Chapter 7

New Berkley, Kentucky.

Sherlock was woken up from his brief nap in the passenger side of the car by Sam's gentle shaking. They had been driving for over an hour. The closest airport was in New Berkley and before they checked out of the motel Sam had purchased tickets. The flight was in two in the afternoon and they had to change planes at LaGuardia.

Sherlock had spent time in deep thought and visualized himself playing his violin, earning an odd look from Sam. Even though it was not real he could actually hear the music in his head and it had helped relax him. He had listened to Sam tell him about some of the past hunts while they ate breakfast sandwiches, a type of breakfast he usually didn't eat but the combination of sausage, egg and cheese on a muffin was one of the most delicious things he had eaten in a while. Finally the motion of the car had relaxed him to the point of falling asleep.

"Sorry," Sam said after Sherlock had woken up. "Can't let you sleep too much, even though we know what you happened you still hit your head.

"There was no sign of any contusions," Sherlock said. "But it doesn't hurt to veer on the side of caution." He sat up and stretched and wondered if they were closer to the airport

The simple tweeting of a bird was heard. It was a text tone and most likely Sam's. It could also be Dean's but he had a feeling the older brother would have used something else, possible a rude sound effect, of just the simple twang of a guitar. That seemed more fitting for him.

"Who is texting?" Sam asked and handed Sherlock his mobile. "You don't mind."

"You need to keep your eyes on the road," Sherlock said and read the message. It came from Sherlock's own mobile. The angel was with Dean and pretending to be a federal agent. He needed some official forms to be sent to Lestrade. "Cas needs an official form sent to Lestrade."

"Oh forward that to Garth," Sam said and held up his fingers. "He's in my list of contacts."

"Already done," Sherlock answered. He had already looked up this Garth person and repeated the message along with the number to Lestrade's division. "Who is Garth?"

"He's a hunter who keeps in touch with all hunters. He acts as a superior officer or a head agent when someone doubts we are who we say we are he tells them to shut up and work with us."

"He will be able to forge the proper paper work?"

"His methods are different from ours and may seem ridiculous," Sam said. He shrugged. "Yet he gets it done. He will have the paperwork ready and sent to Lestrade before you can even blink."

Another text came through. This time it was about werewolves and wanting to know the phone numbers of hunters who lived in the area. What was he doing looking for a case at a time like this? He is going to get everyone suspicious if he keeps it up.

Sherlock scowled as he read it. "Your brother wants someone to contact local hunters about a werewolf."

"He's working on a case?"

"He's hunting werewolves in my body." Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "I wonder what he is telling John."

"Hopefully he is not acting like himself."

"That would be a disaster." He decided it was time to call and speak with Dean. He used Dean's phone and dialed his number.

"Hello?" Sherlock's own voice reached his ears.

"Are you alone, Dean?" Sherlock asked. He had to wait for Dean to be in a secluded area before he could even think about speaking with him

"On the subway can't talk now," Dean answered. "Almost at the apartment."

"Call me when you can," Sherlock answered and sighed. He was with John right now and that idiot was already messing things up by using American colloquialisms out loud.

They entered the airport exterior and Sam was reading the signs looking for an area to park. Sherlock kept staring at his phone and sent a text asking NOW?

NO.

"Damn," he muttered under breath. This was getting frustrating. He just had to know what Dean was doing in his body right now. He tapped his fingers against the upholstery while he waiting, keeping to the rhythm of the music that was playing. He had noticed the collection of cassette tapes, somewhat amused that Dean would cling to such an outdated way to listen to music. Sam had chosen not one of the tapes and turned the radio to an American top 40 station instead.

A few minutes had passed and the phone rang.

"Now we can talk," Dean said on the other end. He sounded strained and a little exasperated with him.

"What are you doing in my body?" Sherlock demanded.

"This is why you called? Dude you really need to learn some patience. Your friend is about to either have a heart attack or an aneurism from worry if you keep calling like that?"

"He is most likely worried because of what you are doing. Why are you hunting a werewolf?"

