Author's Note:
Hello! Welcome to my Superwholock story. I apologise in advance if this story becomes unrealistic( like these shows are realistic anyways), but I'm trying to put alot of ideas into this story, so I hope it works out. I also apologise if any character gets out of character, but I'll try to keep everyone in character, it's alot of characters to keep track of.
The first chapter contains fluffy intros, but it is going somewhere(hopefully).
If you have any suggestions please review and I'd love to know how what you think. Enjoy!
Time lines(for your nerdy needs):
-Doctor Who: Series 7 part 2 with Clara and the 11th Doctor (No spoilers for finale contained)
-Supernatural: Season 8 after episode 8 (It's a bit AU, but it was hard to find a Supernatural Season to set it in)
-Sherlock: After Reichenbach, and in this story Sherlock is back with John solving cases
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Doctor Who or Sherlock, nor do I own any of their characters/objects. All rights belong to respective companies and persons. No profit is made, it is only for entertainment (= So, enjoy! (Sorry for long author's note).

This story can also be found on my Quotev profile Cali.

In an indeterminate location above the Pacific Ocean, Dean Winchester clutched the sides of the plane's passenger chair tightly, trying to steady his breathing as the plane rocked slightly. Just turbulence, he tried to reassure himself. But his past experiences on planes led him to believe it might be a demon possessing the pilot, or perhaps the apocalypse decided to start again. That would be just his luck. Besides, he just really disliked flying.

He sighed deeply, glaring it his brother as his knuckles were turning white over the armrests on the seat. It was all Sam's fault; he was the one who noticed the case in Britain and decided that they just had to fly over there and check it out. If this turned out to be noting he was so going to punch his brother.

"Why'd it have to be flying, Sam?" he complained.

His brother turned to glare at him, with his usual 'really, Dean?' face. "How else are we going to get there?" His face changed the classic 'I'm concerned about you' Sammy face. "The plane's not going to crash, Dean."

"You don't know that. It could crash at any time! And we could have… taken a boat or something!" Dean thought for a moment. "Or, we could have just asked Cas to mojo us there!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, it would take way too long to get there on a ship, and I'm sure Cas has better things to do. He's not your personal puppet, you can't just tell him to poof you somewhere just because you're afraid of flying there!"

"I am not afraid of flying, Sam! I just… don't like it…" Dean frowned.

"Yeah, whatever you say, Dean." Sam returned to looking at his laptop.

The plane lurched forward suddenly, causing Dean's stomach to churn. He got up out of his seat, without a word to his brother, heading in the direction of the bathroom.

"Dean!" he heard Sam call from behind him.

"Gotta go, Sammy!" he called back, gripping the backs of the seats as he walked along the plane's aisle. It seemed like an eternity until he reached the bathroom.

After washing himself up, Dean turned to leave the small bathroom, when he collided with someone. In the tiny bathroom. With him. He instantly freaked out, reaching for the weapon he didn't have, because of course, he was on a plane. He would just have to do with punching, or running, or maybe salt, but he just stood there startled, staring at the familiar trench-coated figure, as recognition set in.

Innocent and piercing blue eyes stared back at him. "Dean," the angel greeted, in a familiarly gruff voice.

"Cas…" Dean sighed, "How many times have I told you not to just pop in like that? You startled me, man."

Castiel frowned. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"It's okay." Dean sighed, heart still racing from his fright. Plus, they were on an airplane.

The angel's deeply blue eyes seemed to stare into his soul. Dean wondered briefly if they really could. "Like I told you before, Dean, I want to be a Hunter. I want to help you and Sam; help other people."

He seemed determined and Dean wasn't going to turn him down. He was his friend, and it was of course a huge advantage to have an angel around. "Of course, Sam can tell you all about the crazy case we've found."

"Thank you, Dean."

Dean was about to leave the small room, when he wondered something. "Cas?" he started.

"Yes, Dean."
"Was it hard to land on a moving airplane?"

The angel frowned again. "It was…" he searched for words, "challenging, yes, but I managed without much difficulty—"

"Excuse me!" Dean heard a woman's voice, from outside the door. "Are you alright in there?"

"Fine!" Dean called.

"Dean, I believe we should leave this bathroom now."

Before the angel had a chance, the door was opened for him, and an attendant stood outside, glaring at the two men suspiciously.

Dean was suddenly awkwardly aware of how close he was standing to his angelic friend in the small, cramped space. "I…we were…just…" he began awkwardly.

"I think the woman wants us to leave now, Dean. Come on." Castiel grabbed Deans arm, unknowingly saving him from an awkward explanation (Oh yeah, my angel friend here just teleported into the bathroom here. Sorry, he's not so good with personal space issues), by leading them away from the woman, to Sam.

