Sam sighed to himself as he glanced over the forged FBI badge he was holding whilst waiting by the Impala in a motel parking lot. He reprimanded himself for letting Dean handle the IDs again and prayed that their latest interviewee wouldn't be a Star Trek fan. Then again, surely an Agent Kirk McCoy would arouse suspicion with anyone, even if it was in the realm of physical possibility for once.

Dean came out of the motel room all suited up and with his usual shit-eating grin plastered onto his face.

"What do you think Sammy?" he smirked, "Pretty good work even if I do say so myself."

"Yeah sure, and what's your name? Scotty Spock?" Sam forced out as much sarcasm as he could physically manage, but as usual, it had no effect.

"Nope! Meet Special Agent James Khan!" Dean replied gleefully.

Sam resisted the urge to shoot him.

"So what are we dealing with here?" he changed the subject before Dean started a never-ending tirade of one-liners.

"Nothin' special, just some run-of-the-mill spirit with a grudge stuff," Dean shrugged and climbed into the car. Sam stifled a groan. Whenever Dean thought a job would be simple usually the end result was that one of them ended up nearly dead. Or actually dead.

They pulled up outside of a decent sized house. It had a front porch which looked freshly painted and a perfectly maintained garden. Most of the front was hidden by low-hanging trees that gave it a 'Secret Garden' kind of feel.

"Okay, so this is where most of the reports say signs are happening," Sam frowned in concentration at a news clipping he had picked up on the way. After an argument with Dean about the importance of actually researching what they might be up against rather than walking in blind.

"Yeah I could have told you that without you having to go all Sherlock on me," Dean retorted.

Sam ignored him.

"But get this, none of the reports come from anyone living in the house," Sam's frown deepened, "but all the neighbours say that the house is inhabited. I wonder what that's about?"

"Well why don't we go ask them?"

And with that Dean wrenched open his car door and slid out before Sam could even begin to protest.

"God damn it."

They made their way down the windy front path paved with cobblestone. There was a small willow tree by a fish pond as well as a number of apple trees blocking the view of the house from the road. As they jogged up the steps of the porch Sam thought he saw something move out of the corner of his eye but when he looked there was nothing but a rose bush filled with deep red blooms.

Dean knocked loudly on the front door which was painted a dark shade of blue. There was a pause before the sound of footsteps could be heard inside the house. Then a lock clicked and the door opened to reveal a girl of about 19 with long brown curls looking at them expectantly.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am," Dean smiled confidently, "we're Agents McCoy and Khan of the FBI, we'd just like to ask you a few questions about some reports we've had from around the area."

They both flashed their badges at the appropriate moment. The girl paused slightly before opening the door fully.

"Sure, come on in."

"We won't take up too much of your time ma'am," Sam added politely, earning a reproachful but amused look off Dean.

"Oh please don't call me ma'am, my name's Heather, would you like some tea? Coffee maybe?" she offered with a smile.

They both declined and she gestured them towards a brown leather couch in the centre of the room. The bottom floor of the house was open-plan so they could see the kitchen in front of them and the dining room to their right. The stairs were opposite the front door and they could still see the bottom step from where the couch was.

Dean started the regular questions but Sam was uneasy. Something didn't feel quite right. Without meaning to, he interrupted Dean out of sudden curiosity.

"Do you live here alone Heather?" he asked, as Dean glared at him.

"Err," she hesitated, "yeah, I do, is that okay?"

"It's an awfully big place for someone as young as you," Sam was fuelled by that hesitation and the incessant gnawing of his gut telling him something was wrong.

"Yeah, my parents had a lot of money-how is this relevant?" she directed the question at Dean accusingly.

"It's not," Dean laughed nervously, "excuse my partner, he's been having some issues lately, I think that's all for now, we'd best be off."

Dean motioned at Sam to leave with a refrained annoyance. Once they were out of earshot of the house he rounded on him.

"What was that?!" Dean demanded.

"The girl is hiding something Dean! She hesitated when I asked if she lived alone!"

"She probably was just taken aback by how damn crazy you sounded!"

