Author's Note: Here we go! This story will be told primarily from Martha's, Dean's, and Sam's points of view, and I'll be titling chapters by the POV character's name, but it will be pretty obvious whose eyes we're looking through. To my non-Whovian friends, this is may get pretty AU, but it'll all make sense by the end, I promise.

Thanks for all the instant gratification when I put up the prologue. I'm really excited about this story; I hope it lives up to everybody's expectations.

Dean didn't hurt.

Well, he hurt, but not as much as before, so much less than before that it felt like not hurting. Relatively, it was no pain at all. His fingernails were broken and the flesh beneath them bloodied, his lungs burned from oxygen deprivation, his muscles all ached from disuse and the sun beat down on him and he could feel his skin burning, but it was no pain at all.

Dean Winchester wasn't in Hell anymore.

(Probably.)

The field around him hadn't always been a field, he knew. He saw the felled trees, like a bomb had gone off, and he knew at some level that it was related to his return to life. But he couldn't bring himself to care, just now. Instead, he sat on the ground, peeling off the over-shirt Sam and Bobby

(Sam and Bobby)

had buried him in and tying it around his waist. He touched his bare arms with trembling fingers, marveling at how intact his body was. How long was he dead? It felt like an eternity, and he knew it had been at the least decades. At his last count it was thirty-some-odd years, but that count couldn't be trusted because it all started to blur together. About twenty when the Doctor had come.

He knew it was thirty before he said yes.

He swallowed hard past the bile that rose in his throat at the thought of the last however-many years after that yes, and focused instead on just how much not in Hell he was.

He felt the grass beneath his hands as he leaned back and saw the sun (the sun he never thought he'd see the sun again how had he forgotten how blue the sky was and how beautiful clouds were and how Sammy used to pick out shapes in them he'd picked that up in first grade from some other kid because Dean had never learned that and Sammy came home and taught him about it and they sat all day and found shapes in clouds until it was dark outside) and felt the breeze on his face. It felt like a caress, and his eyes stung.

He was nowhere, and there was nothing for him to gauge the date by. He just hoped that Sam and Bobby were still alive, that it hadn't been so long that Sam was an old man now, that he would at least get time to spend with his brother now that he was out. Out. He felt a laugh bubble in his throat, and he surprised himself when he let it out. It hurt, his throat was raw, but he hadn't made that noise for this reason in such a long time that the novelty shocked him. Laughing to piss of Alastair, he knew. Laughing so that he wouldn't start sobbing, he knew. Laughing because he was happy...

He shook his head briskly to pull himself together. Whenever it was, however long it had been, hanging out here wasn't going to give him any more time with Sam and Bobby, and he still had to find them. He knew he'd died in Illinois, so he figured he was still in Illinois. The trick was getting back to South Dakota. If his baby were here, he'd be fine. But of course, Sammy had her. So Dean was stranded.

He stood up, and was amazed by how steady he was. No stumbling, no trembling. A thought occurred to him, and he pulled up the plain black t-shirt he'd been buried in—and sure enough, smooth skin was all he saw. No trace of the havoc the Hellhounds had wrought on his abdomen. In fact, some of the scars he'd had before, from earlier hunts, were gone. He frowned at that, and tugged the shoulder of his shirt down on the left side. He had a scar on that side before that he could always weave a good story around for girls at the bar, and—

Holy shit.

He released the fabric and instead shoved his sleeve up, staring at the angry red scar (welts?) in the shape of a handprint that now adorned his upper arm. What the hell. What the hell was that? Dean swallowed hard, trying really hard not to think about what that meant for the circumstances of his resurrection. Something had dragged him out of Hell. He touched the print gingerly, and it didn't hurt, although by all rights it looked like it should. But there was a kind of electricity to it, a staticky sort of feel to it, that Dean instinctively recognized as the afterimage left by the use of a massive amount of power. Sometimes he'd feel it where Alastair touched him to heal him after a day on the rack, but never to this extent. Whatever had pulled him out, it was big.

