Dean's first thought was, "This can't be happening."

It was followed by:

"Why not? You just yanked God's fat out of the fire."

And:

"I can't handle this. Not now. I'm already a freakin' wreck…"

"Help me," she said again, and this time she came at him, hands outstretched. He almost stepped back a pace when she grabbed his arms. "Where am I? I need to get home."

Any doubt that she was real evaporated. Her grip on his wrists was like iron. "I…I'm not sure," he said. "I'm trying to get a signal…"

It was funny how the sudden presence of one's long dead mother could turn a grown man back into a four year old. Dean's ability to form a complete sentence dried up. He stared at her open mouthed. She snatched his phone out of his hand and turned it this way and that as she walked away from him. In the moonlight the paleness of her hair and the diaphanous white nightgown she wore made her look ghostly. Her scowl as she attempted to understand the alien technology in her hand made her look like someone he might not want to cross. She had been, he recalled, a Hunter in a long line of Hunters. Dean had seen her fight, had taken a couple of her hits himself in a warp of time long ago.

She looked back over her shoulder. "Is this a compass? How does it work?"

"It's a phone. Look…."

"I have to get home." She said, with a feverish, frantic, look in her eyes. "There is something after my baby, something…."

"A demon," Dean said. He gently took the phone away from her. There was still no signal, but beyond her he caught sight of a path, and in the distance, a light. "Yeah, I know."

She paused, turning to stare at him in shock. "What?"

"That was…" Crap, how old was Sammy now anyway? They hadn't even acknowledged, let alone celebrated each other's birthday in years. "Over thirty years ago."

"WHAT?!"

Dean sighed wearily. He was exhausted. The past twenty-four hours hadn't exactly been a cakewalk. Carrying around hundreds of thousands of souls as a god-killing time bomb wasn't something your average human being did on a regular basis; there was no way to prepare for it. On top of just feeling weird, and frankly, scared, Dean had to spend quite a bit of energy keeping his own soul from getting lost in the crowd. He had, for a brief time, been given access to the hopes and dreams, memories and emotions, of all of those lost souls. It could have easily overwhelmed him. Now that it was all over he wanted nothing more than to lie right down where he stood and sleep for a week. That obviously wouldn't be an option. Amara's amazing gift now stood helplessly before him, and he had no choice but to carry on.

"Mary," he said, approaching her carefully. "What I'm going to tell you will sound crazy, but you were a Hunter. You know demons exist, so you know crazy isn't always crazy, right?" As he spoke, he pulled off his jacket and held it out to her. She took it, warily, but put it on over her thin nightdress. "Hear me out, okay?"

"Wait…you know my name? I don't know you." Her brow furrowed. "What is happening?"

"You do know me you just don't realize it – yet."

Her frown deepened. He almost laughed at the inverted "u" that appeared between her eyes. He'd seen it a million times before on Sam's face. His heart swelled with an almost childlike elation.

Mom.

"That night the demon went to Sam's nursery you….died." Dean motioned to her to walk with him, stopping short of taking her by the arm. He was in a way reluctant to touch her, as if touching her would make her disappear, or frighten her into bolting away from him.

She fell into step beside him, at first hesitantly, but seeing he was leading her toward a path out of the woods her reluctance slowly faded. "So I'm – I'm dead?"

"Not anymore." He sighed again. Sam was so much better at exposition. "You were brought back, as a gift, for me."

It took Dean two steps to realize she had stopped. He turned back to look at her. She was staring at him, but this time her expression was unreadable. Whatever was going on in her head, whatever she was doing to try to reconcile his words into her current world-view was completely internalized.

"We've met before," he said, "But the angels probably wiped your memory."

"Angels…"

"They're real, and God is real, and his sister. She brought you back." He smiled weakly and shrugged. "She owed me one."

Mary lifted her chin and cocked her head. "You know," she said. "Demons I get, but you really are crazy."

"But you realize this isn't….then….right?"

She inhaled deeply, glancing up at the stars over their heads. "I…something isn't right. I can feel it. I just can't put words to it." Her gaze found his again, and she began walking once more, carefully picking her way down the path in her bare feet. "Let's say I believe that maybe this is the future. Maybe I've been out of the game, dead or – otherwise. How I've come back would be irrelevant. The more important things for me to consider are who the hell you are, and what am I going to do next."

"We should probably find you some shoes," Dean remarked.

She laughed, and the beauty of it gave him a rush. He stopped abruptly, suddenly overcome with emotion. His vision blurred when she put a hand to his shoulder. He barely heard her ask him if he was okay. At first he could only nod, but then looked into her face, tears of exhaustion, relief, and happiness spilled down his cheeks.

"Mom," he said roughly. "It's me. It's Dean."

"Dean?"

Mary Winchester regarded him solemnly, studying his features, trying to see the little boy she knew in the countenance of the grown man standing next to her. Dean could see her turmoil reflected in her eyes. He didn't move. He couldn't move….

"I see it now," she whispered softly, and smiled. "Dean, honey, don't cry."

Paralysis broken, and shame a long way away, he threw himself into her arms.

It would have been easy enough to give up.

He'd already been on his last reserves when he stumbled into the bunker. Exhausted and emotionally drained by the realization Dean was gone, this time never to return, Sam had been ready to throw in the towel. That was before the British bitch put a bullet in him. Blood loss, sedation, and being trussed up in the back of an SUV for who knew how long certainly hadn't helped matters. Waking to find himself bound to a chair, gagged, and with a steady stream of water pouring down on his head would have been the kicker if he hadn't found it so ludicrous.

Torture? Seriously? What the hell did she want?

She looked irritated that he wasn't panicking. Sam knew the theory behind waterboarding. Water plus gag fooled the mind into thinking it was drowning. He rolled his eyes up at her and glared.

Lady, I spent a year and a half in Hell being tortured by Lucifer himself. You're going to have to do better than this.

She smiled smugly, and left the room. Sam noted a nearby table covered in a variety of items she planned to use to cause him pain. A small desk lamp sat there, its light glinting off of the blade of a scalpel. Was that a blowtorch? Crap. The rest of the room was dark, another intimidation tactic. Glancing up he saw the end of an ordinary garden hose hanging down from the ceiling. The water played havoc with his sense of smell, but he thought he caught a whiff of motor oil, and – fertilizer? A garage? Where was Cas? Would the angel be able to find him?

He gingerly tested his bonds. Handcuffs and rope secured his wrists behind him, shackles and more rope secured his feet. There was nothing within groping range of his cold, wet, fingers that could be used as a lock pick or a knife. The chair was wide, and heavy, he couldn't easily tip it over and break it, or drag it.

It's going to be a very long day.

Sam lowered his head, concentrating on taking slow, shallow breaths so he wouldn't inhale any water. There was a drain at his feet. He noticed a faintly pink swirl in the water and realized his leg was still bleeding. Damn. How unfair was it that the, "I know you aren't going to shoot anyone," shtick almost always worked for Dean but never for Sam?

Dean.

A wave of grief washed over him. He was so weak, and so utterly exhausted, it would be very easy to give up. He'd studied bio-feedback. It wouldn't take much of an effort to slow his pulse and respiration to a level at which his wounds would tip things past the recovery point. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Sam also possessed a stronger than usual sense of self-preservation. Whether this was due to the Winchester stubbornness, a bit of divine (or demonic) intervention, or just because he knew what was out there after death, Sam would find getting past that more difficult.

At least Hell had been warm. The water from the garden hose was freezing cold and quickly soaked through his clothes. After what seemed like only a few minutes he started shivering violently. It triggered a sharp pain in his wounded leg and he involuntarily sucked in a sharp breath. Immediately he started coughing through the saturated cloth jammed into his mouth, choking on even more water. At that point his body's alarm systems overwhelmed his brain's logic and he felt the first grabby fingers of panic take hold. He struggled to free himself despite knowing it was futile.

Dying started to look more appealing than ever.

The path eventually led to a road. Dean's phone lit up. He glared at the screen.

"No way," he muttered, and took a right, now knowing where they were, but not quite believing it.

Mary followed in his wake, not speaking, her arms wrapped around herself within the encompassing warmth of Dean's jacket. Her bare feet made soft pattering sounds on the pavement. Behind them the first pink glow of sunrise began to enlighten the horizon. They'd been walking all night. Dean was ready to drop. If he'd been alone he might have found a soft spot under a tree and taken five. Only the presence of the woman behind him kept him going.

