Dean, awoke groggy, from having had his lights punched out by a furious angel, infected with the notion that this stupid cause was righteous and that there was still hope that somehow he, Sam and Castiel could "save the world." As if, it seemed to Dean, the two brothers had mucked up the balance of things in the first place. You don't employ the man who broke the universe to fix it. You get a more competent man to do the job. And Dean, well, Dean was not that man. He blinked, as he removed a soggy towel from his head. Bobby was passed out in his wheelchair, across the room from him. But Dean could tell this was obviously not his handiwork. Even if Bobby had been drunk, it was too sloppy. He was a hundred percent sure it'd been done by an angel who despite until recently had the ability to heal people, had no idea how to "heal" people. His forehead was actually wet, as he touched his head to investigate the damage. And swollen, apparently. Oh Gah -
He grimaced, as he peeled of a wet plaster from his face, tab half removed. He hoped that was all that Castiel has stuck to his face. He made a silent decision to stay away from mirrors. It'd save him a few internalised tears.

Getting up was an effort, not able to be accomplished without some teeth grinding, and a slight exhalation through his teeth as his body registered its soreness, wanting to make its injuries crystal clear to Dean. As if he didn't know already. Getting beaten up by his best friend was going to scar your memory, he didn't need pain as a brutal reminder. "Cas?" He rasped, but the angel now seemed to be gone. He did a quick sweep of the room, almost expecting the angel to suddenly appear, expression sullen, arms crossed in disapproval, maybe another punch in the face, if Cas was really ticked off. That angel needed to learn the meaning of "subtle". He was worse than Dean at dealing with emotions, and that was saying something.

His eyes spotted a bottle of beer on the rickety table by the sofa he'd crashed on instead. Well, Castiel certainly knew something about wounds. He positioned himself as comfortably as possible, reaching for the bottle, groaning as he tugged on his pair of handcuffs. They'd actually cuffed him. Figures. Dean rolled his eyes, realising that the bottle was empty. Of course. What a brilliant way for Castiel to express anger. His lips pursed, as he noticed a note, clinging to the bottom, damp from the bottle's condensation.

Dean snorted, as he skimmed over Castiel's calligraphy. He had neat handwriting, only to be expected of the angel. Dean would bet good money that before Castiel had "gripped him tight and raised him from perdition" he'd been the "goody two shoes" in heaven that didn't know what fun meant.

~:~

Dean,

I've gone to find the Doctor, the last time Lord, seeing as the search for God has failed, and despite everything I've done for you, you are going to fail me too. I have fallen for you to become this...abomination, useless and unable to help and you sulk and talk about how all our efforts are wasted.

When I come back with information on the Doctor's whereabouts, keep your opinions to yourself, because much like you the Doctor is done with being alone, and has been left by himself for too long. You think you have it hard Dean? Try having a whole universe to deal with for eternity, because that's what he has to go through, that's what I have to go through. Every day Dean. My own family has rejected me. I have killed my brothers -

This is the apocalypse Dean. There isn't time for your tantrums, it is your duty to solve this problem. We all travel on the cusp on knives Dean, your decision is permanent.

Yours Cas,
(I took some of the pie substance out of your "fridge". It was quite succulent.)

~:~

Upon reading the note, the words "That son of a –" Escaped Dean's lips. Of all the in sufferable things that Cas could have done –/p

This was betrayal of the most abominable kind. "What's the point of raising me from "perdition" if you're going to take my friggin' pie!" Dean exclaimed automatically, loud enough for Sam to hear from the next room. "You're up..." He said slowly, before raising his eyebrows, as he processed what Dean had said. " Are you…talking to yourself?"

"Be serious Sam. Castiel stole my pie, the whole frickin' thing."

"Well, what did Cas say, is he here?" Sam asked, gauging his surroundings, posture tense, as if expecting Cas to appear -up close and personal. "Has he come back from finding the Doctor?"

Dean flushed slightly, not wanting to elaborate beyond what was necessary. That letter was private. It didn't have anything to do with Sam. "He was...just giving a little pep talk." Dean said, grinding his teeth, not wanting to mention…everything else that the letter had contained.

