I hate to be the bearer of bad news, I really do, but updates are going to be slower from here on out. With going to school full-time, working at least 20 hours a week, and being in the process of moving, I'm just having a hard time finding the time to write. The idea's still there, it's just that I'm lacking the time. In my defense, though, this chapter was ready to be posted 2 days ago, but wouldn't let me log in. It's been having some problems lately, in case you hadn't noticed ;)

I'm somewhat concerned about my characterization here. Five characters is more than I've ever dealt with before. So, if you feel so inclined, please let me know if you feel they're not in character. I'm afraid that, to compensate for having so many, I'm toning down all their personalities until they're all just bland haha. So let me know!

Sam felt his heart jump into his throat as soon as the living room door opened and a man stepped inside. He was a sight to behold—almost six-feet tall, thin as a rail, with a dark mess of hair and a sharp, sallow face. His eyes were gray, alert, and they settled on Sam, Dean, and Castiel.

"Friends of yours?" he asked John, in a rich, baritone voice. "You should've told me you expected company. I would've dressed up."

Dean snorted at that. Sherlock was dressed up—he was wearing black pleated slacks, shiny black dress shoes, a black vest over a crisp, white button-up shirt and a black blazer underneath his heavy trench-coat and scarf, both of which he pulled off and draped over the back of the chair.

"You don't consider that dressed up?" Dean asked him, amused, as his eyes darted over Sherlock's body.

Before Sherlock could reply, John answered. "No, they're—they're not friends of mine."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Oh? You're here to see me, then?" Before the Winchesters or Castiel could answer, Sherlock was rushing over to the desk and had opened his laptop computer. "Well, I'm sorry to say this, but I can't have any clients just now. I'm a bit preoccupied…" His voice trailed off, and he sniffed the air. "John, did you shoot something? What's that smell?"

John's eyes dropped from Sherlock and darted to Sam, Dean, and Castiel. "That…it's…" He jumped, startled, when Castiel suddenly disappeared from view. Sam and Dean, too, looked surprise, although it was obvious that they were used to the occurrence. A loud crash pulled all of their attention to where Sherlock was standing. Now, Castiel was right next to him, only a few inches away, staring intently into his eyes. The laptop computer had fallen to the floor—Sherlock had inadvertently shoved it in surprise when the angel appeared beside him.

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock croaked, backing away from Castiel until he was pressed up against the wall. "John, who are these people?"

No one answered him. Sam, Dean, and John stared at Castiel, frozen, as they watched the angel step closer to Sherlock. The detective's eyes were wide open in terror and his chest was rapidly rising and falling. When Castiel reached out his hand towards Sherlock, John moved forward.

"Don't touch him!" he snarled, only to be stopped by Sam and Dean each grabbing one of his arms.

"Wait!" Sam hissed. "Just wait."

"Let go of me!" John tried to wriggle out of the brothers' grip, but their combined strength was too much for him to overtake.

"He won't hurt him," Dean said, although he wasn't sure if he believed the words himself. "We're just tryin' to help."

"Help what? He's fine!"

Castiel gripped Sherlock's chin in his thumb and forefinger. He tilted the man's slim face backwards, then to the side, never once letting his eyes leave Sherlock's. Castiel's face was creased in deep concentration for a few moments, until, with a soft sigh, he dropped his hand and turned around.

"I can't tell," he admitted gravely.

Dean asked, "Why not?" at the same time that John asked, "Can't tell what?" Castiel glanced at John, but ignored him.

"I don't know. It is possible that he can remain hidden from me with his new powers. Unless…" The angel trailed off and licked his dry lips, almost nervously.

"Unless what?" Sam questioned. "Cas, what is it?"

Castiel nodded towards John. "Hold him."

"Why, what are you doing?" Dean said.

"If my brother is inside this vessel, his soul will be marred," Castiel answered. "Even if he's not there now, I'll find traces of him."

"Whoa, whoa!" Sam exclaimed. "You think he's just gonna let you read him like that?"

"It doesn't matter if he does or doesn't; we'll have our answer either way." Returning his attention to Sherlock, Castiel glanced at the man's torso before locking eyes with him. "This will be extremely unpleasant."

Sherlock looked over at John, fear staining his face. John tried to step closer to his friend, but Dean and Sam wouldn't allow it. Their grip on his arms tightened.

Castiel pressed his right hand into Sherlock's stomach until almost his entire forearm had disappeared, eliciting an ear-piercing howl of pain from the man. Sherlock's throat instantly blazed red, like a stone pulled out from a fire and still glowing with heat. His eyes were clenched shut from the pain.

"Stop it!" John screamed, lurching where he stood, desperately trying to break away from the Winchesters. "God, please, stop it! Leave him alone!"

Sherlock was the fourth person Dean had watched Castiel read, and it was no easier to watch than it had been the first time. Thankfully, it was usually a fairly quick event. But as the seconds ticked on, Sherlock's screams didn't lessen, and Castiel didn't remove his hand from the man's body. Dean started to get nervous.

"Cas!" he yelled, trying to make the angel hear him over Sherlock's shrieks. "Cas, that's enough!"

"Yes!" John whimpered in agreement. "Yes, please, please make him stop!"

