The earth was dark, damp and crumbly between his fingers and falling into his mouth and eyes.

Like waking up in a coffin wasn't enough, it had to be buried too.

Not that he was complaining. 'Buried alive' was much better than forty years in- No, Dean didn't really want to think about that.

The tiny, shifting cavern in the dirt seemed brighter now. With his next reach upward, Dean hand climbed into nothing but open air. Finally.

Dean wrangled himself from the earth, dirty and exhausted by the time he finally flopped down, free.

He was out.

Wiping the dirt from his eyes as best he could and spitting out what had managed to get in his mouth, the Winchester surveyed the area around him.
On all sides, the trees were leveled like some kind of bomb had gone off. Closer, the ground and some of the trunks were scorched and blackened like the remains of some giant bonfire. A twisted, charred wooden cross was stood carefully behind him, and Dean could make out a few letters carved into it: -an -nc-s-er.

Alone, stranded in the middle of a destroyed forest, Dean Winchester's gut felt like it had been filled with ice.

It took Dean hours of walking to find the first sign of civilization: a dilapidated old gas station that looked like it had seen better days. There was a pay phone outside and Dean spent five minutes searching the phone for any abandoned change he might use to make a call upon realizing that he had nothing but the clothes on his back and a lighter in his pocket.

When Dean had thoroughly exhausted any chance of a phone call, he turned his attention to the building a few yards away.

No lights were on when he peered through the dusty windows, and a sign in the door proclaimed that the business was "SORRY WE'RE CLOSED." Dean smashed in one of the windows and let himself in. He made a beeline for some bottled water first, downing half a bottle with hardly any pause, thirsty after his long hike. Dean explored the rest of the mini-mart as he finished the rest of the bottle. It had a typical assortment of junk food, simple groceries and magazines. By the cash register was a small selection of things like batteries, lighters, even a few cheap Swiss army knives.

Dean had just focused his attention on getting the register open when he heard it. It tickled at his senses, a soft, barely there whispering at his ears. Lilting and smooth and somehow powerful, it wound around him and Dean's hackles rose.

It disappeared suddenly, a half second before the windows shattered and the most god-awful sound Dean had ever heard split the air. He dropped to the floor, covering his face and ears to protect them from both the sound and flying glass.

The ground rumbled and shook, tossing bags and boxes from their shelves; a picture frame fell on Dean's left and that glass fractured too, showering Dean with more shards.

The ground still quivering under him, the hunter shoved himself to his feet and grabbed the first container of sale he laid hands on. Not bothering with the blown-out windows or the lone, rickety door, Dean drew a thick white circle on the floor around the register and hunkered down.

Soon enough the rumbling subsided and the shrieking noise was nothing but a bad memory. Dean grabbed a bag from one shelf, tossed in some food, water and salt. He left the shambles of the store behind him only after he had messily broken into the register and pocketed some cash, leaving it behind him as quickly as humanly possible.

It was another few hours before Dean found a car to hotwire and drive towards Bobby's. It was even longer before he gave in to exhaustion and stopped at the first motel in sight. The receptionist, cranky at the early hour when he arrived, eyed Dean's tattered, dirty state, but didn't ask questions. Dean was thankful when she handed over the room key, and collapsed as soon as he had finished what rudimentary protections he could set in place with his limited supplies.

The hunter was out cold for hours, waking only when a cleaning lady opened the door and apologized for disturbing him before hurrying out. Taking that as his cue to get up, Dean first went to take a shower.

The puffy, scarred skin of his shoulder gave him pause when he took off his shirt, and he investigated it more closely. Angry and red, it somehow didn't hurt at all. Dean didn't even feel an unusual tug on his skin from the mark, and he frowned at it in the mirror. Was that- It was in the shape of a hand?

A frown still etched deep in his face, Dean make quick work of scrubbing the dirt from his skin and hair, indulging in the hot spray for only a few seconds before he got out and dressed. He grabbed a small breakfast of a muffin only because the woman at the diner refused to let him go before he agreed to take the pastry along with his coffee, and then he was on the road again.

