Love this chapter. It doesn't really clear up anything, but it will, hopefully, leave you with a warm fuzzy feeling lol. And if you think Castiel is ooc, he's not. He's just not. After every thing he's been through, and after all the faith he put in God...yeah, he's not lol. Now, despite the fact that there are more and more developments coming in on the war in heaven/Castiel's war machine, I'm not going to include those so much since I obviously didn't know about them when the story began. Just keep that in mind ;) Enjoy, and please leave some feedback if you feel so inclined!

Sam's eyes widened when he heard Castiel cry out for his father. He looked at his brother to find that Dean was staring right back at him. He mouthed the words what the hell?, but Sam's only response was a shrug.

Castiel was breathing deeply, but each breath was ragged. His shoulders were shaking, his body still bent down and his head bowed low. Sherlock stared down at him with the wide grin still on his face.

John stepped forward. "Sherlock—" he began, but the detective held up a hand to silence him.

"Castiel."

Sherlock's voice was no longer Sherlock's voice. It was the same pitch, the same accent, but it wasn't him speaking. There was a new power hidden in his words, like an enormous gray cloud that you knew was going to break out into a roll of deafening thunder at any second. There was also a kindness in his words, one that hadn't been present before, that made Dean relax his tense body for a split-second.

Only for a split-second.

Sherlock was staring down at Castiel, but the angel wouldn't look at him. The hands he had wrapped around Sherlock's ankles were trembling, and Dean could have sworn that he heard Castiel whimpering.

Sherlock bent down and placed one hand on Castiel's dark head and let the other rest against his cheek. "Get up, child."

Castiel rose immediately. He stared at the floor, refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze. Sam's mouth fell open when he saw the trails of tears that were falling from the angel's ocean-blue eyes. Castiel was biting his bottom lip and still taking the slow, uneven breaths. He was already crying, but it appeared that he was trying to keep himself from crying more.

Sherlock reached out and cupped Castiel's face in his hands, wiped the tears away with his thumbs even though more soon followed. "It's all right," he whispered, as if the words were meant for Castiel and Castiel only. "Don't hold back on my behalf."

That was all it took. Castiel, angel of the Lord—the healer, the smiter, the knife-wielding, demon-killing, no-nonsense warrior—threw his arms around Sherlock's neck and began sobbing into his shoulder. The other

men—John especially—were surprised when Sherlock returned the gesture by wrapping his long arms around Castiel, one hand rubbing his back and the other rubbing his hair.

John took a few steps back—he was scared to death that his friend was hugging another man—well, an angel—so intimately, but also that the angel had called him 'Father'. Sam and Dean moved, too, taking slow steps to be closer to one another.

"Who the hell is that guy?" Dean hissed as he grabbed Sam's forearm in a vice grip. "What's he doing to Cas?"

Sam shook his head helplessly. "I dunno…do you really think that he's…God?"

"No!" Dean answered immediately. "No, of course he's not God! We were just talking to him; did he seem like God to you?"

Sam gestured to the center of the room where Sherlock and Castiel were still, for lack of a better word, embracing. "Then how do you explain that?"

Dean shook his head and turned his head to glare at Sherlock. "I don't know," he said. "But I'm going to find out. Right now." Dean straightened up his body and put on his most intense give-'em-hell face before striding to Sherlock and clapping his hand on the man's boney shoulder.

"Hey."

Castiel sighed before pulling away from Sherlock. He was smiling. The angel was wiping tears away from his face, and at the same time he was grinning so broadly that his eyes squinted at the corners. Dean's heart began to beat faster—this wasn't normal.

Cas doesn't cry. Cas doesn't smile. Hell, he hardly even speaks half the time! What's the matter with him?

Sherlock turned around and looked at Dean—he was grinning too, grinning like a maniac. "Dean," he said with a curt nod of his head. "Hello. I—"

"Can it, weirdo," Dean spat. "Who the hell are you?"

Sherlock shook his head with a soft chortle. "Oh, Dean. You already know the answer to that."

"God?" Dean smirked. "The God?"

Again, Sherlock laughed, and the sound could only be described as booming. "The one and only," he replied.

Castiel was the only one that smiled at the clichéd response. Sam looked even more confused, and Dean and John's expressions hardened.

"Cas, get away from him," Dean growled. "Now."

Castiel's smile faded into a frown. "Dean—"

"Get away from him! We don't know what he is!"

"Yes we do! He's my Father! Your creator! The maker of—"

"He could've been sent here by Lucifer for all we know!" Dean growled. "Now come on!"

Castiel shook his head stubbornly. "No. I know this is Him, Dean."

Sherlock cleared his throat, and then reached into his pocket. Grasping something in his clenched fist, he held his hand out to Dean. "Here. I want you to have this back."

Dean glanced at his brother. Sam nodded encouragingly, and after a moment's hesitation, Dean held out an open palm. What Sherlock dropped into it made him gasp.

It was his necklace. The one that Sam had given him, that he had let Castiel borrow, that he had thrown away—how the hell had Sherlock gotten a hold of it?

"Nice trick," Dean said smugly as he stared at the necklace and let his thumb roam over the amulet. "Really, I've gotta give you props. Except that this is supposed to burn hot in God's—oh, sorry, Your—presence. Thing feels as cool as a cucumber to me."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly and, without ever looking away from Dean, snapped his fingers. Immediately, Dean jerked his hand and hissed in pain. The amulet was hurled to the ground, where it was glowing madly. A small puff of steam rose up from it.

