It was born of earth and fire and water. And air, though some would say that the chanting of the priests was more wind than air. Whatever: It was born of the four elements, emerged from the fire as molten, glowing metal, poured into a mold, doused with water to cool, and then, as the priests voices rose, shaped and worked and filed smooth into an amulet in the shape of a head, with eyes imbued with knowledge.

When the working, the shaping, was complete, a hand lifted it, stroked it. Warm fingers clasped around it, and a voice, filled with passion, said, "Thus it is done. A beacon, a guide, to point the way to the One True God. Give it to the most worthy, that he may travel the ends of the earth, to find that God." The fingers closed around it, and it could feel a pulsing, throbbing movement in the fingers.

Heartbeat, its knowledge told it.

So it went. Another hand threaded the loop at its top with silken cord, carefully tied with mystic knots, then handed it off. Days later, the priest with the passionate voice was looping that silken cord around the throat of a young man with dark, curly hair, a pointed, oiled beard, and deep-brown eyes that flared with hope and pride.

Then came travel. Across deserts, over mountains, through forests. Broken down farms with battered, weary farmers. Towns on hot summer days. Meadows. Herders' camps. Cities surrounded by walls and filled with people. The beacon did not glow, no matter where the young man went, but stayed steadfast at the end of the silken loop, accompanying him everywhere.

The young man's dark hair grayed and thinned, his deep-brown eyes grew filmy with age. One day, years later. he trudged up the stairs of the temple where he had come from, back bent and aching, withered hands clutching a staff to keep him steady. He was greeted by wondering young priests with questioning eyes. The priest with the passionate voice who had sent him forth was long dead, and his quest...forgotten. The young priests were kind and gentle, and fed him, bathed him, gave him a place to sleep. But the amulet heard their muttering about the crazed look in those ancient eyes, the laughable dream to find the One True God. No such thing!, laughed one. The others nodded agreement.

But still, an elder with such vast experience of the world was to be respected, no matter what crazy ideas he had. They questioned him on his journeys, showed him maps they had made from rumors, and he showed them, with a shaking hand, where their maps were wrong, told them, with a thin, quavering voice, of the far-flung cities, the mountains, deserts, forests.

When he finally died, they carefully packed the amulet away, into the darkness of a small cedar wood chest, with a note explaining what the amulet was supposed to do. The note oozed a subtext of "this is very strange, and we don't believe it, but, it is said..."

The chest, the note, and the amulet collected dust. During its years of darkness, it dreamed of sunlight and horses and storms.

There was a war. The invaders killed all the priests, and took everything they could lay their hands on, including the chest with the strange amulet.

Centuries later, there was another war, and, again, the chest went with the winners.

At some point, it found its way to the Vatican, and scholars. The chest was opened, warm hands clasped the amulet, and a reverent voice said, "A beacon to guide us to Our Father!" It found itself fitted with a golden chain, and worn at ceremonies by the Holy Father. It didn't last, of course, and back to the chest it went. A century or so further on, and it was pulled from the chest again, the note read, and a tall, blond-haired man with a deep voice and fanatical blue eyes, wearing leather armor, vowed to take it to Israel with him, to bless the crusade against the infidel.

Years of new journeys, new cities - much bigger than the last time - sea voyages, battles between men in armor on horses.

Still, it never glowed.

The Crusader returned; older, wiser, a bit bitter at what the world had revealed to him. He handed it back to the fathers at the Vatican, sneering. They had kept the chest and the note, and now they replaced the amulet, along with a beautifully illuminated Latin translation of the original note.

More darkness, more dust, more dreaming, of priests and Cardinals and The Pope, dressed in sumptuous vestments, of battles, and dusty deserts, and men bleeding and torn.

Monks moved it multiple times, dusting the chest and peering in curiously. It was stolen, then stolen from the thief. Purchased as a curiosity. Sold at a pawn shop. Shuffled from one place to another, now accompanied by a scrawled English translation of the illuminated note, which had been considered valuable enough to be sold by itself.

"Hey, Rufus, what's this old thing?" Gruff voice, bearded man. Plaid flannel, ball cap. Warm hands turned the amulet over with fingers that were much more delicate and gentle than they looked.

"That thing? Aw, hell, Bobby, supposed to glow bright when you're near gods, or some such B.S." A neatly trimmed black man peered over the first man's shoulder and poked at the amulet in his hands. "Hah. As if. God ain't been around in forever. I'll put my faith in Johnny Walker and shotguns and salt before I put any faith in that thing."

