((My apologies, I know the chapter is long. Leave a review and enjoy! I'm open for requests!))

Sherlock refused to answer any of the questions Dean continued asking him. For the first bit of time, he sort of just stared at the wall, not even responding. His eyes flickered, even though they were motionless, blank at the wall. His thoughts passed over his eyelids as though they were nearly visible. It was like when a baby goes quiet. They can't really do, or say anything, but you can always tell when they're thinking.

Then, he very suddenly pulled his journal out from his inside pocket (seriously, how many pockets did this guy have?) and began rapidly flipping through pages, searching for something. Dean didn't really pay attention to him at all. Slowly, Sam was coming to his senses.

"So, wh-what's happening?" Sam asked, still wincing as though the dim room was incredibly bright.

"You got captured by Sherlock," Dean reminded him slowly. He told him several times, but he was still very disoriented.

"Sherlock?" Sam asked, clearly confused.

"British guy, who knew all that science and stuff," Dean reminded him.

"Um, okay…" Sam said, shutting his eyes tight and then opening them again. He was practically falling on Dean, who was gripping his brother's shoulders tightly. Sam continued in a sigh. "I get that, but why does it feel like I'm on fire?" He gasped.

Dean looked away, still blaming himself for the fact that any of this happened at all. "Yeah, well, that's the sucky part. I don't know all the science Sammy, but from all of this guy's babble I managed to pick up what was in that I.V." He looked his brother in the eyes, his face going dark. "Holy water."

Sam leaned back, recoiling both physically and emotionally, his eyes going wide. That added to his paleness, made him look like a ghost already, which made a shiver run down Dean's spine. "What?" Sam gasped. "But… why would that do anything?"

Dean shook his head. "Like I said, I'm no science geek. I think it's the demon blood from Azazil, although I don't get how it's still in your system."

Sam looked away, eyes still fairly vacant and wide. "Yeah…" He said, not elaborating.

Finally, both the brother's heads turned as the deep voice broke out of the dark. "Winchesters." He said, softly, not looking at either of them. "It seems something has come up, and I am in need of your assistance."

"No," Dean immediately replied. It barely took him two seconds to formulate an answer.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, voice growing more firm. "I'm afraid it is quite necessary, to the good of mankind, seeing as how that's so important to you."

"I'll say it again. No." Dean repeated. Sherlock sighed softly. They just never made it easy.

"Well, I could warn you that if you didn't I would kill you in a way so slow and merciless you would beg for a rope to hang yourselves with," He said, sparks of fury behind his eyes. "But threats are for savages. Let's bargain, shall we?"

"There's nothing to bargain for, Sam's gonna wash this out of his system and we're gonna leave, most likely killing you after unless I'm in a very good mood." Dean positively growled. Sherlock ignored this statement, standing up and pacing.

"Let's see… you help me, and I throw in one of my full journals. An incomparable amount of information is in each and every one, and I have hundreds. It would make your job at least a hundred times more efficient."

Dean's upper lip twitched. This was torturing him. He knew he had to say no, of course, but damn would that info be helpful. "No. Way." He said slowly and dangerously.

"Very well," Sherlock continued nonchalantly. "How about I throw in how to cure Sam for free?"

Dean gritted his teeth together, actually thinking on it for a moment, his heart being tugged so hard in both directions he felt like he was about to explode. Sam, the one who would usually say 'no Dean don't do it', didn't speak. He didn't know what was right, in this case.

"No…" Dean said softly, which was just about the hardest thing to say there had ever been in his life. He looked away, and Sherlock huffed, his gently evil smile vanishing.

"Fine. If you are so insistent for me to stoop so low, I shall not disappoint." He said. His eyes turned to Sam, and just as fast, his gun, emerging from his coat in the blink of an eye. "You two help me, or I kill Sam right here, right now."

Dean stood up and pulled his gun out just as rapidly as Sherlock had his. "Unless I kill you first." He threatened.

