A/N: so i have a confession to make
as you can tell, i haven't been working on this one much; in fact, i just sat down to write this about a month ago, after not touching it for about two months. i've been working on other fics (namely, the destiel one that's gotten so many updates since the new year began). that's not to say i won't update this one ever again, but it may take time for me to get back into it, especially since i haven't yet exhausted my interest in the destiel fic. anyway, what i'm saying is, please stop asking me to update. aside from writing other fics, i've also got school and a job to worry about besides also taking time to draw.
other than that, i appreciate all the encouragement i've gotten from all of you regarding this fic.
finally, one little disclaimer: i wrote this before the supernatural episode "As Time Goes By" so obviously my version of Abaddon and the canon Abaddon are very, very different

The Devil's Fear: Part Three – The Supernatural

Dean could hardly believe he was doing this. He lifted one of the shotguns out of his trunk and turned around, holding it out before him towards the two near-strangers who were standing behind him. Sherlock, whom Dean mentally referred to as "the asshole with the cheekbones," simply flicked his eyes down to the weapon with the look of a man who has been confronted with something disgusting that he'd rather not touch; the expression really ruffled Dean's fur the wrong way. The man-Time-Lord-whatever-the-hell-he-was clearly didn't want to be involved.

"Either of you know how to use this?" Dean asked gruffly.

Sherlock didn't answer. John, however, reached over and took the gun from him, looking it up and down with the eyes of an expert. "Improved cylinder," he said, examining the barrel of the gun. "Pump action. Hinge mechanism." He opened the gun so that the barrel pointed towards the ground, exposing the chamber. "What are in these shells?" he asked, pulling one out of the chamber and eyeing it critically.

Dean was pleasantly surprised. This guy knew his guns. "Rock salt." He saw comprehension spread across John's features as he took the shell from John's fingers and reloaded it and was left to marvel once more at Cas's abilities. Whatever the angel had done, these guys didn't question anything about his and his brother's lifestyle anymore. It was pretty damn handy.

"Smart," remarked John, also apparently impressed. Sherlock made a noise so quiet it was barely heard, but the meaning behind it was clear.

"Alright, you know what, Spock, you can kiss my ass, okay?" snapped Dean, his patience slipping. He had hated this guy right from the get-go. The way he looked down his nose at them with that disdainful expression, like everything was beneath him—every time Dean saw the guy's face, he wanted to punch it. "I didn't ask for this."

"Neither did we," replied Sherlock nastily, taking the gun and opening it up the way John had. He closed it back up and cocked it, displaying about the same level of experience, before handing it back to Dean. God, even at eye-level this guy managed to look down on him.

Dean, clenching his jaw to bite back a retort, pulled out a second gun almost identical to the first and held both firearms out, one to each of the two men standing before him. Both guns were loaded and clean. "You know what devil's traps are?" he asked sharply.

"Yes," they both said as they took their guns.

"Know how to make one?" They nodded. "Good. We'll spend some time getting the place ready before we summon this son of a bitch. If we can get it in a devil's trap, sending its ass back to hell won't be so hard."

The unlikely team found an old empty warehouse where they bunked down and worked together to set up fortifications. Spray paint was used to construct an elaborate devil's trap on the floor. Salt was poured in front of every window and door in the place, and jugs of holy water were left waiting at intervals around the room in case of emergency. They didn't have to wait long for Castiel, who showed up with all the materials needed to produce one demon of fear.

Sherlock watched the strange trio. It was obvious just from a glance that Sam, despite being taller, was the younger of the two brothers. Also obvious was the fact that they were unhealthily codependent of each other, though of the two, Sam seemed to show more individuality. The leather coat Dean wore was incredibly worn and didn't seem to sit correctly on his shoulders—it had clearly been passed down to him, likely by a father figure who had no more need of it. Then there was the necklace—it didn't have any supernatural powers, otherwise Dean would've been wearing it during his impersonation as an FBI agent; at the same time, it didn't appear to be any sort of fashion statement, either. In fact, Sherlock rather thought it was ugly. A gift, then, and very important for him to bother putting it back on after changing out of a suit. Probably from Sam, Sherlock guessed.

Sam, by contrast, appeared to have bought all his clothes for himself, of his own preference. Then there was his hair—clearly not a standard hunter haircut; if anything, it would probably be inconvenient. But he had evidently liked the look of it long enough to grow it out to such a length—again, by his personal preference alone.

