By the time Sherlock got into the car, Mycroft was already in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window with his sunken eyes. He jumped as he swung in, forgetting that Mycroft could go wherever he wanted and only be visible when he wished.

"You're going to have to get used to it Sherlock," Mycroft said, not looking him in the eyes, as he caught his breath. "Mm, then again, don't." He said, reevaluating. "I won't be here long. Anyway, we really ought to get going. You remember the address?"
"Of course, I can hold onto a thought for more than ten minutes," Sherlock said sarcastically. It was impressive how his brother still managed to be an arsehole after he was dead. He started up the car and started out of the driveway. "And you're sure that way across the border will avoid all complications?"

"Of course, Sherlock," He assured him. "And even if it doesn't, all you have to say is you're the brother of Mycroft Holmes and that you're here for business, they'll let you through."

"That easily?"

"Yes,"

"Wow, I can't believe they fear you that much." Sherlock said, as he pulled onto the road.

"Hm," Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. "I liked to think it was admiration."

Sherlock flat out laughed at that, a confident half-smile passing over his cold lips. As he pressed his foot harder on the pedal, not afraid to go faster on a road with no cars.

The destination was a little place in Ontario. Why the gate to Hell was there, Sherlock didn't know, but he knew to trust his brother in these types of situations. These types of situations being ones that involve him specifically. His selfishness was the only thing he could rely on. Sherlock had estimated a drive of about 10 hours and seventeen minutes (fifteen, according to Mycroft) and he was prepared to drive it. But back at the warehouse, Sam was already beginning to feel the effects.

The first thing he noticed was the heat. Well, that wasn't the first thing he noticed. What he first noticed was a passing breeze, a ruffling in the bushes, the slightest shift of light. His paranoia was keeping him ready for a heart attack at any time, but the first thing he was sure was real was the heat.

Like last time, it was gradual. At first, he just thought the sun was rising and therefore the sun was shining and therefore the air was getting warmer. But he found himself having to recount the season. It was… May, right? Yeah, May. He swallowed. It felt like August. His heart sank. Now it was really starting up.

He felt himself breaking into a sweat, and wanted nothing more than to untie his hands and get up and walk around a little, instead of staying in this oven. He felt like he was roasting. No, not roasting. He couldn't throw around hyperboles like that when, in a few minutes, he actually would be.

The heat didn't stop with a hot august day. It kept on going. It kept rising, impossibly rising, until his entire body was burning and he felt like he was covered in oil and set on fire. He shivered, trying to keep his breath steady or at least apparent at all. As the heat broke into his eyes, it seemed like 100 LEDs, and shutting his eyes was about as useful as changing nothing at all. He marked it in his head. This was where he got to last time. How much more could there be?

He didn't answer that.

It went on like this for a while. The room got hotter and hotter and the sun got brighter and brighter until the air around him shimmered and sparked into his eyes and he couldn't see. Everything was just a blurry white. He could still hear, though, and god, he wished he couldn't.

Aside from the pounding in his ears, there wasn't any sound coming from any rational source. Until he could hear, too crisp to be a dream, too sharp to be caused by his hysteria, a mischievous voice come seeping out of the light.

"Sammy," It said. His head flicked up and, however much it hurt, he opened his eyes. They watered pointlessly, as still all he could see was white. He swallowed, but didn't answer.

"Sa-am," The voice sang. "Come on, talk to me!"

Sam was shivering now for more reasons than one. He knew that voice. "You're not real," He sighed through a panting breath.

"Aw come on, that's what you always say!" He looked rapidly around him, the voice seeming to come from everywhere. "Shut up, you're not real, let me sleep, what is it with you, Sammy?"

"No," He argued. "No you… couldn't be here," Sam said, starting to want reassurance.

"Mm," The voice responded. "Yes I could. You see, while you and Sherlock were off… exploding and Dean was doing something, probably watching porn, I snuck back to the surface. You all expected some grand entrance, I know, but I've been practicing the art of going incognito,"

"Get out of here, you demonic son of a bitch," He shouted.

"Oh, but it's rude to kick a man out of his own abode, Sammy."

Sam's face faltered, and he played innocent. "What?!" He panted.

"You see… we're not on Earth." said the voice, still wavering and coming from everywhere. "We haven't been on Earth for a long time."

"No…" Sam argued.

"Oh yes," It responded. Slowly, the source of the sound was becoming more sure, from the area in front of Sam. He thought he could make out colors, almost, but anything was hard to see. Slowly, out of the blinding light stepped a darkened figure. His heart dropped. He knew that sickening, almost peaceful smile anywhere.

Lucifer.

"Welcome back, roomie!" He greeted playfully, as if this were a joyous reunion. "It has been way too long."

"Stop."

