Sherlock opened his eyes.

Then he groaned and fell out of his bed.

He winced, sitting on the ground. Laying down was like being on fire all over again. He rubbed his eyes, trying to recount what happened. None of this ever happened… Well, maybe it didn't. A subconscious communication that he was within a dream? No. That was what he wanted him to think.

It happened.

A lot was left unanswered, but mostly who on Earth wrote that letter. Now that he thought about it, he saw he quickly jumped to conclusions. Sorry for my absence? Dearest Sherlock? He rubbed his eyes. The handwriting wasn't even the same. What was he thinking?

With some effort and a little extra time, he stood. He hurried into the other room, where he found the note was still there. He lifted it. As soon as he did so, he heard an abrupt thud behind him. He flipped around. The book once on the table was not sitting on the floor.

"Who are you?" He asked. No response. His heart was racing now, the anticipation gnawing at his mind. "Tell me who you are!"

His senses were sharp for any change, even the air feeling like needles against his spine. The first change was slight. A gentle pushing against the palm of his hand. He looked down. The pen, pushing against him of his own free will. He dropped it. Or… he tried. It didn't in fact fall, but remained in the air, its tip, splattered with dark black ink seeming to stare right through him. He looked at it with confusion, just floating there like the air was water.

He startled as it twirled rapidly around and flew in the direction of the wall. It stopped short a millimeter before it hit, and right there on the drywall, it began to write. The same front as the letter.

You know who I am

Sherlock didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he knew, but he had some idea. "I think so, but I think I'm wrong."

Take a guess

"I already have," He responded.

Say it aloud, then

Sherlock shivered and spoke softly, the very name bringing him fear to utter. "Lucifer." Slowly, he watched as the pen etched words deep across the wall. He didn't know if it was really getting slower or if it was just his nerves. Slowly, it wrote out,

W-R-O-N-G

Sherlock was willing to admit he was scared now. If anything scared him, it was not knowing. The only person he had faith in was himself, and when that faith was gone, there was nothing he could do. "Enough of this." He said softly, before his loudness increased. "Show yourself!"

Slowly, the pen turned. Its tip bore into Sherlock like it did before. Obviously it couldn't look, but it certainly seemed like it could. Then, it swung down lower, staring into nothingness and swinging back and forth. It went just beside the chair before it went up into the air and began doing intricate spins and twirls, the same four over and over, in the very same place.

Slowly, he watched as lean, pale fingers apparated around it, on all its sides, revealed to be the source of its twirling. They all seemed like a trick of the light at first, barely there then gone again, before becoming more solid. The pale off-white led down to a hand, a wrist, an arm covered in the arm of a suit. Sherlock watched with amazement as an entire body materialized in the chair before him, and even more astounding than that…

He knew him.

"You're dead," he told him bluntly, factually. The man across from him on the chair gave his copyright gentle smile and placed the pen down gently on the table, taking away any illusion of life it had before.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his eyes sullen, his figure thin, and his tone pale. "Brilliant conclusion Sherlock," He said sarcastically. "Your deductive skills are impeccable. You thought it was both Moriarty and the devil himself before you found the answer."

"Well, you were sort of out of the picture,"

"In what way?"

"You were dead."

"Yes, as you continue to remind me." He stood up. "Anyway, brother mine, there isn't much time for chat…" He stopped, seeing his brother's eyes on his chest, with a slit-shaped hole so far through that you could see the other side of the room. He looked down. "Ah, yes, forgive me, I had to keep the stab wound in this form," He said. "You're just lucky they got rid of the burns."

"You were at the center of an explosion," Sherlock said, slightly disturbed. "Was anything even left?"

"Not much," Mycroft said, his soft smile adding to how disturbing the whole interchange of words was. Sherlock felt like he was sitting in a room with a few-day-old dead body.

Then he reminded himself that he was.

"Anyway, I'm not here out of sentiment, and I certainly don't wish to stay long enough to become a vengeful spirit, so I'll be brief." Mycroft said. "I never got to finish giving my instructions. Do you still have the angel?"

"No, he got away under Dean's watch." Sherlock told him, which he had assumed would happen and didn't really care.

"Ah, well. Bound to happen, really. I suppose I'll just have to do, then."

"Do for what?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, you'll need an escort," Mycroft told him.

"An escort to where, exactly?"

Mycroft glanced at the book on the floor, the one that he had moved, before smiling back up at Sherlock with a spark of evil in his eyes. He told him like it was just a passing thought.

