Author's Note: We're in the home stretch! There's one, maybe two chapters left, and then we will wrap up the Year that Never Was and move on to other adventures. Which, speaking of other adventures, don't forget to voice your opinion on what I should write next in the poll on my profile! There's a wide variety of stories that I have on various burners, so let me know what you want to see!

Also I really hope that the ending of this chapter makes sense. It's a bit of an inference but I think it's clear enough. Let me know if I'm wrong!

It occurred to Dean that perhaps he should be angry with himself for not noticing.

Of all the girls he'd met over the years, all the girls he'd been with, all the girls he'd wanted...he'd never assumed they wouldn't be interested in him. Come on. He was Dean Winchester, and all the girls wanted him. It was something about his devil-may-care smile (taught to him by Jack Harkness, the man himself, all those years ago) and the leather jacket and the muscle car and the way his eyes could go from soulful to playful in no time flat. Dean never lacked for company, not when he wanted it.

But he hadn't even made a move on Martha.

There was something about her, something that was...he didn't want to say too good, because in his way he cared about all of the girls he'd been with. He had a good time, they had a good time, everybody left happy. They were nice girls, for the most part. So it wasn't that Martha was too good for him.

Martha was too...

He couldn't put it into words, but seeing the way she crumpled when he was threatened, the raw panic in her eyes when Saxon cocked the pistol, he was overwhelmed. Because somebody cared about him like that. Somebody who wasn't Sammy. Somebody who didn't have to.

And it wasn't just now. It was the past eight months. She'd brought him along on her stupid mission and then she hadn't asked anything else of him—just for him to be with her, to do this thing with her, to keep her from being alone. And she was grateful. She made him feel like he wasn't just there as a weapon, or as a tool, but as a friend, even though he didn't know her. She just wanted him there, as Dean, and that was all.

It was like Cas—acting like he had some kind of value, just for being Dean—but she didn't even have the whole mission-from-God thing to blame for it. She was a stranger, and she cared about him enough to offer herself in his place, and there was no template for that in Dean's understanding of the world. She wasn't his family. She didn't have to care about him, so she shouldn't. Not that much.

After forty years in Hell of nobody wanting to do anything but hurt him, make him bleed, make him scream, make him weep, somebody that he didn't even know a year ago offering her life for his was...

Too much. Words didn't cover it. Couldn't, he didn't think, even though he'd never really been a word-smith. That was Sammy's job.

So he played his part, he threw out the one-liners when they were required, but his mind was an incoherent swirl of half-formed thoughts and stolen glances at Martha, who he'd catch looking back at him like she was afraid she'd blown it. He wished the expression he'd returned to her had been more reassuring, but all he could manage was stunned.

It wasn't until the Doctor was free, until they had their big gun back, that she was able to make her way over to him. He was in the process of bracing himself for the other shoe dropping—the Doctor had just thrown Saxon's screwdriver aside, and everything looked perfect, everybody he loved was safe, and he was waiting for the bad news to hit, for the power to have snapped something in the Doctor and for everything to crash down into crap again because while maybe they'd been able to beat one Time Lord, he knew he wasn't up for another round in the same day.

But the Doctor just walked up to Saxon and said something about forgiving him and that wasn't okay, it wasn't okay with Dean for the Doctor to forgive Saxon, but Martha had her hand on his arm and he got distracted.

The UNIT soldiers backed off pretty quick once the Doctor was out of his cage, hovering at the edges of the room and all but pressing themselves against the walls to get away, so Dean was free to turn into Martha's touch and meet her eyes. "You all right?" he asked.

She nodded mutely, her expression tight. She studied him for a moment, as though cataloging every aspect of him to make sure he wasn't hurt in some way he would lie to her about, and then said, "Are you?"

He nodded, too, even though the answer wasn't quite yes. "You think...you think we're done?" he asked, gesturing vaguely towards the Doctor and Saxon.

"God, I hope so," Martha breathed.

A moment passed where neither of them said anything, but she didn't take her hand off of his arm and he didn't move away from her.

"Dean, I just want you to know—" Martha began, only to be cut off by Dean's exclamation of "Why didn't you say something?"

Both fell silent, and Martha took her hand away, shoving both her hands into her pockets. "Dean—"

"Eight months," he said, but he couldn't work a lot of heat into his voice. "That's a long damn time, Martha."

"It's your future, Dean," Martha replied, weary. "Please understand. I couldn't say anything. I don't know how this is going to play out...this time line, now that the Master's gone and changed it...but I had to try to preserve its integrity, just in case. Paradoxes are terrible things, Dean, and the Doctor wasn't there to help us if I screwed something up. This is bigger than us."

She stopped, and took a shuddering breath, and added, "I never meant to...I couldn't do anything else. You know I couldn't. I didn't do it to hurt you." She looked away, folding her arms protectively over her chest. "And don't act like it didn't hurt me. I knew. The whole time."

Eight months flashed by in Dean's mind, waking up next to her, standing back-to-back when they heard that ominous buzzing, Martha draping herself over him when the Spheres got too close, tending to one another's cuts and bruises so they didn't wear Cas out on the petty shit, going to sleep close enough to touch. Heart-to-hearts in the middle of the night or the middle of a camp or on the fringes of consciousness.

