The warehouse that served as the headquarters for the British Men of Letters was quiet and mostly empty, where merely an hour earlier it had been filled with chaotic violence. Sam's muscles ached, his body swiftly crashing in the wake of the adrenaline-fueled rush as it passed.

It had been a hellish nightmare of a night, and Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so exhausted.

Now that the Alpha Vampire was dead, and they were all, for the moment, safe, Sam took a moment to catch his breath in the entranceway to the Brits' temporary headquarters. He watched his mother and brother across the room, trying to pretend that things weren't awkward and strained between them, while not speaking a single word to each other or even looking at each other – and failing miserably, of course.

And that wasn't even close to the most notable failure of this awful, blood-soaked night.

Mick Davies stood beside Sam, silent and outwardly calm – but Sam could see the traces of worry and uncertainty in his expression as he glanced at Sam, trying to gauge his reaction. Sam could tell he had something he wanted to say, but he didn't say it, just stood there, looking troubled and discouraged – and Sam figured if he was in Mick's shoes, he'd feel the same way. If their intention had been to win him over tonight, well – that was about the evening's second most notable failure. Finally Mick ventured to face Sam, turning toward him and waiting until Sam made eye contact to speak.

"Sam… if you hadn't been here tonight…"

"You'd be dead."

Mick blinked, clearly caught off guard by Sam's blunt assessment. Sam held his gaze, eyebrows raised in challenge, utterly unapologetic. Mick drew in a slow breath, visibly measuring his words.

"Look, Sam, I realize this night… hardly inspires confidence in the British Men of Letters, or… or me and my leadership, but… we aren't incompetent. We're just…"

"Unprepared," Sam finished for him – not harsh or accusing, just honest. "Completely."

Mick opened his mouth as if to protest, but he didn't. Sam could see the recognition, the guilt in his eyes, as his shoulders fell and he looked away, swallowing hard. "You're right," he admitted softly, shaking his head. "People died tonight – good people, who trusted me to make sure we were ready for something like this, and – I failed them. And you. I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry," Sam said. "Be better. Mick… you've got a really good thing going here. Or, you know… potentially, a really good thing. But don't be so confident that you think you're untouchable. The Alpha Vampire is dead, yeah. But… if I hadn't been here… he wouldn't be. And you would."

Mick held Sam's gaze, nodding slowly in acceptance. "I know," he quietly conceded. "It appears we need your support far more than you need ours."

"Don't think I'm completely unimpressed," Sam admitted. "You're doing some really incredible work, here."

Sam was trying to temper his severe criticism with encouragement, but it was more than meaningless flattery. Yes, they'd needed his help tonight, badly – but that didn't change the fact that before he'd stepped into the picture, they'd already killed all but eleven of the vampires in an entire region of the country. It made the concept of a world without monsters seem like a very real possibility – even if Mick and his group weren't quite equipped to make it a reality just yet.

Mick looked up at him, a trace of sincere hope in his eyes at Sam's faint praise, and Sam's heart sank – because there was potential here, particularly in Mick. He'd shown intelligence, and the ability to think quickly and adapt to a dangerous situation, falling right into the part he'd needed to play in order to help Sam kill the Alpha. Sam felt a desire to hone that potential, to help Mick, to teach him – but that wasn't what the Brits wanted from him.

"The thing is, Mick… I'm not ready to commit myself to taking your orders, or your superiors' orders, with no evidence whatsoever that any of you have any idea what it's really like in the field. I've been doing this my entire life, and all tonight has taught me is that… I should trust my instincts, not those of someone who's – by your own admission – never killed anything in his entire life. Sorry."

Mick winced, closing his eyes for a moment, and then nodded again. He looked disappointed, but said, "Of course. You should trust your instincts, Sam. And, after tonight, if they're telling you not to trust in our abilities, I… I understand."

"Give me a call, though, if you need help. I mean… I'm not taking orders from you, Mick, but… if you, or… or Mom… need me…"

"I appreciate that." Mick offered a soft, apologetic smile. "It's… more than I could expect from you, given the circumstances."

