Author's Note: So. Fucking. MAD. at the Men of Letter's right now. I want this bitch dead. I want her kid dead. And I wanted everyone who was every associated with them dead too. I almost want an episode at this point to have like Crowley, Lucifer, Castiel and couple of the Alphas team up and be like "whoa, dudes. You don't fuck with the Winchesters. We just got them to chill out. Even the Darkness apologized. Stop poking the psychopaths with sticks. It ends badly. We KNOW."

Anyway, pop culture references abound because Dean gets a role in this chapter, and that's pretty much how he communicates. Read and review!

When the phone rang, Lady Toni answered on the second ring. She'd barely made it past 'hello' before a voice that most assuredly was not Watts spoke.

"You have my brother. I want him back."

"Well aren't you full of surprises?" Toni said.

"You have my brother," Dean Winchester repeated, voice flat and dulled. Even over the poor reception from inside the basement, Toni could hear the barely contained rage. "I want him back."

"I suppose you're offering a trade? Hmm? Miss Watts for your brother?" Toni said, unable to keep the smile off her face.

There was a beat of silence before Dean responded. She could practically see him shrugging one shoulder indifferently. "Yeah, sure, if you want her corpse back so bad, you can have it. Not like I'm gonna do anything with it."

Toni's well-manicured fingers tightened on the phone. "She's dead?"

"Very."

"And you think that puts you in a position to negotiate with me, do you?"

Dean laughed at that, and she felt a shiver trail down her spine. "Lady – you seem to know us well enough to ambush my brother in our home. Did I say anything about exchanging shit for my brother? Did I?" Dean snarled into the phone loud enough she had to hold it away from her ear.

"You want him?" Toni said, trying to keep her voice even. She was more than prepared for an American Hunter. Even for his feathered friend. She had the high ground in this shoot out. "Come and get him."

There were several beats of dead silence. The next time Dean Winchester spoke, it was barely loud enough for her to hear him over the poor connection.

"I'm coming," he growled. "And Hell's coming with me."

She didn't even have a chance to hang up. The phone clicked in her ear, and she frowned down the 'call ended' screen.

"That was a bit dramatic," she muttered before putting the cell back on the table, next to the various blood covered instruments. She picked up a small, thin stiletto blade, twirling it absently in her hand before turning back to Sam Winchester.

He was still bound in the chair, but instead of cocky and arrogant, he was breathing hard through clenched teeth as blood and sweet stained his shirt. She could still smell the acrid scent of burnt flesh from the open wound on his foot, and she could see him try and keep it off the ground as best he could, despite the shackles.

"Your brother sends his regards," she said flippantly, watching the pained glazed over look in Sam's eyes evaporate at the mention of his brother.

"Dean?" he rasped, teeth chattering slightly from shock. "He's alive?"

Toni smiled coyly for a moment. "For now, anyway. He says he's coming to save you."

Sam's mouth twisted into a grin, though the effect was slightly dampened by the blood stains on his teeth from biting his lip. "Those were his words?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Close enough anyway. It doesn't matter, because it isn't going to happen. I have this place so heavily warded his angel friend is never going to be able to get past it."

Sam continued to grin, but there was something hollow behind that smile. "Cass can't come in?" he coughed. "That's too bad."

"Oh?"

This time, it was Sam who shrugged indifferently, though he hissed quietly when it pulled on the open wound to his shoulder. "Cass would've been the only one who would stop him."

Toni raised an elegantly plucked eyebrow. "From?"

"Killing you."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh please."

And drove the stiletto up to its hilt into Sam's shoulder.

)*)*)*)*)*)*)*)*

Cass found the farmhouse with relative ease. He may actually be on par with Sammy when it came to research, Dean mused to himself. He definitely saved his ass by agreeing to stay outside with his mom.

He didn't bother to correct her assumption that he was worried about her. She wasn't wrong – she just wasn't wholly right, either.

He didn't want his mom to see what he was about to do.

Cass was right – the whole place was warded tighter than the bunker. Spells and wards and enchantments he'd never seen before.

Not that it mattered.

