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Sam looked around, cataloging everything he could. Dean should have been here by now, or he should have called to say he was late. Dean was a lot of things, but Sam had hoped he'd gotten less-forgetful about checking in. Sam tapped his fingertips on the table, leg bouncing in time with them. His phone sat silent in front of him as he gazed around the little dive-bar once again.

"Hello."

Sam looked over to see a disheveled yet stunning woman standing next to his table. He smiled. "Hi. Can I... can I help you?"

"Oh, I certainly hope so." She slid into one of the seats, leaning forward and brushing her dark hair from her face. Sam found himself leaning into her, wanting to get closer. "I heard that you..." She looked down for a moment. "Well, that you don't laugh when someone tells you something impossible, I suppose."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "What kind of impossible are we talking about?"

She looked back up and cocked her head. She looked scared. Terrified, actually. "If I didn't know better..." She smiled and shook her head. "I'd have said it was a vampire."

Sam glanced at his phone - still no new texts, no missed calls.

"Where?" He looked over at the door again before looking back at the woman.

"A few streets away. I saw... oh, I don't know what I saw. I'm sorry."

"No." Sam reached out, placing his hand on hers. She looked down at it for a moment before looking back up at him. He smiled reassuringly. "Just... tell me everything. I have a lot of... experience."

The woman's grin grew, and Sam felt himself blush.

"Alright then." Abruptly, she removed her hand from under his, holding it out as if to shake. He took her hand, pumping it once. "My name's Irene."

"Sam." He smiled, and she smiled. "So, start at the beginning."

Irene told him that she'd been walking to a small movie theatre not far from here - she was meeting a few friends for a ridiculously overpriced Girl's Night Out, where they would watch Art Films and cry over the beauty of everything their own lives lacked. "Typical stuff, I suppose." She blushed. "I've been single for far too long, it seems."

Sam chuckled.

"Well, I took a short-cut. I mean, I've been living here for almost two years, I've never had any..." She shivered. "I heard... something. It sounded indecent, and I turned to go, thinking maybe it was just a couple of drunken teenagers, and then..." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "It was there, in front of me. Blood all over it's face and... fangs, so many of them I was confused at first. I screamed, and I ran. I fell down." She gestured to her dirty and slightly rumpled outfit. "That's when I saw the body. It was... It looked so pale. I've never seen anything so pale."

"Like the blood had drained out of it." Sam nodded. "Alright. Can you show me?" Irene looked up, eyes wide, her mouth working but no sound coming from it. "You'll be safe with me. I've dealt with this before."

Irene stared at him. "Are you telling me... it was real?"

Sam nodded. "It's... I know it sounds crazy, but vampires, werewolves... every nightmare you've ever heard, every urban legend and fairy tale, all of them have some root in the truth."

Irene licked her lips and swallowed. Sam noticed it smudged her lipstick, but somehow he thought she looked even better now, with that one truly deliberate imperfection on her lovely face.

"You won't leave me?"

Sam shook his head. "Never. I've got some tools with me, even." He reached down and grabbed a small duffle bag from his side. "So. Will you show me?"

 

 

Five minutes later, Sam and Irene were stepping into the alleyway Irene had been in. "It was... just over there." Sam heard it - the slight hitch in her voice as she spoke about it. She was dealing well, all things considered. He nodded and held his machete at the ready.

As they crept down the alley, Sam was intensely aware of close Irene was, how she kept her body pressed almost entirely against him. He chalked it up to nerves. After all, how many monsters had she really hunted in her lifetime?

"Over here?" He looked back, gesturing towards a dumpster. Irene nodded. "OK. We should be safe for the moment, but just in case." He handed her the machete. "Watch my back. I'll be done in a few minutes." She took the weapon gingerly and nodded.

Sam knelt near the dumpster, looking around for any signs of a body or blood, when he felt Irene's hand run down his arm.

"You're very brave to do this, Sam." Her voice was velvety, and Sam could feel his skin flushing a bit.

"I was kinda raised in this life, so... it doesn't always seem that brave to me, I guess."

Irene's hand gave him one last squeeze, then he felt something sharp jab his arm. He whirled, reaching for the syringe he now saw hanging out of his shoulder.

"What the..." He fell back to his knees. The world tilted and spun like a carnival ride. "What is..."

