Author's Note: Okay, so, due to circumstances out of my control, updates might be all over the place for the foreseeable future. Hurricane Isaac and homework for grad school are both putting a cramp in my style. But rest assured that if I'm a few days late for an update, I haven't given up on this story! It will be finished. It might just take a little longer than I'd prefer. For my readers who, like me, are in Isaac's cone of uncertainty, stay safe. For all my readers, enjoy this chapter.

Martha was asleep on the couch in the den, and Dean sat straddling a chair across the room, watching her with his arms slung over the back of the chair and his chin resting on them.

She looked peaceful in a way he wouldn't have expected. She was stretched out languidly across the furniture, a soft smile curling her lips, nestled against the couch like she'd slept there before.

Which he supposed she had, if she was telling the truth.

There was a lot about her story that didn't make sense—well, he supposed it made sense in that Doctor sort of way, he just couldn't wrap his head around it. More than anything, he couldn't get past the fact that she knew. The one thing he wanted to keep secret, the one thing he'd vowed he wouldn't tell anyone, ever...she knew. Which meant that at some point, he'd told her. Which meant that she was someone important, or would be someone important, or something.

He was determined, right now, that he wouldn't tell anyone, and that meant that even in the future, he wouldn't tell just anybody.

Events from your time in Hell that you have not spoken of aloud since your return. Technically, that was pretty much all of it, other than being there and getting back. Bobby hadn't questioned him on it, but he'd been planning to say that he didn't remember any of what happened down there when the questions inevitably started. Who was gonna know better? It wasn't like Bobby had a whole cadre of Hunting buddies who'd literally been to Hell and back to ask if Dean was full of crap. And anyway, maybe that would still work. Maybe Bobby would buy I don't remember it now but maybe later I do.

But weirdest of all was the way she'd looked at him when he started to press her on it. It was a panicked look, a look that said not to ask her, that he wouldn't like the answer, that for his sake she'd rather not talk about it. As though not only did she know what happened to him, she knew that he didn't want anyone else to know.

That would mean she really knew him—not just knew him as an acquaintance, but knew him. Knew how he'd want to deal with something like this. Knew how he related to his family, to his friends. And Dean put up a pretty good front with people he met; that kind of knowledge, that understanding only came from fighting side-by-side.

He could see how she'd end up with them, though. If she was with the Doctor, it made sense. Looking like an innocent girl didn't mean anything when you were running with the Doctor. And while Rose was a tough kid, this girl seemed even tougher. Older, harder, like she'd seen things and gotten a thick skin thanks to them. He guessed that running from the Spheres—the Toclaphane, she'd called them—for however long she'd been running would do that to even the softest person, but the hardness sat well on her. It was right on her.

The sadness, on the other hand, wasn't.

Her fingers twitched in her sleep, indicating how deep she was in her dreams. There was a part of him that was almost touched by the display of faith in him and in Bobby and Castiel. She was letting herself be totally vulnerable. But like she'd said, if she was telling the truth, she wasn't among strangers. Which still meant that at some point, they'd earned her trust. Even if that point hadn't happened yet.

"You gonna sit there watching her sleep all day?" Dean started at Bobby's voice, then turned and shrugged as the older Hunter walked up to him, watching Martha himself. "How long's she been out?"

"Couple hours," Dean replied. "Guess she was beat."

Bobby nodded. "Castiel said she was pretty sick," he remarked. "Poor kid's body must be taking whatever rest it can get. And that's just the physical bit. If she saw what she said happened in Japan..."

Dean exhaled slowly, in wordless agreement with Bobby's symapthy. "Think she's telling the truth about that?" he asked, and Bobby looked at him. "Japan. All of those people, dead. I mean that's...millions of people, easy, right?"

"Ain't got a reason to lie about it that I can figure," Bobby said with an uncomfortable shrug. "Gotta be a better way to earn some pity points than pretending an entire country's dead, and she don't look stupid. Besides, she seemed to know what was going on with your new pal; she'd know he'd be able to tell if she was lying."

Dean looked up. "Yeah, where is he?" he asked, and Bobby shrugged. "He must've taken off after Martha fell asleep. Wonder where he went."

"Heaven?" Bobby ventured, and Dean laughed. Right. Heaven. He was sure that was a place.

Martha stirred on the sofa, her brow furrowed, and the two men quieted, waiting until she settled back down to speak again. Dean was going to remark on Castiel's unannounced disappearance, but before he could say anything, Bobby asked, "What did Castiel mean, about the things Martha knows that you haven't talked about?"

Dean sighed, almost silently. It was only ever a matter of time, he'd always known that. But he couldn't, not yet. He knew the words wouldn't come. Not even for Bobby. He hated to lie to him, but...he couldn't face talking about it. "I don't know," he said finally, softly, as though speaking the lie too loud would make it more obviously untrue. "I don't remember anything."

Bobby raised an eyebrow, then frowned at Martha's still form. "How'd she know what happened to you, if you don't?" he asked.

"I mean, you heard her, Bobby. She's with the Doctor. She probably knows me from the future," Dean argued. "Maybe I remember. I hope not. But maybe. Or maybe it's like, an alternate future or something...where I remember. I don't know, Bobby, do I look like a friggin' time traveler?"

