A.N: Remember that time I said I wouldn't take ages to update. Yeah, those were good times. Aha. Full notes at the end!

Chapter 4

Four Score and Seven Vampire Hunters

John Watson had blood on his face, but he hardly noticed. His eyes were locked on Cas, who for an angel had very human flesh and bones. The army doctor's world shrank as he felt the blood spatter on him and heard the screams of his companions; in an instant no one else was there but him and Cas, and nothing mattered but the gaping wound in the angel's shoulder.

He'd seen many types of battlefield injuries—gunshot, shrapnel, and the like—but he'd never seen anything quite like what he was looking at.

"Get back!" he shouted, pushing Dean and the Doctor away, "I'm a doctor, remember? Give me space to work!" Telling people to get away from an injured person was always hard, they always wanted to help even if they were only hurting, but everyone seemed to understand, though the Doctor had to pull Dean away. John made himself ignore the hunter's expression of shock and disbelief; there would be time for all that later.

John removed the clothing from around Cas's shoulder as best he could. Cas himself was in shock, eyes open but not comprehending much judging by their dazed quality. Dr. Watson spoke to the man anyway, mindless words of encouragement as he revealed the wound more fully.

He's going to lose his arm, John thought with clinical coldness, distance. The bullet wound was large and ragged, arm partially detached from the torso already; the doctor had no idea what caliber had hit him. As he bundled up ripped clothing to make a compress, he noticed shards of bone in the muscle. Lose his arm or worse.

Cas began to convulse, eyes rolling back in his head. John felt warm blood squelch through his fingers as the movement knocked his grip on the compress loose.

"Doctor, we need to get to a hospital! Now!" He didn't bother worrying about how severely he was overstepping in ordering the Doctor about; he would listen to reprimands later, when the dying man he was kneeling by was taken care of.

From the corner of his eye he saw the Time Lord practically leap to his controls, but before the Doctor could so much as press an inane button or switch, the lights in the TARDIS began to flicker, then went out completely.

"No, no, no! Don't do this to me now, Sexy!"

Dean heard the Doctor cry the words through a haze; his brain was lagging behind a bit, stuck on the image of Cas's shoulder practically exploding. The faint echo of the sound that had come from beyond the now-closed TARDIS door haunted him also—the screams of dying men, explosions, gunshots—the sound of war. Was that what the vampires had done to London?

Though the adrenaline in him had made time seem to pass more slowly, Dean knew that Cas hadn't been on the floor for more than twenty seconds or so before the lights stopped flickering abruptly and came back on. The hunter waited for the tell-tale jarring movements and the scratchy sounds that meant the TARDIS was in flight, but they didn't come.

"How the bloody hell did you get in here?"

Dean tore his eyes away from the shaking, twitching form of his friend to follow the gaze of the Doctor, who looked both confused and angry.

A woman stood a few feet past Cas, standing stiffly, almost formally in a way that nagged at Dean, seeming familiar somehow. She was in a fine dress, scoop-necked and dark blue, almost as poofy as the one Amy was still wearing. Her hair was black and pulled back in a complicated series of curls and ringlets, her skin even and fair. But the most striking feature about her by far were her blue eyes; when Dean met them, he had a sudden tilting feeling of vertigo and déjà-vu.

"The entity you call Sexy gave me admittance," she said levelly, turning slowly from Dean's gaze to face the Doctor. "She knew of your need and allowed me to pass by her defenses. I am here to help."

"Help? How about you get him to a hospital then—" began Dr. Watson, but she cut him off by kneeling beside Cas and touching his arm.

"I've healed his vessel." The angel's bare shoulder was now whole and unmarred, and there was a large piece of lead lying on the ground nearby, presumably whatever it was that had hit him. The woman lingered by Cas, staring at him intently. "He must be an exceptionally loyal and effective angel to have been given such an important task."

Dean was about to correct her, but Sam elbowed him. It was just as well, the hunter realized, since telling people in this world about what had happened in his wasn't necessarily a good idea.

Standing again, the woman continued, "He may be unconscious for some time. Perhaps it is best. I believe I would not be able to keep myself from asking him questions whose answers I have no right to hear."

"Who are you?" Dean found himself speaking. "An angel, right?" Demons didn't usually refer to people as vessels; he'd only ever heard angels use that term.

"I am Castiel, and I was sent here by God to give what small aid I could before my duties bring me elsewhere."

Dean immediately stopped admiring the angel's fantastic cleavage and began choking on his own saliva. Sam gave him a knowing and vaguely amused look.

"You were eye-banging chick-Cas, weren't you?" the younger Winchester inquired in a voice loud enough for only his brother to hear.

"Shut up, she's hot!" Dean hissed back.

Everyone was looking at the brothers expectantly. "Er," Dean cleared his throat. "So you're Bizzaro Cas?"

"I don't understand—"

"Yeah, yeah, we know," Sam cut in. "So God told you to help us. Why doesn't he just stop the Voidsong himself?"

"It is neither my place nor yours to question God."

