A/N: Not sure if I like this chapter as much, but I've been over it about six times with a fine-tooth comb so here goes.
For those of you who haven't watched Supernatural but are reading through this anyway, 1) God bless you. no really. there's a special place in heaven for people like you. and 2) I tried to give little explanations of things to make it a bit easier... hope it helps.
Enjoy!

The Devil's Fear: Part Two – The Unknown

Sherlock didn't answer. "It must have been a false negative," he said, re-typing what he had tried before. When he hit enter the second time, however, there was no change.

"I suppose 'dying of fright' is looking better and better," said John wryly, but his brow wrinkled in confusion. Sherlock had been so certain that this was The Devil's Foot. "Maybe it was a different poison," he suggested. "The sulfur smell could've just been a coincidence."

"Maybe," agreed Sherlock, typing in a new set of instructions. "This will test for any other type of airborne poison," he said, pressing enter for a third time. It took a little longer to finish, but when it did, the results were negative once more. "Nothing!" said Sherlock abruptly, spitting it out through clenched teeth like a curse word.

"He could've ingested it," said John.

He shook his head. "There weren't any signs that the three men had drunk anything before they died. The dishwasher was empty, and there weren't any dirty glasses sitting on the counter or in the sitting room." He shook his head again, and John saw an unfamiliar gleam of bewilderment in the detective's pale eyes. "We'll have to go back to the crime scene. Try talking to the two witnesses, if we can."

John nodded. He doubted it would be much help, but when Sherlock was confronted with a mystery that even he couldn't solve, there was no stopping him until he'd exhausted every possibility. "We could try talking to those fake FBI agents, too," he suggested.

"Oh, yes, that reminds me—" Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled the little scrap of paper onto which was scribbled the number of the men's "superiors." The Time Lord dialed it into his mobile and handed it to John, who took it wordlessly and held it to his ear while Sherlock began piloting the TARDIS back to where it was before.

"Agent Rickman speaking. This better be damn important," said a gruff voice after only the second ring.

John was slightly taken by surprise, but he said valiantly, "Hello, yes, this is Dr. Watson from the Torchwood Institute, we just wanted to check that the men you sent have clearance—"

"'Course they have clearance! I sent them down to Arkansas myself. Will that be all?"

John hesitated before deciding he didn't want to engage this man in any more conversation than was necessary. "Yes," he said.

"Good," replied the man harshly, and hung up without any further warning.

John pulled the phone away from him and stared at the 'Call ended' message for a moment. "Their superior agent is real," he said finally, as Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed his surprise.

Sherlock looked up from across the console. "Really? What did he say?"

"His name was Agent Rickman. He sounded pretty cross," replied John, unable to describe the encounter any further.

"They must have a third man," Sherlock concluded, but John wasn't paying much attention. 'Agent Rickman,' he'd said. Costner, Freeman, and Rickman… Where had he heard those names before…? "Robin Hood," he said suddenly.

"Sorry?"

John, who was delighted to have made a connection Sherlock didn't, repeated, "Robin Hood. You know, the movie, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. It's on the telly every other night."

"What about it?"

"It stars Kevin Costner, Morgan Freeman, and Alan Rickman. Those are the names the three of them used. A movie reference for God's sake…"

"Not very professional," agreed Sherlock, as the deep noise of the TARDIS told them they'd landed.

In order to beat Martha Redstone back, they time-traveled to a point just seconds after they'd left the crime scene, materializing in the exact same spot as they'd been before. They hurried back to the house; at most, they'd have ten, fifteen minutes to find out what they could and get out before the angry wife arrived.

As they stepped inside the door, however, Sherlock closed his hand around John's forearm as a warning gesture. John stopped and, after a shared glance, they inched quietly forward. In the sitting room, the two imposters were having a muttered conversation.

"…ever heard of these guys? Torchwood?"

John recognized the deeper voice of the one who called himself Agent Freeman. The other man must've answered nonverbally—shaken his head no, presumably—because the first one said, "Guess it doesn't matter. What do you think? Abbaddon?"

"Gotta be," murmured the second man. "I mean, the sulfur, the—"

John, in an effort to get closer, had stepped on a floorboard which gave an agonizingly long, loud creak. The voices in the other room halted and, realizing their game was up, both John and Sherlock stepped around the door as if they'd never stopped in the first place.

