Chapter 1: Summoning Memories
They had all been there for Amy and Rory after the Doctor’s ‘death’, and for the Doctor, after the fields of Trenzalore. They had all been there for John after Sherlock’s ‘death’, and for Sherlock, in the last painful months of his three years’ leave. So it was only natural that, when the Doctor received a text that simply read, ‘Cas is gone. Dean’s not going to last much longer,’ they were all there for the Winchester brothers in their hour of need.
The summoning took place in a dark barn – not really because of the weight it added to the atmosphere, but because it was raining, and the only other sources of shelter for miles around were the TARDIS and the Impala. The Doctor had made it very obvious that anyone who tried summoning anything inside his old girl would be swiftly and forcefully ejected. Dean had said likewise with the Impala, although with more expletives and to less of a disappointed reaction, considering it was too small to draw a circle in anyway.
So there they were, six of them, huddled in an old, creaking, leaking, draughty barn in the middle of a cornfield in the middle of nowhere – because if this went wrong, then god (whoever and wherever he was) help anyone who was anywhere near – watching as Sam painstakingly copied out the last of the runes and lines onto the concrete floor with chalk. The Doctor was watching with interest, and doing his best to ignore the argument going on behind him.
“I should be the one to read out the incantation, it’s obvious.”
“Obvious?” growled Dean, scowling. “Ha! You’ve never done a summoning in your whole life.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve been summoned more years than you’ve lived,” sneered Sherlock, eyes flashing black for the merest half-second. He smirked as Dean automatically flinched.
“So you think you can do a better job of it than me?”
“Yes.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked upwards in amusement at Dean’s disbelieving, bring-it-on-bitch expression, and then he began reciting passages of what sounded like Biblical Latin, voice smooth and even and pronunciation perfect.
“…Bitch,” muttered Dean under his breath, glowering.
Sherlock stopped his arcane-sounding monotone. “American,” he countered calmly, and Dean actually growled.
John decided this was the moment to intervene, pausing in his efforts to find places to balance the torches and lamps they had managed to scrounge from the TARDIS to say, “Stop it, the pair of you. We need to work together, and I’m well aware you can both do that if you actually behave like adults instead of six-year-olds.”
“John’s right,” added Sam, placing the chalk back in its box and dusting off his hands on his jeans. “Dean, you’re the one who was the most keen on this, so I thought you’d’ve been doing everything you could to make sure it’s gonna work!” He fixed Dean, who had the decency to look at least a little ashamed, with an impressed stare. “Look, just let Sherlock read. He’s better at pronouncing it than you, and it’ll give him something to do and feed his damn superiority complex-” Sherlock made a noise like a kicked peacock at that, “-and leave you free to- to do whatever you have to do, without worrying if whatever comes through will rip your head off because of a slipped syllable.”
He paused for breath, then added, “Although the American thing was a bit of a low blow. We’re all human here – ah, sorry Doc.” He sent an apologetic glance at the Doctor, who waved an absent hand at him, not looking at all upset; on the contrary, he seemed rather pleased with the implied inclusion.
“That… thing is not a damn human,” growled Dean, scowling. “It’s a demon. It probably eats people.” He threw a dark look in Sherlock’s direction, which only made the consulting detective smirk.
“Have you ever tried eating people?” he drawled, one thin eyebrow raised above dancing blue eyes. “They taste revolting, and they’re entirely too stringy for my taste. Although I’m sure I could make an exception in your case.”
“You’re not helping yourself, Sherlock,” warned John from over by the door, watching the argument with equal parts amusement and frustration.
Dean sent a last evil glare at Sherlock, only stopping short of sticking his tongue out at the demon because his pride said that was a level too low to sink to, slunk off to rifle through the couple of bags full of ‘supplies’ that they’d dragged into the barn. He pulled out a small handgun, noticed the Doctor’s eyes on him, and replaced with a muttered curse under his breath. “What is it, everyone let’s make faces at Dean day?” He pulled out Ruby’s knife instead, turning it this way and that to watch the light glint on it.
The Doctor didn’t look terribly pleased with that, either, but Dean wasn’t going to be present at a summoning unarmed, no matter what they were summoning. “What?” he said loudly, glaring at the alien in the corner.
“You know I don’t like weapons,” replied the Doctor evenly, face neutral other than a slight tightness in his jaw.
“You’d prefer we all get torn into itty bitty pieces of kitty kibble?” snapped Dean. He was feeling jumpy and nervous, as always before a summoning – it wasn’t something you ever got used to – and he knew he was being unfair, but the adrenaline was making him snappish. And this particular summoning had far more resting on it than any that had gone before.
