Disclaimer: Just like the pony I wanted, I don't get to own these guys either! Phooey.

A/N: Last part. As I said at the beginning, it's AU! The note at the end (no peeking!) explains where this insane plot bunny started. Along with a bit of coincidence in regard to an ep of the show.

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Chapter 4

Over the next few weeks, they managed to track down a few more of the Demon's psychic not-such-kids-anymore targets. They were able to line a few more up on their side, those who were already resisting the blandishments, pressure and threats they had been experiencing in their dreams. Others were lost causes and the ensuing tussles had left the brothers more than a little bruised.

Sam had stopped really caring if their "army" grew or not anymore; the dreams had been giving him a terrible time. If they could be called dreams anymore, now that he was seeing them while he was awake. Not like visions; more like an overlay. See-through images in front of the real world, leaving migraines in their wake.

At the moment, he truly believed he was going crazy.

Dean kept watching Sam carefully, with concern written all over his face, and he stayed close as if trying to give comfort with his presence alone.

Ash had contacted them about a possible psychic kid. While the pattern into which Sam fell fit only a few of the "special children", over time they had uncovered other factors and had passed them along to Ash to look for. He had just found them another potential ally.

Sam had struggled through the entire trip to keep from charging to the trunk of the car, grabbing a machete and cutting his own head off. There would be no point, after all, in asking Dean to do it; he would only say, "No." The selfish bastard. What kind of a brother refuses a teeny weeny request like that, when he knows his younger brother is ready to gouge out an eyeball if it would stop the damn headaches?

It was becoming increasingly impossible to see the reality behind the waking dreams. Once or twice, Dean had had to keep him from walking into something; his brother rarely left his side these days. So, even though Sam considered himself a liability in the field, he was never left behind at the motel.

The dreams—or whatever the hell they were—God, they were the stuff of nightmares! He could barely remember back to the earlier ones, which seemed to be pleasant fantasies compared to the current ones. Now, it was all darkness and death and destruction, and a once-shining light turned blacker than the deepest cave. There were screams. Terrible screams, cries of pain and terror from souls too numerous to ever be counted.

And he knew somehow that he was to blame.

That knowledge ate at him, though he could not tell if it were a vision of things yet to be or a glimpse of something in--a past?--life.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he jumped. Turning his head, he saw Dean, peering at him worriedly.

"Earth to Sam. We're here." Dean sighed. 'I'd love to leave you here, but I'm afraid to have you out of my sight. A baby could take you down right now."

He opened the driver's door and began to step out. Through the ever-present screams, Sam could hear Dean mutter something. He thought it sounded like, "Wish you'd stop fighting it," but that made no sense.

Sam struggled out of the car, staggered and might have fallen if Dean had not grabbed his arm and steadied him. He shook the hand off, tired of needing help, tired of the waking nightmares, just...tired.

The house was trim and neat, a one-level structure with pale gray shingles and white trim and a small porch. As they approached, they could see the front door standing wide open. Dean pulled a handgun from his waistband and shifted so he was in front of Sam. Sam grimaced but knew that, in his present condition, he hardly an asset to the team.

Dean glided up the porch stairs and halted at the open door. He jacked the gun, then peered carefully around the door jamb. After a moment, he started silently into the house, gesturing for Sam to follow him. As Sam stepped into the entrance hallway, he felt a chill run down his spine.

Someone just walked over my grave.

An overturned chair, a mug lying on its side in a pool of liquid—someone had fled the living room in haste. Dean turned from the signs of a panicked withdrawal, his mouth set in a grim line. He exited through the doorway at the rear of the living room, heading for the bedrooms in the back half of the house, Sam trailing in his wake and struggling to push the images of his nightmare aside.

The door to the master bedroom had been kicked open with enough power to partially pull one hinge from the frame. Standing behind Dean and peering over his shorter brother's shoulder, Sam could see the body lying on its back. Young, male, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, throat slit.

"Damn," Dean swore. "What the hell? I thought the Demon wanted them alive."

Sam rubbed his forehead against the blinding pain. "I guess if It couldn't turn him, It couldn't afford to have him run loose."

It hit them both at the same time, the distinctive odor of sulfur. Dean whirled, moving to once again put himself between Sam and possible danger. Sam expected to see a possessed host at the door.

