A/N: Warning for spoilers through "Swan Song" and character deaths (more or less in line with canon for Seasons 1-5). This was written before 8.12 aired, so there's a reference to a demon that doesn't square with current canon—but hey, it's AU anyway! No character bashing, but you may be all the more inclined to shoot certain villains by the end...

The Dark Wind: 'Akóhájí Doogááł
By San Antonio Rose

Chapter 1
Irresistible Force

Four months. It had taken four months for John to finally get his hands on the Colt. In that time, he had dodged demons while the boys had had close call after near miss with their hunts, and Sam had drifted closer to embracing the old Diné ways, speaking more Navajo and taking more Navajo approaches to life and lore, especially after Luis had emailed that Jess and her new husband had moved away and left no forwarding address. And John had tried every form of persuasion he knew to get Daniel Elkins to cough up the gun. He had almost been ready to just break in and steal the blasted thing when a nest of vampires had turned up in Manning, killed the old man, and made off with the Colt. Taking out the nest also got the Winchesters the tool they needed to end their long fight against Bináá' łitso, but no sooner did they settle on a plan to go after the demon in Salvation, Iowa, than Meg, another demon who'd crossed their paths a time or two before, killed Jim and Caleb to try to force John to hand over the gun.

By this time, Sam had had a vision of Bináá' łitso's next target, five-month-old Rose Holt, so John decided to try a bait and switch. Taking another antique Colt, he headed off to meet Meg in Jefferson City while the boys staked out the house where the Holt family lived to catch Bináá' łitso when he turned up to place the blood-spell on the baby. Dean had a horrible feeling about their chances of success, but John parted from them on good terms.

The second the signs of demonic presence became evident at the Holt house, the brothers leapt into action. Once they were inside, Sam thundered up the stairs to little Rose's nursery, keenly aware of what he was doing and just as keenly aware of the way Bináá łitso's nearness was affecting him. He sensed fire surging through his veins, blood calling to blood, the promise of strength, of power, of being-like. It was a blood-spell, a ghost sickness of a kind neither of his peoples had ever known. But Sam recognized it for what it was, hated and rejected it, and knew that there was only one way to free himself.

The second he had a clear shot at Bináá łitso's back, he took it—and the bullet struck home. The cursed spirit fell, burning with the fires of the Burning-Pitch-Place, and Sam gave a wild yell of triumph that brought Dean running. Dean pulled him into a rough hug before making sure Monica and Rose were okay. Then they took care of the corpse, and Dean called John to report.

It should have been over.

It wasn't.

Meg eventually answered John's phone for him. John was dead, she swore—an eye for an eye, father for father. And she still wanted the Colt. Dean told her precisely what she could do with herself before hanging up and collapsing back against the car.

"Haidzaa?" Sam asked.

"She said—" Dean broke off with a curse. "I don't believe it. I won't believe it. Demons lie. C'mon, let's get out of here."

The brothers beat a hasty retreat to Bobby's house, and Bobby pulled out all the stops to try to find John. He hadn't succeeded before Meg showed up at his house, taunting the boys and demanding the Colt. But they were ready for her. The trap they'd painted on the ceiling held her fast, and Dean interrogated her while Sam slowly read the Latin exorcism rite. And when she refused to give up the answers they needed, changing her story several times and wavering on whether or not John was actually dead, Sam finished the exorcism and sent her back to Hell.

Meg Masters, the human host, fell out of the chair with a gasp as old wounds surfaced. "I'm sorry," she groaned as the boys ran to her while Bobby called for an ambulance. "I tried... tried to stop her... to take back control..."

"Hey, shh, take it easy," Sam replied, propping her up while Dean offered her some water.

"She lied. He's dead. Saw her... snap his neck. Then... I think... another t-took him."

Dean swallowed hard a couple of times. "Where is he?"

"Jeff City. I think. I don't... he could have left already. Or could be a trap. By the river... Sunrise..."

Sam sighed. "Okay. Thanks. Just hold tight; we're gonna get you some help."

"Guys... thank you. You don't know... the things she did... 's been a year of hell."

"Shh. Hang on."

But suddenly she slumped against him more heavily and breathed her last.

