The Lost Prophet, Chapter 1
The Impala rattled over the speed bump, the jolt making Sam start awake. He glanced over at Dean, who stared impassively at the road, the moonlight barely illuminating the monotonous fields they rolled past. Yawning, Sam glanced at the dash, groaning when he saw that the time read 3:17. Dean turned his head.
"Finally. How ya feeling Sammy?" He sounded almost hesitant. Sam rolled his shoulders, wincing when the muscles on his back pulled. He took a deep breath before answering.
"Just a little sore. To be honest the wall had more damage than I do. Where are we?" He tried to change the subject.
"Kansas now. But how's your hand?" Dean didn't fall for it. Sam frowned looking down at his fingers. Even in the darkness he could see that the back of his hand and several of the fingers were black and purple, the knuckles bloody. He stretched the fingers apart slightly, and almost hissed when all of the joints popped. Dean looked over, seeming worried.
"Fine. Really. Nothing broken. I'm just a little beat up, seriously." He turned away, looking out the window, hoping Dean would let it go.
"Sammy, that thing threw you through a wall. Through a wall. This isn't a cartoon. If we hadn't just ganked it I swear to god I would kill that thing. I want to get another state over and then I'll get us to a motel and fix you up. I should be taking you to a hospital. And if-" A shrill ringing sounded from the glove compartment, cutting Dean off. With his uninjured hand, Sam clicked open the hatch and pulled out a cell phone. Dean snagged it out of his hand and opened it, holding it to his ear without checking the caller ID. Before he could say anything, the caller spoke.
"Dean." The monotone voice greeted.
"Cas? What is it?" Dean sounded worried. The angel usually didn't bother with technology. Sam moved closer, trying to get his ear near the phone. For a moment, Castiel didn't say anything. Then,
"We have a problem."
Three days earlier, London
John was pacing again, walking the same path in the floor of the small flat that another pair of feet had used to tread. But it wasn't a small flat, it was large, too large, and empty. The clutter and books and worn furniture remained as they always had, John had never had the heart to clear it away. But the flat still seemed empty, and lonely. So he kept the clutter. There was even a jar of human eyes, buried in the depths of the freezer, which quite frankly disgusted John but he daren't clear them away. He would be furious if he came back and they were gone.
If. John froze, his brow furrowed and mouth serious. If he came back. Because he could. Because it was possible. Sherlock could come back. It had been months, months, though it sometimes felt like years, sometimes it felt like no time had passed at all. John imagined that Sherlock was with him. Some part of him was always aware of what Sherlock would be doing. John heard him constantly, pointing out things no one noticed, drawling in that sarcastic manner he had, making snide remarks about Anderson and Mycroft and… oh everyone. All those people who John had made no effort to see or speak to since before the funeral. He had ignored Molly even, though in the first few weeks afterwards she would come and knock at the door, and John would just stand in the flat and make no noise, and both of them would stand on either side of the door, listening to the other breath. When he never answered she eventually left, and something about it made him sad, hearing her timid footsteps retreat down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was really the only person who had known Sherlock that John still talked to. Well, her and Sarah… But Sarah knew not to ever speak of him.
But Sherlock could come back. Maybe. But of course not, that was ridiculous, of course it wouldn't work. John had stumbled upon the website by accident, and had dismissed the thought immediately. He resumed pacing. Finding the site had been an accident, yes, and of course he knew better, such things were stupid to dwell on. But later, he had found himself thinking of it an awful lot. Making a deal. A deal that could bring Sherlock back. Now he thought of nothing else. Back and forth in his head, he went between chastising himself for thinking such a thing was possible, to single-mindedly and intensely wanting. He felt hollow, and sick. Part of him wanted to throw up and part of him wanted to smash everything in sight.
John paused again in his pacing, and locked eyes with the skull on the mantle. It grinned miserably at him. And that settled it. John strode over to the table, sinking down in front of the laptop, going back through his Internet history, unblinking. Even if the site was a joke, it wouldn't do any harm. And he was driving himself mad. He had to try. There. He found it, clicking on the link and holding his breath. The page loaded slowly. The background was black, and pentagram designs popped up on the side of the screen. The words were simple and white, standing out on the page. "How to Summon a Crossroad Demon –Bringing Back the Dead". John began reading.
Two hours later, night had fallen and the flat was dark. Mrs. Hudson had gone out for the evening and John knew he was alone. Even if nothing happened, no one would be there to witness his failure. He had chalked out a pentagram on the floor, and began lighting the candles. He checked that he had all the proper herbs and powders, and then checked the laptop again, reading over the page for the hundredth time, making sure everything was in place. He gave a nervous laugh, which rang loudly in the empty flat. He was being ridiculous, he knew. There was nothing sane about this, no logic could be applied here and if Sherlock could see him he would laugh. But Sherlock couldn't see him. The thought sobered him, and John turned back to the pentagram, burning the herbs, and started reciting.
