“Lovely night, isn’t it?” As if that’ll work.

Sherlock gave an insincere grunt of agreement, lips consecrated and eyes emotionless. He’d been like this for Godknowshowlong. It was a perpetual struggle John sustained against the other’s quirks and moods, but as the two marched through the park (yes, a long shot, but Baker Street wasn’t particularly improving his emotional state either), the doctor couldn’t help but notice something different. This was new. More serious. Not boredom nor mere disappointment — over the last few days, Sherlock had encountered a terrible depression.

What could have brought this upon him? The man’s emotional bastion could withhold nearly anything, or so John thought. (Remembering a glimpse he’d been offered of a more human Sherlock, as eloquent as it was provoking — “Genius is nothing else than an infinite capacity for taking pains” he’d sighed, staring up at the ceiling, godlike, yet tangible.)

John gave a huff of exasperation. Beating around the bush didn’t work with the world’s only consulting detective, so he’d have to be more forward. His gait came to a sudden halt, letting the other take a few steps before calling after him. “Sherlock.” He waited as the other turned. “You’re not okay.”

“What makes you say that?” replied Sherlock, voice only barely masked in that of his former self’s.

Licking his lips, a habit of his only augmented when concentrating, he moved towards the other, city streetlights at his back. John smiled up at Sherlock. “I’m your doctor. And I’ll help you if it’s the last thing I do.”

This proclamation took its effect on the taller man’s features, his face now reflecting bits of hidden guilt. “But I don’t deserve you.”

In lieu of a spoken response, John’s hand traveled to find the other’s. “Let’s go home,” he spoke, with the most sympathy and genuine care Sherlock had ever been endowed.

John flipped mindlessly through his class notes. The words on his page, handwriting and ink all too familiar, words he’d understood only days ago, seemed to read in another language entirely. Was this the effect of a spell, or of his own disinterest? No, no trickery was involved, it appeared, as he began humming a tune to accompany the shuffle of crisp papers beneath his fingers.

It wasn’t long before the sound was joined by a light rapping of fingers against wood. He turned in his chair, startled, to face the figure leaning on the doorframe.

“Hello, John!” said the visitor, in an unusually excited tone.

“Hello… Sherlock. Why are you-“

“I knew you’d need my help with the project, of course,” informed Sherlock, still making no effort to hide his delight as he crossed the room to the other’s desk. “Ah, you know I love an experiment.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to be roaming the Gryffindor dorm?”

“Well, there’s one spot where my brother is actually of some use.”

“Exploiting another fault in the system, hm?” smiled the blond.

“Oh, merely enjoying,” the Ravenclaw grinned back mischievously. “Your experiment is…?”

John stammered a bit before grasping the abrupt change of subject, something he’d become accustomed to soon enough. “I, uh, I gathered a few toads and-“

“Peppermint, powdered moonstone, rose thorn, ashwinder eggs… Interesting! A bit unoriginal, but that’s alright, you’ll pass regardless. Let’s get started then, shall we?”

—-

After presenting the results of his experiment, John took his bow, then his seat among applauding peers.

“Brilliant stuff!” laughed the boy next to him. “Not sure when I’m gonna need a love potion for toads, but that was brilliant!”

John chuckled back a response. As the next student rose to display her final project, he couldn’t resist slipping a note across the desk behind him.

I’m glad no-one saw that.

What?

You, leaving my dorm at midnight with a half-used bottle of love potion. People might talk.

People do little else.

—-

[WHOOPS THIS GOT LONG SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT.]

[Aww, jeez, man, I wish I could do Adam/Michael, but I’m only on 5x02. I love Adam to death but I don’t even know Michael yet. ;3; I’ve been spoiled like crazy about Cas’ “death,” so here’s some reunion fic.]

The first night is cold.

Dean pulls up at a crappy motel, staring forward, refusing to acknowledge the sudden extra weight in the backseat. Cold blue eyes are drilling holes in the back of his head. Fourteen months have passed since that presence walked out, fourteen months through which he’s been empty and miserable. Well, as if he wasn’t resigned to that already.

He hears the bang! of the passenger seat door, then a more careful closing behind him. It takes a little longer for Dean to gather himself and follow the swishy trenchcoat inside. A few sleepless hours later, though, he’s crept out and reunited with his loving vehicle, still awake as ever in the backseat.

That familiar flutter. The one he thought he’d never hear again.

“What is it, Cas?”

“I need to apologize.”

“Then get inside already, it’s cold as hell.”

Castiel does as he’s told and closes the door behind him. After all the silence of the last few hours, the slightest whisper of moving fabric seemed deafening. Intrusive, almost, but the truth was Dean appreciated the other’s presence a bit more than he’d like to.

“So, I bet you’ve got some sorta long-ass rehearsed speech, huh?” Dean started. The other simply stared, with that same silent submission he knew. “I’ll let you get to it, but forgive me if I’m not convinced.”

A few moments passed like this: both staring, words hesitating on their departure from Castiel’s mouth, Dean urging the other on. Then, in a swift, panicked move, the angel’s lips struck the hunter’s.