He fell onto his back, blinking. Irene stepped into view, smiling. A man stepped up next to her. He had short dark hair and was dressed in an immaculate suit. "Well done, my dear." Sam thought he sounded Irish, maybe. Just a little. "He'll do very nicely."

"Promise you'll let me know if you need my help again?" Irene grinned as the man chuckled. "You know, he rather reminds of Sherlock, sprawled out like that."

"Now now, no need to bring him into this."

"Oh Jim, you're not jealous, are you?" Irene glanced over at Jim. Sam's vision was beginning to blur, the voices were too loud in his ears, and the ground seemed to have turned into a water bed that wouldn't stop moving as the sky zoomed in and out above him.

The last thing he heard was Jim laughing.

Chapter Text

Sherlock paced angrily. He'd been sure that John was here.  So sure of it . He looked around. The small airport gave him nothing.

His phone beeped. Eagerly he swiped at the screen.

[Third runway. Find Crieff.]

Sherlock glanced up, looking at the signs hanging from the ceiling. He was at runway eight. He started running.

When he made it to the third runway, he looked outside. A rather unimpressive plane sat outside. The few cabin crew members were stepping off the plane now. Sherlock watched as an older woman stepped down first, followed by an older man dressed in a pilot's uniform. They're laughing about something, both looking happy and comfortable.

A moment later another pilot steps from the plane, looking anything but comfortable. He's short, slight, with a shockingly bright head of red hair and a face that nearly matches it. He steps stiffly from the plane, looking back at it once, almost reverently.

Sherlock finds an exit and quickly runs over to them. "Excuse me!" The woman and the first man turn to him.

"Yes sir, can I help you?" She sounds pleasant enough, but there's something off about it.

"I'm looking for Crieff."

The lady raises her eyebrows, but it's the man who replies. "Oh, Martin? Are you sure?"

"I need to speak with him immediately."

The man shrugs but gestures to the bright faced young man behind him. "He's just there."

Sherlock nods. "Thank you." He turns and walks swiftly to intercept Martin.

The young man startles as Sherlock steps into his path. "Oh, hello sir, can I... uh..."

"Tell me why I got this." Sherlock holds up his phone, displaying the text message. "And then you can tell me where John is."

Martin looks at the screen, his face paling as his hands grip desperately at his hat. "I... oh god."

"Where. Is. John?" Sherlock's voice is low and menacing, and for a moment he thinks Martin or Crieff of whomever he is might faint.

"I don't know." Martin cringes. "I..."

Sherlock steps in even closer, looming over Martin. "What. Happened?"

Martin swallowed and blinked. He let go of his hat with one hand, showing it was empty, then reached slowly into his trouser pocket. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock snatched it, tearing into it. He opened up a folded piece of paper, frantically scanning it. A moment later he crumpled it between his hands, his breath shaky and his eyes closed. When he opened them again, Martin was staring at him, eyes wide and frightened but intrigued.

"You're coming with me." Sherlock grabbed Martin's arm and started hauling him along. "You're going to help me."

 

 

Martin had only mildly protested at his abnormal kidnapping. Sherlock had silenced him with a glare, then started asking him questions the moment they were in a cab. Martin stammered out answers. He'd met a guy in a pub, they had a few drinks, and then... he was offered £10,000. Just to carry an envelope back to Fitton. He'd asked who it was for, what was in it, and why him.

The man had smiled and handed an unsealed envelope to him. "Read it. There's nothing dangerous on it. Cross my heart."

Sherlock frowned at the start of Martin's story. By the time it was finished he was full on scowling and looking, Martin thought, quite capable of murder.

"Oh, he is clever." Sherlock was muttering as the cab pulled up in front of 221B. He hopped out, handing the cabbie some cash, then darted to the door. Martin followed, feeling clumsy and entirely uncoordinated compared to Sherlock, who was long legs and arms and graceful to a fault.

Martin went up the stairs, walking into the sitting room and looking around. He smiled at the eclectic tastes that ran rampant throughout the flat. Then he swallowed as he looked at things and realized that, for a bachelor pad, it was rather expensively furnished. He stood very still, trying not to touch anything. After all, as Douglas was always quick to remind him, he couldn't trust his luck.

