Hi hi hi! Sorry for the really late update; thanks to school and other such distractions, updates will be infrequent. However, I will write as much as possible and post as soon I can! Special thanks to everyone who Reviewed, Followed, and Favorited—it's greatly appreciated.

I own none of the characters in this story.

And with that, the story continues!

Meet the Team

And so, the stage is set.

Our heroes consist of a consulting detective with nonexistent social skills, a smartass demon hunter with a drinking problem, and an emotionally unstable time lord with gravity-defying hair, all sitting at the conference table of a secretive organization's even more secretive helicarrier.

It's like the start of a bad joke.

There was a charged silence at the conference table. Not a word was spoken as the trio waited for Fury or Coulson or anyone to come and explain what was going on.

Upon completing his analytical one-over of his new "playmates", Sherlock glanced about the helicarrier, unimpressed. A bit much for a base of operations, he thought, almost silly. The Doctor, too, was unimpressed by the helicarrier after spending most of his life on the TARDIS. Dean, on the other hand, was about as excited as a kid at Christmas. Not that he showed it of course, not with the others looking so nonchalant. Still, his fingertips itched to fiddle with the tantalizing buttons on one of the control pads, especially the big red ones that said DANGER. Only Sherlock had bothered to read through the large folder Fury had left for them, if you could call it reading. The detective had simply flipped the pages one right after the other in quick succession before closing the file and sliding it back to the center of the table.

That was half an hour ago.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents manning the helicarrier ignored them for the most part, which only added to Dean's growing boredom. Twice he tried to hit on a female agent; twice he wasn't even spared a passing glance. Even the Doctor and Sherlock were growing restless.

Finally, Dean couldn't take it anymore.

"So," he said, "giant flying ship. Crazy, huh?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Dean gave him a pointed look. "What? Don't tell me you're not the least bit psyched about being on a spaceship."

"First of all," Sherlock said, "this is not a spaceship as we are clearly not in space and second of all, if you must fill the silence, at least fill it with something more intelligent."

Dean squared his jaw. Turning to the Doctor, Dean threw his thumb over his shoulder at Sherlock and said, "Who pissed in his bitch flakes this morning?"

"Please don't drag me into this," said the Doctor.

Sherlock shot Dean a cold look, "Why are you even here? What could you possibly have that's of any relevance to this case?"

"A lot more than you," Dean retorted.

"Could I have a biscuit?" the Doctor asked a passing agent. "Or at least some tea? No? Okay. . . ."

"So what do you do, huh?" asked Dean. "From the ego, I'd guess a psychiatrist or a lawyer or something that makes a crap ton of money."

"A consulting detective, actually," Sherlock said. "How much is a 'crap ton' anyway?"

"Woah, woah, woah. Detective? You walk around like the queen of England yet all you are is Detective-freaking-McGruff?!" Dean burst into laughter. "HA! That's rich!"

A vein throbbed in Sherlock's temple. "This coming from the boy who runs around playing superhero with his little brother. I highly doubt that pays well, if at all."

Dean's laughter abruptly cut off as his jaw went slack. "How do you know about my brother?"

"Oh, it wasn't hard really. Judging from the look in your eyes—" he gestured to Dean and the Doctor "—you've both lost someone recently, one of the key reasons we were chosen to begin with. You come off as a real ladies' man so I doubt you would have that look over a lover so my guess is a close relative, most likely a sibling. 'But how did you know it was a younger brother?' you wonder. Ah, now that's the trickier part. First I sort out the sibling's gender, which brings me back to your promiscuity. Men who grow up in a house with at least one sister tend to have more respect for the female gender, something you clearly lack.

"As for whether your brother was younger or not, that was just a lucky guess. At first I was inclined to believe you were the younger sibling, however you wear the same expression as someone else I know. I usually don't go by such things but I figured it was worth a try."

"Yeah?" Dean said tightly. "And who do I remind you of?"

"No one important," Sherlock replied flippantly. "Oh, that's another similarity you both share."

The Doctor's eyes darted between the hunter and the detective. Maybe if I excuse myself to go to the loo, he thought to himself, I can disappear before things get out of hand. . . .

"I'll have you know," Dean said, angrily waggling a finger at the detective, "that I fight monsters for a living—a thankless job, might I add—so that people like you can walk about without being maimed by things like demons and vampires and psychotic unicorns."

Too late.

"Vampires?" Sherlock scoffed. "Demons? You must be incredibly stupid to think I would believe that nonsense. It's all rubbish."

"Oh yeah?" Dean rolled up his sleeve and revealed a nasty scar that arced from his elbow to the underside of his forearm. "Got this sucker from an acheri. And this—" he tugged down the collar of his shirt. "—came from a drunk leprechaun. True story. Now THIS," Dean lifted up his shirt and twisted around to show a scar that snaked from the small of his back around to an inch under his belly button, "this I'm actually a little proud of. Not entirely sure how I got it though, but I'm pretty sure there was a witch involved. But the all-time freakiest scar of them all would be this bad boy right here—"

"That's enough!" Sherlock said before Dean had a chance to remove his shirt completely. "You're a reckless fool who's been in many dangerous situations, we get it. That still does not prove the existence of these fairy tales. Next you'll be telling me that aliens are real too."

The Doctor, his back now ramrod-straight, scowled at Sherlock. "What do you have against aliens?!"

"Nothing, because they're not real. They exist only in the minds of overweight middle-aged men who still live in their parents' basement."

"Wha—?! They are completely real!" the Doctor said. "Believe me, I know better than anyone."

"In your delusions, perhaps. But here in the real world, there is no such thing as aliens. I will repeat this one last time for the more simple-minded in the audience, there is no such thing as aliens or monsters."

"That's it." Dean leapt across the table and grabbed at Sherlock. The Doctor, caught in between the two, shot to his feet and just barely missed catching a blow from Dean's grabbing hands.

When Director Fury and Agent Coulson finally showed up, they found Dean with a firm grip on Sherlock's coat collar while the Doctor tried to pry them apart. Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose and another agent, who was wheeling in a large glass board, watched with jaw dropped as papers flew about the area in the wake of the pair's brawl.

"Take it back you son of a bitch!"

"Never!"

"TAKE IT BACK!"

"NO!"

A vein throbbed dangerously in Fury's right temple. He pulled a gun from the inside of his coat and fired one shot into the air. Everyone on deck took cover. Sherlock and Dean froze mid-strangle while the Doctor dropped to the floor. When no more shots followed, the Doctor poked his head over the table and snapped, "Are you out of your bleeding mind?! That could've ricocheted!"

"They're blanks," Fury said frankly as he put the gun in its holster. "This is the special gun I use to get morons like you three to shut up. Now sit down."

The three immediately fell into their seats. Fury huffed. He had hoped that this would be simpler than managing the original Avengers, but clearly that wasn't going to happen. As if reading his mind, Coulson leaned in and whispered, "With all due respect, sir, I'm not dying again. Just thought I would put that out there."

Fury sighed and stepped forward. "Now that we've got that out of our systems, we can get on to the briefing."

Dean burst into a fit of childish giggles. Fury almost threw them all off the helicarrier. Instead he inhaled deeply, mentally counted to ten, and gestured to his subordinates. One pressed a button and the glass sprang to life with several blue images covering the screen. Dean was one part excited and one part disappointed. (He had hoped for a holographic projection.) Fury dismissed the underlings and opened a file on the screen. Five images popped up.

Sherlock's eyes lit up.

Male. Thirty-one. Japanese. Clean-shaven. Works in an office. Unmarried, but starting out in a relationship, most likely someone from work. Near-sighted, but refuses to wear his specs.

Female. Forty-nine. Irish, but lives in America. Pre-menopausal. School teacher—no, a headmaster. Recently divorced with no intention of getting into another relationship.

Male. Twenty-three. Australian. Just out of Uni. Currently unemployed, undoubtedly swimming in student loans. Single.

Male. Nineteen. American. Drug-dealer. In and out of prison for at least three years. Wouldn't hurt a fly.

Female. Twenty-two. British. Single. Waitress—oh . . .

Slowly leaning back in his chair, Sherlock put his hands together and rested his fingertips on his lips. Dean glanced his way and wondered if he was praying.