Somehow the brothers managed to respond to Bobby's prompting to get down the road before the paramedics could arrive, giving him their thanks and farewells and a promise to be in touch as soon as the coast was clear. Somehow Sam managed to inform Dean once he found that Meg's dying clue referred to Sunrise Apartments. But beyond that, they didn't say a word to each other or to anyone else—not on the way to Jefferson City, not on the way into the apartment building, not to the thing wearing their father's skin when it demanded the Colt and Dean let him taste a bullet from it. Sam didn't have to speak to let Dean know he felt the broken vertebrae in John's neck when they collected his body. And Dean didn't have to speak to tell Sam that, however much he hated the idea, they had to give John a hunter's funeral and not a Diné one. They had to burn him; they couldn't give him a quick burial according to tradition and risk something stealing him again.

They went back to Bobby's for a few days once the deed was done. But they both knew they had to go back to Arizona, to let the rest of the family know what had happened. So go they did, but still Dean spoke as little as he could.

Grandmother, Grandfather, and Amá Sání met them as they got out of the car, but there were no jokes or quick hugs this time. They seemed to have recognized from the looks on the brothers' faces that something was wrong.

"Boys?" Grandmother asked quietly. "Did you find John?"

Dean sighed and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, we found him. And then we lost him."

Grandmother sighed heavily as the color drained from Grandfather's face. They all exchanged hugs.

And no one spoke of John again.

Ansem stomped into the bar in Guthrie and ordered a beer. He couldn't believe his carefully constructed plan to get his brother back had fallen apart so spectacularly. Not only had his mind control power apparently stopped working all of a sudden, Andy had just as suddenly decided to check himself into rehab. And everybody kept reacting to Ansem like he was rude.

He was halfway through his beer when a cute, curly-haired brunette walked in and sat down next to him. He checked her out while she was ordering, and she returned the favor with a hint of a smirk once she was done.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Does it matter?" she shot back.

He grinned. "Hey, listen... you and me, we're gonna go for a ride later, okay?"

She laughed. "Doesn't work on me, cutie pie. But listen," she added, leaning closer, "you want a good time, I can show you a real good time. Better than you thought you wanted."

"Oh?"

"You've seen the man with yellow eyes?"

He swallowed hard. "How did you know?"

"He's my father. He made you some promises, didn't he?"

"Yeah. But something happened."

She nodded. "Plan's changed a little. But we need you, Ansem. You come with me, let me show you a few tricks, and I'll make it... very worth your while."

A deep, burning hunger kindled in his gut. "Okay. It's a deal."

Her drink arrived, and she smiled. "Finish your drink while I have mine. Then we can get out of here."

"You sure it's safe?"

She chuckled. "I've got an angel in my corner."

"So what is your name?"

"Meg."

He raised his beer. "To us, Meg."

She raised her drink. "To us."

They drank and left the bar together, and he drove her to the overlook where he liked to take his dates. Once they were stopped, she kissed him, and he kissed back, then nipped at her lip—or at least, he'd thought it was just a nip, but the skin broke and a few drops of blood sprayed into his mouth.

And power surged through his veins like living fire.

He sat back, gasping. "Wh-what..."

Meg's eyes turned solid black, but her smile was no less inviting. "That's the secret, baby boy. I've got what you need. What you've always wanted. You do what I ask, and I'll give you the keys to it all. The world is yours, Ansem." And she kissed him again.

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes... I'll do it... please..."

"Baby steps, kid. Baby steps. You gotta learn how to take it, how to use it. And in the meantime..." She kissed him again and slid onto his lap.

He'd never been happier in his life.

Sam and Dean kind of drifted from hunt to hunt for the next few months. Sam's heart was more into it than Dean's was, at least until the run-in with the town infected with the zombifying Croatoan virus. That was the first clue they'd gotten that some other demon was picking up where Bináá' łitso had left off. But the trail was cold and circuitous, and neither the Trickster they ran into in Ohio nor the ghost who wanted to be an avenging angel helped any. And then there was the crazy Zhini hunter who thought Sam was the Antichrist. The brothers made their annual trips to Arizona for the holidays just for the sake of their own sanity, but the grief over Dad's loss threatened to overwhelm even that breathing space, and Sam really needed something to keep him from tracking Jess down and getting her out of her marriage right away, in spite of the dangers, and... running off to Scotland or something, if Dean would ever agree to that.

He couldn't leave Dean. Not like this. Dean would self-destruct. But Sam needed something more than that to keep him hunting and not forcing Dean to retire.

So it was kind of nice, come March, to find what looked like a straightforward werewolf case, at least until the werewolf turned out to be an otherwise nice girl who seemed to have a thing for Sam and whom Sam liked platonically in return. After some squabbling, he talked Dean into attempting the cure of killing her sire. That done, the brothers sat with Madison until the sky began to lighten. She made it through that whole time without changing.