Sherlock had disappeared, so Martin continued to stand there, turning very slowly on the spot. As he was just turning his back on the front door he heard Sherlock behind him. Quickly he turned around, only to lose his balance and fall over into the couch, face first. As he pushed back up he saw Sherlock glaring at him.

"Ever used one of these?"

Martin looked down at the object being offered to him. He looked at it, curious, then shook his head.

"Oh, um, no... I mean, when would I... I..." He gave a shaky little laugh before looking back up at Sherlock. "Is it... real?"

"Of course it is."

"Oh." Martin's voice was trying to stop working as he held out one hand timidly. Sherlock placed the object in his hand. It was heavier than he'd imagined it might be, and cold.

"It's also loaded." Sherlock's voice carried back as he stalked into the kitchen, opening the fridge. Martin felt his stomach growl as he held a gun for the first time, all while standing in a complete stranger's flat.

It was an odd day, indeed.

"So, I..." martin drew in a deep breath, still staring at the gun. "Is it..." He searched for anything he might know about guns, coming up with very little. A name popped into his head suddenly. "Is it a... Glock?"

Sherlock walked out of the kitchen, nose crinkled as though whatever he held in his hands smelled bad. He sighed, sounding impatient. "No, of course not."

"Oh..." Martin shrank in on himself a bit. "Oh, right..."

"Glock's don't have safeties."

"What?"

Sherlock stepped back towards Martin, taking the gun and replacing the open space in his hand with several miniature pies. "Eat." Sherlock gave him a meaningful look, and Martin nodded. Sherlock then showed him the small lever. "This is the safety - keep it on until you're going to shoot someone. This is the trigger. Keep your finger off of it until you're going to shoot someone."

Martin swallowed most of the pie he'd bitten into whole. "Do you... do you think it'll come to that?" He felt himself start trembling.

Sherlock shrugged. "Better to be ready for it."

"So why don't-"

"He'll be expecting me to have one."

"He will?"

"Obviously."

"Oh, yes..."

Sherlock sighed again. "It is a game. A dangerous game. And I need your help." Martin looked up at Sherlock, confused. No one ever wanted his help, let alone needed it.

"You do?"

Sherlock nodded. "I need John. I need to get him back. And you may be the one chance I have to do that." His voice was soft, comforting. Martin smiled a little, until Sherlock turned his intense gaze back to Martin's face. "So you will come with me. And you will help me find my partner. Understand?"

Martin nodded. The gun settled back into his hand.

"Good."

"I... I feel I should warn you..." Martin shrunk a bit as Sherlock glared at him. "It's just... I'm fairly useless if I'm not flying a plane..."

Sherlock stepped in close - uncomfortably so. Martin began backing up until he tripped over debris on the floor and slammed into the wall with his shoulders and head. Sherlock pressed in, menacing and terrifying.

"I'm going to say this only once." Sherlock's eyes blazed. "If you cause me to lose John. They will never find you."

Martin swallowed and nodded quickly, beginning to hyperventilate. "I-I-I-"

"Do. You. Understand?" Sherlock slammed his hand into the wall next to Martin's head.

BANG!

Sherlock's eyes went wide as his mouth opened and he screamed - but Martin couldn't hear it. There was something wrong with his hearing. He remembered an extremely loud bang, but he wasn't sure what had happened. If he didn't know better...

Martin looked down and saw blood pooling around Sherlock's foot. He saw the gun in his hand and watched as Sherlock fell back onto the couch, blood smearing along as his foot moved. Sounds were beginning to come back to him, slowly.

He would just as soon his hearing wasn't coming back, though. Sherlock was having an impressive go at utilizing a sailor's vocabulary, and interspersed were the words, "foot," and, "gun," and, "shot me you IDIOT."

"What's going on here, then?"

Martin looked up to see a sandy-haired man looking at Sherlock cringing and swearing on the couch, his eyes panicked. The man's eyes tracked to Martin quickly, to the gun in his hand, and Martin quickly dropped it and stepped back into the wall, shaking.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" The man was across the room in a flash, hands slamming into Martin's shoulders. Martin whimpered.

"I-I-I-I didn't... I swear, I..."

"Who are you?" The man looked positively murderous, and Martin had a sudden epiphany.

"Are you... you John?" He was still shaking like a leaf under the man's hands.

"You're in my flat and it looks like you shot my friend, so how about we worry about your name first."

