Dean had high-tailed it to London faster than Sam had expected. Then was a knock downstairs and a woman's voice.
"Boys! There's a handsome American boy here to see you!"
Sherlock remained in the kitchen bustling about for his case, which left John and Sam to go downstairs.
Sam gave Dean a smile. Dean remained silent for a moment, then smiled and gave Sam a hug. "Hey, Sammy. You okay?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah. M'fine."
Dean looked at John. "Hey, uh, thanks for taking care of Sammy."
John gave him a polite smile.
"It was no problem. Seeing as it's late, would you like to stay at our flat for the night?"
Dean and Sam exchanged glances. "Um, we wouldn't want to cause you any trouble.." Sam started.
"Nonsense, it's fine, Isn't it Sherlock?" John raised his voice to reach the man upstairs. When there was no response, John rolled his eyes.
"Don't mind him. It's really not a problem."
"Thanks," Dean said.
They went back up to the flat to find Sherlock pinning pictures to the walls. John put his face in his hands. After a minute he raised his head. "Sherlock," he started, sounding exasperated. "What are you doing?"
Sherlock didn't even glance at him, just kept taping up pictures. "Solving a case, John," he said, returning to the kitchen.
John exhaled loudly. "Of course you are," he murmured.
He turned to Sam and Dean. "Make yourself comfortable."
They nodded.
Dean couldn't sleep, mostly because of the time difference.
He sighed.
He was sitting with his Satan-haunted brother in the guest bedroom of an apartment in London owned by two men, one of which was really weird.
There was a whimper. Dean frowned, then swallowed hard when realized it was coming from Sam.
"Sam?" he whispered.
Nothing. Dean settled back down. He kept cleaning his gun. Not much else to do.
Another whimpered pierced the air.
Dean looked down and kept cleaning.
Sam cried out and Dean's head snapped up.
"M'sorry...please...stop...please..," Sam whimpered.
Dean bit his lip and set the gun down.
"Please, stop! I'm sorry!"
Dean shook Sam. Sam thrashed for a second before his eyes flew up and he bolted upright, panting and shaking.
Dean sat in front of him. "Sammy, you okay?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, m'fine."
Dean stifled a snark comment. He noticed Sam had been crying.
"Sam, when you called me, you said something was wrong. What did you mean?"
Sam opened his mouth to answer, when he flinched and looked to the left.
Dean followed his gaze to see the empty corner of the room.
He looked back at Sam.
Sam's eyes grew huge and he dug his thumb into his cut, not stopping when it dripped blood, not stopping when blood poured onto the sheets.
Dean grabbed some tissues and pressed them to the cut.
Lucifer, who had been giving Sam a pouty face, vanished.
Sam breathed out a sigh of relief, and let Dean mop up the blood.
"Uh, when I called you, Lucifer was...no, is..acting weird."
Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"
"He tells me something."
"What does he tell you?"
"That he's coming."