Then Dean sighed, shrugged, and stood. "Okay. Guess that's it. I'll go wait in the car, Sam. Madison, nice knowin' ya."

"Bye, Dean," Madison replied.

Smiling, Sam stood and watched Dean walk out the front door. "So," he began as he turned back to Madison, "I guess..." Then he faltered, seeing her smile.

Her very seductive smile.

He swallowed hard and began edging toward the door as she walked toward him. "Guess this is goodbye. I'm, uh, really glad things worked out this way..."

Suddenly she pinned him against the wall and kissed him.

"No... no, Ma—"

She caught him with his mouth open and kissed him harder, with tongue, while pulling at his clothes.

He struggled, trying not to hurt her. "There's someone else!"

"Not after tonight, there won't be." She kissed him again and tried to unbutton his pants.

"Madison, STOP!" he cried, pushing her away with all his might.

She stumbled backward halfway across the room but didn't fall, frowning at him in confusion.

"I'm going to marry her."

Confusion warred with hurt in her eyes for a moment—and then, with a roar, she changed and lunged at him. He barely had time to draw and fire three times to stop her before she could reach him. Dean burst in the door as she fell and regained her human features, confused once more.

Then she seemed to understand. "I'm sorry, Sam," she whispered. "Thank you." And she breathed her last.

Sam burst into tears, and Dean couldn't hold back a few tears of his own.

As March turned to April and hurried on toward May, Dean found himself growing heartily sick of everything. He was beyond ready for a break in the insanity, a chance to track down the demon that had taken over for Bináá' łitso and put an end to this business once and for all so Sam could spring Jess and they could both retire. So when Ash found a pattern of omens beginning to spring up around a huge devil's trap made of railroad tracks in southern Wyoming, a trap that apparently guarded a gate blocking a hellmouth, Dean jumped on it, calling Bobby and Ellen to meet them there to intercept whoever the demon was planning to use to open the gate, if not the demon itself. The hunters drove as close to the gate as they could, then set out on foot, with Dean carrying the Colt and the others armed with shotguns loaded with salt rounds.

But halfway there, something in the woods caught Dean's attention, and he stopped. He wasn't sure what it was, but he got a bad feeling about it. "Sam?"

"Tha mi e a' faicinn," Sam answered.

"Boys?" Bobby prompted. "Cemetery's this way."

"You go ahead," Dean said, raising the Colt. "We'll check this out, make sure nothing's gonna try and sneak up behind us."

Bobby looked worried but replied, "All right. Be careful."

Sam and Dean took off slowly and warily into the woods, trying to see what had caught their eye. Nothing appeared before they came out into a clearing, where they paused. But before either brother could say anything, Dean suddenly heard a sickening crunch and turned to see Sam, his head at an unnatural angle, collapsing to the ground.

"SAM!" Dean cried and lunged to catch his brother.

Something took advantage of his distraction and snatched the Colt out of Dean's hand before vanishing into the darkness. Paralyzed by grief and shock, Dean could only fall to his knees and clutch Sam's body to his chest, keening softly and rocking gently. Even the earthquake that followed shortly thereafter couldn't break through the blockage that had shut Dean's mind down.

He didn't know what to do.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, trying unsuccessfully not to cry, when a brunette sauntered into the clearing. "Well, well, lookee here. Shouldn'ta been so quick to send me Downstairs, Dean."

Dean frowned. "Meg?"

"Ooh, gold star!"

"How the hell..."

"Well, some plans, they're just not so easy to stop. I had a job to do up here. Woulda liked to get little Sammy's help with it, but considering he killed my father, I didn't think he'd be too willing. So I called in one of the other special children, and he... did exactly as I asked."

Dean shivered. "Why?"

"There's a war coming, Dean. We needed a general. And we needed a human who could open the gate to let the army through." She crouched down and wrapped one of Sam's curls around her finger. "Seems he broke a few too many eggs making the omelet, though."

"Leave us alone."

"Aw, Dean, don't be like that. I got what I wanted. And I'm willing to let a few bygones be bygones, if you know what I mean."

He frowned. "Like what?"

"I can bring your precious Sammy back. And all I ask, one year from now, is your soul. No other strings—though if you try to back out, Sam dies." Her eyes turned black. "Whaddaya say, Dean?"

Take the deal.