He was wrong. A shadow seemed to rise from the floor. It swirled and coalesced into a bipedal figure, dark reptilian skin, taloned fingers and eyes that seemed to be transparent glass that looked into a raging internal fire.

"Son of a bitch." It was a snarl, even as Dena moved forward toward the now-corporeal demon.

It moved with inhuman speed, a backhand that tossed Dean completely across the room.

"Dean!" Sam tried to take a step toward his brother, only to find himself picked up and pinned against the wall.

The demon laughed. "And here I thought to remove but one recalcitrant human who had become an annoyance to my Master, and what do I find? The accursed Winchester brothers, who have been so much more than an annoyance, and one of whom my Master diligently seeks to have join him." It laughed again, displaying an impressive array of fangs. "My Master has been too kind—in demonic terms, of course—I believe it is time to insist, rather than urge."

Sam glared at the demon. "I will never serve that bastard; I'll die first!"

The fire behind the demon's eyes flared and the beast laughed again. "How very noble. But what I had in mind was—very slowly—killing your brother. Perhaps that would lead you to reconsider?"

Searing pain spiked through his head as his migraine flared and, for a moment, he could no longer even see the demon, only the ever-present images of his nightmare. And, somewhere behind the pain, rage coursed through him. Some part of Sam wanted nothing so much as to rip the demon's heart out with his bare hands.

Dimly, he heard his brother's voice, urging him not to give in to the "fucking bastard". Dean's words were cut off abruptly by a cry of pain and Sam's fists clenched.

Not again! I won't let some damn hellspawn do this to Dean again!

His fury toward the demon, toward the darkness and all creatures of the shadow, blazed, white hot. Then, suddenly, all the images that had plagued him coalesced, riding on the crest of his anger, and he realized they were linear, a history. The glory that had been the early days and the Presence of the Most High, the arrogance and self-absorption that became anger, the war, the Fall, the corruption and decay, the hate, the desire to hurt and destroy, the betrayal by those he had ruled, the rebirth. He was, he had been—

--Sama'el! Power, not anger, coursed through him now and without thinking, he threw a bolt of fire at the demon. The reek of sulfur filled his nostrils and then there was nothing but a pile of ashes. And the rush of memory.

He swayed, crushed by it. Once, he had blazed with the golden light and power of an archangel, Sama'el the light bearer, but his pride had led him to challenge for mastery of all and he had gathered followers and marched on the Throne itself.

He had lost, defeated by an infinitely greater warrior, the Prince of Angels, and had been cast out. The Fall had burned, but not so brightly as his hatred, which shriveled everything within him. Over time, his outside had come to resemble the sere and terrible thing he had become inside.

Satan. He was Satan! And all the pain and suffering, destruction and despair visited by Hell on humans could be laid at his feet. Including his parents, for Sam Winchester was as much a part of him as Sama'el, and so were John and Mary Winchester. Their deaths stained his hands, as did everything that Dean had suffered over the years.

All of it, his fault. Before his Fall, because of his arrogance, his indifference to the suffering of others; after it, because of his hatred, his desire to harm what God cared about, and his pain.

The screams were back, eons of pain and torment, crashing down on him. He swayed and fell to his knees, his hands over his eyes. There was one long, terrible cry and he realized it was his own.

Then there was warmth ringing his wrists, pulling his hands down. A presence as familiar as his own was beside him, and with a sudden wonder, he realized that it was his brother. And that he had always been his brother.

"Mika!" It was both amazement and desperate need. "Mika! What I'd become, what I did!"

Then he was being rocked gently in his brother's arms. He was not surprised: Mika'el had always been more demonstrative than Dean. Sam knew now why Dean's dreams had stopped, why Dean had kept studying him. His brother had remembered who he was well before Sam had and he had been watching for Sam to remember as well.

"I know, Sama, I know. But you are not that being anymore, and you could never be him again. Now that you've been mortal."

Sam's tapped his brother's arm weakly. "I don't understand; how did this happen? And wasn't I, um, dead?"

"Dead is a relative term, isn't it?" Dean grinned. "How's your memory doing, little brother? Remember the palace coup?"

