I wrote this at 2 AM as a part of a fic challenge with my friend, so I'm sorry if it isn't any good.
"Alright, boys, let's hit the road." Dean pulled the keys to the Impala out of his pocket. He strode confidently out of the diner, Sherlock and the Doctor not far behind. Before they got in the car, Dean picked up a copy of the New York Times from a bin outside the door. He would need something to occupy himself when Sherlock was in his "mind palace." Music wasn't an option. Holmes needed "absolute silence." Not to mention he hated AC/DC.
He planned on saving the paper for later, but the headline caught his eye. SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS. The large color picture was gruesome, but nothing worse than Dean saw on a daily basis. A man lay in a pool of blood, his eyes hollow and dead. His dark curls were soaked.
He skimmed the article, not caring that Sherlock and the Doctor were waiting impatiently beside the car. The farther he read, the angrier he got. Before long, he snapped, charging Sherlock.
Not caring about any potential harm to his baby, he slammed the detective against the car. "Didn't even bother to change your name, huh, Holmes? You think a little dye job was going to stop me from finding you out?"
Sherlock ran a hand through his brassy curls. "I didn't think I was important enough to make the news. Not over here, at least."
"You really didn't think this through, did you? Some genius you are."
"The article said 'fake' for a reason," Sherlock nearly spat, as if the word was painful to him. "I know what I did, and I regret it. I regret it more than anything."
Seeing the pained look on Sherlock's face, Dean's grip slackened. "What about this John guy. From the way this article talks, you two were like family. That Hudson woman, too. Bailing on them like that just doesn't fly with me."
"Dean, you wouldn't understand," said the Doctor, making the mistake of placing a patronizing hand on the hunter's shoulder. "There's more to it than you know."
He shrugged it off, turning to the Doctor but still not releasing Sherlock's coat. "You know what? I may not be a friggin' genius and I may not have 900 years of time and space behind me, but if there's one thing I know, it's family. Whether they're blood or not, you don't leave them behind."
"It's not like you never left Sam behind, Dean," Sherlock said quietly.
"The hell did you just say, Brain Boy?"
"Your brother, Dean. You left him behind when you sold your soul to that demon."
Dean resisted the urge to strangle the Doctor with his silly little bow tie. "That was different," he growled. "And how did you know about that, anyway?"
Looking the hunter dead in the eyes, Sherlock stated, "Things like that leave marks. Angels. Specifically, the handprint on your shoulder," Sherlock deduced.
"How did you..."
"The sleeve of your shirt is slightly raised, the shape indicates a handprint. The only thing that makes that shape is literally divine intervention. You've been to hell and back, quite literally. You were rescued, raised from perdition, i would say, and," he paused, "Oh, seems you fancied him, I saw the way your pupils dilated. I'd hazard a guess your pulse is up, too. Although I've been told empathy isn't my strong point, i understand, but it doesn't change that you left your brother behind."
"Yeah, I know what I did. But that was to save his life! that yellow-eyed demon had just iced him, and I didn't have anther choice."
They stood silently for a moment, nobody wanting to set off the infamous Winchester time bomb, but with everyone having something to say.
Dean finally broke the silence. "You know what," he said, rubbing his shoulder, "I've had enough of this feelings bullshit. Get in the car."
Still with so much more to say, Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor slid into the backseat. They didn't dare take shotgun. That was reserved for Sam, for when they found him.