"Hell, of course."

For once, Mycroft's instructions were crisp and clear. I guess he wasn't so worried to be eavesdropped on when he was a ghost. He told Sherlock exactly where to go, exactly which precautions to take.

"And how will you be able to come with me?" Sherlock said, the thought occurring to him. "What are you attached to?"

"I took the precaution of attaching my spirit to the trench coat I knew you'd see and steal in the shop when you ran off from the hospital." Mycroft told him. "Keep on the trench coat, and I stay here. Burn it when you no longer need my services."

Sherlock nodded. It wasn't a promise, it wasn't a denial. He'd decide later. For now, he left it at a nod.

He was already getting what he'd need when Sam stepped into the room, barely awake. He leaned against the doorframe, squinting his eyes at Sherlock.

"Where are you going?" He asked, rather concerned.

"I have to run an errand. Came up on me by surprise. Don't worry, you're not coming," He said, only looking up at him for a brief moment. He glanced over to Mycroft for a moment to find he had already vanished into the air.

"And where will you be going?" Sam asked.

"I won't be telling you that, as of now," He answered.

Sam hesitated, some light fading from his already pale, weary face. "And we're not gonna be trying to… to cure me today?" He asked softly.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Oh, certainly, Sam Winchester," He said, his voice softening to a whisper that was somewhere between malicious and comforting. "It's just a shame I won't be able to record the results. Will you be waking Dean?"

Sam swallowed and looked down. Sam had already made the decision, but it was even harder to say aloud. "Uh, no." He said. "No, I'll take it alone. Let's just get it over with. I've… already felt like I couldn't go much longer without it."

Sherlock nodded, his back straightening. "Get the holy water; lots of it." He instructed. Sam shivered and did as he said. His heart was already racing in panic, like he was drowning and couldn't get to the surface. He couldn't escape it, and he knew it was gonna be Hell. The only thing that kept him from spilling the holy water and running off was the single resonating thought of why he was doing this at all. For Dean, he thought. For Dean.

The two did everything in a rush, and managed to sneak out before Dean was even awake. They took the impala, which made Sam feel like he was going to vomit. If lying to him and betraying him wasn't bad enough, now he was driving his car. When it started up it sounded like it was growling at him.

Sam drove out to the same warehouse where they summoned Cas. The same chair was still there, the same fire still flickering along the ground in burning, glowing cinders. That all seemed like so long ago.

Sam sat down in the chair. It still stung slightly to feel anything touch the burns along his back, like when he was in the impala, but he was getting used to it. He had to, didn't he? It was gonna be a thousand times worse.

About 6 and a half times worse than being on fire.

Great.

His heart beat even faster as Sherlock brought out the I.V. of holy water and a huge needle. He set a voice recorder on the dank ground.

"For legal purposes," He began softly, as he turned over Sam's arm. "Do you fully agree to inject yourself with this near-gallon of holy water in an attempt to cure your addiction to demon blood?"

Sam swallowed. "I do." He agreed.

"And you are aware," Sherlock continued. "That the results are, at this point, unpredictable, and that such a treatment could end in failure, extreme pain, and possible death."

Sam hesitated, a shiver running down his spine. "I… am aware, yeah." He said.

"Good," Sherlock turned off the recording and left the recorder beside Sam. "Let's begin."

He injected the needle into his arm, and Sam winced slightly at the pinch. His heart was beating so fast it was hurting his chest. It was starting.

Sherlock stepped back as soon as the needle was in his arm, and his face seemed dark and villainous in the casting, dancing shadows. He reached into the darkness behind him and pulled out a long length of rope.

"What? No," Sam demanded, his instincts to run kicking in again.

"Sam," Sherlock said insistently. "If you don't cooperate, it'll only cause you more struggle." Sam swallowed, his face going pale as Sherlock wrapped the ropes around him, keeping him down tight to the chair. He looked like the devil himself when he stepped away and looked at him, his blue eyes empty and piercing, his dark aura pulling him into the darkness, his stone-set face making it seem like he was about to murder him right there and now. Maybe he was.

Sam began to wonder why he ever trusted Sherlock as he spoke, his voice rolling and manipulative.

"Goodbye for now, Sam Winchester," He said softly, seriously. "I sincerely hope that luck is on your side,"

And with that the shadow of a man was sucked up back into the darkness the towering walls cast, and Sam sat there, tied down with his heart beating like a jackhammer, before the sun could even cast out the vague idea of hope.

And Sam Winchester was left alone in the darkness.