Amy remembered Sam Winchester as small and scrawny and too brave, telling her to run.

Apparently he'd grown up, into a seven foot behemoth with the muscles of a body builder, holding a knife on her without wavering and angry. And her son was at home, sick and feverish, and she needed to get back to him.

She didn't want to kill him; Sam had been kind to her, and that mattered. If she just knocked him out for a while, she could vanish and since she never planned to kill again…

Tree it was.

Sam collapsed in a bundle of limbs and Amy was gone before he hit the ground.

Removing the pituitary gland was delicate work, but she was fast at it, and was just getting ready to head home and finish this whole goddamn mess when she thought of Sam.

Amy would never know why she looked back, would never know why when she did she felt there was something wrong. But she ended up there nonetheless, crouched next to the sprawl of Sam's overlong body and noticing what looked like a recently healed bruise on his forehead. Now that she was looking, his skin looked sickly pale and his body showed signs of recently lost weight.

He should be fine. She hadn't hit him that hard. Amy looked at the jar in her left hand and knew that she was only asking for trouble, but nonetheless…she sighed, still thinking of that boy shorter than her, awkward but determined, tired of being a freak.

It wasn't safe. It was stupid. Whatever else Sam was, he was a hunter too, and she couldn't forget that.

Amy sighed. If she ran, he'd probably just find her again. Maybe she could talk to him, make him see sense.

Sam stayed still, unmoving, and Amy accepted the fact that she was an idiot.

It was significantly less than easy to drag him the distance to her car, but the trip home was quick and Sam didn't stir once. Peter's fever broke as soon as he downed the fresh meat, and Amy breathed a sigh of relief. At least that was over. Now she just had something else to deal with. Checking to be sure that her son was sleeping soundly, Amy closed the door and tiptoed out into the living room. After considering a chair, she'd put Sam on the couch, tying his hands just in case, but he was still unmoving.

She felt a little twinge of worry. Had she misjudged the force? Done some real damage? Or just compounded something already there? She tugged at her lower lip and stared at the prone hunter, trying to think what she should do next.

Easing gingerly over, she lifted his head off the side of the couch (he was too long for it, feet dangling awkwardly off the edge) and felt for a bump. She found it easily enough, warm and swollen under her fingers, and frowned.

To her relief, Sam apparently felt it, because he groaned and tried to twitch away from her fingers. "Nnnno," he said, in a highly articulate manner. "Deeean."

"Sam?" she said hesitantly, and Sam's head snapped up with a gasp like he was surfacing from water, and then he threw up all over himself.

"Oh," said Amy. "Yech."

~.~

She set about cleaning Sam up while his eyes followed her around the room, sluggish and unfocused. He didn't seem particularly surprised. He did seem disoriented, and his eyes kept flicking away from her toward the kitchen and then darting back, like he was trying to avoid looking in that direction.

"What are you doing?" He asked her finally, in a hoarse voice.

"That's actually a really good question," she said, with a bit of a sigh, dropping the towel in the sink and stripping off her gloves. "Because I'm not sure. Are you going to throw up again?"

"No," Sam said, and then made a small noise in the back of his throat and closed his eyes tightly. "…probably."

"You don't look well," she said, pausing a bit away from the couch. Sam opened one eye and peered blearily at her.

"Amy," he said, voice slightly slurred. "Cut the small talk. What are you going to do with me?"

Amy sat down with a sigh in the nearest chair. "I'm not going to kill you," she said, and Sam made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. "I'm not going to kill anyone. After tonight, it's done."

Sam's eyes did that strange little flickering thing, and she heard him murmur, "Shut up." It clearly wasn't directed at her. Amy blinked.

"What?"

Sam's head fell back. He shifted slightly, and she could almost hear his shoulders creak, but he didn't complain. Hadn't, actually, asked to be untied at all. "Oh," he said, and snickered quietly. "Nothing. Just a thing."

Amy shifted. "I thought you didn't want to be like this," she said, finally. Sam didn't open his eyes.

"Yeah. Things change. You changed. Apparently."

"I had to do it," Amy said, insistently, not sure why it was so important for her to explain. "But I'm done now. I am." She saw Sam tense and glance over toward the kitchen doorway again. He made a quiet sound that wasn't quite a whimper.

"Fuck," he said under his breath. "Jesus fuck. Stop. Just…"

"Sam?" She said, uncertainly, and Sam shook his head minutely. Something was clearly wrong, and it didn't seem like it was just a concussion. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Sam said through gritted teeth, and his eyes fixed on her with such determination it was almost unnerving. "Why'd you have to kill, huh? Why don't you tell me that? After all this time…" He seemed like he was trying to focus but having a hard time of it. She chewed her lip.

"Do you need a hospital?" He wouldn't tell them about her, she told herself. Not civilians. And she could be far from here by then. Sam was looking worse by the minute, pale with his breaths coming fast and shallow like he was one the verge of panicking.

"No," Sam said, with almost alarming vehemence. "Amy, why don't you just fucking-"

"It wasn't for me," she protested.

"Yeah? Who, then?"

She hesitated, and looked toward the door. He looked frustrated, and angry, but – she had a shot at explaining this. Needed him to understand, for some reason. "My son," she said, finally. "We've – I work in a funeral home, get the glands that way, but he got sick…he's better now, completely better."

Sam stared at her, apparently uncomprehending. "Amy," he said finally, sounding hesitant.

"I've made a life," she said, near desperately. "Put down roots, here. Please, Sam…"

His eyes flickered away from her, and his tongue flicked out to lick his lips. He looked nervous, suddenly, but not of her. She followed his gaze but couldn't see anything but the kitchen. Ordinary. Normal. "Sam?" she said.