"Hunh. Well. Tell y'what, Rufus, I'll take it off your hands. John's been mixed up in some crazy stuff lately, and who knows? A little bit of extra protection from things that go bump in the night ain't gonna hurt him. I'll give it to him for Christmas." Bobby looked down at it with a grin. "Heh. At least he'll get a laugh from it." He tossed and caught it. "Got some leather? It needs somethin' to hang from." Rufus rummaged in a drawer, handed him some leather cord, and watched as he strung the amulet and knotted the cord.

"You're crazy, Bobby. He ain't gonna be around for you to give it to him, you know that. Christmas, Easter - none of 'em mean a thing to him, not anymore. Not even Channukah! Just leaves those two boys alone and goes haring off after whatever monster it is he's heard about lately, doesn't give a damn about giving them no holidays or nothing."

Bobby scowled down at the amulet. "Yeah. I know. Damn. The closest thing those kids have to a real home is my goddamn place, and that ain't sayin' much. I keep trying to knock some sense into him, but..."

Rufus grabbed a bottle of whiskey and some glasses, poured, and handed one to Bobby. "Man, one of these days, you're gonna blow your top at him over them."

Staring down at the glass, Bobby sighed. "Yeah." He knocked back the drink and held the glass out for more. "But I gotta keep cool, for them. 'Cause if I drive him off, what'll they have? Damn idiot, doesn't know what he's got there. He lost Mary, yeah, but he's still got a family..."

"Hey, Sammy. C'm'ere." The drawer the amulet had been placed in was opened and the middle-aged, bearded man reached in.

The skinny eight-year-old scrambled around the stacks of old books to Bobby's desk and leaned on it, all wide eyes and longish, flat hair. "Yeah?" The amulet swung on its cord as Bobby held it up.

"Now. See this?" Sam craned his head.

"Hey, that's cool, Bobby! Looks all weird and scrunch-faced! Is that real gold?!"

Bobby chuckled and ruffled his hair, pulling him close. "Yeah, it's real gold. And it's special...real old mojo. Now, listen, kiddo. I'm handing this over to you to give to your Dad for Christmas, 'cause God knows if I'm gonna see that idiot any time soon. And Dean...well, he'll probably forget it. So you stash it someplace safe among your stuff, and pull it out, wrap it up, and hand it to your dad on Christmas morning. Can you do that for me?"

Sam thought about it seriously, frowning a bit at the responsibility. "Yeah, I think so."

"Okay, then. You do that." He handed over the amulet and ruffled Sam's hair again. "Good kid." Sam looked down at it, wrapped his warm, slightly sticky hand tight around it, then stuffed it in his pocket, and it was back in the dark again.

"What's that?" The skinny boy, Sam, had pulled the amulet out of his duffle and was carefully wrapping it in newspaper. Once, it had been the object of veneration. Once, it had had silken cords and a scented cedar wood chest. The Pope himself had worn it, centuries ago! And now...a grubby boy with hands smudged black from the newsprint sat on a sofa, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips as he wrestled with folding the paper around it, pulling off tape, taping the ends flat.

"It's a present for Dad," he muttered.

"Yeah, right!" The lofty scorn of an adolescent rang in the other boy's voice. "Where'd you get the money? Steal it?"

The newsprint crinkled as Sam's hand clutched it tighter. His voice was injured. "No! Uncle Bobby gave me it to give it to him. Says it's real special."

The other boy's voice came closer, as if he peered curiously at the package. "What is it?"

Sam's voice sneered. "It's a pony!"

"Ha ha, very funny," the other boy sneered back.

Later, though only an eyeblink to an object that had existed for thousands of years, the amulet heard the boys talking again. A hand reached into the place where it had been secreted, wrapped in paper, and pulled it out.

"Here. Take this." It was the skinny boy, Sam.

"No. No, that's for Dad!"

"Dad lied to me. I want you to have it." Sam sounded angry.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Hands fumbled with the wrapping, then pulled the amulet out. The older boy held it up and looked at it, eyes wide. He looked at his little brother. "Thanks, Sam. I - I love it..." Then he wrapped the cord around his neck and craned his head to look down at it.

So. Out in the open again, but the One True God only knew for how long.

It was so very different than the previous times. Before, it had been carried and displayed by grown men, men with passion, men with quests, men with religion. This was different. A boy - Dean - and by extension, his family.

It was there, hearing, when the two boys had fights. It was there, watching, as the father took Dean out to chase monsters. This reassured the amulet; though there was no quest, there was a fight against evil. It was smaller, more personal than previous times. No pitched battles against armies, no grand journey into the unknown, no majestically clothed seekers of God. Just two boys and their father.

