Chapter 2

The first thing Dean notices about the new world he's turned up in is the smell. Kind of like raw fish that's been out in the sun a little too long. Dean has fallen to his knees, but hurriedly jumps up as soon as he can trust his sense of balance. This place does not feel clean. He's in some seedy-looking alleyway, apparently alone, although he can hear raucous laughter and weird music from somewhere nearby, so he has to be close to civilisation. Still, wherever he is, he isn't home. Damn.

Dean brushes himself down, and that's when he realises that he's wearing a frigging tweed suit. What the actual fuck? There is no way in hell he would ever wear tweed, no matter what crazy parallel universe he wandered into. And there's a hat on his head. A bowler hat. Well, that settles it: Cas was mistaken. Whatever is causing this, it sure as hell isn't Dean's doing. He would never do this to himself. Oh crap, this is something that Gabriel would do. But… if that was the case, then why hadn't Castiel picked up on it like last time?

Dean is contemplating wandering over to whatever bar all the noise is coming from in an effort to figure out where the hell he is this time, when he hears brisk footsteps approaching him from behind. He instinctively reaches into the inside of his jacket, and is surprised to actually find a gun there. Except it's not like any of his guns. It's an old-fashioned revolver, looking a lot more like the Colt than anything else. Still, there's no time to think about that now. Dean shrinks further into the shadows and takes aim. It could be no one, but Dean knows that he can't be too careful. After all, it could be…

"Sam?"

Dean steps back into the light. "Oh, man, am I happy to see you. I—"

"Ah!" Sam says. "Excellent! I feared you had got lost in the fray. Come, Watson, we have to find Inspector Lestrade and inform him of the new developments."

"Wait… what?" Dean has to jog to catch up with Sam, who is striding purposefully down the street. "Sammy, since when do you have a British accent? And what the hell are you wearing?"

Sam spins around to face Dean, straightening the lapels of his old-fashioned grey suit. "Watson, are you feeling quite yourself?"

"What? Watson? Why are you calling me Watson?"

Sam breathes in deeply through his nose. "I see that my nemesis has got to you as well. Never fear, Watson, never fear! We shall reconvene back at Baker Street, where I am sure you will make a full recovery. Come! The game is afoot!"

"Oh, crap," Dean mutters, as Sam sets off again. There's nothing for it – he's just going to have to play along with this until he can figure out what in the hell is going on.

As he chases after his brother, he notices that there is definitely something very different about this world he's ended up in. For one, the street lamps seemed to be lit by some sort of gaslight. And these buildings look like they were built over a century ago.

They come out onto a busier street, where Dean narrowly misses being run down by a horse and carriage, and Sam grabs him by the elbow. "Come along, my dear fellow, we'll have you back to your old self in no time. Ah! There's Lestrade now!"

Dean is practically dragged across the street, and is confronted by the vision of Bobby looking very flustered and sporting the most ridiculous handlebar moustache Dean's ever seen. "Ah, Holmes!" he says as he catches sight of Sam. "Thank God!"

If Dean thought Sam sounded weird with a British accent, it's nothing to how weird Bobby sounds.

"Holmes, we couldn't catch up with him."

"I am not surprised," Sam replies with a dramatic toss of his head. "Professor Gordon Moriarty is not the type to be caught so easily. Come! Let us return to Baker Street!"

Dean is bundled into a cab, and they set of at a jolt. There's a girl already sitting in the far corner, and she grabs Bobby's arm. "Did you find her? Did you find my sister?"

"We remain hopeful," he replies. "And now we have Samuel Holmes on the case."

Sam offers the girl his hand. "At your service. This is my friend and associate Doctor Dean Watson."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Dean says wearily. "I'm Watson?"

"Ah!" Sam says brightly. "His memory is returning!"

"No way. No friggin' way. If anyone's going to be Sherlock Holmes, it's me."

Sam and Bobby share a look. Dean can already tell that this is going to be a long night.

…

The carriage stops outside a town house, and the four of them ascend to a smart-looking flat. Sam immediately curls up in an armchair by the fire and lights up a pipe.

"Holmes, this is too deep, even for us," Bobby says. "Moriarty knows that we're on his tracks. There are no limits to what that man is capable of, you know that, Holmes! And now he's got to poor Watson too."

