Here's the final chapter! I hope it's all right. Sorry it took so long to get out, but I'm having a really big motivational spurt for writing lately as you can probably see, and I'm going back and finishing my work in progresses. This is including Volition, Saccharine Disposition, and a sequel to Salvation.

Reviews make me very happy, and I appreciate everybody insofar who has commented on this work.

Much love. Enjoy!

It's a large warehouse, Dean thinks to himself. Large enough for many forces to be there, and an extensive amount of backup. It'll be tough, but it won't be impossible.

He shoulders the bag of weapons, dangling it across his back, taking a hesitant step forward. Cas comes to a stand beside him, a silent and unreadable expression on his face. The frayed ends of his trench coat sway in the night breeze, eyes solid and determined.

"You sure this is going to work?" the angel questions, and Dean nods fervently. The hunter's lips curl into a dangerous smile, intentions absolute in his toned features. He pulls out one of the many bundles of explosives from the duffle, showing them off loud and proud, then places it back. They had taken a pit-stop on the way here to a friend's house whom had hooked them up with a few packs of C4s. Heavy duty, but not enough to which it would draw the attention of law enforcement. Besides, the warehouse was at a desolate location in the bumfuck plains of Indiana, and nobody for miles would hear what was going to take place.

The sun is just setting over the horizon, disappearing and leaving abstract hues of orange and yellow. It's beautiful, and Dean tells himself that his brother will be here to witness it with him in no more than an hour.

Concurrently, Dean and Cas make their way around to the backside, sheltering behind some loose foliage. There's two guards at the back door, both holding military-grade assault rifles, and Dean shakes his head. Step one of the process. He removes the sniper from the duffel, then sets it up on the stand. It's the same one he used when they were hunting the skinwalkers when Sam was soulless.

He then equips the zoomed scope, and crouches into a prone position. Cas looks on interestedly.

Holding his breath, he takes aim, the intersecting dot landing right on the first guard's forehead. There's no remorse as he pulls the trigger.

The second guard jumps high into the air as the suppressed shot kills his buddy, and before he even has the chance to look around and scan for the threat, his body, too, is on the floor. Red pours from the holes their heads, and Dean simply puts the gun back in his bag. He doesn't spare a glance at Cas, instead determinedly making his way to the door. Emotions can be saved for later. Right now, he just wants his brother.

It's crazily bolted, with dense, iron chains and locks intertwining the entrance. Dean had figured it would be as such. Cas helps him attach the explosives to the wall, and once they think they've got it adorned properly, they back up a solid forty feet with the detonator in Dean's fist.

"Ready?" Dean asks as he checks his pistol, making sure the clip is loaded and he has extra rounds in his jacket. He can't afford to bring the whole bag inside—too much deadweight. His Beretta is his weapon of choice, even over the submachine gun he has back at the bunker.

"As I'll ever be," Cas replies, and with that Dean slams his thumb down.

The effect is instantaneous. Immediately, the entire wall is gone, and he can already see the casualties of the guards who wrongfully chose to stand too close to the door on the inside. Dean starts off at a sprint, stepping over debris and rubble. He's met with two more armed men rounding a corner, and he expertly lands two shots between both pairs of eyes.

The British Men of Letters took something from him. Now, he is here to take it back, and nobody would stand in his way. Morales are long past something he cares about, now.

In tandem, Cas and Dean make their way through the dust-infiltrated hallways. At some point the alarms had been set off, and a red glow is cast amongst the white floors and walls. While Cas watches his back, Dean initiates step two of his plan. Removing the rest of the C4 from the belted jacket he's wearing, he sets it up on the next door. Another three men had come to try and stop them, but Cas had literally eaten the bullets and used the rest of his immolated grace to smite them. Taking a few hesitant steps back, he explodes the next corridor, and moves in over the four dead bodies that were within the explosive range on the opposing side.

Finally, he comes to an open room. It's filled with an extensive amount of blue—the walls, the furniture, the carpet. Sitting at a blue desk, he sees the person who he'd been itching to kill since they'd stole his life away.

"Ketch," Dean snarls, aiming his gun level to the other man's head.

To Ketch's credit, he doesn't flinch, merely keeps a straight face with a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. He displays his hands, and in one is a very clear stick button. Then, he shifts his chair, and the person behind him makes Dean audibly gasp.

"Sam?" he whispers, and the kid he's known his entire life doesn't even make a move to look at him. He's sitting on a plush navy couch, nonchalantly leaning back, eyes not even tracking Dean's movement. The wretched collar is still around his neck, and Dean growls at the sight of it.

"In my hand," Ketch informs him, "is the thing that can kill your brother in just one second. It can deliver and electric current strong enough to shock his brain, and oops, you've killed your precious kid." He shrugs. "Your choice. Drop the gun. Shoot me, and as I die my finger presses down."

Dean doesn't see a choice. Down his firearm goes, landing harshly on the floor.

"Good. Now, Sam. I am the lock."

"I am the key," comes a monotone response, and Dean scrunches his eyebrows.