They both pulled slowly away after the brief exchange. Eyes wide, Castiel offered a small “I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be,” smiled Dean, lunging for another kiss.

The first night is cold, but they bear it together.

A pained groan escaped Dean’s lips, mingling with snide remarks and endless refusals of help.

“Considering you’re receiving the finest medical attention in all of England, without being quizzed by doctors and policemen, I’d suggest you allow my friend to do his job, hm?”

“Yeah, maybe not while that thing is getting away!” It was of no use. Just like every other time he’d challenged Sherlock’s judgement, that arrogant prick had blocked out his sound before he could finish giving his opinion. Each was too cocky for his own good, and once the two were placed in a room together, it was war.

John was there, as always, to smooth things out. Between stitches on Dean’s leg, he tried to reassure the hunter. “Well, I wouldn’t call myself England’s finest. But you’re not going to accomplish anything by bleeding on it,” the doctor laughed.

The first smirk of the week formed on Dean’s features. “‘Tis only a flesh wound.”

They shared a small laugh at this. Then John took a look about, noting the angel’s puzzled expression and the detective’s failure to register the reference. When he returned his gaze to Dean, he was met with a nervous look.

“Jesus, you too?”

[whoops i didn’t really explain anything did i]

He’d wanted a very specific brand. Being in Germany, of course, the boy behind the register had more than a bit of digging to do in the storeroom. Ever since the incident, it had become a habit of Sherlock’s to envy the lives of everyone around him, and as the boy grumbled and closed the door behind him, Sherlock could only wish a picky customer was his biggest worry. He put down a few extra Euros for the trouble, cursing his own sentiment. He then headed to the park, where he’d made an appointment, and opened the pack.

The flood of fear and pain in his mind was too much to bear. Each hit he took put up another wooden board against the acid flood and shrouded him in his dismissal. But no matter how much smoke passed from the paper to his lungs, drops seeped through the boards and welled up under his feet. He regretted so much it could kill him, if the cigarettes didn’t first.

—

Wisps of smoke writhed in the cold Ingolstadt air. A healthy-looking young German was seated at a bench with a cigarette, staring past the banks of the Danube river. His blond hair caught specks of moonlight and his gorgeous hazel eyes showed no sign of misery.

But, as Molly Hooper knew so well, looks can be deceiving.

She took her place at the other end of the bench, almost worried she’d approached the wrong man. She risked a comment. “No patch this time?”

Sherlock took a slow drag from the cigarette, then met Molly’s gaze. Despite being the wrong color, his eyes retained some of that old character dead in London. “Here,” he sighed, fishing the remainder of the cigarette pack from his pocket, handing it to Molly before he could change his mind, then editing out the world around him once again.

I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG I GOT SO CARRIED AWAY THO.

—

It is a particularly cold night. Considering the lack of a sun in Purgatory, the temperature will always suck, but there’s a bite in the air more vicious than before. Dean and Castiel brave this cold at their base camp against a cliff, a lonely and dark setting save for the orangeish hues embedded in flame. They sit side by side, just close enough to feel the warmth off the other, always wary of being too close.

As usual, they spend the first half hour in total silence. While, in most cases, neither feels the need for much conversation, Castiel can see a question in Dean’s brow. There is a lump in his throat, an unvoiced fear that one would have to truly know Dean to notice.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?” The voice is shaky, yet determined to betray his emotion.

“Something’s troubling you.”

Dean is taken aback for a moment. A nervous laugh escapes his lips, curved into a pain-riddled smile. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Stopping to gauge his options, Castiel scans the other’s face. “What is it?” Castiel dares, eyes meeting Dean’s and begging some sort of truth.

“Wh- Dude. There are monsters circling us. Now? Not the time.”

“Dean-“

“Not talking about it.” His face is now turned, but his resolve is just penetrable enough.

Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder, aligning it just where he had in Hell years ago. “I… I might not be perfect, but I’d like it if you trusted me. Just for now.”

This causes Dean to turn, eyes locking with those of the angel, full of pain and unanswered questions. “I do trust you,” he breathes, and, before he can stop himself — “Cas, you’re all I’ve got here.”

Cas smiles at that, a small curve that holds more happiness than he’s felt in months. “You’re all I’ve had for a while.”

Dean knows the full meaning behind that, yet can only briefly consider the past before he his hand is on Castiel’s cheek. His thumb runs along the ashy brown hairs as he looks into the other’s mesmerizing blue eyes. Dean, for his part, could stay like this forever, but the anticipation in Cas’ eyes is killing him.

“Glad that’s settled,” he ventures.

And their lips meet.

Dean’s tongue slides slowly across Cas’ as the latter’s movements grow braver. By the second or third beat, they’ve got a working rhythm going. Dean’s hands slide and weave into the other’s hair, just as their lips and tongues and teeth dance with each other’s.

It’s so electrifying that they nearly forget to breathe, and when one gasps for air as subtly as possible, the other simply laughs under his breath and reels his angel back in.