Sam watched in amazement as the cranky, foul-mouthed brunette stood, grabbed her beer, and marched (somewhat bow-leggedly, he noticed) over to the bar. He turned to stare at Dean, and for the first time in days, his brother stared back at him.

"Do you think Bobby sent us to exorcise that thing?" Dean asked. Sam couldn't help it. He giggled. Just a little bit, and not like a girl, or anything, but it was a definite giggle. Dean's lips twitched a little as if maybe, just maybe he were going to smile back, but of course he didn't.

Sam didn't know why he was still getting his hopes up. His brother wasn't going to forgive him – not anytime soon, anyway. He could remember all too vividly the fight – Dean, broken on the ground, yelling at him – don't you ever come back. Don't you ever come back.

And as if that betrayal weren't bad enough, what had it been for? To kill Lilith—to play right into the demons hands. And, if Dean could be trusted (and Sam did trust his big brother – more than anything in the world) right into the angels hands, as well. And if Lucifer hadn't seem quite as, well, terrifying as one would expect, he was still out. Still free. And it was all Sam's fault.

* * *

They held up their hands, trying to protect sensitive eyes from blinding white light. In a dim recess of Sam's mind he noted that it was a familiar white – the same blinding purity of Anna when she'd taken back her grace – but surely it couldn't be the same, because they weren't exactly deaing with angels there, anyway.

And then the light faded, dawn into day. Sam dropped his hand, could sense at his side as his brother did the same. A man stared down at them, short, reddish hair, a horribly sad look in his eyes.

The man glanced at Lilith's body, still slumped against the altar. Ruby, wasted on the ground, and then settled finally on Sam and Dean. A gentle smile graced his lips.

"Hello, Dean," he said, his voice still strangely soothing. "I'm sorry that we never met when you were down in the pit. I was very interested in you."

And then, turning, to Sam,

"Thank you."

And that was it. He just walked out. Sam fell back against the hard, stone floor, panting.

* * * * *

"Well, I say we beat it," Dean said, and stood up, clearly expecting Sam to follow, an obedient puppy once again. Sam wanted to – he really just wanted his brother to look at him again, to see that he'd only been trying to do the right thing – but of course he couldn't. He'd never been able to follow, and if he'd been the one to believe in a God above, it had always been with doubt. Dean's loyalty was harder to gain, but once gained, it was eternal. And somehow Castiel had gained that loyalty, and Sam, unbelievably, had lost it.

"Wait," he said, cringing even as the words left his mouth. "I think we should stay here. Maybe she knows something."

"Yeah," Dean said sarcastically. "She knows how to throw back Guiness. That's it." Sam glanced back at the woman, and sure enough, she seemed to be downing an Irish car bomb. Maybe Dean was right. He stood.

"Still. . ." Sam said. "Bobby sent us to her. Do you really think he would have sent us if it weren't important?"

Dean sighed, rolled his eyes, spread out his arms in a hopeless gesture. "Fine, Sam, you want to go talk up the crazy broad, go ahead. I'm heading back to the motel."

"Yeah. . ." Sam swallowed, tried to gain some objectivity, but failed under the fire of Dean's withering glance. "I'll. . .uh. . .meet you there, okay?"

Dean muttered something under his breath, which Sam refused to acknowledge. As soon as his brother stomped out of the bar, he headed toward the woman – Leslie – once again.

"Hey," he said, sitting beside her. She glared at him, daggers, and even if her gaze was a little off, it was still enough to give her shivers. She leaned down, never taking her eyes off him, and pulled a dagger out of the top of her boot.

"Look, pretty boy," she said, and her voice was only the slightest bit slurred. "I already told you. I want nothing to do with you and your fucking brother."

"I know you don't like us much," Sam said. "And I don't blame you. But we need help, and Bobby thought you could help."

Leslie laughed, a short, bitter, painful-sounding choke of a laugh. Sam gritted his teeth. "You're serious," she said. "You think Bobby wanted me to help you."

"Well. . .yeah. . ." Sam said slowly. "Didn't he talk to you."

"Listen," Leslie stood up now, steady on her feet, knife still pointed at his throat. The bartender glanced at them without interest. Obviously having the crazy brunette threaten customer was a regular part of the place's culture. "You two have fun chasing down the reigning king of hell. You set him free, you put him back in the cage. I'm already working a job."

Sam stared at her. "Wait. . .you're a Hunter?"

He supposed that the idea should have occurred to him. After all, about the only "people" Bobby knew were Hunters and psychics. It was just. . .she didn't look like a Hunter. She was tall, for a woman, and broad-shoulder. She had a creepy-looking scar running down the side of her neck, he noticed – it had been hidden by the crazy curls of hair earlier. But she was. . .well. . .

"You've never seen a woman Hunter either," she said dryly, and Sam realized it was almost true. There had been Jo, but she'd never actually succeeded as a Hunter, and the woman and husband team they'd met. . .but that was it. Dean said their mom had been a Hunter, but that was still a little hard to swallow.

"I just. . ." Sam struggled for words, failed. "Sorry."

"That word comes out of your mouth a lot," Leslie said. She put a hand to her head, sighed. Sam couldn't stop staring at her, now. A Hunter. Wow.

"What kind of case are you working on?" Sam asked, genuinely curious now. She was a lot younger than most of Bobby's Hunter friends. . .she only looked to be around Dean's age. Maybe older, maybe younger – it was hard to tell, with the make-up. Leslie glanced at him out of slitted eyes.

"You're not going to believe it," she said to him.

"Hey, we're all in this together, right?" Sam said with a cheerful grin. She seemed to be warming up to him, finally, though maybe she was just drunk.

"Okay," she said. "Tell you what. You guys let me crash at your motel, I'll let you in on the case. And maybe. . .just maybe. . .when it's finished I won't Hunt the two of you."

Sam hesitated. Dean wouldn't like it. He wouldn't like it one bit if Sam were to bring back this strange woman that his brother had already developed a distaste for. He wouldn't like putting off their search for Lucifer. But Sam just couldn't shake the feeling – Bobby had never been wrong – never – and if he sent them to Leslie, there had to be something to the woman that could help them out somehow.

"First tell me what the case is," Sam said firmly, but his mind was already made up. Dean would just have to deal. This thing was bigger than any of them – the Apocalypse, that is – and if their relationship had to suffer, well, he'd gone through three years of college without even a phone call, so he figured he could deal with a little strain.

"If you call me crazy, I stab you," Leslie said, waving the knife around in the air, and Sam couldn't force an amused smile from appearing on her face. She was clearly drunk. She frowned at him a little.

"Just tell me," Sam urged. Leslie sighed.

"Unicorns," she said finally. "I'm hunting some fairy-assed unicorns."