"Oh, shut up about—" Dean's voice was antagonistic, but there was drying blood all over him and he was tired of being told that he should just sit back and accept whatever God decided to throw his way. Before the hunter could get into a debate about it (which, since he was talking to Cas, even if it was hot-chick Cas from another universe, wouldn't really be a debate more than him shouting at a wall) the Doctor stepped in.

"Castiel, thank you for your help. We seem to have landed in the wrong universe, so we'll just pop on about our way. Let me get the door for you."

"That would be unwise," she said, "You landed in the Hornet's Nest."

To Dean her words meant nothing, but the Doctor seemed to understand, even if no one else did, by their blank faces. "We're at the Battle of Shiloh. The American Civil War."

"Thought you said we were going to London," John quipped. "Bit off. Are you always this bad at landing?"

Ignoring Dr. Watson, the Doctor continued to speak to the conscious Cas. "Well, if you got in you can leave the same way. But right now I need to get back to Sherlock and John's universe."

"To kill vampires, I know. I came here to heal his vessel and to deliver a message. The man you need is here. You will find him in the White House." She smiled, looking so much like the other Cas that it made Dean certain that the female vessel must have been Jimmy Novak's ancestor. "Seek and you will find what you are looking for, Doctor. Don't lose faith."

Then, with the soft sound of fluttering wings, she was gone.

"Huh," Dean said. "The White House?"

No one else said anything for a moment; even Sherlock seemed to be just focusing on digesting what had happened. But for Dean and Sam, angels popping in and out with cryptic messages was par for the course.

"Right!" The Doctor spun back to the center of the TARDIS. "I guess we should go to the White House."

"We should believe that angel," Sherlock spat the word, obviously still not completely on board with the whole supernatural thing that was so obviously happening, "just because she popped in to say hello? Why should we trust her?"

The Doctor didn't look up from what he was doing, and the TARDIS began to tilt wildly, the engines making their strange, scratching noise. "Why shouldn't we trust her? She saved Cas's life—not to mention the TARDIS herself let her in. I trust my ship's judgment."

"It's alive?" John asked incredulously. "Like artificial intelligence?"

"Nothing artificial about her," the Doctor responded brightly, barely keeping his footing as the ship tilted in an exciting new direction. Dean himself almost fell over, grabbing onto the railing just in time to prevent it. Dr. Watson was still kneeling by Cas, keeping the unconscious angel from being flung about like a doll.

"Who are we looking for, though?" Sam asked, speaking what Dean had been wondering. There were probably hundreds of people milling around that place. "And how will he be able to stop the Voidsong?"

"He won't," the Doctor replied cheerily. "This is about our current problem unless I am mistaken, which is unlikely. We need him to help with the vampires running rampant in London."

"We can handle a few vampires," Dean huffed, though it was hard trying to seem impressive and bad-ass when he could barely keep his feet.

"Someone upstairs has a different opinion," Rory said, a joke in his voice.

The TARDIS landed at last, and as the engines stilled, Cas began to stir, opening his eyes slowly.

"What happened?" His voice was cracked and tired and terribly human.

"You got shot," John said as kindly as it was possible to say something of that nature, "But, er, an angel fixed you." The doctor looked to the Winchesters, a question obvious in his eyes: Should they tell him all of it?

"It was Bizzaro you," Dean supplied. There was no harm in telling Cas about another version of himself.

"I don't understand your reference," he replied, bemused and still more than a little dazed around the edges.

"This universe's version of you," Sam cut in, rolling his eyes at his bother. "We kinda ended up in the wrong place. Again." Everyone gave the Doctor a pointed look.

"Well it's not my fault the universes have gone all wibbly! Now, they're probably wondering why there's a big blue box in the middle of the Oval Office, so we should go say hello! And look, you're already dressed for the occasion."

Everyone was still wearing their Victorian clothing, though now Cas's coat and shirt were ripped apart at the shoulder. Somehow all the blood had disappeared from everyone, at least, likely because the other Cas had felt sorry for the state of their clothing.

Despite his exuberance, which Dean was learning was the norm for the Doctor, the Time Lord was cautious as he opened the door, understandable considering what had happened the last time he'd attempted to go running off.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President," he said, door still opened only a crack, "Perhaps you could persuade your very able men to lower their weapons so I can come out and have a little chat with you?"

"The President," Amy said, "As in Abraham Lincoln? Is that who that angel lady sent us after?"

"Not likely," Sam responded quietly, while the Doctor tried to talk to Secret Service down. "But he'll probably know of someone who can help us kill vampires. If there are angels in this universe, then there must be hunters, too."

John gave a short chuckle. "You make it sound like angels need to be hunted."

Dean and Sam were silent on the subject, merely trading glances and undoubtedly remembering similar things. Cas spoke up though, surprising the Winchesters.

"Not all angels love humans. Many despise them for their place in God's sight."

Rory fidgeted with his cravat. "You don't hate us lowly humans, do you, Cas?" His voice was half jesting, half nervous.

"Of course not." The angel's blue eyes were locked on Dean's. "For all humanity's flaws, you are…" Cas hesitated, as if trying to think of the right words.

"Magnificent!" the Doctor supplied, turning from the door. "Humans are magnificent, and we can go talk to the President now."