Sam glanced across the room at Dean and Mary, and figured that if all they were going to do was stand there awkwardly not talking or touching until the end of time, it was about time he rescued them. He shook Mick's hand, then crossed the room to stand with his family near the Impala. After a few carefully chosen words to get them started, Dean and Mary were all right, though, agreeing to respect each other's choices even if they didn't agree with them, and hugging it out.

And Sam tactfully didn't point out what a load of crap that whole "respecting each other's choices" thing was – because he'd never known a single Winchester, natural born or honorary, who'd managed to keep that promise.

Sam hugged his mother and got into the Impala to wait while Dean took his turn to say goodbye, for now. Sam watched them for a moment in the rearview mirror, before glancing uneasily behind them to the place where Mick still stood, watching as well. Sam had to admit to being tempted, at first, by the rather impressive technology and logistics the Brits had put together. If the night had gone just a little bit differently, Sam might have made a very different decision.

But if the night had gone just a little bit differently – Sam's mother might have died.

The idea of her working for these clueless pencil pushers without any reliable back-up was kind of terrifying. But Sam knew that, whether or not he'd be able to stick to it, what Dean had said was true. Mary was a grown woman, and a skilled hunter, and ultimately – it was her decision to make.

He only hoped it wouldn't be the decision that got her killed.

After the Winchester brothers left, Mick spoke with Mary for a few minutes, telling her he'd call once he'd heard from London and knew where their operation would be going from here; then she got into her own car and drove away. He watched until she was gone, then closed the doors and went back into the main building.

It felt emptier than usual, even at this late hour. The rooms were always brightly lit, no easy hiding places for monsters of any kind – but still, he couldn't help thinking about the few vampires that Mary had said escaped into the surrounding woods. The entire facility had been secured, and still Mick felt a taut, uneasy tension itching just under his skin.

It was over, he reminded himself. The vampires were dead, or gone. He was safe.

Of course… he'd believed that before the vampire invasion, too.

He had bigger worries at the moment, however, than a case of post-trauma nerves. It felt like there was a lead weight in his chest as he turned down the hall toward his office, already dreading trying to find words to explain what had gone wrong that night.

A preliminary report via telephone had been given mere minutes after the Alpha had been killed and the rogue hunter secured - but Mick knew better than to think that the elders would be satisfied with so little detail.

He sat down at his desk and logged into the communications device disguised as a simple typewriter, to announce his presence. It was only moments before he was instructed to report. He did his best to explain the situation – how they'd been completely unprepared for a vampire attack on their own headquarters, how they'd tried and failed to secure the building in time to keep the vamps from getting in, and how Sam and Mary Winchester had managed to save his life and kill the Alpha Vampire. He answered every question as honestly as he could, and for the life of him he couldn't think of what he might have done to make things turn out any differently.

We were simply unprepared for such an attack.

He looked at the typewritten words, which seemed such weak explanation, such a pitiful attempt to attach some sort of reason to the loss of life that night. A few moments passed, before the response came through, a few brief words at a slow, measured pace.

Yes, Michael, you certainly were.

Mick's stomach lurched, and his mouth was suddenly dry. Until that moment, he'd imagined that he was conversing with the generalized council of elders in London, no individual in particular, but his assembled superiors, who would take his report and decide together on a course of action – perhaps consequences, if they deemed it necessary.

But there was only one person who called him Michael.

And Dr. Hess did not look kindly on those who failed her.

He'd offered no excuses, simply accepted her judgment and apologized for his failure – but received no response for a very long time. At last, after what felt like an eternity, a single-line answer had come through, stating that they had his report, and he was dismissed.

Mick left his office and headed for the room where he slept, deeply unsettled, wondering why Dr. Hess had chosen to make her personal involvement in this matter known to him. It couldn't be good. He was – rightly – going to be blamed for this utter debacle, and he could only guess at what his punishment might be.