"Back so soon?" asked the first man. He looked none too happy to see Sherlock.

"Where's Vanessa?" asked Sherlock without preempt.

"Right here," said a familiar voice, and the woman in question appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "Did you find something?"

"It wasn't the wife," answered Sherlock. "We need to speak with the two witnesses."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a second," said Agent Freeman. "I thought she was lost or something. How'd you find her so fast? And how do you know she wasn't involved?"

"I'm very quick," replied Sherlock sarcastically with a glance at Vanessa, who winked. "We need to talk to the witnesses," he repeated.

"Yeah, so do we," said the taller agent, also turning towards Vanessa. Sherlock cast the two men a dirty look that no one besides John seemed to notice.

"Bit late for that," she said. "They've just been carted off to a psych ward."

"Where?" asked Sherlock quickly.

"Old Briarton City Hospital. It's not too far from here," she answered. All four of them—Sherlock, John, and the two other men—made rapidly for the door. There were several annoyed glances cast between them, but neither of them said a word as they made their way for their own rides.

Sherlock cursed quietly once they were out of earshot. "I knew we should've arrived at a later time," he muttered. "They were probably about to leave, too… Pity."

"We can just travel back in time about an hour before now, can't we?" suggested John.

"No, because the men weren't at the hospital until probably about five minutes ago. Anyway, existing in four different places at the same time is a dangerous thing to do, John, even with my amount of caution. It isn't wise to double back on your own timeline."

A couple minutes later and they stepped outside the TARDIS to find that it had cloaked itself as a custodial closet with a "KEEP OUT" sign over the door. None of the nurses or patients passing by seemed to notice the two men who clearly weren't custodians stepping outside of a custodial closet.

"She's got pinpoint accuracy," said John, his eyes landing on a sign that read Level 4 – Psychiatric Care.

"Who do you mean, 'she'?" asked Sherlock suspiciously.

"Your TARDIS," replied John, slightly annoyed.

"I've told you before, John, it's just a machine. The fact that we landed in the loony bin section of the hospital was due to my skill." He headed off down the floor. John, however, gave the door an awkward pat and muttered thanks before hurrying after his companion.

They stopped at the front desk, where Sherlock flashed his psychic paper and said, "Police. We're here investigating the death of George Redstone and we were told two men who witnessed it were brought here. May we speak with them?"

She looked closely at the psychic paper before her eyes turned shrewdly on John. "Where's his ID?" she asked.

Sherlock passed the psychic paper behind his back and showed it to her again with his other hand. She looked closely at it before her eyes met Sherlock's. "Yeah, they've just been brought in," she said finally. "Room 406."

The two men were just being settled into the room in question. Their eyes were wide and staring, not seeing anything in the room at all, John thought. He'd seen men in this condition after too long—or too much—in Afghanistan. They both looked like fit, healthy men, but he had a feeling that that wouldn't last very long. The nurse, who'd been finishing up preparations, looked up when they entered, her eyebrows raised.

"Police," repeated Sherlock. "Here about the death of George Redstone."

"Yes, well… You probably won't get much out of these two," said the nurse sadly. "They haven't said a word since they got here."

Nevertheless, she bustled out of the room, leaving them alone with the two deranged men.

Sherlock turned to the first man, stepping up to his bedside and looking the man over. "Hello," he said, his gaze fixing on the man's face. The man said nothing. "Can you hear me?"

The man mumbled something. "What was that?" asked John, leaning down to listen. Whatever the man was saying, it wasn't in English; John could make no sense of it. It was strange, though. If he'd heard it somewhere other than from the mouth of a man scared literally out of his wits, he would've guessed it was a foreign language as opposed to a stream of nonsense. The man, at least, seemed to know what he was saying—he was staring at John in utter terror. Sherlock moved onto the next man while John tried to get something out of the first. If they knew anything about what happened, however, they were in no state to talk about it.

Before they could decide whether or not it was worth staying any longer, the door opened. "…if Cas had just—" the taller man was saying, but he stopped abruptly as the two FBI imposters saw Sherlock and John inside.

The shorter man crossed his arms, shifting to stand in front of the doorway so as to block their only means of escape. "Okay, who are you guys?" he asked.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this is John Watson," replied Sherlock matter-of-factly.