"Six weeks ago," Fury said, "these five died under only mildly mysterious circumstances. All died in different parts of the world, with the exception of Jeremy Keatley and Brigid Quinn—" he pointed to the nineteen year old American and the forty-nine year old Irishwoman. "—who died in different areas of the United States. There is nothing connecting the five deaths in anyway, except for this."

With one swipe of the finger, the pictures slid off-screen and were replaced by an image of a bloody red splotch, followed by pictures of the dead bodies. The three men simultaneously narrowed their eyes at the splotch—it had enough shape to be an imprint of some kind but was distorted enough for the image to be unclear. In some ways, it looked like a badly smudged paw print.

Coulson turned to the group. "This is only reason the victims were put on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar in the first place. The bodies were found torn apart, mostly at the throat, in locked rooms. There was no evidence of a break-in or a struggle, and only one paw print was left at the scene. . . . Is there a problem, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean snapped to attention. "What? Why?"

"Your face was all twitchy and you wouldn't sit still."

"Not to mention you kept grumbling under your breath," the Doctor added.

"Oh." Well this is awkward. "Nothing. ADHD acting up."

"You don't have ADHD," muttered Sherlock.

Dean turned a cutting glare at Sherlock. "And how the hell could you possibly know that?"

Nick reached for his "Shut up" gun and everyone fell quiet. Coulson looked at Dean. "If you have an idea to share, then please share it. We're all ears."

Everyone turned to Dean and waited for a response. Dean opened his mouth, promptly closed it, and then scratched his head. To stall for time, he asked, "How old is the kid there?"

"Nineteen."

Dean waved a hand. "Never mind. Not possible."

"In my experience," Fury said, "it isn't wise to disregard the 'impossible'."

Expectant eyes fell on Dean again. He swallowed. Sometimes he really hated talking to normal people. Sam always knew what to say, he thought then immediately back-tracked. Just do it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. With a sigh, Dean folded his arms and said frankly, "I think it's a hellhound."

The Doctor's eyes widened. Coulson and Fury remained expressionless.

Sherlock started threw is hands in the air and rolled his eyes skyward. "Why am I not surprised?" he said.

"Now hang on, Mr. Holmes," Fury said, holding up a hand to Sherlock. "Hear the man out before you write him off. This is a team effort—remember that."

Clearly irritated, Sherlock clenched his jaw and gestured for Dean to continue. A bit more confident—if not smug—Dean sat up straighter. "Hellhounds are invisible to the human eye and can go anywhere they want undetected, which would explain why there was no evidence of breaking-and-entering. They usually go for the throat; I've seen this," he said gesturing to the gory images, "a thousand times . The only problem I have is that paw print. I've never seen a hellhound leave something behind—besides a body of course."

"Then what makes you think this is impossible?" Coulson asked.

"Hellhounds only come after people who've sold their soul," Dean replied. "Usually those deals have a ten year grace period; I doubt nine year olds are going around making deals with demons."

Coulson turned to Fury. "What do you think, sir?"

Fury looked at the agent from the corner of his eye and replied, "I'm not ready to rule out anything just yet, so this is worth considering."

Dean shot a victorious glance at Sherlock, who shot a cold one right back. The Doctor quietly slid his chair slightly away from them.

"There is one more thing," Fury said before they got out of hand again. "One of the agents I had working on this case went missing investigating the latest murder."

"What happened to him?" the Doctor asked.

"Her," Coulson corrected. "Agent Wrotham was found a week later ten thousand miles away from where we lost her signal. Let's just say the only way we were able to ID her was through her dental records, and even that was sketchy."

The Doctor swallowed.

"Her last transmission was short. She knew she was being hunted, but by what, we don't know for certain. Whatever it is, it's not human."

Sherlock's brow furrowed at this. Dean and the Doctor, however, were not fazed in the slightest.

"That's where you three come in," Fury said. "You will investigate the circumstances surrounding the five victims' deaths, find out who is responsible, and return with any and all information you can find.

"You were chosen because you all specialize in the strange and the unexplainable. Work together on this and you will succeed. I'm counting on you."

