why the heck He made plans to destroy it all?

With a sigh, Dean hauled himself up to his feet, casting a quick glance to his surroundings for the first time. The trees in the immediate vicinity were torn out at their roots and flattened in a circle, his grave acting as its epicenter. Some were broken in half, branches ripped clean off their stems.

Dean took in the destruction of the forest, amusement flickering across his features. His little sibling's landing really did a number on this place. It would certainly leave humans baffled once they would stumble upon it.

Wandering out of the ravaged area and into an overgrown road, Dean began to stroll alongside it while using free time to thoroughly sort through his memories. He carefully sifted out his previous human reincarnations and shoved them out of the way, burying it deep inside his consciousness.

That left him with only two sets of memories and consequently two different identities: Dean Winchester and the Archangel Michael.

It sure came as a surprise when the human's side took a priority almost instantly. An urgent wish, no, need, to make sure Sam was okay flared inside him, spreading throughout his whole being like a wildfire.

Absent-mindedly, Dean rubbed his chest. Massaged his ribs gently at first and then pressed harder when it didn't help to alleviate the dull ache he felt there; a yawning hole, raw and empty. As if his innards were minced into a fine paste and sucked out by the tiny black hole that suddenly opened up inside his thorax. As if a piece of him was somehow missing.

And it was. Michael's grace was missing. His grace.

He couldn't quite smother a small shudder at the memory of the sheer agony he went through as he tore his grace out. Those centuries without it felt surprisingly long now, even for his Archangel's side.

Clicking his tongue in a fit of abrupt irritation, Dean pried his hand away from his chest.

Besides finding Sam and his grace, he had no idea what to do next.

Looking from Heaven's position, God's plan was rather simple. Let Lucifer out, let him and Michael take their true vessels and have them fight till one of them won, with Heaven and Hell on the sidelines cheering for the horse they had respectively bet on.

It seemed that humanity had only one role in God's plan—be collateral damage. Looking from its perspective, from Dean Winchester's position, this plan was the biggest bullshit Dean had ever heard. And he had heard lots of bullshit throughout his life.

Dean heaved a relieved sigh, as he finally spotted a sign of civilization—the lonely gas station. He really, really didn't want to think about what to do with the Apocalypse before getting a good cup of water.

The gas station didn't look completely abandoned. It was stocked with fresh food and water and even had a stack of newspapers which Dean assumed were pretty recent. A sheer miracle, considering that the place was in the middle of nowhere without a single ghost in sight for miles, let alone a living person.

He wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth though.

Dean went to the bathroom to wash his face and for some time simply stared at his own reflection in the dirty mirror. His vessel had been perfectly restored, without a single hair out of line. Even old badly healed broken bones and scars were now gone. He got a new one, however, a red, angry handprint shaped scar on his shoulder—a physical manifestation of the sacred imprint left directly on the surface of his soul; an aftereffect of being touched by a celestial being while in Hell, a protection brand of sorts.

And that was when Dean realized the fact nagging him at the back of his mind from the moment he woke up.

He possessed his own soul now. A real human's soul.

Which was impossible, because fallen angels didn't have souls, only mere threads of their grace keeping their original consciousness tied to a vessel. No matter if it was falling by ripping it out and being reborn into a human's body or by breaking their connection to Heaven and letting their grace slowly seep out and scatter across the cosmos.

Each soul was unique, special. They didn't appear out of nowhere, but were carefully shaped and molded by the Universe itself, by the Laws of Creation. God Himself made it possible, constructing the self-contained system that assured humanity's survival.

The same Laws seemingly used a leftover trace of Michael's grace to forge him a soul as he kept going through the continuous cycle of reincarnation.

Dean shut that too overwhelming to comprehend line of thought off in an instant.

Finally, the dirt was washed from his face, his body relaxed after drinking a whole bottle of water and munching on some granola bars. With the immediate needs taken care of, Dean's mind strayed to what to do next. Whatever he decided to do, the first step was finding Sam.

Even before regaining his grace.

Dean rubbed at the spot of his chest where the emptiness felt the most prominent.

Sam Winchester was the key person for whatever side Michael would decide to take in the upcoming Apocalypse, so, of course, he needed to find the kid first and foremost.

Such reasoning appeased his Archangel's side, barely, so with a rough plan in mind, Dean grabbed some more snacks and water and emptied the register, ready for the road.

He stiffened when the ethereal presence suddenly loomed over the small building. It was soft and gentle, but at the same time felt huge and immense, calm but mighty, and it was coming down fast.

"Dean Winchester."

The high pitch whining sound pierced Dean's ears like a knife. He pressed his hands on his ears, gritting his teeth as the unbearable pain bore into his skull.