Sherlock gave him a smile that sent a chill down his spine. "You're not going to kill me." He said confidently. Dean searched frantically for some trace of fear in his eyes, but none was there.

"And why not?" Dean said furiously.

Slowly, Sherlock lowered the gun from Sam's trajectory and turned to face Dean completely. His smile dimmed, but was still there.

"Because you don't know where my information is, for one." He said. "Sure, you could get my current journal off me, but that's just a fraction of the information I have stored. But that's just a minor motivator. What it really comes down to is Sam. You know I'm not lying, when you look into my eyes, Dean. I can cure him. Wash any trace of demon blood there is out of his body. Not to mention, I can bring him back up from his current state in mere minutes, back to the full healthy man you know as your brother. I can help him in any way imaginable, and I can even help him in ways you didn't know he needed help." The mystery of this sent a shiver down Dean's spine. What the Hell was that supposed to mean? Before he could ask, Sherlock continued. "And then,
on top of that, is me. I'm heartless, horrible, and I deserve to die in every sense of the phrase, but I'm also human. Your purpose in life is to limit the death toll you cause for as long as you can, holding back the dam of Dean Winchester's murders, making excuses for how many were really your fault, and you think you're really going to be able to stand there and pull the trigger?"

Dean went silent. His lip curled and his fists balled, his heart pounding not with adrenaline but with pure fury. He didn't want it to be, but everything he had said was right. He was the most horrible creature he'd ever met, and he wanted to kill him right now. But his trigger finger wouldn't move. Sherlock smiled, shadows crossing his face like he was a demon himself.

"I thought so," He said. "Not so abnormal, really. I find it a common pattern amongst humans to try and feel like a saint when you're really just out for yourself." Then without another thought about how he was useful, too useful to kill, Dean pulled the trigger. A loud shot cracked through the air.

Slowly, Sherlock turned his head, and looked at the wall behind him, steaming with a bullet mark three inches deep. Dean could easily make a headshot from this distance and this angle, but not here. As much as he hated to even think it to himself, Sherlock was right.

The man slowly turned back around, darkness in his softly smiling face, as he looked at Dean. "Are we done?" he asked slowly and condescendingly, in a hushed voice barely above a whisper. Loathing running through his entire being, Dean slowly lowered the gun and kept it beside him, held at his side. He hated what he was doing, more than anything he'd ever done before, but he knew he had to do it.

For Sam.

He looked away into the darkness of the shadows to see his brother, his motivation. Sam looked up at him innocently, saying nothing. He still didn't know what was right, but at this point both of them knew the choice belonged to Dean.

"What…" Dean spat slowly, not looking the killer in front of him in the eyes. "Do we need to do?"

Sherlock gave very few details. He didn't seem to know many himself. And yet, he seemed completely confident about what he needed to do. Dean wanted to meet the person he talked to on the phone, his enemy as Sherlock put it. He'd want to punch him in the face.

"So, are you actually going to tell us what we have to do, or are you just expecting us to follow you all around the US?" Dean asked angrily.

"No need to worry," Sherlock responded, sitting back down. "According to my enemy, you two are the best hunters you can get, so I'm sure you'll be perfectly able to handle anything we throw at you," Sherlock said, smiling to himself. Dean swallowed. He wasn't sure if he was 'able to handle anything they threw at him', but according to Sherlock's look, he was thinking that he wasn't.

"So, where are we even going?" Dean asked him.

"The White House," Sherlock said casually.

"The wh- Excuse me, the what?!" Dean demanded.

"Yes, the white house." Sherlock responded. "The current American president is with his family at Camp David, and that leaves Mycroft open to stay there." He said.

"Mycroft?" Dean asked.

"The enemy I'd mentioned."

"So what, he's just allowed to stay in the white house?" Dean said, looking at him with confusion.

"He has connections." Sherlock said vaguely.

"Oh, well, yeah, cause that answers everything." Dean scoffed. "And what about Sam?"

"He'll live. Like I said, he only needs to heal for a little while. He's probably already fine enough to go."