John would never have thought that a single expression could contain so much skepticism had he not seen it on the shorter man's face. His partner's eyebrows rose in surprise—more at their tenacity for saying such a thing than at the statement itself. "How stupid do you think I am?" asked the shorter one.

"You probably shouldn't ask him that," said John, struggling to hold back a grin.

The man raised his eyebrows. "You're serious?" Sherlock nodded. "Well, alright then, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson…" He hesitated before each name, clearly still disbelieving. "I'm going to have to ask you both to leave."

"And if we don't?" asked Sherlock coolly. There wasn't any point in staying since they had just been about to leave, but John decided not to mention as much in front of the other two—anyway, if Sherlock wanted to be stubborn about this, then there was no stopping him.

"We'll arrest you on the charge of impeding a federal investigation," said the taller one with just a hint of a threatening tone.

"Actually, I don't think you will," replied Sherlock calmly. "You're not actually with the FBI, and we both know it." The two men stared at Sherlock in a mixture of pure shock. "So, unless you want me to arrest you for impersonating a federal agent, you're going to tell me who you are and why you're investigating this case." A smug smile the likes of which John had rarely seen spread across his face as he waited expectantly for an introduction.

The two men exchanged a significant glance and heaved identical sighs. The shorter one said, "I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother, Sam. We're hunting a demon to stop the apocalypse."

-x-

Jackson, Tennessee, thirteen hours earlier

The hotel room was dimly lit, dingy, and smelled like mildew (and Dean could've sworn he heard the scratching of a rat inside one of the walls), but it was cheap, on the very edge of the city, and it was a place to stay. After their last job, even the thin, scratchy blankets looked warm and welcoming, the creaky mattress as comfortable as a cloud. Both Winchesters dumped their luggage on their respective beds, not bothering to unpack. Then Sam reached for the remote while Dean made for the bathroom.

Sam and Dean Winchester were hunters—though not the type that would sneak through the woods to shoot deer. Instead, they hunted the supernatural: malevolent spirits, demons, Pagan gods, vampires, werewolves, monsters, et cetera. If it was a danger to humans, it was killed. They traveled from state to state, staying in cheap motels and following possible omens such as electrical storms, strange deaths, "haunted" locations, and other such things. It was a rough, dangerous lifestyle, but one they wouldn't—or one they couldn't—give up.

"I'm gonna take a shower," growled Dean.

Sam didn't reply. A few moments after his brother had closed the door behind him, he heard the water running. And, a minute after that, a sudden yelp of surprise, followed shortly by a loud curse.

"Dean?" called Sam, shutting off the TV and standing, alarmed.

"I'm okay," replied Dean from behind the door, sounding exceptionally irritated. A second later, he emerged, dripping wet with a towel around his waist and an extremely disgruntled expression on his face. Just behind him came a blue-eyed man in a trench coat: Castiel.

Castiel ("Cas" for short) was an angel sent from Heaven—literally. After Dean had traded his soul to save his brother's life, Cas had been the one to drag him back out of Hell in order to stop the apparently impending apocalypse. The angels needed the Winchesters' help to stop the world from ending; so far, though, it wasn't going too well.

"Damn it, Cas," snapped Dean. "We just got back from a job, okay? We're tired. Let us sleep a few hours, at least." Even Sam, who was normally friendly towards the angel, was less than happy to see him. He'd been looking forward to a good night's rest.

"It's Lilith," said Cas without preempt.

"Another seal?" guessed Sam. According to Cas, "seals" were deeds which could be done, similar to achievements in a videogame, except with far more disastrous consequences: once sixty-six of them were broken, Lucifer would rise and the apocalypse would begin. Lilith, who was a very powerful demon, was apparently trying to make that happen.

Cas nodded. "She's trying to raise a demon named Abbaddon. It is written that Abbaddon will be freed from his prison to strike fear into the hearts of the cruel, and the blood of his third victim will break the seal."

Sam asked the obvious question: "How do we stop it?"

"We keep Abbaddon from being set loose."

"Okay, so—" Dean started to say, but he was cut off as the hotel room suddenly disappeared, replaced by what appeared to be the dark, dungeon-like basement of an old convent. Cas, apparently, had just flown them there.

"Son of a bitch, Cas!"

