Author's Note: Man, I'm nervous about uploading this chapter. I hope everybody stays on board with it, but I've done something here that I haven't done before and I'm a bit anxious about it...Also, sorry about the POV switch-up, I know it's Dean's turn but this chapter had to be written in Sam's POV and the next one had to be written in Dean's, so they just traded.

Additionally, some of the dialogue in this chapter is taken from or adapted from "The Last of the Time Lords", the series three finale of "Doctor Who".

Last thing: I have a poll up on my profile to vote for the next installment of this series you'd like to see. Or at least I'm working on getting the poll up. Check it out and let me know what you think I should write next!

Sam barely had time to process that they were in trouble before Saxon had snapped his fingers and the UNIT soldiers poured into the room. They took all of them by the arms, two soldiers to each rebel. He saw Dean struggling, lunging towards Martha, but he was restrained with some difficulty. Jack and Tish were still, as though they were far too used to being restrained by UNIT soldiers, and Martha shouted something at Dean but Sam's blood was rushing too loud in his ears for him to make it out.

Sam found Castiel, flanked by two soldiers who looked hesitant to touch him, and Sam couldn't say he blamed them. The angel was looking at Saxon, a light in his eyes that Sam hoped to God he never found directed at himself: an expression of unadulterated rage and the cold, calculated certainty that someone would suffer for this insult, for thinking that he could be restrained or that he would allow his friends to be. But Saxon just grinned at him, and then raised a pistol.

Pointed at Dean's head.

"Not the smallest step, angel," the Time Lord said. "Or I put a hole in your boy's head."

"I could end you before you pulled the trigger," Castiel intoned, and Sam shuddered.

All Saxon did was laugh and walk towards Dean, the pistol aimed squarely between his eyes. "Then why haven't you?" Saxon crowed, and Castiel's eyes narrowed. "You're all out of juice, you hyped-up cluster of caeloform energy. You smote so many of my men on the way up here that you don't have it in you to smite me. Especially me. Sure, perhaps you could manage to off me, with effort. But it would take too long. I'd get the shot off, and you know it. So if you don't want to see me redecorate the room with his grey matter, don't move."

Dean's eyes flicked from the gun to Saxon to Castiel, and Sam saw the fear in his brother. Of what, Sam wasn't sure—that Castiel would do as he was told and Saxon would shoot him anyway? That Castiel would move and get him killed? Or that Castiel would do what Saxon said, Dean would live, and the world would end because of him?

The whole room seemed to hold its breath, but Castiel broke the eye contact, looking away with his lips pressed into a thin, pale line. Saxon laughed gleefully, but kept the gun pointed at Dean.

"Ah," the Time Lord said. "That's more like it." He turned to Dean and patted him on the cheek. Dean flinched away, snarling, but he was held in place. Saxon gazed up at him, then shook his finger at him, saying, "You've caused me quite a bit of trouble, my boy."

"Well, I am just very sorry to hear that," Dean said through gritted teeth, his voice equal parts sarcasm and tight fear. "I'll try to be a more accommodating kidnap victim next time around."

Saxon slapped him on the face lightly, but evidently hard enough because Dean winced away just a bit, only to be pulled back when Saxon gripped his face. "Such spirit," he said. "I like the fight in you. Like your little brother. Who really did have me fooled, I must say; a bravura performance, Sammy."

"You don't hit a quarter century of fightin' fuglies by being stupid," Dean retorted. "My brother knows how to deal with monsters."

Sam watched as Saxon grew still, then took the gun and pressed the barrel right up to Dean's forehead. Sam couldn't help the thrill of pride that rushed through him when Dean didn't flinch, but just kept glaring at Saxon, then looking away once—to Castiel—and back with a new expression of challenge.

Do what you want, but my angel's gonna be pissed.

Saxon noticed, and cocked the pistol and everybody froze. Sam saw that defiant look slide off of Dean's face, replaced by the watchful neutrality that he wore on hunts. The look that Sam knew for a fact Dean used to mask the kind of fear that you felt in your bones.