Sam pushed away and leaned back against the wall. "Oh, yeah, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, the whole crew. Guess they decided they didn't want to serve in Hell any more than they did in Heaven." He gave his brother a rueful smile. "What's this universe coming to when you can't trust a bunch of deceitful, lying, rotten-to-the-core demons?"

Dean—it would take, he thought, a long time for Sam to stop seeing the Dean overlay—scooted over so that his back was against the wall as well, and laughed. "There's no honor anywhere, is there?"'

Sam touched Dean's arm lightly. "Yes, there is. I'm sitting next to it." He picked carefully at a thread on his jeans, suddenly unable to meet his brother's eyes. "Did...did the Most High ever doubt you would stand firm at the head of the Host and bar the gates against me?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. We were a bit of an experiment, you and I. All of us are kindred, but the Most High chose to create a different bond between us. Was there ever a concern that my feelings for you would lead me to, at the least, remove myself from the conflict? I hope not." He looked over at Sam. "Sama, I love you ferociously, but I love and reverence God even more. And duty and honor, they are an essential part of who I am.

"Anyway, after your former subordinates took you down, I saw a chance to save you. You were hovering between here, and gone. I went to the Most High and asked for another chance for you. And it was decided to have you reborn in mortal form. I would come first, to help you, and I would remember who I was before you, after you started to recall things."

Sam could still not meet Dean's eyes. "But what if, what if it happens again, Mika? All the horrible things I've done!"

Dean shifted to face Sam, and he gripped Sam's arms. "Sama, you fell because all you knew was power and glory, and so many beings in the universe bending a knee to you. In your pride and, yes, selfishness, you came to believe that all reverence should be directed at you.

"But now, you know what it is to be cold and wet and hungry and so tired you can barely put one foot in front of the other. You have learned how hard it is to build and how easy it is to destroy. You have known terrible loss and you have grieved. You've felt pain and fear, and know what it is to be hunted and driven into the ground." Dean tightened his grip and shook Sam very lightly. "I have no fear, none, that you could ever become that twisted creature again."

Sam struggled to beat back the tears; the last he thing he needed was another, "Samantha, you are such a girl!" from his brother. But he made no effort to stop the smile that spread across his face.

"Thanks. You've always been a better brother than I deserved."

Dean leaned back against the wall again and seemed to consider the comment. Then he grinned, "Yep, I have. You'll have to make that up to me, won't you?"

Sam frowned, then asked quietly, "Dad's message...Mika, did he know?"

Dean shook his head. "I didn't realize it at the time because I didn't remember who we were, but the message wasn't really from Dad; it was from the Most High. I was being put on notice that if this worked, then you were welcome back into the fold, but if it didn't, if you came back not Sama'el but Satan, there were to be no third chances and no banishment this time. I was to take you down."

Dean's jaw worked for a moment and Sam hurt to realize how hard that would have been for his brother, and that Mika'el would have carried that grief for all eternity.

Dean surged suddenly to his feet, extended a hand to Sam and pulled the younger man up. He carefully dusted Sam's jacket off.

"Now—let's go get that yellow-eyed son of a bitch!"

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In the end, the Demon never stood a chance. It just did not realize it when the two of them first confronted it. Behind the Demon, they could just see the beginning stages of a hellmouth forming, something they had no intention of permitting to continue.

It laughed when they stormed into the battlefield, an abandoned junkyard outside of a very small town in Nebraska. Earth would never know that the apocalypse was fought amidst the corpses of abandoned cars.

Flanking the Demon were several minions, one of whom wore a familiar face: Duane Tanner. Sam glanced over at Dean and shrugged.

"I should have let you shoot him," he said.

Before he had a chance to react, his brother's hand shot out and whacked him on the back of the head. "Remember that in the future. Big brother is always right."

"The Winchester brothers, together to the end," the Demon said with a nasty grin. "How very touching. And it is the end, you know. No more escapes for you." It glanced at Dean. "Today you die; your father's oh-so-noble sacrifice was for nothing in the end. And baby brother, he will be mine, a weapon I can bring to hand."

"Naw," Dean replied, leaning against the burnt-out shell of an SUV, his arms crossed, "I think you have things backwards. Today, you son-of-a-bitch, we're going to burn your ass."