Bobby looked back to him, and sighed. Dean could tell he wasn't totally convinced, but at least he wasn't going to press him on it. He couldn't talk about it. He wasn't sure he ever would be able to.

Except that apparently, he told Martha.

"Can't say I'm thrilled that you lied to me and snuck out to find Sam," Bobby said lightly as Dean was pulled from his reverie. The younger Hunter closed his eyes and braced himself for the lecture. "I told you it was too dangerous. Bettin' Castiel said the same thing. You're lucky you found this girl before you found anything else. Did you even get to the camp?"

Dean shook his head mutely, letting Bobby's frustration pass over him without a word. It was a technique that always worked with their dad growing up; he knew it pissed Bobby off more than it had pissed John off, but old habits died hard.

"Just as well," Bobby said. "Guards saw you just prancin' around outside the camp like the damn fool you seem to have become, you'd be hauling scrap metal from here to Phoenix before you knew what was what. You've been gone for four months, son, you can't just come back and expect nothing's changed."

"I didn't," Dean said, turning and glaring up at Bobby. His hands gripped the back of the chair tight. Expect nothing's changed. Yeah, right. "I didn't expect that at all. Don't you dare tell me...everything's changed, Bobby. Way more than you know."

Bobby was silent for a moment, and then said, his voice soft, "Way more than you know, too, right, Dean?"

Dean froze in the chair.

Then he pressed his lips together and looked away, muttering, "If Sammy's in that labor camp I'm gonna find him, Bobby, and I don't give a crap what you or Castiel have to—"

"Sam's not in the camp."

Both men turned at Martha's voice, watching as she wearily shifted up to a sitting position. "Woah, woah, easy," Dean said, scrambling off his chair as she winced in pain at the effort. He ran over to her and helped her up, one arm around her shoulders and the other gripping her cold hand.

She looked up at him and smiled, a bright, surprised, joyful expression that felt like a balm to the storm inside of him. Her fingers tightened around his palm, as though she were trying to memorize the contact, and she supported her weight on him as she finally sat up straight. "Thanks," she murmured as Dean released her, crouching on the ground beside her.

"Now what'd you say about Sammy?" he prompted, once she seemed to have gotten her bearings.

Martha ran her hands through her hair, pulling out the hair-band and combing her hair out with her fingers. "I was at the camp to try to find Sam," she said. "I wanted to make sure all of you were okay. I spoke to a...a woman at the camp, who said she knew him. But she said that by the time I got there, he'd already been transferred."

"Transferred," Dean echoed, a dull emptiness in his voice. Well, why wouldn't he have been. Even if everything had changed, the old Winchester luck remained constant, at least. "What does that mean, transferred?"

Martha shook her head helplessly. "I don't know for sure. But I have my suspicions, and they're not great. No, he's not—it's not like that, Dean, calm down. If he's where I think he is, they're not gonna kill him. And he'll have allies there. But it just means that we need to move faster."

Dean looked down at his hands for a moment, tensing his fingers and calming himself. This wasn't her fault (probably). He didn't need to be angry with her; it wouldn't help. But a petty voice in his head whispered that it wouldn't hurt, either, and didn't he deserve to be a little angry right now? Hadn't he earned angry? "I don't have time to deal with you being vague," he said slowly, settling on a compromise of being angry but staying calm. He felt Martha's eyes on him. "If you know where my brother is, tell me. I don't have—Sammy doesn't have time for me to waste."

Martha took a few deep breaths, kneading the threadbare pillow on the couch rhythmically and fretfully. "I really am not positive," she said, as a disclaimer, he guessed, "but if I had to guess, I'd say that Sam's aboard the Valiant right now."

It didn't mean anything to Dean, and he was about to complain about that, but it apparently meant something to Bobby because his mouth fell slightly open and he said, "The Valiant? What in the hell would Saxon want with Sam?"

"Saxon?" Dean echoed.

"The Valiant is the Master's airship," Martha explained, her voice brisk and cold as though she'd had to say this a thousand times, "stolen from UNIT and repurposed as his base and headquarters. It's where he stays. He's never come down to Earth, not since he took over."

"But why bring Sam there?" Bobby asked again.

"It's also where he keeps his highest-priority prisoners," Martha replied, and Bobby fell silent. "Sam would make sense. Aboard, he already has Captain Jack Harkness. My family. And the Doctor."

Dean let that process for a moment.

He stood up, and Martha's gaze followed him, watching him warily as he dragged his hands through his hair. "Saxon has Sammy, your family, the Doctor, and the guy who saved me and Sammy fourteen years ago in West Virginia?" he said, his voice quieter and more calm than he expected it to be. "Why'd Jack even—oh." It clicked, suddenly, in Dean's head. "A friend of a friend. The Doctor sent Jack."

"Jack's been an associate of the Doctor for a century and a half," Martha confirmed. "The Master's rounding up everyone with ties to the Doctor, everyone he can find. That's why they say I escaped from London. The Master's scared to death of the Doctor and he's trying to make sure nobody's out there to carry out his plans."