"Your girlfriend called and said she came across a body that had deep claw marks." Girlfriend?

"I do not have a—"You mean Molly?"

"Yeah…wait are you telling me you are not hitting that?"

"No, I am not." Ugh and could Dean be even more crude and what's worse those words were coming out of Sherlock's mouth. "You are not using such words around her or John?"

"There is something wrong with you. I was able to identify the body, not the name but his profession, his habits and the fact he was eating fries or chips as you call them over here. Your brain is weird man and it's giving me a headache."

Sherlock blinked. "You are able to analyze and deduce in the same manner as me?"

"Cas told me our knowledge and ways of thinking have merged. You relying on memory on how to do it and I'm just thinking it." So that was why Sherlock felt like he had slowed down.

"That would keep John and the others convinced…as long as you don't act like your usual American self."

"Too late."

"Who else was witness to your behavior?" Sherlock wondered what kind of damage Dean had done and how was he going to repair it."

"There was John, Molly, Lestrade and a bunch of cops that think you are some kind of freak, including that douchebag Anderson."

"Anderson," Sherlock growled out the name. "Why am I not surprised he annoyed you with his idiocy?"

"God I wanted to deck him."

"All in good time," Sherlock said, trying not to laugh. He would love to see Dean strike Anderson, but with Dean's own fists of course. "You have to restrain yourself."

"Huh?"

"Stop being you."

"I don't think so. If I'm me then wouldn't it be easier to convince your friends that I'm you and you'r me?"

Sherlock was silent. Dean's idea was a solid one and he should have come up with it. It did seem like it would be a perfect plan and might be easier for when he and Sam arrive in London. It would be late when they arrive and most people would be asleep. He would hate to give Mrs. Hudson a fright and John would have no idea who he was. This might be for the best."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. My brain is benefiting you quite well." He had noticed they were in a large garage. "We have reached our destination. I want you to carefully explain this to John, and try to act like me with everyone else."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Call ya later."

"Bloody yank."

"Freaking Limey."

Sam was laughing when Sherlock had hung up. He gave the hunter a disapproving glare as he placed his mobile back into his pocket.

"I am pleased you were able to find amusement in this," Sherlock said.

"Hearing you bicker with him," Sam said. "And your accent is drifting more and more as you talk."

"My accent?"

"Dean sounding more and more British every day."

"Oh. I didn't mean," Sherlock said. He had noticed that Dean was making himself sound more and more American.

"We have a few hours before our flight," Sam said and opened the door.

Sherlock stepped out after him and helped unload the few packed bags they were going to bring on the flight out of the boot of the car. As they closed the lid he had a feeling they were not alone.

"Hello boys," the voice was low and rich in a cockney accent and it came from right behind them.

"Crowley," Sam snarled the name as he spun around and glared at the stranger.

Sherlock turned around to have a good look at the man. He stood at 1.73 meters with dark receding hair and a developing beard on his face. He was about late forties in age and wore an expensive custom made suit from a skilled tailor. He stood with a pride. He was someone who was sure of himself. From the way Sam staring at him with a face full of hate he could tell this was an enemy and considering how he had just appeared Sherlock had figured he was a demon.

"Samantha," Crowley said and nodded at Sam. "And Dean." He blinked and squinted at Dean. "Or rather Dean's suit. Who is this behind the wheel I wonder?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said in a low tone. . "I can tell I am talking to a demon."

"Brilliant and accurate guess," Crowley said. "But not just any demon mind you. You have the honor of speaking with the king of hell."

"I do not need to guess," Sherlock said. "I made the simple observations based on the way you suddenly appeared out of nowhere and the reaction from Sam."

"So this is what Dean sounds like when he is smart." Crowley's smile grew and he raised his eyebrows. "I knew I heard that name. I read about you and I have to say I'm quite impressed, although not as much as a certain admirer of yours."

"Admirer?" Sam asked.

"He is speaking of only a few and there is only one who a demon would know. His name is James Moriarty."