A gravel drive dipped down from the main road. Dean turned down it, guiding Mary to walk along the grassy berm so she wouldn't hurt her feet on the sharp stones. The drive narrowed through a copse of trees, and then widened again to reveal the broad side of a hill, and the door of the Men of Letters bunker within it. In the pale light a long, dark silhouette loomed almost menacingly before them. Twin glass eyes, a snarling grill – to anyone else the huge black car might have triggered uncomfortable images of the demon car Christine roaring down atop her screaming victims. To Dean, she was family, she was home.

"Baby," he breathed. "Sammy's here."

Mary remained silent. They'd talked about all she'd missed, Dean trying heroically to spare her a lot of the unpleasantness they'd been through, but some things he couldn't gloss over. She'd been unhappy to know they grew up to be Hunters, relieved to know they had killed the demon responsible for her own death. Then Dean had to tell her it hadn't been John who avenged her, but Dean himself. When he told her John was dead, she'd gone quiet, and Dean left her to her thoughts. She'd been remarkably calm, but once or twice he had glanced over his shoulder to see the glitter of tears in the darkness. Looking back now he saw her wiping her eyes with her sleeve. For Dean, seeing the Impala was an overwhelming relief. For Mary, it was a sad reminder of the husband she'd lost.

He had to look away quickly, and as he turned his attention to the bunker, preparing to call Sam to let them in, he noticed the call might not be necessary.

The door was standing ajar. At this hour, with Sam obviously back, the bunker should have been locked down tight. Instead the door was open. This could not be good.

"Crap," he muttered. He had no weapon, having gone to meet Amara being the weapon. A quick check confirmed the car was locked.

"What's wrong?" Mary sidled up to him.

"I'm not sure yet," Dean replied. He dialed Sam.

After a moment he heard, very faintly, the sound of a phone ringing deep within the bunker. Not surprisingly there was no answer and his call went right to voice mail. Dean ended the call and tucked his phone back in his pocket. Silently he crept to the door and pushed it open a little wider.

"Wait here."

"Like hell," Mary replied tartly, and disappeared through the door.

Dean hastily followed. Obviously, he thought, with a semi-hysterical note, stubbornness wasn't exclusive to the Winchester side of the family. Or was this some maternal instinct kicking in? After breaking the news to her that her husband was gone, Dean had gone on to reveal the demon had only killed her, and not the baby. He wondered now, watching Mary tip-toe quietly into the library, if part of her didn't expect to find a helpless infant waiting for her at the end of this quest.

What they found was Sam's phone - Sam's phone lying in a puddle of blood, and an angel banishing sigil burned into a pillar.

"Sam?" Dean stood up from examining the blood. A shell casing lay nearby. All around the area were smudged and bloody footprints and signs that a body had been dragged out a side door. "SAM!"

There was no reply. Dean hadn't expected one. He stared at the sigil, and then called, "Cas? Castiel?"

Mary indicated one particularly clear set of prints. "Heels," she said. "One of them was a woman."

"Rowena," Dean growled.

"No. It wasn't."

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. Mary yelped softly, not quite screaming. Had she been within arm's reach of any of the weapons displays she probably would have run their sudden visitor through with a pike. Dean actually had shot him once, only to receive an exasperated look as if he should have known the abrupt presence of something otherworldly appearing in his presence was not a threat. Castiel could be remarkably obtuse in that regard. Not all otherworldly pop-ups were benign, Crowley being an obvious example.

"She was here waiting for us. She sent me away before she identified herself, but it wasn't Rowena."

"How did she get in?"

"She had a key." Castiel frowned and cocked his head in the manner of a curious parrot. "How are you still alive? And is that your mother?"

"My mad mediation skills," Dean replied, losing patience. "And yes."

Castiel stepped past Dean to address Mary. "It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance. My name is Castiel. I am…"

"Wasting time?" Dean prompted.

"…an angel of the Lord." Castiel frowned. "Or I was at one time. Lately things have been a bit – unclear ."

"Angel?" Mary sized up the rumpled visage standing before her. "You're hardly what I expected."

"This is just a vessel…."

Dean had heard all of this before, more than once, and felt compelled to interrupt. "Cas," he said. "Where's Sam?"

Castiel glanced around. "Taken, I presume. There's not enough blood here to indicate he's dead. The woman in question was human, and would not have bothered dragging away a dead body. She must have hurt him to make him more manageable."

"I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse. And she was human, you're sure?" Dean picked up Sam's phone. The blood was sticky, and cold. Sam had been gone for hours. He shuddered despite himself.

Castiel gave him a hard stare, obviously insulted Dean would question him on that point.

"Right, she was human. What the hell?" Dean tried to think of what human he knew who might be pissed off enough at them to abduct Sam, and came up blank. A sudden wave of nausea washed over him. The room tipped a little bit askew. Dean put out a hand and grabbed the back of a chair for support until things stopped spinning.

"You need sleep," Castiel intoned gravely.

"I need to find my brother!"

"Do you have any idea where to look?" A gentle voice inquired.

Castiel and Dean turned to see Mary leaning against a desk, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I didn't think so," she concluded. "Dean, get some rest. Castiel, is it within your power to find a girl some clothes?" She smiled, prettily. "Please?"

To Dean's surprise, the angel smiled back. "Of course, anything you wish."'

Dean stared at him. "Now you're a genie?" he snapped, and disapproving frowns from both the angel and his mother made him mumble an apology. "Sorry. You're right. I need some sleep."

Mary crossed over to where he stood after Castiel vanished. She looked almost as weary as Dean himself felt, but her eyes were bright and filled with determination. She touched his face, and gave him a gentle smile that once again made him feel like he was four.

"We'll find Sammy," she said. "But we have to be ready for when we do. You go get some sleep, sweetheart." Something must have shown on his face, some modicum of fear, for she added, kissing his cheek. "I promise I will still be here when you wake up."

The water deluge stopped. Fingers tugged at the gag tied tightly around his face. She pulled out the knot with a jerk, taking a few strands of hair with it. Sam winced, but drew in a deep, dry breath in relief as soon as his mouth was clear. It made him cough despite himself, and he couldn't stop his teeth from chattering. His captor had changed out of the stylish suit she had been wearing and had clothed herself all in black, now looking less refined; more military, more dangerous.

"Where is Dean Winchester?" she demanded.

"Dead."

She slapped him hard enough to split a lip. "Wrong answer, try again."

Sam didn't have another answer, so he said nothing.

"So this is how you want to proceed, is it?"

"I want to proceed out of here. I admit, yes, we've made mistakes, but we're trying to change all that. Since finding out about the Men of Letters we've been learning ...look, you can't fault us for just being out of touch. The Men of Letters were extinct over here. We've only ever had Hunters and…."

Toni abruptly interrupted. "Save it. I have no say in the matters of guilt or innocence. I just carry out the sentence. My orders were to secure you and your brother, question you, and then follow through with execution." She stared coldly into his face. "Negotiation is futile. You will answer my questions."

Sam started to reply, and then clamped his mouth shut, carefully studying her expression. She was serious. Unless it was an answer to her question, she wasn't going to listen to anything he had to say. He narrowed his eyes. If he was destined to die at this woman's hands, he was going to make it damn difficult for her first.

"Fine, whatever, but I'm not telling you a damn thing."

Nails scraped at his chest. She jerked open his shirt, popping buttons, ripping water saturated cloth before turning to the table and picking up a propane torch. Sam heard the faint "whoosh" as flame sprang to life at its tip. The look in her eyes was cold and calculating as she approached him once again.

"Yes," she said chillingly. "You will. Now, where's your brother."

"Gone."

"Gone where?"

"Screw you."

"Gone where?" she repeated.

"I told you. He's dead."

Toni introduced fire to Sam's left nipple. He was rather surprised he had enough strength to produce a decent scream. She was irritatingly pleased with herself, until she withdrew the flame and he immediately spit in her face.

She shot out a fist and broke his nose.

Sam's eyes watered, but his angry scowl did not waver. He had her number, and it pissed him off. As a kid he'd been bullied because of his small size, his worn clothing, and his quiet aloofness. At Stanford he'd no longer been a scrawny kid, but faced bullying of another sort. He was seen as a charity case, winning a scholarship in what had been assumed was athletics – a big dumb jock thought he had the smarts to study law on someone else's dime. Even out Hunting – Dean Winchester was a scary son-of-a-bitch while little Sammy was the bleeding heart.

This haughty, know-it-all aristocrat obviously assumed Sam would just roll over and spill his guts. If she'd truly done her research she would know what countless others had found out the hard way: never, ever, underestimate Sam Winchester.