And Castiel… well, even in Sherlock's eyes, the angel was a bit of an enigma. From what the angel had shown him, he knew the body he was inhabiting didn't belong to him, which made it all the more difficult to deduce anything about him. The only things Sherlock could gather were things about someone who was not an angel at all. He did observe one thing about Castiel, though: he loved that coat. It had come with the vessel, Sherlock assumed, and the angel could've shrugged it off and abandoned it somewhere a long time ago, but he kept it on, through all his travels. What that said about Castiel, Sherlock didn't know, but he took it as a good sign.

They all helped set it up. John couldn't help but wonder where his life had gone wrong as he assisted Castiel mixing the blood of some unknown animal with several other unidentified substances and a couple herbs. An hour ago, he never would've predicted himself doing something like this—but then, an hour ago, angels and demons had been nothing more than fantasy and the names "Sam and Dean Winchester" had meant nothing to him.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was helping Sam with the details of the devil's trap. "So you guys' names are really Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?" asked the tall hunter, glancing up from his work to get another look at Sherlock.

"Yes," replied the Time Lord curtly.

"That's one hell of a coincidence," said Sam, clearly inviting Sherlock to explain.

"It's not a coincidence," Sherlock stated him without any further elaboration. He didn't much feel like answering questions.

Sam, however, was clearly very curious—much more so than his brother, who was evidently satisfied enough to leave well enough alone. "Cas said you were from the planet Gallifrey." From the fact that he'd remembered the name of his home planet, Sherlock gleaned that he was either very bright or had been giving it considerable thought since he'd first heard the name uttered. "Did he mean—I mean, are you… an alien?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes." He pretended not to notice as Sam halted what he was doing, his gaze locked onto the Time Lord's. Then, more for amusement than helpfulness, he added casually, "Time-traveller, too." He glanced up to relish Sam's wide-eyed look of shock and smiled pleasantly.

Finally, when the preparations were all set up, they grimly took up their positions around the broad circular pattern on the floor. All of them had shotguns except for Castiel, who apparently didn't need one. The angel chanted a long stream of Latin phrases, his rough voice echoing powerfully between the concrete walls. John recognized only one word: Abaddon. Sherlock recognized almost all of them. The demon's name was stated only once, towards the end, and when Castiel finished, he struck a match and dropped it into the bowl of mystery ingredients, which combusted in a disproportionately large puff of flames.

Sherlock didn't know what he was expecting—a miasmic black cloud to materialize in the center of the devil's trap, perhaps, or a rumble of thunder so loud it would shake the floor; this was an imprecise science, after all, one on which he'd had no time to gather data. Instead, however, nothing happened. Nothing changed about the warehouse, other than that the interior temperature seemed to drop several degrees.

They waited a moment, the suspense so thick in the air that they could practically taste it. "Cas, you sure you said that right?" asked Dean doubtfully, breaking the silence. The angel nodded. "The ingredients, maybe—did you—"

"I think you might be looking for me," said a voice. Sherlock recognized it as John's, except that it was uncharacteristically cold.

They all turned to look at John. Sherlock's heart leaped and his throat constricted, a cold sweat forming on his brow in an exaggerated response to the apprehension that met him at the sight. John's eyes were a blank, cloudy white and he was smiling broadly in a very un-John-ish way. He looked around at them and inhaled deeply through his nose, letting it out in a long sigh of hyperbolic satisfaction. There was a different air about him; his demeanor exuded confidence at astronomical levels, intimidation seeping from his gaze and forming a cloud of nameless fear that seemed to swarm outwards from him, locking each of them in its icy clutches.

"Oh, I've made a real catch, haven't I?" he said, his eyes lingering on Sherlock a moment longer than the others. "You're all rife with fear. It's unbelievably refreshing."

Sherlock stared in shock at his friend, and the realization of what had happened hit him after an unusually and embarrassingly long stretch of cluelessness. John was being possessed by Abaddon.

His adrenaline gland had been kick-started and jumped into overdrive. If it weren't for Sherlock's immense self-control—and the fact that his friend was in danger—he probably would've fled then and there. The effects of the demon, he supposed. He could barely think around the epinephrine in his veins, trapped in a state of observing without comprehending. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one that only made him feel more uncomfortable. He knew he should be doing something. Hell, he desperately wanted to do something, but the fact was that he couldn't. He could only watch.

It was strange—and chilling—to see John's face worn like a mask. Every single facial muscle was being operated by another being, manipulated to its will without John's consent. And the smile that bared John's teeth was anything but friendly, anything but warm. It had control of John's face, but it was most definitely not John.