Everyone left the TARDIS, most of them cautiously, save the Doctor, who was bouncy as ever, and Sherlock, who looked like he couldn't be bothered to care if he was about to meet Abraham Lincoln.

The President was sitting at his desk, and Dean was surprised to see that he wasn't wearing a hat. A second moment of thought made him remember it was rude to wear hats inside, but still, he'd always thought of the man with the stovepipe hat on, as if it were a part of him rather than an accessory.

Dean came back to the conversation in time to realize the Doctor was making introductions.

When the Time Lord was finished with the pleasantries, he paused as if deciding what level of tact he should use in approaching the subject of their visit. Dean wondered what the Doctor had told everyone about the TARDIS and how they'd gotten into the Oval Office. Perhaps it had been the truth, though if it was, the President seemed to be taking it very well.

"What we've come here to discuss is a little—well, it's a bit mad."

"I assure you, Doctor, I have seen my share of madness in the world. If your strange blue box filled with people hasn't upset me, nothing will."

"I mentioned we're from another universe. Well, their home," he gestured to Sherlock and John, "is currently under attack by a large group of vampires that sort of slithered into their world. Someone told us there was a man here who could help."

"Someone?" Lincoln's eyebrows rose slightly, and there was a tinge of wry humor in his voice. Dean was startled that he hadn't asked the usual questions or made the normal comments of disbelief about vampires.

"You a hunter?" Dean interrupted rather more abruptly than he should have considering he was talking to Abraham Lincoln. But he couldn't keep the suspicion off his tongue once it had snuck up in his mind. What if the President was the man Bizzaro Cas had sent them after?

Lincoln leaned back in his comfortable-looking chair. "In a manner of speaking," he replied carefully. "And of course since I have taken office I have had a bit too much else to worry over."

"Oh, you'll do fine in the war," Dean answered.

"Will I? The situation certainly does not seem so now."

Sam cleared his throat pointedly. "Mr. President, can you help us?"

He shook his head, turning his eyes from the group for the first time to look at his desk. "As I said, there is too much work here for me to leave for any length of time. But I can put you in touch with some other fine hunters."

"Are they as good as you?" the Doctor asked, "Because you came very highly recommended."

"Who could have recommended me to you, if you are strangers in this world?"

"Well!" The Doctor turned slightly towards the Winchester brothers, catching their eyes in turns, deferring to them on this issue. They naturally had a better handle on this situation because they were themselves hunters and would know how someone would react if told an angel sent them a message from God.

Dean almost laughed. He would have thought they were bat-shit insane, or lying for some unknown purpose. He hadn't believed in angels until one literally pulled his ass out of hell and then stopped by to tell him he'd done it.

"An angel," Sam haltingly insisted. "An angel told us where to find you."

"Oh?" Lincoln didn't seem completely convinced they were lying, but he certainly wasn't on board. "Why didn't the angel help you itself? Why send you to me?"

"Uh, God helps those who help themselves?" Dean gave his most charming smile, but it bounced right off the President with no effect.

"I have seen many terrible things in my life as a hunter, and worse still as a leader of men. But I will not believe in something for which I have seen no evidence. If there are angels, they do not walk among us."

"You're looking at one right now." Dean gestured behind him vaguely, where he assumed Cas was standing.

"The Doctor told me he was from another world far from Earth."

"What?" Turning around, the elder Winchester saw that Cas was a few feet off from where he pointed. "No, Cas is the angel."

"The one with the damaged wardrobe is an angel?" Lincoln sounded more than doubtful. "Cas is a strangely simple name for a heavenly being."

"My name is Castiel. Cas is an abbreviation."

"Well," the President leaned back. "Prove to me you are what you claim, and then perhaps I will assemble a group of worthy men and women to aid you."

Eyes moving away from the President to glance sporadically around the room, Cas answered, "I am cut off from heaven; I can't reveal powers I do not currently possess."

"How convenient for you." There was a finality in his voice, as if he were a few heartbeats from dismissing them all back into their mad box and the hell out of his office.

"Will this be proof enough?" The Doctor held up a misshapen lump of dull metal—perhaps lead by its color. It took Dean a moment to realize that the object was the bullet that had nearly killed Cas.

"An interesting paper-weight, I'm sure—"

"This is a Minié ball, Mr. President, and it was until recently lodged inside poor Cas's shoulder. We've just come from Shiloh."

A darkness spread across the man's face, making him look ten years older. "Is it going badly?"

"For everyone, yes, with these things flying through the air." Anger crept up in the Doctor's voice. "You humans are so brilliant, but you turn your minds to making weapons that outstrip your ability to heal. Men on both sides are being slaughtered."

"What would you have me do? Let the Rebels tear this country apart?"

"No." The Doctor shook his head sadly. "You can't stop it. The war will happen one way or another. But there is a place where you can help, where you can save lives."

"Doctor, I can't leave—"

"Did I mention I've got a time machine? We can have you back five minutes ago."

Dean saw signs of relenting on Lincoln's face. Trying not to smile, he marveled at how easily the Doctor had distracted him from the issue of providing proof that angels existed. The Time Lord came off as a quirky hipster, but he was really very intelligent, and Dean felt he was only beginning to see the depths of that intelligence.

"It will take a few days for me to get messages to the people I would like to bring with us." The tension lifted from the room; Dean noticed a great deal of it flood out of his shoulders that he hadn't known was there.

"Not necessary, just give me a name and a vague address, and we can pop right over!"

Keeping track of time was difficult whilst zipping about on the TARDIS, but John thought they'd been roaming around the country collecting hunters for almost four hours before they got half a dozen on board. The trouble wasn't in finding them—the Doctor seemed more than capable of that—but it was in convincing them to come into a strange blue box of mysterious origins. Dr. Watson was learning that hunters of monsters were suspicious by nature. The group of inter-universal travelers had all been put to various tests each time the President took them to meet a new hunter. John was tired of drinking holy water and being prodded with silver—so much so that he was about to suggest just what the next hunter could do with his supply of holy water and certain parts of his anatomy—when at last Lincoln told the Doctor that he was confident their group, now grown to fifteen, would be able to take on the vampires in London.

The newcomers were men save for one, and all were dressed sensibly for fighting: comfortable, well-fitting shirts and slacks with various vests and coats thrown in the mix as well as a healthy amount of weaponry. The woman wasn't wearing a skirt like most members of her sex would have been in her time, and her dark hair was cut short, probably for convenience. She was the youngest, no more than twenty, but she didn't seem out of place among the group of older men. Of the other five, only one lacked a beard—a tall, muscled man with graying hair. All of them had a blue-color air about them.

In short, they all looked like Nineteenth-century versions of the Winchester brothers; a certain light shone from their eyes, hard and cold—their eyes had seen terrible things, but they'd also seen terrible things killed by their own hands. The light was similar to what John had seen from soldiers but tinted differently.

Sam approached where John and Sherlock stood, the latter two observing the group of hunters quietly. Holding out two long knives, Sam gave them a sad sort of smile.

"Welcome to team hunter." In his voice there was a limping humor, the kind that would inspire even the most nonviolent soul to put it down out of mercy were it an animal rather than an attempted joke. "I don't think you'll have to use these, but it's best to have them. The only way to kill a vampire is to cut off its head."

Sherlock gave a derisive little snarky chuckle; John sensed a fight about to begin. "Superstitious drivel."

Amy and Rory were close by, close enough to hear him clearly. Their group was sticking together, probably because even though they were all from different worlds, they had more in common with each other than with a bunch of hunters from 1862. The married couple came closer.

"Do we get knives, too?" Rory asked, his voice almost casual.

"Yeah. Everyone needs them, just in case. But we'll need to make a stop first."

"Most of your weapons are in evidence," Sherlock sighed lazily. "I imagine you'll want them."

"And we should change back into normal clothes," Dean added, walking over. "Amy, be sure to wear something you can run in."

"Oh, trust me, I'm no stranger to running for my life. Spend a little more time with our Doctor and you'll see why."

Half an hour later, the TARDIS jolted to a stop, and only the Winchesters and the Doctor left. The coast being clear, apparently, they returned with armloads of weapons, though their alien pilot didn't seem happy to be retrieving them. The process took several trips, then, when the brothers were sure they'd gotten everything, they set about organizing it.

Their car was no longer in miniature; the Doctor had made a garage for it off the main room then un-shrank it with his shrink-ray gadget. The wall near the hallway opened when a person touched it, revealing a spacious room filled with tools that were mostly unknown to the doctor, either because of his lack of expertise in mechanics or because they weren't human in origin.

Dean and Sam began to store most of the guns in the trunk, the bothers quietly fighting over where particular items had gone before the police had disturbed them. One item retrieved wasn't a weapon—the coat. John remembered the finding of the garment though it seemed like it had been a year ago when he'd first been up on the roof, staring at a car that shouldn't have been there.

Back then he hadn't believed in aliens or parallel universes or vampires or angels. The adaptability of the human mind was astounding, he mused as he watched Dean pick up the trench coat almost gingerly, as if he were afraid of breaking it somehow.

The elder Winchester brother took the coat and walked to where Cas was sitting, avoiding the stares of the new hunters, who had been told what he was but probably didn't believe a word of it. There wasn't much for John to do, so he watched Dean idly; beside him, Sherlock did the same, cold grey eyes sharp with annoyed boredom—only he could find being on a spaceship with Abraham Lincoln boring.

They were close enough to hear Dean's words as he spoke to Cas. "I found this and thought you might—that you would need it when you came back."

This piqued John's curiosity. He realized, then, that he knew very little about the Americans other than the basics of what they were—hunters and an angel—but as to who they were, he hadn't the slightest idea. Listening to the exchange more closely, he reminded himself that it wasn't really eavesdropping if the people were having the conversation right in the open.

"You thought I would return?" Cas asked, staring up at Dean.

"You always do." Dean's smile missed the mark of nonchalant so badly that it ended up almost sad. "And you look weird without it." He pressed the coat into Cas's hands, the silence stretching thin between them.

John glanced away, feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic. In doing so he noticed that Sherlock seemed to feel no moral objections to spying on them. The man's eyes were fixed on Cas; he looked more curious than bored now, at least.

Clearing his throat quietly, John said, "Sherlock, you're doing it again."

"Doing it? Doing what?"

"Being impolite. Come on, we should probably learn as much as we can about the vampires and what to expect. People are dying, Sherlock. You can ask them all the questions you want later, after this is over."

Giving John a level, piercing stare, Sherlock slowly replied, "And you think there will be much time for talking before the Doctor is off again to some other universe? That is assuming we all survive this."

"So you believe it, then? In vampires?" John hardly knew if he'd accepted it fully yet.

"I believe in what I saw, and I saw dozens of people slaughtered, likely exsanguinated by their color. I doubt Dracula is to blame, but someone is."

John looked at the long knife in his hand, wondering if he'd have to use it to cut off something's head. He didn't respond to Sherlock's words; there was no response to such a statement.

The Doctor frowned at the large group of hunters, eyeing their weapons with distaste. He hated when things got to this point, but he knew it was unlikely that he'd be able to talk a swarm of vampires into just going home quietly without hurting anyone else. From the description Sam and Dean had given everyone, the vampires seemed to be ruthless murderers with no remorse. They killed for sustenance normally, but the group that ended up in London seemed to be on a spree. If he couldn't manage to talk them down, he'd have to let the hunters do their jobs.

Across the room, Abraham Lincoln was talking quietly to his group of hunters; they all looked afraid—not for the task at hand, but because they were inside a little blue box that was far more advanced than anything even their most creative science fiction writers could dream of. The TARDIS was hard on people at first, both amazing and terrifying.

The hunters were of varying heights and builds, but they all had a hardness about them that spoke of their ability to handle themselves in a fight. Their clothing, though of different cuts and colors, all had much in common—the cloth was clean but worn, some places mended more than once. Hunting was apparently not lucrative work. The Doctor smiled to himself; those people, and the Winchesters, killed monsters to protect humanity, even if it meant they didn't get to settle down with a steady career and a stable life.

"What are you so happy about, then?" Amy asked, sidling up to him. "Didn't think this would be fun for you. It's not exactly a diplomatic mission we're on."

"That's not what I was smiling about," the Doctor responded, then grew serious. "I don't like the way they're going about this. People will get hurt."

"But we have to stop them somehow." Amy crossed her arms, looking nervous.

Dean moved quickly up the ramp to where the two stood talking; there was a long sheathed knife in his hand. He held it out to the Doctor, who frowned more deeply.

"I don't need that," he insisted.

"Come on Doc, take it just in case. You haven't seen a vampire before—"

"That doesn't matter. I don't use weapons." His words must have been forceful enough to convince Dean his errand was pointless—the man had been about to say something else, but instead he just shook his head and turned away, walking to where Rory stood. Rory took the offered knife, glancing up at his wife with a protective gleam in his eyes.

Once everyone but the Doctor was armed, the large group walked out of the TARDIS with no real regard for what sort of reaction they'd get from the police milling about in the restaurant. A middle-aged man with an air of being in charge walked over, eyes flashing with anger that was directed at Sherlock and John.

"What the bloody hell are all these people doing here?" he asked, voice half sharpness and half exasperation.

"Oh, Detective Inspector Lestrade, meet some new colleagues of mine," Sherlock replied with an almost sarcastic air of nonchalance. "They're experts at this sort of thing, here to help."

"Experts at what, murder? You know the homicide division are experts too."

Sherlock didn't bother hiding his derisive snort of humorless laughter. "Yes, well, have fun investigating here. We're going to have a look about the perimeter."

"No, now hold on just a mo'," Lestrade insisted, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to prevent him from moving. "Where'd you all come from?" His eyes moved to beyond the group, towards the TARDIS. The Doctor watched him with interest, wondering if he'd even notice it. Confusion flickered across his face.

"What's that old police box doing in here? Some kind of themed dining? Doesn't really fit with the rest of the décor, does it?"

"You know how modern art is," John said hurriedly, "Now, what have you learned about the victims? How were they killed?"

"Won't know for certain until the autopsy reports, but it looks like they all died of blood-loss. Throats ripped right out of the lot of them." Lestrade was speaking in a low voice, as if he didn't want anyone other than Sherlock and John to hear him. Clearly he didn't trust a large group of oddly dressed strangers, though at least he hadn't had them all arrested yet. "What's odd is the blood spatter." He turned and looked at the nearest body, which was still being processed so it hadn't been removed. "There's hardly any blood around half the bodies. The other half are lying in big pools of it."

Glancing at the group of Nineteenth-century hunters and then to the Winchesters, he saw worried looks pass between them all. The Doctor was very glad he had experts with him; he was rarely out of his element in his own universe, but these vampires were creatures unlike any he'd ever encountered before.

The brutality of the murders they'd done made him unhopeful about the end result of their endeavors; likely the vampires wouldn't be in the mood to compromise. He wanted to find a way to send them back to their own universe, but if it was a question between letting them be killed or letting the vampires run wild, the Doctor knew what he'd have to do.