Sherlock screeched the car to a halt as Mycroft directed. They were on an old, deserted highway, off of a long, greenish-yellow farm. He parked to the side, on the grass, then stepped out of the car.

"Is this really where the gate to Hell is?" Sherlock asked, looking out skeptically into the field. He hesitated a moment, before looking to the shaded dark window. "Mycroft?" He asked.

"Teleportation, Sherlock," Came a voice beside him, that startled him once more. Mycroft stood beside him, not even having to open the door, before he looked into the field. "You're going to have to get used to it if you want to stop making a fool of yourself." He took two long steps forward, putting his hand over his brow to block out the sun. "And no, this is not the gate to Hell. I have a certain connection who stays here on her spare time." He tilted his head up, and spoke out in a perfect accent. "Ego vocabo te, et qui metit."

A moment later, a woman stood before him, about 5 feet away. She was clad in a flowing, pitch black dress, and matching nail polish on her long nails. Her hair was wavy scarlet falling gently around her pale, soft-featured face. Her eyes were thickly lined with black and her lips the shade of her hair. "Mycroft," She addressed. Her voice was serious and fairly deep. Her stone brown eyes turned to Sherlock. "And he is…?"

"My brother," He told her. "Margaret, this is Sherlock." They both nodded silently at each other, but Sherlock was already reading her. His incantation - reaper summoning - reaper? No black cloud - reaper. Old relation, acquainted with Mycroft. He watched as her eyes returned to him. He tried not to smirk. Slightly dilated pupils, immediate straightening of the backbone, hands held straight, minor weight shifting. She was acquainted with Mycroft, but if it was up to her, that's not all she'd be. Sherlock only hoped his brother would know how to use this to his advantage.

"What do you need, Mycroft?" She asked coolly. Sherlock could immediately see his brother intended to use this factor, and well, as a half smile crossed his face and his eyelids fell ever so slightly in a flirtatious smirk you could see across the room.

"We're going to Hell," He answered her. His voice was smoother, too. He was good.

At first, the reaper didn't answer. She looked him up and down, then changed the subject. "Are you alright, Mycroft?" She asked.

"Yes. Why?" He asked.

She creased her thin eyebrows. "Well… you're dead." She stated obviously. Mycroft smiled and looked down at himself as though she had reminded him of the outfit he was wearing.

"Ah, yes." He agreed. "I'm afraid so. Stabbed. Not the most elegant, but it's fast." He briefly pulled away his jacket to show her the deep wound, now dry but still tinted violet red. She nodded.

"And why are you going to Hell?" She asked.

"We have some business to attend to," He responded vaguely.

"What business?"
"Secret business." He smiled mysteriously at her and he barely even looked like Mycroft anymore. Margaret swallowed.

"I'm not supposed to make any exceptions, or let any mortals or ghosts into Hell," she stated, her voice still perfectly steady.

"You can't make an exception for me, Maggie?" He asked her. Sherlock smirked. She averted her eyes for a split second and tried to hide a smile at the casual nickname. They might as well have been in Hell now.

"Very well. Only this once," She said. She stepped forward. She took the edge of Sherlock's sleeve in a split second, and didn't even brush her eyes over him, as she took the other hand to gently wrap her entire hand around Mycroft's, maintaining eye contact. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Just kiss each other while you're at it, get it over with. He thought.

And then they did.

Sherlock nearly burst out laughing as she leaned up and kissed him on the lips. Mycroft creased his eyebrows in confusion and leaned back. Even his brother, who was basically the Oracle, didn't see this one coming.

And then, on a passing gust of wind, the three were swept away into Hell.

Dean Winchester dreamt of Hell the night before.

Not a rare dream for him, really. He was chained up, horrified, surrounded by the screams like every other time he'd had the dream, everything was the same. Only usually, the one who stepped out of the darkness was the devil. But this time, two figures stepped out. This time, it was the Holmes brothers, wearing sickening grins and shadowed faces, holding two knives.

"What do you think, Sherlock? Shall we begin?" Mycroft had asked.

"Oh, definitely," His brother responded. He awoke with a start.

Dean awoke with a start. Just a dream, he reminded himself as he rubbed his eyes and slowed his breath. Just a dream.

He threw the covers off of him and swung his legs up over the bed, standing up. He stumbled out of his room and into the bathroom, taking a brief bathroom break, before stepping back out and looking around. Sam wasn't up yet. Odd, he thought, but then again there was last night. Sam probably still didn't want to see him. He gave a heavy sigh. This couldn't last forever.

He walked over to the door to the room Sam had been sleeping in. "Alright, Sammy," he said. "I know you lied, but we can't just not talk to each other forever." he waited. Silence. "I know you're pissed at me," he sighed. "And I'm pissed at you… but we can work it out, okay? We have to. We've got the… freaking devil coming up from Hell, we really don't have time for this. So… I'm not saying I forgive you for this. I'm just saying I'm willing to work through it until all this crap is over." He waited again, leaning against the door, hearing no answer from within. "Alright, now you're just acting like a middle school girl," he muttered, annoyed. He pushed in the door.