Without warning, Abaddon lifted the shotgun in John's hands and aimed it directly at Sam. Before any of them could react, he fired, and Sam was thrown to the ground with a cry of pain, the salt from the shotgun shell burying itself in his torso like chips of glass. Sherlock stared in shock, rooted to the spot as he watched John advance on Dean, the man's eyes back to their usual color though still narrowed coolly. John's shotgun was cast carelessly aside as Sam groaned and stirred, pulling himself together.

"You should be more careful with your little brother," Abaddon said with John's mouth, jerking his head towards Sam, and it hurt Sherlock to hear John's voice tipped with such sharply barbed malice. "You left him alone for too long while you were down in Hell with your friend Alistair. It's too late—he can't be saved now. Either the angels will smite him or he'll become the monster you've always known he is. Your days in Hell were wasted, Dean—you'll have to live without your brother whether you like it or not."

Sherlock didn't understand what any of this meant; the context was unknown to him. The effect of these words on Dean, however, was monumental. Combined with the aura of pure fear that the demon seemed to emanate, they froze Dean where he was, his eyes wide and his throat convulsing. He seemed to be swallowing back a scream or a sob or perhaps a yell of pain. The shotgun in his hands slowly, unconsciously, lowered.

"Not that it matters. Sam doesn't need you anymore. In all honesty, I don't think he ever did." Abaddon was examining John's fingernails as though he had not a care in the world—in retrospect, he probably didn't. "And I think we all know Lucifer will rise," he continued tauntingly. "You'll get to watch the world burn and die, alone in the front seat."

Castiel, apparently having recovered himself, moved rapidly towards the demon, his hand outstretched. Before he could get within three feet of it, however, Abbaddon turned, eyes white again. "God sees your doubt, Castiel. He's very angry with you," said the demon, John's voice resounding powerfully. Castiel halted abruptly, even taking a half-step back. The demon laughed humorlessly. "You have no faith. You know what that means, don't you? You're doomed to fall, to die a human death. It's inevitable."

Faith. Sherlock's brain was trying to tell him something, but these damn hormones were blocking everything out. Faith, faith is important. Why is faith important?

Castiel shrank away from the demon, wide-eyed. Unexpectedly, He turned and promptly vanished, leaving behind nothing but the brief sound of flapping wings as he fled. Dean's attention turned to the place where the angel had been, true panic shining through his bright eyes as he realized his friend had run off.

Somewhere in Sherlock's scrambled mind, he knew he should try to do something, but what could he do? Salt-filled shells or not, Sherlock refused to shoot John. And he didn't know the incantation that could exorcise the demon. Sam, he thought, his attention turning to the tall hunter. Sam knows it. He dropped the gun and darted behind John, dropping down next to the injured Winchester. Blood was soaked across Sam's torso, but the cuts seemed to be shallow, as he was already trying to push himself upright.

"See that, Dean? Your angel's gone," Abbaddon was saying in John's voice, but Sherlock wasn't even sure if Dean had heard. He'd gotten Sam into a sitting position, but Sam seemed to be too distracted by the prospect of his brother's fate to consider exorcising the demon. "All the angels are—or at least, they will be. And when they are, there's going to be nothing stopping us from dragging you back into Hell."

Sherlock thought he must've been hallucinating, but he could've sworn he heard the snarl of an angry dog. Footsteps padded closer, breath huffing out of unseen nostrils. He, apparently, wasn't the only one who heard it: Dean turned sharply towards the sound, searching for its source. His movements became wild and desperate as he turned, scrambling to his feet and trying to make a break for the door. Halfway there, he tripped and fell as though something heavy had landed on his back and Sherlock heard a corresponding growl as the invisible dog took him down. The detective was astonished to see real gashes appearing in Dean's skin. The dog—if it was, indeed, a dog—was using him as a scratching post. His screams filled the air as he struggled with the beast, but louder still was Sam, yelling his brother's name from where he sat at Sherlock's side.

Abaddon regarded Dean's torment, John's face set in a bored expression. Suddenly, Sam rolled to his feet, something glinting in his hand. Sherlock recognized it from the information Castiel had given him as a knife that could kill demons—but would also kill the person they were possessing. "No!" he shouted, as Sam lunged. Sherlock didn't care about the demon, didn't care about the seal or about Lilith, because they didn't matter—they meant nothing to him next to John's life.

He needn't have worried. Abaddon whirled, flinging out John's arm, and Sam was launched, as though by an invisible catapult, halfway across the room where he hit the wall with an angry crack. Then, as though he'd been rudely interrupted, Abaddon turned back towards Sherlock with a pleasantly surprised smile which quickly turned into a nasty grin. "The man of honor. Sherlock Holmes," said John's voice, striding slowly and deliberately towards Sherlock. "You're the one I need." Abaddon gave John's wrist a casual flick, and Sherlock felt as though he was jerked around the navel and thrown ten feet before being slammed against a concrete support beam. His breath was knocked out of him on impact, a bruising pain lancing through his bones. "I suppose I should thank you for saving my life just then." John's voice was low with barely suppressed excitement as, suddenly, he was right in front of Sherlock, hoisting him up by the front of his coat and holding him pinned against the support beam.

