Author's Note: If you haven't read "What Power", which is story number two in this 'verse, I'd recommend reading it before you tackle this chapter. It's referenced heavily and expanded upon.

There is enough angst in this chapter to fill a barge, but it needed to happen before Martha and Dean can move forward, so just hold tight. I'm not 100% confident about this one, either, so let me know if it seems off. And I'm trying *so hard* to get to the Doctor, but it's hard to get to him in a story set in the Year that Never Was...but he'll have some screen time, don't worry.

Martha sat, stunned, on the couch for a long moment after Dean had stormed upstairs.

She heard his heavy footfalls (so silent on hunts; so loud when he was being dramatic) all the way up the stairs, heard him slam the door hard enough that she knew it wouldn't close. That latch never worked very well. But she also knew he was too proud to shut it again, so he'd leave it open.

Martha Jones was not soft. She was not weak. And she also liked to think that she was not short-tempered or irrational. But there was only so much a person could take, from someone for whom you were doing favors and whose trust you should have already earned, whether or not they'd lived through those experiences yet. She was willing to take a lot of grief from Dean Winchester, because while he hadn't earned it yet, he would, later on in his timeline. And she was willing to credit him.

But he owed the Doctor, damn it. She knew what the Doctor had done for him. She knew about his tenure in Hell, and she knew it was far longer than Dean's own. And it was entirely to protect Dean and his brother.

(And Rose.)

Almost entirely to protect two young men that he scarcely knew from Adam, he'd delivered himself right to the doorstep of Hell and consented to its tortures for longer than Martha cared to dwell on. And this was how Dean was going to repay him? No. Not at all. Not if Martha had something to say about it.

Martha stood angrily, swayed, and staggered against Bobby, who hurried to catch her. "Woah, now," he said quickly. "Take it easy, Martha. You're not well yet."

"I have to go talk to him," Martha muttered, steadying herself. Bobby released her, cautiously and reluctantly, and she took a moment to find her balance before continuing. "Doesn't have any faith in...I'll show him faith. I'll pummel some faith into his stupid head."

"The boy's confused," Bobby said, his voice placating, but Martha wasn't buying it, and the look she turned on the older Hunter said as much. "He just got back from Hell. You know him as well as you say you do, you'll understand what that means."

She did, and the thought of it softened her expression, and her shoulders slumped a bit. It never stopped hurting, thinking of the way he'd suffered. He hadn't deserved it. Neither of those boys deserved what happened to them. But if they didn't deserve it, neither did the Doctor deserve to lose their trust, after all he'd done for them. "I do," she said, "but it's not—we don't have time for it, Bobby, and I'm sorry, I wish I could let him rest, but what's it gonna help? What, should we give him time to brood about what happened to him? It won't make it better. It's too fresh. He needs to be distracted, and if we don't distract him, he'll do it himself, and he'll get himself killed. You know I'm right."

Bobby frowned, contemplating, then sighed deeply. "Guess you do know him," he said sardonically.

Martha laughed, soft and sad. "Yeah," she said. "Can I...can I go talk to him, now?"

Bobby nodded, and Martha smiled at him before turning to go up the stairs.

And almost ran straight into Castiel.

"Oh my g—oh!" Martha gasped, suppressing a shriek and a use of Castiel's Father's name in vain simultaneously. It had been a long time since Castiel had popped up in front of her like that...he'd gotten better about personal space before she met him, she supposed. Not much better. But a little better. "I'm sorry, Castiel, you frightened me. I'm not—you don't usually—that is to say, I—"

His expression told her clearly that he neither understood nor cared to decipher what she was on about, and he said, cutting off her fumbling, "Martha, I am hoping you can enlighten me. I have been attempting to contact Heaven, but I am unable to do so. I have not been cut off from the Host, as I initially feared; my Grace is fully intact. But my brothers are not answering. You know more about the world as it is now than any of us. Do you have any suspicions as to why this may be?"

That shut Martha up quick. Fantastic. It was worse than she'd been afraid of. Martha exhaled slowly, passing a hand over her face and planting her hands on her hips, settling her stance before saying, "I didn't quite expect that. Basically, this planet is scheduled for extinction. Nobody in or out. And since Heaven is a spatially adjacent pocket dimension, or, I suppose, a collection of them, odds are none of your brothers can break the barrier now that it's been sealed. I'm willing to bet you were already on your way back to Earth with Dean when they were sealing the planet, and the two of you made it in right under the wire."