Dean was just…tired. Tired of the apocalypse. And Castiel had to take the one thing that Dean could've looked forward to this morning, a pie. And that pie had meant a lot in his sucky world. He was sick of everything. All that they did, was useless, even now he could see Sam, slipping back into his anger every time he fought. And each time…he looked at him, he could see Sam saying yes to being Lucifer's vessel. And it was breaking him.

They couldn't save anyone. More explicitly, Dean couldn't save anyone. He was too weak, too broken. Again he thought back to Lisa and Ben. He wanted that for so much. But he couldn't have it. It was an impossible dream. His destiny was being carved out for him, and there was no way he could avoid it. You can't escape angels and demons forever. And the kid, Adam - there was no way in hell that Dean was letting that kid take his place as Michael's vessel. His life was in his hands.
"I mean look at this Sam," Dean carried on, wanting to fume a bit more. "First he beats me up, and then he steals my pie. That's a hate crime."

"Can you blame him?" Sam asked, suddenly serious. "I mean he fell for us Dean, gone against all of heaven - his family and you were going to say yes to Michael." Sam swallowed, choosing his words carefully, seeing for once that Dean was actually listening to him. "Just, I know it's a long shot but please, give this a chance, I believe in you Dean -" .

Dean eyes flickered to Sam's face, sadly surprised by his transparent honesty. "But I don't believe in you Sam. After everything you've done, Ruby, the demon blood -" He shook his head. "I'm sorry."
Sam nodded, keeping his composure, "I know, but I'm going to prove myself to you."
Dean was unable to answer, swallowing. Sam knew his whole speech already. He had nothing more to say. And thankfully he didn't need to as Cas appeared amongst them. The moment of gratefulness was somewhat short-lived for Dean. Seeing the man who'd just beaten you up, eating your hard-earned pie was going to do things to you. But he was unable to word his anger, without humiliating himself, because who gets mad over something as petty as pie? And if he brought something as stupid as that up, who knew what else was going to spill off of his stupid tongue - too late to be snatched back. Dean didn't do "feelings". Dean inhaled food, swallowed beer and picked up women instead. And it seemed to work just fine.

So he resigned himself to folding his arms, hoping to retain a sense of dignity, despite his damaged pride, and his swollen, bruised face. Sam had to hide a small smile, slightly amused, thinking that the two looked like an stubborn married couple the way that they were carrying on.

"I still can't find him."

"Maybe he's –"

Castiel glared back at Sam, irritated. "He's a time traveller who's wiped himself off the map entirely. Everyone believes him to be dead. He's been forgotten from history." He paused, frowning, cocking his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Did I offend you Dean? I thought I positioned myself at a polite social distance but if you -"

"Just continue Cas. It's "fine"." He enunciated, a blush creeping up his neck, realising too late that Castiel had said that on purpose, to mock him.

"Is that sarcasm? You seem to be annoyed." He performed another exaggerated head tilt, visibly slurring his words, a twisted caricature of himself. Another bite was taken out of the pie. "Would you like some pie Sam?" The angel asked, offering Sam a chunk of the crumbly mush. Dean glared at Sam, his expression saying if you dare to get involved I swear I will play "Heat of the Moment" on repeat in the impala until your ears bleed, and then play it some more for good measure.
"No thanks Cas." Sam choked, Dean fuming as he saw Sam's red face, biting back laughter, apocalypse or not, drunken Castiel trying to get back at Dean was hilarious.

Either way, Castiel decided it was time to move the conversation onto more mature matters. "There are parts of history that just don't seem to exist anymore, like the Cybermen and the Santaurans."

"They sound funny." Dean said snidely, grabbing at the opportunity to slight Sam and Castiel's new plan.

Castiel bristled, his jaw clenching, as Dean grated on Castiel's worn thin nerves. "This isn't a joke Dean. They almost gassed the whole planet. And they would have succeeded if it wasn't for the doctor."

"Well, he isn't here now is he?"

Castiel licked his fingers, from all traces of the pie. "No, but I think if I gave up what little grace I had left, it could emit a large enough dose of radiation to draw his Tardis' attention, since finding "God" has failed."

"What would happen to you?" Dean asked, all bitterness disappearing, as he stared at the angel.

"Does it even matter?" Castiel spat, his voice a low growl. "It's all we've got and with your mind set at the moment, I don't want to be here when you give yourself over to Michael and destroy half the planet. Besides, I can hardly see how I've been of much use at the moment."