He found the cellar entrance, which of course was warded. There was a symbol faintly drawn on the ground in front of it, one that he didn't recognize but drew his foot through it anyway. The odds of whatever sigil it was having any power if it was broken was pretty slim. The door was locked and bolted too, from the other side. It didn't matter. He reared one foot back and slammed it into the lock, shattering the wood around it.

He almost didn't hear his brother's cry of pain over the crashing, and in true Winchester fashion, he didn't wait to hear more. With pistol raised, he barreled down the narrow, steep basement steps towards his little brother.

A woman stood behind Sam, looking so horribly out of place for the carnage around him in her cardigan and ironed pants and sensible shoes. But Dean recognized a killer when he saw one. She may look like a British version of a Volvo driving soccer mom, but the comfortable grip she held on the knife against Sam's throat spoke volumes.

"Dean?" Sam gasped, eyes quickly taking in everything about his brother – making sure he wasn't a delusion or a ghost. "You're alive?"

"Yup," Dean said, keeping his gun raised and leveled at the woman. "What'd I tell you about picking up strange women? You don't know where they've been."

Sam couldn't help the disbelieving chuckle. "You're one to talk. And for the record – she picked me up."

Dean glanced down at his brother's leg, noting the bullet hole in the thigh, the blood smeared into the denim cracked and dried. It was the oldest injury on him. Everything else was still fresh and bleeding, from the cut across his forehead, to the stab wound to the shoulder.

The smell of burnt flesh from raw and open wound on his brother's bare feet.

"You did this?" Dean asked, eyes flicking back to the woman who stood behind his brother, using him as a human shield. He kept his gun trained on her.

"Not all of it," the woman said. Posh British accent. He thought of Bela and her well-deserved demise. "Watts helped."

"You think you have a better chance of walking away from this than she did?"

"I do."

Dean's lip pulled upwards in a smirk that probably resembled more of a snarl. "Walk me through that logic."

"All I want is information on the American Hunters. Their leadership. How to contact them. The passcodes to the Bunker's databases," the woman said, sounding reasonable. "Your brother didn't want to tell me, so I was forced to get ugly. You think I wanted it this way?"

Dean's gaze flickered down to Sam, who subtly shook his head.

"Yeah," Dean said. "I think you did. And if you were a Hunter, you would know why."

The woman cocked her head to the side, her hand still firmly on the blade as it scratched against Sam's throat. "Oh?"

Before she could react, Dean fired, hitting her high on the shoulder. It wouldn't kill her. But it would break her clavicle, and if he was lucky, her scapula, too. Her hand dropped the knife as she screeched in pain, falling back and away from his little brother.

It took every ounce of will he had not to march over to her, curb stomp that pretty, smug little face into the concrete until bones shattered beneath his shoe before using one of her own blades to see if she even had a heart to cut out.

"If you were a Hunter," he said, voice tight, "you would know that predators recognize other predators."

He stalked carefully towards her, but not because he was afraid or worried about what she might do. No matter how badly he wanted her dead, wanted her to suffer, wanted her to understand just who and what the fuck she was dealing with, there was always a part of him that tried to hold back. Because he didn't like the way it made him remember his time with Alastair. His year in Purgatory. The Blade. Reminded him that he could be less than human.

"Keys?" he asked Sam, who shook his head. Probably meant the bitch had them on her. He kicked her foot as she tried to crawl away from him. "Keys?" he repeated, not lowering the gun.

He really, really wanted to shoot her.

"You'll have to kill me first," the woman spat, her good arm clutching desperately at the mess that was her left.

"You're acting like that's gonna be an issue for me," Dean said indifferently. "Keys."

She spat at him, even though she didn't have a hope in hell of hitting him, and he rolled his eyes, sighing.

"What is your deal anyway?" Dean asked. "I get back from saving the world, and I find my brother gone, an angel banishing sigil in blood on my wall, and then I find out you came out of nowhere to kidnap him. You and your…body guard? Attack dog? Whoever the hell that bitch was. Why? Who are you, anyway?"

"She's Men of Letters," Sam answered.

Dean almost risked a glance back at his brother, because he was sure he hadn't heard that right. "Men of Letters were wiped out."

"Only the American ones, apparently," Sam said. "She's from the British Chapterhouse. Abaddon missed them."