"We need to talk."

The windows exploded, raining down on his hunched figure.

The sound ceased as abruptly as it started.

After another moment, Dean dared to lift his head to survey the small shop. The pain surged through his head and with a groan he tried to soothe it by making soothing circles on his temples with his fingers. Didn't help much. Brushing across his ears, he felt something wet and sticky. Blood on his hands earned a displeased scowl.

"Lower the volume if you want to talk, buddy," Dean muttered under his breath as he collected his stolen goods and went outside to make a call.

Sam's mobile phone was turned off. Calling Bobby ended up pretty much as he had expected. While staring at the old car in the parking lot, Dean realized that he truly missed his Baby.

But more than anything he missed his wings.

The void in his ribcage twinged almost unbearably at the last thought, but Dean ignored it with a stubborn fervor, choosing instead to hot-wire the battered scrap in front of him and get himself back on track.

The houses of Pontiac city's suburbs were just starting to peek out over the horizon when Dean felt it—a pull towards the city. It wasn't a soft tug, but a full-on wrench, almost excruciating yank on his very existence.

A piece of Michael's grace was here, in this city.

He almost smashed the car into a streetlight.

Dean shouldn't really have been this surprised. It was expected that his grace would find a way to gravitate back to its owner. He made absolute sure of that before dismantling it into pieces and letting several of them fall together with him to Earth.

Dean started shaking, barely able to keep his hands safe on the steering wheel. Few minutes to remind himself how to breathe and his shock fanned out into gleeful excitement. His foot pressed on the gas pedal as far as it went, causing the old scrap's tires to screech miserably against the surface of the road as it jerked forward in a sudden gain of momentum.

Every fiber of Dean's being was vibrating with anticipation as he maneuvered across the city towards where his grace was calling to him. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and a wide grin grew of its own accord as he followed the feeling of his essence to the hotel by the name 'Astoria'.

Dean almost ran into the streetlight, again, when his eyes fell on one particular car, sitting peacefully in the corner of the hotel's parking lot.

The Impala. His Baby.

She was gorgeous. Downright majestic in all of her sleek, black beauty. Hands trembling in reverence, Dean touched the trunk of the Impala and carefully stroked over the whole length of the car, his vast longing and love in the motion.

This,

This,

This was home. Not Heaven. Not something else. This. The Impala. His Archangel's status couldn't change that. The Baby always was and would continue to be Dean's home.

Then the realization hit him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer—if Baby was here, then Sammy was here too. Dean turned around and looked at the building.

Sam and the piece of Michael's grace in one place? One hell of a coincidence.

Maybe it was a trap.

As soon as that idea popped in, Dean pushed it aside with a snort. Angels were only mere stories for the hunters at this point in time, chubby naked babies with halos and tiny wings. Sam wasn't an exception.

He still decided to approach the room with caution. He stood in front of the door for a couple of minutes just gathering his courage to knock. Not that Dean was afraid of being killed. He wasn't certain what he would feel seeing Sam now that he had his memories back and the uncertainty of his own reaction scared him more than anything.

Dean sighed in helpless frustration as he peeled his hand from his chest where it rubbed his skin raw, cleared his throat, and finally lightly rapped on the door.

A muted thump and a curse later, it swung open, revealing a disheveled Sam. "Ruby, I've—" Whatever he wanted to say instantly died at the back of his throat. Every muscle of his body just froze, face washed blank with confusion like his brain cogs couldn't turn fast enough to take in the information his eyes projected into them.

Dean stared back, drowning in a violent ocean of his own emotions. Despite that, the corner of his mouth slowly rose up and fondness curled around his eyes. "Hiya, Sammy," he greeted softly.

Sam blinked twice, confused and disbelieving, and then blinked some more, trying to make sense of his life right now. On the next blink, his expression crumbled like a house of cards, immeasurable pain and grief etched profoundly across his young features.

Dean's heart skipped a beat in anguish at the sight.

But then, all cues of vulnerability melted from Sam's face, thoroughly wiped clean, replaced by the all-consuming rage instead. He charged Dean with a frenzied roar.

The latter instinctively caught his arm holding a silver knife that came seemingly out of nowhere, and twisted Sam around, restraining it behind his back. "Easy, tiger," Dean said, his voice light and amused. He snatched the blade, shoved his brother into the room, shot a quick glance to the corridor to make sure no one witnessed their momentary skirmish and closed the door before Sam managed to catch himself after his stumble.

They both turned to face each other at the same time.

Sam's body was coiled like a spring, poised to defend, obviously expecting Dean to attack now. When it didn't happen in an immediate instant, he warily eyed the stolen knife before his clearly calculating gaze flicked to the bed.