"What you believe the whole 'rich parents' story?"

"You don't?!" Dean was looking at him like he'd lost his mind.

"And what about the 'had'? 'My parents had a lot of money'?"

"People die Sam, I thought you would have realised that by now!"

"Look, something in me says that this isn't what it seems to be." Sam's voice turned almost pleading as he willed his brother to believe him.

"Jesus Christ," Dean muttered as he turned away towards the car, "Okay we'll check it out, but if you're wrong! We walk away, that's the end of it."

He nodded soberly. Dean shook his head in exasperation and pulled open the car door. Sam followed suit.

The next morning Sam woke Dean up with a cup of coffee from the machine outside their motel door.

"Holy shit," was the first thing he said as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes, "Did you even get any sleep at all last night."

"I was up working," Sam offered as a 'no'. Once Dean was sat up he presented him with a pile of papers. "So the house isn't registered under anyone with the name Heather. Its last owners were a couple called Mr and Mrs Tennant."

"What happened to the Tennants?" Dean asked, taking a sip of his coffee and pretending to read the information Sam had given him.

"They died," Sam informed him gravely.

"Well that's not so rare, old couple, lived and died together, kind of sweet really."

"They were in their thirties," Sam stated half irritable and half excited that he was right.

"Huh, so Heather's story was right, her parents must have left her the house."

Sam fought the urge to punch him by being smug about the rest of his research.

"Except they didn't have a daughter, nor did they have any female relatives named Heather or even of the same age."

"So, she bought the house?" Dean began to frown in puzzlement and Sam let through a small smile now he knew Dean was hooked.

"No, the Tennants died and no one bought the house, or reclaimed it, or anything. It's like it just fell off the records. I can't find mention of any Heather anywhere, and of course she didn't tell us her last name so…"

"Okay, that is weird," Dean admitted begrudgingly.

"Yeah, only problem is that we know she's weird, we just don't know why," Sam stared at the papers he took back off Dean in frustration, as though the answer would magically appear on them.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

The two brothers looked at each other in confusion before both of them reached for their guns. Sam took his out of his waistband and held it by his leg so it would be out of sight when he opened the door. Dean held his hand still under the pillow where Sam knew he had his finger firmly on the trigger of his favourite colt.

Sam moved slowly towards the door and Dean kept his eyes fixed on it. He looked through the spyglass and saw two men. One was tall, with dark hair and an expression of impatience and the other shorter, with sandy hair, who looked like he couldn't wait to leave.

Sam looked at Dean and shrugged before turning the lock. The door opened and the first man strode in as though he had every right to be there. As he took the first step over the line of salt and walked straight through the devil's trap painted beneath the rug, Sam and Dean exchanged glances. At least they're not demons.

"You must be Sam and Dean Winchester," the tall man stated in a strong English accent, "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am here to assist you on the matter of your little friend 'Heather'".

He put sarcastic emphasis on the word Heather and the shorter man, who had made his way rather more hesitantly into the room, looked like he was about to apologise; a situation with which Sam was not entirely unfamiliar. But before that could happen Dean cut him off.

"Sorry, did you just say your name was Sherlock Holmes?" If Dean had looked at Sam like he was crazy the day before, he looked like he was legitimately considering calling a mental hospital now.

"Yes. I did. Dear Lord, they told me Americans were slow but this is ridiculous!" The man continued before Dean could lunge at him, "I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and this is my associate Dr John Watson."

Sam thought he should say something but all he could do was gawp at the pair.

"Listen, buddy, either you are really trying to mess with me, or you've lost your damn mind." Dean explained slowly and irritably.

"I don't understand…" the short man started.

"You expect us to believe that you are the Sherlock Holmes? The deer-stalker wearing detective - "

"That was not my hat," the man responded, whilst his friend looked like he was stifling laughter. Dean continued like he hadn't said anything.

"-from Victorian London, who just so happens to be the fictional creation of…" he trailed off.

"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle," Sam offered.

"What he said."