Dean wasn't sure where the thought came from, but he wanted to obey. Yet... he didn't want to go to Hell, and knowing what had happened with Mom's deal...

Take the deal.

He couldn't. He—he couldn't.

Take. The. Deal.

He c-couldn...

Take. The. Deal.

"Y-yyyes," forced its way out of him.

Meg grabbed his face and kissed him. Inside he recoiled, but his body wouldn't move. He couldn't pull away.

When she ended the kiss, Meg tweaked Dean's nose. "See you in a year, Dean." And she vanished.

Sam jerked and gasped, but Dean still couldn't move, not even to wipe away the tear that escaped from his eye. Confused and concerned, Sam looked around wildly—then jumped to his feet with a curse and fired twice at something behind Dean that had just started to run away. Dean gasped and fell forward slightly as whatever had frozen him vanished.

"Dean!" Sam dropped to his knees and put a hand on Dean's back.

Dean choked out a curse in Gaelic and pulled Sam around into a hug.

"Dean, what happened? There was a guy standing behind you, like..."

"He Obi-Wan-ed me," Dean replied, though it came out as a sob. "H-he—he k-killed you, and... and Meg..."

"Dammit, Dean—"

"I tried! Sammy, I tried not to take it! He... he must've..."

Sam sighed and studied Dean's face. "How long?"

"A year."

Sam swore quietly. "Okay. Okay, uh, we'll... we'll go back to the rez and get in touch with Chris..."

Dean shook his head, defeated. "It's no good, dude. I have to consent to a Nidáá. But if I do anything to get out of the deal, she'll kill you."

"But coerced consent isn't valid!"

"Sam..."

"No, Dean. Don't say it. Don't apologize. Just... there's gotta be a way to get you out of this. And by the gods, I'll find it if it kills me."

Bobby and Ellen ran into the clearing just then, took stock of the situation, and didn't ask any questions. Rather, Bobby said, "Boys. We got the gate closed and got the Colt back, but a hell of a lot of demons came through. We'd better get out of here."

Dean could only nod and let Sam pull him to his feet.

The deal left both brothers floundering. Dean seemed determined to enjoy the time he had left and pull up what few stakes he still had, even choosing to take the out Lisa Braeden offered him with the obvious lie that her son wasn't Dean's. Sam could tell it was killing him to walk away from Ben, but it did seem less cruel to leave now than to stay and make them face the pain of losing him to the hellhounds.

That much, Sam got. He didn't get Dean's reluctance to help him find some way to break the deal, even considering that the damn thing wouldn't have held up in an American court of law. So although he was wary of the mysterious blonde named Ruby who showed up and professed to want to help, and doubly so once he found out she was a demon, he couldn't very well refuse her aid without proof that she was lying. Any help was better than none, and she did save his life a time or two and help Bobby fix the Colt when the original bullets ran out. Dean didn't trust her, but he hadn't met her yet.

But then, after a dispiriting Christmas hunt that had kept them from getting back to Arizona, their paths crossed Ruby's again on a hunt that turned out to involve witches being manipulated by a demon. Sam stopped Dean from killing Ruby on sight, and she returned the favor by breaking a spell cast on Dean by the other demon in town, Tammi. Sam might have been all the more inclined to trust her after that... had she not shown up at the house where the brothers were trying unsuccessfully to corner Tammi, professing to have lured them there to get back in Tammi's good graces, and had Tammi not let slip that Ruby herself had been not only human but also a witch once upon a time.

As soon as the only other surviving member of the coven tried to kill Tammi, the force holding the brothers to the walls vanished. Dean dropped, came up with Ruby's knife, and ran Tammi through. Sam dropped, too—and came up with the Colt, aimed squarely at Ruby's heart.

Ruby blinked. "What?"

"A witch," Sam snarled. "You're the chindi of a damn witch?!"

"Wait, Sam..."

"Give me one good reason not to blow you away right here."

"I can help you! I can help you save Dean!"

"That's not how you were talking earlier," Dean said quietly. "Do it, Sam."

"No, wait, Sam—"

Sam didn't let her finish. He squeezed the trigger, and she fell, burning from the inside. Dean cleaned the knife, and they left without another word.

On the way out of town, though, Dean gave Sam a once-over. "Thought you said you'd find a way if it killed you."

Sam looked over at him. "I'm not going to resort to the Witchery Way, Dean."

Dean reached over and gave the back of Sam's neck a grateful squeeze.