"I'm fine," he said, but it didn't really sound like it was her he was trying to convince. "I'm fine, just-"

And then his eyes rolled back and oh Jesus, was he seizing?

~.~

By the time Amy got Sam's arms out of the bonds, his wrists were already chafed raw, almost bleeding, and she was sincerely worried about the state of his shoulders, and damn, why did things have to get complicated so fast? He probably needed a hospital, but he'd sounded so vehement in denying it…

Thankfully, Peter was still sleeping.

Sam came around again while Amy was making herself coffee, hands trembling slightly from exhaustion and maybe just a bit of nerves. He groaned faintly and she turned around to see him staring at his wrists in what appeared to be surprise.

"What's wrong with you?" She asked, and Sam stared at her, looking no more clear-headed than he had last time. He started to sit up, and stopped, looking nauseous. She held out a glass of water, watching his hands, but he just took it without comment and gulped it desperately.

"A son, huh?" he said, not answering, looking at the glass.

"His name's Peter," she offered. Sam nodded, and then looked like he regretted it. "What's wrong with you?" She asked again. Sam made a curious huffing noise.

"Good question," he said, and closed his eyes again, one hand shifting to press his thumb into the palm. She noticed the stitches and grabbed his wrist.

"What are you-"

The door burst inward. Sam was on his feet in a second, and then looked like falling over, so she stood up and grabbed him to try to steady him, and there was the click of a gun.

"Let him go," said a rough voice, "Sure, this won't kill you, but I'm betting it'll hurt."

"Dean," said Sam, kind of slurred, but she felt him shift to plant his feet. "It's all right. Calm down. M'fine."

Shit, Amy thought, shit, what, and then couldn't even complete the thought. At least Sam made a good body shield, though she wasn't sure how long he was going to say upright.

The gun didn't waver or shift, and Amy could see his face now, face in hard lines and jaw set. Her heartbeat picked up as she looked over toward the door, and god, Peter… "This isn't some nice girl, Sammy," the gunman said, and Sammy, she remembered Sam had an older brother, was this him? "Come on, bitch, back off or so help me-"

"I know," said Sam, sounding cranky and exasperated. "Dean, it's fine. I'm – oh, shit," and he wavered. Amy got hurriedly out of the way as Sam sank back onto the couch and the gunman – Dean? – seemed torn between pointing the gun at her and getting to Sam. "Don't shoot her," Sam said, weakly. "S'Amy. Not a bad person."

Blazing eyes turned on her. "What the hell did you do to him?"

"Deeean," said Sam, sounding plaintive, and apparently that made up his mind, because while keeping an eye on her Dean moved to the couch and dropped a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam looked up through squinting eyes and said, "Really need to…stop fucking up my head." His eyes did that funny little flicker and his breath hitched. Dean's hand tightened, even as his gaze, murderous, went to her. She did her best not to move, though predatory instincts instructed her to hiss loudly.

For some reason that'd never happened with Sam.

"Focus," Dean said lowly. "Come on. Right here. You've gotta explain to me why I shouldn't blow Amy's head off."

Sam seemed to be drooping, and Amy realized just how much he'd been holding himself together. "Not a bad person," he said.

"That's why I find you in her house looking like crap? That's why you took off without saying a thing, Sam, fuck, for all I knew you were following some kind of-" he cut off, and grimaced. And glared at Amy some more. She moved back toward the kitchen, where she could get behind the door in a hurry. And also further from Peter's bedroom.

Sam reached up and grabbed Dean's wrist, the one holding the gun. "She saved my life," he said with marginally more clarity. "When we were kids. It was her mom, last time, remember? I woulda died if she hadn't been there."

Amy wanted to speak up, to say something in her own defense, but she suspected it wouldn't be wise. She kept her silence and watched the pair of hunters anxiously. Dean's jaw tightened. "People change," he said darkly.

"Please," Sam said, and he sounded so tired. "It's over. It's fine. She's done." He lowered his voice. "It was for her son, Dean."

Amy twitched. No, she wanted to protest. Don't mention him, don't bring him into this. Dean's head turned away and she couldn't see his expression.

His voice, when he spoke, was pitched low enough that a human wouldn't have been able to hear it. "A monster's a monster, Sam."

"What about the angels?" Sam said, to her puzzlement, and then, softer, "What about me?"

"Sam."

"No, I'm not-"

"Shut up."

"Just trust me on this, okay? Trust me."

Amy's head was whirling. If she was fast, she could make a run for the bedroom and maybe make it out the window in there with Peter. Run fast and far away. She kept still, waiting through the silence. She heard a heavy sigh.

"Okay," said Dean finally. "Yeah, okay Sam. I trust you," and thank god, thank god. He looked at her again, though, and there's something in his stare that sent chills down her spine. "But if we hear anything about anything that sounds a little like you…"

She just nodded, because she didn't trust herself to speak. And Dean was hauling Sam to his feet, Sam leaning on him, but he cast a glance over his shoulder at her with his unfocused eyes and smiled, just a little. It'll be all right, she almost heard, and thank you.

~.~

She should have run the moment she stepped into the room. It was Dean, and she remembered the naked, blind trust Sam had shown in him, the way he'd leaned into his brother on their way out the door.

"Does Sam know you're here?" she asked him.

"No," Dean said, "And he never will."

She should have just left him there in the woods, Amy thought as she died. "I'm sorry," Dean said, but he didn't really sound that sorry, and Amy wondered if Sam would ever know who it was he was putting his trust in so completely.