He'd been in his room for only a few minutes, sitting on the end of his bed with his head in his hands, trying to quiet his racing thoughts, when the door opened.

Mick stood up, alarmed to see Arthur Ketch leaning in the doorway. The assassin made him uneasy at the best of times, even when in the relative safety of a meeting with other people. But his appearing like this, alone at the door to Mick's bedroom, when Mick had believed himself to be alone in the building, and most especially at this particular moment, in the wake of Mick's undeniable failure… well, in this context Ketch's presence was downright terrifying.

"What do you want?" Mick asked, his voice quiet to mask his rising uneasiness.

Mick was not reassured in the slightest by Ketch's secretive smirk, as he held out his cell phone. "It's for you," he explained, a beat before his smile faded, his expression and tone exaggeratedly ominous as he clarified in a stage whisper, "It's her."

Mick's stomach lurched. For a long moment he couldn't bring himself to move, everything in him utterly unwilling to take that phone and hear what Dr. Hess had to say to him.

"Go on, then, take it," Ketch impatiently waved the phone a little in his hand without moving. "I wouldn't keep her waiting."

Those words spurred Mick into action, and he crossed the short distance between them to take the phone and place it to his ear. "Dr. Hess." Mick closed his eyes, wincing at unsteadiness of his own voice. He swallowed slowly, trying to regain some of his composure. "I'm here… what can I do for you, ma'am?"

"You can move out of the way and let someone else better equipped do the job you were sent there to do."

Her voice was cold and clipped with disgust, and Mick felt fear trickling down his spine with her words. He sat down again on the edge of the bed, his head resting in one hand as he struggled to find the words to respond.

"I-I'm sorry, ma'am. We – we weren't expecting to be attacked, here. The Alpha Vampire is dead, though, and…"

"And so is your entire team, Michael." Her tone was severe, warning, and he fell silent, immediately regretting his mistake in trying to defend himself. "How are the American hunters supposed to have any interest in joining our cause, when, if I understand correctly, it was only through their assistance that you weren't all slaughtered tonight? Why should they think that they need us for anything, now? You have failed us utterly." She was quiet for a moment before continuing, cold and dismissive. "Perhaps Sam Winchester would have done us all a favour by allowing the beast to drain you."

Mick flinched, stung. "I'm sorry," he repeated softly. "I – won't let you down again, ma'am."

"No," she agreed. "You most certainly won't."

Mick couldn't speak, could barely breathe. His entire fate and future hung on whatever she would say next. In fact, there was a very strong chance that based on her next words, he might not have a future at all. His eyes fell on Ketch, who had moved further into the room and was now standing in front of his dresser, idly tracing his fingers along the edge of it. He inspected his fingertips for nonexistent dust, then curiously opened and closed each drawer for a moment, sighing as he closed the last one, as if just so very bored.

Mick felt a sense of indignation at Ketch's utter disregard for his space and privacy, but it was largely muted by his greater concerns. Because while he idly fidgeted with Mick's things with one hand, Ketch's other hand rested just above the weapon still strapped to his side. Mick fought back a sense of impending panic as he wondered if Ketch had already received his own set of orders, and what those orders might be.

"You are relieved of your post, Michael," Dr. Hess continued. "You will continue to serve in our American outpost for the time being, but you have proven yourself unfit to head this project. Mr. Ketch will be taking your position. You are to assist him from this point onward, and he will report back to me on your actions, and whether or not any further consequences are necessary."

Mick stared up in dismay at Ketch, who was now still and studying him from across the room, the trace of a smile on his lips proving Mick's suspicions correct. Ketch already knew exactly what Dr. Hess was telling Mick now.

And the idea of Ketch running this project, dealing with the American hunters, making vital decisions on matters of utmost sensitivity, well – it was upsetting, to say the least. Ketch was a violent, ruthless man, and Mick dreaded to think how the tactics of this mission might change under his command.

