Uh, included a bit of Sam and Dean, hope you don't mind, because what.

"I'm sorry," says Castiel, looking for all the world like somebody has just shot his puppy and he's at a complete loss at what to do and debating between staring heavily at the carnage of man's best friend or staring heavily at the man who shot it who is his best friend. Then again, nobody's been shot, but it's a well enough comparison to make if how he seems to be doing the angelic equivalent of freaking out is anything to go by.

The lights flicker on and off almost agitatedly, as if to reflect his inner turmoil, and Castiel stands as socially awkwardly as he does whenever it comes from anything remotely involving feelings and not hurting Dean's.

It doesn't matter though; the damage is done.

"It's alright, Cas," Sam says, trying to reassure him, but if anything, Castiel only turns on him and looks at him as though Sam will have all the answers and make it better, and believe Sam when it feels even worse than finals.

"How do I fix it?" Castiel pleads, and Sam's heart just...breaks because Castiel, this isn't anything that can be fixed, and this sure as anything shouldn't be be making you look like you're in more pain and despair than should be possible.

"You can't--not really." Sam feels really bad because Castiel visibly looks let down, and even more mortified with himself, as if this is the biggest sin next to blaspheming against God's name. Which, since it's Castiel, is pretty big. "It's...it's fine. It's not the end of the world."

He tries not to look at the wall of the motel room that's been blown in and the rest of the three adjacent rooms behind them, or at the expression on Castiel's face. Granted, it'd been small-scale compared to what Castiel could normally, but Sam isn't sure he wants to know the damage, and from how Castiel's shoulders are slumping, the angel doesn't want it acknowledged either, almost looking as though he wants to leave here right away but doesn't for fear of offending Dean who is all for Castiel staying no matter what.

How do you make a miserable angel not miserable? And how do you deal with allergies that apparently all of them have? Oh god, Sam should've asked Gabriel how he does it--because asking Dean how to make Castiel feel better is out of the question, no offence.

It might've worked out. Castiel is slowly calming down, even if he looks so lost and completely whipped, but he looks like being consoled might work with him. Sam is even just about to tell Dean to shut up before he says anything that might make it worse and make Castiel feel worse, when Dean just has to open his big mouth and put his foot in it.

Dean, with no regard whatsoever about hurting Castiel's feelings, all the while horrified, offended, and scandlized, half-demands and half- chokes out: "But how could you be allergic to pie?"

Edited at 2012-04-25 01:55 pm (UTC)

Sherlock wondered, at times, if Mycroft knew that the skull he'd given Sherlock still retained it's original inhabitant. Figuratively speaking of course. Literally John occupied a metaphysical plane that he was infuriatingly incapable of describing to Sherlock in any useful way. It seemed unlikely that Mycroft was aware of the full extent of his gift, (Well, gift in that he didn't take John AWAY, which was virtually the same thing as giving him to Sherlock) he was dreadfully unimaginative that way.

Still, John (Ex-Army doctor, killed three years previously, small in life, invisible in death) was remarkably helpful and Sherlock reluctantly came to the conclusion that he owed Mycroft enough to be *civil* every now and again. (John reminded him, most of the time, feeling as if he owed Mycroft too for making his afterlife exciting rather than horrifically depressing and lonely.)

Sherlock had been very good before he ended up with John, but that warm, oddly solid voice in his ear, that invisible but still tangible presence helped significantly and despite the fact that he frequently spoke to someone who wasn't there ("What do you think? No, not *you* Anderson, who could possibly want *your* opinion? ... Yes! Very good, except that you've missed the deeper indent on the carpet just there...") Lestrade and the rest of the world seemed to find him easier to deal with.

To say that Sherlock (And John, who hadn't had any idea he could do that sort of thing) was surprised the first time an invisible force had saved Sherlock's life was a massive understatement but both of them eagerly applied themselves to discovering the limits of the ability. Soon Sherlock found himself with cups of fresh brewed tea floating over to him in the middle of a good thinking session and his coat becoming singularly uncooperative when he wanted to go out while John thought he needed to rest.

All in all John was *exactly* what Sherlock would have asked for in his life with the glaring exception of being dead. And infuriatingly dead at that. Sherlock simply couldn't find the one vital clue that told him who had killed his John before he'd had a chance to touch his warm skin and feel his heart beat. All he had to hold onto was John's pale skull and a picture printed off the net that showed a serious man in uniform. (Sherlock privately thought that John had to have had a wonderful smile but couldn't find any proof.) It was beyond unfair and it drove him to near breakdown until one night when the blanket tucked around him on the couch and John said quietly, "Let it go Sherlock. If you solve it I may have to go on and I don't want to leave you. I'll just wait until you're ready to come with me, alright? Rest for a while. Please."

So Sherlock Holmes reluctantly gave up the greatest mystery of his life so he and John could both wait and if anyone thought it was odd that he asked to be buried with the skull he'd carried around for years... well, he was Sherlock Holmes, and it was a sad fact that that skull was the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend.