Well, I'm glad I decided to update early. I got a concussion a few days after posting, and haven't been able to look at a screen without my head exploding. Then I was dragged on a college trip during spring break... 7 hours in the car without being able to look at anything electronic or read. *shudder* However, I am back! With a chapter! Unfortunately, I have tech week coming up for a show and have to recover from missing a week of school so God knows when I will get another chapter up.

"You want us to fly around in some hoodoo-rigged, magic, disappearing box?" Dean accused.

"TARDIS! And don't call her names, she's sensitive," the Doctor admonished, standing in front of the door protectively. Sherlock studied the hunters, smirking in a way that made Dean want to punch him. Sam pulled his brother to the side.

"Dean, I don't think this is hoodoo. Or any witchcraft for that matter."

"Then someone drugged us. Because this isn't happening. A Djinn? Oh, maybe that-"

"Oh, uh, we can still hear you," the Doctor informed them helpfully. Dean sighed and turned to face him.

"Could you give us a second, uh, Mr. Uh..."

"Doctor. And that's Sherlock Holmes. Now, not that I'm trying to rush you, but we could really-"

"How long has it been since your accident?" Sherlock interjected, intently studying Sam. The Doctor ran a hand through his hair, not looking pleased. He knew what was coming.

"A-accident?" Sam choked, showing he knew exactly what he meant.

"You fold your shoulders in like you're trying to hide then you catch yourself, straighten, and look to make sure Dean hasn't noticed. Twice in the conversation, you seemed to see something that wasn't there, then forget what it was. Signs of amnesia or some sort of mental block. No obvious injuries, so a car crash is unlikely. I'm assuming it occurred while you're on the 'job.' Considering your line of work, not entirely surprising. So, when was it?" Sam looked ready to answer, but Dean cut him off.

"Sam, you don't have to listen to any of this crap," He snapped, glaring at Sherlock. Turning to Sam, he then whispered, almost desparate, "Leave the wall alone. Don't scratch it."

"If you're done controlling your little brother, could we get on with the case?" Sherlock suggested in a bored tone. The Doctor flinched at the insult, and Dean clenched his hands into fists. Sam jumped into the conversation before someone started throwing punches.

"How did you know we were brothers? Or that I was younger? Most people think-"

"You're older? Or a couple?" Sherlock finished, his voice lightening as it always did when he knew he was right. "I can see how people could be mistaken, if they completely ignored the obvious. And despite Dean's insecurities, your strides to keep the peace, and the alarming height difference, he's older. Anything I miss?" Dean stormed forward, raising a fist at him.

"Look here, Curly Top, I may not be able to understand how you do your fancy deductions, but you know what? I don't give a rat's ass what you say. You don't know what we've been through, what I've done for this God-forsaken rock. And God has forsaken us, so right now the only thing standing between life and the end of the world is us. So you can piss off." Sherlock smirked.

"I didn't pick up on the hero complex, thank you for pointing that out." To everyone's surprise (even Sherlock's, though he'd never admit it), Dean laughed.

"That's great, Sherly. You're friggin' welcome." He unloaded the empty shotguns shells in his rifle and walked off. "Come on, Sammy. Sooner we get out of here the better."

"Wait!" The Doctor called, and ran after him, "Please. Sherlock's just being... Sherlock. He gets better, er... easier to deal with. The point is, I need your help. Near my friend's house, people, for no reason, have started attacking one another, then run off. We found sulfur in the house of the last victim."

"Demons?" Sam asked from behind them. The Doctor nodded.

"That's why I came to you. And isn't that what you do? 'Saving people, hunting things?'" Dean raised his eyebrows.

"How do you know that...?"

"The Winchester Gospel. I have a copy of it in my TARDIS. First edition, actually." He grinned as though this was a good thing and not totally creepy and stalkerish. Dean blinked a couple times, and looked to Sam. His brother only shrugged.

"Fine," he sighed, and began walking to the TARDIS, "But I- what the..? SAM!" Alarm flooded his tone. "There's a friggin' spaceship in here!"

Crowley swirled the Scotch in his glass, watching as the currents mingled.

"And you're sure the entire neighborhood is possessed?"

"Down to the last child," the demon replied, his arrogance a bitter taste on an otherwise sugar coated day.

"Good. The ruckus you lot caused should have caught their attention. You're dismissed." The demon, hiding behind the meat suit of a young taxi driver, lingered a minute longer. Crowley looked up from his drink. "I said you're dismissed."

"Sir, if I may be so bold-"

"I expect you're going to." The King of Hell dared his subject to continue.

"Why this girl?" God, he's bloody clueless. "There are a million other humans, why-"

"She is just the bait. We need her husband."

"But, why?" For a moment, Crowley faltered. Why did we need this man so much? He could easily strike a deal. In fact, he would- Crowley's eyes caught the corner of his office and he paused. When he realized he'd gone too long without answering the lackey, he nearly kicked himself. Bugger. Blighter will start saying I've lost it.

"I told you, it's my business. I don't need a snot-nosed ex-warlock questioning my actions!" He moved to lean forward on his desk, but discover he was standing in front of it. The kid seemed to be farther away as well. "Peculiar..."

"What was that?" The demon smirked at him. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. The kid may need to be knocked down a few pegs.

"Make sure any interferences are dealt with," he instructed, and waved him away. "You know where to go." Crowley had put him in charge of the entire operation. Hopefully a hunter would catch up to the arrogant bastard. The demon nodded, and left, leaving Crowley to his own thoughts. And they weren't very good company. He went to take a sip when he realized the fractured glass was lying at his feet, the century old drink soaking into the carpet. "Did I..." No. He knew he hadn't dropped it. There was no question in his mind it never left his hand. So how could it have ended up on floor? "Very peculiar..."

And the plot appears~

Any guesses as to what's going on? I'll give you a cookie.