Sam, who was busy getting a look at the place, looked over as he heard Dean's sudden, frustrated outburst. What he saw nearly made him choke with laughter. Dean, who had been transported exactly as he was, was now standing in the middle of a dank basement, leaving puddles of hotel shower water on the concrete floor. He was still clutching the towel around his waist and was still, otherwise, naked.

"How the hell am I supposed to fight demons like this?" asked Dean, gesturing stiffly at the towel.

"We don't have enough time to fix it," replied Cas, shrugging off his trench coat and handing it to Dean. "Abbaddon could be released at any second, if he hasn't been already."

"Great," muttered Dean, pulling on the trench coat and buttoning it over his bare chest. "Just great." With great reluctance, he let the towel drop once he had thoroughly buttoned and belted the coat. "God, this does not feel right…"

Cas, however, wasn't listening. It was unusual to see the angel without his trench coat walking swiftly down the corridor, but he didn't appear to notice its absence. Sam, barely concealing a grin, set off after the angel with Dean following close behind, his gaze stewing with the typical Dean mixture of moody embarrassment.

Their haste, however, was unnecessary. The place from which the demon was released was obvious to them as soon as they laid eyes on it: a dead body lay bloody on the ground, the smeared remnants of séance symbols still marking the floor. A few flames still guttered in candles whose wax had pooled up around the wicks until it spilled over the edge, solidifying in rivulets at the bottom.

A chillingly singsong voice called, "Looking for Abbaddon? You're a bit late, boys."

All three of them spun around, searching for the source of the voice, but were unable to locate it. This only seemed to amuse whoever was talking to them, for he giggled madly. "Where are you?" shouted Dean into thin air. "Show yourself!"

Cas said warningly, "Dean…" Whoever had spoken, though, had vanished. Only an echo of their unfriendly laugh remained, and then that, too, was gone, and the basement was filled with a moment of deafening silence.

Dean, of course, was the one to break it. "What the hell was that?" he growled.

Cas could've said any number of frightening things, but possibly the most alarming answer he could've given was exactly the one that they were expecting: "I don't know."

"How can y—" Dean started to say, but he was once again cut off. "You've gotta stop doing that," he muttered angrily as they looked around to find the hotel room around them once more. Dean, with a furtive glance at Cas, stepped back inside the bathroom, where the water was still running. A moment later, he stepped back out in a pair of jeans, holding the trench coat in one hand and his shirt in the other. Cas gratefully put on the coat as soon as it was back in his hands while Dean pulled his shirt over his head.

"I don't understand," said Sam quietly, sitting down on the edge of his bed. "That wasn't Lilith, was it?"

"No," affirmed Cas. "It was something else. But that's not important right now—we have to track down Abbaddon and stop him before he kills his three victims."

-x-

Old Briarton, Arkansas, present time

Whatever John had been expecting, it certainly wasn't that. He didn't need to look at Sherlock to know that the detective was just as shocked as John was; his silence told him that much.

"You're… hunting—?" John started, unable to finish.

"A demon," repeated the one called Dean. He enunciated his words slowly and carefully, as if he were speaking to someone who didn't understand English. "To stop the apocalypse."

"Yeah, we… know it sounds crazy," said the taller one, Sam, uncomfortably.

"A demon? The apocalypse?" said Sherlock sharply. He seemed to have recovered his tongue. He started to laugh in an unfriendly way.

"Yeah, you know—the apocalypse," said Dean in an irritated manner, like he'd had to explain this multiple times already. "End of the world, doomsday, fire raining from the sky, Y2K, any of this ringing a bell?"

"You're insane," said Sherlock, but the laughter had disappeared from his expression.

The other two men exchanged another glance. "Looks like we're gonna need some help," said Dean. Then, at the same time, they both said, as if calling out to the wind, "Cas!"

John heard a sound like a cloak flapping in a breeze. He turned towards the noise and his eyes landed on a man who most definitely had not been standing there before. The stranger tilted his head slightly as he saw John and Sherlock; he didn't seem surprised or frightened or even to have any sort of reaction to their presence. Instead, he looked at Sam and Dean, his eyes questioning.

Before he could say anything, however, Sherlock stepped up to him, circling around behind him as he spoke. "What kind of teleportation device are you using?" asked the Time Lord, looking the man up and down as if expecting to see some sort of machine strapped to him. Cas's head turned, following his progress with a vague sort of interest. "I've never seen anything like it. There was no displacement of particles at all, no flash of light, no bang, nothing—it's beyond anything I've ever—"

"We do not require technology to move from place to place," replied the stranger, impassively.