"Sam?"

"Sam is long gone," Ketch narrates.

With that, Dean's little brother stands up and begins advancing on him. That's when he spots the knife, and with a deft movement, he dodges the oncoming attack.

"Sam!"

He sees a flicker in Sam's hazel eyes, but nothing more than a small spark. It ignites hope in him, though, and he tackles Sam to the ground. The kid squirms underneath him, and Dean bites his own lip. He hates doing so, but he flips Sam around so that he's onto his stomach, and brings his sibling's wrists together.

"Cas, a little help here?"

The angel helps him pin Sam down, and suddenly, the body underneath him goes lax. Dean's breath catches in his throat. "Sammy?"

Before he knows it, he's flying through the air, back colliding with the plaster wall. The wind is knocked out of him, and he collapses to the floor, panting. He sees Cas not too far away in a similar predicament.

Sam is now on his feet, shaking out his arms from where Dean had bent them. While Dean is still currently curled into himself, Sam takes the opportunity to recover his knife, and lean over him. Out of his peripherals, Dean sees Sam's hand twist, and air is abruptly far too hard to get than it should be. He's being choked. By what he isn't sure, as nothing physical is around his neck, but he's quickly losing breath and his eyes are shutting closed not of their own volition.

The gunshot startles him. His eyelids jolt open, and he frantically looks around. From where he and Cas had originally entered, he sees his mother with around five other hunters standing behind her. He looks over to Ketch, seeing the penetrating bullet in his head, and nods. Sam collapses back onto his ass, blinking profusely. He looks around.

His gaze settles on his brother, and he whispers, "Dean?"

"I'm here, Sammy. I'm here"

Dean learns a lot about Sam's time in captivity, and none of it is good. It makes him want to go back, resurrect Ketch, rip every damn piece of skin off his body, and kill him again. That would satisfy him.

Maybe.

Sam was originally taken from where he was gathering food from the store, and shoved into the back of some vehicle, drugged. He was blindfolded and gagged, unable to see. Dean knows how terrible that is—to have your two most important senses stripped away. As a hunter, sight is one of the most paramount of traits. Without it, you're helpless.

For the first week they kept him only in the cage, collared and chained down. The abrasions from the cuffs are still visible on Sam's wrists even now. They rarely fed him, and forced him to drink from a dog bowl if he didn't want to get dehydrated. Sam had put aside his dignity for his desire to live.

Little did he realize, that was just their first way of breaking him.

They made him answer absurd questions, manipulating his mind. By the second week, they were shocking him and taking him to the labs. His powers were deeply studied, according to Sam, and after a very painful process, a few of them were reactivated. He hadn't gone into detail about said process. Dean didn't ask him.

Sam's powers had been killing Dean back at the warehouse, he realizes. It was disgusting to think about, but none of it was directed toward his brother. He was disgusted by the British.

Based on Sam's recount of events, they'd cast some sort of voodoo spell on him that controlled him when he wouldn't stop resisting. It had to keep being applied, however, and sometimes Ketch would forget, giving Sam a small amount of freedom. That was soon forcefully taken away, though.

They wanted him to kill all the hunters that didn't join their army, and recruit those who did. It took Dean especially long to convince Sam that their blood wasn't on his hands, and in the end, he doesn't even think he got fully through Sam's thick head. No hunters in the community truly blame him, and if they did, Dean was quick to take care of it.

Cas had healed most of his brother's injuries, but a few reminders still remained—like the remnants of the manacles. Dean never let his gaze drop to those.

Sam was quiet most of the time. He worked with his powers occasionally, controlling a few things at a time, but quickly abandoned the idea of exploring them more and locked them back down in a fortress in his mind. He may have them, but exploiting them was something Sam wasn't going to do, Dean knew. He was just happy Sam had made his own choice about that. They were there, but dormant.

The only time Sam had talked about his captivity was when Dean had prodded him the day they'd got him back for all the details. Still in shock, Sam had listed the following off. But, now he is closed down, and nothing Dean does makes him open up. It's a shut and locked chapter of their lives, forgotten.

After another month of recovery, Dean finally takes them on a hunt. Sam sees to enjoy it, and is slowly returning to his normal self. He knows those demons will always haunt him, but the most he can do is help Sam through the tough times.

They've got work to do, anyway.

Track down Lucifer, Kelly Kline, and everybody else on this godforsaken planet it seems like.

"Dean?" Sam asks him one night as they're both nursing a bottle of Jack in the bunker's common room.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Dean doesn't even need to ask what he's talking about.

"Don't you thank me. I should've found you sooner."

"Sooner or later, you still found me. And just...thank you."

Dean grins a small, humorless smile.

"No problem, Sammy."

He doesn't even feel a sliver of guilt about the 26 total men and women he killed in the attack, both before and after he rescued Sam.

He never will.

The blue room is now red, and red is a color Dean likes. Especially when people take the most important thing in his life away.

Yeah, he thinks.

Red suits him.

fin