Dean pushed off the side of the vehicle and gave the Demon a cool smile. "C'mon, Asmodeus, you can't be that stupid. You don't recognize Sammy over here?"

The Demon started slightly at the sound of his name. "How do you know...?" It turned and looked at Sam again.

Dean tried to be helpful. He placed his hand underneath and around Sam's chin and squeezed it, and elevated Sam's face slightly. He then turned it back and forth to catch the light. Sam finally knocked Dean's hand away.

"Will you stop that, asshole?" he growled.

"Hey, just trying to help here!" Dean looked back at Asmodeus. "I know he looks totally human, but sheesh, the features are the same, even if they lack that heavenly radiance thingy. Sure, it's been a long time since he's looked this good; he got pretty gross, disgusting and ugly after the Fall--" Dean serenely ignored Sam's indignant 'hey!' "--but you should remember what the being you followed into rebellion against God looked like."

Asmodeus' eyes widened and It stared at Sam again. This time, the penny dropped. It took a step backward, fear writ large across Its features.

"Yep, you got it. It's your former boss—who, I might add, is somewhat peeved at you for your part in the revolt against him, even though it actually worked out for the best. It's the principle of the thing, you know?" Dean said with a cheerful smile. "Of course, if he's Sama'el, guess who that makes me?"

Asmodeus made a choked sound and scuttled farther back.

"Absolutely right, Azzy. God's perfect warrior. In all the history of existence, I have never lost in battle." Dean's smile turned feral. "Today is not going to be the day that mars my perfect record.."

"And we'll see to it that the hellmouth shuts, and stays shut!" Sam added. A dangerous glint entered his eyes. "I will totally enjoy taking you apart. And mostly for what you've done to the Winchesters. Too bad, isn't it, that you never saw all the real power hidden behind those stupid visions? But then, God never intended you to."

Dean made a face. "Okay, all this talk is really getting boring! Somebody say, 'one-two-three go'!"

Sam laughed. "One-two-three, go!"

It really was no contest. Even on his best day, Asmodeus alone would not have been a match for Sama'el, much less for Mika'el, whose name was a battle cry among the Host of Heaven. With a command, they caused the demons to vacate the hosts' bodies, and then blew the disembodied hellspawn apart before they could escape.

Except for Asmodeus. Sam realized that Mika—okay, Dean—might have harbored just the teensiest bit of anger against Sama'el's former subordinate. Dean proceeded to bounce the disembodied demon off every piece of junk in the yard.

"—for my Mom, and that's for my Dad, and that's for my dysfunctional family, and that's for my fucked up childhood, and that's for Jess, and that's for scaring Sammy half to death for the last three years, and that's for T-boning my baby, and..."

Sam settled to the ground, cross-legged and smiled. It did not appear that Dean was going to run out of rant any time soon.

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The junkyard was finally silent. Sam continued to sit after Asmodeus had been finally dispatched, watching his still-fuming brother, reminded again why the universe tended to duck when the Archangel Mika'el was swinging his sword. Finally, Dean walked over, sighed and shrugged.

"Guess I was a little more pissed at him than I thought."

Sam laughed. "Guess so. Not that he didn't deserve it." He cocked his head. "Now what?"

"Now? Now, Sama, we go rescue Dad." At Sam's lifted eyebrows, he smiled. "Dean and Sam Winchester will always be as much a part of who we are as Mika'el and Sama'el are. And John Winchester will always be 'Dad' to that part of us."

Sam agreed, but then he frowned. "Dean, uh, Mika—"

"Hey, I'll answer to either one!"

"—okay, Dean then. Won't that break the Pact?"

"Yeah—if we go officially as the Archangels Mika'el and Sama'el. But as slightly more—okay, more than slightly—powerful versions of Dean and Sam Winchester, well, Hell has gone after a member of our family, and we can go get him back."

Sam stood up and dusted himself off. "Let's go. I want to measure my foot against some demon's butt. And I have a few things to say to Dad, too. He had no right to dump that shit on you!"

"I don't believe it," Dean said, staring at him. "You've been weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth over Dad's death and his being in Hell for over two years now, and as soon as we rescue him, you're going to start yet another fight?" He shook his head. "I'm clearly the only sane member of my family!"

