AUTHORS NOTE:
HELLO! I'm alive! Sorry I've had this chapter sitting in my notes for months T-T (ew fetus writing) I promise I'll work harder to stick to my updates! I felt (and am still feeling) skeptical about this chapter because I wrote it a while ago and I think Deans plan came out kinda confusing... If you didn't get it let me know in the comments and I'll explain in the beginning! ANYWAY ENJOY-
Disclaimer - I don't own My bb Sam and my Gorgeous Dean T-T (theybelongtoEricKripke)
Dean smirked gently. He wiped his brow which was knitted with sweat and stretched him arms far above his head. Patricia was a stubborn one. She was buried deeper then usual and Dean had to use the very tip of the shovel to scoop out dirt that had caved into her poorly built coffin. Her bones were small and they sunk into the dirt as if Patricia knew Deans plan and had tried to make it as challenging as possible for him to successfully roast her.
Dean wiped his hands together and spit at the ground next to the receding flames, "Take that, you bitch."
As Dean watched the fire angrily charge it's way through Patricia's remains he couldn't help but think of Sam. All the time his little brother would sulk and complain about the life so rudely forced upon him, but other times he would gobble down a hunt like a fresh pastry. Dean was slowly becoming confused with his brothers mood swings and he hated it. Sam was HIS brother, his brother whom he knew better then anyone else in the world. So Dean wished, wished with all his might that he could completely understand Sam's feelings about hunting and then perhaps Sam would be happier more often. Maybe it wasn't Sam's fault but his, maybe it was because of him that Sam was acting this way. What if he wasn't giving Sam the support his brother so sorely needed? What if-
Dean was snapped out of his worries when the heat that had been radiating towards his face suddenly stopped replaced by the cold morning air. He looked down and realized the fire had been snuffed out by the damp dirt that surrounded it.
Dean carefully checked through the mud, picking around and making sure that no bones had been left in one piece. Satisfied, he spun backwards and quickly filled the hole with excess dirt.
"Done." Dean smirked and wiped his hands against his jacket leaving smudges that looked like grease stains on the tattered leather.
Dean scanned the area like he had multiple times. He knew from the beginning that someone was watching him and his muscles and guns were at the ready, but so far he hadn't been able to spot the stalker. His hunter instincts were on an emergency alert and he counted every creak, every gust of wind to make sure no one was behind him waiting to strike.
He was careful to act as if he didn't have a clue that he was being watched, as soon as his follower realized he was ready to defend himself he would lose the upper hand. Dean squared his shoulders and trudged forwards, feet dragging clumsily through the mud as he kept a wary glance ahead. Beneath his blazing hunter instincts, Dean felt another disturbance but because of his current danger he was too preoccupied to trace it.
Dean sighed. This was supposed to be a simple salt and burn.
With a flick of the wrist and a puff of the jacket, Dean set his plan in motion. He slipped his gun neatly from his jacket pocket to his jeans then, he secretly whipped out a ketchup packet he had saved from his and Sam's last restaurant... What was the name?... Oh yeah! Cafe London's Grill. Dean pushed the stuffed sack of ketchup between his jacket and his neck.
"Show time." Dean breathed quietly while still keeping a light walking pace.
Then he slipped and fell face first toward a shard of debris.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
Sherlock saw it all coming.
The slip. The "CRACK". The blood spewing from the strange mans neck and cranium like slippery wet hot sauce.
As the man lay motionless, red seeping out in sops of scarlet, Sherlock stood and became visible.
The mans plan would have easily fooled a simple mind but not Sherlocks.
Sherlock had watched as the mans opposite arm made a turn towards his jeans, bearing a stronger weight judging from the amount of strain the shoulder bore, it was obviously a weapon (gun most likely) that he had deposited in his pocket. He had watched as the man seemingly moved to scratch his neck however, only THREE fingers were used, the other two were hiding something soft and portable, something he had bought from the Cafe judging from the flecks of crumbs on the pocket he had removed it from. A condiment most likely. He had watched as the man took a dive, and pretended to crack his head open.
Sherlock knew the mans plan. The man wanted his follower (Sherlock) to walk over in awe, wondering how on earth this could've happened, and before the follower could get a chance to realize humans don't bleed ketchup the man would have slipped out his gun and emptied the barrel.
Sherlock trotted over to the mans still body and quietly loaded his own gun.
Sherlock aimed at the mans red-stained head and used words as sharp as knives, "Put the gun down, the game is over. You can't fool me."
The man twitched in surprise and Sherlock could tell he was reluctant about giving up his weapon.
"Put it down or I'll shoot." Sherlock snarled.
The mans armed hand extended and he pushed his gun out of reach, then he whipped upwards and faced Sherlocks gun head-on.