John cast a glance at Sam and Dean, who both returned it uncomfortably as if "Cas" was their dorky friend they didn't want to admit they knew. "What do you mean, 'we'?" asked John curiously. He doubted the stranger was referring to either Sam or Dean.

The stranger looked past Sherlock to John. His blue-eyed gaze was intensely piercing, but at the same time seemed to be made of marble. He seemed so captivated by John that for a moment the man wondered if he'd answer. "The angels," he answered, without breaking eye contact. John blinked. Sherlock twitched. This was getting weird, even by their standards. Seeing their reaction, Cas looked to Dean. "Should I have not said that?" he asked. Something about his tone told John he'd been scolded about this before.

"No, it's okay, Cas," replied Dean with an amount of patience John hadn't realized he possessed.

The "angel" turned back to John and Sherlock, regarding them with that same expression. "My name is Castiel," he said, in such a grave tone that John had difficulty taking him seriously, "though, Sam and Dean just call me Cas."

John was half-expecting the stranger to burst into laughter and say it was all a bad joke, but the sincerity in his steady gaze didn't falter. Sherlock was the one to break the silence. Glancing from Castiel to Sam to Dean, he simply said, "Explain."

Both Sam and Dean shifted, about to say something, but Castiel interrupted before they could do so: "You aren't human." It wasn't a question, but a simple statement directed at Sherlock; and as he said it, he stepped up to the Time Lord until their faces were only a foot apart. He had this peering, distantly fascinated expression, and John couldn't help but watch the pair with raised eyebrows. Neither of them seemed to have any concept of personal space.

In a flurry of motion, Sam had drawn his six-shooter while Dean brandished a cruel-looking dagger engraved with symbols, both on the defensive. Sherlock looked at them sharply, eyes wide. John slowly raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, his heart suddenly pounding. His eyes flicked to the door, but it was blocked by the Winchesters. The window wasn't an option—they were on the fourth floor. Anyway, how could they get back to the TARDIS? They were trapped with a gun pointed at them, and all his military training was screaming at him that his death would be imminent. Why had he left his handgun at the flat…?

"Put those away," growled Castiel, turning his head to stare fiercely at the two men. "He is not a monster or a creature to be hunted."

Clearly confused, Dean started, "But you just said…" He trailed off, lowering his knife as Sam let his gun drop, pointing to the ground instead. "What, is he an angel, too?" he asked incredulously.

Amused, Castiel began to chuckle. "No, of course not," he said, as if it were obvious. His smile faded, however, as he took in everyone else's—especially Sherlock's—expressions. "This man is a Time Lord, from the planet Gallifrey." He nodded courteously to Sherlock. "I've met one of your kind before."

"The Doctor, I presume?" said Sherlock wryly, with a surreptitious glance at Dean.

"Who else?" said Castiel. His tone of voice was unsmiling, but his expression softened slightly.

Sherlock's gaze, however, darkened as his attention returned to the matter at hand. "So. Angels, demons, the apocalypse." His tone was as conversational as if he'd just listed off the ingredients used to make a batch of brownies. "I'm going to need some evidence."

"We just gave you some," said Dean, gesturing exasperatedly toward Castiel. "Angel of the Lord, live and in person. What more do you need?"

Sherlock's face twisted into a dry smile that John associated with preceding a nasty remark. Before he could say anything, however, Castiel reached up a hand, tapping his index finger against the center of Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock faltered and froze, eyes round in disbelief. A moment later, he seemed to recover, shaking himself out of his reverie to stare first at Castiel and then at the Winchesters with something of awe.

John, somewhat worried, attempted to voice his concern, but was cut off as Castiel stepped up to him and repeated the action. At the touch of the angel's finger, a rush of images, sounds, sensations, and emotions rushed through him. He had to take a moment to process them all. He saw the Winchesters, clearly several years younger, dousing a demon with holy water; Dean loading shotgun cartridges with salt; Sam swinging an iron pipe at an angry spirit. He saw all manner of creatures: shape-shifters, vampires, werewolves, even sirens. He felt glimpses of Castiel plunging into the depths of hell, his hand closing around Dean's arm, raising his damned soul from the grip of its tormentors. He understood the implications of this action as Castiel, as the angels, understood them. He felt the fear associated with the name of Lilith, the demon. And above all else, he felt the shadow of the impending apocalypse looming over him, despite his assurance that the earth would still be turning in four years.