Oh, god.

I want things I can't have, Dean. A normal life. White picket fence and settling down.

You can still have that.

Not with him.

He ran his hands through his hair, letting them rest, fingers interwoven, against the back of his neck. "You didn't tell me because you're leaving," he said quietly. She looked up at him, a neck-snapping motion that looked like it hurt. "You weren't talking about the Doctor, when you said you had to leave because you...because he...he was me."

Dean didn't even realize that Martha was moving until her hands were already bringing his face down to her level. He stared, wide-eyed, at her. She was shaking a little. But so was he.

"I'm not leaving you, Dean," she said, and though her exhaustion she still managed to sound fierce. "You don't have any idea what happens next, for you. And I can't tell you. But I will say I'm just so tired of being out of order. I have to stay put somewhere. I can't bear it anymore, not knowing when I am. It's one thing when the Doctor and I are traveling to new worlds, new times we haven't been to before...but with you, with you and Sam and Cas and Bobby, it's too hard." She swallowed hard. "I'm always so scared that he'll miss, and we'll show up at Bobby's later than we're supposed to, and one of you will be..."

"Gone," Dean supplied, taking pity on her.

Martha didn't say anything, just ran a thumb along his cheek. "Can I stop, and wait?" she whispered. "You'll have me there with you. You'll live all the memories I have. Will you forgive me if I stop and wait for you?"

Dean put his hand over hers, resting across his face, and nodded. He took a breath to respond, but was cut off by a shrill cry of "My children!"

Saxon's voice shattered the moment, and Martha spun around, stepping in front of Dean like she'd protect him from whatever was happening. Dean wanted to take exception to it, but he didn't want to press Martha, not right now, so he just stepped closer to her.

"Jack!" the Doctor shouted, and across the room Dean saw Jack shake himself free of the soldiers who were still restraining him—Dean guessed that they thought of Jack as their prisoner, still, not one of the crazy people who'd shown up on their ship and screwed everything up and whose friend had managed to freeze-frame half the UNIT soldiers on the ship. But despite his prolonged restraint, Jack just rolled his shoulders back and shook out his arms, grinning this smug grin as the Doctor said, "The paradox machine!"

"Right," Jack said crisply, clapping his hands together and turning to Castiel. The soldiers had backed well away from Castiel as soon as there wasn't a gun pointed at Dean's head, and Dean thought that it was probably a good idea. The angel still looked pretty pissed at anybody having tried to restrain him in the first place. "Hey, angel-face."

Castiel looked like he couldn't decide whether to be insulted or embarrassed, so went for both and landed at confused.

"I need somebody else who can't die," Jack said. "Know anybody like that?"

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "I assume you are referring to myself."

Jack laughed, a full-throated sound that only served to narrow Castiel's eyes further. "You are just on the ball today," he said, and took off, Castiel close behind him.

"Oh my god." Martha's hand slipped into Dean's and dragged him to the huge window that served as the front of the control room. He held on tight when he saw what she was looking at.

Toclaphane.

Lots of them.

"We've got six billion Spheres headed straight for us!" Martha cried, turning without releasing Dean. "Doctor, we've—"

Dean wasn't sure at first why she broke off, but when he looked around, there was no trace of the Time Lord. Either Time Lord. Dean felt a tightness in his chest that he distantly recognized as panic. But he had no time for panic. "Sam, what the hell happened?" he shouted.

"Saxon," Sam said, staring at the place where the Doctor and Saxon had been while he made his way to Martha and Dean. "He must've had a teleporter, like the UNIT soldiers who brought me here. He activated it and then he and the Doctor were gone."

"They're gone and we've got every Toclaphane on the planet headed here to defend the paradox machine," Martha said, and she was looking out the window so she didn't notice the way Sam watched their hands, then turned to Dean with a look of are you okay.

Dean just looked away.

"Jack and Castiel are headed to the paradox machine right now," Sam said, and Dean didn't miss the note of hurt in his voice. "They'll take care of it. We have to get out of here."

"And go where?" Martha demanded, and Sam faltered. "We're on an airship a mile off the ground! There's nowhere to run, Sam! We have to fight!"

And things got very clear for Dean, all of a sudden. "No, we don't," he said slowly, and Martha and Sam stared at him. "We don't. We have to wait."

Sam's mouth moved silently for a moment, and he said, "Dean, you can have a breakdown later, okay? I need you."

"We got a Time Lord," Dean said, surprising himself with how calm he was, "an immortal time traveler, and an angel working this out for us. If there are hands we gotta be in, I'd take those over pretty much any others. There's nothing we can do right now." He took a deep breath before saying words he never thought he'd say. "We gotta just trust them." He hesitated, and then just went for it. "And I do trust them."

Sam was still looking at him like he was speaking Greek, but Martha just stared at him, wide-eyed, and took his face between her hands.

And kissed him.

It was sudden and hard and fast and not the most romantic or sexiest thing he'd ever experienced, more impulse and desperation than anything else, but he wouldn't mind a round two to go for a better one, he decided hazily.