"I didn't want to do that," Sherlock told the elder Winchester. He stepped closer to Dean and took his wrist, then gently pressed two fingers to Dean's red, raw palm. Immediately, the wound vanished. Sherlock bent down just a bit leaned closer to Dean, then reached out with his free hand and held Dean's chin. "It's me, Dean."

Dean slapped Sherlock's hands away, then looked past him and at Castiel. "Well, lucky you," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Your daddy's still alive. Well guess what? Your daddy killed my daddy."

The look that came onto Castiel's face made Dean almost regret what he had said. The angel looked heartbroken—like every ounce of happiness had just been sucked out of his life. This made Dean even angrier. Even though they had their differences and their quarrels, Castiel was his friend. His only friend, really. Sam was his brother and Bobby was, basically, his father. Then, there was Cas. And this asshole—Sherlock, God, whatever—had abandoned him. Hadn't given him the time of day. He'd let the three of them die multiple times, go through pain worse than anything imaginable, and now he was possessing John Watson's best friend.

It was too much. Dean felt the rage bubbling up inside him. After all this dick did to him, he thought, Cas is just going to forgive him and act like none of it happened. Not to mention all the stuff that he didn't do to him. Oh, no. No, no, no. He's not getting away with that..

Then, Dean did what he assumed everyone in the room (except Castiel, of course) wanted to do—he lunged forward and punched Sherlock in the jaw with as much strength as he could muster.

Castiel was immediately beside him, grabbing his arms to halt another blow. "Dean!"

"It's all right, Castiel," Sherlock said calmly, holding up his hand to halt Castiel's assault. Sherlock turned his head to reveal the other side of his face. "Here. Hit this side, too, if it'll make you feel better."

Without hesitation, Dean slammed his other fist against Sherlock's cheek. He stepped forward and was about to grab him by the collar of his shirt when he felt someone tugging on his arm, forcing him to stop.

"Stop it, Cas!" he started to yell, only to stop mid-sentence when he realized that Castiel was standing behind him. He raised his head and saw John next to him.

"Don't hurt him," John said softly. "I don't know what's wrong with him, but don't—don't hurt him."

"What's wrong with him?" Dean repeated. "What's wrong with him is that he thinks he's God! He—"

"Sherlock."

John interrupted Dean's rant and stepped forward. He stared at Sherlock's face, searching for something, anything that would explain to him why his flat mate was suddenly acting so strangely. Well, more so than usual. He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "What's the matter?"

John's hand was immediately retracted. His eyes widened and his chest began to rise and fall with rapid breaths as he took an awkward step backwards. He lifted his hand again and pointed a trembling finger at Sherlock.

"You're—You're—You're not—You—You're—"

Sherlock smiled warmly and stepped towards John, closing the distance between them. John had tried to move back further, but the wall stopped him. "You're right, John," Sherlock said softly. "I'm not Sherlock."

"I…I don't understand," John said meekly. "Where is he? What have you done with him?"

Dean put his hand on Sam's arm and leaned towards his brother. "How does he know that's not Sherlock?" he began to ask, but Sam shushed him before the question was finished.

Sherlock put his hands on John's cheeks and stroked them with his thumbs, but he didn't answer John's questions. "Castiel," he said, which made the Winchesters and the angel look up in surprise. "You are weary, child."

Castiel vanished.

"You son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, lurching forward and grabbing Sherlock by the collar. "Where the hell is he? What did you do to him?"

Sherlock didn't flinch. In fact, as soon as Castiel disappeared, Sherlock began to turn around, as if he knew that Dean was going to approach him. "Relax," he said calmly. "I'm putting him to bed."

"Oh, what, is that code for killing him?"

"No, no, wait," Sam said as he put his hand on Dean's shoulder and stared at Sherlock. "You said he was weary…you really are putting him to bed, aren't you?"

"What, so he's two now instead of two thousand?" Dean quipped.

Sherlock laughed. Outright laughed. "He is still my child, Dean!"

"Ok, well, how can you be putting him to bed? You're still here."

Dean blinked, then gasped. He wasn't in Sherlock's flat anymore—in fact, he wasn't even in London anymore. He and Sherlock were sitting on a swing set. The sky was dark gray, both from inclement weather and the oncoming night. Once Dean's eyes had adjusted from the sun-lit living room to the gloomy setting, his brow furrowed. They were at a park, that much was obvious from the red slides and monkey bars sitting but a few yards away from them. A cold wind blew past them. He recognized the place instantly.

"What is this?" Dean asked, not making eye contact with Sherlock. "Why did you bring me here?"

"You know where we are," Sherlock replied. "Lawrence, Kansas. This is the park you came to after your mother passed. That—" he nodded his head towards Dean's swing—"is the swing you sat in."

Dean still refused to meet Sherlock's gaze. He remembered that night. It wasn't right after his mother had been killed, but a few nights later. He hadn't been able to sleep. He was too upset. His naïve, four-year-old brain had told him that he should go to the park, because he was always happy while he was there. He'd gone down the slide at least a dozen times, dug a gigantic (well, it looked gigantic to him at that time) hole in the sand, and then swung on the swings for God only knows how—

"Thirty-seven minutes and twelve seconds," Sherlock announced. "I know because I was sitting here with you."