How very human it would be of him, to meet a new species and immediately order its eradication.

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatient. Sherlock was still talking to Lestrade about the details of the crime, but the hunters didn't really need any more info. Based on how many people were exsanguinated, there were likely about fifteen vampires on the loose. Not a number they couldn't handle, but enough to make casualties likely. He worried about that—about Sammy, mostly, and Cas, who would die as easily as any human now what he was cut off from heaven.

The non-hunters in the group were a problem, too. It would be far easier for one of them to end up hurt or dead because they didn't have any experience in killing vampires.

Also, it would really suck if ol' Abe kicked the bucket. Lincoln's universe would suffer for it. But Dean had spoken to the President a little, which was beyond weird, and apparently vampires had been his specialty before he retired into politics. The group he'd gathered, too, were mainly vampire hunters.

Apparently in that shitty universe they were a real problem, perhaps in the way that apocalypses were a problem in Dean's own universe.

"We need to get this show on the road," he muttered to Sam, then strode up to where Sherlock and Lestrade's conversation was rapidly turning to an argument. "Hey, uh, we're losing time here. The criminals are getting away. So let's go."

"He's American?" Lestrade frowned at him, then something like recognition filled his eyes. "Hold on—you're one of the ones on the fake IDs! And there are the other two! And that's the coat we found in the trunk of that car!" He pointed at Sam and Cas in turn, looking like he was about to arrest them all.

The Doctor swooped in hurriedly, speaking in his usual quick manner, "Oh, well, that was all just a bit of a mistake, the car on the roof, and we've taken care of it, so you really should just let us all go do what we came here to do, which is rid London of a bunch of mad vampires—"

"Did he just say vampires?" asked a new voice, words laced with disbelief.

Dean glanced over to see a black woman approaching; she would have been hot if not for her very unpleasant expression—haughty and snarky and amused in a mean way.

"Detective Inspector," she continued, glaring at Sherlock, then Lestrade, "You've really stooped low to let all these civilians in the crime scene. Especially if they're going to talk about fairy-tale monsters."

"I didn't let them in—don't know how they got past the perimeter."

"And we were just leaving," Dean interrupted, knowing that the longer they stayed in the restaurant the more likely a group arrest was going to be. He began to walk away, careful not to step on any bodies, hoping that everyone would follow his lead.

They did, though the angry woman tried to get Lestrade to detain them. Somehow the group of fifteen people made it outside, then beyond the barrier of yellow police tape. Dean didn't stop hurrying away until they were out of sight of the flashing lights, thinking that it was best to be cautious.

At some point Sam fell in stride beside him, using his giant legs to walk faster than everyone else. "Do you know where you're going, Dean?" he asked quietly.

"Nope. But I figure that many crazy vamps won't be able to hide in a city like this. We'll just follow the blood trails."

"Great, so we just have to wait for more people to be slaughtered—"

A scream tore through the otherwise quiet night, and without needing to be told, the entire group broke into a run, following the sound of a fading scream.

"They ain't taking their time!" Dean commented to his brother as the sprinted down the street. Whoever was screeching stopped in an abrupt manner that made Dean's heart sink, but not before they'd tracked the noise to an alley a block down.

A man was lying on the ground, quite dead by the pallid look of his flesh and his open, blank eyes, but a woman—probably his girlfriend or date, the way they were dressed—was still standing. Her eyes found Dean's, then flickered to the rest of the group as they arrived behind him.

The vampire between them (and it could only have been a vampire, considering its face was half-covered in blood) turned; Dean noticed it had been a human woman once. She was wearing a dress that looked like it belonged in Abe Lincoln's time. A nasty suspicion was born in him, then, but he shoved it away. Now wasn't really the time for pondering anything.

Dean loosened the knife from its sheath, seeing from the corner of his eye his brother doing much the same thing. At the same moment they sprang forward, approaching her from two angles, but the Doctor's voice broke the eerie silence.

"Wait!"

The Winchesters did as he asked, though both kept their knives raised, ready.

"What's your name?" the Doctor gently asked the vampire; while she was distracted, Sam pulled the woman away, towards the street, where she stood behind the hunters, clearly in shock. But at least she was safe.

Meanwhile, the vampire just looked at the Doctor, expression turning from confusion to interest and then to contempt. "Tell me," she asked, "Do you give your name to the animals you slaughter for dinner?"

Her muscles tensed as she prepared to move, but Dean was just able to intercept her, knife moving without thought as he drew it through her neck. Her body landed at the Doctor's feet, head rolling a few feet away. Blood was covering the Time Lord, and his expression was livid.

"You killed her in cold blood!"

"No, Doc, she was about to kill you. You're welcome." Dean cleaned his knife off carefully, not meeting anyone's eyes.

"Look at her clothing! She's from another time—do you know how terrifying it would be to end up two hundred years in the future?"

"Not an excuse for killing," Abe's voice was calm but stern.

"You killed her because you were afraid," he shot back.

"Scared of dying!" Dean was shouting, but he didn't bother stopping it. "Look—it might be all rainbows and butterflies in your universe, but where we come from, it isn't. If we don't kill those monsters, people will die, and they'll keep dying, for no reason!"