"Excuse me, but I have no idea of what you are referring to." The man replied stiffly, as though they had insulted him somehow, "I do not bother with fictional works unless they are of great importance to my work, which is certainly not fictional!"

"I'm sorry, he gets a bit like this sometimes," his friend finally spoke apologetically.

"So you don't believe that he's Sherlock Holmes and you're John Watson then?" Sam sighed with relief.

"I don't- I don't quite understand. My name is certainly John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. I honestly don't have the faintest idea of these characters you're talking about," the mans furrowed brow spoke of as much confusion as Sam felt.

"Wait a second… I've seen you two somewhere before…" Dean's tone was of slow realisation. He stood up and rummaged through some magazines on the table before finding the one he wanted and flicking through till he found a certain page.

"There!" he pointed to the image in the magazine which showed the two men currently standing in their motel room under the heading 'New BBC Adaptation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Classic' along with a big logo simply reading 'SHERLOCK'.

The man claiming to be Sherlock grabbed the magazine out of Dean's hands and scrutinized it with such intensity that Sam half expected it to spontaneously combust.

"This is impossible," the man muttered. His friend went to join him and look equally as confused but more than a little bit terrified to boot.

"Well it's not is it?" Dean snapped, snatching the magazine back, "says here your name is Martin Freeman and yours is Benedict Coombarbutch… No that's not right, Benedict Carbasnatch, no that's even worse. Carmbledash? Crumblehatch?"

"Okay enough!"

The tall man started pacing furiously with his hands clasped. His friend began explaining that this might last a while when there was a faint 'whooshing' sound.

"Hello Dean."

As usual, Dean jumped out of his skin at Cas's sudden appearance behind him.

"Dammit Cas! Would it kill you to knock?!"

"We have a problem."

"Tell me about it, this nutjob thinks he's Sherlock freaking Holmes!"

"He is," Cas responded calmly.

"Sorry, he's what now?" Sam echoed Dean's look of utter disbelief with his own question.

"This man is Sherlock Holmes, or at least, an adaptation of him, and that is John Watson" Cas looked as though he was more focused on what was on the table, even though both Winchester's knew he didn't give a crap about motel junk mail.

"How is that possible?" Sam looked behind him nervously to be greeted with the sight of John consoling a muttering Sherlock Holmes, who was pointing at Castiel and gabbling something about being impossible and illogical.

"That's the worst part," Cas looked up and his expression filled Sam with a sense of dread.

The moonlight reflected off the pond was fractured both by the waves and the long tendrils of the willow tree. The result was an eerie air to the garden with shadows moving and swaying, making the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stand on end. They had a plan, but it didn't exactly fill him with hope.

Sherlock and John followed behind and Sam could see the faint outline of Dean a few steps ahead and lightly to his left. They had offered both John and Sherlock guns as they were loading up but John had snatched down Sam's hand which was extended towards Sherlock telling him that if he wanted to live to not let the tall detective anywhere near a firearm.

Dean was slightly hesitant about either of them being armed but once John convinced him of his army training and Sherlock was banned from anything except a pot of salt and a water gun filled with holy water, he relaxed.

They made their way up the porch steps silently and moved either side of the door. They looked at Sherlock and John expectantly, thinking that they would do the same. Instead, Sherlock looked at John and the latter nodded in response. Then he walked straight forward and kicked in the door with a loud crash.

Sam looked at Dean in alarm and, judging from his expression, was surprised he hadn't shot either one of them. They dived in after the famous duo and were greeted by Heather in the sitting room, looking as though she had expected them the whole time.

Then a wide grin appeared on her face.

"Holy shit! I can't believe it's you! I can't believe it actually worked!" She then ran up and hugged a terrified looking Sherlock.

Dean already had his gun trained onto her. Sam was hesitant before he remembered what Cas had told them and then his gun was also targeted at the girl's head.

"We know what you are bitch!" Dean yelled. Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes. Subtlety was not Dean's strong point.

"Put those down dumbass!" was all Heather replied and Sam felt his gun being wrenched from his hand by an invisible force. He looked over to Dean and saw the he was empty handed too.

