xxxxxxx
"Wake up."
Dean blinked awake, opening his eyes to nothing but darkness. For a moment he felt overwhelmed by confusion, unsure if he had opened his eyes at all. Gingerly he sat up, seeking light, Cas, and Sam; praying they were alright.
Everything was inky and cold. He wondered briefly if he just couldn't see through the thick black sludge Dick Roman had splattered, but after a moment his vision adjusted to reveal spindly trees and overgrown brush.
"Good. We need to get out of here."
Dean turned, taking in Cas' bright white hospital clothes and the distinct lack of Sam, and definitely not liking the way Cas was looking around, unsure. Cas' tone wasn't helping either.
"Where are we?" Dean asked, letting his eyes slide from Cas' face as he stood. Pressing around them were bare, frail trees that made Dean feel uneasy in the sudden darkness. Already his mind spiralled, trying to place where they were, where Sam and Kevin were, if Dick was somehow still around, and how he was going to get a mentally unstable angel to safety without nakedness, board games, or cat penises.
"You don't know?" Castiel frowned, looking at him as if it were obvious. Which it really, really wasn't. Dean turned back sharply from inspecting his surroundings to stare. Cas' voice was firm, which he noticed first. It wasn't nearly as distant or whimsical; he sounded firm and alert. He sounded like his Cas.
Dean drank in the pulled together eyebrows, slightly down-turned jaw, and lips that were beginning to purse shut, feeling as though he had been momentarily caught.
"Last I remember," he said, running over the facts in his mind while shaking his head softly, blinking, trying to work it out for himself and failing, "We got Dick."
Cas' eyebrows rose higher, his eyes wide. Dean stared at the whites, trying to decide if the expression was alarm, fear, concern, exasperation? It certainly looked exasperated; like the old 'I'm an Angel of The Lord – why don't you understand what I'm telling you?' exasperated. He hadn't seen any expression like this on Cas' face for a while - he looked almost serious for once, instead of thinking about lipstick on monkeys.
"And where would he go in death?"
Dean had to let the truth settle slowly in his mind, quickly running through everything they knew about Dick; he was a monster, he ate people, Castiel let him in when he sucked in souls from-
"What, are you tellin' me-"
"Every soul here is a monster." Castiel said flatly, glancing away. Dean could hear the sound of leaves rustling behind him - of something stalking round them - but when he looked, he couldn't make anything out through the darkness.
"This is where they come to prey upon each other for all eternity." The angel explained.
This was not happening. Dean's eyes widened, adrenaline seeping into his veins as his mind conjured up the horrifying possibilities.
"We're in purgatory?" He asked numbly, eyes flicking between Cas and the emptiness.
He knew the answer. But he still desperately wished Cas would bark his hippy laugh, clap him on the shoulder, say 'you're such fun, Dean' and click his fingers, and they'd be back in the safe house with Sam, Cas telling him how important it is to not trust everything he senses, and then running off to chase a bee. Really anything would be preferable to what was happening right now.
Cas said nothing. Dean scrambled.
"How do we get out?"
If this was real, they needed a plan. His mind raced, but he was hitting brick walls on all sides.
"I'm afraid we're much more likely to be ripped to shreds." The angel admitted through his tensed jaw, again looking away for a split second, seeing something Dean couldn't. It made his skin crawl. Reminded him of the Hell Hounds. He felt helpless, and exposed, and very vulnerable. He only had the demon knife and his gun on him, and he didn't feel confident about his chances on the home turf of Monsterland.
Suddenly, whatever Cas had sensed earlier made itself known. It snarled, a curling ripping sort of noise that made Dean whirl around, searching for the source of the sound. He squinted into the darkness, watching red lights bob in the abyss. They needed to get away, now.
"Cas, I think we better-" Dean turned, whispering in his fear and hesitation. Running was the only option, assuming they could. But as soon as the word 'go' left his mouth he saw emptiness.
No Cas. Just continuous dark woodland, and the snarling behind him growing louder.
"Cas?" He hissed. Shadows flickered around him of monsters prowling closer, and he had nothing and no-one.