“No,” he conceded, voice still even, but now there was sympathy in his eyes. Dean hated sympathy, and looked away before he said something he’d regret. “I just dislike the need for weapons.” He hesitated, and if Dean had been looking he’d have seen the Doctor’s mouth tighten, his brows lower in concern. “Dean, I know what this means to you, but-”
“No you don’t.” Dean didn’t recognize his own voice for a moment, didn’t recognized the choked, gravelly snarl that clawed its way out of his throat. “You’ve got no fucking idea, so don’t pretend you have.” He wanted to add more, wanted to try and explain to the Time Lord that it wasn’t just that he’d lost Cas, but the fact he’d lost his Cas, long before the angel had actually died. So many things had gone wrong, and somewhere, somehow, he’d not stopped it, not managed to fix it, and now Cas was paying the price for his continual inability to save the people he cared about the most.
Thankfully he was saved the trouble of trying to put all of that into words that didn’t make him sound quite so self-loathing and then listening to the Doctor try and empathise with him by the arrival of Amy and Rory.
“Doctor, we’re back!” Amy sang, helping Rory to haul the barn door shut behind her, dislodging one of the torches in the process and making the light in the barn dim visibly, the dark patches growing. John sighed and went to fix it. “You know, when you said the purple kitten room, I though you meant the room with the purple kittens, not the purple room with the kittens. It took us forever to find them.” She handed the tangled pile of wires and metal cages in her arms to Rory, who took them and sort of hovered awkwardly, eyes darting around the room as he tried to work out what to do with his new acquisition.
Amy wrung the water from her hair and shrugged out of a long, dark-trench coat that was several sizes too big for her, which she had borrowed from the Doctor to block out the rain, and noticed Rory’s lurking. “Oh, give it here,” she sighed, grabbing the mess out of his arms and making her way over to the Doctor, blowing sticky strands of damp hair out of her eyes. Rory looked mildly relieved, and went to stand over by the supply bags next to John, who was in the same boat as him – totally and utterly confused by what was going on around him, but not wanting to admit it.
The Doctor sent an even look at Dean that was both a reassurance and a warning, and then made his way over to Sam. “Where do you want them?” he said quietly, as if the room was holding its breath – and, in a way, it was. This was the final step of the preparation, and then…
Sam eyed the circle he’d drawn out, considering for a moment. “Well, we can’t have it covering any of the lines or writing, otherwise we’re in heaploads of crap if something nasty comes through- oh, talking of getting stuff to come through, Amy?”
“Yes?” She looked up at him, hands busy behind her head as she tied her wet hair into a loose bun, the mess of wires now on the floor.
“Can you take this over to Sherlock? He needs to be absolutely sure on the wording when he starts reading, so tell him to practice – but for everyone’s sake tell him not to say any of it aloud until I give him the okay.” He picked up the book he’d sketched the circle and symbols from, offering it to her. She took it with a sigh, and walked over to Sherlock.
“Here you are.” She held the old book out, still open on the page filled with cramped Latin. “He says to practice, and not say anything out loud until he says so.”
Sherlock took the book with a small nod of his head, which was as close to a thank you as Amy had ever got out of him, and ran a finger down the old paper, lips moving soundlessly. “Why are you playing fetch for him?” he said, suddenly, looking up. “He could have just called me over.”
Amy gave him a Look which entirely deserved its capital letter. “No, he couldn’t have,” she said, in the tone of voice mothers use with their children when said children are being spectacularly stupid. “You’d have refused on principle, just to be annoying, and then you and Dean would have started arguing again and we’d have been here all night.” As much as she liked Sherlock, he did drive her mad sometimes, especially when he was in the company of the elder Winchester, who seemed to push all the wrong buttons in him.
Sherlock appraised her for a moment, twitched his lips into a brief smirk, and went back to studying the page.
She shook her head in despair, and headed back over the Doctor and Sam, who were stretching out the lengths of wire and metal she’d found piled in a corner of the purple room with kittens on the TARDIS. It turned out to be a series of what looked like old, dirty, extraordinarily overcomplicated bug zapping lights connected in a line by several lengths of plastic-encased wire. When they’d been arranged in a circle around the summoning circle, very carefully not overlapping or touching any of the chalk, the Doctor picked up a wire trailing from the lamp at the front of the line, and plugged it into a hole in the lamp at the back.