After another minute—it seemed like an eternity for John and Sherlock—Castiel shook his head in defeat and pulled his arm out of Sherlock's body. John jerked himself out of Dean and Sam's clutches and was at Sherlock's side in an instant. The taller man had slumped onto the floor and was taking long, shaky breaths. John had one arm wrapped around his friend's shoulders; the other hand was resting on Sherlock's forearm.

Castiel turned around, and Sam and Dean knew right away that something wasn't right.

"I found nothing."

After a beat of disbelieving silence, Sam repeated, "Nothing? But that…that can't be right. I mean, you were so sure…you said you saw Lucifer's old vessel through Sherlock's eyes; how can he not—"

"You misunderstand me," Castiel interrupted. "There was no indication of Lucifer because there was no soul inside him."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "No—No soul?"

"Did I say it in Enochian?" Castiel snapped. "Yes. No soul. There was no soul inside his body; he has no soul. Do you understand?"

"All right, that's it!"

The brothers and Castiel craned their necks towards John, who was standing up, leaving Sherlock lying propped up against the wall, panting heavily.

"You are going to tell me who and, in your case—" he pointed at Castiel—"what you are, or I swear to God—"

"Do not swear to God," Castiel interrupted. "He will hold you to your word."

Dean and John rolled their eyes simultaneously. "Cas," Dean warned, "don't start—"

"What are you, some new sort of Jesus freaks?" John spat. "How—"

"I'm an angel of the Lord."

John stared at Castiel. He didn't argue with him, didn't bombard him with questions, didn't scoff. Just stared.

"The hell do you think you're doing?" Dean hissed, slapping Castiel's shoulder. "We've been through this; you don't just tell people that you're—"

"It doesn't matter, Dean. Even if he is not Lucifer, he has something to do with this. I saw him for a reason."

"Yeah, but—"

"We won't get any information from them unless we are able to speak candidly."

"He's right, Dean," Sam stated. "Besides, it's not like we haven't blown our cover already. The whole soul-searching thing was hardly subtle."

"You can't be an angel," John was saying as he shook his head. "There's…it's not possible."

Castiel cocked his head and gave John the same innocent, confused look that he had given Dean at their first meeting. "Your bullets had no effect on me," he said softly, gently. "I was able to heal my friends with a touch. We appeared out of thin air. You saw me stick my arm into your friend's body. How can you still doubt?" Castiel took a wide step back and turned his head to look at all the humans in turn. "Why is your species so reluctant to see the things that are right in front of them?"

John furrowed his brow. "Yeah, but…" he turned around to look at Sherlock, who had averted his eyes and was now staring at the floor. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Hmm? Well? Don't you have anything to say?"

Sherlock shrugged his bony shoulders and lifted his head, locking eyes with John. "What can I say, John? You know as well as I do—when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. People—normally people—cannot simply appear out of 'thin air'. He healed them, just by touching them? Impossible. And that…that thing he did to me—" The memory of the event made Sherlock cringe, and he rested a hand gingerly over his stomach. "That's not normal."

"So what, you're saying that we should just believe them?"

"Well what choice do we have?" Sherlock snapped. "They haven't given us any other!" The detective focused his attention on Sam and Dean. "Now, who are you two? Are you also…angels?"

"Hell no!" Dean answered immediately. "I'm Dean Winchester. Bigfoot here is my brother, Sam. You might find this hard to believe, but we hunt things. Supernatural things. Vampires, werewolves, demons."

"After what he did to me," Sherlock said with a nod to Castiel, "I don't find that at all hard to believe. Why are you here?"

Dean shot Castiel a glare that clearly said, yeah, why are we here, and then shook his head. "Honestly, I'm not sure. Hopefully it was just a misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding?" John asked, scoffing. "You made it sound like you thought he was the Devil."

"That is exactly what we thought," Castiel said gravely. "And, to be frank, until we're convinced otherwise, we will continue to think it."

"Why—Why would I be the devil?" Sherlock questioned. He looked at John and smirked. "I'm not that mean, am I?"

"Even if Lucifer is more powerful now, wouldn't Sherlock have to say yes to him?" Sam said to Castiel. "How powerful would an angel have to get before possessing someone without their permission?"

Castiel shook his head. "I don't know. Obviously, as Sherlock seems to not have a soul, he is a special case, and I'm not—"

"Wait," Sherlock interrupted, holding up his hand to silence Castiel. After a brief pause, he asked, "What does it look like when someone gets possessed?"

"It's hard to tell how the angel—or the demon—will manifest itself," Sam replied. "I guess normally the vessel will seem to—"

"No, no, no, not the manifestation. The initial act of being possessed. When it first happens. Is there a really bright light?"

Sam, Dean, and Castiel exchanged anxious glances and nodded wordlessly.

Sherlock sighed. "Then I'm not the one you're looking for," he told them. He turned to John. "John. At the warehouse there was that light. You saw it too. There was another man there—Jim Moriarty. I heard him speaking with somebody, a man. The man told Jim that he would never lie to him, and that he would get rewarded. Then Jim said 'yes, all right then'. There was a bright flash of light, and Jim disappeared. When I went in the room, this man was lying there, dead." Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, pressed some of the buttons hurriedly, and then showed it to the three visitors.

"Nick," Dean breathed. "Lucifer left him."

"It would seem so," Castiel agreed."

Sam furrowed his brow. "So, we know who Lucifer's possessing. Now all we have to figure out is where he is and why he's here."

Dean snorted. "Oh, is that all?"