Castiel, who looked like he'd been mostly following, narrowed his eyes at her metaphor. "There was no wire," he said plainly.

Martha pinched the bridge of her nose. "No, I know, I'm sorry, Castiel. It was a turn of phrase. I meant just in time. Just before they cut it off."

"Then my brothers are barred from this planet, and I cannot return to Heaven," Castiel said, processing her words. She nodded.

"I'm sorry," she added. "I know that...I know how hard it is for you."

Castiel's eyes sharpened, losing the look of distance they'd held before, and he fixed her with a piercing, studious stare. "You know," he said. "From when you know me, later in this timeline."

"Yes," Martha agreed. "So basically, what you're saying is that we can't count on any...angelic assistance, outside of yourself."

The look that faded into Castiel's eyes was equal parts solemn and sad, and it was one that Martha had only seen a few times. It evidently never got any easier to see. "That is correct," the angel said, his voice betraying no emotion. "Whatever there is to be done to save this planet, we are on our own."

"Typical," Martha said, and was surprised to hear an echo in Bobby's voice. She looked up at him, and he looked as startled as she felt. She stifled a grin, and ran her hands through her hair, exhaling evenly.

"I really ought to go talk to Dean, though," she said, and Castiel's eyes narrowed, obviously wondering what there was to talk to his charge about, but Bobby just nodded and Martha excused herself from the room, walking up the stairs.

Sure enough, the door to the guest bedroom was open, and Martha leaned on the door frame, rapping her knuckles against it. She was gratified to see Dean jump, just a little bit, before she realized that he was so anxious because he'd just come back from Hell, which somewhat killed the satisfaction.

He barely turned his head, and she saw just a faint flash of green as he glanced at her before releasing a frustrated sigh and turning his back to her more fully. "I'm not interested in the sales pitch, sweetheart," he said gruffly.

"Funny, 'cause I'm not interested in hearing what you're not interested in," Martha retorted, walking into the room and sitting on the bed. His back was still to her, but she could see more of his face now, and he looked a little taken aback. "I want you to talk to me, Dean. Whether you believe me or not I know you, and this isn't like you. You don't give up."

Dean scoffed, his shoulders twitching upwards slightly. "You know better than any other human on the planet that I do give up," he muttered.

The brokenness in his voice was almost too much for Martha to bear, and she had to resist the urge to cuff him in the back of the head, to bring him back to reality, out of this second Pit that he'd made for himself. She had to suppress the instincts she'd developed the first time she'd been here, where this sort of moroseness was met with joviality and jibes because ultimately, it was the only thing they had. She ached to hear Sam's voice calling his brother out on a chick-flick moment. She wanted to bring up that one time at Galaxis Bright, Dean knew the time, remember? But he wouldn't. So instead, she just laid herself out on the bed, on her stomach, her face next to Dean's. He glanced at her, confused, and scooted away from her just the smallest bit.

"I'm not gonna let you do this," she said, quietly, flatly. He turned to her, his expression guarded. "You always do this, you know. But not this time."

"What do I always do?" She could tell that he was aiming for mocking, but he missed by a mile and ended in cautious. Maybe even a bit fearful. She'd never imagined hearing that note in Dean's voice, not while he was talking to her.

"Push the people who care about you away," Martha said, and any anxiety in Dean's face fell away, replaced with annoyance. "I'm serious. You do it to everyone. You do it to Sam, you do it to Castiel, and I'm not gonna let you do it to the Doctor, too."

"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded, turning around more fully to face her. She shook her head sadly, and he scowled. "The hell are you talking about. I've never pushed Sam away."

"You do," Martha insisted. "And you do it for the same reason, every single bloody time. You see a single instance of the people in your life being less than perfect, in any way, and you turn them away because it's an excuse to not have them around you, so you can punish yourself for whatever the hell it is you think you've done, Dean. You don't think you deserve them so you make sure you don't have them. You do it to everyone. But not this time. Not to him. Not after what he's done for you, what he will do for you."