"You mean to tell me…" Dean snarled, "that you were around for everything in the last twelve years? Why are we just hearing about you now? Where the fuck were you when Lucifer broke out? When Azazel was corrupting kids? When Leviathans were making their own version of Soylent Green? How about when the goddamn Darkness showed up and was busy trying to destroy the world?"

"We observe and record, you heathen," the woman snapped. "It wasn't our concern."

"Apparently, they have Britain under control to the point they haven't had a monster related death in over forty years," Sam piped up. "She thinks she can do the same for the US."

"So let me get this straight," Dean said, a fake smile plastered across his face. "Until twenty-four hours ago, we weren't worthy of a 'how's it going', but now you want to help? So you kidnap and torture my brother, send your hired thug to kill me, and you think I'm magically going to want to help you?"

Again, before the woman could speak, Sam answered for her. "She wants the contact information for all of the Hunters. She thinks there's like…some coalition or something for us. Like it's a club with membership dues."

"You think we have that?" Dean asked incredulously. "You don't think if we had people to call, we would've fucking called when the world went to Hell in a goddamn handbasket? Are you seriously that fucking stupid? How does that even make sense? You have brain damage going on you want to disclose to the rest of the class? Seriously. I want to know your thought process. You didn't once come at us like we could be allies. You came at us as the enemy. You're not coming back from that. But if you're so interested in information, how about you share something with us?"

"Like what?" the woman spat. "I'm not giving you anything."

"I ain't asking for state secrets, sweetheart. You're not alone, am I right? You have friends that are going to come looking for you?" Dean sneered.

"Yes," the woman hissed, pushing herself up against the support beam.

"So if I kill you, they're gonna come for us?" he pushed.

"Yes. The Chapterhouse will come for you," she said, a flicker of her old arrogance coming back.

"Then I'll kill them too," Dean said flatly. "I will kill every single one of them. I'd like to say I don't have it in me to kill another human, especially not one that can actually help us out, but that would be a bigger lie than I'm comfortable telling. We've killed just about everything that walked or crawled at one point or another. Hell, I've killed Death himself – and I liked him. I apprenticed under an archdemon in Hell for thirty years, learning how to torture someone. I was Death for a day. I bore the Mark of Cain. I became a demon. If you think for one second you're going to outplay me on this field, you've got another thing coming. I will find you. And I will kill you. And then I'm going to find everyone else in your club, and I'm going to kill them too."

The woman opened her mouth to say something, but Dean waved the gun.

"I really, really want to kill you right now. But I am very tired," Dean said. "My brother and I just got done saving the word again, and I was housing the equivalent of a thermonuclear warhead of monster souls for a minute there. But more importantly, I have someone that I am trying very, very hard to live up to their expectations of me, and she's not going to like it if I kill someone on her second day back."

He levelled the gun at her, and she flinched away.

"I thought you said you weren't going to kill me?" she protested.

"And I'm not." He fired one round into her knee. He tried not to smile when she screamed in pain, but he doubted he was very successful. When he fished in her pockets for the keys to Sam's restraints, she slapped feebly at his hand, leaving blood smeared across the back of it. "I'm just going to hurt you."

He fired a second round into her other knee. "I'm just going to hurt you."

He turned his back on her, keeping his gun out as he surveyed the tray of torture instruments nearby. His hand clenched even tighter on the handle as he noted the number of them with dried blood on them.

His brother's blood.

Dean quickly undid Sam's handcuffs, leaving him to undo the restraints around his legs.

He picked up the blowtorch, igniting it with a flick of a finger.

"Really, really bad."

Ta da...seriously. I have so many other stories I am supposed to be writing right now, but I wanted angry Dean. I wanted Demon!Dean. I wanted Alastair's apprentice to make a come back. I'm chalking up his missteps in this episode to the fact that he's had a couple of pretty trying days. He's tired and was clearly in dire need of pie.

So, let me know what you think! In all honesty, this is probably the last chapter. Only other chapter would be from Mick's point of view trying to get intel on the Winchesters from the other Hunters and everyone just slams the phone down when they asked. "Naw, man. Ain't no way I'm pissing off a Winchester. They don't even die. Ever. Two dudes tried it once. It ended badly."