The latin phrases were unfamiliar to him, but he had been practicing in bits and pieces throughout the day, so even if he wasn't pronouncing it properly, he managed to get through without stumbling or completely muddling the words. He finished and looked up, but nothing had appeared in the pentagram. The site had called it a devil's trap but it was basically a pentagram. John frowned. Nothing had happened. Absolutely nothing had happened. The pentagram was empty. He had known how farfetched the idea had been, how unlikely that there was any truth to it, but he sighed anyways, disappointed. His heart felt heavier than usual, and he was about to chastise himself out loud when something gave a little cough behind him. He spun, knocking over a candle, which guttered out.
In the archway to the kitchen stood the figure of a man, the dark silhouette, the night keeping him in shadows. The man stepped forwards, with dark hair and a sharp black suit, looking amused.
"Being summoned in itself is annoying, but the devil's trap?" He spoke softly. "The devil's trap is insulting. Lucky for you I didn't pop into it by accident."
John swallowed, staring wide eyed at the stranger. Part of him imagined that his daydreams had gone too far, had moved beyond just imagining Sherlock. Part of him thought that he had finally cracked, had finally gone insane. The stranger tapped his foot and raised an eyebrow, waiting. John just continued to stare, open-mouthed. The man sighed in annoyance.
"Well? Why did you summon me? This isn't typically the way to summon me if you want to make a deal, that usually involves actual crossroads, but judging by your rather… surprised look", the man glanced John up and down, disdainful, " I'm guessing that you have no real business with the king of Hell."
John swallowed. The candles made the stranger seem to flicker. He swallowed again and spoke, stammering.
"Yo-you, you're the king of Hell? I-I-I need to make a deal. For my friend." He straightened, gaining confidence. "I want Sherlock back."
The demon raised an eyebrow. He tilted his head, as if considering John. He tilted it the other way, as if appraising him. He sounded almost thoughtful when he answered.
"I could make you a deal… You know it would cost your soul? You would go automatically to hell. You'd have ten years to live before I come to collect though. Ten years with your…" He seemed amused, "Friend."
"Deal. Done. Whatever it takes. I want you to bring back Sherlock Holmes." John almost smiled. His soul, to hell? He had killed men in war. He drank, he sinned. If he had ever believed in heaven or hell, wouldn't he have assumed that was where he would end up anyways? The demon smiled.
"Wonderful. Sherlock you said? Of course you will have to-" he cut off, and his eyes narrowed, but he didn't seem to be looking at John. He turned, staring back into the kitchen, then turned back. "Sherlock Holmes? Do you mean Sherlock Holmes?" His voice was sharp, demanding. The demon stepped up close to John, staring him in the eyes.
"Yes? Yes! Sherlock Holmes, can you bring him back?" John stepped back from him, confused. The demon stared hard at him, then raised his eyebrows.
"Ah. I see. You think Sherlock Holmes is dead." He stated matter of factly.
"Th-think? What do you mean think? He's alive?" John couldn't breath, choking on the adrenaline that pumped though him. His hand stopped shaking for the first time since Sherlock had died. Or, rather, hadn't died.
"Not dead in the sense that I can bring him back from the dead, no. But I can bring him here. I can still bring you Sherlock Holmes. For whatever reason he decided it was better to be dead, I can make him change his mind. Or force him to give up the illusion anyways," he shrugged, uncaring, before adding cheerfully," All it will cost is your soul."
John nodded slowly. Any Sherlock is better than no Sherlock. Anything was better than no Sherlock. The demon grinned, straightening his suit jacket.
"Excellent. Now give me a kiss and I'll fetch him."
Current time, Kansas
Dean had pulled over, swerving into the dirt beside the road. His knuckles had clenched against the steering wheel. Sam leaned closer, trying to hear Cas through the phone.
"Crowley has found the lost prophet. They're in London. We need to find them." Sam leaned back and exchanged a look with Dean.
"What? Found the… What?" Dean sounded as confused as Sam felt. Sam didn't hear the next thing Cas said, but when Dean answered with coordinates, saying the name of the town they passed a few miles back, it became obvious that Cas was trying to find them.
"But, Cas wait! What were you – Cas! Cas? You there Cas? Cas you – God damn it. Well this is just awesome," Dean fumed turning to Sam, snapping the phone shut. The boys just stared at each other wide eyed for a moment.