"What was—" he began, and Martha put a finger to his lips.

"You're gonna be all right, Dean Winchester," she said, and he heard the way she had to force the words past a lump in her throat. "God, it's all been worth if it you're gonna be all right."

He brushed her hair out of her face with a thumb, and he was about to go in for that round two when a pop and a flash of light made both of them as well as Sam turn away, shielding their eyes.

"Cas?" Dean guessed, but when they turned, they saw the Doctor and Saxon, looking as though they were in the middle of grappling with something on Saxon's wrist. The teleporter thing, Dean supposed, as the Doctor grabbed it away from Saxon.

"Castiel!" the Doctor cried, and with a rush of air the angel appeared. The ship rocked once just as Castiel showed up, and Dean grabbed Martha, steadying her.

"What's going on?" Sam shouted over the sudden din.

"Dean!" Martha cried, and he followed her eyeline outside the ship.

To where the Spheres were disappearing.

"It's resetting! Get them out of here!" the Doctor shouted to Castiel. The angel looked puzzled momentarily, but then his expression became grave and he nodded.

Dean would have to categorize the way Castiel approached them as stalking, and he put a hand each on Dean and Sam. "Step away, Martha Jones," he said, but while his voice was grim it was not unkind.

Martha lifted Dean's palm to her lips and kissed the center of it. "I'll be waiting," she promised.

Dean smiled, and braced himself for take-off, when he heard his brother cry out, "Dean!"

And then they were nowhere.

Once they landed, Dean pressed down the nausea and vertigo and looked around himself frantically, finding only Castiel. He gripped the angel's arm, half to balance himself and half in panic. "Sammy!" he shouted, and Castiel put a hand on his shoulder.

"His contact with me was broken," Castiel explained, "but he is with the Doctor, Dean. The Doctor will not allow him to come to harm."

"Why'd he want us gone?" Dean demanded. "He told you to get us out of there. Why? What's gonna happen? What's happening up there?"

Castiel glanced up at the sky, and inhaled deeply. "Time will reset itself," he said. "Now that Jack has destroyed the machine holding it in place, the paradox that the Master created will unravel, and this timeline will be repaired. In doing so, the world will return to May of 2008. The Valiant is at the eye of the storm, so to speak, since the paradox machine is located there. It will be untouched by the reversal of time. Those aboard will remember this past year."

Dean stilled, staring at Cas. "They'll remember, but the rest of the world won't," he whispered.

Castiel nodded, watching him cautiously. "That is correct," he said. "The rest of us will return to May of last year, and never know anything happened."

"Take me back," Dean said, turning to fully face Castiel and gripping his forearms. Castiel didn't pull away, but stared at him. "Cas, please, take me back to the Valiant. I have to remember."

"It will not negate your Deal, Dean," Castiel said gently.

"I know," Dean said. "I'll just get pulled back into Hell. But if I remember...Cas, if I remember, then I'll know you're coming for me. I'll know that in forty years, you're gonna come for me." He smiled, a wavering, uncertain thing, but when he looked at Castiel there was no doubt in his mind that he was telling the truth as he said, "If I know that, I can hold out. I can wait for you."

There was a trembling tension in Castiel's jaw, and Dean was surprised to recognize it as an emotion being suppressed. "You must understand, Dean," Castiel said, his voice soft and gentle, as though speaking an unkind truth to a child, "that what you are asking is to be sent to Hell for forty years, remembering the last forty as though they had actually happened. Forty years of Hell, plus this year on Earth, only to live those forty years again. Do you realize this?"

Dean swallowed, nodded, and smiled again. "Yeah," he said. "But it's okay. Because you're gonna save me, Cas." The smile faltered. "And what I did...it's bad, isn't it. I mean, worse than just probably-earned-me-another-ticket-to-Hell bad. Like, Winchester level bad."

Castiel said nothing, which was answer enough.

"I want to undo it," Dean pressed. "Time can be rewritten. I want to undo it. I want to deserve it when you come to rescue me this time, Cas."

Castiel's hand shot out and grabbed Dean by the front of his shirt, pulling him so close that their noses almost touched. Dean gasped at the display of strength, feeling his whole frame tense uselessly—there was no getting out of that grip. Castiel's too-bright blue eyes burned a hole into Dean's skull as he growled, "Never say that again, Dean Winchester. In this time or any other, do not suggest that you did not deserve your salvation. I will allow any amount of disrespect towards me, and disbelief and lack of faith, but you will not speak that way of yourself. Am I clear?"

Dean nodded, and whispered, "Sorry, Cas."

Dean breathed a little easier as Castiel's grip on his shirt loosened, but didn't release, and the angel's other hand came to rest against his face, and his expression was unreadable but impassioned as he murmured, "This thing that you are asking, Dean. This is why you are saved, and why you will always be saved. Know that. Know that you are the kind of man who asks for this, and that you are the kind of man who deserves his salvation."

And as Castiel's fingers brushed his forehead, Dean felt peace.

Dean Winchester woke up in Hell, which was weird, because you don't get to lose consciousness, not here.

Dean had been in Hell for nearly ten years.

Ten years out of eternity didn't mean much when there was no one coming for you.