Xxxxxxx
"So, this 'angel' released the Leviathans into the world from Purgatory, and they tried to convert the human population into livestock, but you had a spell using 'demon' blood and a righteous bone and stuff that would kill the boss of the Leviathans and 'leave the body floundering,' and when you did that the boss guy exploded in black goo and took your brother and this angel with him?" The Doctor was sceptical at best - he'd met his fair share of crazy cult members, and Sam was fitting pretty neatly into that group, though his story was certainly the wildest he'd heard in a few centuries.
"Yes. Basically, I suppose. You don't look convinced." Sam fidgeted, he looked like he'd never heard it from someone else's point of view, that put a hole in the 'crazy cult member' theory, but despite the Doctor's constant open-mindedness he was having difficulty accepting this.
"Sorry, 900 year old Timelord here, struggling to believe in the concept of Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, that sort of thing. Nice theory and all, but I've always been a scientist. I always appreciate a bit of evidence, me." The Doctor's tone was light, but he had been shaken by this man and how he really seemed to believe this stuff, and after they got over the gun thing he really was a nice guy. The Doctor fiddled with his console, his mind racing, trying in some way to keep it together without just screaming 'WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?' Despite this new him, that was exactly what he wanted to do right now.
Sam was silent for a few minutes, staring at the floor, seemingly deep in thought, before turning a determined face on the Doctor. 'Um. If 900 year old Timelords can read minds, I have some pretty convincing memories.'
The Doctor paused, he could of course do something similar but minds were so easily manipulated. If he truly believed this stuff, he could have warped, self deceptive memories, but then there was only so much manipulation possible - usually the Doctor could still see through to the truth behind it. He considered Sam; the man looked like it had taken a few guts to say that, and he obviously needed someone to believe in him, otherwise there was no way Sam would have stayed as long as he had.
'You're in luck, there is very little 900 year old Timelords can't do! Blimey, that's a mouthful; let's just call me the Doctor again." He stepped closer, tone softening as he said, "It helps if you close your eyes. This may feel weird but just try to relax." He pressed the pads of his fingers to Sam's temples, his thumbs resting on his jaw. He had to almost go on tip toes in order to do it. Slowly a door opened in his mind, and then he was seeing into Sam.
He saw and felt things he'd never thought he'd see in another man, skin being flayed and burned and cut at the same time, pain that never numbed and roared in intolerable volumes through his body and disgusting, heart wrenching images of a woman burning on a ceiling, her stomach cut open. Another man being ripped to pieces by an invisible force, a man with red eyes refusing to make a deal. An angel bursting with light as she swallowed her grace, a huge, dark force entering his body.
The Doctor leapt away, breathing hard, sweating profusely. His two hearts hammered at his rib cage, his body in shock from the startling onslaught of pain and raw emotion that he never would have expected to be sheltered in such a normal human. Or at least normal in that he wasn't broken down in some psychiatric hospital, or a serial killer.
"Okay. I – I think I believe you now." The Doctor huffed, pulling himself to sit down on the sofa, and he was not fond of sitting, except possibly on a swing.
"Yeah, I think I'm going to be sick." Sam choked, curled over and holding onto the console for support.
"Toilet's that way." The Doctor pointed in a general direction and then Sam was running, The Doctor really hoped he made it.
Xxxxxxxxxx
"This is boring, John. It's too quiet here; I can almost smell the contentedness in the air." Sherlock moaned, sprawled across the bed, face twisted in a mask of disgust.
John groaned, staring at his watch. He had been trying to get to sleep for exactly 67 minutes now. "I don't know what air you're smelling, Sherlock, but there is no contentedness here." He sighed, pushing back the headache that was threatening to overtake him, and sitting up. Scowling at Sherlock, John grabbed his laptop, switching it on and focusing intently on the screen, not giving Sherlock the satisfaction of an explanation.
He didn't need one apparently. He was already up and at the door, grinning at John.
"While you do that, I shall fetch some practical research. Won't be long!" And Sherlock was gone with a swish of his coat, the door slamming behind him.
John winced, looking back at his pillow in anguish. How long would it be until he could sleep? He rolled his eyes, typing in his password, and promising himself that once he found something he would go straight to bed.
He opened Google chrome, grunting when some wireless hotspot site came up demanding he pay for his internet. He leaned back onto his bed, feeling the resignation that this wasn't going to be a quick and easy five minute search setting in.
Eventually, after all his details had been entered, he was online – though only for a limited amount of time, the prices weren't exactly fair. He pulled up Google and typed the first thing that came to his tired, addled mind.
Blue goo in old burger stoned effect America
Not surprisingly, this came up with some not very convincing websites – blogs to do with burgers, McDonalds, the definition of blue goo. He checked a few out, not finding much until he came across a dubious website called . After giving it a quick look over John was close to hysterics (although was probably mainly due to sleep deprivation). It just seemed to be a gang of kids who videoed creepy houses and had done a tutorial about how to kill ghosts. But since he hadn't exactly found much else, he decided to read their latest blog.
It seemed the kids had spent the night in a creepy wood, and had happened to need a feast of junkfood to do it. After eating a lot of the food, most of the gang became pretty stoned and disregarded the salt line, alerting the two of the gang unaffected that something was wrong and they weren't 'staying razor'. After a few hours the kids had recovered so, John reasoned, at least the effect wasn't permanent. The only two not affected were vegans, who had been eating much healthier food.
This was something, John figured; not much, but it suggested that it wasn't only burgers that had this weird stuff in it. Nonetheless he still didn't know why Moriarty, or anyone for that matter, would want the population to be constantly stoned. He wondered if the food supply in any other countries was contaminated.
That was when Sherlock burst in, carrying an indefinite amount of shopping, radiating Sherlock's equivalent of joy – it was almost as terrifying as Sherlock covered in blood holding a harpoon.
"John, I have an idea!" Sherlock dumped the bags on the bed, eyes shining with anticipation. John stared at the mess of foodstuffs now littering his bed. He yawned pointedly.
Sherlock missed the point, continuing to talk as John adamantly stayed silent.
"I did my research, Americans are really quite amusing, and I found that most of the teenage population on my way to the shops were in the same condition we found our neighbour in earlier on." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, clearly getting at something he found obvious. What he obviously did not get was THE TIME.
Sherlock shook his head, exasperated, and threw himself onto his bed.
"Teenagers, John! They're the key. Teenagers eat rubbish and that woman was eating rubbish. So it's all rubbish!" He gesticulated wildly with his arms.
John couldn't stay quiet any longer, afraid that Sherlock would keep on rambling.
"Right. So why the shopping?" John pointed to the bags layered on HIS bed, struggling to keep his thoughts to himself. It was amazing just how many times in that sentence he had heard Sherlock say 'Punch me in the face. Now.' Truly extraordinary.
"Because every theory needs to be tested, John. It's simple, I eat the fruit and healthy vegetation, and you get to eat the rubbish." Sherlock had sat up, his gaze pinning John. His smile so shit-eating, John didn't even need to hear him ask for what he deserved.
"And why do I have to eat the rubbish? And more importantly, why should I?" John asked. He knew Sherlock would already have answers for both questions, but he still wasn't going to just agree.
"Firstly, you're obviously tired, and the sugary, fatty foods will boost your energy levels and preserve you through this difficult time. Secondly, I don't exactly metabolise these sorts of chemicals at a normal rate, and we need to test it on the kind of person they're expecting to eat it. Thirdly, if you do it I'll let you sleep."
John frowned, fully knowing how capable Sherlock would be of further depriving him of sleep – he had bloody brought his violin, for Christ's sake– and while getting stoned had not been on his agenda, perhaps it would be preferable to being rational at this moment in time.
"Fine."
Sherlock threw him a packet of crisps, grabbing himself an apple. John broke the packet open, the cheesy tang of Dorito's sweeping over him and making him glad he hadn't eaten on the plane.
"If I do this, do I get a cup of tea?" John said, taking a bite.
"Sure." Sherlock said in a way John knew meant 'if you're still sober enough to remember.'