Now that he knew it was there, he couldn't stop thinking about it as he wandered to the closest town (a shell of a town, or the outskirts of a town...no one home at the gas station he came across first). He felt his shirt rubbing against it, and tried really hard to ignore it but found it difficult to do so.

The dusty phone booth in front of the gas station gave him at least one thing: there were fliers taped to it advertising a concert for June seventh, 2008. Given the weather he didn't think it was June, but the fact that the fliers were still there suggested that it wasn't too much past that. His heart lifted just a little bit at the thought—however much time had passed for him in Hell, maybe he could start again, here. Maybe he could find Sammy, the Sammy he'd left, like he'd left him, and they could just start over where they'd left off.

Like nothing had happened.

He could pretend that, for Sammy.

He stepped into the phone booth, dug into his pocket and felt a smile rise on his face as his fingers brushed against coins. A lighter and coins. Dean wasn't sure if Sam had just been covering his bases in case Hell turned out to be across the River Styx or if he'd been hoping Dean would need change for a phone call just like this one, but either way, he could always count on his kid brother to take care of him. He pulled out a quarter, slipped it into the phone, and dialed Sam's number.

A tinny female voice told him that Sam's ARC mobile phone had been disconnected, and Dean felt his heart sink.

He was about to pull another quarter from his pocket and let his fingers dial Bobby's familiar number when he heard a soft rustling behind him, felt something in the air, and his stomach tried to abandon ship through his throat. He froze.

"Dean Winchester."

There were voices behind the voice and the voices were not human and Dean felt his knees go weak. He turned, pressing his back against the glass wall of the phone booth, and stared ahead of himself with wide eyes, preparing himself for a fight he could not prepare for, it was too soon and he was too disoriented.

A man, a little smaller than Dean, with black hair and blue eyes and a tan trench coat stood in front of him. He was pretty unassuming except that it was way too hot for that trench coat, but Dean knew better. After thirty-something years in Hell, Dean knew better.

Dean decided he was going to say something sarcastic, something smart, like he always did, because it was time to get back to his old habits. He was going to say something about the trench coat, he was pretty sure. Something, something, tax accountant. Just a generic insult about the meatsuit, give him a second to take stock of the situation and see how the fugly would react.

Instead, and to his horror, he heard himself whisper, "Already?"

The man (creature) tilted his head to the side, too-sharp blue eyes narrowing, a picture of mild puzzlement and, unless Dean was imagining it, irritation. "I don't understand."

He took a step towards Dean and Dean pressed back harder against the glass, and the creature stopped. Dean knew his breathing was too quick, his heart beating painfully against his ribcage, knew he looked as scared as he felt but couldn't bring himself to care. He murmured, "Can't I even see my brother, first?"

Blue eyes narrowed further, slid off of his face into a distance behind his shoulder, considering. Considering his request? "First," the creature echoed. Blue eyes returned to Dean's. "First implies a sequence of events. First before what, Dean?"

"Before you take me back," Dean said, his voice a little stronger now with frustration. "Like I don't know what you're here for. Something pulled me out; you're here to drag me back."

The creature's face cleared, the confusion fading away, and he took a step closer again. Again Dean pressed against the glass, edging away, but this time the creature did not relent. Step by step, in a progression as inexorable as the tide, he approached Dean.

Dean tensed, shutting his eyes as the creature closed on him.

He winced as he felt the creature's hand on his arm, then opened his eyes wide as it slid up under the sleeve of his shirt, and rested perfectly against his vicious new scar.

He stared at the creature, who watched him cautiously, with a neutral expression belied by the intensity of his gaze. "I pulled you out of the Pit, Dean Winchester," he said. "I am not here to bring you back."

"Who are you?" Dean breathed, looking at his shoulder and the creature's hand and marveling at the perfect fit of hand on handprint, marveling at the seemingly primal memory of that contact that brought him such a feeling of relief, of salvation and of trust, when he had absolutely no reason to trust this creature.

There was no response, and Dean looked up, and only then did his savior reply, "I am Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord."

It broke the spell. Dean pulled away, squeezing out of the confining booth and backing up a few steps. "Right," he said, watching the creature. "You're an angel."

"Yes," Castiel said, missing Dean's inflection.