"I didn't mean to!" Martin scrunched his eyes shut tightly, a few hot tears rolling down his cheeks. "We were going to go find you, he's got a note in his pocket!"

John loosened his grip, stepping back. "You move, he won't be the only one with a gunshot wound." Martin nodded, his eyes still closed.

He could hear Sherlock's labored breathing, now interspersed with the name, "John."

"Yeah, Sherlock, I'm here."

"But... I got..."

"He said there's a note?"

Martin cracked his eyes open just a bit to see John pulling Sherlock's shoe and sock off carefully. There was a lot of blood, and Martin closed his eyes again, instead just listening to their conversation.

"Just a nasty graze. You'll be fine, but we should go to the hospital, just in case."

"No, John, they'll ask questions. You can patch me."

"Why did he have my gun?"

"The note. Moriarty. I thought-"

"You thought I'd been kidnapped or something?"

Sherlock huffed. "You weren't here."

"I was at a conference! I told you I'd be gone for a few days, and the reception out there is horrible."

"What? When?"

John laughed. Martin opened his eyes again and saw that John had grabbed a first aid kit and was gently cleaning up the injury. He was grinning. "Hardly my fault if you weren't listening."

"Shut-up."

Martin watched as the two traded barbs, John cleaning and bandaging the wound. Then they turned to look at Martin.

"So who are you?" John stood up and crossed his arms.

"I'm... Martin. Martin Crieff. I'm an aeroplane captain, I live at-"

"Yes, alright." John held up a hand and Martin shut-up. A phone dinged, and John fished it out of his pocket. He flicked his thumb over the screen, frowning, then handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the phone, his frown becoming a scowl, and rapidly descending into a glare. Without warning, he flung the phone across the room. It smacked into the wall as John shouted at him.

"Oi!"

"Dammit!" Sherlock covered his face as John went to retrieve the phone.

"Um..." Martin's voice was high and nervous, and John looked over at him. "I just... I'm sorry, I didn't..."

John nodded. "No, it's... it's not your fault. You got caught up in a game you should never have been asked to play."

"Who was he?" Martin swallowed and stood up straight, stepping off of the wall.

John shook his head. "Trust me. Better if you don't know."

"So what does it say?" Martin nodded at the phone. He was trying to be brave, trying not to show how absolutely terrified he was. John looked at Sherlock, who still had his face covered, then stepped over to Martin and handed him the phone. Miraculously, it was still working.

Martin looked at the screen, his eyes going wide.

[Oh Johnny-Boy, I do love when you leave home for a few days. Sherlock is so much more fun when he's on his own. Tell that sweet little pilot I appreciate his help. -JM]

Chapter Text

 

Sam came to strapped to a bed.

He yanked at the restraints on his arms, once, twice, and sighed.

"Perfect."

He looked around. The room seemed... clean at least, which was better than he usually got. He craned his neck, then gasped.

"Shit, what the..." Pain flared from his abdomen. He looked down, frowning.

"Don't worry, pet." He looked around, gritting his teeth against the pain. "You're fine."

A man stepped into view and walked over to him. Sam squinted at him, realization hitting him like a bus. "You... you were there... Jim, right? What..."

"Now now." Jim smiled and stroked a hand lovingly over Sam's jaw. Sam wrenched back. "Don't go getting yourself worked up." He leaned down and pulled Sam's shirt up carefully. "Things look fine here, Sammy."

"Don't call me that." Sam's voice was pitched low, menacing. Jim laughed.

"You are adorable when you're angry!" The sound of laughter rang out loudly through the room. "Irene thought I was crazy, thought it should have been Sherlock here. But I'll let you in on a little secret." He leaned in to whisper in Sam's ear. "Did you know that there are demons, Sammy? And some of them really, really don't like you." Sam let out a long, slow breath. Jim straightened up and laughed when he saw Sam's face. "Now, don't look at me like that!"

"What did you do?"

He gave Sam a very innocent look. "I bargained for you."

"Listen, you don't know-"

"Actually..." Jim grinned again, his eyes blinking black before blinking to human again. "I do."

Sam's eyes went wide. "No, trust me, you don't."

"I'm just on loan for a little while. Like you."

"What do you mean? What are you getting in return?"

Jim laughed again, gleeful and maniacal and Sam wasn't sure if that was the demon or if Jim really was just that out there. "I get you."

