If it was at all possible to cut the atmosphere in half, Dean was certain that this would have been the perfect setting to demonstrate. The tension was literally so thick in the room that it felt like one motion, word or breath could disturb some cosmic balance, setting time and space off-kilter. There was a heavy silence in the room, as everyone's eyes remained glued to the spot where the angel had disappeared right before their eyes. It was like he was still there, in a way, and his space in the room was still filled up by some unknown force that drew their attention. Dean had seen Castiel's tricks before, but what drew his eyes this time was the ominous foreshadowing of what Castiel had told them. And in a way, what Castiel had told him. And it was too much. Breaking the strings that held them all in place for the first time, Dean pulled away from his perch on the couch and turned his back on the room, stopping only to put his boots on as he marched out the front door and into the cold outside.

John watched his eldest walk off with a pang of regret, Dean's absence in the room more disheartening then his disturbance of its peace by leaving. Of course, Dean's leaving made perfect sense. Too much sense, actually. "Why us?" "You know why." It didn't take a genius to figure it out. Dean knew why. So there. And that meant everything. John just couldn't believe that he hadn't seen it before. Every clue, every piece of obvious reality had been in front of him, and he had simply ignored it. But now, there was no denying the truth. And no, it wasn't going to set him free. Damn that old expression. What did poets know? With trepidation in his footsteps, John took the brave march to the front door. He slipped his feet into his boots, and pulled his jacket over his shoulders – despite his wishes, he wasn't as young as he used to be – and eased himself out the doorway with caution. Maybe he should have expected that the Impala would be missing, but he didn't. Just like everything else about his sons lately, Dean's decisions were a mystery. So with nowhere else to go, and without the desire to go back inside and face everyone inside, John headed out into the salvage yard.

Bela didn't move as one by one, the room left. The angel disappeared in what would have been an impressive display of his powers, would she have been an appropriate mood to notice, Dean had stormed off without a glance backwards, John had gone after him apologetically, and Bela had been left alone. Again. No angel stopped to give her a look of comfort. No father followed her to make sure that she was alright. No brother waited upstairs to share a bedroom. No uncle slept soundly in the knowledge that she was keeping his house safe. There was nobody at all who would care if she left, who wouldn't feel that they were better off if she never came back, or if she had never come back in the first place. But it wasn't to anyone's surprise that this was all her fault. Maybe if she had been a better daughter, if she had been somehow prettier, smarter, kinder, stronger, more obedient, then her parents would have loved her. Maybe if she had been able to suck it up and love them for who they were, then she wouldn't have had to sell her soul. Maybe if she had donated the money to charity, or gotten therapy, or let someone get close enough to love her, then she wouldn't have gone to hell without someone to miss her. But Bela wasn't stupid. She knew what she had done, and what she had deserved. And that even after she paid her debts, that nobody gave a damn. Not even the angel who pulled her out, or the people who had shared her fate.

With no company but her thoughts, Bela bent her head and wept. Because she did give a damn.

Sam stepped out of the bathroom with his satchel in hand and tossed it in the general direction of his suitcase to land with a thump three feet away. It was with a selfish pleasure that he realized that the room was empty, and he wouldn't have to face Dean's judging stare again. His tongue ran over his teeth in satisfaction of the clean feeling that brushing brought, but his mind wasn't satisfied. Even though on some level he was aware that Dean hadn't meant any harm, his words still stung more than Sam would have liked to admit.

"My first thought wasn't that you ditched, it was that you'd gone and…"

"You thought I went and killed myself?"

"If the shoe fits."

And what was that supposed to mean, anyways? Even after all the backtracking Dean had tried to do to pretend that he hadn't said it, it had to mean something. Or else he wouldn't have said it. So what shoe was Sam supposed to fit into? If Dean thought that Sam fit into this role, then that meant that Dean thought that Sam was suicidal. Nothing else made sense. There was nothing that got Dean's haunches up that much, except knowing that Sam was in grave danger. And while Sam couldn't help thinking that this reflex got Dean into more harm then himself good, he knew that Dean couldn't help it. So Dean wanted to protect him… fine. He could understand that. It wasn't like he didn't want to protect Dean too. But he knew that, unlike himself, it was hard for Dean to admit that he needed help. Sam would nudge Dean to talk about his feelings when he time called for it, but he knew better than to push Dean where he couldn't go. He pushed Dean when he made the deal, and he pretended that he wasn't scared. And he pushed Dean when he got back from hell, and he pretended that he wasn't terrified. Dean was never very pleasant when Sam pushed, but they both knew that he needed it and eventually would let Sam in. Unlike Dean, Sam didn't need to be pushed often. When Sam became obsessed with killing the yellow-eyed demon, even if it killed him. Or when he wouldn't stop trying to get Dean out of the deal, even if it killed him. Or now, trying to kill Lilith, even if it –

Okay, maybe Sam did seem a little die-hard for hunting sometimes. But so what? That was just being good at his job. He was just aware of the fact that some things were worth dying for. But that didn't mean he wanted to die. It wasn't being obsessive, just… putting priorities in order. He didn't want to die.