Bobby called him an idjit the second the older hunter was certain that Dean was human and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

Dean wilted, suddenly weary despite the nervous energy that had filled him just moments before. He supposed it was relief, as bobby led him from the kitchen to the living room's battered old couch. Relief that he was in the closest place he had to home. Relief that someone else knew he was here. Relief that he was no longer alone after three days of driving and however many months he had been gone.

That he wasn't there.

Bobby forced Dean to eat and then claim one of the beds in the spare room upstairs before he would even discuss Sam's location. Dean grumbled and complained, but in the end Singer had his way and Dean was lying on the single he made his own any time he and Sam stayed at the scrapyard. He stayed up for hours, eyes scanning the familiar walls, sheets scratching against his skin like they always did.

The whisper-song came back at some point, quieter than it had been at the gas station, slower. No window-shattering blast followed it, and this time Dean simply closed his eyes and listened. He had no explanation for the noise, not even an idea of where to begin, and even though he trusted Bobby almost as much as Sam, Dean did not want to share this with him. This was…special, somehow. His, and his alone.

Dean couldn't explain how, but he knew that it didn't want to hurt him. Whatever it was, it wasn't unfriendly. It was simply…there.

The hunter's breathing and mind slowed as the voice – the only way he could think to describe the noise – crooned in his ear; it was a soothing rumble that reminded Dean of the Impala's hearty purr.
Dean was drifting off, having been lulled into sleep, when the first and only clear word came through.

'Soon.'

He'd forgotten it by morning.

Convincing Sam of Dean's humanity was both easier and harder than convincing Bobby, but between the two older hunters they accomplished it eventually.

The hard part came after.

Dean may have been a real, living, breathing human, but he wasn't supposed to be. He should have been dead and buried, a painful memory fading into nothing. Dean fears that the deal had somehow been voided, that Sam could drop dead any second now that Dean was no longer in the Pit, clawed at his chest like the hellhounds of so many months before. That could not happen. Dean sacrifice should have guaranteed that.

The murmuring made itself heard again after several stressful days of 'what could have dug Dean out of Hell' that yielded no results. The decision had been made the day before that he, Sam and Bobby would go to see an old friend of the grizzled hunter. Dean had relinquished driving rights to Sam earlier that day, so Dean closed his eyes and sank further into the seat. He focused on the low sound as Sam guided the Impala swiftly down the sunny highway.

When they stopped for a short break to stretch their limbs, Dean wasn't exactly relaxed, but he was no longer tense like a cornered animal.

The three men reached the home of one Pamela Barnes just after two. According to Bobby, she was a psychic who'd be able to help them figure out what had nabbed Dean and brought him topside.

Dean stood by, a mask of easy confidence on his face. The background hum of the voice still curled around him, and Dean almost swore it felt like it was another person, standing just behind him to his right.

Soon, when supplies had been gathered and arranged to Pamela's liking, Dean, Sam and Bobby sat at her bidding while she took the chair at the head of the table. The psychic stretched out her hands and the men did the same, grabbing hold and forming a circle. Pamela freed one hand.

"I'll need to touch something that it touched," she said with a smirk and a wiggle of her eyebrows.

"Didn't touch me there," he chuckled and hesitated for a second before tugging off his flannel shirt off and pushing back the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Pamela's low whistle was background noise as Sam gasped, "Dean!" and Bobby hissed a low, "Damn, boy, you never mentioned that before."

"It grabbed me there, I think," Dean responded quickly, avoiding eye contact with Bobby or his brother. "Can we just get this over with?"

He could have sworn the whispering turned to laughter before it disappeared without a trace, and Dean's mind felt disturbingly quiet without it. He shook it off as Pamela aligned her hand over the scar.

The ritual felt like it was milliseconds and millennia long at the same time as Pamela invoked whatever spirit or force had turned its attention to Dean. Just when Pamela was starting to tense up, her orders to the invisible thing growing more powerful, wind howled around the room.

It tore fiercely at Dean's hair and clothing, tossing objects from their places on shelves and windowpanes and tables. The circle of their hands broke as they moved to shield themselves with their arms. Dean was getting ready to rise and move to be closer to Bobby and Sam when the air stilled.

A man stood in the corner of the room. Tall, dark haired in a neat, dark suit, he watched the four humans like they were something new and unknown.