"I won't be disrespected," Saxon growled, "not on my own ship. Not in my house. And you, boy...somebody should have taught you ages ago that when you keep prodding the wasp's nest, eventually you will be stung. If the angel won't teach you your place, perhaps I'll have to."

Dean took a breath to say something, something sarcastic, something that would get him shot, but at the last minute he thought better of it and exhaled. Saxon didn't seem mollified, however, and didn't move.

"This is your worst nightmare, isn't it?" Saxon asked, his tone conversational, but a little louder than before so he obviously wasn't talking to Dean anymore. "Standing there, helpless, about to watch him die. Nothing you can do to stop it. It's every dream that woke you screaming since the beginning of it all. For all your strength, it's the one thing you don't think you can survive."

And Sam wanted to scream yes, yes, it is, just stop, please, I'll do anything, but Saxon wasn't talking to him, either, and his heart sank as he turned to who Saxon was talking to.

Martha was trembling like she was about to fall apart. Her breathing was ragged, her eyelashes fluttering as she tried to fend off tears. She looked like she could barely stand, most of her weight supported by the soldiers on either side of her, and she didn't look up as she murmured, "Don't hurt him."

"I'm sorry," Saxon sneered, "you're going to have to ask me more nicely than that, Miss Jones."

"Please," Martha cried, the word torn out of her, "please, don't hurt him. He didn't even want to come with me. He didn't even believe it would work. It's not his fault, none of this. Just...leave him alone, please. If you have to hurt someone, hurt me."

"Martha, what the hell?" Dean shouted, forgetting the gun against his head for a moment as he tried to lunge forward, held back by the soldiers. "What the hell is going on?"

Saxon startled, staring at Dean, and this terrible, slow smile spread across his face. Sam could breathe again as he took the gun away from Dean's forehead, pressing the barrel of it against Dean's cheek in an almost affectionate gesture. "Oh, beautiful," the Time Lord said softly. "He doesn't know."

"I don't know what?" Dean growled. Saxon just smiled, so Dean turned to Martha, who still hadn't looked up. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the floor. "Martha?" Dean asked, his voice softer and more unsure.

"Dean, please," Martha said. "Don't ask me."

"All those months together and he never knew," Saxon laughed. "And you'd still offer yourself in his place. Such heroism. Such misguided, human loyalty, even as anything you were is eaten away by my Toclaphane."

Sam shut his eyes, but he could feel Dean tense, could hear the disbelief in his voice as he said, "Anything we—Martha?"

The Companion said nothing, but kept her eyes away from Dean.

"Give me the gun, Martha," Saxon said, "or I shoot your boyfriend between the eyes."

Martha's right arm was released, and the soldier who'd been holding it raised a gun to her head. Martha carefully dug into her pack and took out the gun, holding it by the barrel and placing it slowly on the floor. "Just don't hurt him," she murmured.

Sam did his best to twist his features into horror as Martha relinquished the fake gun. It wasn't hard—all he had to do was look at his brother's face.

Dean looked like his whole world had been turned upside down. And after eight months traveling with Martha, Sam guessed it kind of had. Dean usually assumed every woman had a thing for him—Martha must have hidden it really well. But it was a matter of the integrity of time, and she was the Doctor's Companion. She'd do what she had to do. Hell, just the fact that she'd survived this past year was proof enough that Martha could and would do what was required of her, no matter how hard it was or how much she suffered for it.

Sam just wished Dean hadn't had to suffer for it, too, after everything he'd already been through.

"Kick it to me," Saxon ordered, and Martha obeyed. Saxon pulled out something that looked like the Doctor's sonic screwdriver and aimed it at the gun. He fired, and Martha's weapon shattered. Saxon smiled again, and Sam could see that his posture relaxed a bit. "Ah, yes. That's better."

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Martha whispered, and Sam thought distantly that it was a nice touch.

"That's right," Saxon said. "So sorry. You're all so very sorry. But sadly, sorry won't be quite enough, because I've just won."

The Time Lord raised the pistol again to Dean, but only as sort of an afterthought. He raised his other arm, on which his communicator was strapped, and he said, "Are we ready?"