His heart dropped in his chest and shattered to the floor. Sam wasn't hiding out. As a matter of fact, he wasn't there at all. There was no one in the room, and the blankets were still thrown aside, but the rest of the room was as it had been. Immediately breaking into a panic, Dean turned away and checked every room of the hotel. Once he had done that, he checked them twice. Then he looked to see who'd checked out, and found his brother had indeed left. As soon as he'd heard that, he raced out to the parking lot to find the impala gone. Now his method of travel was gone. His heart was racing, and his hope dimming.

"Sam?!" He shouted pointlessly up at the sky. "Sam?!"

"Calling for him will do you little good," Dean's head whipped around to find the source of the gravelly voice. Just a few feet to his left was the angel that he had captured before, exactly the same, down to the trench coat. Immediately, his guard was up.

"What are you doing here?!" Dean demanded. He didn't draw a weapon, as he knew nothing he had would kill it anyway.

"I'm here to help," he said.

"Yeah?" Dean growled suspiciously. "And why would you do that?"

"We're working for the same cause, Dean." He explained.

"You seemed plenty eager to skip off to heaven back when we actually needed you!"

"All will be explained," The angel insisted, irritation behind his eyes. "For now, we have to get Sam."

Dean lowered his defense, pausing for a moment. There were 100 reasons why Castiel would want to find Sam, and if he was lucky, it was one of the 10 or so that he could actually approve of and didn't involve Sam's death. "Why do you need Sam?" He asked suspiciously.

"For the message. He will be able to more easily identify him."

"Wait wait, what message? Identify who?"

"Lucifer. We need to make sure it's him."

"For what?"

Castiel hesitated a moment, his back straightening in determination. "I did not run off for selfish reasons. I already told you, I'm on your side. As is the rest of heaven."

"So why do we need to find Lucifer?"

"Well, it took work, but I gathered the numbers. I even got extra to support the cause. I will be the one to give the order, but I would be exiled were I to choose the wrong person or demon. I am nearly certain I couldn't make such a mistake, but I'm not willing to take that chance."

"Castiel!" Dean interrupted. "Why were you gathering the angels?"

The angel took a breath, his eyes inflaming with enthusiasm and something else that looked almost like fear. "A mass smiting." He said. "We are going to strike Lucifer back down into the cage."

Dean didn't answer. He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, too amazed and interested to be defensive anymore. The angel spoke again before he could say anything.

"But we are getting more and more word from various angels visiting the future that this is bound to happen soon. We can't miss the opportunity."

"And what do you care if the planet gets destroyed?"

"Does it matter?" Castiel said, almost defensively. They looked at each other for a moment in silence, before Dean briskly nodded.

"You're right. We need to get to Sam. But I don't know where he is."

"Is he angelically warded?"

"I… uh… don't think so-"

"Good." Castiel shut his eyes and creased his eyebrows for a moment in thought, before looking back at Dean. "Got him." He said. "Let's go." Then, he reached out and touched Dean gently on the forehead with two of his fingers, and they found themselves in an entirely different place.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the smell of blood and smoke. It was different than smoke, though, thicker and stronger and almost like if you gathered up enough of it you could pack it up and feel it. It made his eyes water and his breathing heavy. The next thing he noticed was probably the source of the smoke; the heat. It wasn't like a summer day, it was like he was in a burning building. Fearful heat. Fire. A fire he'd felt before.

He pulled open his eyes.

The scene around him was dark, but still, he could see what was before him. The smoke was not visible, even when he could feel it and smell it, and he could see straight on through to the room around him. He was in a long hall, the walls around him dark, crumbling grey coated in dripping, sticky blood, both recent and old. He couldn't tell how long it went on; he looked in either direction and it looked as though the air was tinted blackish red and only so translucent that he could see about twenty feet in front of him.

The room was quiet, but not silent, as distant, echoing screams could still be heard ploughing through the darkness, along with a number of other unpleasant sounds. People calling names of loved ones… scraping… squishing…

Sherlock shivered and frantically looked around him for his brother. He didn't want to be here at all, but certainly not alone. Luckily, he found his brother was calmly standing to his left, and the reaper beside him.

"Interesting, isn't it Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. "The specific tactics used to evoke such fear in the human mind. I did a study on it the first time I got out of Hell."

"What's the plan?" Sherlock asked him, ignoring what he'd said.

"I need to order reinforcements for the cage, talk to a few higher-ups. Well, not higher up than me, but fairly high up. They won't last long, but all I need is time. Luckily, he's not breaking out right now."

