Author's Note:

I am glad people seem to be taking an interest in this story finally. I'll be honest, I don't really like how this chapter turned out. It is certainly the weakest so far. I don't know, hopefully you guys will like it anyway.

"You have room to talk." Dean had no intention of answering any questions. Informing people not in the know generally just wasn't a good idea. "I told you that you are fictional character and you haven't tried to commit me to the loony bin, so what does that say about you Holmes?"

Sherlock smirked a bit. Touche. "It means I'm not an irrational person, capable of thinking things through before taking action." Usually, he would just look at the things being bought and would be able to figure out but as far as he could tell there was no real correlation with any of the items. Salt, lots of it. Fire place tools, made of iron it looked like. Matches. Lighters. Gasoline containers. Several flasks varying in size. A large duffel bag. A long hunting knife. He had seen Dean eye the guns as well, but it wasn't added with the other items. With a laptop picked out, it was time to check out. He didn't seem to care about the total and merely swiped the card when the prompt came up on the small machine.

Good. At least Sherlock wasn't asking anymore questions. With the transaction done, he walked back out to their temporary car and put the stuff in the trunk. "All right, food next. I saw an awesome looking burger joint on the way over here."

This was a bad idea. He shouldn't even suggest it, but before he could stop himself Sherlock spoke. "Food later. Give me the keys."

"Fuck no, food now. Driving is kind of my thing." There was no way Dean was going to let the British detective drive. They didn't even drive on the right side of the road.

"Dean, I'm serious." Sherlock held out his hand impatiently, expecting the American to comply with his request.

Dean raised his eyebrows. That was the first time Sherlock had spoken to him like that. For the most part it had been just a bunch of snarky comments between the two of them. He wasn't big on giving in to demands but he supposed caving once couldn't hurt. The British detective was certainly serious and it could be important. He handed the keys over slowly.

"Thank you." Sherlock took the keys and then threw a a long, black scarf at Dean. "Put that on over your eyes" Expecting the American to comply once more, he got in the car.

This Dude was kidding right? "No," Dean muttered as he slid in next to Sherlock. "Tell me what the hell is going on. Why all the sudden demands?" A small smirk touched his lips. "Or is this some kinky, sex thing?"

"Why should I offer you answers when you have given me none?" Sherlock replied cooly. If this stubborn American was John, there wouldn't be so many questions. But it wasn't the doctor. He shut the door to that thought process before it could snowball on him. "I want to take you somewhere, but I prefer if you didn't know the location." He decided to ignore the last comment Dean had made.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Still going with the mysterious thing I see. Okay Holmes, I'm trusting you on this. Don't make me regret." This was a stupid move. There was no real reason not to trust Sherlock but there wasn't any reason to trust the British detective either. However, the Dude had been pretty cool about everything going on without answers. He tied the scarf around his eyes. "Where the hell did you get this thing anyway?"

Sherlock relaxed a little when Dean finally put on the scarf on. It hadn't taken as much persuasion as he thought it would. "I got it while we were shopping," he explained simply. He started the car, drove longer than was necessary and then finally reached the destination in mind. He stopped the car in front of big storage shed. "Don't take it off yet. I'll tell you when." He got out of the car, opened the trunk and took out the large duffel bag. He moved over to the large sliding door that had three separate locks. He undid them all, and slid the door up. He walked back to the car, over to the passengers side and opened the door. "Come on." He helped Dean out of the car, and into the storage unit. He turned on the lights, slid the door back down and finally removed the American's blindfold.

Awesome. So they weren't talking now it seemed. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence per se but the drive seemed to take forever. There wasn't even any music playing. When the car came to a stop Dean was about to take the scarf off when he was told not to. He sighed and rolled his eyes, even though Sherlock couldn't see it. He listened to the sounds going on around him, trying to figure out what was going on. He followed the British detective, not really liking having to trust someone this much. When the scarf finally came off, he squinted a bit as his eyes adjusted to the bright fluorescent lights beaming down on him. Whoa. What the hell was all of this? Fucking awesome, was what it was. There were all kinds of weapons on the wall. Guns, knives, swords, grenades, rope, darts, pipes, filled vials, empty vials and a bunch of other stuff that he probably hadn't even noticed yet. Basically a small arsenal. Most of the stuff probably wasn't legal. He turned to look back at Sherlock. "What are you, a Goddamned British Rambo? Where the hell did you get this stuff?"

Sherlock had acquired most of the things from his brother. Having an older brother in the British government was definitely useful at times. He was taking down dangerous men and women and he wasn't going to go in unequipped. Instead of answering the question, he shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I saw you looking at the guns at the store. Thought maybe you would want to stock up. Feel free to take whatever you want, I can get it replaced." He threw the duffel bag he was holding at Dean. Bringing the American here wasn't a good idea, but he hadn't seemed capable of a rational thought since meeting the other man.

This was the equivalent of Christmas for Dean. He handled various weapons, testing the weight and feel in his hands. He turned to Sherlock with a crossbow in his hands, eyebrows raised. "Really Dude? Do people use these things?"

Another shrug. "I haven't used one yet but I like to be prepared. You never know when you will need one." Sherlock sighed. He didn't like all the things being man handled. "If you feel the need to touch everything, make sure you don't drink anything from the vials. Most of them are poisonous."

"Yeah, in case you get teleported back to the 1700's it will be useful then." Dean smirked a bit, but put the crossbow back. Actually, considering how fucked up his life was, that wasn't impossible. It wouldn't be the first time he had time traveled. He took the crossbow off the wall again and put it in the bag. The British detective was right, better to be prepared.

"Do you even know how to use one of those?" Sherlock shook his head. "Are you done yet?" Despite his last question, he grabbed a bag for himself and began compiling things. He wasn't sure when he would be back here next or what would be needed. Something serious and possibly important was going on. He wasn't entirely sure what 'it' was, but it certainly had his interest and he was determined to be a part of it, even if the American wasn't telling him anything.

"How hard can it be? Point, shoot, reload." Dean stopped putting things in his bag to watch Sherlock. "Dude, what are you doing? I appreciate the help, but after dinner we are going our separate ways Holmes." He couldn't afford any distractions. He couldn't let another person in. It would be a death sentence. He didn't need any more guilt.

Sherlock glared at Dean. "Who says I was coming to help you? I have my own shit to worry about." That was true enough. He threw a sheathed knife into the bag. "Fine!"

Dean copied the British detective. "Fine! Guess I'll see you around!" He closed the bag, slung it over his shoulder and bumped into Sherlock purposefully as he passed the taller man. They were worse than five year olds, weren't they?

Sherlock grabbed Dean by the arm, halting the American mid step. Their eyes met, intensity in both of them. Then they were kissing, his back pressed into the nearest shelf. Why did this keep happening? Was the only way they knew how to relieve stress and tension was to resort to... It was hard to keep thinking, because the kissing had become rather aggressive and they were both biting and it was sloppy, yet wonderful.