The whole thing buzzed softly into life, a small humming noise sounding throughout the barn like a confused bee, and the brightened slowly into life. Their bluish glow added to the patchy yellow light already suffusing the barn from strategically placed torches, giving the whole place the slightly odd air of a garage disco. The Doctor grinned, clapping his hands together and, taking that as a sign of all being well, everyone else relaxed slightly.
“So. What now?” Everyone’s heads turned to look at Dean, who had stepped forward to the perimeter of wires, face drawn and determined in the odd light. He was gripping the knife tightly, and the tiny flashes it gave off betrayed the shaking of his hand. Sam opened his mouth, used to being the one explaining things, and then shut it, looking slightly surprised at finding himself in the relatively new situation of not being the one knowing what was going on.
The Doctor looked like he was about to speak, but Sherlock cut him off. “We try and place the exact time the Leviathans left Castiel’s vessel, or as close as we can get, and input that into the temporal distorters-”
“Actually, they’re trans-temporal audiovisual wavelength amplifiers,” interrupted the Doctor, looking slightly put out at not being needed to explain.
Sherlock gave him a withering look. “They distort time, therefore they are temporal distorters. There’s no need for the marketing talk, I’m not planning on buying them.” Over in the corner, John groaned softly, sensing another argument coming. Sherlock threw a glance over in his direction and apparently thought better of making any more snarky comments, because he cleared his throat and continued.
“Anyway, we input the time, and then I say the incantation. Samuel and I have modified the runes of the circle slightly, and the hope is that they interact with the temporal distortion caused by the trans-temporal audiovisual wavelength amplifiers-” He couldn’t resist a slightly smug sideways glance at the Doctor, “-and the entire summoning circle is projected back into the past, at the same time as being here.”
“‘The past’ being the time Castiel’s vessel was last in a state we could retrieve it without bringing through a whole lot of angry people-eating things from hell or causing a paradox that would explode the universe?” asked Rory quietly. Sam, who had been standing next to him, jumped slightly, as if he’d forgotten he was there.
“The Leviathans were from Purgatory,” sniffed Sherlock, and Sam nodded in confirmation, “but essentially, yes.”
“You can drop the superiority act, hellspawn, we’re not stupid,” Dean gritted out through clenched teeth.
“Really?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, sounding surprised, at which point John physically stepped in between them and put a hand on Sherlock’s chest, going up onto tiptoes to meet his eye.
“Look,” he murmured, “he’s worried and angry and hurting, so could you at least try to be a bit accommodating?” After a moment of looking vaguely disappointed, Sherlock nodded, and John stepped away. The he noticed Amy grinning next to Rory and prodding his arm, and his cheeks coloured. “Okay, Sherlock, you can carry on,” he suggested, slightly louder than was strictly necessary.
Amy actually laughed at that, but a raised eyebrow from that Doctor that clearly said stop teasing the poor thing made her clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. Even Rory smiled slightly, and Dean’s eyes positively sparkled with the idea of new ammunition for needling Sherlock with. Sam sighed.
“If we’re done with the acting like five year olds?” he questioned, looking expectantly at Sherlock.
“The circle will exist both here and also in this barn in the past, connected by a kind of… wormhole, if you will. The incantation will be sent through the wormhole, into the past, and summon Castiel’s vessel into the circle in the past. Which, being the same circle as the one we have here, means the vessel will also appear in here, at which point we turn off the temporal distorters, sorry, trans-temporal audiovisual wavelength amplifiers- ow!” John had elbowed him, hard in the side. Sherlock glowered, sulking quietly for a second, before resuming his explanation with far less enthusiastic superiority in his tone. “At which point we turn of the wormhole, trapping Castiel’s vessel in the present.”
“Cas’s vessel,” repeated Dean, quietly, and the barn fell silent again.
“There’s no guarantee this will even work,” said the Doctor softly, looking tired and old and far too sad to be comforting anyone. “And even if it does, even if… Jim, was it? Jimmy. Even if Jimmy’s body comes through, there’s no guarantee Cas will still be in it – from what you said, the Leviathans said they… removed him.” He seemed to picking his words with care, hesitating before every word.
“Leviathans lie,” Dean pointed out stubbornly, and behind him Sam closed his eyes in quiet pain.
“They do,” acknowledged the Doctor, and said no more on the subject, but his eyes looked like they were already grieving.