"No such thing," Dean spat. That earned him another narrowing of Castiel's eyes, another birdlike head-tilt. Dean tried a new tactic. "And even if you were, why would an angel save me from Hell? An angel would know what I've done."

That last bit wasn't supposed to come out, and Dean felt the blood drain from his face.

(What if he was an angel and what if he hadn't known but he would now and he'd throw him right back in oh god why did he have to say that he was back on Earth and he was going to find Sammy but now he was never going to get the chance he was going to get sent right back and when he got back there'd be no Offer no respite just the rack—)

"An angel would, and I do know what you've done," Castiel said, interrupting his thoughts with an odd look on his face as though he knew what was running through Dean's head and was faintly annoyed and slightly concerned by it, "and it is of no consequence at this juncture. We have work for you."

"Work?" Dean echoed numbly. Castiel nodded, and then looked up sharply right before Dean got a chance to say, we?

"Not here," he said, and strode quickly up to Dean, who flinched away. He stopped, very much inside Dean's personal bubble, and frowned. He raised his hand slowly, tentatively, and Dean followed the movement with wide eyes. Castiel looked puzzled. "You don't need to be afraid."

"'M not afraid," Dean muttered.

Castiel frowned deeper. "You don't need to lie, either," he said. "I know what was done to you. But I'm not going to hurt you. Something is wrong here; we're not safe. I will take you to safety."

"Take me to Bobby's," Dean said, and when Castiel looked a bit put-out he added, "please?"

Castiel looked irritated for a brief moment, and then asked, a bit brusquely, "What is Bobby's?"

"Singer Salvage, in South Dakota," Dean replied, hoping he sounded appropriately contrite.

Castiel's eyes grew distant for another moment, and then he nodded. "It is acceptable. Far enough away from urban centers. We will go to Bobby's."

Dean watched the angel's (angel's?) fingers, two pressed together and held out gently like he'd seen in paintings of saints, until his eyes crossed as they approached his forehead. He then quickly shut his eyes and braced himself for whatever it was Alastair was going to do to him when he got back because they weren't going to Bobby's, and it was a trick, and he was getting sent back where he belonged, where he'd agreed to go and where he would agree to go again because it meant Sammy was okay, but even so he couldn't help but wish he could just see Sammy one more time before he went back to remind himself why—

It felt like the ground was pulled out from under him, and it felt like he was plummeting down the highest crest of a roller-coaster (and Dean never liked roller-coasters), and it felt like he was flying (which he wasn't fond of, either). Eyes wrenched shut, he reached out and grabbed for purchase, finding only the rough material of a trench coat. He gripped it tight and prayed for his stomach to calm.

Suddenly, the sensation abated, and he opened his eyes. Castiel's unsettlingly expressionless face filled his vision, and he took a step back, prying his shaking fingers off of the angel's coat. "Sorry," he muttered. Castiel looked confused by the apology, but said nothing. Dean looked around, and felt the breath leave him in a rush.

He staggered back a step, and out of his peripheral vision saw Castiel move forward, slightly—to catch him, if need be? The idea seemed unfathomable, absurdly protective, and for that reason and in a way he would never, ever admit out loud, Dean cherished it. Almost as much as he cherished the sight in front of him.

"Oh my god," he breathed. "I don't..."

"Is this not the correct place?" Castiel asked, managing to sound concerned and aggrieved and deadpan all at the same time. Dean shook his head wordlessly, and Castiel sighed. "We will try again."

"No," Dean said quickly, backing out of Castiel's reach. The angel stopped, fingers still pressed together, lips in a tight, frustrated line. "No, it's, this is Bobby's. It is. This is Bobby's." Dean looked at the house, the house he knew so well, the only home he'd known since his burned with his mother, and he managed a shaky smile. "Oh, my god. This is Bobby's."

"So you keep saying," Castiel remarked flatly, and Dean turned to him. "I imagine we can take shelter in the house?"

"Yeah," Dean said automatically, then processed Castiel's words. "Wait, shelter?"