"Humans," the Doctor sighed, "So blind. Vampires have a right to be alive just like you do, Dean."

"Tell that to the people in that restaurant back there. Half those people were killed just for fun, not for food." The fire of anger in him had simmered down, but it was still there; some alien hippie wasn't going to convince him to let a bunch of monsters slaughter people. "When I see a mad dog, I put it down. You can't compromise with vamps, Doc. Sorry."

"Er," Rory began, immediately diffusing the tension between the hunters and the Doctor. Everyone turned to look at him. "There's some people coming towards us and they're all sort of covered in blood, so." He drew his knife, holding it with an air of unfamiliarity. All but the Doctor did the same, even Sherlock and John.

Their large group was clustered around the opening of an alley; from every other direction figures were moving nearer to them at a strangely slow pace.

The almost-victim still seemed to be in a daze. Sam took her by the arm gently, steering her back into the alley, then told her to sit still and be very quiet. Dean was pretty sure she lost consciousness after that. Probably better for her psyche, really.

He glanced back down the street. In all likelihood shit was about to get real. "You can try talking to 'em, Doc, but don't you tell me not to do my job if it comes to that."

"Stop antagonizing our ride home," Sam said, only half serious. "Focus, will you?"

The vampires had closed half the distance between them. Dean could make out their faces now in the orange glow of streetlights. All of them were covered in blood to some extent, and the hunter spared a brief moment wondering why they couldn't bother to be a little neater when they ate.

"I can take you home," the Doctor said, his voice loud, and though it was tinged with a hint of a question at the end, it was confident as well.

"Home?" The man across the street from them asked, laughing. "Dear God, why would we want to go home? That place was full of people like our dear President."

Hurriedly, the Doctor got out his Sonic Screwdriver and pointed it at the vampires, then at Abe and his hunter friends. "You're from the same universe!"

"All the more fitting for us to take care of this problem, then," Lincoln answered levelly.

"Aren't you a little old for vampire hunting, Abe?" sneered the vampire, who to Dean seemed like the group's leader.

"It's like riding a bike," the older Winchester joked easily, "You never forget how."

A yard or so away, Rory chuckled, murmuring, "Riding a bike, that's good."

At least someone thought he was funny. Sam was just giving his that mean, stick-in-the-mud look that said clearly, "Dean, really, now's not the time for joking, we're surrounded by vampires." His little brother didn't get that the best times for jokes were when one was in mortal peril.

"We don't have to do this," the Doctor insisted, sounding so convinced of his words that for a moment Dean wanted to believe him—wanted to believe that there could be a peaceful solution to the situation. "But I can't let you stay here. This isn't your world."

"We're not going back."

"Looks like they've made up their minds, Doc." Dean tightened his grip on the handle of his knife.

"Does he speak for all of you?" The Time Lord looked around at the other thirteen vampires. "You don't want to have this fight—you won't win. You can't."

The other vampires made no moves to desert their leader. "They've gone off the deep end, Doc. We gotta do this our way."

Silence fell, then everything happened at once. The hunters and the vampires moved towards each other, and Dean lost track of almost everyone.

John Watson always thought that new experiences in life were important. They kept things interesting, and sometimes taught you essential lessons about yourself and the world in general. Cutting someone's head off in on a dark London street wasn't really the sort of thing he did normally—not on his bucket list, either—but he didn't hesitate. The look in the vampire's eyes was enough to convince him.

He aimed and slashed through the air, missing badly because the vampire anticipated his clumsy attack. A hand closed around the side of his neck, another around his wrist. Involuntarily he dropped his weapon, but just before the vampire lowered his head—with a mouth full of fangs that looked like something out of a bad horror movie about piranhas—to undoubtedly rip apart his throat, a knife decapitated the monster.

"Dr. Watson," Rory nodded, then turned and ran to help his wife kill another one.

"Thought you were in the army, John," Sherlock quipped as he stooped and retrieved John's knife for him.

"As a doctor!" They shared a quick smile, then turned as another vampire jumped at them. This time John was a little faster, managing to bring the sharp-edged knife through the creature's neck. It was a strange sensation, the blade running through bone and muscle—somehow not at all similar to surgeries in which he did much the same thing with finer tools.

Somewhere near him someone screamed, but the sound ended before he could help. Turning every direction, John failed to find any standing vampires; the fight had only lasted about thirty seconds, probably because of their fairly even numbers. Telling who was injured in their group was difficult because everyone seemed covered in blood.

"Alright, John?" Sherlock asked, breathing heavily. Nodding, the doctor found he was similarly winded, more from nerves than exertion.

A few of the hunters Lincoln had brought with them were clustered in a group around another. Pushing his way though, telling them all again and again that he was a doctor, John saw a man with a deep gash on his right arm. Not bothering to keep his voice from being a little snappish, he ordered the hunters to make whatever bandages they could and try to stop the bleeding until they could get him to a hospital.

"Are they all dead?" Sherlock asked the Winchesters in a low voice, but not so low that John didn't hear.

"Yeah," Sam answered. "Fifteen bodies total. I think only one serious injury on our side."