Dean turned to Sam,looking for validation. Sam shrugged. "I'm better than I was five minutes ago, and in five more, I might be worse." He said casually. "We might as well go."

Dean looked between the two of them. He still thought it was a terrible idea, but he was clearly outnumbered. "Fine." He mumbled. "But we're taking baby!"

"Baby?" Sherlock asked.

"His car." Sam explained.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh fine, if you insist. It doesn't matter anyway."

"And you sit in the back!" Dean said.

Sherlock grumbled. "Oh, well, fine," He sighed.

With an irritate scoff, Dean walked over to Sam. Carefully, he wrapped his arm around him, pulling him up. Sam winced slightly, as he tried to stand. His legs were wobbly, but he could manage. He wasn't risking letting go of Dean, though. He carefully shuffled out of the flat, most of his weight on his brother. Sherlock hurried out of the flat before them, waiting for them in the parking lot where the impala was parked.

The stairs were a bit of a struggle for Sam, but they both managed if they went slow.

"So, are you sure about this?" Sam asked through a wince.

"Of course I'm not sure about this." Dean answered obviously.

"I mean, Sherlock seems a little… I don't know, evil?"

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, kinda. But I think he could help us, Sammy. We push through this case, and we'll learn all sorts of things. This guy is definitely evil, but he's a genius."

"Yeah, if you- whoa!" He said. His foot slipped out from under the stair, nearly falling before Dean somehow managed to catch him (and almost dropped him as soon as he had). Sam managed to hit the stair with his foot and stable himself again.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, I'm good. Let's just get in the car." Sam said.

After a bit more time and effort, the two boys managed to reach the bottom step and see Sherlock leaning against the car. Dean growled softly. He hated seeing that evil maniac even touching his baby.

"I gotta ask," He said, as a thought occurred to him. "If this… Mycroft is your enemy, why are we going to see him? He threaten you or something?"

"No, he did not threaten me," Sherlock responded.

"What then?" Dean asked him.

"Mycroft and I unfortunately share a coincidental biological relation."

"A what?"

"He's my brother." His tone sort of fell, as though he were mentally rolling his eyes. He sort of sounded like a teenage girl talking about her mom. Dean laughed softly to himself.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Oh, nothing," He said with a shrug. "Come on, Sam," he said, and helped Sam over to the passenger seat. Sherlock came around the other end, reaching for the handle.

"Back!" Dean insisted. Sherlock backed off, putting his hands up, and swung into the back seat instead. Dean gently helped Sam get into the passenger seat then went around into the driver's seat. He hated seeing Sherlock in the rear view mirror. It was supposed to be a stupid fantasy, thinking that the person in the back seat was going to reach up and slit your throat or give you a face full of chloroform, but the thing was, Sherlock actually might.

Hopefully, he thought, he'd be much farther away in the rear view mirror.

Dean put the key in the ignition and started driving. He flicked on his music, which this time was Eye Of The Tiger, but Sherlock didn't even notice. He was already shutting his eyes in the back seat, one foot propped up on the seat pushing him up against the wall. In his mind palace.

"So, Sherlock, are you actually going to explain anything, or do you just expect us to trust you, of all people?" Dean waited for a response from behind him. "Sherlock?" He asked again. he peeked in the rear view mirror, to see his eyes shut, his leg up, and his fingers pressed together. "Asleep already?" he asked.

"I'm in my mind palace," Sherlock responded.

"Oh, well, of course you are, of course you have a mind palace," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "You up there being a mind-princess ruling over your freakin' mind Camelot?"

"Hush!" Sherlock responded, rather irritated. "Also, Camelot was a castle usually associated with a court, it wasn't a kingdom."

"Oh, for the love of-" Dean sighed. "Sherlock!" He said more sharply than before.

"My god, your voice is incredibly jarring," Sherlock said, finally opening his eyes and separating his hands. "What?"

"Are you actually going to explain anything to us, or are you just expecting us to drive all the way to the white house?"