The staticky voice that came from the communicator was barely audible to Sam, but he was still able to make out, "The fleet awaits your signal. Rejoice!"

Sam glanced back at the clock, which fritzed out for a second and then, heart-stoppingly, reset itself at three minutes.

Saxon shrugged. "I'm impatient," he said, "and the leader of the Earth needn't wait. Three minutes until the black hole converters are deployed. You and I will sit together, Doctor, with your children and watch the world burn."

"You've always underestimated them."

At first Sam thought that the Doctor was talking to him...he was so used to hearing that voice only inside of his own mind. But the others reacted to it, too, and he realized that the Doctor was talking to Saxon. He looked up at the shriveled, exhausted creature that he knew was the Doctor, and saw him gazing down with a pitying expression in those too-large eyes at the only other Time Lord in existence.

The closest thing the Doctor had to family, Sam realized with a shiver.

Saxon glared up at the Doctor. "Is that so, Doctor? Perhaps you've overestimated them."

The Doctor shook his head. "It's always been your flaw. And it will be your downfall."

"No, Doctor," Saxon said, and the heat rising in his voice made Sam flinch back. "No. You're wrong. Because there won't be a human race to underestimate in about three minutes. I'm going to burn it all, Doctor, and there isn't a thing you can do to stop me. And then I will kill all of your precious pets, one by one, and make you watch it. And you can't stop me, because you never could stop me, and then, maybe then, the drumming will stop. Once it's all gone, the drumming will stop."

There was a sadness, a grief, in the Doctor's voice as he said, "It won't make it stop. You can cut a swath across the universe of death and destruction and misery, but it won't make it stop, it won't make it better. It won't fix what they did to you, and I'm...so sorry."

Saxon stared at the Doctor for a long moment, and in that moment, Sam thought about the fact that he was watching the last two members of a formerly glorious race stand on opposite ends of a chasm. He was watching the Doctor face his...

His brother, if Sam was going to be honest.

He was watching the Doctor face his brother and choose humanity. Despite the love that the Doctor obviously still held for Saxon, the Doctor was going to choose them. Over the last of his species.

It left Sam a little breathless, because if it had come to that, if it were Sam making that choice...he wasn't sure what he'd choose.

I can fix all of it, Samuel, I believe this, the Doctor said, and this time, it was just to Sam. But you need to do your part, and you need to start now. I also believe in you.

Sam nodded and closed his eyes.

The Archangel Network was vast, and it was intricate, and it was labyrinthine. But Sam had traversed it so frequently over the past eight months that it was as familiar as the back of his hand now, and he brushed over each tendril that linked him to each human on the planet with a learned gentleness.

Doctor.

And this time, he felt them light up in recognition.

Doctor.

In each tendril he found flashes of Martha, of her voice, of her face, her words, her legend. In many he found flashes of Dean and Castiel, too. Impressions of these larger-than-life people, these legends—his brother and his friends. Sam's friends too, some day. There was something a little wonderful about Dean and Martha and Castiel finally getting a little bit of the recognition they deserved from the people they'd saved so many times.

And the Doctor, too.

Because everywhere he touched, the word Doctor was met with breathless wonder. Yes, humanity said, that's right, the Doctor. Martha's Doctor. The Doctor will save us. The Doctor.

Doctor.

Distantly, Sam heard Martha laugh.

Saxon's voice was cold as he said, "Care to share the joke with the class, Miss Jones?"

Doctor, Sam called to the world.

Doctor, they replied.

"Guns," Martha said. "Boys and your guns." And there was affection in her voice, and Sam knew who it was for, and he had to concentrate very hard on his mission to keep from checking on his brother. "You always think it's about the guns. Maybe it's the symbolism."

"I destroyed yours," Saxon said tightly.

"Of course," Martha said. "And it doesn't matter. Did you really think that the Doctor's plan would revolve around a gun?"

Saxon didn't reply, and in the silence the chorus of voices from all around the planet built in Sam's head until he was sure that the rest of the room should be thrumming with it.