Dean lurks in the corner. Posh British Sam and Bobby are starting to freak him out.

"We need to think as he does!" Sam's saying. "Come, Lestrade, with Watson transformed into a mindless idiot, I need your help more than ever. Deduce, Lestrade, deduce! What will Moriarty's next move be?"

"Hey!" Dean interjects. "Who the hell you calling a mindless idiot?"

"My apologies my dear, dear Watson," Sam says earnestly. "That was thoughtless of me. But you must see that you have fallen foul of my nemesis's mind control devices. Come, you will feel better for a lie down." Sam springs up from his chair with alarming energy, and frog-marches Dean out of the room.

"Hey, I do not need to lie down! I just need you to stop being weird for long enough to tell me what the hell I'm doing here!"

"Hush, hush! Nothing to fear, my dear Watson. You just get some sleep, and the clouds of confusion will clear in no time." Sam opens a door and shoves Dean into a small-ish bedroom. "Now, Mrs Hudson will bring you up some supper. You just attempt to recuperate."

"But…"

Sam's already gone.

"Crap."

The bedsprings creak as Dean sits down, and he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror hanging above the small wooden dresser opposite him. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

There is a light knock at the door, and Dean sighs resignedly, assuming that it's Sam coming to be obnoxious again. "Come in."

The door opens, and Castiel steps inside. He's giving Dean that disappointed look again, and Dean feels his insides shrink a little, even though he knows that he has nothing to feel guilty about.

"Was that better?" Cas asks.

"What?"

"I knocked. You said you wanted warning."

"Oh. Um… yeah. Thanks."

"You didn't go home."

"Ya think? Cas, how the hell do I get out of here?"

"I told you—"

"No. No, no. I did not do this to myself. There's no way, okay! Look at me, man! I have a fucking moustache! I look like Tom freakin' Selleck! And that's another thing – how come last time I was still me, but now I look like this?"

Castiel almost smiles. "This is your world, Dean. It's whatever you want it to be."

"And you think I want it to be this? Just how masochistic do you think I am, Cas?" Dean wishes his voice wasn't coming out so high-pitched. He clears his throat. "Look, I think you're wrong about this. This seems like the kind of thing that Gabriel would do for a laugh."

"It isn't Gabriel." Castiel sits down next to Dean.

"How can you be sure? I think it's a hell of a lot more likely that he'd do this than me somehow having the power to distort reality myself." Their arms are touching. Dean feels like he should move over a bit, but then if he does, it'll be obvious that he's moving over because they're touching. And why would that be a big deal?

"Trust me, it's not Gabriel. Dean, you're here because you wanted out. The burden of your life had become too much to bear, and so you've altered reality. You shouldn't have let it get this far, Dean." There's concern in Castiel's voice now, and Dean almost preferred it when he was annoyed. "You shouldn't have to do this alone. You could have talked to someone."

Dean laughs bitterly. "I'm not really the caring and sharing type. Besides, who would I talk to? I think Sammy's got enough of his own problems."

Castiel looks like he's about to say something, but then thinks better of it.

"Just… let me know how to get back. If… if you're right and I've done this to myself, then there has to be some way of getting things back to normal. I mean… what do I do?"

"I already told you. You have to want to go home."

"Right, yeah, that's specific. I think I can say with some confidence that I do not want to stay here, so—"

Dean turns to look at the angel, which is not something he tends to do very often these days. At least, not directly. He's taken to gazing at the top of Castiel's head, or at his knees, or the lapels of his trench coat. Just not at him. But now he does. Now he does look at Castiel, and Castiel's looking back, and everything's just a little bit too real.

"Dean…"

The world lurches again, and Dean feels himself falling backwards.

…

"Dean, why are you lying on the floor?"

Dean opens his eyes, grateful that the stomach-churning spinning has stopped. Becky is standing above him, looking at him with confusion.

"Dean! Do you need to go to the Hospital Wing?"

"What? No, no, I'm… okay." Dean gets to his feet. He looks around him. He appears to be in some sort of… cathedral. They're in this big, high-ceilinged chamber, and there's late afternoon sunlight coming through the mullioned windows, making the air glow golden. "Becky, I… this may sound weird to you, but what are we doing here?"