There were was a moment of swelling, expanding silence, the anticipation before the drop, and then Rory’s voice cut through. “We should get on with it, those…” He groped around in his memory to find the word the Doctor had used, came up blank, and simply said, “temporal distorters have a limited charge, and if they run out half way through this then I’m guessing it’s not going to be pretty.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look, heads dipping ever so slightly in decisiveness, and the Doctor muttered, “Trans-temporal audiovisual wavelength amplifiers.” No one paid any attention to him.
“Sherlock, when you’re ready,” called Dean, dispensing with the insulting nicknames for once, voice unnaturally even. Sherlock looked up from the book, made a second’s worth of eye contact, and a silent agreement to drop their usual squabbling passed between them.
“Vi istius circuli vocat sanguine et sanguine vinculum stabile-”
Sherlock’s deep voice echoed in the empty barn, rolling loud and clear above the noise of the rain on the roof. The words seemed to fill the empty space, lingering long after the sound had gone. The air grew heavy, charged, and the temperature dropped several degrees. Amy and Rory mutually sought each other’s hands, fingers knotting with each other. Rory’s other hand hovered near his pocket, where he’d slipped the gun Sam had offered him when they’d first begun setting up – he knew the Doctor would disapprove, but he could cope with that disapproval if it meant he could keep Amy alive.
“-audeo et virtutem fero tui Castiel puer angelum caeli Aliquam ut nunc-”
The pressure built, along with a humming, singing noise that wavered at the edge of hearing and set everyone’s teeth on edge – only Sherlock seemed unaffected, calmly continuing to read, ignoring the way the air began to stir and throb, pressing down. John looked around, gun already in his hand and levelled at the center of the circle, took several steps sideways until he was at his friend’s side, face completely focused and dangerously emotionless.
“-purgatione ignis fumo et sanguine et per tempus et per portam quae fecimus-”
Sam watched the proceedings with, if not calm, then at least a familiarity that left him with slightly less fear and worry than the others. Well, fear and worry for what might or might not come through, anyway. He snuck a look at Dean out of the corner of his eye, and found his brother holding Ruby’s knife so hard his knuckles were white, and the blade was trembling violently. His gaze was fixed on the center of the circle.
“-ego imperium te et invocare te cum hoc ritua antiquis et aracnorum. Ita videte vocatus et rsponsum vel omnes maledicam nomen tuum saecula. Sic festucam esse!"
Sherlock roared the last words, voice rising to a rumbling growl above the clapping of the iron roof and the howling wind. For a moment it all reached a crescendo, noise rising to an almost unbearable point and the feeling of being pushed down becoming too much to bear. Dean twitched, jolted forward slightly in anticipation, and the Doctor moved silently to stand behind him, face dark and unreadable, ready to protect the hunter – from himself, if needs be. Sam merely watched, fingers tightening almost convulsively around the iron crowbar he held in one hand, and the flask of holy water in the other.
And then, it all… simply stopped. The wind died down, the pressure lifted, and the small gathering in the barn was left in broken, helpless silence.
It was broken by the clattering of Ruby’s knife hitting the floor.
Sam heaved a quiet sigh, and moved towards his brother, stepping forwards with the intention to cross across the circle.
“Stay where you are!” ordered Sherlock suddenly, his slightly hoarse voice freezing Sam in his tracks. Dean’s head snapped up. Rory and Amy, who had been relaxing slightly, tensed again, Rory’s hand resting on his gun and Amy clutching the bag of rock salt she’d been given.
“Sherlock, it didn’t work, nothing’s happening,” murmured John, blinking slightly more than he would normally. He’d liked the angel, found his relatively sane and sensible company to be nice relief after the madness of the rest of their little group – Rory and Sam possibly exempted, although even Sam had his moments. And, despite the fact the detective wouldn’t admit it, he knew Sherlock had quite liked Castiel too, once they’d hesitantly worked around their instinctive enmity. They’d seen the world through a similar lens of perpetual confusion at the stupidity of the human race.
“No, stay where you are. All of you. It-”
He never got to finish his sentence. As if on cue, the light given off by the temporal distorters changed suddenly from soft blue to a bright, flashing red, and an ear-splitting siren wail cut through the air. Hands flew to cover ears, eyes widened in confusion – and fear. It didn’t take a genius to realise that red flashing lights and loud noise meant that something was going wrong; possibly fatally so.
The Doctor darted out behind Dean, somehow unaffected by the need to cover his eyes, heading for the light with the control panel on it. He barely made it two steps before Dean grabbed his arm and yelled, over the noise of the siren, “Where’re you going?!”