A low buzzing sound faded into Dean's hearing, and Castiel grabbed him by the arm (his grip so much stronger than it had any right to be) and strode quickly up the stairs to Bobby's porch. The angel touched the door that Dean knew was secured by an impressive array of locks, and it opened easily. Castiel shoved Dean inside, following him and slamming the door shut behind him. He gestured sharply and the locks all snapped into place.

Dean stood, stock-still, behind the angel, and watched as Castiel's shoulders rose and fell evenly, while the rest of him remained absolutely still, waiting, ready. The buzzing intensified, and Dean saw Castiel tense as it peaked, then relax as it faded away. The angel's shoulders fell, and he turned around, opening his mouth to say something. Abruptly his eyes fixed on a spot over Dean's shoulder and narrowed, and he threw his hand up, fingers tense, expression little short of wrathful.

Dean whirled around to find Bobby, pistol pointed at precisely where his head would have been, frozen in place with a look of surprise on his face. "Bobby?" Dean said, and Bobby said nothing in return, didn't move or blink. Dean turned to Castiel. "What did you do to him?" he asked, the look on Castiel's face keeping his tone from getting too sharp. He didn't want that look trained on him.

Castiel glanced at him, keeping his hand raised. "He planned to shoot you," the angel said. "I could not allow that to happen."

"Let him go," Dean said, and Castiel's look turned oddly stubborn. Dean sighed. "I've been...dead. He doesn't think I'm human anymore. He thinks something's pretending to be me. Just..." Dean took the pistol from Bobby's hand, and held it pointed at the ceiling. "Please. He just needs to figure out that it's me."

Castiel looked doubtful, but lowered his hand, and Bobby gasped, stumbling slightly as he regained control over his muscles. He raised his hand as though he still held the pistol, intending to point it at Castiel, but quickly realized he'd been disarmed. He glared at Castiel, then at Dean. His expression darkened considerably when his eyes fell on Dean. "What the hell are you?" he growled. "No, on second thought, I don't care what you are, but if you know what's good for you you'll stop wearing that boy's face."

"Bobby, it's me," Dean said, keeping the gun out of Bobby's reach. "Look, I don't get it, either, but it's me. It's Dean."

"My ass," Bobby snapped.

"He is telling the truth," Castiel offered, breaking his silence. Bobby turned back to him, his eyes wary. "He is Dean Winchester, returned from Hell. He is unchanged."

"And who the hell are you supposed to be?" Bobby demanded. Castiel's eyes narrowed, but Bobby didn't back down, unarmed and outnumbered as he was. Dean felt a swell of pride. Bobby hadn't changed at all.

"Castiel," the angel said. "An angel of the Lord."

Bobby scoffed. "Sure," he said. "You're an angel, and he's my dead kid. Got a bridge to sell me, too?"

Castiel took a step towards Bobby, and despite the fact that he had no height advantage, he managed to pull off menacing quite well. "Your belief or lack thereof is irrelevant, Robert Singer," he said. "My mission does not involve you. Dean wished to take refuge here, and so we are here."

"Get the holy water," Dean said suddenly, and Bobby and Castiel both turned to him. "Get the holy water, Bobby. Get the silver knife. Whatever you need to do. It's me. Bobby, I swear it's me. And even if he doesn't, I need you to believe me."

Bobby swallowed hard, then nodded. "Fine," he said. "But the two of you go ahead of me. My library. Get."

Dean looked at Castiel, who didn't look happy, but followed him into the library without comment. Dean inhaled deeply as he entered the library—the smell of books was always Sam's (Sam he was going to see Sammy again) weird thing to geek out about, but in that moment, Dean couldn't think of a scent he'd rather smell. Old books, old whiskey, and whatever crap food Bobby had whipped up for himself lately. Dean smiled.

Bobby walked in after them, grabbing a flask of holy water and his silver knife off of one of the shelves. "Arm," he barked, and Dean obediently held his arm out. Bobby tipped the flask and spilled holy water over it, holding the knife at the ready just in case. When Dean didn't flinch, he capped the flask and put it away, and laid the knife against the inside of Dean's arm. Castiel stepped forward, that thunderous look on his face again, and Dean lifted his free hand.