Sherlock had paled at the obvious display of supernatural powers, Sam could almost see the cogs turning trying to find a logical explanation. After finding out that he was a fictional character, Sam wasn't sure how much more he could take before he snapped.

"Oooh! Say what I am! Say it out loud and make it sound all dark and serious!" Heather urged Dean like she was trying to get an actor to say their catchphrase.

"You're the damn Anti-Christ!" Dean spat out angrily.

"Oh that was even better than I'd hoped!" she giggled, "Now you, deduce something about me!"

"Why did you bring me here?" Sherlock asked in a quiet and forcibly collective manner.

"Because I wanted to meet you! I was going to bring Benedict but I thought it would be a bit mean to bring you both at the same time; you might have a heart attack! Or I might…"

Sam shook his head in disbelief.

"If you're the Anti-Christ then what are you doing mucking around with TV characters?"

"They're not JUST TV characters!" Heather rounded on him suddenly, "This is fucking Sherlock Holmes! And John Watson oh my God!"

With that she had gone again and was over at John giggling like an excited fan.

Dean moved over to Sam and gave him a look that said 'Do you have any idea what's going on because I sure as hell don't?!'

Sherlock came over as well now that Heather was busy fussing over John.

"Isn't it obvious? She watches the show that myself and John appear on and so she has taken it upon herself to use her limitless abilities to manifest us into your reality," even scared to shit Sherlock managed to sound pompous in his analysis.

"Yeah thanks for that Captain Obvious, we'd figured that much out," Dean snapped, Sherlock looked as though he'd been slapped in the face.

"The question is," Sam quickly intervened before they started comparing sizes, "why? Why would the Anti-Christ be watching TV and bringing characters to life? Surely she should be off causing apocalyptic damage or something."

"I think I can help with that," came a whisper from between Sherlock and Dean. Heather had crept up on them and was now grinning at them gleefully.

They all started and stepped back hastily.

"It's simple really," she continued, "the demons came and told me that I was one of them and had to help with the apocalypse or some shit. I told them to shove it up their ass."

She smiled at them, looking smug.

"Shouldn't they have come for you when you were a baby?" Sam was the first to speak.

"They couldn't find me. Mom used to say that an angel came and hid us away." Heather looked sad for the first time that night.

"Yeah where are mommy and daddy? Did they forget to record your favourite show and get obliterated?" Dean butted in sarcastically.

About half a second later Dean was pinned to the wall by nothing visible and Heather was screaming at him.

"I WOULD NEVER HURT THEM. I DIDN'T DO IT. THEY TRIED TO TELL ME IT WAS MY FAULT BUT I WOULD NEVER EVER HURT THEM!"

Tears were streaming down her face and Sam felt a pang of sympathy towards her. He moved gently and slowly with his hands held up so that he was closer to her and in her line of sight.

"I believe you Heather," he said sincerely, and was shocked to find that he actually did, "Why don't you tell us what happened?"

She looked at him for a moment and then Dean dropped to the floor. He gasped slightly, apparently winded. Sam figured that was for the best since now he couldn't talk enough to put his foot in his mouth again.

Once he had Heather sat on the couch and calmed down, Sherlock and John appeared to relax too. Sherlock sat in an armchair opposite the couch which apparently pleased Heather enough to raise a smile, especially once he put his fingers together in an apparently thoughtful way. John joined Sam in talking to Heather and Dean stood sulking by the window.

"Tell us about your parents Heather," John prompted gently, and then held up a finger to Sherlock, who looked about ready to interrupt with some new observation. He looked as though he might continue anyway but then glanced at Dean, who was rubbing his neck still, and though better of it.

"Well obviously my dad wasn't my real dad, but he and mom were together when it happened. I guess you could say he was my Anti-Joseph," she huffed slightly in amusement at her own observation, "Only he was more like the real Joseph. Mom and him never kept from me what I was. They said the angel told them it was a bad idea, and that I'd be better off with the truth. Then, about a year ago, I woke up to get a drink and when I walked into the sitting room there they were. There was- there was so much blood… and I- I dropped my glass. I tried to bring them back I did, but it just wouldn't work. I can bring Sherlock Holmes out of a TV show but I couldn't bring back my own parents!"