"Hello, Sam." Cas greeted the younger Winchester, as they arrived at his seat.

Sam looked up from his laptop, as the two sat down. "Hey, Cas." Sam looked confused, "Why are you here?"

"He wants to help with the case," Dean supplied, "I told him you'd fill him in on the details."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Sam looked back at his computer screen. "In London this morning, twenty people just dropped dead at a park. All of them had a heart attack at the same time."

Okay, Dean had to admit that it was defiantly a very weird case that deserved their attention, which is why he agreed to the plane thing anyway, but he still didn't like it.

Cas was staring at Sam. "I don't know of any creature that can do that."

"That's what I said," Dean commented, breathing in hard as the plane lurched slightly again. He gripped the armrests so tightly he thought they might crumble in his hands.

Castiel looked at Dean, noticing his obvious discomfort. "Dean, are you okay?"

"Fine, Cas." Dean managed.

"He's afraid of flying in airplanes," Sam told the angel.

Dean would have defiantly punched his brother if he wasn't concerned with the current jerky tilts the plane was having. Not crashing, not crashing, not crashing…

Cas tilted his head at Dean. "I don't understand, Dean, you've been in more dangerous places than an airplane."

A voice on the loudspeaker announced that they were going through some turbulence, and everything would be fine, and they would be landing in a couple hours.

Dean let out a deep sigh at this statement. Two whole hours. He gripped the chair as if his life depended on it. "I just really hate planes."

Elsewhere in London, specifically in the flat at 221B Baker Street, John Hamish Watson was awoken from a rather pleasant sleep with the loud screeching of an out of tune and rather high pitched violin note. He groaned, staring at the clock; it was 4 A.M. Who plays violin at 4 A.M.?

"Sherlock!" he grumbled, "We've talked about this!" He looked up to see his flatmate towering over his bed, bow and violin in hand. "You can't practice the violin at four in the morning! I need sleep!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sleeping, John? Dull!" He screeched another note on his violin as if to prove a point. John would swear that he was playing these screeching noises just to annoy him. "Get up, John!" Sherlock pulled the covers off of his bed, much to John's annoyance. "We have a case!" He ran out of the room like an excited two year old.

Unfortunately, and since it was a case after all, John Watson reluctantly pulled himself out of bed and got dressed. Okay, maybe not reluctantly, since he was awake now after all the yelling and screeching and no one could blame him if he was at least a little bit excited about having another case…

When he got out, Sherlock Holmes was looking intently at the screen of John's laptop. "Twenty people just dropped dead of heart attacks at a park all at once, John! I think it's my birthday!"

John sighed again, picking up a tea pot, careful to avoid another cup filled with an unidentified liquid. "Sherlock, it's not your birthday. At least try to act like people's deaths don't make you happy."

Sherlock waved that notion off. "Why, John? I don't care what they think. They're wrong."

John sighed, focusing on making some tea, while he silently wondered something. "Sherlock, do you even know when your birthday is?"

"No, deleted that information a long time ago."

"You don't even know your own birthday?!"

"Yes, John, that is what I just said." Sherlock jumped up from the chair, grabbing a scarf along the way. "Mycroft might know," he added, as if that made it alright.

John sighed in defeat, sipping his tea.

"No time, John! I've called a cab!" Sherlock was out the door before John could react.

"Wait, Sherlock!" John called, dropping his tea, and instantly running after his friend, grabbing his coat on the way out.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called, though he didn't know if she was awake yet, "We're going out!"

He ran down the stairs and out of the flat, catching up to Sherlock. They hurriedly climbed into the cab.

"Has Lestrade called you in?" John asked.

"No. But, he will."

John sighed again. "Sherlock, you know he doesn't like it when you just show up at crime scenes without asking."

"He needs my help anyways, and he knows it."

They sat in silence for a while, until Sherlock's phone began to ring. He picked it up, looking dramatically at John.
"Oh yeah, Lestrade? You need us on the case at the park?" he said sarcastically, "Yes, we'll be there in two minutes."

He hung up the phone and looked triumphantly at John. "See, told you."

"I am defiantly, absolutely sure that I landed her here! Right in your backyard!"

Sometime near after the Winchesters landed, Clara Oswin Oswald watched as the Doctor scanned her backyard for his beloved time traveling blue police box. He was clearly displeased about this.

"Are you sure, Doctor? You know, sometimes you don't always land in the right place…"

"Of course I'm sure!" he exclaimed looking behind the bushes for about the sixth time, "And of course I always land in the right place! It just…sometimes it takes a few tries is all…"

Clara glared at the Doctor. "Well, clearly it's not here."

