A/N: The pain inflicted on the brothers by Mary's decision to work with the British Men of Letters is visceral and tangible every time I watch Ep 12.13 (Family Feud) and 12.14 (The Raid). So of course, I felt the need to expound upon it. Slight spoilers through those episodes, borrowed dialogue in bold. As always, I own nothing, just having fun playing in the Supernatural sandbox.

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"...and for obvious reasons, like broken ribs and burnt feet... We don't trust the Brits." Dean flinched internally as Sam spoke hesitantly of the torture he had endured at the hands of the British Men of Letters. He was in shock. He could not begin to fathom how their Mom - their MOM - could in good conscience…in any conscience actually, work with the same people that had tortured her sons. What was she thinking? What kind of person did that, chose what was essentially the enemy over their own kids? He tried to listen to her explanation, but all he could hear and see was Sam - chained, bloodied, and in pain in that basement. Finally he just had had enough.

"You made your choice. So there's the door." With that, he walked out of the room. Head swirling in turmoil, the betrayal and heartache cutting so deep he either needed to punch something or cry. He chose to drink instead, grabbing a bottle of scotch and locking himself in his room.

Sam was equally shocked, and as Dean stormed out he was left with shattered pieces of the relationship he thought he had cultivated with his Mother.

"Sam - " she began, but he just couldn't take anymore either.

"You should go." he said quietly, trying desperately to keep his voice from breaking. Without waiting to see her leave, he rose and headed to find Dean. He almost knocked on his door, but the angry rock music blaring clearly meant he was in no mood to talk, so instead he wandered back to the library and tried to immerse himself in research. Unfortunately, he couldn't concentrate with his Mom's words echoing in his head, and after re-reading the same sentence for the fourth time he finally tossed the papers on the table and leaned back, sighing and rubbing his face in his hands. He felt somewhat vindicated in his hurt, his heart warmed as he remembered Dean's instant defense on his behalf. Then he pressed hard on his eyes as more memories of the hurtful conversation flowed through his mind…

"I am your mother, but I am not 'just a mom'. And you are not a child." Mary had stated, frustrated.

"I never was."

The pain and loss laid bare in that short statement…Sam knew Dean would never have exposed that deep, extremely private hurt if he had not been so angry. He also sadly acknowledged to himself that while Mary actually had no control over her part in the loss of Dean's childhood, he had played a central role in it. True, much blame could also be laid at Dad's feet, but it was Sammy that Dean had to grow up quickly for. He knew that all of Dean's energy as a result had been poured into his little brother, trying so hard to provide for him the childhood he himself had been denied. Sam moaned quietly, grieving the loss that Dean so rarely ever acknowledged. He knew his brother didn't blame him, but it made him no less culpable.

Frustrated with himself and his maudlin state, Sam rose and strode off to his room, determined to get some sleep and maybe wake with a better perspective in the morning. Lying in bed, tossing and turning, he finally blew out a breath in frustration. What hurt the most in learning Mom had chosen to work with the Brits was the knowledge that his pain clearly had not rated high enough to matter. To his MOM. The Mom he had never had, just recently regained, and still felt like he barely knew. Would she have loved him as a child, if she had lived? Or would his demon blood - a direct result of her demon deal - would that have repelled her? Would she have felt the need to hunt him and kill him? Swiping angrily across his brow, he spoke out loud in the dark, "stop being so dramatic Sam!" Then resolutely rolling over, he started mentally reciting math facts until finally the exhaustion of the last several days finally claimed him.

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Opening his eyes groggily, he initially was confused. Wait, what? I thought…I escaped…? Looking up, horror dawning, Sam saw the British bitch Tori smirking at him sipping a cup of tea.

"Was it good for you?" she questioned, even as his various injuries began making themselves known. His burnt foot, the hole from a bullet in his thigh, damaged ribs - he was pretty sure at least one was broken - a puncture wound in his shoulder, and shallow cuts along his chest which were irritated by the sweat running into them. He pulled at his bonds, testing them though he knew it was in vain, but his brain was still slow from whatever drug was exiting his system. Deja vu…is this really happening? He wondered. The door at the top of the stairs opened, and he looked up, almost expecting to see Dean in chains as had happened last time, but instead was floored to see his own Mother walking downstairs calmly, followed by the man they called 'Mr. Catch'. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Toni flinch slightly as they reached the basement floor.

"Mom?" he uttered, completely confused as to why she was not fighting these people, or rushing to check on him, to release him. Then he remembered scattered bits of a conversation…

"There's no easy way to say it, so I'm just gonna say it. I have sort of... been working with the British Men of Letters." … "It was a hard decision. But they're doing good work. I have helped them save people, a lot of people. We can learn from them."

He stared at his Mom in horror as she engaged Toni in conversation. Even as they chatted, Catch drew near, asked some question he didn't really register, and then started beating on him. Between punches he cried out, "Mom!" but she merely glanced over disinterestedly, and then turned back to her conversation. Finally Catch stopped, wiping the blood off his hand, and strode over to the women.

"Your son is a stubborn ass, Mary. No two ways about it."

"Let me try." Mary said. Sam stared at her in shock, though he was struggling to see just one of her, feeling the horror of the betrayal. He thought he had gotten his Mom back, and might for the first time in his life have a chance to have a relationship with her, but apparently he was the only one that wanted that. For her he was apparently just another means to an end.