The mans face was surprisingly... Injured. No, not physically. Sherlock could see very visible signs of depression, hurt, lack of support, and much more that bursted from the mans features as clear as writing. He was unevenly shaven and had a very rugged appearance with short cut dirty blond/brownish hair. Other than his many unappealing traits this man was quite... actually VERY good looking. Sherlock could tell he was a ladies man.
"Dammit." He mumbled.
The mans voice was stone cold and gravelly just like the rocky pavement beneath Sherlocks feet. It was familiar.
"That was an awesome plan." The man pouted to himself, or Sherlock (it wasn't really clear). "I mean the best plan I've ever come up with WASTED, Sam's gonna rub this in my face".
Sam.
The person mentioned on the phone.
Sherlock knew who this man was. It was the crazy ghost-man.
Sherlock waved the gun as if trying to remind ghost-man of the danger he was in. "You're awfully calm in front of a gun." Sherlock started with small talk.
The ghost-man glared sharply at Sherlock. "You're awfully girly looking for a guy, Curls."
Sherlocks mind palace froze. "Curls?!"
"Yeah what's with your hair? It's like... Phoosh!" The ghost-man lifted his hands and made a puffing motion with his fingers.
Sherlock squinted.
The ghost-man smirked and lifted his hands in a back-off motion, "Haha, dude you should see your face!..." He coughed, "Andyourhair..."
Sherlock shot a bullet next to where the ghost-mans arm currently lay. The ghost-man jumped and pulled his arm away.
"No more fooling around." Sherlock knew John was in danger and that meant there was no room for error. "I heard you on the phone, babbling about ghosts and what-not, you spoke of this exact spot, Berkeley Square. You said it was haunted, you spoke of spirits and now my... friend, is missing."
The ghost-mans eyes widened as he realized Sherlock was one of the trespassers on the phone.
Sherlock continued, "Where. Is. My. Friend?"
The ghost-man stood up and Sherlocks gun followed. The ghost-man carefully raised his hands in a gentle position and looked at Sherlock with a serious gaze.
"Look," he began, "I know you think I'm crazy... But sometimes the supernatural CAN happen." The ghost-man stopped and seemed to contemplate why he was saying all this to a stranger.
He carefully continued, "You know what... You seem like a sciency guy. Like I can practically see a lab coat on you right now. So I'm not gonna try to explain this to... You. Just let me help you, I swear I'm not insane, and I can help you find your friend." Sherlock knew he was speaking the truth, it was quite obvious he meant what he said but he just couldn't trust this... lunatic with Johns life on the line. "Get your brother and leave." Sherlock breathed.
"My... My..." The ghost-man stuttered.
"Yes. Your brother. He's tall definitely taller then you, I've seen him. Plus he's obviously younger judging from your clothing and your hands compared to his. He went to college for a while... Dropped out, most likely unwillingly, he is the odd-ball of the family but the smarter one too." Sherlock stopped and squinted at the ghost-mans features, "Plus it seems he was addicted to something for a while... Drugs perhaps?"
The ghost-mans jaw had practically reached the floor and he stared at Sherlock as if he were an alien. Sherlock basked in his astonishment and smirked while turning up his collar.
"Wow..." Began the ghost-man, "you sure are something, Curls." The ghost man walked towards Sherlock with one hand extended and Sherlock prepared to fire, but instead the man clapped him on the back. "My name's Dean." The ghost-man reached for a handshake.
Sherlock denied the gesture and answered curtly. "Well... Dean, my name is Sherlock Holmes, worlds only consulting detective." Sherlock paused and added menacingly, "NOT Curls."
Dean's cocky grin grew wider and he chuckled, "Detective, huh? Seems like you're pretty good."
Sherlock stared him down. "The best."
Sherlocks words watered Dean's smile once again, "Well then Sherlock, how's about me you and Sammy, go on a... Mystery hunt, together?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Mystery hunt?"
Sherlock swore Deans smirk was going to burst off his lips, "You know like... Scooby Doo or whatever? A mystery hunt, adventure type thingy? It'll be fun! You can be Fred, I'll be Shaggy, and Sam will be Daphne!"
Sherlock was unamused. "I prefer to call it a case. Besides I refuse to go on a case with someone as..." He stared at Dean who was winking in his direction, "... Eccentric as you."
"Dude. I'm not leaving this place dead or alive." Deans smile suddenly vanished, "So if you want me gone you have three options shoot me, come with me, or leave."
Sherlock started to lift his gun again but realized it would be no threat to Dean, plus he couldn't shoot a... So far... Innocent man. Even if he was insane. Maybe his brother would see reason.
"Let's find your brother." Sherlock tucked his gun away and addressed Dean, "Maybe the smarter of you two will agree to leave."
Dean shrugged, "Sure dude, I was gonna get Sam anyway, but he won't listen to you, Curls."