A laugh tore its way out of Dean's throat, startling Martha with the raw, ragged sound of it. "What he's—" Dean began, then broke off, standing and pacing around the room. Martha sat up, wary. "What he's done for me," Dean echoed. "Right. I owe him for what he's done for me."

"Dean—" Martha tried, but quieted when Dean spun around and strode back up to the bed, glaring down at her. She met his gaze evenly, but didn't say anything else. If Dean wanted to talk, she wasn't going to stop him. God knows he wanted to talk rarely enough.

"You want to know that the son of a bitch did for me?" Dean demanded. Martha bit her lip, but said nothing. "Do you—" Dean's voice broke, and he covered his face in his hands for a moment, rubbing it vigorously before his hands trailed up to his hair and caught in the short, tousled strands. Martha quickly looked away.

She'd only seen Dean get emotional like this a few times, before. And she always tried to give him his privacy about it.

"He came to me. In Hell."

Martha couldn't help but look back up at him, incredulous. Dean wasn't looking at her, but gazing dully into the distance. The sheen in his eyes was still there, but it was less than before. "He came to me and told me that...that I would get out. That I'd see Sammy again. That I'd see him again." Something lit up in his eyes—not happiness, not relief, but recognition, and he turned his eyes to her. "He actually told me about you, come to think of it," he said. "He said I'd meet you. Martha."

He paused for a long, unbearable moment, and so Martha quietly offered, "He told you the truth, Dean. Here you are. Here we are. You did get out."

"Yeah," Dean laughed, and the sound of it made Martha's eyes sting. "Yeah, he told the truth. It only took twenty goddamn years. Do you know what it's—no. Obviously, no, you don't. Can you imagine what it's like, to be promised that you'll be saved, and then have to try to hold on day by day, with no end in sight? The hope, waiting every day for the sound of that damn blue box..." He trailed off, leaning heavily against the wall. "They don't really let you dream, in Hell. But sometimes I'd...I don't know, I guess hallucinate. And the few times that it went my way, that I didn't hallucinate something worse than what was really happening to me, I'd see him. I'd see his friggin' box and I'd see him lean out of it and I'd see Alastair just cowering away and the Doctor, he'd take me off the rack and take me into the TARDIS and—"

Martha had looked away again, but when Dean didn't start talking again after too long, she looked up and realized that he was crying. Silently, but his shoulders shook with the intensity of it. She tumbled off the bed in her haste, her still-aching foot catching in the sheets. She shook them off impatiently and ran up to Dean, throwing her arms around his neck, and felt him tense up beneath her weight. But she didn't let go, only held him more tightly, and guided him gently down to the floor. He eased into her grip, and let himself be led. They both knelt, Martha cradling Dean's head in her hand as he leaned into the crook of her neck.

She knew he'd gone through this; of course she did. When Martha had met Dean, he was already back, already beginning to heal. She never thought she'd have to see it, though. She'd been secretly grateful, in a cowardly way that she wasn't proud of, that she'd missed it.

But he'd been there for her through bad times, he'd protected her on the battlefield, he'd never given up on her. She owed him this. She owed him not flinching away from this.

"I only lasted ten years after that," Dean whispered into her neck, and she only breathed in response. "Then I said yes. You know, time can be re-written, he always says that. I just...thought it had."

"Ten years," Martha said. Dean nodded. "Dean, ten years. That's...remarkable. You idiot, that's more than anyone could have asked of you."

Dean pulled away, not roughly, but firmly, and leaned again against the wall. He did his best to force a smile, but it was wavering as he said, "I just wonder, you know? If I didn't think I was getting out...if I'd just been sure I'd be down there forever...if I would have given up."

Martha put both hands around his face, and guided his eyes to her. He obeyed listlessly. "Doesn't matter," she said, fiercely. Dean scoffed again, and she gritted her teeth. "Doesn't matter, Dean. It doesn't. You did what you did and you can't—you can't fix it. But whatever you feel about him, the Doctor didn't mean to hurt you, Dean. I know he didn't. I've heard the way he talks about you, like you and your brother are the two brightest shining stars in the universe. He...never told me, what happened between you. You were angry with him, the first time I met you. But...neither of you ever said a word."