Becky bites her lip. "I knew it. You've been hit by a Confundus Charm."

"A… a what now?"

"Don't worry, Dean, we'll go get some dinner and it'll soon wear off. It was probably Crowley."

"Crowley? Wait, he's here too? And… and what the hell are you wearing?" Dean's only just noticed that Becky is wrapped up in a cloak, and she's got a red and yellow scarf on. "Is it Halloween here or something?"

"No, Dean, Halloween's months away." Becky pats him on the arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, it'll all come back to you soon."

He follows her through corridors lined with suits of armour and down a long sweeping staircase. "Well, I'll be damned," Dean says. "I've gone to Hogwarts." He grins; maybe things are looking up. He's never told anyone this, but Dean has long suspected that his Hogwarts letter got lost in the mail. This could be fun.

"There you go!" Becky says brightly. "I told you it'd come back to you."

Dean checks out his uniform. "Hey, I'm a Gryffindor!"

"That's right!"

"What about Sam?"

"Your brother's in Ravenclaw, remember?"

"Ha. Of course he is. House of the geeks."

He follows Becky into the Great Hall, and his inner twelve-year-old does a little dance of joy. "Dude, this is so cool! Look at the ceiling!"

Becky gives him a look. "Dean, play it cool, for Chrissake! Crowley and his gang are watching. You don't want them to know that their little trick worked, do you?"

Dean looks over at the Slytherin table and sees Crowley sitting with Ruby, Gordon and Meg. They're all watching him intently, looks of amusement on their faces.

"Come on." Becky grabs his arm. "It's your favourite tonight – beefsteak. With lemon meringue pie for dessert. We'll deal with them when you're feeling better; Gabe's already got something in the pipeline."

They sit down at the Gryffindor table, and Dean begins to eat his steak with gusto. He could get used to this particular universe.

"You know, Dean, inhaling your food isn't healthy."

Dean looks up to see Gabriel sitting across from him. "Ung Er?" he says.

Gabriel smiles ironically. "It's not that I don't enjoy getting covered with chewed mashed potato, but—"

Dean swallows. "You're here?" he repeats.

"Have you been on the Firewhiskey already, Winchester?"

"It was Crowley," Becky says. "He got Dean with a Confundus Charm. Hey, how's that plan of yours coming along?"

"I think we can probably put it into action tonight. Hey, Dean, what do you think? Wanna break out the Invisibility Cloak one more time?"

"I have an Invisibility Cloak?" Dean says gleefully. "Oh, this just couldn't get any more awesome."

"Dean, you can't be serious," says a voice from behind him. He turns around. Okay, Castiel definitely looks pissed off this time.

"Ha!" Dean says. "You're in Hufflepuff."

Cas scowls at him. "You put me in Hufflepuff."

"You're wearing yellow socks! That's… adorable, Cas."

"Dean, if you think that—"

"Why don't you relax for once, little brother?" Gabriel says. "Or are you still feeling sore because Ravenclaw kicked your ass at Quidditch on Sunday? Come on, unclench!"

"Dean, I need to speak with you. Now."

Dean gets to his feet. "Cas, can we just—"

"No. Dean, it's imperative that you—"

"Oh, come on, dude, don't be such a buzz-kill! It's good here! Come on, at least let's hang out for a bit."

Castiel takes a step towards him. "Dean, I came here to help you. None of this is real – it's not where you belong. You are needed back in your own world."

Dean experiences a spike of irritation. "Well… maybe you were right. Maybe I did want to get away. C'mon, Cas, do you seriously think that we're gonna win? Do you think I'm strong enough to hold out forever?" He turns to sit down again, but Castiel grabs his arm, and it's like being trapped in a vice. Stoopid angel strength.

"Dean, I understand. But I can't let you do this."

"Oh, get a room already, you two," Gabriel sighs.

Dean turns to glare at him, his face burning.

Gabriel smirks. "Did I hit a nerve?"

"Stay out of this," Dean growls at him.

"Dean." Castiel's grip on his arm tightens, making Dean wince. "You know you can't stay here."

"Why not?" Dean asks him quietly. "Cas, it's nice here. We could have fun. You do understand the concept of fun, don't you?"