"It's Sherlock"
"I'm still calling you Curls, believe me it's better then Sherlock. Did your parents hate you or something?"
Sherlock hated Dean.
Dean and Sherlock began walking through Berkeleys empty streets. "So what's with your missing friend... Or should I say partner?" Dean winked.
Sherlock REALLY hated Dean.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
John was cold and tired; his head was heavy and his throat burned when he swallowed, it felt just like sandpaper. He couldn't remember a thing. But that didn't matter. What mattered was water, lots of ice cold water and a more comfortable position.
His neck snapped and popped into place when he leaned forwards, he grunted and moved his hands to gain purchase on this... wood, he was laying on. Half his brain was begging him to check his surroundings, try and clear his foggy memories but the other half (which was much more convincing) didn't care and just wanted water and rest. John decided he wanted to find water and get some rest. He climbed off some sort of a table that he had been laying on and landed with a "thud!" On the floor.
The floor was laced with moss and had cracked brown/black stained tiles. It was too dark to see far but to John it looked like he was in an abandoned house. When did he get here, why did he feel like he just looked through a bunch of abandoned houses with... someone? John shook off these questions. Water.
He scrambled around the darkness bumping into walls and the table he had been laying on, till he nearly knocked over a stray plastic cup of water that had been left on the floor. John gulped it down in one swig as if he were downing a shot of whiskey and licked his lips with a newly moisturized tongue. He was satisfied.
John rubbed his eyes gently and let his mind re-group. He wasn't afraid at all, I mean sure he was a little weirded out but he wasn't afraid. He used to be apart of the army, he could handle this with or without Sherlock.
Sherlock.
That was it! His memory slowly repaired itself and everything clicked together like pieces of a puzzle.
He was originally looking at the eerily abandoned Berkeley Square with Sherlock. They had tracked down the mysterious people on the phone's intended location. After assumedly finding nothing they were set to leave until two noises separated them. John had found and injured woman and helped her up, she was so beautiful... She reminded him of the painted glass ladies you would see in church windows. She asked him to shoot his gun and cry out. He didn't understand the request but he'd do anything for her. After doing as she asked she pleaded for John to follow her and... well, then the memories just stopped. Had she knocked him out? Kidnapped him? Had she been attacked and the attacker had kidnapped them both? Was she here right now?!
John held his breath and glanced warily around the dark house. It was deathly still and not a breeze came through, if there was someone here John would hear their breathing. That is... If they were still breathing... However, John heard nothing so he decided to leave it at that.
John turned to the place the stray cup of water had laid moments before. Who had left that cup for him? Obviously his kidnapper. However the water had been stale and airy, John could tell it had been sitting out for awhile therefore, by balance of probability, his kidnapper had left the drink at least a few hours ago. His kidnapper could be anywhere by now.
John decided to look for the woman he had followed. Wait- what if Sherlock had come looking for him? What if they'd kidnapped Sherlock too? What if they hurt his friend... Or maybe even- no. Sherlock was fine. John tried to ignore those possibilities, if anything happened to his detective he... He couldn't think about that! John scowled and cleared his mind. He had to escape. For Sherlock.
John scanned the dim room that he assumed he was currently trapped inside. He blindly maneuvered his way around stepping this way then that and then north and then south. Actually he wasn't sure if he was going north, south, or whichever direction. The drugs (or whatever they had done to him) must've still been in some effect.
He tried to sharpen his soldier instincts and press on. He stepped over rocks and bits of debris that he squinted through the haze just to catch a glimpse of, he ducked under beams and began to wonder even more about where in the world he was. It was huge. Every step John took clapped and echoed like rings of water. His mind had finally cleared and by now he had realized with utmost certainty, that he was in a castle of sorts...
With a shuddering breath he gave himself a hug in order to preserve body heat. He wished Sherlock were here beside him.
Suddenly John heard chanting... Mumbling in a foreign language from behind him. He spun around as quick as a whip and was faced with a gunned man and a barrel aimed at his chest.
/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
"Ohmygod... Ohmygodohmygod..."
"Are you done yet?"
"... SONOFABITCH." Dean erupted and kicked his baby in the rear tire. He stopped and his anger vanished for a few minutes so he could hug his car and apologize before it returned in full swing. "SAMMY IS GONE DAMMIT."
"Yes," Sherlock looked at Dean with squinted eyes and used a curt tone of voice as to hint towards Deans overreaction, "it's obvious "Sammy" is gone."
Dean raised a fist and held it in the air, contemplating if it was worth bruising his fists on such a arrogant mans face.
Sherlock watched with aggravating placidness and stared at Dean as if he were merely a tv show that he was ready to change the channel for. He trained his gaze downwards at the furious mans feet and gave his legs a light swipe.
Dean felt the mans shoe collide with his leg and he teetered backwards before landing with a "THUD," on his butt.