"Me? What for?"

Jim looked at Sam's stomach and placed a hand carefully over it, rubbing little circles against it. "For a grand adventure, Sammy."

And that was when Sam felt a flutter in his stomach. No, not a flutter...

It felt like a kick.

Sam's face scrunched up in confusion, then realization, and finally smoothed out as horror at his predicament hit home.

"I'm.. but... no..."

"If you know precisely who to talk to and what to ask for-" Jim leaned over and kissed Sam's stomach gently. Looking at it, Sam could easily see the small bulge poking up higher than he was used to. "-anything is possible. And just think about it, Sammy!" Jim raised his arms and twirled in circles, shouting happily. "The first human male pregnancy!"

Sam put his head back down and closed his eyes. "Oh god."

"I bet he'll have your eyes."

"Why me?"

Jim looked at him like he was daft. "Because you have excellent bone structure. Obviously."

Chapter Text

 

Dean looked around the room, smiling. This was much, much nicer than the hotel rooms he usually stayed in. The company was infinitely better, too.

"Just gonna stand there all night?"

He looked towards the bed. It was fancy, one of those things Sam would have called a, "four-poster," which didn't really mean much until he saw her there, leaning against one of those posts, looking at him like he was the only man in the world that had ever mattered.

"Absolutely not." Dean shrugged out of his suit jacket as he crossed the room. "So." He stood close, his face only inches away from hers. "How does it feel to be Mrs. Dean Winchester?"

She smirked. "Probably about the same as it does for you, being Mr. Buffy Summers."

Dean laughed. "Oh you know that's not gonna fly."

"Why not? I mean, I am The Slayer."

"I'm a hunter."

"Pretty sure Slayer trumps hunter."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at her. "You think you can take me?"

Buffy grinned. "Don't make me spank your ass. Again."

Dean laughed and shoved Buffy down onto the bed, listening to her giggling. She reached up and hauled him down to her, their lips meeting and hands roaming and Dean couldn't even think when her hands slipped under his shirt, nails scraping along his stomach.

"You know." He was mumbling against her lips as her fingers trailed softly along his sides and around to his back, stroking up his spine and sending electric currents down to his toes. "I think... I could get used to Mr. Summers."

She laughed against his mouth, and then her hands were lifting his shirt up and over his head, coming back down to work at his pants.

Blip.

"That's... that's my phone..." Dean mumbled against her neck as he kissed his way down her her jaw towards her collarbone.

"So ignore it."

"Just... let me check... might be a problem..."

Dean pulled out his phone, intending only to make sure it wasn't Sam with a warning. And it was a warning. But it was not from Sam.

[If you hurt her at all, I'll bury you alive.]

Dean frowned at the screen but flipped the phone closed again, dropping it on the bed and turning back to Buffy. "Sorry, just... paranoid, I guess."

Buffy laughed. "In our line of work that's just survival instincts, dear."

Dean grinned at her. "So... where were-"

Blip.

He looked over at his phone again, expression souring.

"Who the-" He grabbed the phone and flipped it open again, reading the second text message.

[She's special. And if you don't make her very, very happy, I will make things very, very difficult for you.]

Dean looked at Buffy and gave her a small laugh. "Apparently someone wants to make very, very certain that I treat you right."

Buffy grabbed the phone and stared at it, looking puzzled. "Number's blocked... Who could be sending these?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno... anyone who's ever met me before?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Oh please. I can totally take care of myself. You don't scare me."

Dean smiled. "Good, because-" Blip. "Son of a bitch!"

Buffy opened the new message, eyebrows raising as she looked at Dean again and handed over the phone. Dean stared at it for a moment.

"OK, this just doesn't make any sense now." He flipped it closed and tossed it across the room, where it landed in his open duffle bag. "And now, it doesn't matter."

Buffy grinned and beckoned him closer.

Blip.

Dean took a long breath in through his nose, moaning slightly at being awakened by his phone heralding an incoming text rather than his wife whispering sweet nothings. He looked over, but Buffy was nowhere to be seen. He frowned, then grabbed his phone.

[She's fine. There's a small nest of vampires nearby, so she's doing what she does best.]

Dean growled, then hit reply.

[Who are you?]

The response came much faster than he'd anticipated.

[Someone who's concerned for Buffy.]