Oh, it is on now, bitch.

Toni thrust the flame at the hollow of his throat, her face inches from his, eerily illuminated by the blue propane fire. Sam bellowed back at her, eyes locked with hers, his gaze unwavering and ferocious. She continued, meticulously, to mark him from collar to navel. The stink of burning flesh filled his senses. He saw her nostrils flare in disgust a mere moment before she withdrew. He panted heavily, watching her flip off the torch with an angry twist of her fingers. Sweat had joined the water soaking his clothing. He was no longer shivering. Blinking stinging eyes, he stared at Toni's back, and when she turned around he stiffened, but remained silent, belligerent.

She smirked. "You want to play hardball? Fine, we'll play hardball."

Swiftly, before Sam could even blink, she clapped her hand down onto his thigh and twisted, grinding a fist full of salt into the raw bullet wound.

He momentarily blacked out. When his vision cleared he could see her leaning against the table, her arms crossed casually over her chest. Her expression had regained its cool composure as she studied him carefully. Sam shook off the last of the fuzziness, almost regretting it as with awareness pain returned. His leg burned and throbbed as if she were still holding a torch to him.

"For now let's assume you aren't lying about Dean, and move on to the next question."

"I'll take 'bite me' for a thousand, Alex," Sam said hoarsely.

"What have you done with the Book of the Damned?"

"Did you check the outhouse? We ran out of toilet paper."

Toni very quietly, very calmly, picked up what looked like a garden pruner. She walked around Sam once, and then again, finally stopping and kneeling behind him. "One of the Stynes survived your brother's bloody purge you know. He's a distant cousin, but still privy to the clan's secrets. He informed us you have the book. So do not lie to me."

"Strike two. Don't have it. Don't know where it is."

"Liar."

Toni casually snipped off his left pinky like she was clipping a rose from its stem.

Sam screamed curses her, both in English and quite literally in Latin. Not, he reasoned, that a curse would actually stick without the proper ingredients to go with the words. Still, it made him feel better.

The fucking cunt just cut off my finger! What the hell?

As she stood up, Sam reared back his head and got lucky. He heard a dull thud as the blow caught her unaware, followed by a burst of profanity unbecoming of such a proper English lady. She staggered back into his field of vision clutching her right eye. Blood trickled from her nose. Throwing the bloody pruner down on the table she angrily left the room, but not before shoving the back in his mouth. The water came back on.

Sam sneered after her, but as soon as she was well and truly gone the derisive expression withered and he let out a whimper of pain.

Damn. This isn't going to end well.

Dean dreamed of fire. The house was on fire. It scorched his lungs. His clothing smoldered. He could smell the acrid stench of singed hair. A door was open before him. It led out into the night, and cool fresh air, but he couldn't leave, not yet.

"Sam?"

Where was he? Dean turned a corner, heading instinctively toward the nursery, just as he had done that night. That night the hallway had been clear of flames, but not now. The walls burned. The ceiling burned. Smoke swirled all around him. He heard a baby crying. Where? Which direction? The sound was all around him.

"Sam? Sammy?"

He turned another corner. A figure stood at the end of a long hallway. Hee saw himself standing there filthy with blood and soot, holding a blade that could be mistaken for no other weapon on earth. The One Blade dripped blood that sizzled in the flames still flickering all around them. Dean looked into his own eyes and saw they were not black, but an eerie, gleaming yellow, and at his feet was Sam, blood soaked and very, very, dead.

"NO!"

He shot up in bed, immediately grabbing his arm which, as he turned wide eyes to look, was smooth and unmarked. Gasping, he fell back onto his pillow. The Mark of Cain was gone and it was not coming back.

But Sam was still missing.

Dean got up, showered, and dressed, all in a post-nightmare daze. He followed his nose to the kitchen where there was coffee and, glory be, fresh donuts. He followed his ears to the library, where he blinked almost in surprise to find Mary Winchester's resurrection had not been a dream. She now sat studying one of the dusty tomes pulled from the archives of the Men of Letters and talking softly to the resident angel. Castiel had found her clothes, but dressed her as he would have Sam or Dean. Jeans, boots, a button-down shirt under a light jacket, she looked like a Hunter heading out on a case rather than someone's mother recently back from the dead. She'd pulled her hair back with a barrette. Dean wondered if she'd made a specific request for that. He doubted Cas would have thought of it on his own.

Scattered around the desk before the two of them were what Dean recognized as the ingredients for a spell, including a faded road map and a small bowl of congealed blood. A glance at the now relatively clean floor confirmed it was probably Sam's blood. They were going to attempt a scrying spell.

"You can't find him?" Dean asked Castiel.

"His abductor knew what she was doing. She covered her tracks well, and given her knowledge," he tipped his head to where the angel banishing sigil still stained the pillar, "she's got him heavily warded."

"So what, you think a simple scrying spell will work?"

"It will if she's overconfident. She knows about Castiel, but would she worry about something more mundane?" Mary peered over the top of the book and then set it aside. "This is a very basic spell, but it calls to blood, which gives it a bit of clout. It might slip under her radar."

"Once a Hunter…" Dean smiled.

Mary did not. She regarded him solemnly. "I would have never, ever, raised you to be a Hunter, Dean."

"I know," he said softly. "The demon didn't leave us much choice, and that wasn't your fault."

She didn't reply, instead reaching out to gather the spell components together. "Regardless," she said finally. "Castiel has been telling me more about your adventures." One corner of her mouth quirked upward. "I'm not happy my sons are Hunters, but if it had to be, John did a good job. He raised you right, and I'm proud of you."

Their eyes met across the table. Dean cleared his throat, and turned his attention to finishing his breakfast. Mary continued adding bits of this and that to the bowl of blood, whispering the incantation over each component. Castiel watched with much interest, maybe too much interest. Once again Dean noticed the angel gazing at Mary with a rather enrapt expression and was torn between the urge to be amused or to defend his mother's honor by punching her new admirer in the nose.

Mary dropped a match into the bowl. A flame shot up from its contents, which quickly burned to ash. Dean had expected it to stink, but oddly it smelled of honeysuckle. He knew that scent from his childhood, for it had gown wild at the very back of their yard in Lawrence. He sat back in his chair as Mary took a handful of the ash and scattered it across the map, where it swirled and spun like it had been caught up in a tiny tornado. When it finally settled it formed a ring, encircling one small spot on the far edge of the map.

"Upstate New York," Castiel murmured.

"Can you zap us there?"

Castiel looked pained, "No," he said reluctantly. "My energy levels are still sorely depleted. I'm sorry."

Dean stood up, draining his coffee. "You go ahead then. Try to narrow down something more specific. Be discreet, Cas. Don't tip our hand."

The angel nodded, and immediately vanished.

"Mom…."

"Oh no," Mary said, standing and gathering up a large canvas bag she had slung over the back of her chair. "Don't even think about leaving me behind."

Dean reached into his belt and pulled out a gun, holding it out to her. "I wouldn't dream of it."

She took it, examined it carefully, testing its weight in her hand, and tucked it into her inside jacket pocket without another word. It may have been decades since she walked the Earth, and even longer since she'd been a Hunter, but in her mind she had just given birth only a short six months earlier, and someone had taken her baby. Dean almost felt sorry for the bitch that had made off with Sam.

Almost.

A hard slap brought him back to his senses, and his senses immediately made him sorry. He'd lost consciousness not long after Toni had left him to go nurse her black eye, and he was happy to see what a beautiful shade of purple black he'd created across one side of her aristocratic face. That still didn't take away the pain she'd inflicted on him. Everything hurt, and his head was pounding. His broken nose and the gag made breathing difficult. He'd sucked in more water than was probably good for him. Oxygen deprivation had stolen his consciousness and left him with a headache to beat all headaches. As soon as the gag was removed he gulped air, which made him cough, which made everything hurt more. He couldn't hold back a groan, despite knowing it would please her.

"Sam," she began, in a reasonable, almost friendly tone. "If you know anything at all about the Men of Letters, you know that we are scholars. We are protectors of knowledge, guardians of all things supernatural. Why would you keep knowledge from us? We simply want to keep the book safe. It is one of the most dangerous magical items in existence. Surely you wouldn't want it to fall into the wrong hands."

He cocked his head up at her. "Like mine?"