"Turn left, up here." Sherlock told Dean, sitting up. Dean turned back to pay more attention to the highway they were on. "What? We'll be heading straight to Tennessee!"

"It's a shortcut, trust me!" Sherlock said.

"And why the Hell would I do that?!"

"Left!" Dean didn't think, the turnoff was too close for thinking, and jerked sharply to the left.

"Dean, how do we get to Virginia from here?" Sam asked, grabbing the car door as the car jerked sideways. "This exit ploughs straight on to Tennessee!"

"Another mile, then turn right." Sherlock said. "That'll keep you on Kentucky's border, which morphs into Virginia's border, at which point, you can head north."

"There isn't a road a mile north," Dean rebutted. "I've travelled these roads a hundred times."

"You ought to travel a little more carefully, then." sherlock said. He stared out the window for thirty or forty more seconds, just waiting. "There," he said finally. Dean looked ahead to see a tiny little road, hidden by trees and brush, barely even seeming to be there.

"I had always thought that was a driveway or something," Dean confessed.

"Leading to where?" Dean went silent. He was right. There was no mailbox or sign for an apartment complex or anything. It wouldn't make sense.

"You see?" Sherlock said condescendingly. "If only you tried thinking, just for a little while." he said.

"Oh, shut up!" Dean cried.

"Really, it doesn't hurt." He mocked.

"Yeah, well, neither does trying not to be a little bitch, but I don't see you-"

"Will you two cut it out?!" Sam demanded. "I'm not listening to you two bicker all the way to Virginia! I've already got a headache…"

So both of them huffed and looked in opposite directions. The rest of the drive was pretty much in silence, aside from the music playing in the background. It was a long drive, but thanks to Sherlock's secret, yet plain-sighted route, there weren't any cars, much less traffic. Dean had to confess, he was an evil asshole, but he was a genius, too.

The sun was nearly setting by the time they finally made it. Dean didn't exactly know what to do, pulling up to the white house. He didn't really know where to park, obviously as he wasn't president. Sherlock, however, seemed incredibly uncomfortable with it. Dean, not knowing any better, just pulled up to the side of it. Immediately, guards were all over them. One of them, with a headset and almost the height of Sam beckoned for them to get out of the car. All three of them obeyed, Sam managing out by himself but having Dean come around and support him again moments after.

"Can I see some I.D.?" The guard said.

Sherlock pulled his wallet out of his outer pocket and showed him nothing but his driver's license. "Sherlock Holmes, and Sam and Dean Winchester. I believe Mycroft is expecting us," He said, ever so officially. Sam and Dean both gave an awkward mini-wave, while the guard examined Sherlock's wallet. Finally, he nodded. "Let them in," He told the other guards. All of them simultaneously stepped to the side, aside from one younger one in the lead. "This way," he said. sherlock followed after as though he went here every other day. Dean helped Sam alone behind, trying not to show how giddy he was about going to the white house.

The guard lead them down one fairly short hall, and then turned off to the left. At that point, he didn't go any further, as they had turned into a the room were a couple sofas and an American flag in each corner. There was a coffee table in the middle, decked out in a classy tea set, steaming with a hot batch. At the end of the off-white creamy room, a man stood facing the wall. He was decked out in a suit with nearly thinning hair, and he leaned on a cane with one foot crossed over the other.

"Sherlock and the Winchesters, sir." The young guard said.

"Thank you, Phineas. You can go," The man said. His voice was gentle, so much so it was nearly condescending. Like he was talking to his fish or something. The guard hurried out of the room, and he was fairly far gone before the man spoke again. "A good soldier, Phineas." He said. "It's a shame his fiance is already having an affair. But then again, you knew that," He turned around, looking at his brother. He had a soft smile, one of a king who could have you executed with a wave of his hand. And with the air about him on top of where they happened to be, both Dean and Sam were starting to consider if he could. "Didn't you Sherlock?" he finished.