Dean rolled his eyes. [And you think I'm not?]

Blip.

[I think you're still looking at this the wrong way.]

Dean squinted at the text. What way should I look at it then?

[Since when is this a right and wrong thing?]

[It's been a question of right and wrong from the beginning.]

Dean flopped back onto the bed. "What am I even doing? I'm on my honeymoon, my wife sneaks out in the middle of the night to go kill a bunch of vamps without even telling me, and I'm sitting here playing guessing games with some faceless nutjob."

He took a long, deep breath, then replied. [Look, I don't know what I did wrong, but if Buffy has no complaints, why should you?]

He stares at the phone and hits send.

The reply comes moments later. [You strung Castiel along for quite awhile. I don't want to see that happen to Buffy.]

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. He hadn't meant for that to happen, and hadn't Cas done almost as much stringing? [That wasn't just me. And Buffy knows about that.]

[Yes, she does. She also trusts you. And that has me worried.]

Dean nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. [I don't take a lot of things seriously, but marriage is one of the things I DO take VERY seriously.]

[How do I know that?]

Dean sighed. [You don't. And I don't have to convince you. The only person I have to convince is Buffy. And if she didn't believe that of me, she wouldn't have married me.]

He dropped the phone on the bed and stood up, grabbing his jeans and tossing them back on. If Buffy was out slayin' vamps, he could at least go find a coffee joint and make sure there was something for her when she got back.

He had just pulled his shirt and shoes on when his phone beeped again. [Very true. Did you bring an umbrella?]

He frowned at the message, then shoved his phone into his pocket. He was halfway across the room when he found out why he might need an umbrella.

The ceiling-sprinklers turned on.

"Shit!"

He dashed out of the room, running headfirst into Buffy. The two of them collided and went down to the ground, Dean dripping all over her as she squealed and shimmied out from under him.

"Dean, what... what happened?"

Dean wiped the water off his face and ran a hand through his hair, opening his mouth to answer just as his phone beeped again.

He yanked it out of his pocket and opened it up. [Sorry about that. I couldn't turn them off in time. Just remember how easily I could get to you, though. Take care of her.]

He shoved the phone at Buffy, who started scrolling through the messages. "I swear, when I find out who this is, I'm going to kill them."

Juliet O'Hara sat at her desk in the precinct, watching the silent security camera. Buffy was reading the messages, and Dean was looking positively murderous. Suddenly, he glanced up at the camera, smiled, and flipped it the bird. Juliet smiled.

"Oh, Dean. You just might be good for her yet."

Chapter Text

"I'm jus' sayin', mate... look a' the cheekbones." Spike grinned as he downed his fifth pint. "You can't argue with that."

"Indeed." Sherlock watched him, nose crinkled. "But that doesn't explain the fact that I am, in truth, only thirty."

"That's b'cause you're a vampire, like me. We sorta stop aging, you daft git." Spike was glaring at Sherlock now. "How much 'ave you 'ad..."

"One tumbler of mildy passable whiskey."

"Then you've got catching up to do, mate."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm human, if I drank five pints, six shots of whiskey, and... oh, looks like seven Rum and Cokes, I'd be dead."

"You're already dead."

Sherlock scoffed. "No, I faked my death. There's a very real difference."

Spike glowered at him. "No, you're not listenin'."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. We're brothers, seperated at birth-"

"Re-birth, we were seperated when I was turned and I only just found out you were turned too."

"-and yet you have no evidence whatsoever to support this?"

Spike growled into a freshly poured pint glass. "And you've got evidence that proves me wrong?" Sherlock produced his driver's license, which Spike sneered at. "I got one o' those too. 'Cept mine says California, and that I'm twenty-eight. Next?"

"Oh for god's sake." Sherlock punched Spike then, as hard as he could, which sent Spike sprawling onto the floor. Pain surged through his hand as he pulled back, shaking it out and gritting his teeth as Spike lurched up and rounded on him. Spike was looking at him through yellow eyes now, visage altered to show the demon dwelling just below it's surface. He growled loudly.

Sherlock growled too. His face never shifted.

Spike stopped then, straightening up and shaking his head to clear the demon. "What's wrong with you, punchin' me like that?"

"Did you not see how I don't shift my face when angered or provoked? I am human."