And Dean was being a hypocrite, anyways. He was the one who had been wiling to die to get dad back, who had died to get Sam back. He was the one who had told Sam that he was "sick of this life" after John's death, and had quoted nearly the same thing after Sam confronted him about making the deal. Sam had never held that against him, never shoved that in his face when his guard was down.

It wasn't like Sam was self-harming or anything, he thought grudgingly. He'd never, ever cut or anything like that. And he wasn't on drugs, nor was he a compulsive drinker. He'd never tried to end it before. So what was Dean's problem? Sam had never even thought about it before.

Well maybe once… Right after Jess died. Sam shrugged. But that didn't really count, and he'd never acted on it anyways. And after Dean had died and gone to hell. Okay, that was twice. But still…

"The point is, I've been ignoring the signs here."

What signs? There were no signs. Even after everything that he had gone through, the glass was more or less half full. Every messed-up hunt was a lesson learned. Every injury made him stronger. Every person that he had loved and lost was in a better place now. He had wasted four years and sixteen thousand dollars worth of grants on a Stanford education for a Law degree that never came, but at least he knew how to research anything and everything that they would need for a hunt. And he could type it all at one-hundred and seventy words-per-minute too. So it wasn't all that bad. And when it got tough, he had learned how to cope. How to work under pressure, keep going when there was nothing left. Jess dying, Dean and John going to hell, the demon-blood, it was horrible but it, uh, taught him to appreciate things when you still had them. And to appreciate them even more when you got them back. Life had given him… Lessons, or whatever. Helped him grow up….

Screw it. The glass wasn't half-full. The damn thing was so empty that it was already in the back of the dishwasher behind the crock-pot and the old wooden spoons that nobody ever used.

And all of a sudden an opening in Sam's pity-party realization finally opened, and he heard it. Someone was crying. This in itself was confusing to Sam, but the fact that the feminine sniffles and sobs that were being poorly muffled downstairs did not belong to one of the many men in this household was obvious in itself. There was a woman downstairs. A crying woman. What. The. Hell.

Oh… Sam's mind caught up with him, and with a jolt he remembered. Bela. He remembered that Dean had mentioned something about that, when they were climbing up the stairs to their room, but somehow it had gone in one ear and out the other. He had just had the epiphany-of-a-lifetime talk with his brother and father, not to mention the fact that he was tired and sore all over. But now that he was feeling a bit better after the shower – more tired, less sore – his mind started to backtrack to that a little bit. Was this real? Dean had explained briefly something about Castiel bringing her back, but that too hadn't really registered. So Cas was bringing up more souls from hell? Why did he start up again now? And why the heck did Bela come here if she did get out? Unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, Sam quietly crept from the room and onto the stairs.

He walked as lightly as he could onto the steps, praying that his weight wouldn't cause a creak in Bobby's old floorboards. He was still limping, but if he turned to the side a bit he didn't even have to bend his leg. As awful as the thought was, Sam couldn't wait to tear her up one. Stealing from them, shooting him, manipulating them… that was all one thing. But she stole the colt. The one thing that could have kept Dean from going into the pit, and she stole it in cold blood and sold it. The bitch practically sent Dean packing herself. And she had the nerve to come here of all places? After everything she had done? Sam couldn't believe that they had even let her stay here. If it had been his decision, she would have been out on the street –

A loud creak sounded out into the night. Bela started, her eyes darting up to the stairs with such urgency that she might have been afraid. Sam's mouth opened, about to ask what the hell she was doing here, but the second he met her eyes he froze. Suddenly it was May of last year, and Dean was looking at a clock that read midnight with panic in his eyes. And it was November, and Dean was talking as quiet as he could so that the passers-by on the bridge with them wouldn't hear as he tried to explain to Sam what had happened in hell. And the look in his eyes both those times… It still gave him nightmares.

And seeing that same look in the eyes of a woman that he hated – no, despised – was enough to let him know that the nightmares were going to be coming back for a long time.

Bela didn't move, her eyes locked with the man in front of her in a staring contest that she hadn't expected to be making. Sam showing up was surprise, and the look on his face resembled a deer caught in the headlights so much that she felt slightly less of one. They were both frozen for a minute longer in their current positions – Sam with his feet on separate stairs with his hand inches away from being on the railing, and Bela with her hands wrapped around herself like she was cold as ice – until the silence got deafening. Bela realized that she would be the one to recover first, and moved her arms so that they were instead crossed in front of her chest. "Well, the prodigal son returns."