"You haven't exactly been the most trustworthy of individuals when it comes to tinkering with the existential. Every time you were told not to push the red button, you pushed the red button, and, I'm afraid, your clean-up efforts always seem to make things worse." She quirked a grim smile, a smile void of any amusement. "You and your brother are stains on the fabric of humanity."

Sam snorted, which hurt, but was immensely satisfying. "What a load of crap. At least we're out there doing something, not sitting around sipping tea with our heads stuck up our asses."

"Right, because you became Hunters out of the goodness of your own hearts? You did it because a demon chose you. He chose you because your bloodline was tainted from the very dawn of time. You were, and still are, Lucifer's true vessel! Lucifer who, once again, you released from Hell and now walks the Earth! Oh and Dean, let's talk about Dean. Your brother's soul was dark enough to bear the Mark of Cain, and that's bad enough without the body count he left in his wake." Her lip curled in disgust. "You Winchesters are evil personified! For every life you save, thousands more end, because death and destruction follow every foul breath you take!"

"THEN END IT!" Sam roared, lunging toward her, muscles straining against the ropes that bound him. "Kill me!"

The room was still, save the drip, drip of water trickling from the end of the hose, and the rasp of Sam's labored breathing. The two of them, captor and captive, stared at each other for what seemed like a long time, before Toni tipped up her chin and casually turned away. Her fingers brushed against each item on the table, lingering briefly on the scalpel, a wicked looking hook, the pruning shears still sticky with Sam's blood. She'd gotten a rise out of him. A point went up on her side of the scoreboard. Sam coughed, spat, and sat back to wait for her next move.

"Where," she asked softly. "Is the book?"

"I have no idea."

"Where is the scribe, Metatron?"

"Who?"

"Where is Lucifer?"

"Playing the Copacabana and banging your mother."

Toni swung around holding a hammer.

Shit.

"Answer the questions! NOW!"

"I. Did." Sam grated. "You just don't like the answers."

She didn't like that one either. She raised her arm and brought the hammer down on his right leg just above the knee. A loud "crack" echoed off the garage walls. Sam's response to this new agony was colorful, but also not what she wanted. She brought the hammer down on the other leg. Pain short circuited his consciousness, and as he drifted off into the relief of darkness he heard her curse. He also heard her dial a phone. The last thing he heard was her telling someone, " He won't talk." He didn't hear what she said next, but he did hear a familiar voice calling his name.

Sam suddenly found himself standing in a wheat field that stretched out around him, all the way to the distant horizon. The long golden stalks rustled in the breeze as he circled around in confusion. The sun was high in the sky, and warm. The air smelled fresh and earthy. He no longer smelled his own blood.

"Sam?" the voice said again.

He whirled. Standing directly behind him was Castiel, but a rather transparent version, surrounded in an aura of bright white light. "Cas, is that you?" He glanced around again. "What is this? Where am I?"

"That is what I'm trying to find out. You've been abducted."

Sam nodded, "Yeah, that's right. You were there. She says she's from the European branch of the Men of Letters. For some reason they want us dead." He frowned, once again taking around his surroundings, trying to make sense of them. "But where are we now?"

"It would take too much time to explain," the angel said. "But it isn't good. Your soul is drifting. You must be badly injured."

"She put bullet in my leg and she's been torturing me for information. "

"Information?" Castiel cocked his head. "What information?"

"For starters, they want Dean. Springing Lucifer again didn't win us any points either. They think I know where he is."

"He's roaming," the angel said vaguely. "Sam, you have to go back. I can only follow as far as her warding allows, but it might give me some clue as to your precise location. We know you're somewhere in New York state. Dean is on his way but…."

Sam froze, his breath catching in his throat. "What?" He grabbed Castiel by the arm. The rough cloth of the angel's ubiquitous coat felt as real as the sunshine and the breeze. "Dean's alive?"

"Yes, but if you don't go back now, you won't be!" Castiel disengaged Sam's grip. "Concentrate, Sam, on the pain. Push this place out of your mind. Focus on your corporeal body."

"How?" He wanted to know more, how Dean survived. What had happened to Chuck, and Amara?

Cas misunderstood him. "The pain, Sam, focus on the pain. It will ground you. Let it take you back, and I will follow." He forced Sam to look at him. "You have to go back? Do you understand me?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, yeah, Cas. I get it."

"Where does it hurt?"

"Where doesn't it hurt?" Sam replied weakly, and reluctantly reached back for the pain of his broken bones, the mutilated hand, the festering bullet wound.

The golden field blurred, the colors swirling together like they had been caught up in a whirlpool. The breeze and the birdsong were drowned by the sound of someone screaming in agony. The air was filled with the scents of blood, and piss, and burnt skin. He opened his eyes to see Toni standing in front of him holding the pruning shears, and feeling an agonizing pain creeping up from his left hand all the way to his shoulder. She'd taken his ring finger. Where would he put his wedding ring?

The thought made him gasp out a laugh.

Wedding, as if….

Toni slapped him and moved away, obviously frustrated by his continued reticence

Sam licked blood from his lips and watched her. Had his vision been true? Had Castiel been able to get close enough to find him? Was Dean really alive and on his way? That thought buoyed his strength a little. He sat straighter in his chair, the chair that had been his home for how long now? He had no idea. No outside light penetrated the garage. Toni had taken his watch, even if his hands hadn't been tied behind him, and she wasn't telling.

"I have to say," she was saying. "I'm impressed. Either you're tougher than you look, or you really don't know anything."

"Try both."

"We'll see." She came back toward him, holding a syringe. "If you've been lying to me, Sam, things are going to get a whole lot worse for you."

He rolled his eyes at the syringe. "What is that?"

"It is something to help loosen your tongue." With a sweet smile, only slightly marred by her black eye, she stabbed the needle into his bicep and pushed down the plunger.

Only years of experience kept the car from swerving off the road when Castiel suddenly appeared in the back seat and said, "Dean," thus startling the hell out of said Dean.

"Damn it, Cas!"

"I found him. It's an estate home, several acres, I have the coordinates. I couldn't get any farther than the main gate. Everything is heavily warded." Castiel leaned forward. Dean caught a look at his face in the rear-view mirror. The grim set to the angel's mouth wasn't encouraging. "Sam says the woman is from the European Men of Letters. They're displeased with you two."

"Why is that not a surprise," Dean muttered. "Wait? You talked to him?"

"Part of him."

From the passenger's seat Mary frowned and asked, "What do you mean part of him?"

"His soul was drifting. I ran into it on the plane of travel. It's a like a celestial highway," Castiel explained. "It exists outside of this world, close to the veil where spirits dwell. I convinced him to go back so I could follow, but…."

"Astral projection," Mary whispered. "He's hurt."

"I'm afraid so."

"I don't get it," Dean said. "Why would they hurt him? We're all on the same side, right? Men of Letters, secret handshakes, kumbayah, and all that?"

"And along come a couple of upstart Hunters playing around with things they've been quietly tending to themselves since the American faction was destroyed by Abbadon, thus turning their sense of order on its head. " Castiel sighed. "Sound familiar?"

"Too familiar," Dean agreed. "So now we have angels and a bunch of friggin' foreign eggheads on our asses. Great, that's just great."

"Not to mention the fact Lucifer is running loose and Rowena still has the Book of the Damned." Castiel remarked. "Oh, and the Codex. Do you have any idea how powerful that makes her?"

"Yes I do, and thanks, Cas. Thanks so much for the reminder."

"Glad to be of service."

"I hope that was sarcasm."

"It actually was," Castiel admitted. "I'm not as naïve as I used to be, Dean." He leaned forward and addressed Mary. "After we rescue Sam, I'll have to teach you about Netflix."

"Castiel, are you hitting on my mother?"

Castiel looked at Mary with his most solemn expression. "Too soon?" he asked softly, while Dean sputtered indignantly.

She reached around and patted his arm where it rested against the back of the seat. Her smile was wan, and sad, but a bemused twinkle brightened her eyes. "I'm deeply flattered, Cas," she said warmly. "Yes, it's a little too soon." But then she winked.

Castile gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and sat back in his seat. He looked pleased with himself.

Dean stared hard at the road in front of him. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Wouldn't be the first time you puked in this car," Mary said lightly, and grinned at him.

To Dean's complete horror and astonishment, Castel laughed. A moment later, he was gone. Dean made a quick check of the GPS and discovered that at some point the angel had zapped in the coordinates to Sam's location. They were still a little more than a day out.

As if reading his mind, Mary said, "We need to hurry."

"We know he was shot."

"He left his body, Dean. That's never a good sign."

You think?