Spike smiled then. "So tell me why you're in a demon bar, then?"

Sherlock glanced around. A demon bar, eh? That would explain why no one had thought twice about a vampire coming in and drinking nearly his own weight. Hell, it explained why no one had cared when Spike's face had changed, and it was probably not unusual for vampires to bring human thralls or victims along for later.

"Demon bar..." Sherlock was murmuring to himself as he looked around, smiling. "Brilliant."

Spike stared at him, confused. "Yeah, brilliant. It's bleedin' perfect. What are you on about now?"

Sherlock looked back at Spike and grinned. "Education. And you have been most helpful. Thank you."

And with that, Sherlock turned and left the room, leaving a very stunned Spike to watch his coat swirling behind him.

"Fucking ponce." Spike shook his head, and picked up his pint.

Chapter Text

"Douglas, I would like to talk to you."

"Oh dear, that's never a good way to start a conversation." Douglas Richardson looked up over his morning paper. "I see you still don't knock, Castiel."

Castiel looked mildly ashamed. "I thought that, as you were not in the restroom at this time, it would be easier if I simply came to you."

Douglas sighed and put his paper down completely. "Well at least you've learned that much. So what is it you want, Castiel?"

Castiel fidgeted. "I saw something last night."

"I told you to stop going into Dean's room when he's got a lady friend with him, Cas, I really did."

"What? No, no it wasn't anything to do with Dean."

"Sam, then?"

"No, it was... a documentary... on monkeys."

Douglas closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Monkeys?"

"Yes." Castiel smiled. "It made me realize that I need to make a change. Several changes, actually. That's why I came to you."

Douglas opened his eyes and regarded Castiel for a moment. "Alright, I'm no expert on monkeys but I'll give it a go. What do you need to change?"

"Well, my hair, for one."

"Your... hair?"

Castiel nodded fervently. "Yes. I need to grow it out, and I may need help trimming it, making sure it's even."

"You can't just... I don't know, zap yourself a new hairstyle?"

"How would electircity help me grow my hair? I'm given to believe that it's-"

"Yes, alright, forget that. Hair, trim, got it. What... else?"

"I need new clothes."

Douglas nodded. "Yes, the suit and trench coat are a bit worn these days, aren't they?"

"Of... of course they're worn, I wear them."

Douglas placed his head in his hands. "You know, for an Angel of the Lord, you really do make me question the existence of a merciful god."

"I... do I? I do not wish to cause you spiritual-"

"Oh, nevermind it, Cas, let's get back to the topic. New clothes. What kind of new clothes?"

"These." Castiel pulled out several pieces of paper with articles of clothing circled or highlighted. Douglas stared at them for a moment, confused.

"Cas, I rather hate to be the one to break your heart but, these clothes are... old." Douglas shook his head. "I doubt you could find those particular outfits, and just where did you get those pictures anyway?"

"Their source is not of import."

"Alright then. Well, I suppose we could go to a few... vintage stores, or maybe a costume shop, they might have what you're looking for. What else?"

"Groupies."

Douglas licked his lips and said nothing for several moments. Then he swallowed. "Groupies?"

"Yes. The monkeys I watched had groupies."

Douglas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Groupies. Did you, by any chance, watch a documentary... about The Monkees? With two 'e's?"

Castiel opened his mouth, thenclosed it again, thinking. "It is possible that I did."

"Were they singing?"

"Yes."

"Oh someone, anyone, please come take this Angel out of my kitchen." Douglas looked at Castiel with a fatherly but annoyed concern. "Cas, what you saw was a documentary about a music group from the sixties and seventies."

"The voice that was explaining everything said-"

"Forget what the voice told you, the only music they made that was worth listening to came from the sixties and seventies, understand?"

Castiel closed his mouth and nodded.

"Now. You do not need to change your hair or buy new clothes, and you certainly do not, I repeat, do not need groupies, Castiel. You're an Angel of the Lord, and groupies are not what you think they are. You wouldn't know what to do with one, let alone several."

Castiel looked down, nodding slowly. Douglas sighed.

"But, if you'd like... we could always go look at the clothes, I suppose..."

Chapter Text

Dean grinned.

"Ladies, it's not that I'm not flattered, but, uh..." He flashed his left hand. "Married, remember?" He looked at the blonde. "I believe you very kindly informed me that Buffy is special, I had to treat her right, if I so much as thought of looking at another woman-"

"Dean, I'm not coming on to you."