The Doctor was standing on his own, staring around at the carnage with a horribly pained expression. John wasn't sure what to say to him, or if he should say anything. The alien seemed to value all sentient life highly, and without his human bias, John could understand why he'd be upset about fifteen dead vampires. But they'd given the humans little choice in the matter.

As for himself, John was just glad to be alive, and glad that neither Sherlock nor any of his new friends had been hurt.

"Doc," Dean had approached the Time Lord at last, "We need to get outta here before the cops show up."

He seemed to snap out of his thoughts. "Yes, right! Everyone ready? Let's get back to the TARDIS, then."

John started to follow, then paused. Back to the TARDIS, and then to where? Obviously they'd be dropping Lincoln and his friends back off, but what about him and Sherlock? Did they even need to step foot back into that mad blue box?

Glancing at his friend and flatmate, Dr. Watson knew he didn't even have to ask. They both fell in step together, following the Doctor wherever he would lead them.

The Doctor leaned against his consol, taking a moment to relax. They'd just bid farewell to the President and his friends (the injured man hadn't been as badly hurt as Dr. Watson originally thought; a few stitches and he was fine) and that left the Time Lord with an important decision to make.

There was no longer any reason for Sherlock and John to be with him, but with him they were. Dean, Sam, and Cas could also go home—they had the Impala and all its contents back, and London was safe from vampires. The Ponds were still with him because they wanted to help, but he knew it would put them in undo danger—it would put anyone who came with him at risk of dying in the void or being trapped in some horrible universe.

Eyes moving around the room, surreptitiously examining the TARDIS's other occupants, he wondered if he even wanted the hunters to come with him. As a rule he didn't travel with their sort—there lives were violent and bloody and dark. Too much like his own past for comfort. He owed Castiel a debt, though, and the Winchesters had been fighting to save his life and the lives of others.

After a few minutes, the Doctor decided that he would have the hunters if they wanted to join him. There was much darkness inside the brothers, but there was far more good in them. They did what they did to protect the innocent.

"So where to now, Doctor?" Amy and Rory had joined him by the controls. He straitened up, smiling brightly.

"Well, the lady version of Cas told me to keep looking. I think I'll take her advice. Out there somewhere is something that's a threat to the Voidsong, and I'm going to find it."

"Just you?" Her voice was guarded but hurt. "Thought we agreed to face this together. We're not bailing on you now—still haven't gotten that anniversary trip, and if we let you wonder off you might never come back. Not letting you get out of your promise that easy!"

"Amy—Rory—it'll be—"

"Dangerous, we know," Rory cut in, "Not sure what part of our other adventures were safe."

"Alright," he felt himself saying, hating his weakness. The Doctor knew he was being horribly selfish to let his friends along, but he couldn't tell them no.

"So you're saying it's all serial killers and vampires, then?" asked John, meandering over to them.

"You don't have to come, I can take you home now."

"Not a chance," Sherlock insisted. "Do you know how dull London is this time of year? No more cases. But an infinite amount of possibility awaits us, if you're correct, Doctor. I'd like to see this Voidsong nonsense through. Could be very instructive."

"And if what Cas said was right, about destiny and whatnot, you might need us," John added. "So, where are our rooms?"

"Don't let him give you bunk-beds," Sam cautioned. Now everyone was standing around the Doctor, and he had the feeling the Winchesters weren't going to back down either.

"Or a hammock," added Cas, in such a deadpan voice that the Doctor was sure the angel'd had some misadventure with it.

"Hammocks are cool, and you lot don't have to stay."

"What're you talking about?" Dean asked, "Cas's angel juice is still out. Don't think the way home is open right now. Might not ever be."

"But if he feels his connection with heaven return, I can take you home immediately."

"Nope. Not till we kick some Voidsong ass. Those bitches almost took my baby away from me forever. Ain't gonna take that sitting down."

"Looks like we're all in this together," Amy chimed, a victorious gleam in her eyes. "Where to?"

Suddenly the Doctor felt his psychic paper vibrate. Pulling it out of his pocket, he read the message that was meant for him:

"Hello Sweetie," it ran, in oh-so-familiar handwriting, "We're out here waiting. Tell the old girl to look for us. Might take a few tries, but she won't let you down. XOXO."

A grin blooming across his face, the Doctor spun to face the controls, setting them to track the message. With a sound that never failed to make his pulse race with excitement, the TARDIS took off.

"Geronimo!"

The Doctor and His Companions Will Return In

Stadium Love

A.N: Vague inspiration from Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. Also I have a hard-on for Civil War history.

Because I have lots of random inspiration to write fluffy/silly things, I'll be posting occasional mini-chapters for this story. They won't be canon within the larger story, sort of like fics of my own fic. So if you come across one with a ship you don't like, or if you don't want to read it for any reason, you can skip it without missing any plot.

Also, if you want to see a few characters interact, feel free to drop me a request, and I'll write a little chapter about it. These won't change the over-all arch for the story or anything.

Thanks to everyone who reviews/adds/watches/etc. this story! You all inspire me to keep this fic rolling! Until next time, my darlings!