"Sammy's tough. He'll be okay," Dean replied, forcing himself to sound like he believed it. He knew Cas wasn't one to mince words, and yet the angel had been holding back. They'd known each other far too long for Dean not to pick up on what was left unsaid. Sam was in trouble. He set his foot down a little harder on the accelerator and the old Chevy picked up speed.

"It's strange." Mary spoke softly, sitting back against the seat with a sigh. "I wake up from a bad dream, only to find it wasn't a dream at all, and I've been gone for years." She looked over at Dean. "You're grown, but I know you. Maybe it's a mother's instinct. You were only four…"

"Almost five."

She smiled, "Almost five," she corrected, "when I left, but I still know you. You're my little boy, all snips and snails and puppy dog tails, skinned knees and milk mustaches." Looking down at her hands she continued. "You grew up without me. You have porn stashed under your bed and you drink too much. You've got a girl in every port, and blood on your hands – and on your conscience. You should be a stranger to me, but you aren't. You're sill that sweet little boy I knew and I feel nothing but love for you."

"You've been talking to Cas," Dean said roughly.

"Yes, but I also snooped around the bunker while you were asleep."

"Mom!"

Mary laughed, but quickly sobered. "I found a picture," she said, "Of you, and Sam."

"I'm the cute one," Dean quipped.

"You're both very handsome," she replied diplomatically. "But…"

"But?" Dean prompted, when she failed to continue right away.

"I didn't feel anything," Mary whispered. "I knew the man in the photo had to be Sam, but…I don't know him. When I first saw you, there out in the woods, even then I knew you meant something to me. I didn't know who you were at first, or why I felt like I did, not until you told me, but then it was like nothing had ever changed between us – except height." A brief smile flickered across her face, quickly fading. "I left my little boy behind, and now I've found him again. But there is still this – hole – deep inside me because my baby is gone. I didn't know the man in the picture, Dean. That man is a stranger. That isn't my Sammy."

Dean felt goosebumps run up his arms. "It's just a photo. Wait until you meet the real thing."

"I'm afraid."

"Of Sam?" Dean laughed, albeit a bit uneasily. "He's a cupcake."

"I'm afraid he'll always be a stranger." Mary turned to look out the window. Dean caught a glance of her reflection, and the tears she now shed, tears for everything she'd lost, and the child she might never get back - whether they found him dead or alive.

It took two doses of Toni's "truth serum" before Sam felt his control slipping. He heard her on the phone again at one point, apparently checking in with her superiors before giving him a second dose. They weren't ready for him to die just yet, not before they got what they wanted. According to Toni he wasn't going to last much longer. Sam wondered if he had the strength to prove her wrong or not. He was feverish, and every breath he took made his chest ache; that is, when he could draw a full breath without coughing.

She stood before him with her arms crossed, looking haughty and smugly superior as usual. As weak as he was he still felt a deep, fiery rage directed at her. He hated her with all his being. He couldn't remember hating anyone so much, not since Lilith. What would he set free if he cracked Toni open? Would it be worth the risk?

"Hell, yes," he mumbled. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. Just holding his head up was exhausting, and aside from Toni, everything in his field of vision swam blurrily as if he were still being drenched with water. Yet her face was crystal clear, and so was her voice.

"Where is the Book of the Damned?"

Sam licked his lips. "Rowena."

Toni stood up straighter. "Rowena? The witch?"

He nodded, while a voice in his head shouted, "No, no, no! Don't tell her!"

"Rowena took it. I don't know where she's hidden it."

"And Lucifer?"

"New Mexico. He thinks no one knows, but I know. I'll always know. He'll keep moving, and meddling, but he's got a long way to go before he's back to full strength. We'll put him back before then. I'll put him back."

"In the cage?"

Sam shuddered. A flash of memory assaulted his abused senses. He jerked in his seat, and feeling the tug of restraints he began to panic. The cage, Lucifer, having your insides slowly turned inside out, while the flames devour you inch by painstakingly slow inch, and the scent of your own fat sizzling makes you writhe desperately against chains hooked into your flesh. Lucifer had liked to sing when he tortured Sam, always bright and cheerful songs. Even long after he was freed, every time he heard certain tunes on the radio or TV Sam had to fight the overwhelming urge to vomit.

At the moment he only heard someone screaming, while sharp claws dug into his cheeks. Over the sound he heard Toni's voice and he opened his eyes to see her leaning over him, holding his chin and barking at him to just. Shut. Up.

The screaming stopped. She asked another question.

"Where is your brother? Where is Dean Winchester?"

Dean. Dean was dead. Dean was…what had Cas said?

Dean was on his way.

No. He couldn't say that. He couldn't. She'd kill them both.

Sam clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.

It had been a dream. He hadn't really seen Castiel. Toni had banished Cas, hadn't she? Dean was dead. The Darkness took him.

"Darkness," he murmured. "The Darkness."

"What is the Darkness?" Toni demanded.

"Chuck's sister. She's gone. They're both gone. Bye-bye." Sam heard himself giggle hoarsely. His head felt even heavier. Toni held him up and shouted into his face.

"Chuck who? Where has the Darkness gone?"

"I don't know. Dean sent her away."

"Where is Dean now, Sam? Where is he? You said he was dead."

"Dead?" Sam furrowed his brow. Dean was dead, wasn't he? "He blew up with all the souls." He pursed his lips and made the sound of a bomb exploding.

"Damn it," Toni let him go and went back to her table. "Now you're just spouting nonsense."

"To the table of pain," Sam murmured groggily. "What's next on Wheel of Torture?"

She came back with the scalpel, cut open his shirt sleeve, and began making cuts on the tender flesh between armpit and elbow. He watched, mesmerized, as the blood began to flow sluggishly from the wounds. She went back to the table, and came back with the salt. She rubbed it into the first cut and he nearly came out of the chair despite being tied down and both legs fractured. The pain was sharp and intense compared to all the others. The truth serum, some small, semi-rational part of his mind decided, probably heightened the effect.

"Where is Dean? Where is your brother?"

Sam shook his head. His teeth ground together. She pressed salt into the next cut on his arm.

"Tell me."

"Nuh –no."

Toni reached across him to start cutting his other arm and Sam saw an opportunity as it passed by the end of his nose. Giving silent thanks to Crowley for the inspiration, he sank his teeth into the British woman's arm and clamped down as hard as he possibly could.

"What the bloody….!" Toni screamed. "You shit, let go!"

Sam bit down harder. Blood began to run down her arm as she struggled to free herself. She landed a punch to the side of his head, and when that failed to make him release her, she jabbed a thumb into his left eye. The pain made him pull back just enough for her to tear herself free and go stumbling away from him clutching her bleeding arm.

"Bastard! You're fucking insane!"

Sam didn't reply. He sat back in the chair, wheezing and spitting blood, wondering if he was going to lose the eye next. She had gotten him with the thumb with salt on it, not to mention a perfectly manicured, perfectly sharp fingernail. He finally regarded her with his one good eye. She looked tired, disheveled, bruised, and bloody – a long way from the haughty, sophisticated woman who had shot him in the bunker. Sam cocked his head up at her and gave her his best, most charming smile.

"Give up?"

She snarled, leaned in close until her face was only inches from his, and jabbed a third dose of serum into his thigh, just above the bullet wound. Sam roared, and Toni, nearly as broken as her captive, screeched like a harpy right back at him.

They waited until nightfall.

There was a brief argument about whether or not Mary should stay in the car. In the end, logic prevailed. Mary hadn't been an active Hunter for a very long time, her presence would only be a distraction for Dean, and someone had to back him up and get help if he ran into trouble. Help from whom, neither of them could say, but Mary ultimately chose to remain with the car under Castiel's watch.

"Keep her safe, Cas. I just got her back. I don't want to lose her again."

"I understand."

They had found a break in the stone wall that surrounded the estate. Dean easily scrambled over it, and worked his way around the perimeter, where old growth trees and semi-neglected landscaping gave him plenty of cover. The home was owned by a wealthy family, a family who spent the majority of their time out of the country. This fit with what Dean now knew about Sam's captor, and he could only hope they hadn't smuggled him back to the U.K. A couple of cars in the drive and lights on at the big house told him someone was home. He also hoped there wouldn't be a trio of big, vicious guard dogs on his ass at any moment. Dean had never really cared much for dogs. Being mauled to death by a Hell Hound pretty much cemented that dislike.

And, he thought wryly, they have shitty taste in music.