"It's okay," he said, and Castiel clearly didn't believe him, so he continued, "He's just making sure I'm human."

Castiel didn't back up, but he didn't step forward again, either, and Bobby pressed the knife down and sliced a clean cut in Dean's forearm. Dean hissed, but bore it.

The wound, of course, only bled, didn't bubble or burn, and Bobby's angry, grieved expression transformed into one of disbelief and tentative hope. "Dean?" he asked, his voice soft.

"I've been telling you," Dean said. "It's me, Bobby. I'm back."

Bobby put his hands on Dean's shoulders, just studying him for a long moment, and then pulled him into a tight hug. "How?" he rasped.

Dean shrugged, a gesture made difficult by Bobby's embrace. "My new buddy over there says he did it," he said.

Bobby released him with an exhalation that was almost a sigh of relief, and turned to Castiel, who was watching the proceedings with equanimity. As Dean grabbed a roll of bandages off of the bookshelf and wrapped up his arm, Bobby walked up to the angel and grasped his hand. Castiel looked mildly surprised, staring at his hand between Bobby's. "Thank you," Bobby said vehemently. "Thank you for bringing my boy back to me."

Castiel said nothing, evidently stunned into silence by Bobby's gesture, and equally evidently still wondering what the Hunter was doing to his hand and if he was going to get it back, eventually. When the moment became awkward, Bobby let go of the angel's hand, rubbed his face vigorously, and said, "This calls for a beer." He strode off into the kitchen, and Dean, shooting a grin he couldn't contain at Castiel, who still looked bemused, followed him.

Bobby was already closing the door to the fridge when they got to the kitchen, and there were three beers on the table. Dean picked one up and popped the cap, then looked at the bottles, and at Castiel. Bobby caught his train of thought, and looked flustered.

"I, ah," he stammered. "I, ah, I didn't know if, you know, angels..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "Aw, hell. You want a beer, Castiel, angel of the Lord?"

Castiel regarded the bottle severely, looking up at Bobby and intoning, "I require neither food nor sustenence, and certainly not alcohol. I will refrain."

Bobby and Dean exchanged a glance, and Bobby slowly took the third bottle off of the table and put it back in the fridge.

"What was that thing outside, Cas?" Dean asked, the nickname rolling off his tongue before he could stop it. He tensed, waiting to see how the angel would react. (Who was he to give an angel of the Lord a nickname?)

Castiel looked momentarily confused, but once he deciphered that Dean was indeed speaking to him, he replied, "I'm not sure. I feel that something has gone amiss. I have spent a great deal of time searching for you, and have been unable to observe the events on Earth. Perhaps your friend can enlighten us." With that he turned his head expectantly to Bobby, who remained quiet.

Dean let him have a moment, then said, "Bobby? What was that thing? The thing buzzing."

Bobby shook his head slowly, dismally. "Lot of things have changed since you've...been gone, boy," he said. "Not all good. Hell, not mostly good."

"Like what?" Dean asked, positive he didn't want to know the answer. Typical Winchester luck: best day of his life, he gets pulled from Hell by a no-shit angel and gets back to find out something's gone pear-shaped with the world. He braced himself.

"It's a long story," Bobby began, but Dean cut him off with a gesture.

"Okay, long story, sure," he said. "But let's start with getting Sam's ass down here so we can do this reunion proper. His number was disconnected. Do you know his new one?"

The way Bobby went still at the mention of Sam's name was enough to send Dean's heart plummeting to his stomach. "Bobby?" he said. "Bobby, where's Sam?"

Bobby squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his grip on his beer whitening his knuckles. "It kills me to tell you this," he said. "This should...you don't deserve more bad news, son. But Sam...he's missing."

"Missing," Dean echoed, his voice hollow, his chest hollow, and he knew that if he just waited it would fill up with rage and grief and terror. "Missing for how long?"

Bobby set his jaw and said, "Three months."

"You have no idea where he could be?" Dean demanded.

Bobby looked up at the ceiling as though requesting divine assistance, and said, "That's the worst part. I'm pretty sure I know exactly where he is."