"That I would ask her to kill?" the Doctor added gently.

"Yeah," Dean said, chuckling, "this wasn't a Winchester case."

"It doesn't matter," Saxon snapped. "I have you, all of you. Whatever your plan was, it's failed."

"Eight months searching for a fake gun," Martha said. "Is that what you think we were doing? Do you want to know what I was actually doing?"

Saxon's voice was ice. "Tell me."

"Spreading the word," Martha said. "One story, one word. Telling anyone who'd listen. And telling them to tell their friends, to keep the story going. To keep the faith."

Doctor. Doctor. Doctor.

The Doctor began to glow with a faint amber light, but Sam wasn't sure anybody noticed yet but him.

"Prayer is your plan?" Saxon asked, incredulous.

"Hey, man," Dean said, as if Saxon wasn't pointing a gun at his head, "might not wanna knock prayer too much. There's an angel behind you."

"And prayer, magnified by fifteen satellites, can be an even more powerful thing," Martha said quietly.

Saxon stilled. "What?" he whispered.

"Archangel," Jack said.

Doctor doctor doctor doctor

"Every person on the planet," Martha said, "thinking one word, projecting one intention, all at the same time. Billions of them."

"You can't get the word out fast enough," Saxon said.

"We can't," Dean agreed, and Sam could feel his brother's eyes on him. "That's where my geek brother comes in."

Now! Sam cried.

Doctor Doctor DOCTOR DOCTOR DOCTOR

"Doctor," Sam said out loud, and he was joined by Jack, Tish, Martha.

"Doctor," whispered poor Lucy Saxon, and Sam felt his heart clench.

"Doctor," Dean said, low and fervent, and it was the last straw.

And there was a flash of light, and a rush of energy, and the cage the Doctor was held in vanished into white. When Sam could see it again, he took a deep breath while the world righted itself.

The Doctor was back, standing tall and straight, surrounded by a golden aura woven from the telepathic energy of an entire species. And as he descended from his cage, it was Sam's eyes he met.

Sam couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, and the Doctor returned it. It wasn't the joyful smile Sam was used to seeing on him—it was softer, gentler, and at the same time, grander. The smile of a man channeling the power of billions, a man who held the power of a planet in his hands.

The smile of a man Sam trusted entirely with that kind of power.

"You can hurt them," the Doctor said to Saxon, keeping his gaze on Sam. "You can hurt them, and you can frighten them, and you can kill them, but the one thing you can't do is stop them from thinking. From hoping, and learning, and teaching, and imagining. It's what makes them so marvelous. And it's what saves them, every time."

The Doctor landed softly on the ground, and the Master held out the screwdriver. One gesture from the Doctor had the screwdriver flying across he room before hitting a wall and falling harmlessly to the floor.

Sam saw Dean tense a little at the display of power, but he shot his brother a comforting look. Dean returned it gratefully, but was distracted when Martha ran up to him, putting a hand on his arm hesitantly.

Sam looked away.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor was saying as he approached Saxon.

"No," the man who had ruled Earth whimpered.

"But you know what happens now," the Doctor continued. "You wouldn't listen, because you know what I'm going to say."

Sam's stomach clenched as he watched the Doctor advance on Saxon, Saxon cowering against the wall, arm flung over his head as though to protect himself from a blow. Sam considered looking away again, not sure he wanted to see the Doctor do what needed to be done. But the Doctor had seen some of the worst parts of him; he wasn't going to abandon him.

The Doctor crouched by Saxon, who whimpered again.

The Doctor put his arms around Saxon, cradling him to his chest, and whispered, "I forgive you."

And Sam wondered who had given the Doctor permission to forgive Saxon for the destruction and horror he'd wrought on the Earth.

But as he watched the Doctor hold the weeping Master, the last of their race, huddled on the floor, he realized that it could be him and Dean there. He saw the vision that he knew Dean feared: Sam doing something horrible, something unforgivable, something like Saxon had done. And he knew Dean would forgive him for it, always, even if he shouldn't.

So he couldn't find it in himself to fault the Doctor.