"Don't talk like that Castiel." Bobby snapped, suddenly awake, catching them off guard, as he glared at the three of them. "You have no right to talk like that idjit. Not while I'm in the room."

"Bobby –"

"Don't you dare Dean; I'm just as disappointed in you as I am in him. Do you want to kill me, with all of you sacrificing yourselves every five minutes! Do you think it's fair on me?"

"I'm sorry, Bobby."

"You should be. Now that's not an option Cas, what else have we got?"
"It's all we have got." Castiel stated, meeting Bobby's disgruntled gaze.
"Castiel might be right." Sam said quietly, only to be interrupted by Dean.
"Don't you dare pick sides!" Dean snapped. "No one is falling or dying or whatever, I don't care. We'll keep an eye out. He'll show up eventually. You said before that Amy and Rory Pond were his part time companions, do you know where they are?"
"Dead. I found their gravestones in a cemetery." Castiel sighed. "There's Torchwood, but they're occupied…what with it being the apocalypse, and the demons wanting some…more advanced technology."

"Is there anyone else?" Dean said, frustrated with his brother, the angel and the whole freaking apocalypse. He was sick of it all. But he couldn't let them Cas do something this stupid. Wasn't it ever enough? He wished he could just take a day off, ride in the impala, with Sam and Castiel to the old shack that he'd taken Sam to for a long weekend, without his dad knowing. They wouldn't even need to do anything. They could just watch TV, or do something stupid to pass the time. Castiel was entertainment enough.

He blinked, his eyes slightly hazy, as Castiel's low voice brought him back into focus."There is a man who goes by the name of Sherlock Holmes, who apparently has been able to find the Doctor in the past. I'd rather not involve him, as he is on Zachariah's radar, and of course we can't afford the angels finding out where we've hidden Adam."

"Why's he on their radar?"

"He knows about the prophecy, angels, demons…the apocalypse. For a human who's not a hunter he is very well informed…"

"Okay, let's go." Sam said his eyes flicking to Dean, a silent plea as he moved to unfasten his handcuffs.
Dean flinched away, rubbing his wrists. "I'm not helping." He said resolutely. "Not while the angels are looking for Adam."
"I've got him in the panic room, and I'll be keeping an eye on him." Bobby said wheeling over to Dean. "Don't you go thinking you can run off while you're out there, idjit."

Castiel outstretched his hands to both of their shoulders before Dean could protest.

Bobby's shack was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar and empty, dark street. They faced an apartment with an oak door, presumably in London, judging from the black taxicabs and the rain. "It has an angel sigil," Castiel explained, glancing to the red symbol upon the door. "I won't be able to get inside."

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, Sam biting his lips, as Dean shrugged, looking bored. Sam was well aware at this point in time, Dean was a major flight risk, and with Castiel unable to keep an eye on him, he might run off. It'd be too easy for him to get lost in London and tip off Zachariah to his location. Dean wasn't thinking straight.

"That's okay Cas," Sam said quietly before knocking.

The door was answered immediately: a man with dark, erratic hair and piercing eyes. Even though he was smaller than both Dean and Sam, his intimidating stare seemed to compensate for the height difference. "Hunters." He said appraising them. "The Winchesters, to be exact I presume, and you have your little fallen angel, Castiel?" Sherlock said nodding to Cas, who tipped his head in greeting.

"It's good to finally see you Sherlock."

"It'd be nice if you took your sigil down so we could all talk and get this over with." Dean stated, crossing his arms, his voice dripping sarcasm. "How do we know you're not a demon?"

The man retaliated with grace, gesturing to the salt barrier that separated them, lining the doorway. "Entertain me. And try to make it interesting. Stick to the facts. You have no idea how many pointless details I have to sift through."

"May we come in or do we have to stand outside like salesman?" Dean quipped. "Cas, you didn't mention how much of an asshole this guy is."

"It crossed my mind. Thought it'd be better not to mention it."

"Yes, please do keep your idiocy to yourself, I'd rather you not taint the air." Sherlock rubbed the red from his door, motioning for them to come inside. "Would you like some tea?"

"How British of you, but I think I'll stick to beer and business."

"I'll have some," Sam smiled, nudging Dean. "Be polite."