"Sam, please," she said calmly - almost lovingly, "just tell us what we need to know, and all this can stop." He stared defiantly up at the woman he had so desperately wanted his whole life, broken but silent, unwilling to yield. "Fine, have it your way." He struggled bravely for as long as he could, but before long the screams were ripped from his lungs as the pain intensified. Whether it was the emotional or physical pain that was worse, who could say?

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"Sam! Sammy! Wake. The. Hell. Up!" Dean backed away as Sam came awake swinging, throwing himself off the bed and onto the floor with his momentum. He was breathing rapidly, like he had run a marathon at a full-out sprint, and he was drenched in sweat. Dean was in his face, concerned, but he needed more air…he crab-walked back until he hit the wall, drawing his knees up and resting his arms on them as he desperately tried to draw air in.

"Breathe, man. Just breathe." Dean coached. "Breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out." Eventually his breathing settled, and he shivered as sweat cooled on his body, but still he made no move to get up. Dean sat on the floor, calmly waiting for him to be ready to move, dragging the comforter off the bed and throwing it over his tense brother to ease his shivers. He watched Sam obliquely, not wanting to push but knowing with nightmares it was always better to talk them out. Finally, he tried to start the conversation, "That was a doozy of a nightmare."

"Sorry to wake you."

"I was awake. You were screaming bloody murder…"

"Yeah." Sam rubbed his face, trying to wash away the incredibly intense images that still were flashing through his mind. He winced, then jumped as Dean's hand came to rest on his knee.

"Tell me." Sam just shook his head no, knowing his nightmare would only hurt his brother more. He reached out a hand and Dean immediately grabbed it, helping him up. He plopped back down on the bed, scooting back to lean against the headboard. Dean shoved at him to slide over, and then sat next to him, tugging at the comforter for Sam to share it. Once he was comfortable he spoke again, "I know it was about Mom, and I know it was horrible. Tell me Sam. Please."

Sam sighed, knowing Dean was right, but hating to give voice to what his mind had conjured up. Finally, hesitantly, he began in a low voice, "I was back in the basement with the British bitch." Dean flinched, but gave no other outward sign that he was already bothered by what he was hearing. Sam continued, "I woke up, much like I did after she had drugged me and mind raped me…" His voice faltered at this. Only in more recent months had he been able to admit to himself that what he had experienced with Tori's drugs and potions had truly been a form of sexual abuse, even if she had not actually physically touched him. He shivered again, and Dean pressed a little closer, providing more comfort than he probably even realized. Taking a deep breath, Sam continued, "I remembered some of the conversation we just had with Mom as if that had been the drug dream - "

"I wish it had." Dean commented morosely, steeling himself and knowing that was not what caused Sam to scream so brokenly. He had been dead asleep, sleeping solidly as only a bottle of scotch could induce, when Sam's cries had pierced his slumber. It didn't matter how far under he was, he would always hear Sam. He had suspected immediately it was a nightmare, but even as he rose to go to Sam's room, he felt the emotional pain coming off the screams - deeper than any physical pain - and he rushed to get to Sam and wake him from the horrors he was dreaming.

"Yeah, well, what came next was way worse. Mom and…Catch came in. Only Mom was…she was working with them. Catch beat on me, while she had a calm conversation with Tori. And when that didn't work, then she - " Sam swallowed, almost sounding like he was about to throw up.

Trying to spare him the telling, Dean said softly, "she tortured you, right?" He felt more than saw the nod. "Sam, you know she would never - "

"Do I?" At that Dean twisted to look Sam in the face, shocked.

"Of course you do!"

"I don't know her, Dean. I don't! All the time I have ever had her in my life has been these last several months - most of which she has spent elsewhere, and mostly communicating to you. Now she's working for them - " he spat the last word, nearly trembling in his agitation.

"I know, I know." Dean soothed. "I'm royally pissed too." He paused, leaning back and re-establishing contact with his brother, trying to objectively see the situation from Sam's perspective. In spite of her horrible betrayal though, he just couldn't see her willing to hurt them physically. If he took her at her word, then she truly believed she was doing what she had to for them. "I think…" he began hesitantly, "I think she does love us, and truly did not intend to hurt us with her poor, poor judgment and decisions. She thinks what she is doing is for us, somehow. It's wrong, horribly wrong, but I don't think done with an intent to harm. She would never actively torture you, Sam." Sam did not look convinced, so he bumped his arm gently. "Trust me in this, even if you can't trust her." He finally nodded, then yawned. Instead of scrunching down in the bed, though, he opened his eyes wide, fighting his tiredness. Dean shook his head, angry at their Mom for causing these doubts…angry at the damn British Men of Letters for kidnapping and torturing his baby brother…angry that he couldn't do anything to fix things besides be there for Sam. But that - that he could do.

Scrunching down on the bed, Dean closed his eyes and murmured, "go to sleep Sam." He felt his brother tense, as if about to argue, and then - perhaps realizing Dean did not intend to go anywhere - sensed the turmoil of deciding if he was going to be offended that Dean thought he needed him there, or comforted. To Dean's relief, he felt the fight go out of him as Sam slowly sank down prone on the bed. To hell with awkwardness, tonight was about comfort, and Sam needed to know that Dean was physically there, at his back. "Jerk." he whispered, knowing that word would speak all that he could not. Thank you. I need you. Love you brother.

"Bitch." came the drowsy reply. I got you brother. Love you too. Nothing bad is going to happen to you while I'm around. Sleep.

Their relationship with their Mother was still broken, with the way to mend it unclear. But for tonight, each brother knew they had all the family and comfort they needed within arms reach, and that alone allowed them both to slip into a deep dreamless, refreshing rest.