It was dark when Sam finally woke up, though he wished he hadn't. A bloody, metallic taste filled his mouth, his lip hurt . . . hell, his everything hurt. With a groan, Sam forced his protesting joints to push his body off the cold, hard ground.

Slowly the past couple of hours started to come back to him. Two anonymous tips, claiming they found a suspect in two completely different locations; Dean going to one while Sam searched the other; an empty doctor's office; a sudden blow to the head. . . . Cas might've been there—

Oh God.

"Cas," Sam rasped. "Cas!"

"Here . . ." came the weak reply. Sam almost collapsed with relief. He wasn't alone after all.

"Where are you?" Sam said. "I can't see a thing."

"Over here." There was a twinge of pain in the angel's voice.

Frowning, Sam asked, "Can you walk?"

". . . . No," Cas replied tightly, as if irritated by his circumstance. "I can't move." Dread crept into Sam's heart. Whoever was responsible for this was able to subdue an angel.

One thing at a time, Sam, he thought to himself. "Sit tight, pal. I'll come to you."

Castiel grunted in response.

Steeling himself, Sam painstakingly pushed himself to his feet. He flinched as a scab on his leg broke with each movement. Once he was upright, Sam scanned the darkness hoping to make out Cas's form through the gloom. No such luck.

"Could you shed a little light on the subject?" he asked.

Quiet.

"Cas?"

"I can't," the angel said. "My powers . . ."

Sam fought the rising panic. "They're gone?!"

Castiel exhaled slowly. "No, not gone. I just . . . I can't reach them. My head hurts."

"Okay then. You'll just have to guide me to you. . . . You can see right?"

". . ."

"Cas?"

The angel sighed. "No, I can't."

Sam huffed and said, "That's okay, I'll just come to you."

Cas snorted. "And how to you propose you do that? If I can't see in this darkness then I know for a fact you can't."

"Your confidence in me is overwhelming as always."

"You're welcome."

Taking a deep breath, Sam squinted. He had been in thousands of dark places before and yet for some reason his eyes refused to adjust. You know, a nagging little voice in the back of his mind said, Dean always gets himself out of situations like this. Think, Sam—what would Dean do?

"Cas," Sam said, suddenly getting an idea. "Marco."

No reply. Sam frowned and turned in a different direction.

"Marco!"

Still nothing.

"Cas! Where the hell are you?!"

"Right here," Cas said with a twinge of annoyance. "I haven't moved."

Sam swung around and, with arms outstretched, walked a bit faster towards Cas's voice. "Then why didn't you say anything?"

"My name is Castiel. I don't know who this Marco person is."

"Marco Polo. It's a game. Let's try again—Marco!"

". . ."

"Cas!"

"I'm not sure how to respond."

"Oh for the love of—"

Sam stumbled over something large and heavy, landing on his—apparently—sprained wrist. Sam cried out. Cas groaned in pain.

"You found me."

As Sam and Cas painstakingly pulled away from each other, a second groan echoed from across the room. They froze.

"Who's there?" Sam demanded.

"Hmnugh . . . Wuss goin' on? Where . . . where'm I . . . ?"

The voice was masculine, an older man by Sam's reckoning, and . . . Australian?

"Bloody hell, my head hurts. . . ."

British. Definitely British.

"Who are you?" Cas said.

"What's going on? Why are we here?" the man replied groggily.

"No clue," Sam said, ignoring the fact he dodged the question.

"Sam," Castiel whispered. "There's one other person in here."

"How can you tell?" Sam whispered back. "I thought you couldn't reach your grace."

"Not completely, but I can still sense things. There's a fourth person in here, over there."

Sam waited for a few seconds then rolled his eyes. "Cas, I can't see where you're pointing."

"Oh, right. Here." Cas fumbled for Sam's hand and, taking it, pointed it towards where the fourth person was lying. Wincing at the touch, Sam called out, "Is anyone else in here? Hello?"

A whimper sounded from the area Cas pointed him to. It didn't sound too far.

"Hey, are you hurt?" Sam asked earnestly. "Can you move?"

"I'm a doctor," the man said a bit more clearly.

The person groaned and rasped, ". . . D . . . Doctor . . .?"

