A/N- Yes I changed chapter 6 to be some type of dream, because I had no idea how to continue with it plus I had other intensions. The beginning of this chapter is still the dream. Everyone keeps disappearing and dying inside it, because they're waking up. So yeah if that makes sense. Sadness ahead!

DISCLAIMER- I DON'T OWN BBC SHERLOCK OR SUPERNATURAL.

A cry of pain came out of the mouth of Dean Winchester. Castiel rushed forward with Watson by his side. The elder Winchester was sprawled out among his own blood that flooded the street. He cried and screamed. Castiel was kneeling beside him, brushing his hair out his face. It all happened so fast, one second they were walking down the street, then they were running…and then Dean was beaten and bled on.

Castiel knew that even if he could save Dean's injuries, he'd still be infected. Dean seemed to know this as well. The hunter couldn't let himself be seen weak, he had to tell Cas things, he had to make sure he wouldn't be sad. Dean had already lost Sam, and to be honest since those three days ago, all he wanted was to die.

"Cas, listen to me!" He panted out.

Dean couldn't find the words. Castiel was leaning over him his blue eyes glassy and red, tear tracks running down his face. He smiled sadly; he'd always wondered what it'd be like to see Cas cry. Or what would cause him too. He didn't ever think he would be the cause of so much pain.

"Please don't go Dean, don't leave me here alone!"

Castiel knew he must sound like a child, but he was too far gone to care.

"Cas, I'm not leaving I swear, just think of it as a vacation- a really long vacation!" Dean tried to sound happy, but his voice was cracking. He was losing consciousness quickly; he had nothing else to say that could come out in words. The expression the two men shared said everything, everything all too powerful to be said aloud.

And he died.

And Castiel cried.

And Sam was dead.

And Sherlock was missing.

Both men felt incredibly alone.

"Dean! Why are you leaving me! Please just open your eyes, talk about pie, DO SOMETHING!"

John stood over Castiel, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Castiel."

Sherlock shot awake, his breath coming out in short gasp. He sat up running a hand threw his matted, sweaty black curls of hair. He relaxed when he realized he was home, and wrapped in the comfort of his own bed. The dream was so vivid, and extreme. He reached over to the bedside table, grateful for a cup of water, as the heat from the fire of his dreams seemed to follow him.

He lifted his phone that had fallen off the bed.

Three missed calls from Lestrade, and one from Mycroft.

The clock read 4:16 AM; he slumped back down into the pillows, but found he could sleep no longer. When the clock Read 5:21 AM he gave up and sat back up. The sun was streaming in being blocked by heavy dark red curtains.

He got up and took a bath, dressing himself in sweat pants, a white t-shirt, and his silk grey robe. He wasn't going to bother with getting properly dressed, he was too startled and… afraid to leave the flat. He made his way down the hall, and into the kitchen.

Too bad John wasn't awake, he would have been more than eager to make Sherlock tea, but he wasn't awake, therefore the detective would have to make it himself. He sighed and began heating water. He stared out into the living room, where their house guest was shifting in his sleep obviously from a restless dream.

Sherlock would see lines of stress, and pain on the former angel's forehead. He yearned to wake him up, but he tried to avoid awkward situations at all cost. He kept glancing at the man as he made his tea and toast. He couldn't help but wonder what the angel was dreaming…and then it hit him.

"Dean…please don't leave me…please stay…" The man was whimpering in his sleep.

Sherlock already knew that Castiel was one of those who talked in their sleep. The first two days he stayed at 221B he had cried out in his sleep, begging a man named Dean to run, and begging the man Dean to save himself.

This was different, this wasn't a demand; this was a call from a man who needed help. Sherlock was damn well going to make sure he got it. That was the difference in their situations; Sherlock had John, whilst Castiel was represented as alone.

He sat at the table for a long while, eventually finishes his tea, and fiddling with the mug. John entered the kitchen. The older man was leant over on himself, he yawned as he grabbed a mug from the cabinet.

John was almost like a soft kitten when he was tired and had just awoken. The way he stumbled around and stopped every two minutes to readjust his socks or robe.

John ran a shaky hand threw his almost grey blonde hair. He could still hear the yells of pain and cries of sadness from his dreams…Castiel's cries of sadness.

Sherlock was creeping him out; he just stared forwards towards the couch. John stopped and listened, figuring that's what Sherlock was doing. He heard whimpers, and shuffling. He set down the mug, and made his way towards the living room. He leaned against the chair and watch. It was quite a scene, though he was used to it, little did Sherlock know he does the same thing.

Castiel had his trench coat laid over himself; he was gripping the sleeve and trying to huddle further into the cushions.

"Castiel," John whispered at the sleeping form.

Castiel groaned but did not move.

"Castiel!" the doctor hissed.

The former angel opened his eyes, the piercing blue eyes staring startled at Watson. Castiel realized he was death gripping his coat, and dropped the sleeve, it hung limply off the couch. He sat up and laid the coat on the arm of the chair. John could have sworn he'd never see anything quite as beautiful as the ocean of Castiel's eyes.

Filled with hurt, and betrayal; his eyes were easy to read. They said everything, every word that the man would never dare to admit. Cause Castiel's emotions could be read right off the top of the never ending moving waves.

"It's alright, Castiel just a nightmare. Fancy some tea?"

Sherlock continued looking out into the living room at John and Castiel. He remembered why he always kept Watson around. His fatherly kindness and lively attitude was always needed considering Sherlock's occupation. After all John was the reason he now owned that ridiculous hat, and he loved his hat, though he denied it.

Sherlock got up, leaving his mug in the sink; he stepped out of the flat. He figured he'd return Lestrade's calls. Truthfully he wasn't up to running around London, but he was bored. And a bored Sherlock should never be unattended.

"Now you return my calls, you consulting dumbass! I've been trying to get ahold of you for days, are you alright? Jesus, jumping off a building what were you thinking!" Lestrade was shouting through the phone, loud enough that Sherlock held it away from his ear.

"I'm bored Lestrade, got anything worth my time?"

"Uh, I guess you could look into some terrorist threats we've been getting… I'll drop by later and give you the tapes. Sounds good, yeah?"

"Yes, Detective, sounds great I wasn't planning on leaving the flat anyhow."

"…Of course not, I'll see you later Sherlock."

Sherlock grunted and hung up. He headed back inside, John was sitting in his chair sipping at his tea, and typing. Castiel was glancing around the room. Cas was a lot like Sherlock, he was completely ignoring the outside world, lost in scenarios and possibilities of what his actions had and could cause.

A figure stepped in front of Castiel. He was shorter than the other men, but still taller than John. Sherlock watching carefully as the cup of tea from Castiel's hands seemed to fall in slow motion as it was dropped shattering the cup, and spraying the liquid on the rug.

"Hey, Castiel."

This wasn't from fear; this was from shock, or rather relief.

Please review let me know how i'm doing. Thanks for reading!