"Who the hell are you," Bobby growled, standing abruptly. Dean reached for the waistband of his jeans, where he had begun carrying Ruby's knife after his resurrection. Sam had grabbed what appeared to be an umbrella and was brandishing it like a sword.

The man surveyed them for another few seconds before he announced, "Inias," like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I am called Inias."

"Well, Inias, what the Hell are you and why did you bring me back?" Dean fixed the stranger with a glare as he waited for the answer.

Again, like it was something everyone should know, Inias said, "I am an Angel of the Lord, and I was the one given the task of saving you from Hell."

"What a joke!" laughed a new, previously unheard voice. Dean spun again.

This man was also dark haired, but shorter with more muscle than the thin Inias. His hair was messy, wild above his forehead. Deep blue denim and a dark v-neck sweater over a white button up and blue tie left no large pockets or for hidden weapons on him.

Dark blue eyes looked past Dean to lock on the supposed angel. Pamela produced a shotgun from below her table and pointed it at the second man. "Name," she barked, "and why you're here."

The man's eyes danced over to her with a lazy smile. "Oh Pam, you were the one who called me. It's not my fault fancy feathers over here tried to beat me to the punch."

"Lies," Inias said stiffly.

"Really?" the new man said in surprise. "Are you sure? Last I checked I was the one who ventured the Pit. There wasn't a single trace of grace to be found, and you of all people should know that no angel would get that deep into Hell without some kind of wounds."

Dean moved around the table to stand with the others at his side. Shifting his grip on the hilt of the knife, Dean used it to point at both of the strange new men. "You can fight about whaever this is later. Which one of you got me out? Now."

"I did," came from Inias at the same time the unnamed man announced, "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition, Dean Winchester."

Dean considered both answers for a moment. Sam stepped forward as he did and asked, "Why?"

Inias was first this time, repeating, "I was the one given this task. It was my duty to complete it."

Sam turned to the other man. "The Righteous Man was on the rack for forty years and there was no sign of any angels coming to take him out. I took matters into my own hands. My mark is on his shoulder, you can see for yourselves."

"You can hardly trust the word of Hellspawn," Inias interrupted before anyone could look to Dean. The still unnamed man – demon – sighed and rolled his eyes.

"That isn't quite how I planned to break the news, thank you. I suppose you'll want to exorcise me now. Call for me when you're ready to talk rationally." He tossed a business card on Pamela's table, then winked. "Some other time, boys."

The demon collapsed inward, a dark cloud of navy smoke replacing the man. It rushed from the room though a window, skirting the angel and humans in a rush of heat and rumbling noise.

"Balls," Bobby muttered to himself and took off his cap.

Dean picked up the card. It was plain, with only one word written on it in an elaborate font: Castiel.

The hunter set the card back down and looked at the ground, contemplative.

Castiel.

Something about it seemed familiar, but Dean just couldn't place why. The memories he had shoved to the back of his consciousness called to him, but Dean forcefully kept them away. He was never thinking of Hell again as long as he had any say in the matter. He never wanted to relive those moments; it was bad enough they showed up in his nightmares of fire, screams and pain.

Dean hardly heard Pamela, Sam and Bobby telling the angel to take a hike. Inias protested, spewing lines like 'God has a job for you, Dean Winchester.' Soon enough he was convinced to leave, and he did with one final warning ('We'll see each other again soon.').

Sam was relegated to the passenger seat for the drive back. Dean needed to distract himself with the drive, needed to feel the shudder of an engine at his feet and the Impala's smooth steering wheel under his fingers.

The drive back to Bobby's went in a blur of road and open fields.

He secluded himself to think as soon as he could.

Dean wandered among the stacks of cars with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. This Castiel, whoever he was, was a demon. The hunter couldn't help but think of Ruby. She had helped Sam and him time after time, and she was a demon. Maybe he was like that?

He had pulled Dean from Hell, after all. Castiel had been sincere enough in that; Inias had made no mention of the scar, only Castiel.

They didn't have to trust him, not yet. "Maybe we can just hear him out."

"I'm glad. You're ready to listen then?"

Dean spun, Ruby's knife brandished before he fully realized what was happening.