"This had better be important," Zachariah snapped. "I've already risked my neck far enough in having Uriel retrieve Meg last year."

Lilith's eyes clicked white in annoyance. "I wouldn't have called you otherwise, angel. You know my daddy told me not to talk to strangers."

"All right, then. What?"

"Sam Winchester just killed the demon I sent to corrupt him. He's still faithful to that Jessica girl, and now he's on his guard where false friends are concerned. We won't be able to take advantage of his despair once the first seal breaks."

Zachariah's reply was not fit for a child's ears.

Lilith tilted her head. "Can't you kill Jessica?"

"No, and I'm not going to tell you why. We'll just have to let Sam keep the Colt and find some other way to provoke him." He paced for a moment, thinking, then looked back at her. "How's your relationship with Famine and Pestilence?"

Her answering grin was pure evil.

Dean was running out of time, and Sam was running out of options. He wasn't quite sorry he'd killed Ruby, but the leads had dried up not long after that. All they knew for sure was that Lilith had taken over Dean's contract from Meg. Ash had come up with a tracking program and had a fatal heart attack while handing the CD to Sam; the program worked, but it couldn't predict when Lilith would move, and she was almost always at least a two-day drive away. And the one time they almost got close enough to trap her... went about as well as one might expect, given their luck. So once the brothers had fridged Doc Benton, Sam had only one card left to play.

He took Dean back to Arizona, to the hogan they'd built two years ago. Dean figured they were safe enough, since his deal still had a few more weeks to go, but Sam decided not to take any chances and warded the place six ways from Sunday. And then at first light the next day, he took the Impala and drove to the outskirts of Flagstaff.

His destination was among the San Francisco Peaks—specifically the one the Navajo call Dook'o'oosłííd or Diichilí Dzil, Abalone Shell Mountain. It was the western boundary of Dinétah and the only mountain he knew for sure was supposed to house a god who actually cared about humans.

Sam wasn't sure what kind of creatures or humans might be guarding Abalone Shell Mountain, and Chris had made him stay in the car the last time they'd come out here because he wasn't a singer. So actually trying to hike up the slope was probably a bad idea. What he could do, and did, was to get as close as he could in the car before stripping down to a breechcloth, painting his body appropriately, and gathering his few supplies. Then he hiked to the base of the mountain, set out his offering of cornmeal and tobacco as well as a blanket for himself, and sat down to wait. After a few moments of silence, he decided to try singing, since the Holy People seemed to like music in all the legends he knew. So he sang every song he could think of that reminded him of Dean—Metallica, AC/DC, Led Zep, all the greatest hits. And when he got to the end of the playlist, he started over again.

He sang all. day. long. The sun set; the moon rose; and still he kept going.

He was beginning to worry that his already less-than-stellar voice wasn't going to hold out much longer when he heard a quiet "Wuuhuu..."

Sam froze. That hadn't sounded like any owl he'd ever heard before.

"Wuuhuu..."

Sam gulped. "Y... Yáát'ééh, Haashch'éélt'i'í, shicheii."

And suddenly Talking God revealed himself, taking the appearance of a Navajo man wearing a white buckskin outfit trimmed with rainbow ribbon, and he had eagle and owl feathers hanging from his braids. "Sam Winchester," he said with a curious birdlike tilt of the head. "Born to Campbell, born for Salt. Well, born to trouble and born for sorrow, to be more accurate. What were you singing about, my grandson?"

"I was... I was singing about my brother, my grandfather."

"Indeed? And why would you come here to do that?"

"I need your help. My brother's been trapped into a demon deal, and I need some way to get him out of it."

Talking God tilted his head the other way. "Trapped? How do you mean?"

And Sam spilled the whole story, what they knew and what they didn't know. As he talked, Talking God's expression grew less curious and more grave.

Finally, Talking God looked down at the offering Sam had set out, picked it up, and passed it up one side of his body and down the other before tucking it into his squirrel-skin pouch. "I don't have a ready answer for you, Sam. I'll have to consult with the others. But come back with your brother in four nights' time, and I'll tell you what I can."

Sam took a deep breath and let it out again. "Okay. We'll be here. Ahéhee', shicheii."

Talking God nodded and vanished.

Shaking and breathless, Sam picked up his blanket and walked back to the car. And he absolutely did not speed on the way back to the ranch... well, okay, maybe a little. It was only an hour or so away by car at the speed limit, anyway.