Sherlock glared back at his brother. Older brother, both of them recognized. It wasn't hard to tell, based on the way both of them were acting. "Of course I noticed," Sherlock said. "I don't suppose you managed to figure out the person she's having an affair with is a worker at a casino they went to for their honeymoon?" He bragged.

"Actually Sherlock, he's a worker at a day spa with a casino included. If you had noticed the smooth texture of the man's skin you would have figured that out quite easily." Mycroft responded. Sherlock scowled.

"I was about to mention that," He lied. But Mycroft had already moved on.

"And here they are in the flesh. The Winchesters." He said. His eyes turned to Sam and Dean. Dean shrunk back a little at the way Mycroft's eyes rolled over him, squeezing out every last bit of information. It seemed like he already knew everything there was to know about him, and there was no way for Dean to put a stop to it.

When he was done 'scanning', to put it simply, he turned to face Sam alone. "My apologies about my brother," He told him. "He can tend to be a bit… impolite, when it comes to his studies. I do hope for your sake there's no permanent damage."

Sam used all his effort to keep the question of "How the Hell can you know that?!" from bursting out of his mouth, since he knew there was no point. "Yeah," He said weakly, still totally weirded out.

Mycroft gestured to the couches around the sofa table. "Sit down, please." He said. As it sounded more like a command than a polite invite, Dean helped Sam (he was more spotting him now, Sam could walk on his own) over to the couch and Sherlock followed Mycroft and sat down. Sam and Dean sat on the side. Sherlock sat across from Mycroft. From this angle, Sam and Dean felt like it was watching a tennis match.

"So, did you find out anything important about Sam?" Mycroft asked, picking up his tea.

"Yes, a little." Sherlock said. "I've got it down in a journal, and I'll share it with you after. What we really ought to be discussing is why you brought us here in the first place."

"Ah," Mycroft replied, as though it hadn't even occurred to him. "Of course." He smiled a little wider, and leaned forward, at the same time, Sherlock leaned back.

"Let's start here: do you plan to apologize, then admit you were wrong, then admit that I'm always right of your own free will, or will I have to force it out of you?" Mycroft joked (or as close as he came to a joke).

"None of the above. I have no need to apologize for what you found up and I have no intention of giving up what I do." Sherlock responded.

"I should probably be angry, but I must say I'm rather impressed with you, Sherlock," Mycroft confessed, a slight smirk still on his face. "You managed to hide it from me for three whole months."

"I've been doing this for more than three months."

"I know. That's only how long you've been able to hide it from me."

Sherlock swallowed and scowled at his brother. Why hadn't he stopped him, then, he thought to himself. "You approve then?" He asked, trying to convince himself it was out of curiosity and that he didn't really care.

"You hunt monsters, Sherlock, of course I don't approve," Mycroft said. "Quite frankly I didn't approve with what you were doing before, solving crimes and all that. But I irritate you, Sherlock, and whatever I approve of, you will most surely do the opposite."

Sherlock paused for a moment, his face giving nothing away. "An accurate deduction," He confessed.

"So, onto the main topic of me bringing you here," Mycroft said, leaning back again. "A knight of Hell." A shiver ran down Dean's spine. He seemed almost excited about this knight of Hell, which certainly didn't sound good.

"Yes, I've heard. Killed a few people. Why should I care?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, some of my men managed to get their hands on her. She's not dead, which we may want to attend to later, but as of now there's more important matters. What worried me was her warnings."

"Warnings?" Sherlock said.

Mycroft looked into his tea as he spoke. "In her words, 'He is rising. He will come sooner than Earth is able to prepare itself. And all will die. And this time, there will be no God to stop him.'"

"And who is 'him', may I ask?" Sherlock asked.

"You already know the answer to that." Mycroft stated.

"I know, I just don't believe it."

"I hardly could either, but I've done a little research. I won't tell you the details, but I am fully prepared to believe this knight of Hell. It seems as though he has finally broken out."

Sherlock waited for a moment, fear behind his eyes. "No, that's impossible."