Castiel was perched several yards away on the rusty hood of an old sedan. His face was blank, but his eyes seemed to dance with a light all their own as he watched Dean fumble for a response. Full of humor, his voice came out again, this time saying, "Gotcha."

Dean set his jaw and pulled back his shoulders, returning the knife to its sheath. "Even if I decide to believe for a minute that you dragged me out of Hell, how the fuck did you do it? Most of you have enough trouble clawing out without some human in tow."

Castiel shot Dean a pointed look. "If you believe for a minute that an angel could possibly harm a human – the one creature God told them to help above all others – then you're not as smart as I gave you credit for. Angels don't burn that hot. Demons do. And let me guess: you've only had run-ins with some nasty black-eyes, haven't you? Had a little too much fun up here and started causing trouble that caught the Winchesters' eyes?"

Dean nodded silently, refraining from mentioning Lilith or Azazel.

Blue eyes rolled. "Then yes, it would be difficult for them. Nearly impossible. But they're not me," Castiel announced with a smirk.

Dean decided to roll with it. "And who would that be, exactly?"

"I don't want to brag, but my Father's king."

He felt his eyes widen. "Lucifer?"

Castiel made a face. "No. Crowley. King of Hell. Lucifer is an angel on time-out because he threw a temper tantrum."

Dean was silent for several minutes before he said slowly, "Let me get this straight – you're the prince of all of Hell and you decide to save me?"

"Well, eventually. Right now just of the Crossroads, but we have a plan. And yes. Is that so surprising?" Castiel sounded so genuinely curious, head tilting to the side and eyes squinted.

"Why would you do that?"

"Because the Righteous Man was well on his way to fulfilling his role in Lilith's plan to free the Morningstar from his cage, and there wasn't a whiff of angel grace anywhere near the Pit. Because I've happened to grow fond of Earth on my infrequent visits and I'd rather not see it destroyed by Lucifer's wrath. Because you were on the Rack for decades and you would have spent decades more if I hadn't intervened. There's a slew of reasons. Take your pick of any of them. What matters is that I did."

Dean let a bark of humorless laughter escape him. "Yeah, because a demon cares that I was on the Rack. I thought that was grade A entertainment for all of you. Better than anything else?"

"We all remember the Rack," the demon said bluntly. "It's why we are the way we are. The only difference between the drones and the generals is that we don't lose our minds to it." Castiel looked out across the salvage yard as he continued, "The demons on the Rack are cut from different cloth, so to speak. Just because one of us thinks it better than anything else the universe has to offer doesn't mean we all do."

Castiel hopped down from the car he had been sitting on and approached Dean. He stood closer than Dean would have liked, but managed to stay just outside Dean's bubble of personal space for the most part. "There's a war coming, Winchester. And I'd like to have you fighting alongside me if that's at all possible."

"Again: why would you do that?"

The demon smiled again, but it wasn't so harsh this time. If Dean didn't know better, he'd almost call it fond. "I kept the worst away from you down there for the better part of a few decades, Dean; you grew on me. And from what I've seen when I've checked up on you, you could use someone to help you out. You have questions, and I have a lot of answers. You're strong, and with me both of us could be even stronger. I can promise that you won't regret working with me."

Dean's answer was swift and certain: "I don't make deals with demons."

He recognized the flaw in his reply almost immediately after, of course. It's not like Castiel didn't already know, hadn't already seen with his own eyes the evidence of Dean's deal.

The man didn't mention it, thankfully. "I'm not proposing a deal," he said instead. "I'm proposing an alliance." He stuck out his arm.

Dean watched it; watched the way it didn't so much as shake or waver a millimeter as Castiel waited for a response, the way it transitioned into thin wrists and strong arms covered now by a tan trench coat as well as the black sweater, up to that piercing blue stare and hair that looked like it had gone through a hurricane.

Dean reached out and gave the demon's hand two firm shakes. He paused after a second when he came to a realization.

"What did you mean you 'checked up' on me?"

Castiel's answer was a smile and another of his exploding acts, blue smoke wrapping around Dean and fading from view.

'I'll see you again soon, Dean,' the whispering song called into his ear and the hunter froze. 'We have lots of work to do, you and I.' And then it was gone, and Dean was alone.