"That's the bloke," Crowley said and pointed his finger at him. "Brilliant and creative. I'm a subscriber to his methods and have been watching him every now and then. His voice can be a bit annoying but I'll overlook that. I might have to worry he would try to overthrow me when it's time to collect."

"He sold his soul to you?" Sherlock asked. That wouldn't surprise him.

Crowley shook his head. "Don't need to. You think someone like him is heading upstairs."

"From what I read," Sam said. "No."

"Don't know what he would make with all this." The demon pointed at Sherlock. "I am curious at how Dean is walking around in your shoes, and skin and bones."

"Why are you here?" Sam asked. "We are not going to tell you where Kevin or the other half of the tablet is."

"What kind of moron do you take me for? I am actually here to thank you."

"Thank us?" Sam asked.

"Obviously a trick," Sherlock said.

"Not a trick. You did me a bit of favor with that wannabe when you killed her, or rather when Castiel killed her."

"You were happy we killed a demon?" Sam asked.

"To be honest there is no love when you kill most of my men and women." He noticed the way they were looking at them and rolled his eyes. "Hello demon here and king of hell."

"It is not often you thank hunters for killing your soldiers," Sherlock said.

"This one wasn't even a real demon, not by my standards. To become a demon you have to do it the right way. You let your soul be strung out, flogged a bit, tossed here and there, chewed on by my pups and spat out. You have to feel like you're in hell; experience it in all of its burning and bloody glory." He held out his arms. "You don't just get the instant gratification with a bit of magic."

"She cheated on you," Sam said.

"It felt like that and we have rules," Crowley said and held up his fingers. "You honor contracts, you don't collect early," he paused in ticking his fingers off and nodded at Sam. "You don't make contracts out of duress or force people into them by threating to blow up their house first unless they sell you your soul…there have been a few stories…you don't use magic to become a demon and you don't sit in my chair."

"You have a special chair?" Sam asked. "Is it a throne?"

"It's a very special chair. The frame is made from the bones of child molesters, stuffed with goose feathers and covered with the flesh of newborns. It has been modified to vibrate and massage. Almost like those magic fingers you find in those motels you lot tend to sleep in"

"Ugh enough," Sherlock said and held up a hand. "The conversation is getting dull."

"More to the point you did me a favor, now I'm not going to repay you lot anything. I just felt like coming here and telling you. Although you did leave a few things behind."

"Like what?" Sam asked.

"This," Crowley said and held up a leather bound book. "This was how she was using the spells. It also has the recipe for instant transformation." He ripped out a few pages from the book. "These will be burned."

"What are you going to do with the rest of it?" Sam asked.

"Curious today aren't we, Moose? I'll keep it around; maybe use it in a deal."

"Was there a goblet?" Sherlock asked. "Pewter with a symbol of shield and embedded with a blue gemstone."

"I did not see anything like that, not unless goblet has become the new slang for bong and none of those are as fancy as you described." He turned to Sam. "Our business is not done. We will speak again, but first I think I'll go visit the old homestead."

"You were born, raised and died in Scotland," Sam pointed out.

"My meat suit's old homestead. I haven't been there in half a century." He paused and pursed his lips. "Well I have been there several times for business and not for pleasure. Might even pop in on the real Dean."

"You stay away from him," Sam growled.

"He's a big boy. He can take care of himself." Crowley disappeared into thin air. He just faded out of view and even though Sherlock had seen Castiel do the same thing it was still a bit of a shock.

"You haven't mentioned this Crowley before," Sherlock said after a few seconds.

"I was hoping you wouldn't come across him," Sam said. He picked up his bags.

"I hope you won't mind if I ask about your history with him," Sherlock said as he picked up Dean's bags and followed.

"First came across him in Oh Nine. He was actually helping us at the time, but he was really serving his own personal interest. Then after we defeated Lucifer he took over Hell."

"You defeated Lucifer?" Sherlock nearly dropped one of the cases. "You defeated The Lucifer?"

"We do have long wait until we can board," Sam said. "I'll tell you everything."

"Tell me from the beginning."

A/N: Last chapter that is set in America for a long time.