Dean was still up, poking aimlessly at the fire, when Sam got back. He looked up as Sam walked in and raised an eyebrow. "You gonna bathe or what?"

Sam huffed, not sure if it was a laugh or not. "Later. It worked. Dean, it worked. I saw Talking God."

Dean sat up straighter. "And?"

"We're supposed to go back in four nights, both of us. He's gonna see what he can find out."

"... A definite maybe? That's all he could give you?"

"Well, that's a hell of a lot better than we've gotten from anyone else."

Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Yeah, I know, I know. I'm sorry. It's just... we've been on so damn many wild goose chases this year. I was kind of hoping for a yes or no answer."

"We'll get one, dude. I'm sure. Talking God's not one to break his promises."

Dean nodded and looked away. After a moment, though, he looked back at Sam. "You saw Talking God? Seriously?"

Sam nodded.

"What's... what's he look like?"

"Human, like the other gods we've seen, but... nicer, y'know? Diné. And he, like, actually listened to me. Kind of weird, though... he said I was 'born to trouble and born for sorrow.'"

"Oh, that's encouraging."

"Dean."

"Dammit, Sammy—you deserve better. You deserve Jess and a degree and a white picket fence and a city house and all the stupid stuff you ever wanted. You shouldn't have to be out here trying to save my neck."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, what makes you think I don't want to?"

Dean looked at him miserably for a moment before tossing his stick into the fire, lying down, and pulling his blanket over himself, ending the conversation. Sam sighed and took a jug of water outside to scrub down.

The four days passed pretty quietly. Sam tried not to fret, and Dean tried not to get his hopes up. But for as many times as Dean said "C'mon, really?" about the various ways Sam insisted on preparing for the return to Abalone Shell Mountain, he went through with all of it the day of without a peep of complaint. And he didn't even fidget much once they got to the right spot at the foot of the mountain.

It was nearly midnight when Talking God finally appeared. "Sam," he said with a nod. "This must be Dean."

Dean managed to nod back. "Yáát'ééh, shicheii."

Talking God heaved a heavy sigh. "I have spoken to the other gods. We have considered every option. We even got a little unexpected outside help; it seems Loki is very interested in your case. And I wish I had better news for you. But as unjust as it is, Dean, even in the absence of your heart's consent, you said the word and gave the kiss. The deal can't be undone. Lilith won't release you. And we can't protect you forever."

Dean shot to his feet. "What the hell do you mean, you can't protect me forever? You're a god!"

"A god whose power is tied to his people, and his people are fading. We're not as weak as the gods of Europe, but we are not all-powerful; only Yahweh is. Even if all of us join forces, we're no match for Lilith."

Dean turned away and ran a hand over his face.

"Listen to me, my grandson. Even if we could break this deal, you would not be safe in Dinétah much longer. There are forces at work that we have never seen before, not even in the worlds below. The dark wind is blowing stronger than ever. It won't be long now before the enemy brings the battle to us. And we have no way of knowing whether we will survive."

Dean didn't turn around, but his shoulders slumped.

Sam sighed. "Isn't there anything you can do, my grandfather?"

Talking God met his eyes. "If—if—we can find someone who is willing to descend to the Burning-Pitch-Place, we will send that person to get Dean out. But Sam, that's a very big if. I can't promise anything. And no, the person we send can't be you or any other human; we wouldn't be able to transport you there and back safely. I'm sorry."

Dean finally managed to turn around and meet Talking God's eyes again. "Ahéhee', shicheii."

"Hágoónee, shitsóóké," Talking God returned and faded from view.

Dean waited until they were in the car and safely away from the mountain to unleash the string of profanity that expressed his deep, bitter disappointment. And Sam couldn't disagree.

Bobby had one outside, long-shot, last-ditch idea for killing Lilith to get Dean out of his deal. They found her, but she got the jump on them and sicced the hellhounds on Dean. He barely had time to register the pain before they were dragging his soul off to Hell.

Hell was indescribable—the Burning-Pitch-Place, yes, but echoing with constant screams, and Dean was subjected to relentless, unspeakable torture day in and day out. And his chief tormentor, Alastair, constantly offered to stop the pain if only Dean would step off the rack and torture someone else.

Dean always said no. He knew he didn't belong there. He knew Sam was looking for a way to spring him. He knew Talking God had promised to send help if help could be found, and for all his immediate disappointment that the deal couldn't be broken, he was willing to believe that Talking God would follow through if he could. Weeks became months; months became years; years became decades. And still Dean cherished that flicker of hope, however tiny, that help would come. Even when he'd nearly lost all sense of time and when his awareness faded into the haze of pain and remorse that came with his soul knitting itself together again at the end of a session, he would not take that deal.