"Did you hear…?" Dean started, and Sam nodded quickly.
"Did he say 'lost prophet'? What's that supposed to mean?" Sam wondered, but before Dean could reply there was a sharp rap on the driver's side door, making them both jump and turn sharply. Castiel's face was bent low and his nose was pressed awkwardly flat against the window, the rest of his face comically serious. His breath made the glass fog up.
"I have to talk to you." His monotone voice insisted, sounding strange and muffled through the window. Sam clambered out of the car immediately, but Dean had to wait for Castiel to move from in front of the door before he could open it and get out as well.
The air outside was bitterly cold and the stars shone weakly and distantly overhead. Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the brisk temperatures.
"Cas what the hell is going on? What the hell is a lost prophet? How do you guys lose a prophet?" Dean accused, and Cas frowned at being associated with the other angels. Sam walked over the same side of the car, leaning against the hood. Cas stared at them both intensely.
"The angels never lost the prophet, the prophet was lost. His name is one of the names that all angels know instinctively, but several thousand years ago we realized that his name was no longer on the list we had always known. This was back when God still was present in this world, and we assumed that something had made Him decide to not make the man a prophet. We didn't know the reason, but neither did we question it. This was back when Lucifer had been the only one of us to ever question God's will." He explained patiently, shrugging. Sam gawked at him, and Dean's mouth was hanging open. No one said anything for a moment. Sam finally cleared his throat.
"Um, so… What, what does that have to do with anything?" Castiel hesitated before replying, looking at the ground, as if deciding how much to say.
"Nothing. The man is not a prophet. The angels remembered his name though, and when he was born we took turns watching him, to see if he was something else, or if God had planned something special for him." He didn't seem inclined to say more. Dean gave him a questioning look. Cas remained silent.
"And? What happened?" Dean prompted. Castiel again looked away, gauging how much to say on the matter.
"Well." He paused. " He is not a normal human. I had a shift, watching him. When he was still a child. He is not a normal human. But he is no prophet or monster, normal or not he is simply human," Castiel added. Sam and Dean exchanged a look, before nudging Cas forwards again.
"Okay but what does this have to do with Crowley? And why is this such a big problem that you had to track us down?"
"That is where I've been, watching the lost prophet again. No particular reason, other than curiosity, but he was in Hong Kong when Crowley took him. I followed them to London. I believe that the lost prophet's friend made a deal with Crowley. I don't know what they're planning, but-"
"- But when anything the angels bother with, crosses paths with anything demons bother with, then something must be off," Sam finished, groaning internally. Dean was frowning at the ground, processing the information. Looking up, he opened and closed his mouth for a moment, as if trying to figure out what to say.
"Okay. Yeah. Obviously something must be going on. But, again, why did you have to track us down? Aren't the angels on this? Doesn't that mean that we should stay as far away as possible? I thought that angels barbequed any demons that came near their prophets." Dean spoke what Sam was thinking, but Cas narrowed his eyes and looked at them both like the answer should be obvious.
"He is the lost prophet. He is not a prophet. The angels stopped watching him years ago." His gravelly voice sounded almost sarcastic, like this information should be obvious. Dean, frustrated, threw his hands up and walked around to the back of the car. Sam sighed, exhausted and sore. His head hurt too much to process all this.
"I just don't know what we can do about it Cas. Dean and I are pretty busy over here, you know. Europe isn't really our territory…" Sam trailed off. Cas was giving one of his piercing stares, the usually calm angel becoming frustrated.
"What will it take for you to understand?" The angel spoke loudly enough for Dean to hear, "This is important enough for Crowley, doesn't that make it your business? I need your help with this." Dean stalked back over, evaluating the angel, before taking a deep breath and looking at his shoes. When he raised his head again, looking apologetic, Cas reached past him and touched Sam's forehead. A sigh of relief escaped the younger brother, and he rolled his shoulders, now less stiff. Cas stared Dean dead in the eyes.
"I help you whenever I can. I come when you call, if I can. This is important to me. Help me." Desperation had crept into his voice, and the fallen angel, who was shorter than the brothers already, suddenly seemed much smaller than usual. Dean looked over at Sam, at the now bruise-free face, and Sam could see the argument crumble in Dean's eyes.
The eldest laid a hand on Cas's shoulder, patting it quietly. It wasn't like the brothers had any right to turn down the angel. Yes, the three of them had screwed each other over in so many ways, but at this point they had all adopted the forgive and forget method of thinking, and the years had all earned them their revenges in one way or another. They were even enough.
"Alright Cas. Whatever you need."