Something in Sherlock's head clicked into place. "I'm your next victim," he inferred aloud, breathless as his body recovered from playing chicken with concrete. "The way I treat people, that's close enough to cruelty for you. 'Abaddon will be freed from his prison to strike fear into the hearts of the cruel.' My death will break the seal, yes? Or at least bring you closer to doing so?"

Abaddon's smile, if possible, widened. "Bingo! I love when humans are logical. It makes it so much more of a challenge," he said with vindictive delight. He lifted one of John's hands from Sherlock's coat and made a twisting motion. On cue, Sherlock cried out; he felt as though his insides were being clenched in some giant's fist and scrambled in their space. "What are you afraid of, Sherlock Holmes, Time Lord of Gallifrey? What scares you so badly to your inner core that you die of fright?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was staring his fear in the face, and Abaddon knew it.

The demon began to chuckle. "He's screaming at me, you know. Little Johnny's throwing himself against me like a dog trying to escape its cage. But he's going to watch you die at his own hands." Abaddon clenched John's fist and Sherlock could've sworn he felt something tear. Something gurgled up in his throat and he coughed up blood. And all the while his hearts pounded away, ever faster, ever more frantic. "See, this way, you both win. You lose faith and get scared to death watching your friend kill you. Your friend goes mad with grief because he killed you. It's the circle of life—or, something."

Faith. The word hit him again out of nowhere and he realized what it had been trying to tell him. Faith was the opposite of fear, the best thing to cancel it out. Faith in the right thing could conquer fear altogether, even if it had no grounds. That was one of the marvels of humanity.

So what did he have faith in? Not any sort of god, certainly. Science, facts, results, data, said the voice in his head, almost automatically. But even that had been thrown into doubt now, especially with the freshly-revealed existence of beings such as the one currently disabling most of his major organs. He needed something more than that, something he believed could save him. It was his only hope.

But how on earth could he even concentrate on something like that when his best friend was literally killing him?

"John," he pleaded between feeble coughing. The word slipped from his mouth before he realized it, and suddenly he had his answer. "John, please."

This only elicited another bark of cold laughter from the demon, but Sherlock noticed that his eyes flicked white again. "He can't hear you," growled John's voice.

"John…" It must've been the fear, the sheer panic that made tears stream down his face. It was definitely the fear that was making his hearts beat at triple their normal rate, and still counting. If he had more sense of being, he could come up with a plan, but in this half-crazed state, with blood trickling past his lips and his breath coming sharp and fast, he barely had enough lucidity to speak. "John…" He coughed again, but he kept his eyes fixed on John's. "…Stop…"

Something changed. John's eyes flicked back to normal, but they were no longer narrowed viciously. His brows contracted in a tortured expression before his head dropped, his grip slackening. Suddenly he was breathing hard, though whether through sorrow or strain Sherlock didn't know.

Sherlock read this as something hopeful. "John?" he said.

"Sherlock," he gasped, lifting his gaze again. It was both sorrow and strain, Sherlock saw. "God, Sherlock, I'm sorry—I couldn't—Oh, God…"

Relief made Sherlock's shoulders sag. It was John, John was back and he was okay, and everything was going to be fine. And Abaddon—Sherlock couldn't imagine what it must be like to be possessed, but he didn't think it would be easy to overthrow the control of such a powerful demon. Yet John had done it for him, John had stolen back the wheel and taken charge again, all because he couldn't bear to let Abaddon continue any longer. "It's alright," said Sherlock quickly, trying to ignore the agony of internal bleeding. "John, it's alright, it's not your fault." A smile bled through his otherwise damaged expression.

John. John had been his faith, the thing he believed in above all else to conquer his fear, and John didn't let him down. Perhaps it was the hormones addling his brain, but he was deeply touched.

John's grip suddenly tightened on Sherlock's coat, his face contorting in pain. He appeared to be struggling to control something, but without much success. "I can't keep him back," he cried, his voice cracking. "You have to do something. Please!"

What could he do? He cast his gaze about for inspiration, but none came. His shotgun wasn't too far away, but what good would that do other than hold off the demon for a few minutes? Anyway, he didn't want to shoot his friend, whether it was fatal or not. "I'm sorry, I don't—" stammered Sherlock, cursing how slowly his brain was functioning.