He whacked Sam on the back of the head and started for the Impala, roaring with laughter.

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Just another long, dark, dreary day in Hell, punctuated only by the screams of the tortured souls imprisoned within. Screwtape had no idea why he had to stand guard at the Gates, instead of having fun playing with some damned soul; it's not as if anyone was actually going to try to break in, was it?

As he picked at his fangs with a human finger bone and remembered how much fun it had been to slice the finger's owner up, one bone at a time, he thought he caught a sound from the Outside. A low and distant growl, that grew louder by the second. Frowning, he hefted his iron lance and peered out the Gates. The growl sounded very close now, and the Gates themselves seem to shake with the fury of the onrushing beast, whatever it was.

Slightly nervous now, Screwtape considered calling for some assistance, but after remembering the fiasco last year that got him stuck here in the first place—so not his fault, but did Altaroth get caught and punished? Earth, no!—he decided against doing anything before he knew that there really was a danger out there.

Of course, by the time he really did know, it was way too late. A sleek black form, on four wheels—Screwtape thought it was some form of Earth transportation, and by Beelzebub's balls, what was it doing here?—closed the distance between it and the Gates at an alarming rate of speed. Golden fire blazed on each front corner, behind some circular glass, and flames poured out from the rear.

Just at it reached the Gates, Screwtape realized that getting out of the way might have been a good idea. It was the last thought he had, as the black beast blew the Gates practically off their hinges on impact and proceeded to run full speed over the hapless demon. The vehicle's riders would later note that it made a very nice crunching sound.

The car came to a screeching halt and both front doors opened with a noticeable creak. The vehicle's passengers stepped out, one on either side. The shorter of the two glanced around with a smug smile.

"Oh, guys," Dean called out in a singsong voice. "The Winchester boys are here!"

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They stood shoulder to shoulder—a somewhat-worse-for-wear Hell behind them--watching the two resplendent lights that had, in life been John and Mary Winchester, shimmer and fade. Sam found himself blinking back tears, which was just stupid. If two archangels could not visit the souls of their earthly parents from time to time, who could?

Finally, Dean stepped back and patted Sam's shoulder. "Time to go home, Sam. Good thing we've got such a great set of wheels."

Sam stared at his brother. "We're taking the Impala?"

"Hey," Dean said indignantly. "I am not leaving my baby behind!"

He then stepped back and...changed. Everything was suddenly bathed in a blazing golden light and then Dean was gone and in his place stood Mika'el, whose name meant "Who is Like Unto God", Prince of Angels, his great, blindingly white wings fluttering in the oven-hot wind that blew outward from Hell. The features of his face were not that different from the mortal Dean Winchester, but they now had an unearthly beauty. Even without the radiant glow or the wings, it would be obvious that the owner of those features was not human.

Sam smiled and shifted as well. Sama'el's light was silver to his brother's gold, and a leonine mane of rich reddish-brown hair framed his face. Mika'el glanced at his younger brother, then laughed and pumped his fist into the air.

"Yes! The Most High is on the Throne and all's right with the universe!"

"What?"

"I'm back to being taller again!" His smile widened and took on a smirking edge. "As it should be." He started strolling toward the car, which suddenly seemed less like a car and more and more like a fiery steed.

Sam caught up in a few strides, then moved to the passenger side of the Impala and opened the door. "Archangel, schmarkangel. You are still such a jerk!"

He slid into the car—amazingly, his wings seemed to fit with no problem—and slammed the door closed behind him, the echoing sound followed a few seconds later by that of another door closing. As the car began to power forward into a great wall of light that suddenly appeared ahead of it, a few words could be heard drifting back toward the still-open Gates of Hell:

"And you are still such a bitch."

-fin-

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The whole thing started while doing research on demons and angels in general for possible SN stories, when I came across the note that some groups hold that Satan's name had been Sama'el before. It sounded so much like Samuel—and the plot bunny was born! This story was also almost completed when "Houses of the Holy" aired and so before that whole discussion of the Archangel Michael (always my favorite among celestial beings)—the description of which in the show sounded so much like Dean!

Hope you liked it. Let me know what you think.