"Hello Dean," a voice calls from the door.

Dean, sick from the alcohol the night before, groans and picks himself up off of the hotel floor. Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he reaches to the nightstand and picks up the bottle of booze sitting there. Uncapping it, he drains it into his mouth and swallows. Looking toward the sound of the voice he scowls, then does a double take. "Chuck?"

"That's as good a name as any," Chuck replies.

"Where the hell have you been? I thought you were dead," Dean retorts.

"No, Dean, I'm not dead. As for where I've been, hell was a pit stop," Chuck replies, walking into the room and sitting down in a chair. "I thought you might want this back," he tosses something.

Dean, his senses heightened and reflexes powered by the mark, catches it in midair, only to drop it when it burns his hand. Looking down, he sees his old necklace, a one-time gift from his brother Sam. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"Does it matter?"

Startled, Dean remembers Castiels' words when he'd borrowed that same necklace, 'It burns hot in God's presence.'