"Don't even think about it, Sammy," Dean said, taking a step closer to draw Sam's entire attention back on him and not what he assumed was a handgun, stashed somewhere on the bed. "You wouldn't want to hurt your own brother now, would you?"

Sam's jaw tightened in that familiar, stubborn, ready-to-fight way. "Only Dean can call me that," he warned the other man, hissed at him. "Who—What are you?!"

"It's me, Sammy," Dean assured, quickly brushing the silver blade over his forearm, drawing blood. "Not a shapeshifter or—or revenant." He pulled his t-shirt's collar, revealing an undamaged anti-possession tattoo. "Not a demon, either. Just me. Your brother."

Sam observed him in silence and Dean was content to let his brother puzzle him out.

No matter how hard the kid seemed to try and keep his expression neutral, a sliver of hope finally shone through. "…Dean?" His voice was so small, unsure, it was clear that he was grasping at straws. "But—" 'You're dead' was left unsaid, hanging awkwardly in the air between them.

"No buts. I look fantastic, I know. You though," Dean pointed at Sam and smirked. "You need a haircut, kiddo."

Sam let a rush of air pass his lips which sounded suspiciously like a burst of choked laughter, something between annoyance and amusement. Then he flung himself forward and crushed his brother against his chest. He buried his face into the crook of Dean's neck, wracked with the force of unvoiced cries and fearing to ease his desperate grip even a tiny bit, lest his older brother would somehow leave or disappear into thin air.

Dean returned the hug with equal strength. He loved this kid, he realized with startling clarity. He loved him in a way Father had always wanted him to love humans. More than Him. More than anyone else in the Universe.

His home now felt perfect. Complete.

It was just that simple. Surprisingly so.

For a while, two brothers stood there, relishing in each other's presence.

Dean was the first one to clap Sam over the shoulder at the same time as he wheezed out, "I need to breathe here, man."

"Oh." In a reluctant hurry, Sam pulled away. "Sorry." He kept one hand on Dean's shoulder and stared at him, his gaze full of genuine joy and sort of childish awe, the sort children gain while watching the hero they greatly admire.

Dean hadn't seen such look on his baby brother's face pointed at him since the latter hit puberty. It brought a new wave of warmth, filling every crevice and fold and space inside his being. Even the hollow under his ribcage where his grace was ripped out didn't seem that painful at this very moment.

"But… How, Dean? How are you—" Sam waved vaguely up and down the older man's body, searching for correct wording to ask what was on his mind. "—here? Alive?"

"Someone pulled me out," Dean explained with an unconcerned shrug. "Don't know who or why. I woke up in the pine box this morning and had to crawl up topside. Was passing Pontiac on my way to Bobby when I noticed my Baby in the parking lot." He flashed an easy grin. "A beauty after my own heart, it's not like I could have missed it."

"Of course," Sam huffed with an eye-roll, full six feet of fond exasperation. "Oh, by the way," he said, fumbling with the cord around his neck before pulling a small bronze amulet over his head. "You probably want this back, too."

Dean's smile threatened to split his face in two as he took the amulet into his own hands. He could sense a piece of Michael's grace impatiently humming against his skin, eager to be released and reunited with its Archangel.

Kind of ironic, he mused, the fact that an old trinket wasn't the only thing Sam gave him back.

Before the warm golden light could slip out and illuminate the dim room, alerting his brother, Dean tightly squeezed the amulet in his fist and whispered, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Sam smiled too, but it was short-lived. After a moment, his brow furrowed. "Something wrong?"

Dean's head snapped up and he blinked at the obvious worry on his brother's features that wasn't there before. "What do you mean?"

"You keep rubbing the same spot over and over." Sam gave a small wave at Dean's chest with his hand. "Are you hurt?"

Dean glanced down, then pursed his lips and forced his arm down with an irritated grunt. He didn't even notice doing it. Not that it was of any use either. "Nah, I'm fine," he replied. "A bit out of tune with my own meatsuit, that's all. Hadn't been in there for quite some time, y'know. That reminds me…" A sheepish smile broke across his face and he promptly moved towards the bathroom. "I, uh, I need to pee now."

"Dude!" Sam bristled, at a loss for words. "Seriously?"

"What? You gotta do what you gotta do." Dean stopped before closing the door, the hand with the amulet safely hidden behind it, and turned to Sam. "I haven't peed in like…" He did some calculations in his head and scowled at the result. "Longer than I'd be comfortable to admit out loud."

The younger man shook his head, unable to stop his mouth stretching into a grin. "Take a shower, too! You need it!" he shouted as the bathroom's door closed behind his brother.

There was a rustle, soon followed by, "Bitch!"

Sam's smile grew bigger. "Jerk!"