Heather was crying earnestly now. Sam and John looked at each other, uncertain of what to do. But she wasn't finished.

"Then they came. The demons. I knew who they were the second they arrived. Mom had taught me how to see them, so that I would never go with one thinking they were human. They told me that- that I had killed them," she could barely talk through the sobs, "They said… that I had had a bad- a bad dream and that I had lashed out and- and-…"

Heather couldn't finish the sentence. Sam was at a loss. It was an awful story, one he could relate to too much for his liking. He was about to say something to that effect when there was that familiar 'whoosh' sound again and Cas was standing in the room.

Worried that he was going to hurt her, Sam stood between him and Heather, but Cas just calmly stepped around him and knelt by her.

"Hello Heather," for Cas he was almost gentle, "My name is Castiel."

She gasped ever so slightly.

"It's you," she whispered, barely audible.

"Yes, I am the angel who spoke with your mother when you were born. When I heard about what had been happening around this town I feared that my attempts to save you were wasted, which is why I told Sam and Dean about what you are. I see now that I was mistaken."

Heather barely seemed to be listening. A tear was rolling down her cheek, but it seemed to be from happiness and awe. She was staring at Cas like he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

"Why did you save me?" he voice was still a mere whisper.

"I was wrong about one of your kind before. I had to try."

"It didn't work though, I still killed- I'm still a monster," her voice caught in her throat.

"No, Heather," Cas stroked her hair, "You did no such thing. The demons are the ones who killed your parents, in hopes that they could convince you to join their ranks."

Heather could do nothing but sob.

"Heather?" Sam ventured, not knowing when the right time to bring this up would be, "I think maybe you should send Sherlock and John back soon. They don't belong here."

Heather looked up, suddenly scared.

"No! I can't! They can look after me!" she looked at Sherlock, panic-stricken, "You know what it's like to be alone, to be different! Don't leave me alone again!"

Sherlock looked at her with something that Sam could have sworn was empathy. John looked almost concerned at his friend feeling such a thing. Sherlock stood slowly out of his chair and then knelt down next to Heather, smoothly switching places with Cas.

"Heather," he looked unsure of himself, out of his depth when dealing with emotions, "Being different is difficult, but it is not a bad thing. Look at what you can do! Think of the possibilities! Myself and Moriarty were born with the same gifts but we chose different ways to use them. These people say that you are the 'Anti-Christ' whatever that means, but no one can choose what you are but yourself."

Sherlock finished slightly awkwardly but Heather seemed happy nonetheless. She threw her arms around Sherlock's neck and he returned the hug slightly stiffly. Once she finally let go, she stood up off the couch and faced John.

"I'm sorry," was all she said.

"Don't worry about it, I needed to get him out of the house anyway," John replied casually.

Heather laughed slightly at that. Then she hugged John too.

"He might be a prat most of the time but he has a point," John whispered in her ear, "I believe in you."

Heather let go and grinned at them both. Then she closed her eyes and by the time she opened them, they had both vanished. She let out a few tears before turning to the remaining people in her sitting room.

"Thank you," she said to Sam, hugging him tightly.

"I'm sorry," she shuffled awkwardly in front of Dean, before pulling him into an unwilling hug as well.

"You have no idea how much you have changed my life," she said as she finally turned to Cas, "I owe you so much."

"I only gave you some help," he replied in his stoic way, "Any good you do is your own. That's what we're all about; free will. And free will goes all the way, not just choices but consequences, for both good and bad. And you've done a lot of good."

"Am I ever going to see you again?" Heather asked.

Cas smiled slightly.

"Who knows?" he said simply.

Heather smiled, closed her eyes, and in a blink they were all back in the motel room.

"How did she know-?" Dean started but then just made a gesture that meant he didn't want to know.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" Sam asked to no one in particular.

"Yes," Cas replied simply, "I think she'll be wonderful."