Castiel looks away.

"There's pie here," Dean continues. "And enchanted ceilings, and cloaks! You know I've always wanted to rock a cloak. And… and there's magic!"

"Dean. This isn't your world. You… you can't do magic."

"Sure I can!" Dean says with what he hopes is enough bravado to cover the fact that he hadn't actually considered that until now. He reaches for the wand that's in the belt-loop of his school robes. "It's just a matter of waving it around and saying stuff." Dean raises the wand and casts the first spell that comes into his head which is, unfortunately, "Avada Kadavara!" A jet of lurid green light ricochets through the room, and an elderly man at the teachers' table slumps lifelessly into his lemon meringue pie. "See," Dean says in a small voice, "I can do magic."

The hall erupts into chaos. Everyone is screaming and crying. "You just killed Albus Dumbledore, Dean!" Becky cries. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Cas?"

"Yes."

"I think it's time to go."

…

Dean is starting to feel slightly hysterical. He thinks it been about a week now that he's been cruising alternate universes, and he's no closer to figuring out how to get home. Well, that's not entirely true. He's starting to think that Castiel might have been right. Maybe. The truth is, he had wanted out. Desperation had been building like a coil in his gut, and it was all he could do just to hold it together for Sam. There had been nothing he could do about it, either. There had been nowhere to run. It would make sense that he'd do something like this, if he could. Although he still wasn't quite sure ihow/i he was doing it exactly. And even if he was able to figure that much out, there was no way he could fathom why he would be transporting himself to places that were, well, downright insane.

Dean misses Cas. He suspects that the angel is still pissed off with him, and that's making him feel a strange mixture of guilt and resentment. It's not fair of Castiel to expect so much from him. After all, it's not like Dean has the wisdom of centuries to fall back on, it's not like he knows the secrets of the universe. How can Cas expect him to just fix this? But… but at the same time… Dean hates that Castiel is disappointed in him. It feels like Castiel's always disappointed in him; Dean suspects that he just has one of those 'you've really let me down this time' kind of faces, but that doesn't help. He hopes that the angel hasn't given up on him completely, and he hates himself a little bit for that.

He knows that it shouldn't matter this much. He knows he shouldn't miss Castiel so much when he's not around, and feel so damn uncomfortable when he is. And what terrifies Dean the most is the thought that Castiel might find out.

This just isn't the way he's supposed to be thinking; this isn't who Dean is. He's never… he hasn't even… apart from that one time when he was twenty that he's never told ianyone/i about. And this is different. He's not even sure when it all started or, indeed, what exactly 'it' is. Castiel occupies a completely different category in Dean's life to everyone else he's ever met. Granted, no one else has ever dragged him out of hell and pieced him back together. No one else has been able to read Dean in that unsettling way that Cas can, not even Sam. And lately Dean has wondered what it would be like to touch Castiel. He wants to… to show his appreciation in some way. He's not ignorant of what the angel has sacrificed for his sake, and he wants to show him… God, he doesn't even know. These thoughts he's been having lately… Dean has never been ashamed of thoughts like this before. It's not even the fact that Cas is another guy, although that is a little unsettling. Dean likes to think he's pretty open-minded about that kind of thing. It's that it's… almost sacrilegious. Yes, there had been Anna, but she'd still been human at the time, and that had just been… it had been a way of making them both feel better, nothing more. The way he feels about Castiel made him burn. And Cas would never understand it; it would only confuse him, or worse, insult him. It's quite possibly the stupidest thing Dean has ever done, and that, he thinks, is saying something.

The world Dean's in now… he doesn't even know. He thinks that the whole point is that it's a world of endless motel rooms. Because that's all there is – just one after the other disappearing into the horizon. Occasionally Dean sees a shifty-looking businessman ushering a hooker into a room and locking the door hurriedly behind them, or a couple of kids with eyes that have seen too much sitting on the curb. It's depressing as hell. Dean's found a key in his pocket, room number 21,984. Thankfully, he was already outside 21,776 when he arrived here; good to know that his subconscious desire to punish himself had its limits. He doesn't even care what he's doing here anymore, he just wants to find a bed and sleep for about a month. He counts each room as he passes it, the numbers lulling him into a strange hypnotic state so that when he eventually does reach the right room he walks right past it and has to back-track.