The Doctor jumped up, staring at her. "Of course! Someone must have taken her!"

"The Tardis? In my backyard?" Clara questioned, wondering who she knew that would possibly want to steal an old police telephone box randomly sitting in her back yard. Nope, it was defiantly not anyone she knew.

The Doctor was pouting. "It's okay, Doctor, I'm sure we'll get her back eventually, we always do."

The Doctor sighed. "Yes of course." He sat down at a chair in front of the backyard. "Well, what am I going to do now?"

"You could—"

"I'm going to go find her!" The Doctor jumped up excitedly, beginning to run out of the yard. Clara ran blindly after her mad man with a box—without a box.

A short while later, she was following the Doctor into a grocery store. Apparently he needed a snack. Clara knew that what he really needed was not a snack, but indeed his time traveling bigger-on-the-inside box, but she went with him anyways.

He was standing at the corner of an aisle, murmuring something about fish fingers to go with the custard he was holding, when a man in a trench coat walked backwards into him, not paying attention to where he was going. The man turned around quickly as the Doctor tumbled backwards into a large pyramid-shaped stack of canned beans.

"Doctor!" Clara called, helping him up. The cans were rolling all over the place.

"Umm….sorry…" the man said in a deep, gravelly voice with a sort of confused look.

"It's quite alright." The Doctor smiled at the man. "That would probably have happened even if you weren't there." Clara silently agreed.

She thought that it was quite odd how the man's piercing blue gaze seemed to stare right through the Doctor. He tiled his head to the right. "Umm…Do you know where I can find…pie?"

Clara, who knew the store since she lived in the area, spoke up, pointing to a place on the left. "Pie is over there."

"Thank you, very much. It is very important that I have pie." Okay, Clara thought, he's a little weird. Then again, she was used to weird; she traveled with the Doctor, who was currently staring intently at the strange man, who began to walk towards the pie.

The Doctor dropped his custard, walking quickly behind the man. This must be serious, he dropped the custard, Clara thought.

She quickened her pace to keep up. "What?" she whispered to the Doctor, knowing something wasn't right.

"It's that man…there's just something…off about him—almost inhuman…"

This didn't surprise Clara anymore. "You sure?"

"Define sure."

Clara glared at him, not responding.

"It's just a feeling," the Doctor commented, watching as the trench-coated man walked over to two others, a pie now in his possession. "My feeling are always correct...most of the time."

The two other men both wore suits—cheap suits, Clara noted. One was exceedingly tall with very long brown hair that touched his shoulders, while the other had shorter brown hair and more average height. Trench coat man handed the shorter one the pie, who promptly slapped him on the back in thanks, taking the pastry.

The Doctor walked up to the men with authority, Clara following close behind. He held out his psychic paper. "Hello there, I'm D.I. John Smith, codename, the Doctor and this is my assistant, Clara. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

They looked slightly confused, but the taller man said, "Of course. Ask anything you like." Clara noticed he stamped on the shorter man's foot as he opened his mouth to speak, silencing him.

"Thank you," the Doctor smiled at them "Have any of you gentlemen seen a blue police telephone box?"

Clara mentally slapped him.

"Have we seen…what?" the shorter asked, raising his eyebrows at the question.

"A blue police box. I've… lost it."

"You've lost your blue police box?" the same man questioned.

"Yes."

"We have not seen any blue police boxes." Trench coat said seriously.

"We have, um, seen many pay phones around, though. I don't know if that helps?" Giant added.

"No…" the Doctor replied, sadly, "I'm just looking for a specific one."

Short spoke up in the awkward silence. "Well, now that we've established this, maybe we should—"

Giant whispered something to short, then turned to us. "We're actually from the FBI." He flashed a badge, "I'm Sam Goldenburg and this is my partner Dean Pascow…"

"I'm Castiel," Trench coat added.

"We were hoping you could give us a directions to the park," Sam continued, "I don't know if you've heard about the…suspicious deaths there, but we've been called in to help."

"Suspicious deaths…" Clara could hear the curiosity in the Doctor's voice. "Yes of course…" The Doctor looked at Clara for assistance.

"I can take you boys to the park," she supplied, grinning at the awkward Americans.

"That's great," Dean said dramatically, "Now, let me just buy my pie first…" He clutched the pie tightly.

Castiel was staring intently at the Doctor. "I'm sorry about your telephone box," he told him.

"Thank you," the Doctor replied, following the Americans into the check-out area and the mystery that was sure to come.