Another Brit, this time a woman. Sam reached out and gripped Cas by the trenchcoat, growling, "Cas, can you tell if she's in trouble or not?"

"Aside from her not explicitly saying otherwise, no."

"Then you need to get me over there."

"Why?"

Sam sighed impatiently. "Because she could be seriously hurt, Cas, and since we're all stuck in this hole together, the smart thing to do is look out for each other."

"Oh. Right."

Making sure that they brushed each other's sides at all times, Cas and Sam crawled over to the woman. Just as Sam thought, she wasn't too far from them—a mere six paces away. It was a miracle Sam didn't trip over her earlier. Cas placed Sam's hand on what he pretty sure was the woman's back. As it carefully trailed upward, Sam's hand met with matted hair with a smooth neck underneath. Sam rubbed his fingers together.

They were wet.

"D-doctor," croaked Sam. "She's bleeding."

Grunting echoed softly as the doctor pushed himself onto his hands and knees. In a dry but strong voice, he ordered, "Try to find the wound and put pressure on it. And keep talking; I'll be right there."

Sam, ignoring the pain in his wrist, gently flipped the woman onto her back and ran his fingers lightly over her face, all the while urging her to wake up. She whimpered, ". . . Doc . . . tor . . ." and he could feel her face twitch. Sam froze when his fingertips grazed a thick lump sitting just above the eyebrow. Must be a scab.

"Your grace would be really helpful right about now," Sam muttered to Cas. The angel said nothing.

"I'm here," the doctor said, coming up to the other side of the woman. "Did you find it?"

"Found a scab over her eye," Sam reported, "but nothing else yet. Do you have a lighter or something?"

"Hang on . . ."

No one spoke over the sound of quiet shuffling and the occasional swear. "Damn," he muttered once, "gun's gone." Woah, Sam hadn't even thought to check for his weapons until just then. He patted down his usual places—both his gun and knife were gone. Even the tiny pick he started keeping in his shoe was gone. He was almost surprised.

"Here!" Sam jumped at the doctor's victorious exclamation. Suddenly a small bead of light sliced through the gloom, blinding everyone. Sam swore and flinched away. When his eyes stopped burning, Sam lowered his hands and squinted at the doctor. He wasn't nearly as old as Sam thought he was, but his face was still haggard and worry-lined. The light made the lines sharper and his black eye more prominent. His clothes were dusty and the sleeve of his jacket was torn. All in all, the doctor looked like crap.

Not that Sam looked any better. The doctor's eyes were wide and fixed on Sam's face, his mouth parted a bit. If I look worse than I feel, Sam thought, then I must look worse than hell.

To his credit, the doctor recovered quickly and shined the light—which Sam noticed was a tiny flashlight on a keychain—on the woman's face. Out of all of them, she probably looked the worst. Her blond hair was tangled and splayed about her pale face like a bloodied halo. The gash extended from the top of her left eyebrow up diagonally to the hairline, just barely missing the temple. It scabbed over, but not before dribbling blood all over the left side of her face and down her neck.

While Sam's still-addled brain was swimming at the sight, the doctor checked for more injuries and took the woman's pulse. "Not as strong as I would like it," he reported, "but she'll live. I can't find any breaks or other cuts."

Sam let out a sigh of relief then grew tense again. "Do you have any idea what's going on?"

The doctor exhaled and said, "This is a kidnapping, I'm sure of it, but as to how or where or why, I haven't the foggiest."

"Great, so we're all in the same boat then." With a grunt, Sam readjusted himself into a sitting position and said, "I'm Sam Winchester, by the way. And this is Cas."

"John Watson. Nice to meet you."

Sam flinched. "Nice to meet you too, Watson."

"How long do you think we've been in here?" Cas asked.

John shined the light around the room. "Impossible to tell. There aren't any openings aside from those vents in the ceiling."

"Vents?" Sam looked up quickly and huffed in disappointment. The two vents that allowed air into the room were way too small even for the woman to fit through, let alone three grown men.

With a heavy sigh, Cas repositioned himself into a sitting position. "We better get comfortable then," he said, "because we're stuck here until someone gets us."