He's just about given up on seeing Cas again. At least, not until he's managed to get back home. It's been days since he last saw the angel, and Dean has made no progress since then. Still, he's not in the least bit surprised to find Castiel waiting for him when he opens the door.

"Hey."

"Dean."

He doesn't look mad any more, for which Dean is very grateful. He's too tired to get into another fight that he has no chance of winning. He throws his jacket over the back of the desk chair, kicks his boots off, and slumps face-down onto the bed.

"You're tired," Castiel says, almost gently.

Dean makes an indistinguishable noise into his pillow. The bed smells like mothballs, but he's had worse.

"Can I… get you something to eat?"

This catches Dean's attention. Since when has Castiel taken human needs into consideration? A month or two ago, he couldn't even grasp the concept of sleep. He turns his head and looks at Cas standing there by the window. He looks so damn awkward.

"I'm fine," Dean replies. "You… you can sit, if you want."

The angel sits down, almost cautiously, on the other bed. Funny that there's two, Dean thinks. Like Sam's supposed to show up. Dean wonders what Sam – the real Sam – is doing now. He hopes he's okay.

"Where have you been, Cas?"

The angel looks up at him searchingly, elbows propped on his knees. He's almost like a child when he does this, and yet it makes Dean feel slightly uncomfortable. Like Castiel is looking into him.

"I thought you wanted to be left alone."

If he hadn't said it so dispassionately, Dean would have thought he was bitter. "No, that's not what I… I just… can you try to understand that I'm never going to be able to live up to your expectations?" Dean flips onto his back and closes his eyes. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, just above his nose, where he can feel a tension headache building.

"I don't expect anything."

Dean laughs a little bitterly at this.

"I am here because I want to help you. But there's only so much that I can do."

They remain in silence for a while. Dean knows that Castiel is still watching him, even though his eyes are closed. He doesn't mind. "Do you know what I've been doing for the past few days?" he says at length. Castiel doesn't say anything, so Dean continues. "I think the downright weirdest was when I was turned into a cartoon fish, and had to live out the wacky adventures of Salmon and Sardine, ghost-busters of the sea. Oh, and then there was the world of musicals. I serenaded Bobby with a dazzling rendition of Deep Purple's 'Hush', complete with perfectly choreographed dance moves. Did you know that I can do a double back-flip? I sure didn't. Actually, I'm kind of glad you didn't show up there, God knows what I would have sung to you. Oh, and my personal favourite was the world where everyone looked like my dad. John Winchester dressed as a waitress, complete with a platinum blonde wig, serving me coffee is not something I'm going to forget in a hurry. And… and every time I want out, I just get sent to another world. Cas, I… I don't know how…"

The mattress shifts a little, and Dean opens his eyes to see that Castiel is now perched at the foot of his bed. Dean's leg is almost touching him, and this makes his stomach do another pathetic flip-flop.

"You need to rest now."

"But, Cas…"

"Dean, I understand. Get some rest."

Dean swallows. He feels so fucking pathetic, so fucking human. Castiel will never know what it is to want. Not like this, anyway. And Dean just… he doesn't even want much right now, only… only the thought of being alone again makes him feel hollow. He can't believe how lame he's being, and there's no way in hell he's going to ask Castiel to stay, but… but Dean has got this horrible desire to curl up with his head in the angel's lap, and just be held. To just feel like… like he's not quite so alone.

"I can stay, if you'd prefer."

Dean flinches a little. He hopes he hasn't been thinking too loudly. Castiel's right – he's exhausted. His defences are down. "You don't have to. You probably have places to be."

"Not really."

Dean looks away. "Well… if you want to. I mean, if you really have nothing better to do, you're more than welcome to hang out. If that's what you want."

So quiet that Dean almost misses it. "Yes."

Dean draws in a ragged breath and closes his eyes again. Castiel doesn't move, but Dean can feel the dip in the bed where he's sitting, and he feels comforted. Just before sleep finally claims him, he remembers his mother's words, all those years ago, in another life. "Angels are watching over you." Dean realises with a strange, bittersweet pang that maybe, after all, she'd been right.

…