"You're a pathetic excuse for a sidekick."
Dean shot back up sending dust into the air and cumulating grey clouds around their feet. "Oh, IM, the sidekick am I?"
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "What are the first one-hundred digits of pi?"
Dean thought for a moment, "Um... Cherry, blueberry..."
"That's what I thought." Sherlock scoffed.
"Sam would've known..." Dean muttered in a half-hearted pout.
"I'm sure he would have..." Sherlock trailed off and muttered, "but if he's related to someone as mediocre as you, I highly doubt it..."
Dean spun around and lashed out at that arrogant, stuck up, BITCH in a blue scarf.
Sherlock grabbed his fist and twisted it in an awkward angle.
"Ow!" Dean shrieked and immediately pulled away. He was stunned. He was Dean FRIKIN Winchester. Why was it that this man could seemingly predict his every move?
Dean growled and furrowed his eyebrows. He had to focus on Sammy right now.
Dean paced around his Chevrolet, ignoring the stuck up stranger that kept following him around and searching for clues about his baby brothers disappearance. He's done this many times before. Of all the people in Deans messed up family Sammy tends to have the worst luck. From kidnappings, to possession, his brothers faced it all, and Dean hated it. Sammy was HIS responsibility, no one else's, and every time Sammy got hurt Dean felt just as much pain... And if Sammy was hurt right now...
Dean felt his stomach flip like a pancake and it began to pool with rage which sloshed about when he shifted his feet. Whoever... Whatever... Took him, was going to pay.
Suddenly Dean stopped, and red clouded his vision. There was blood everywhere... As if it had poured red rain from the sky, there were droplets decorating the entire mass of rubble that lay a few yards away from his baby.
He practically flew as he jumped and climbed to get to the crime scene. His mind scrambled and clawed in his skull cramming awful scenarios into his head. Due to his worrisome, protective self he practically forgot about the supernatural safety code and instead of whipping out his gun, out came a first aid kit.
"SAMMY!" Dean cried and he tried so hard to stop comparing this situation to a certain day at Cold Oaks.
But when he made it there the blood was gone. As if it were invisible ink it had faded before Deans wide opened eyes. He blinked. Once, twice, and hurriedly three times. But the blood refused to return once again to its original position, splayed across the ground like a Jackson Pollock painting. Jackson Pollock, Sam had given Dean quite a lecture about that "amazing" artist.
Sam.
Dean shook his head and blinked yet again.
"Sam...?" The word escaped his lips and floated like mist, just above the shoreline. Dean dropped the first aid kit (that he learned from experience to keep within his coat pocket at all costs), and gently removed his gun. Maybe a ghost was playing with his mind, maybe Sammy was fine.
Pfft. Yeah right. Since when has anything ever worked out for him?
Dean silently creeped his way to the top of the destroyed building which looked as if it had been pounded to dust by a stampede of some sort.
A baritone voice popper up beside him, "Odd."
Dean jumped and flung around, his gun whipped forwards and at the ready. His finger was wavering, tense just above the trigger.
It was Sherlock. Standing calm and collected while looking into his eyes instead of the barrel of his gun (like most people tend to do, but then again Sherlock wasn't most people).
"I said..." Sherlock repeated with a lisp of annoyance buried beneath his words, "Odd that the blood seemed to disappear..."
"YOU IDIOT!" Dean ignored the observation, lowering his gun. "I COULD'VE BLOWN YOUR BRAINS OUT!"
Sherlock sighed and walked past him, shaking his head and muttering what sounded like, "idiot...always an idiot..."
Dean saw his fists clench as his veins heated up, he could FEEL his face turning red from the anger he was holding inside which was boiling like hot lava. But he tried to swallow it up and succeeded with a loud gulp.
"Can you find my brother." Dean grated the words from his teeth.
"Hmm?" Sherlock gently turned around to face him.
Dean refused to look into his eyes. His stubborn anger was getting the better of him. "I... SAID, can you find my brother. Because, NOW THATS THE ONLY REASON we are WORKING together!" He finished each piece of his sentence with loud bursts of anger and stabbed an accusing finger at Sherlocks smug features.
Sherlock flashed a wide grin at red-faced buffoon that stood before him. "Ah, yes. I was waiting for you to realize, and openly admit, the fact that you need a superior mind such as my own to ensure the retrieval of your sibling."
Deans anger was replaced with confusion.
Sherlock sighed and gritted his teeth loudly. "I was waiting for you to realize that I will find your brother and return him safely to you."
"Yeah!" Dean growled, "You do that!"
"But just to inform you..." Sherlock began, "... I'm really not doing this for you or your brother, I'm doing this for John."
"Sure whatever." Dean muttered, trailing after a retreating Sherlock, "Just as long as Sam and me are back together again, you do whatever the hell you like..."