"I did not understand. Why is tea considered British?" Castiel frowned, as he awkwardly sat in a cluttered armchair, moving aside a pile of papers, and a glass jar filled with dead crickets. The whole place was a peculiar arrangement of both order and chaos. Dean thought he saw an eyeball in a jar, when Sherlock opened the fridge for some milk, the kettle softly hissing. "Great," He whispered, looking about him, at the microscope, and the blood samples. A corner of the rug curled, showing a Devil's Trap. "Who is this guy?" Dean hissed to Castiel.
"Consulting Detective, the only one in the world."Sherlock answered for him, handing Sam and Castiel a cup of tea.

"And what is that may I ask? I don't mean to rain on your parade but that sounds made up."

Sherlock grimaced. "I'm the one that police go to when they are out of ideas."

"If you say so."

"He's right about the police force being hopeless. You know how clueless they are about monsters." Sam interjected, giving Dean the look that told him to shut up and let him do the talking. Dean reflexively turned to Cas, hoping for a shared look of sympathy, but he too busy staring at a jar of crickets, for once his angelic eyes filled with wonder, rather than the usual benign slate he seemed to wear. Dean rolled his eyes, both at Cas and the asshole's patronising response. "Yes listen to your brother Dean, not that you do much anyway, given your addiction to food, sex and porn to fill your self-hating hole, cover your abandonment issues and your inability to trust anyone, even yourself anymore. You doubt your abilities."
Dean actually laughed, in disbelief, as if this analysis would impress him. "You think that you're –"

"You are in a co-dependent relationship with your brother, and you are seriously considering becoming a vessel because you feel inept to the task of "saving the world", you're currently in an argument with your angel, and your brother, is a pent up anger time bomb waiting to explode, who strangely still has placed some trust in you. Enough to have you not going out in public without a leash."

"You think you're so clever, well, I've got no time for your therapy. Can you find the doctor or not?"

"Yes. Easily." Sherlock lit a cigarette. "Granted, he'd most likely be unable to help you… He isn't in the mood for apocalypse saving at the moment, last time I got in contact with him."

"How do you know…?"

"You're not the only people trying to find the doctor."

"Who else?"

Sherlock smirked. "I am sworn to secrecy."

"Now listen, I don't like you. But as much as I want to punch you in the face, I'm not because we need you to put us in contact with the Doctor so we can all go home. How soon can you do it?"

"Three hours."

"What do you want in return?" Castiel asked.

"I don't charge for my work, I do it largely based on interest…and your situation is interesting…" Sherlock replied, drumming his fingers, as he took a drag from his cigarette. He paused. "But I'd like to examine the Colt."

"Are you serious?" Sam interrupted, "That thing can kill almost anything, why would we give it to you?"

"Because if you've come to me, I'm all you've got. Just a quick examination." Sam reached into his pocket, but Sherlock repeated. "The real gun."

Dean sighed, passing it to him. He turned it over in his hand before handing it back to him. "Thank you."

"Now, for the most part all information on the Doctor has been destroyed, all apart from one computer, called Mr. Smith."

"Mr. Smith?" Dean paused. "That sounds like a terrible James Bond movie character."

"Dean, one of your aliases is Dean Smith – "

Castiel was silenced by a withering glare, looking down to give a poignant, exasperated stare as his cup of tea in his hands. Dean almost felt sorry for him. Then he remembered Castiel stealing Dean's pie just because he was mad at him. That helped to settle matters.

"He's an alien life form, and despite the fact he's a computer, he has an organic memory." Sherlock informed them, as he retrieved his laptop from a hidden drawer, underneath the cluttered coffee table. "I'd rather use my phone, but this is more delicate."

"So you're going to hack an alien supercomputer?"

"Yes. Now leave. I need to work."

"But how do we know that you're not –"

"You were willing to give me the Colt are we really going to dispute my likelihood of turning traitor? You gave me a job, now let me get it done and get out. Give me your number and I'll text you when I'm done."

Sam scrambled around for a pen, sliding him a card onto the top of his coffee table, unusually clean compared to the rest of the chaos. There was a kind of order, but he was yet to figure it out.

Sherlock took another drag from his cigarette, now absorbed entirely in his work of weaving his way into the brain of Mr. Smith. He'd rather do that than talk to an overly concerned Sarah Jane Smith. The Doctor was supposed to be dead. No need to tip off a third party.