"So what part of that means that he's not gonna kill Sam?" Dean demanded.

Martha met his eyes evenly, and he suddenly realized that while his brother was on that ship, so was her family, and maybe he could have been a little gentler with her, but dammit, it was Sammy on that ship so he didn't apologize. "If he wins, what's going to happen to this planet and the entire universe is worse than you can imagine," she said quietly. "He's gonna want us all to see it. He's not gonna kill us until we've witnessed it. Until we've watched the Doctor fail the Earth so badly that none of us can recover from it." She paused, and seemed to deflate a bit as she leaned against the sofa. "And then he'll kill us. But not until then."

"You mentioned a plan," Bobby said, and Martha looked up at him, something that was almost a grim smile on her lips. "Figure that's what we probably ought to be talking about, just now."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, and he realized it was irrational but it didn't matter. "That's what we ought to be talking about, Bobby? Not Sam?"

"Not things we can't fix," Bobby spat back, and Dean quieted. "If the Doctor has a plan it's the best we got, because I sure as hell ain't got one, and my guess is neither do you since you didn't even know this was going on twelve hours ago. So why don't you shut up and listen to the lady who knows what's happening and what to do about it?"

Dean scowled, but obeyed. Bobby was right. He wasn't going to help Sammy by flailing around and getting himself killed by the Tocla-whatever-the-hell, but it killed him to wait around while Saxon could be hurting his brother. Was probably hurting his brother. Sitting to the side while something like that was happening wasn't the Winchester way.

He turned reluctantly to Martha, who was looking at him in a way that suggested way more understanding than she had a right to. "The Doctor's gonna save Sam," she said. "I promise, Dean. He's not gonna let the Master have him. And I swear, neither am I."

The ferocity in her voice was unexpected and it startled Dean a little bit. When he studied her, he saw something he couldn't decipher in her eyes, a layer above the hardness and the pain that was being compressed into strength like coal into diamonds, and he didn't know what to make of it. But he believed her. He believed that Sam was a priority for her. And he believed that she would help him get his brother back.

"What does the Doctor want us to do?" Dean asked, and he was so close to not spitting the alien's name out. So close.

Bobby gave him an odd look, but Martha said, "It's simple."

"Martha's building a gun," Bobby interrupted, and Martha glanced at him, looking patient but a little put out. "Four chemicals, scattered across the globe, that can kill Saxon."

"What is Saxon?" Dean asked.

"Time Lord," Martha said curtly.

Dean gaped.

"Seems the Doctor is the second-to-last of his kind after all," Martha continued, "but that's beside the point. Bobby's right, that's the story we've been spreading. But I can tell the two of you the truth, because Dean, I need you, I need your help."

"Saxon's a Time Lord?" Dean exclaimed. "How the hell are we supposed to kill a Time Lord? Don't they just come back?"

"Time Lords do regenerate, but that's also beside the point," Martha said, and Dean could hear the irritation rising in her voice. "There's...there's no gun." Her voice dropped until it was barely a whisper, as though she was afraid to be heard. "The gun is a story to get the Master afraid. It's a diversion. What I've been doing is telling people about the Doctor, telling them a story, and for that, I need your help, Dean."

Dean shook his head slowly, and it was at least as much rejection as it was confusion, looking down at Martha as he stood next to the sofa. "I don't understand," he said. "Need my help with what?"

Martha was quiet for a moment, and put her hand over Dean's. He stared down at it, remembering when Rose had done exactly that in the woods, after he'd managed to screw up and let slip how freaking much his life sucked, how scared it made him. Martha's hand was still cold. He wondered if her fever was back. "The Doctor always said you were special," she said, and Dean didn't flinch, as much as he wanted to. "I know you are. The Doctor always says, nobody believes as hard as Dean Winchester."

Dean scoffed, but Martha gripped his hand with both of hers and he was silent.

"And it's true, Dean. The faith you have in people, whether they deserve it or not, it's stunning. And we need that right now, more than ever. I need you to help me tell people why they need to believe that the Doctor's going to save them, that he's going to come for them, that he always has. I need you to help me tell his story. Can you help me?"

Dean looked at Martha's hands around his. He looked up at her face, so determined, so passionate and so full of trust. He looked at Bobby, whose face was neutral. And Cas wasn't around to guide him.

So maybe it was a mistake, but screw it, what part of his life wasn't.

He slid his hand out from between Martha's, ignoring the look of surprise and hurt on her face as he stood.

"I can't," he said, and started up the stairs.

"Why?" Martha demanded from behind him. "Even if it's the only plan we have to get Sam back? Even if it's the only plan we have to save our planet? Dean, why?"

Dean stopped, and turned around in the doorway. His voice sounded cold even to himself as he said, "The Doctor says I believe harder than anybody else. Maybe that's true. If it is, the opposite is true, too, then. Because when I lose faith in somebody, it's gone. And I'm sorry, Martha. But I don't have any faith in the Doctor. You're gonna have to find somebody else."

He couldn't face her again as he headed up the stairs. He'd find his own way to save Sammy.

Somehow.