It was also about the only way he had left to annoy Alastair.

One day, though—Dean figured he'd been down there something like forty years at that point—someone dared to intrude at the end of a session. He didn't get a good look at who it was; all he knew was that the other demon told Alastair, "We're out of time."

Alastair snarled... and the haze descended faster than ever.

Next thing Dean knew, he was in his Fed suit standing in a morgue, and there was a body stretched out on the autopsy table in front of him. He had a scalpel in his hand, and somehow he had the idea that he needed to find out how the victim died before the coroner got back. Weird as the notion felt, he went with it, quickly and efficiently cutting the body open, pulling back skin and muscle to reveal internal organs and pushing past the ribcage to get a look at the heart.

Which was still beating.

No...

Horrified, Dean dropped the knife and stumbled back from the table. As he did, the illusion vanished; the body became a live, screaming soul on a rack, and Alastair was cackling in undisguised glee.

No...

Then something happened, and Alastair turned and tried to run but was struck down with a bolt of bright white flame. But as a burning hand clamped down on Dean's left shoulder and pulled him away, one last thought crossed his mind before he lost consciousness:

I never agreed to this...

Watching Dean die was, hands down, the single worst thing that had ever happened to Sam. When Lilith fled, he bawled his eyes out over Dean's mangled corpse; there was no way he could even pretend to be as stoic about it as Navajo tradition said he should be. And Bobby, bless him, not only didn't judge but was just as distraught as Sam was.

But when Bobby offered to cut Sam's hair and put it on the pyre with the body, Sam refused. Talking God had promised help, and Sam had every intention of holding him to that promise. He didn't cut his hair; he took the amulet for safe keeping but insisted on burying Dean in a grave shallow enough to be easy to get out of; and after a few bouts of drunken commiseration with Bobby, he threw himself into research to try to find a spirit capable of retrieving Dean that might be outside Talking God's normal circle of acquaintance. Bobby tried a couple of times to get Sam to go back to hunting, but Sam just couldn't. There had to be a solution somewhere; he couldn't let himself believe otherwise. And he couldn't stop looking for it while Dean was suffering under such monstrous injustice.

Four long, disheartening months went by, and still Sam kept searching, losing himself in his work to the point that Bobby occasionally had to physically drag him away to eat and sleep. So engrossed was he one day in mid-September, digging through a tricky text that Bobby had decided to store in his newly-built panic room for safe keeping, that the sounds of a scuffle upstairs barely registered.

That is, until a very familiar voice bellowed, "Dammit, Bobby, stop tryin' to kill me!"

Sam was halfway up the basement stairs before he even realized he was running. Then he burst out into the first-floor hall just as a holy-water-drenched Dean drew a silver knife across his arm to prove his identity.

"Dean," Sam breathed.

Dean looked up at him and grinned. "Hey, Sammy."

Sam rushed over and pulled Dean into the tightest hug of his life, heedless of the blood getting smeared on the back of his shirt. Dean was warm and solid and real and alive, and Sam was so relieved that he didn't care if he looked like a giant girl.

When Sam finally let go, Bobby had tears in his eyes and pulled Dean into a hug of his own. "How'd you get out, boy?" he asked quietly when he released Dean. "Sam's been burning up the books trying to find something for you."

Dean shook his head. "I don't know. I can't remember. I just... woke up in a pine box under three feet of dirt. Whatever pulled me out left a hell of a calling card, though. There were trees down for a hundred-yard radius—looked like a nuke went off. And something's been following me; dunno if it rode me out or what. I've been seein' EMF signs and hearin' this... ear-splitting, high-pitched whine. Shattered some windows a few states back."

"You hear it now?"

"No, it's not constant."

Sam pondered this information. "Maybe whatever Talking God sent is trying to contact you."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, could be. Think we should go ask him?"

"Can't hurt. We ought to thank him for the help anyway."

"Good point. You want to come, Bobby?"

Bobby shook his head. "Nah, you boys go on. I'll see if there's a stone Sam left unturned that might tell us what it is."

"Sure. Thanks. Sołtį', Sammy."

Sam thanked Bobby for the help and the hospitality, gathered his things, and led Dean out to the Impala. He had—barely—remembered to wash it and take it for a drive every so often to keep the battery and such in good shape, but he hadn't done much else with it. And Dean seemed grateful that he'd kept both the car and the amulet safe for him.

