"Dean. Dean, come here, look at this."

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean leant over the table, beer in one hand, eying the computer screen with interest. "You got another lead on that possible werewolf attack?"

"No—Well, I was looking for one. I made a Facebook account—"

"Facebook?"

"Yeah, you know, for keeping in touch with old friends."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

"I hope you didn't create it under you own name," said Castiel, from across the room where he was currently wrestling with a can of soda. Lacking his angelic powers, he was finding even the smallest of physical tasks a strain. "Remember, the only reason you aren't wanted for murder and armed robbery is because your authorities assume you are dead."

Sam gave him a look. "Anyway. I thought it might be useful to check up on what the vic was doing the night of the attack – you can't do that without making one of these – and look." He pointed to the corner of the screen.

"Suggested friends: Adam Milligan?" Dean read aloud. He and Sam looked to each other. Sam gave an apologetic shrug. "So what?" said Dean, waving a hand and turning to leave. "He must've signed up for the website before any of this happened. We should probably just ignore it. You know, it might not even be him."

He felt guilty. Sam knew. He felt the same; Sam had been the one who dragged him down to the Pit, but Dean had been the reason he was there in the first place.

"We can't ignore this, Dean."

"Oh yeah? And why not, huh?"

"Because his account is still active." Sam clicked on the name, and up popped a profile. There he was, their other brother, smiling out at them from the screen. But beneath the picture, he'd been posting. "Help me, please. If anyone is reading this, I need your help," Sam read, clenching his jaw.

"Let me see that." Dean was by his side again, peering at the screen. "What kind off asshat writes something like that, anyway?" he snarled.

"What?"

"It's obviously not him, Sammy. It can't be him. Sam – he's dead."

"Since when does dead mean dead for us?" said Sam. "We have another chance to save him, Dean!"

"No, this is some joker messing around. Get off of the internet anyway, why don't you? We have work to do. Look at what they've written below: Not loving Michael right now. Shame I was stuck with him instead of Lucifer. Now there's one sexy—OK, well, you can read it for yourself."

"Yeah, but look at where it's posted from." Sam pointed his finger at the screen, to where it read, in tiny grey letters, 3 days ago near Lucifer's Cage. "Dean."

"Yeah, I know." Dean sighed, and grit his teeth. "Guess we got work to do."

/

Down below, Adam was more frustrated than anything else. He'd only ever imagined what Hell would be like, and he thought it would be more like hooks in the flesh, and fire. This was... different. But then, this wasn't really Hell; it was sort of like the Vatican City of Hell.

It was more of a dungeon than a cage, and sometimes he heard the screams of the tortured souls far beyond the walls, but they never came close. All he had here was himself – no day or night, no concept of time, and nothing to eat or drink. Oh, and Michael and Lucifer were there, too, and they were both pretty pissed at him.

They seemed to have reverted to their former vessels (or, at least, that was how he understood it, he thought, because in reality he was just a soul, and a soul didn't have a body and it couldn't use the internet, could it?)(And why was there wifi in Hell, come to think of it?). And they kept taking his phone from him.

"You do not need that," Michael had told him, in John Winchester's voice, taking it from him. "We failed in our mission, don't you understand? This is our punishment."

"No, no, lemme see that, lemme see." Lucifer had snatched it from him.

It hadn't been so bad when they'd just been toying with it, back and forth, back and forth. Adam had tried to get it back at first (it was like a diabolical game of piggy-in-the-middle), but he soon gave up. Pseudo-Hell, he decided, was torture in the form of exquisite frustration.

But then they'd figured out how to work it, and now he was watching the two angels wrestle each other over it, which would have been amusing if he wasn't going to be stuck with them for all of eternity.

"Lucifer, give it back—" (he was sitting on Michael's chest and pinning him down) "—it isn't yours."

"Yeah, yeah, in a second."

"What are you doing with it?" Michael's arms were flailing trying to get a hold of it. Lucifer held it beyond his reach.

"Sa-tan," he enunciated, typing with painful slowness, "rules."

"You know, this is the sort of thing that got you cast out of Heaven in the first place."

"Dear God." Adam buried his head in his hands, muttering. "Sam, Dean, anyone. If you're out there, I've seen Hell. And I want to go home."

This was a silly idea I had earlier; I might continue with it, I don't know.