John took a handful more and shoved them in, throwing the packet away still half-full, and taking a bar of chocolate. He just wanted this to be over, now.
Sherlock carried on calmly eating his apple, his mouth opening wide and then biting down, the apple's flesh crunching crisply. A slight dribble went down his chin, and John found himself watching as he finished off the chocolate bar. He reached forward, opening a packet of toffee popcorn, and continued to watch as Sherlock wiped away the juice with his long fingers, then licked his lips slowly, almost alluringly.
John looked away, but he didn't stop eating. His cheeks were red and he felt flushed, though he couldn't think why.
"Feel anything?" Sherlock asked, unaware of John's stares.
"No." John said quickly, but then he found himself sneaking another look at Sherlock, who was licking at the leftover juice on the apple's skin. John shoved another load of popcorn into his mouth, eyes wide, hating the images that tongue produced in his mind.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock said, looking over at him, taking another bite.
"I don't think so. Maybe. I feel a bit strange." John gulped, his heart twisting as Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, and stood up, taking his head in his hands and looking at his eyes.
"Really?" John nodded, trying to control his breathing.
"Your pupils are a little dilated." Sherlock moved away again, still watching him.
"What?" John said, taking a long swig of Fanta, feeling dehydrated.
"There are barely any signs, apart from your accelerated speech and general offish-ness. Normally drug use will cause the body to sweat, the pupils to rapidly dilate, movement to become sluggish or energetic, and yet you exhibit none of these symptoms." Sherlock looked perplexed, taking apart an orange as he appraised the drug.
"I can't stop eating." John commented through a mouthful of cake. (He didn't care if it was rude, this stuff was good.) The thought flitted treacherously across his mind that Sherlock's fingers looked really good as they peeled the orange.
"Hm. Did you find anything while I was out?" Sherlock said, beginning to look at the backs of the packets of the things John was eating.
"Ghostfacers." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, but John just pointed to his laptop; Sherlock was disturbing him from eating.
Sherlock flicked down their blog, leaning across John's legs and John ruffled his hair – it was as soft as it looked.
Sherlock shooed his hand off and John felt momentarily sad before he took another bite of cake.
"Well then, my hypothesis is almost certainly correct." Sherlock smiled back at him but John just nodded.
"You are definitely not 'razor'," Sherlock chuckled. "Now we just have to find the common ingredient." Sherlock gathered the packets, handing John the empty popcorn bag and chocolate bar wrapper. John looked at them, confused, there was no food here.
"Find any ingredient that's listed in both, okay?" Sherlock explained when he looked at John doing nothing.
"Okey dokey!" John nodded, reading aloud the ingredients, shouting 'nope' and 'yes' whenever he found a match.
"John." John looked down, Sherlock was glaring at him.
"Yes?"
"Quieter?"
"Okey dokey!" And this time John tried to say it quietly, because he didn't want Sherlock to be mad. They stayed like that for a while, Sherlock listing the ingredients they found in all of the junk food on a hotel pad.
"That's it. You can sleep now, John. I'm going to try to trim down the list." Sherlock stood up, taking the laptop to his bed.
"Thanks, Sherlock." John threw the packets away and noisily snuggled back into his warm duvet but before he could close his eyes he peeked from behind the covers.
"If you need any help, I'm here." John yawned, smiling at his friend and grinning when Sherlock gave him his rare smiles back.
"It's alright, John. Sleep now."
"You sleep too, Sherlock. You need to sleep too."
After a while, Sherlock heard John's breathing deepen, but he stayed sat upright for a long time, thinking about some things he knew he really shouldn't allow himself to consider. Because although John never hesitated to sacrifice himself for Sherlock, his motivations were not the same as the ones Sherlock had observed in others. John was a soldier and a loyal friend, who would rather die than betray him, who remains his friend despite being strapped to a bomb for it, who at the Pool laid his own life on the line without thinking, but backed off as soon as Sherlock's was threatened. John was his only friend and despite what John thought, Sherlock would never do anything to hurt him. Sherlock felt an emotional attachment to John that he'd thought himself incapable of, and yet he found he couldn't name it. It was with these thoughts that he finally fell asleep.