Dean lowered his eyes, but didn't move to dislodge her hands. She took it as a good sign. "He told me not to say anything, the next time I saw him," he said softly. "I don't know why. But he said not to and...it seemed important." He met her eyes more firmly, and said, "You can't say anything, either."

Martha nodded. "All right," she said. "I won't if you don't want me to. I won't."

"Why the hell am I talking to you about this?" Dean asked, and the question seemed rhetorical, but Martha moved her hands and positioned herself shoulder-to-shoulder (well, to be fair, shoulder-to-mid-arm) with him against the wall. "Freaking bawling like a little girl."

"Oi!" Martha said, nudging him in the arm. He winced a little, and she realized that it was the arm Castiel had marked. She pretended not to notice the wince. "Nothing wrong with girls." Dean made a face at her, but said nothing, opting instead to just lean his head back against the wall and close his eyes.

Martha let him rest for a moment, then said, quietly and without any weight to her voice, "So you think you can pull your head out of your arse long enough to help save the world, one more time?"

"What," Dean said, "since the Doctor can't?"

Despite the fact that his words hurt, Martha shrugged. "Sure. You got better plans for the week? Holing up in your room and crying?"

"Hey," Dean protested, but there was no heat behind it. He opened his eyes, not looking at anything in particular for a while, and then glancing down at her. She met his eyes with an open expression. He seemed to struggle for a moment, to find the right words, but eventually he managed, "You're a weird kid, Martha Jones."

Martha settled further back against the wall, and shrugged again. "Suppose it takes one to know one, Dean Winchester," she retorted. It earned her a quiet chuckle, but it was genuine—it was amusement, not pain, not self-deprecation. It brought a smile to her face.

The two of them sat there for a while, exhausted from the emotion, and listened to the creaks and groans of Bobby's house that were so familiar to both of them. The combination of the warmth of the room, the homey sounds, and Dean sitting next to her was wearing on Martha's resolve to stay awake, to talk to Dean, to convince him that her fight was his, too. That her side was his.

She felt her head bob, and pulled herself upright before she could fall onto his arm. She cracked her neck, rubbed her face, and pulled her knees up to her chest, feeling Dean's eyes on her as she did.

"You all right there?" he asked, and there was a hint of a smile in his voice. She looked up at him, and his eyebrows were raised, looking at her.

"Oh, yeah," she replied dismissively. "Never better."

His face said he wasn't sure he believed her, but all he said was, "Sure, Martha. I'll...do whatever it is you need me to do."

She was still for a moment, and said, "Are you sure, Dean?"

Dean shrugged, but there was a weight behind the gesture that Martha didn't like. "Hell," he said, and the use of the word was not unintentional, "I got a lot to atone for. How'm I gonna stay mad at the Doctor for just...trying to help? If I'm gonna start paying all that bad friggin' karma I've been storing up off, I better get going."

Martha leaned against the wall again. "Not good enough," she said simply.

Dean frowned. "What?"

"This isn't about paying back what you've done, and it isn't about atoning," she said. "This is about us, doing the job we do, to save the people we love. To save Sam, and the Doctor, and Jack, and my family. If that's not why you're doing it, I don't want you on board."

He stared at her, and began to laugh. "Well damn, Martha," he said, "you are something else. Okay. That's fine. I'll do it for Sammy. And for Jack, and for your family. And I'm...gonna do my best, about the Doctor."

Martha smiled. "That's all I can ask for," she said.

A faint rush of wind and the sound of wings rustling announced Castiel's arrival, although why he didn't take the stairs Martha wasn't sure. He looked a bit confused at the sight of the two of them on the floor, Dean's eyes red and blood-shot (and Martha's a bit so, too, if she was being honest). He tilted his head to the side, and said, "Is there a problem I should be aware of, Dean?"

Dean and Martha exchanged a glance, and Dean said, "Nope. No problem. We were about to come down to talk game plans."

Martha nodded her agreement and stood unsteadily, Dean spotting her until she was on her feet, then standing himself. Castiel looked unconvinced, but didn't argue with Dean. "Then you have agreed to help Martha in her plan to take down Harold Saxon?" Castiel asked.

Dean looked thoughtful for a bit, then nodded. "Don't have anything better to do for the weekend," he said lightly.

Martha laughed as she led them down the stairs, followed by a satisfied Dean and a puzzled angel.