He felt a hand guiding him into a chair and Castiel's voice, attempting to be reassuring: "You have my apologies for using such… crude methods. Your sense of identity and independent emotions should return to you shortly."

John sat there for a long moment, mulling everything over. The sudden transference of four years of someone else's life was disorienting—he had forgotten that he'd gone to Afghanistan, that he'd been shot in the shoulder, even that he'd met Sherlock Holmes. He forgot that the world would still be here in four years. He forgot that, just a few minutes ago, demons and angels didn't exist. And then, he remembered—or, started to. Just like Castiel said, his own opinions and feelings began to resurface the more he thought about what he'd just experienced, reasserting themselves over what the angel had given him.

Distantly, John heard Sam ask, "What did you do?"

"I showed them the evidence they needed," answered Cas. "We don't have time to waste convincing them of something we know is real."

John had just begun to rouse himself out of his daze—which had lasted, he noticed, much longer than Sherlock's—when Sherlock asked, "So, you're looking for the demon that killed this man." The three of them nodded. John's head was starting to hurt. "You know his name. Why can't you perform a summoning séance?"

Summoning séance. The words sparked a sudden stream of his new memories: those of two boys standing around a pentagram lined with candles, of Dean summoning a crossroads demon to save Sam, of Sam summoning another crossroads demon to save Dean… Many of the rituals involved blood sacrifices of some sort, but that didn't seem to affect the Winchesters much.

Castiel shook his head. "Abbaddon is too powerful."

Even Dean looked surprised. "Two hunters, an angel, and… whatever he is?" he gestured to Sherlock. "This must be one tough son of a bitch."

"Abbaddon is a demon of fear," said Castiel grimly. "In fact, he's the demon of fear. He gets one look at you and he can see everything and anything that frightens you, down to your deepest, darkest fears. And he knows exactly how to exploit them."

"So, if we summon him here…" started Dean.

"…He'll pull a boggart on us and kill us?" finished Sam.

"I'm… not sure what a 'boggart' is, but yes, essentially, he will kill us," said Castiel. "Abbaddon doesn't just cause fear—he is fear. He can paralyze you with your own emotions. He can make you so afraid that your heart stops. In Hell he's referred to as 'The Devil's Fear' because he seems to be the only demon who could make Lucifer himself feel afraid. We can summon him, yes, but detaining him… He's too strong."

Sherlock turned his head sharply to look at John, who stared meaningfully back. He knew exactly what that look meant. "The Devil's Fear" sounded an awful lot like "The Devil's Foot"—but what did that mean? They'd already proved that it wasn't any kind of airborne poison. This wasn't the direction that the books had taken at all.

"Is that how he killed George Redstone?" asked Sam, calling their attention back to the conversation. Castiel nodded.

"Great," muttered Dean sarcastically.

Everyone turned to look at John in surprise as he said, "Then what you're saying is, even if we could summon him, we couldn't take him on anyway?"

They all turned to look at Castiel, who stared evenly back at John. "Abbaddon can only be defeated by one without fear."

There was a long silence, which was broken by Dean: "Yeah, okay, I'll just check under the 'fearless people' listings in the phone book and we'll call someone up."

Sherlock scoffed. "All of you are ignoring the obvious solution," he said scornfully. "If we all attack it at once, Abbaddon will be at a disadvantage. It won't be able to focus on a single one of us long enough to cause us considerable fear, because all of us will be attacking it, distracting it."

For a moment, no one said anything. The Winchesters looked impressed; Castiel was thinking it over, his blue eyes momentarily directed downward. "That may work," he said finally.

Sherlock cast an amused glance at John, who smiled to himself for a brief moment.

"Okay, so how do we summon this guy?" said Dean.

"Let me worry about that," said Castiel. "You and Sam need to make sure that those two," the angel gestured towards Sherlock and John, "will be ready to face Abbaddon. Arm them and show them what to do."

Both brothers started to protest, but Castiel had vanished with the same flapping sound which John realized must be that of fluttering wings.