If an amulet could grow fond of humans, it was fond of its wearers. The dark-haired, brown-eyed priest with the oiled beard had been a good man, and the amulet had been with him a long, long time as humans judged it. The crusader was less good, but still a man of God and admirable in many ways. The Pope had been...political. The amulet had learned much about the ways humans worked from that one. But Dean...it watched him grow from a boy to an adult. It was...different. And though Dean didn't show his emotions, the amulet learned to judge what he was thinking and feeling from his voice, from the way he stood, from his body's tension or relaxation.

It was there while Sam, the younger son, grew more and more restive about following his father's orders. It was there when Dean had his first kiss. It was there when Sam, now tall and filling out, stormed out the door of the latest dingy hotel room, and his father shouted, "And don't you come back!" It was there when, all alone, Dean yanked the cord holding it off his head and threw it against the wall in anger, snarling, "You cowardly son of a bitch, running away like that! We need you, dammit! Dad needs you!" It was there later that night when Dean picked it up from the floor, clutched it in his hands, and fell onto the bed weeping, the strained tears of a young man too proud to admit he was in pain.

In place of a trio, it was a pair that hunted now.

Dean looked up at the apartment building, wrapped his hand around the amulet, and muttered, "Well. Here goes nothing." The pair of Hunters had been a singleton for longer than usual. Dean had waited. Then he had looked. And now...now he was in this place. Another solo hunt? The amulet didn't know.

Dean got out of the car, fished in his leather jacket for his pick lock kit, bounded quietly up the stairs, and bent over the doorknob. A few swift movements, the door opened, and he slithered in, closing it quietly behind him. He stepped carefully into the kitchen, then opened the fridge and pulled out a beer.

Okay, not a hunt.

Then things happened in quick succession - a tall, gangly man appeared in the hall door, there was a scuffle, the amulet swinging with Dean's movements, and the young man was down with Dean on top, holding him down at the neck, holding his wrist. It was Sam.

"Whoa there, tiger!"

Sam froze. "Dean?!" Dean laughed. "You scared the crap outta me!"

Dean snorted. "That's 'cause you're out of practice." And suddenly, a few quick moves and Sam was on top, holding Dean down. "Or not..."

A few minutes later and Dean was saying, voice heavy with importance, "Dad's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days..." Days, weeks. It was the message that was important.

Things sped up afterwards. More hunts, but always the two were looking for clues as to where their father had gone. Ghosts, demons, wendigos, haunted objects, shapeshifters...And Sam started to have visions. Dean would talk to himself when alone, worried about his brother, his father.

A truck, barreling down on them.

A hospital.

A secret whispered in Dean's ears.

A dead father, and grief.

Other young people with visions, abilities. This was new.

Brothers breaking apart, then swinging back together again, multiple times.

A test by a yellow-eyed demon. Dean watching, unable to save him, as one of the youths with abilities knifed his brother in the back. Dean holding his brother while the life seeped out of his body, along with the blood. Dean selling his soul to bring his brother back. A long year of goodbyes, then, Sam watching as Dean was torn apart by hellhounds.

And then, the amulet was interred in the dirt, along with Dean's body.

It dreamed again. Of boys growing up. Of hunting strange monsters. Of demons, and tricks, and traps, and bloody death.

This time, though, the time of dreaming was short. Something made it tingle, something vaguely related to its reason for existing. Something new. In the dark, in the plain pine box, a rasping, gasping breath was drawn, and the dead body the amulet was resting against moved, scrabbled frantically, broke the pine, dug its way out into the sunlight. Into a scene of devastation, trees felled in a circle around the grave. Dean, dead, then alive.

Later, in a deserted gas station, it felt the tingling again, as a high-pitched keening grew in the air, grew into a roar that shattered the windows, scattered shards of glass around Dean.

Later still, Dean and Bobby - older, grayer, but still with a beard and ball cap - stood in an old barn painted with all the protective sigils they could think of. The amulet felt the tingle again, and a being flung open the doors, walked in, and spread its wings.

An Angel of The Lord!

Maybe - just maybe! - the amulet would finally be guided to the One True God!

But no. Many tantalizing tingles, more angels, the boys yanked into a tangle of schemes and manipulation. The angels- every one - said that God was missing, and it was their job to stop the Apocalypse. And then it turned out that, no, it had been lies, that the angels wanted the Apocalypse, that Dean and Sam were the keys. The amulet was there when the schemes came to fruition and Lucifer rose.