“To turn it off!” shouted the Doctor back. “It’s overheating, the power strain is too much, the capacitators can’t take it and I’m betting the fission ma-”
Dean had stopped listening after the word ‘off’. “Like hell you are! Cas could still be coming through!”
“No, Dean, you don’t under-” The Doctor was cut off yet again, but this time by Dean twisting his arms behind his back and restraining the smaller, skinnier man as he wriggled and thrashed desperately, yelling for Dean to let him go over the noise.
Amy and Rory crossed the distance between themselves and the Doctor in a matter of seconds and began trying to pull Dean off – they’d have turned off the device themselves, if they’d known how – but their efforts were interrupted by a new sound.
The light humming noise that had been audible earlier suddenly bloomed into a screeching, wailing scream that cut through the hands covering their ears and sliced into their brains like a knife. Everyone dropped to their knees, curling over and pressing as hard as they could over their ears as the true voice of an angel emanated from the centre of the circle. Dean even released the Doctor, but considering the alien seemed just as affected by the rest of them, it made no difference.
There was one final burst of noise, and then the angel’s screams were over. The lights on the temporal distorters slowly slopped flashing, and the wailing siren quietened gradually – the Doctor stumbling over, slightly disoriented from the mental assault, and turning them off as soon as they had. Amy wiped the blood from under Rory’s ears and rubbed at her own with the corner of her cardigan. John fumbled for his gun, and Sam stood up slowly. Sherlock just stood there, eyes black and unreadable, fingers digging into the palms of his hands and teeth into his lower lip.
Dean was the first to speak, eyes fixed on the curled-up heap in the center of the circle, dripping water and mud across the chalk lines. Though it was smeared all over with blood and dirt, the dark hair and perpetually crooked tie were still easily identifiable. Everyone stared.
Before anyone could hold him back, and disregarding the possibility of there still being Leviathan using the vessel, Dean skidded across the circle, dropping to his knees next to the unmoving angel. “Cas, dude, you there?” His voice shook despite his efforts and he swallowed, hard, tilting the angel’s head up running a hand over the cheek, his fingers slipping to his throat in an attempt to find a pulse.
John and Rory didn’t need any more confirmation than the quiet look of terror on Dean’s face before they had both shoved their guns in their pockets and run over to drop to their knees next to the angel too, rolling him onto his back and tilting his chin up.
“He’s not breathing,” noted Rory, voice steady as his training took over. “No signs of life, we need to start CPR.”
John nodded. “Keep his head up, I’ll do compressions.” He laced his fingers together, one hand over the top of the other, and lined the heel of his palm up with the middle of the angel’s chest, pressing down in short, hard pushes.
Rory moved to tilt Cas’s head up again, but Dean was already there, carefully supporting the angel’s chin and cradling his head in his hands. “I know what I’m doing, you know.” He narrowed his eyes at Rory, as if daring him to argue, and Rory held his hands up surrender.
Sam took a half-step forward, as if to go to his brother, but was stopped by Sherlock’s voice in by his ear. “Leave them,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “They need space, and there’s nothing you can do that they’re not already doing.” Sam moved back again reluctantly, teeth worrying at his lip, and when Amy slipped her hand inside his he squeezed it tightly.
The three gathered around him froze, John’s hands poised to deliver the last three compressions, but then he twitched again – shook, more accurately, a violent shudder that was almost a convulsion. And then, without warning, the angel rolled sideways and onto hands and knees, eyes still tight shut and looking not entirely in control of his own limbs, and began choking.
Murky water and blood spilled from his mouth as his diaphragm spasmed, forcing the damp contents of his lungs out onto the cold floor and replacing the liquid with hoarse, wheezing breaths. He was trembling all over, and when the last drops of red water were trickling down his chin his arms buckled, as if they no longer had the strength to support his weight.
He would have hit the floor face-first had Dean not caught him, arms around the angel’s shoulders, and pulled him upright. Cas let out a noise that was a cross between a choked sob and a whimper, and slumped forward onto the dazed-looking hunter, pressing his face into Dean’s neck as if looking for warmth. One of his hands sought out Dean’s shoulder, sliding down his arm and scratching at the material over the handprint burned into his skin.
John and Rory had backed away as soon as Cas had started breathing, moving back to stand with Amy, Sam and Sherlock and giving Dean some space. They didn’t hear what the angel said, if indeed he said anything past the small, terrified noises that escaped his throat, but they saw Dean freeze, and then bring a hand up to stroke the angel’s hair gently. “It’s okay now, Cas, it’s all okay. We’ve got ya. You’re safe,” he promised softly, throat tight and eyes hollow at the sight of his friend in such a bad state. “I’ve got you.”