It was a long two-day drive to Flagstaff, which gave the brothers time to catch up (well, as much as they could, given that Dean had apparently blocked all memory of his time in Hell) and figure out how best to approach Talking God. It was well after dark when they finally got to Abalone Shell Mountain, so they quickly made their way to the same spot where they'd met Talking God before, sat down on a couple of blankets, and began to sing a song of thanksgiving.

They were barely one verse in when Talking God appeared, waving frantically. "Stop! Stop!"

Startled, Sam and Dean shut up.

"I appreciate your gratitude, my grandsons, but this was not our doing. Save your thanks until you find the one to whom praise belongs. The whole spirit world is in an uproar over Dean's return, and we don't understand what's happening."

Dean frowned. "Well, if you didn't send help, and Sam didn't send help... who did, and what the hell was it that pulled me out of there? And why is it following me?"

Talking God looked him over and pointed to his left shoulder. "Let me see the mark."

Sam blinked in confusion, but Dean shot him a nervous look before shrugging out of his overshirt and rolling up the sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal a livid burn mark shaped like a man's handprint. Talking God examined the burn visually, then gently brushed two eagle feathers over it and hummed thoughtfully.

"Its name is Castiel," he concluded. "Beyond that, I'm not—" He broke off, looking up as if hearing something. "Wait here. I'll be right back." And he vanished.

"Does it hurt?" Sam whispered.

"Not so much now," Dean replied. "Did when I first got out."

Then they waited in silence until Talking God reappeared, looking... not quite grim, but certainly not jolly, and maybe a little rattled. "Castiel has urgent business with you, Dean. Return to your hogan. He will speak to you there."

Dean blinked. "What is he?"

"You should hear that from him, I think. But he is not a demon or any other resident of the Burning-Pitch-Place." Talking God paused. "Dean... Sam... be careful. There are dread omens abroad. I don't know for certain what they mean, but I fear that our medicine may not help you much longer."

The brothers thanked him again and took their leave.

As late as it was, the family was sound asleep when they got to the ranch. Dean shut off the lights and coasted in to park by the corral so as not to wake anyone. Then they rode up to their hogan and waited up for Castiel, neither of them saying much.

Sam didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke with a start to the smell of breakfast the next morning. And for the second before Dean realized he was awake, Sam got a good glimpse of the sour look on his face.

Dean masked it quickly, though. "Mornin', sunshine. Grandmother wasn't too happy about us sneakin' in last night and not planning to stay, but she sent breakfast."

Sam blinked. "We're not staying?"

Dean shook his head. "Need to get back to Bobby's, get his opinion on this Castiel thing."

Sam looked around in confusion, spotting the salt line intact and a couple of spent shotgun shells in a corner. "Dean... what happened last night?"

Dean shoved a plate of food into his hand. "You keeled over, and Castiel walked in. I hit him with everything but the Colt, no reaction. He says he's an angel."

"—Angel? As in real live wings-and-halo kind of angel?"

"'S what he said. I don't believe him. That's why we need to get back to Bobby's place, fast. Eat up."

Still bewildered but more hopeful than he'd felt in a couple of years, Sam nodded and ate. But they were barely back in cell phone range when Bobby called them to meet him in Gillette, Wyoming, to check on a hunter friend of his who'd stopped answering her phone... and after that, they were up to their ears in the kind of weirdness Talking God had warned them about. And by the end of it, Dean had somehow lost his doubts about Castiel and about what was going on.

Lilith was trying to start the Apocalypse. And both brothers agreed she needed to be stopped at all costs.

.

'Akóhájí Doogááł – He Will Go the Same Way

Bináá' łitso – Yellow-Eyes

Haidzaa? – What happened?

Diné – Navajo

Amá Sání – maternal grandmother

Zhini – African-American

Tha mi e a' faicinn – I see it

Nidáá – Enemy Way ceremony

chindi – evil spirit/ghost

Yáát'ééh, Haashch'éélt'i'í, shicheii. – Greetings, Talking God, my grandfather.

Ahéhee' – Thank you

Hágoónee, shitsóóké – Farewell, my grandsons

Sołtį' – Let's go

Note: Shicheii and shitsóóké refer to maternal grandfather-grandchild relationships, but shicheii can also be a form of respectful address, especially when speaking to gods—Talking God in particular—and other supernatural powers.