Then a fateful day when Dean and Sam stood by a hospital bed, where Bobby lay, legs frozen from the stab of a knife, and the angel Castiel informed them all of the amulet's true purpose, to find God. Cas asked to borrow it, so he could find Him, so that He could stop the looming Apocalypse.

Yes! This was its purpose! After thousands of years!

Dean pulled its loop from around his neck and held it out.

"All right, I guess." Castiel reached for it, and Dean pulled it back. "Don't lose it!"

Castiel looked at him, grim and serious. Then he reached out again, and Dean reluctantly handed it over. Dean looked at it in the angel's hand, and frowned. "Great. Now I feel naked."

The angel's hand closed over it, plunging it into darkness. "I'll be in touch." His voice was grave and gravelly. For the first time in years, the amulet was with another wearer, not Dean.

It still heard him, whenever Castiel intervened with a problem they had, or requested their help. A meeting with the archangel Raphael provided the closest thing it had ever felt to fulfilling its destiny, a reflection of the power of God. It's heart - if it could be said to have one - shattered when Raphael sneered to Castiel and Dean, "God?! God is dead." Surely an archangel would know?

Even so, Castiel persisted in his search, undeterred. He had faith.

Until the day he got a phone call from Dean, met him and Sam, and they told him they had been to Heaven, that Joshua had said God was alive, but just...didn't want to get involved with stopping the Apocalypse.

Castiel was halting, disbelieving. "Maybe...maybe Joshua was lying."

Sam responded softly, "I don't think he was, Cas. I'm sorry."

There was a long, heavy silence. The amulet heard Castiel moving, then his gravelly voice shouted, cracking, "You son of a bitch! I believed in - " His hand reached into the pocket where he had kept the amulet, pulled it out, sent it flying through the air to Dean, who caught it. "I don't need this any more."

Dean looked down at the amulet in his hand, then back at Castiel.

Castiel looked defeated, bitter, angry. "It's worthless." With the sound of wings flapping, he vanished.

Worthless?!

Sam tried to encourage Dean, but in the end, as they were walking out of the room, Dean stopped by the trash can, dangled the amulet over it, then dropped it in without a word.

Worthless?!

Hours later, a hand reached into the trash and pulled it out.

And then it dreamed again.

An eternity passed. An instant. There were dreams, but muddled. Dean, Sam, the man with the oiled beard, angels, demons, the crusader, the Pope, God - they tumbled about in its dreams. The endless eons - or the flashing moment - were filled with hints of the tingling, the closeness to God. It was everywhere, it was nowhere.

Without warning, it was drawn out of the dreams. It heard a whining, irritating voice. "I mean, what about that - that amulet thingy? You told me about it, some silly charm - "

Silly charm?!

" - that burned brightly in the presence of - of You?"

A hand reached into the pocket universe, and pulled the amulet forth. "You mean this?" The amulet dangled from an unknown hand. A bearded, curly-haired graying man gaped at it from across the table and pointed at it.

"Yes! Dean had it! And your fave, Castiel!" The bearded man pouted. "They had it around you! How did it never - "

"I turned it off. See?" The...man?...holding it snapped his fingers.

It was glorious. The amulet burned, burned, glowed like the inner core of a hundred suns, felt the distant tingling turn into an unending vibration, a burst of molten energy. It knew. It knew it was in the presence of the One True God, that its long wait to work the way its makers had intended was over.

This was what the man with the oiled beard had been seeking. The hand holding it was the hand of the God the crusader had yearned for. The Pope, though a politician, would have gasped in delight and awe.

Dean and Sam? The amulet didn't know.

The glow died out. Time stopped. It heard Dean's voice, screaming, "STOP THIS! YOU HEAR ME, YOU DICK?!"

It was in a pocket. There were screams, and sounds of breaking glass, coughing, gasping, wood cracking to pieces. Without warning, the sounds stopped. God was nearby. The amulet blazed again, and a hand reached hesitantly into the pocket, withdrew it.

Dean. Crouching by Sam. And Sam, crumpled on the floor, but sitting up hesitantly. They stared at it as if it were something they had never seen before, their faces lit by its actinic light, and slowly rose to their feet.

God! Yes! He's here! This way!

Guided by the light, they left the room they were in, walked to the door of the building, walked out, looked around, wondering, as people got up from the ground, babbling in relief and joy.

Down the street, a man was helping a woman to her feet, arm supporting her. "Are you okay?" Dean stiffened in recognition. Then he and Sam slowly, hesitantly, moved toward the man, who turned to look at them, and stood abashed and awkward.

God! That's him! There! There, there, there!

"We should probably talk," God said to them.