"Ma'am…" he began, hushed and cautious. "I… would be remiss in my duty if I did not tell you I have some… concerns about this decision…"

He pointedly did not look at Ketch, did not acknowledge his exaggerated rolling of his eyes or the smug smile on his lips that followed.

"Your 'concerns' are of no concern to me," Dr. Hess cut him off sharply. "The decision has been made. You are to serve Mr. Ketch in whatever capacity he asks of you, and you are to obey him implicitly, Michael, and I won't hear another word of argument. Do I make myself clear?"

Mick closed his eyes, nodding in defeat, though he knew she couldn't see him. "Yes, ma'am," he conceded, barely over a whisper. Then he cleared his throat, drew in a steadying breath, and repeated again, in a tone he hoped she'd find more acceptable. "Yes, ma'am. I – I understand my orders."

The call disconnected without another word, and Mick stared down at the phone in his hands, still numb and processing the abrupt change in his circumstances. Quiet footsteps crossed the room toward him, but Mick didn't look up until Ketch's shoes came into view, just a few feet in front of him. Ketch was holding out his hand expectantly, and Mick stared at him dumbly for a moment before remembering that he'd taken the call on Ketch's phone. He placed it in Ketch's outstretched hand and looked away, feeling the stinging humiliation of his dismissal warm his face and make his eyes burn.

"Please leave," he requested softly.

Ketch was quiet for a moment, unmoving. Then he replied at last, a trace of amusement in his voice. "No. No, I don't believe I will just yet."

Mick looked up at him sharply, alarmed as Ketch moved in closer, until he was standing directly between Mick's parted legs, so close that Mick was forced to lean back a little to avoid actual physical contact. Ketch's satisfied smirk widened, and he reached out a swift, strong hand to grasp the back of Mick's head, stilling his retreat. Mick instinctively met the gesture by grabbing Ketch's arm, but didn't dare actually try to fight.

Ketch was much larger and stronger, and now on top of all his other advantages, had the official authority to do whatever he wanted to him. And judging by the cruel twist of Ketch's mouth, the way he pressed in even closer, leaning down into Mick's space – he knew it.

"You don't give the orders around here anymore, Mick," Ketch pointed out unnecessarily.

His free hand came to rest on Mick's thigh, and Mick's heart clenched as it slid slowly upward. He reached down to try to stop it, but Ketch just caught his wrist instead and twisted it hard. Mick bit back the cry of pain that rose to his lips, unwilling to give the other man the satisfaction – but Ketch's vindictive little chuckle made it clear that it didn't matter. Ketch was an expert in pain, and knew when someone was trying to hide it.

"This… isn't right," Mick ground out through the pain, raising his eyes to Ketch's face, his heart racing at the cruel pleasure he saw in the other man's eyes. "You're my commanding officer… my superior, and… for you to do this…"

"But… I've always been superior to you, Mick," Ketch pointed out, quietly triumphant. "It's just that the old men know it now. She knows it now." He yanked Mick in closer to him, and Mick winced, resisting the instinct to fight to free himself as Ketch released his aching wrist and instead placed his hand against Mick's hip, low and invasive. "You've finally done it, haven't you?" Ketch spoke into his ear, taunting. "You've managed to cock things up so badly that your utter uselessness has been proven to all. And I'm finally in a position to actually get things done around here, without your pathetic pandering to those stupid American dogs to get in my way. But don't worry…"

He abruptly let go of Mick's hair, only to shove him down onto the bed on his back. All at once, Mick realized what Ketch intended to do, and felt unbelievably stupid for not having realized it sooner. Panic drove him to fight despite the potential consequences for disobedience. But Ketch just laughed, apparently entertained by his struggles. He easily caught Mick's wrists, grinding down into the injured one as he pinned him against the mattress, holding him down with his superior weight and strength. Mick gasped with pain, turning his face away as Ketch leaned in close, breath hot against Mick's ear, words making his heart sink with despair at the realization of just how helpless he really was.

"… I'm sure I can still come up with lots of ways… in which you can be of use to me."