“This isn’t over.” The voice, hard and unhappy, from behind Sam’s back, made him jump.
“What?” he asked, mentally kicked himself for the rather gormless answer, and repeated, “What do you mean?” He turned to see the Doctor, hands in his pockets and face sombre, watching the pair in the middle of the circle.
It took a moment for the alien to reply. No one else seemed to have noticed them – now the immediate danger was over, John and Sherlock had begun to gather things together and dismantle the temporal distorters, and Amy was hugging Rory, whispering something in his ear that made him smile.
“…Consequences,” explained the Doctor eventually. “There are always consequences, for everything. You, of all people, should know that, Samuel Winchester.”
Sam paused, trying to work out if that was some kind of insult or rebuke, but the alien’s voice held only worry. “But- but we sent the souls back to Purgatory,” he said eventually, shaking his head, “and now the Leviathan are gone- well, gone from Cas, we’ve gotta hunt them down I guess, but-”
“I wasn’t talking about that.” The Doctor sighed. “You know more about this summoning lark than I do, and Sherlock was the one who worked out how to mix the spell with technology, but the amount of power it took – magical and temporal, they’re both energy – was… well, enormous is probably an understatement.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Sherlock, appearing next to them with absolutely no warning, as always. He looked totally unfazed by everything, but there was a tightness to him, in the line of his jaw and the way his fingers dug into his palms. His eyes were several shades darker than they should be. “A complete understatement. That spell? It’s lit this barn up like a beacon – and that’s just for demons. I’m sure opening the wormhole’s created a nice big anomaly on any alien technology aimed in this direction.”
Sam swallowed, hard. “How bad are we talking?” he asked, deceptively calmly.
Sherlock hesitated for a moment, thinking. “I’m not an expert on aliens-” There was an unspoken yet in his tone, “-but with the amount of energy it takes to make a rip in the universe and then seal it up again, I’d say we’re talking anything within range of the solar system at least. Probably a couple of light years further than that. Oh, don’t relax,” he added, seeing some of the worry go out of Sam’s face, “News travels fast. Earth’s a nice, easy target, you see, so in a few days any creature in the galaxy who can get here and wants the ability to time-travel will be here, looking for whatever caused the wormhole. And when I say looking, they’re not going to be knocking on doors and asking politely.”
“And the demons?” prompted the Doctor, looking genuinely curious.
“There are probably a few in the middle of the Sahara that didn’t feel a wounded angel pulled through time and dropped here.” Sherlock’s tone was matter-of-fact, but when he blinked, his eyes opened black. “I mean, angels cause a stir wherever they go, but a wounded one? Oh, that’s a treat. All that suffering, and so weak. Helpless.” His voice was dark, heavy with a strange sort of hunger.
With a visible effort of will, Sherlock closed his eyes and opened them silver-blue again, letting out a shaky breath. “I am… sorry,” he ground out, as if each word were a struggle, voice completely flat. “This is… difficult.” Sam nodded, but still looked wary. After a few second’s steady breathing, Sherlock continued in a more even tone. “Anyway, what I meant to say is that the idea of a wounded angel is a rather… attractive one to any denizens of Hell in the area. We will have demons aplenty in a matter of hours, if that.”
“And angels…” added Sam slowly, a look of exhausted hopelessness crossing his face. “They don’t exactly like Cas either, and I’m guessing trying to turn yourself into a god is a pretty big no-no in their book, so they’ll be coming after us too.”
“Right,” said the Doctor, rubbing his hands together. He looked a bit happier, as if knowing that he was dealing with good old mortal peril again was somehow more comforting than the vague idea of future repercussions. “Well, then, we need to get back to the TARDIS, and-”
“Uh, Doctor?” called Rory from the other side of the barn, where he, Amy and John were gathering the torches up. “That… thing you gave me.” He waved a small device the size and shape of an iPod, with an antenna sticking out of it, at the Time Lord. A small light was flashing yellow. “It’s bleeping. I’m guessing that’s not good?”
“No, not good at all!” announced the Doctor cheerfully, ignoring the looks of mild despair that crossed Amy and John’s faces. “Well, then, if that’s the case, we really need to get to the-”
The rough, gravelly voice made them all jump, including Dean. Castiel pulled away from the hunter, kneeling on the ground and swaying slightly. His eyes were unfocused, roving almost blindly across the floor until they flicked upwards and met the Doctor’s. “The angels,” he rasped. “They’re coming.”