The sound of a door opening sent Dean scrambling for cover behind an SUV. He heard a male voice, a feminine response, and footsteps crunching across the gravel driveway toward the house. The door opened again, and then closed with a sharp snap. Dean peered out from behind the car and saw shadows moving in the windows of the house. Peering out in the other direction he saw another building, a detached garage. The door was closed, but a garden hose snaked its way around the corner and under it into the interior. Looking down Dean could see the gravel at his feet was wet from the leaking hose.

He also saw blood. It was smeared across the tailgate of the SUV, and led in large, irregular drops across the gravel in the direction of the garage. Dean shot another look at the house and then moved swiftly around the SUV and a large black sedan, heading toward the garage. He ducked into the shadows at the side of the building, circled it, and found another entrance. This door was also closed, and locked.

"Damn it."

He tucked his gun in his belt, and holding a penlight in his teeth, he made short work of the lock. It was just the common garden variety lock one could get at any hardware store, nothing out of the ordinary, except for the anti-angel sigils painted onto the doorknob. There were demon wards too, but nothing to stop a human with a set of pick-locks and a lot of determination.

Dean slipped inside and shut the door behind him. He had only a brief moment to register the smell of blood when he heard the crunch of gravel coming from outside. He quickly ducked into the shadows along one wall, crouching down between a riding mower and a heavy wooden workbench. The door opened. A slim young woman dressed in black entered. She looked a little worse for wear, sporting smudged lipstick, one hell of a shiner, and a thick white bandage wrapped around one arm. She walked across the dimly lit room and flipped on a desk lamp.

Instinctively Dean ducked out of sight, but soon realized the light didn't reach his hiding place. He peered out over the top of the lawn mower and ground his teeth together in fury at what he saw.

Sam.

Sam raised his head when the water stopped and he heard the sound of her footsteps. She'd turned the hose back on, but hadn't replaced the gag, probably figuring – rightly – he would suffocate if she did. He was cold again, shivering violently, barely able to take a breath without setting off a coughing fit. She'd come and gone twice after giving him the third dose of serum but, if his addled mind recalled correctly, she hadn't laid a hand on him. There wasn't much left to break or mangle.

She stood there looking at him. He gazed wearily back. He could see nothing but a red haze out of his damaged eye. He tipped his head to get a better look at her. She was obviously running on fumes.

"Three doses of the serum, and you finally gave up your brother."

Sam couldn't remember, and if he were perfectly honest with himself, he didn't care. The fight had gone out of him. He didn't respond. He sat there shivering, his teeth chattering, his breath rasping through lungs filled with fluid. Fever and blood loss weakened him beyond caring about anything except dying. She wasn't going to let him die yet though. He was still useful – as bait.

"Jones called me to the house just now to tell me Dean was spotted on one of the security cameras – at least I'm fairly certain it was Dean. I don't know of anyone else who might be sneaking around here in the middle of the night."

"Dean is dead."

"That's not what you told me an hour ago. You said an angel told you Dean was very much alive and on his way to rescue you."

"You've got this place warded. How could an angel tell me anything?" Sam said hoarsely. "It's bullshit Toni, the ranting of a fevered mind, serum or no serum."

She sneered. "Security cameras don't lie."

"Sure," Sam replied, after a lengthy coughing fit. "But what exactly did your man see? A coyote? A dog? A raccoon? Did you check the footage yourself?" He stared at her, and could not stop the tears from falling despite the stinging pain they produced in the eye she'd gouged. "My brother is dead," he whispered, barely audible. "Check the recording, Toni. Your man is wrong."

After studying him for a moment she turned away with a grunt. Sam watched her storm out of the room, hardly believing his ruse had worked. She slammed the door behind her with a reverberating bang. He closed his eyes and sagged back in the chair, coughing violently. When he could finally catch his breath he muttered, "My freakin' nose is broken and I can still smell that crap aftershave you douse yourself in Dean."

A rustle of cloth and the rapid thud of boots on concrete told him his wounded nose hadn't lied. The achingly familiar sound of his brother's voice followed.

"Hers didn't look much better. You?"

"Yeah. Head butt."

"Given the size of your melon I'm surprised it didn't kill her." From directly behind him Sam heard a sharp hiss of breath, followed by a curse. Dean had seen his mutilated hand. "I'm going to fucking kill her for this, Sammy."

"Shoot me first because I feel like crap."

He felt a gentle touch on his wrist. Dean wrapped Sam's hand in a handkerchief before he methodically picked locks and cut ropes to free him. Pins and needles shot up both arms and Sam leaned forward with a moan, cradling the injured hand to his chest. Dean moved on to his ankles.

"Can you walk at all?"

Sam shook his head. It was taking everything he had just to remain conscious. "She busted my kneecaps."

Dean swore again and pulled out his phone. As he dialed he walked around the room. He found a piece of two-by-four and jammed it under the doorknob, and then dismantled the garage door opener. It wouldn't keep Toni out for long, but it would buy some time.

"Heyl" Dean said breathlessly when whoever he called answered the phone. "I'm going to need the cavalry after all. Bring the car. We're in a garage, just off the main house." There was a pause. Sam opened his good eye to find Dean looking at him with a worried expression. "Alive, but it's bad, hurry. "

He hung up, and came back to Sam. "How many are there?"

"It's just the she-bitch and her driver, but she's good Dean, real good. I don't know about him."

"Awesome."

Sam flinched upon hearing a loud bang come from the door. He looked up at Dean.

Dean set his jaw, pulled out his gun, and cocked it. He took a stance in front of Sam, and waited.

Toni kicked the door in, sending Dean's make-shift barrier flying. She came into the garage and flipped on the main lights, flooding the room with a dim, milky light. Sam hid his face in the crook of his arm. Even such weak light hurt his eyes after days of sitting in near darkness. Dean and Toni faced off with each other in their sights, neither one moving an inch. Toni smiled slowly.

"Hello, Dean. You're just in time to witness your brother's execution," she said. "And then you and I are going to have a nice little chat."

"No, I don't think so." Dean replied, and Sam recognized, if Toni didn't, the dangerous tone of his voice. "I think you're going to die."

Dean spared a swift glance at Sam. He was as white as a sheet, drenched in sweat and blood, and shaking with fevered chills. The reek of infection clung to him. His breath rattled ominously in his chest and he was dangerously close to toppling out of the chair onto the floor. Dean took a step back and without letting Toni out of his aim, wrapped one arm around his brother's shoulders. Sam leaned heavily against him. Dean wasn't sure he was even conscious.

"Why are you doing this?" he demanded.

"I have my orders."

"Yeah, from some dick-wad across the pond, I heard. Look, what we do is none of your business. We're the Legacies over here, bitch. We won the war, so just pack up your tea, and your little red coats, and Brexit on home." He tightened his grip on the gun. "Seriously, put the gun down and get out of my way, or I will kill you, the choice is yours."

Toni laughed, ignoring his threat entirely. "None of our business?" she said. "Do you honestly think the Apocalypse was exclusively American? Oh, but you probably do. You war-mongering, pistol-packing idiots think the world revolves around 'Murica, don't you? Well, demons don't honor borders or treaties you stupid Neanderthal, and the mistakes you and your brother continually make over here affect everyone. My superiors are done cutting you slack. It's over." Toni cocked her gun. "You can pull that trigger, but I promise I will take you with me. No Winchester will leave this room alive."

There was a pause, and in that brief moment of silence Dean heard a rumbling sound in the near distance. Toni heard it too. She frowned, listening.

"What is that?"

The sound grew louder, and became a roar, a familiar roar.

Toni turned and stared at the garage door. She needn't have worried about Dean shooting her during her moment of distraction. He was already moving. He pocketed his gun and grabbed double handfuls of Sam's shirt, dragging him out of the chair, heedless of how much it had to hurt him. He dove to the floor, taking Sam with him. Together they rolled under the heavy workbench at the back of the garage.

The garage door exploded inward. Toni screamed as over a ton of Detroit steel slammed into her, hurling her body across the room to fall hard against a side wall. Twin headlights on highbeam filled the garage with a brilliant, almost angelic light. Dean crawled out from beneath the workbench blinking as his eyes adjusted. The first thing he saw was Toni struggling to rise. He went back for Sam.

"Dean!" Another pair of hands joined his. "I saw her come in," Mary explained breathlessly. "I didn't stop to think."

"I'm glad you didn't."

Together he and Mary half dragged, half carried Sam to the car. Toni, blood pouring down her face, one arm dangling limply at her side, was now on her feet. She still held her gun. She raised it, taking a rather unsteady aim at them, and let out a cry of outrage. The gun went off with a loud bang. Dean felt the bullet zip just past his left shoulder and cursed. He couldn't hold Sam and reach his own weapon. He quickly pulled open the car door and they maneuvered Sam into the back seat. Another shot thudded into the side of the car.

Toni squared herself and took aim.

Mary drew first.

This, Dean thought, noting her clenched jaw and the hard line of her mouth, was Mary Campbell the Hunter. The woman standing before her had shot and tortured her son, the baby she had failed to protect from being warped by a demon. Now the demon was dead, but not Mary's need for vengeance. Her finger tightened around the trigger without hesitation, and her aim was right on target.

One shot, and Toni dropped like a stone.

Dean heard a shout, and the sound of a rifle being cocked. He saw Toni's driver coming in through the side door. He got off a quick covering shot, forcing the man to take shelter behind a large piece of the shattered garage door while Mary dove into the Impala's driver's seat. Dean slid over the hood of the car to the passenger's side, quickly ducking as he heard the sound of rifle fire. He got in the car and slammed the door shut.

"Go, go, go!"

Mary threw the transmission into reverse and gunned the car backward out of the garage. Dean heard more gunshots and flinched. Toni's driver was coming around the corner of the garage, heading for the SUV. Mary swerved around him, jerked the gears back into drive, and stomped on the gas. The big Chevy's right front bumper made contact with the SUV, spinning it back out of their way. The heavier vehicle slammed into the sedan, rendering both of them incapacitated for any pursuit, and clearing the way for the Impala's escape. The long black car shot down the driveway and out through the smashed gates. Her tires left gravel and found pavement. She skidded slightly, regained her footing, and roared away down the access road and then onto the main highway.

"Dean?" Mary asked frantically, her knuckles white where she held the steering wheel. "Is he okay?"

Dean leaned over the seat to check on his brother. It was difficult to see in the dark. He reached back and put a hand to Sam's chest to find it damp, and sticky with blood. He swallowed back a groan of anxiety. Sam hadn't looked good before he had been manhandled out of Toni's dungeon. He was worse now.

"Sammy?" Sam's chest did not rise beneath Dean's hand. "Damn it! He's not breathing." He turned back around as Mary took her foot off the gas. "No! Keep going. Get as far away from those angel wards as you can. Cas! Castiel! Where the hell are you?"

"I'm here."

Dean shot a look into the rear-view mirror. Castiel sat in the back seat, Sam's head propped against his shoulder. The angel wasn't at full strength, and hadn't been for a while. Being bespelled by Rowena, hijacked by Lucifer, and sent off of on a soul round-up hadn't helped his recovery either. Dean knew these thoughts crossed through both of their minds as their eyes met in the mirror. The angel looked as frightened and worried as Dean.

We may lose him.

"Do what you can," Dean said hoarsely. "Please, Cas."

Castiel nodded. He placed a hand on Sam's forehead. Brightness flared under his palm, and Sam began to cough with a gurgling, croupy sound.

Dean turned to look at Mary. Her face was chalk white, afraid of losing what she'd only just found.

"Drive faster," he said.

Sam opened his eyes to familiar surroundings, and a familiar face peering anxiously down at him. How many hours had they each spent sitting bedside, terrified their brother would never wake? A Hunter's lifespan was notoriously short. Sam personally didn't know anyone over the age of forty who wasn't crippled or dead. The Winchesters had beaten the odds, over and over again. Now a Reaper was out there waiting for them, to make sure it never happened again, and still they kept beating back those odds.

But for how much longer?

When had those lines around Dean's eyes become so prominent? Was that a trick of the light, or a glint of silver in his brother's hair? When had the stubble on his cheeks and the grim set of his mouth gone from looking "rakish" to being more "grizzled?" Sam returned the worried look. Dean had tapped his last reserves. He looked awful.

Sam made a feeble attempt to sit up, started coughing, and gave in to the gentle shove Dean gave him, sinking back to his pillow. His head was still spinning. Everything still hurt. His vision was clear though, and his face no longer felt swollen and sore.

"The Bunker," he whispered. "It's not safe. She knows…."

"First of all, she's dead. Secondly, we changed the locks and reinforced the warding." Dean replied. "They will have a hard time finding it again. We've earned this place. We've got every right to it, and we aren't leaving."

"It's become home," Sam agreed.

"And I've already hired a contractor to put in that Jacuzzi."

"Liar."

Dean grinned. "Cas," he said, "healed what he could, but you're still not out of the woods." He reached over to the bedside table and came back with a glass of water and a bottle of pills. "That leg wound is infected, and you've got pneumonia."

"Wonderful," Sam coughed as Dean helped him sit up and gave him the meds to swallow, but the fit lasted only a moment. He lay back down again. Just that small amount of physical effort left him utterly drained.

"And it might be a while before you can count to ten again." Dean said grimly. "Knitting bones – easy peasy - but regenerating parts takes a lot more mojo than Cas has right now. He said to tell you he's sorry."

Sam glanced at his heavily bandaged left hand and sighed. At least he was right handed, and Toni had left the all-important opposable thumb. "There are worse parts to lose than two fingers," he replied with a wince.

"Don't even go there, Sammy." Dean gave Sam's shoulder a pat, and stood up. "Get some sleep. I'll be back later with some grub. Got any requests – too bad, you're getting soup."

"That's probably all I can handle." He watched Dean cross the room, and then said, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I had that dream again."

Dean cocked his head slightly. "What dream?"

Sam closed his eyes. "About Mom," he said softly. "But this time I dreamed she was here, standing where you are now, just watching me sleep. She was singing…."

"That song from Dumbo that always made you cry when you were little," Dean replied quietly. "You thought our mom was locked up somewhere too, and you used to beg Dad to take you to her."

Sam's eyes shot open. He turned his head to look at his brother. "How did you know?"

With a small shake of his head, Dean turned away without answering. "Go to sleep, Sammy. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Things had been quiet, very quiet. With both Sam and Castiel in recovery mode, Mary still trying to adapt to her new life among the living, and the "big bad" of the hour either AWOL or sent packing, life for Dean Winchester had become uneventfully domestic. Every morning and every evening he checked and rechecked the Bunker's defenses, but in between he spent his time watching movies with Mary or tending to his invalid brother. Castiel had hung around only for a few days before taking off to his own private Idaho somewhere, assuring Dean it would be to rest and recover, not get into any trouble. Dean still kept waiting for a call. Trouble had a habit of finding the angel despite his best efforts. That fact alone, Dean considered, probably made Castiel an honorary Winchester.

This morning Dean stumbled into the kitchen on a quest to find the source of a delicious smell that had wafted into his bedroom. He'd assumed the source was Mary, who had taken it upon herself to restock the boys' pantry when she discovered no supplies other than two cases of beer , frozen burritos, and several science experiments taking place inside a half dozen Chinese take-out containers. Sam had actually commented on the meals Dean had been taking to him, once even asking if his brother had hired a cook.

The question would have been a good segue for Dean to break it to his little brother that their mother had been resurrected by the Darkness, but Dean couldn't do it. Despite daily assurances that he was feeling much better, Dean didn't like Sam's pallor, and didn't want to get him wound up. He kept Mary's presence to himself. It wasn't just him. Mary wasn't ready. She never said as much, but Dean had caught her more than once standing in Sam's doorway watching him sleep, and her expression was so melancholy it made his heart ache. Her words kept echoing in his head.

"I'm afraid he'll always be a stranger."

And yet what always banished that thought from his mind was the look on her face when she murdered Toni, the woman who had spent days torturing her son. Would she have killed on the behalf of a stranger? Dean didn't think so.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen and was hit by a wall of scent that immediately made him salivate: coffee, sausage, and blueberry pancakes. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

"Good morning."

Dean's eyes popped open. "Sam? What the hell? What are you doing?"

"Making pancakes, what does it look like I'm doing?" Sam flipped a golden brown flapjack onto a platter already piled high and turned off the griddle. A similar platter of sausage links already sat on the table. "I had a craving. Sit down."

"You shouldn't be up."

"I'm tired of being down," Sam returned, limping slightly as he brought the pancakes to the table. He poured them both some coffee before seating himself. "I told you yesterday I was ready to get up. The cough is almost completely gone. Still a little sore here and there," he waved his bandaged hand. "But otherwise I'm good – and starving." He began loading his plate. "Who did you bribe to go shopping? There are actually vegetables in the fridge."