The spell was broken. Sam was able to continue his journey down the stairs again, watching her cautiously. "So it's true."

"What? You boys finally came out of the closet? I always knew you were a little too close." The old defensive-smirk was back, before Bela even knew it was there. She knew that she should at least try to be nice, but at the same time was embarrassed to notice that she didn't know how.

Sam stopped at the bottom of the stairs and leaned against the wall, his face as close to a Dean-ism as she had ever seen it. But at the same time, he seemed amused. And still cautious. "You're back." Bela felt a warm flush begin to creep up into her face, first of all because a Winchester had seen her cry, and second of all because he was prone to stating the obvious. Which she didn't need right now. "What can I say?" She shrugged, faking nonchalance. "The party doesn't start until I get here. I figured you guys could use a treat."

Expression now blank enough that it was starting to make Bela awkward, Sam took a few steps across the room – with a limp, she couldn't help but notice – and grab a box of tissues from a TV tray on the other side of the couch. He tossed it to her. "Remember being ten? The snail trail always gives you away."

While Bela knew that the sentiment was supposed to be a kind one, she had no clue what had just been said to her. The corner of Sam's mouth went up for a minute, and he gestured to her pajamas. "Wiping your nose on your sleeve leaves little lines. It's called the" –

"Snail trial." Bela interrupted, one eyebrow unwillingly rising at the attempt at a joke. "Makes sense now."

Sam huffed, and took a seat on the couch across from her. "Maybe it's 'cause you're British. I thought everybody knew what it meant."

Bela held onto the box of tissues tightly, knowing what he meant by the gift of it, trying to get her mouth to utter one little world. Thanks. Just say it. Thanks! Instead, she cleared her throat. "So what happened to your leg?"

Sam looked up at her funny, as if that was the last thing he had been expecting. "Oh. I, uh, I just hurt it a few days ago. It should be fine in a week or so. Nothing major."

It probably wasn't, Bela realized. Hunters got hurt all the time. And by the way Sam was sitting, favoring his left side, he was likely hiding more injuries than his leg. She remembered shooting him in the shoulder, the look on his face afterwards. Back when they had still been strangers, and he was shorter-haired, skinnier, more outwardly nervous and fine with being a follower. And even though Bela barely knew Sam, she could tell that a year had aged him quite a bit. Harder. Stronger. Smarter. Tougher. Someone you could be afraid of. Not that he was trying, right now.

Sam's eyes scanned the room for a second, went back to hers, scanned the room again, and then he sighed. Trying to be nice to someone you hated was hard, wasn't it? So why was he trying? "Where is everybody?"

So that explained why Sam had come downstairs. To find out where daddy and big brother had gone off to. Bela clenched her jaw for a minute, reminded of the altercation with the angel that had shaken the room but a few minutes ago. She couldn't help wondering how much Sam knew about his family. What they had gone through. "Your angel friend came over for a visit," Bela knew that she might as well look truthful, because he would know about that eventually. "Dean left. Your dad went after him. I haven't seen Bobby since he went to bed."

That was a whole lot of nothing, and Sam knew it. The questions seemed to filter through his head like lottery tickets, and he was waiting to pick out which one to read first. Bela guessed Dean, and she was right. Sam looked up. "Why did Dean leave?"

The tone of his voice spoke volumes. That question in itself was snooping, but it hinted at so many others that surely were under the surface. Was Dean hurt? Upset? Was he coming back? And when? God, she hoped Dean realized what he had going for him. Dad hurries after you. Little brother dotes over you. Angel wants to be your best friend forever. Why couldn't she have a tiny slice of that?

The question remained unanswered too late, and Sam nodded at the silence. "Do you know what Cas said to him?"

Damn. That was about as forward as you could get. Either Bela could be made a lair, or a gossip. "Um…" She sniffled nervously. "I'd rather not say."

The second that the words left her mouth, Bela regretted them. Sam's eyes widened slightly as he connected the dots. He clearly knew what Bela and Dean had in common, what would make them both upset, and what the angel had to do with it, because he stood up too quickly to be subtle. "Bathroom break," he muttered. Somehow that took him out the front door. And Bela could connect the dots too.

Sam hesitated on the front step when he realized that Dean's car wasn't in the lot. He stood outside in the cold for a minute, but then when he realized that he couldn't will them to come back he went back inside and found his sleeping pills. It had been a long night.

Wow guys, as always you are so awesome to me. So even though it is 1:19 AM on Boxing Day here, it is still Christmas Day in some parts of the world… So Merry Christmas! I wanted to give you guys a gift, and here it is. I hope you like it. Please, Please, PLEASE review. I know you all had different expectations of my bringing Bela into the story, so please tell me how that's going. And what about the rest of the chapter? Feedback is so nice to hear. Please make my day!