"I can't hold him," John shouted. "Not much longer—Sherlock—" He looked like he was about to say more, but before any words could make it past his lips, he started coughing. Sherlock might've dismissed it as something caught in his throat except that the coughing continued, rapidly growing more and more debilitating. John's shoulders hunched, his head bowed, struggling to breathe as he apparently began to choke. Through the haze of the throbbing ache in Sherlock's head, he saw black smoke puffing out of John's mouth. It poured out of him, tumbling down the front of his chest and gathering in a thick black pool at his feet.

Sherlock looked up to see Sam standing several feet away with his arm raised, extended fingertips trembling in obvious strain. A trickle of blood was running from his nose and a muscle in his jaw was jumping involuntarily.

The black smoke vanished, melting into the ground with a flash of orange light. John, now apparently vacant of the demon, swayed and collapsed; Sherlock caught him and, trembling, lowered him to the ground. He was alive—that much was evidenced by his heaving chest and fluttering eyelids. He needed rest, and possibly medical attention, as far as Sherlock could tell. He wouldn't know for certain unless he got a closer look.

There was a certain stillness that settled over the scene now that Abaddon was gone. The constant thrum of terror that made their skin sweat and their muscles jump had vanished. Their breathing returned to normal. Dean had stopped yelling and was lying on the ground, panting as he checked himself over. Sherlock blinked in surprise; the gashes he thought he'd seen earlier had disappeared, leaving behind skin as unblemished as it ever was. The invisible dog must've been a fabrication. Sam, looking a little weak in the knees, stumbled over to his brother.

Sherlock, meanwhile, struggled to lift John up into a sitting position and moved him so that he was leaning against the support beam. "I'm sorry," John was muttering between breaths, "Sherlock, I'm sorry…"

The detective hushed him softly. He was aching from head to foot and could still feel blood oozing up his throat, but his injuries were repairing themselves already. With a few days' rest, they'd both be fine. "Don't be," he said. His voice was raspy, but soothing. "It's alright, I know it wasn't you." He glanced up to make sure the Winchesters were busy with each other before leaning in closer and murmuring, "You were very brave, John. You stopped him." John didn't smile, but his eyes shone in pride and gratitude. Sherlock pulled his friend into a tight embrace, his throat unexpectedly constricted with emotion. "Thank you."

-x-

Dean considered the flask he was holding for a moment before slowly unscrewing the cap and promptly dumping its contents on the man strapped to a chair before him. The holy water splashed down onto its target, who screamed, his skin steaming at its contact.

"I'm not gonna ask you again," said Sam dangerously, waving Ruby's demon-slaying knife in front of the man's black eyes. "Where's Lilith?"

It had been four hours since they'd faced Abaddon. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had left shortly after, the Time Lord supporting his companion despite the injuries he himself had sustained. His resilience was admirable, and Dean didn't overlook the surprisingly tender way with which he spoke to his friend. Cas had showed up moments later, apologizing profusely for his cowardice. Dean and Sam had patched themselves up as best as they could—Sam had gotten the worst of it, in the end. Dean had thought he was being mauled by a hellhound, but as soon as Abaddon was exorcised, the thing vanished, as well as the lashes it had caused. Sam, meanwhile, had bits of salt shells stuck in his chest that Dean had to pry out one by one.

Dean wasn't happy with Sam for using his psychic mojo, but he didn't know what else they would've done. As hard as it was to admit, it was a smart move to possess one of their own, and Dean didn't know why he hadn't considered it sooner. He could've at least had Sam draw an anti-possession symbol on their hands or something.

He and Sam had run into a low-grade demon who'd wandered into the city, following after Abaddon. It hadn't been a match for them, even with Sam still recovering, and they'd managed to confine it to a devil's trap, where it had since spent most of its time cursing at them.

The demon cackled. "You're barking up the wrong tree," it hissed through clenched teeth as the holy water continued to sizzle its flesh. "She's a long way away from here. She just sent me to investigate."

"Investigate?" repeated Sam.

"The seal, dumbass," said the demon. He glanced at both of them as though making sure he had their full attention before adding with obvious relish, "She didn't break it."

"What do you mean, 'she didn't break it'?" Dean growled.

The demon sneered. "She didn't give any orders to release Abaddon. It wasn't her."

"Then who was it?" snapped Sam. When the demon only laughed again, the Winchester drew a long line down its arm with Ruby's knife, causing it to scream. "I said, who was it?" yelled Sam, more forcefully.

The demon, panting now, looked back and forth between them with beady eyes. Finally, it spoke a single word: "Moriarty."