"He couldn't even if he wanted to?" Sherlock checked.

"No." Mycroft said, glancing at him. "And I know what you're thinking, Sherlock. It's not a good plan."

"Come on. If we do this right, I'll never have another chance. And he can't break out, you just said it." Sherlock persuaded.

"Yes, that is true. But he is Lucifer, Sherlock. He tends to get to people."

"Since when am I people?"

Mycroft considered this a moment, before nodding. "Fair enough. Go ahead. But be careful."

"Yes, yes, of course." Sherlock brushed off, already starting down the foggy dark hall. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock had already vanished into the darkness.

Dean's stomach churned. The ground vanished from underneath his feet, and he felt as though he had been thrown up into the air and came back down again, landing on his feet. Only when he landed, he was in a different place.

The shock of the trip only lasted a brief moment before he forgot it completely, due to a sound resonating through the air: screaming. Dean's head whipped over, and in a split second his heart dropped in horror.

"Sammy," Dean whispered. His eyes widened as he stared at his brother, tied up to a chair and soaking in his sweat, an I.V. stuck in his arm. He panted and groaned and screamed like he was being torchered, even though he was sitting there alone in the room, sunlit by the gaping hole in the ceiling. Dean's shocked paralysis stopped at this point. "Oh God, Sammy!" He cried, racing over to his brother and falling to his knees. His hands immediately went for the I.V., before he found another hand grab his wrist. He looked up to see the angel, materialized beside him and firmly grabbing his wrist.

"Not so fast, Dean." he said, a look of concern in his eyes.

"What the Hell are you doing?!" Dean demanded in a panic.
"It is clear that he has been on this for some time. At this point in the process, simply removing the I.V. will most likely kill him."

Dean swallowed, horror in his face. He looked down at the bag of holy water that was hooked up to Sam, about a quarter full.

"But it'll run out anyway! Won't that kill him?!"

"Sherlock gave him enough to cure him, so he's likely to come out of his hallucinogenic state soon on his own. But stopping the flow while he's in such a state would cause such a biological shock it would likely cause death."

Dean listened to his full explanation, panting in panic. He looked over to his brother, still pulling against the ropes and groaning in pain. Dean couldn't think of a time when he felt more helpless. Sam was suffering, and he was watching, and there was nothing he could do.

Well, there was one thing he could do.

Anger flooded into his eyes as he stood. His fists balled and rage boiled up in his heart and heated his chest. Sherlock had done this. It was him. It was that monster. Dean whipped out his phone and furiously dialed his number.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Finally, it went to voicemail, which was still the machine's. The little shit was even too lazy to record his own damn voicemail. As soon as Dean heard the designated beep, he started up.

"Hey Sherlock, it's Dean," he spat. "Guess who I just happened to come across? My own brother, tied up, and hooked up to some damn poison that I can't get him off of, that is torturing him. I hope you know that any trust I may have had for you as a co-worker is gone and that you're fucking dead meat. I don't know where you are or why you're not answering, but when I find, and I will find you…" He shook his head. "You're gonna miss the fact that humans had empathy. Oh, and by the way, I read that blog of your friend's. Sounds like a nice guy. Shame he got such an asshole as friend. To be honest, I don't even want to imagine the disappointment in his eyes. What would John think Sherlock? What do you really think he would say if he could see you here, killing and torturing innocent people?!"

"Dean." Dean turned around, lowering the phone from his ear, to see the angel looking at something in his hand.

"What?!" Dean growled. Castiel held up a small black box, which Dean recognized as an old fashioned recorder.

"It has a track on it. Recent."

Dean's heart lit up with curiosity, but he didn't let his face show it. He nodded in the angel's direction. "Play it." He said. Castiel did as he said, and pressed play.

It started with what was clearly Sherlock's voice.

"'Do you fully agree to inject yourself with this near-gallon of holy water in an attempt to cure your addiction to demon blood?" he asked on the recording. The air was sucked out of Dean's lungs.

"What?" He whispered.

"I do." Sam's voice came fearfully on the track.

"Sammy, no," Dean whispered in horrified shock.

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

Dean cast a worried look towards his brother, actually wishing he didn't know this was going to happen.

"I… am aware, yeah." Sam's voice came. Dean let out a shaky breath, a lump balling in his throat.

"Good," Sherlock said. And then, the track cut out. Dean was left standing there, staring at the ground with nothing less that horror in his eyes. He let this happen… He was too busy being angry and stupid to hear him out. His own words rang nightmarishly in his head. "Okay, it's a cure, what else do we need to know? You're taking it," Dean swallowed, guilt gnawing mercilessly at his gut.

"Oh god, Sammy." He whispered, looking at his brother, pleading for an invisible source to stop.

"What have I done?"