His attention snapped to the brunette. "You're not what?"

She laughed. "Dean, don't be stupid."

"I'm not stupid." He glared.

The brunette smiled. "Of course not. You just think that a pretty girl who helps save your ass is really making a pass at you."

"Shut up, Echo - I explained that."

Echo laughed again. "Right. Which is why you're still sitting here trying to talk us out of trying anything with you."

Dean opened his mouth, closed it - his eyes darted between the two women. "Wait, no - Jules, I knew you had a thing for... but... you too, Echo?"

Echo shrugged, and walked over to stand beside Juliet. "Things happen, you find yourself in odd situations. Feelings... evolve."

Juliet leaned in to kiss her. "Couldn't have put it better myself."

Dean sat back. "I need a beer." He patted his pockets. "And a phone - I have to call my wife."

"Make sure you tell her all about how embarrassing this was for you." Juliet smirked. "And tell her I said hi."

Dean waved back at them as he headed towards the kitchen. "Yeah, yeah - got it." He opened the fridge and pulled out a beer, twisted off the cap as viciously as possible. "You women are gonna send me to an early grave - again."

Chapter Text

John looked around, smiling. Sherlock wasn't home. Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister for the weekend. He was off all day, he had a large cup of tea, and a book he'd been meaning to get to for some time. There was a fire going, and there was snow falling outside. He settled into his chair.

It could not have been more perfect.

He looked at the cover of his book for a moment, smiling, before opening it to the first page.

Nearly half an hour passed, and he sipped at his tea and turned the pages, sighing every now and then.

"John!"

He froze, then scrambled to hide the book. At first, he'd thought it was Sherlock, home already, but then realization hit and he began to panic. It was one thing for Sherlock to see him reading...this. It was another thing if-

"John!"

He looked over, smiling too widely and trying too hard to look innocent. "Oh, hello, Doctor."

The Doctor smiled, fiddling alternately with his sonic screwdriver and bow-tie. "I was hoping you'd be home! Where's Sherlock?"

"Oh, uh..." John licked his lips. "He's at Bart's, I think. Said something about, ah, some research and, uh..."

"John." The Doctor was peering suspiciously at John's far side, where he was desperately clutching his book to his leg, hoping it would go unnoticed. It seemed it would not. "What've you got there?"

"Oh, just... nothing."

The Doctor smiled. "Come on, which book is it? Tell me! I love books, you know that!"

John turned very, very red, but stopped fighting it. The fact was, if anyone might take pity on him, it was The Doctor. John held it out to him with a sigh.

The Doctor took the book from him, eyebrows quirking up as he looked back at John. "Oh, John."

"Look, I know what you're gonna say-"

"John, this book? Really? I hadn't pegged you the type to read... this."

"Yes, alright, I know."

"I mean... Mycroft, yes, obviously-"

"I get i- hang on, Mycroft? Really?"

The Doctor grinned. "Oh yes. He's a hopeless romantic." The Doctor leafed through a few pages, smiling at various lines. "Some of the best people you'll ever meet are hopeless romantics."

John smiled slightly. "And what about the rest of the people?"

The Doctor handed John his book with another smile. "The rest aren't. Simple as that. Usually they're pragmatists. But every romantic needs a pragmatist. And likewise every pragmatist needs a romantic." The Doctor looked at Sherlock's chair fondly. "Why do you think you and Sherlock work so well?"

John's mouth opened, then shut. He couldn't think of anything to say to that.

"Well, I'll be back in a bit. Think I'm going to need you two for something." The Doctor smiled again, then looked at the book and nodded. "Be prepared, there's a birth scene that's..." The Doctor winced slightly. "Well, it's a good thing you're a doctor, I've met too many people who couldn't stomach it."

John's eyes widened. "Wait, there's... oh god."

The Doctor shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

John nodded. "Can I ask you..." He looked at his book, then back at The Doctor. "Just tell me if Bella lives?"

The Doctor smiled. "But that's a spoiler, John! You know how I feel about spoilers."

And with that, The Doctor was off and out the door. John listened, straining his ears, and he could just make out the sounds of the TARDIS as she disappeared. He sighed, and settled back into his reading, a small smile creeping over his face.