Dean avoided answering by wrapping a sausage inside of a hot, crisp pancake and taking a huge bite. "Sam, you are a pancake god."

Sam grinned. "And that reminds me, you still haven't told me the whole story about what happened with Chuck, Amara, and the soul bomb."

"Oh yeah, that."

"That. Kind of a big deal, that."

"They kissed and made up," Dean said, spearing a sausage and piling pancakes on his plate. He was overly generous with the syrup. It was real maple syrup too, not the fake high fructose corn syrup crap. He wondered idly if Mary had maxed out one of the credit cards he'd given her. She'd picked up some clothes and other items too. The spare bathroom was taking on a decidedly feminine air.

"Really? That's it?"

"Sam, how long have we known each other?" Dean asked.

"Is that a trick question?"

"We've had our disagreements."

Sam nodded wryly. "We've slugged it out a few times, yeah."

"But we're still sitting here eating pancakes together."

"True."

Dean cocked a brow, and pointed at his brother with his fork. "So you think I don't have enough experience to mediate a disagreement between two sibs, who despite everything, really do love each other?"

Sam stared at him, and his mouth twitched. "Are you telling me you love me?"

"No! I mean, yes – no! That's not my point!" Dean growled. "It's done. It's over. They're gone. Shut up and eat."

Chuckling, Sam turned his attention to his breakfast. Dean cast him a surreptitious look. He was still pale, but the bruises on his face were completely gone, and his appetite seemed more than healthy as he dug into a pile of pancakes to rival Dean's own. He only coughed once, and it no longer sounded nearly bad as it had during the worst stages of his pneumonia.

Dean fidgeted while he ate, knowing he had to tell Sam about Mary. He just had no idea how to begin. He thought about the problem throughout breakfast, and on to the clean-up, which he volunteered to do himself considering Sam was still gimpy and he had, after all, done the cooking. With every dish he washed and piled onto the drainer he tried to come up with the right opening, and one after another he discarded them as not being good enough.

He glanced over his shoulder. Sam was finishing his coffee and scrolling through his email. Dean decided perhaps he'd better just jump right in and not beat around the bush.

"Sam. There's something I have to tell…."

"Do I smell blueberry pancakes?"

She stood in the doorway, fully dressed in jeans and a floral shirt, looking so alive and wonderful to Dean he almost dropped the plate he was holding. Her eyes, the same color as her boys' eyes, sparkled with amusement. Her smile faltered, however, when she saw Sam staring back at her. His mug was poised halfway to his lips. He put it down quickly, almost spilling the remaining contents. It took a minute before he could get his voice to work. When it did, it was in a barely audible whisper.

"Mom?"

"Uh, yeah, about that…." Dean began weakly.

Sam turned and stared at him. "Is that Mom?"

"Amara," Dean said, "Left me- us- a parting gift."

"You didn't tell him?" Mary asked, also giving Dean a hard look. "Really, Dean…"

"When was I going to tell him? He's just now back on his feet!"

Mary gave him a silent "seriously?" and he felt properly chastened.

Sam rose from his chair. Dean watched him carefully as he rounded the table and traveled, just a bit unsteadily, toward their mother. He stopped in front of her. His back was to Dean, but Dean knew simply from the set of his shoulders that there were going to be tears shed more sooner than later. He set down the plate, and came up to stand nearby. Sam spared him a glance. Yep, there were the tears.

"The Darkness…"

"A goddess," Dean reminded him. "God's equally powerful sister. She's real, Sammy. It's Mom."

His gaze returning to Mary, Sam gave a slight shake of his head. "I…I don't know what to say."

Mary smiled. Her eyes shone. "Hello?" she suggested, "Or maybe good morning?"

Sam said nothing. Instead he rushed forward, and pulled her into an embrace, which, Dean noted, Mary did not at first return. But then, slowly, her arms rose and tightened. Her hands twisted into fists around the fabric of Sam's shirt, holding on to him as if her life depended on it, as if afraid to let him go. Dean heard muffled sobs, and her heartbroken voice.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault."

They didn't have to ask what she meant, for once upon a time an angel had showed them. Her words only made Sam hold her tighter, his tears spilling into her hair as he shook his head in opposition to her confession. If it was forgiveness she sought, she had found it.

Sam discovered Dean drinking whiskey in the library by the light of a single desk lamp. His brother didn't say a word when Sam sat down across from him, but reached for a second glass and poured another shot. He pushed it across the table.

Sam raised an eyebrow, but drank the shot.

"How are you feeling?" Dean asked finally.

With a deep sigh, Sam toyed idly with the glass, turning it in his fingers. "I'm tired, no surprise there, and, confused, also no surprise," he paused, considering his next words, "And maybe a little angry."

"Angry? About what?"

"Life, death, gods and goddesses jerking people around by their emotions..." Sam reached across the table for the whiskey bottle and poured himself another shot. He smiled grimly. "Toni cutting off two of my fingers…."

Dean growled. "Bitch."

"But she was just a foot soldier, Dean. Those 'old men' back in England are still out there. They want our heads on a platter. And now…."

"And now we have a lot more to lose."

"Yeah," Sam said softly.

"You talked a long time."

Sam nodded. He had been physically exhausted after making breakfast and emotionally exhausted after the scene with Mary. He'd been forced to retreat back to his sick-bed, but asked Mary to sit with him. They talked for a long time, about their hopes, their dreams, and how it had all been shattered by a visit from a demon with sulfur yellow eyes. Sam told her what it was like growing up without her, learning to Hunt, his escape to college where he'd been, for the first time in his life, truly happy. Unlike Dean he didn't gloss over the darker days, days when the craving for demon blood nearly drove him insane, days when Dean's eyes glistened black and Sam was terrified he'd lost his brother forever to the Mark of Cain.

The only thing he didn't mention was Lucifer, and Hell, and the fear he now felt knowing the fallen angel was still free. It was only a matter of time before he started causing trouble again, and when he did, it would be up to Sam and Dean to put him back in his place. This time Sam wasn't sure he'd be strong enough – to resist saying yes, to risk being thrown back in the cage if he did, or maybe even if he didn't let the devil in. He knew, even as they spoke, Lucifer was only getting stronger. He'd burn through whatever vessels he took quickly. He needed Sam, and one day he would come to claim him.

"I don't remember her like you do. I don't feel the same way you do. To you she's Mom, to me….."

The demon is dead, but we all know killing him didn't bring back the child she left behind. The monster still lives, inside me, and she knows it.

Not for the first time Sam wondered if things wouldn't be better if Dean had only let him finish the trials.

"She feels like a stranger," Dean said, pouring and drinking another shot.

"Yeah," Sam admitted, morose now, and glad the whiskey was still flowing.

"Give it time."

Sam wasn't convinced even time could bridge the gap that lay between himself and Mary. The only mother he'd known, he thought ruefully, had worn sneakers and fed him junk food, conned him out of his allowance, kicked his ass more times than he could count...

And drank whiskey with him after midnight.

As if reading his thoughts Dean said, "She wants me to join AA."

He looked grave, and more than a little insulted. Sam couldn't help but laugh. "You, completely, one hundred percent sober?" He shook his head. "Never gonna happen."

They drank to that.

"There's definitely going to be a period of adjustment," Dean continued. "I mean seriously. Oh, and another thing, she's already got a boyfriend."

"What? Who? How? When?"

Dean leaned across the table, whispering conspiratorially "Cas has been flirting with our mother." His voice got even softer, his eyes widening. "And she's been flirting back!"

Sam stared at him in horror. "Wow. Awkward."

"You think?"

They poured themselves a double.

"Just don't stab him until he fixes my hand," Sam said, starting to feel the whiskey.

"I'm going to lock her in her room."

"Without supper?"

They made the mistake of looking at each other, and busted up laughing.

"Shh, shh," Dean said, anxiously glancing over his shoulder. "You'll wake up Mom. She'll take our booze."

Sam laughed. "God forbid."

"He should, he paid for the bottle."

They both broke up again, and drank a toast to Chuck.

Dean served up another round. Sam knew he'd regret it in the morning but the Hunter's helper was easing his mind, and he wasn't ready for the conversation to end. As they sat there chuckling at both the awesomeness, and the awkwardness, of having their mother returned to them, Sam wondered if this new kind of brotherly solidarity, no doubt destined to repeat itself in days to come, wasn't Amara's real gift.

Baby mine, don't you cry.

Baby mine, dry your eyes.

Rest your head close to my heart,

Never to part,

Baby of mine.