"Say it aloud, so that we're all on the same page," He said slowly.

"No," He replied.

"Say it aloud," He repeated.

Sherlock swallowed. His voice went soft, barely above a whisper. "Lucifer," He said. The room was already silent, but for a moment, it got even quieter.

"What, like Lucifer Lucifer?" Sam chimed in. "As in, Satan?!"

"The very same," Mycroft replied calmly, but he was still looking at Sherlock when he spoke. The two brothers were very intense, the both of them. It seemed as though there was a physical connection behind their eyes, and with both of their deductive powers, they could basically have a psychic link. They were speaking to each other, right now. He thought. They each can send off the signals they knew how to read. He shivered. They were barely... human.

"What do I do next?" Sherlock asked. I guess Mycroft mind-told him he couldn't tell him anymore. Or maybe he just already knew.

"All reports you give to me must be by phone call. Don't come back here again. Find somewhere that's away from civilization and summon an angel of the Lord. Look up the lore, and figure out how to keep him there, and keep him from hurting you or the Winchesters. They're very valuable, and in this situation. All three of you must remain untouched for as long as possible. Once you have the angel in captivity, call me and I will give you more instruction. Keep an eye on him. You haven't had time to experiment, and you won't know how durable your trap will be. If you think it's strong enough, make it stronger. If you think you're safe enough, put up more defense. This is a situation where you really can't be too careful. Is that understood?" Mycroft spoke slowly, explaining every detail as he gently put down his tea.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"And remember," Mycroft said. The constant smile in his eyes dropped as he looked at Sherlock. "Don't be stupid, don't be careless, don't get caught."

Sherlock nodded.

"See you again, brother. Check in as soon as you have the angel." Mycroft crossed one leg over the other and his manipulative smile returned. "It was good to see you three," He said, and neither Sam nor Dean could tell if he was lying or not. "Sherlock and Sam, you're free to go. Dean, stay another moment."

Dean and Sam immediately locked eyes. Mycroft seemed to read Dean's thoughts.

"There are cameras everywhere," He said. "Sherlock lays a hand on your brother, he'll be shot on sight."

Dean wouldn't have trusted him, aside from the fact that they were in the white house and of course there were cameras everywhere. It made perfect sense, so reluctantly, he pulled his eyes away.

Sam followed Sherlock into the hall (behind him, as he was still a little unsteady) and shut the door. This left Dean alone with this smiling freak, which he was not happy about.

"So," Mycroft said gently, as though it were a casual conversation. "What do you think of my brother, from what you've seen of him?" He asked.

"Uh," Dean began, laughing sarcastically. How about totally insane psychopath? He would have blurted that, but he had to admit he was afraid to offend Mycroft, and I dunno, maybe he was touchy about his brother being insulted. "Well, not to offend you, or your brother, but he seems kind of… you know, a little-"

"Heartless? Inhuman? Evil?" He asked. So much about touchy about his little brother being insulted.

"Well, yeah." Dean admitted. "Any idea how he got that way?"

Mycroft paused, some feeling flashing through his eyes but Dean couldn't tell what it was. "Sit down, Dean. Have some tea." He said.

"I'm more of a coffee man, myself," He said, now feeling really uncomfortable.

"Sit down," He repeated. Because it sounded more like a command than a request, Dean sat on the couch across from him, his figure unnaturally stiff.

"Sherlock has always been like this, Dean. Sort of, anyway."

"Sort of?"

"Well, he's never exactly been the empathetic type, but it hadn't reached this extent at any time before a particular turning point in his life." He said.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what that is?"

"We're short on time, Dean." He reasoned. "Do a little research on Sherlock Holmes, and I assure you you'll be able to understand much more than you do now. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you."

"And why was that?" Dean asked.

Mycroft hesitated, looking at the table. "You and I are not so different, Dean. I'd say, in many ways, we are very much alike."

"We… what?" Dean asked, entirely taken aback by that comment.

"The way you look at Sam," He said. "You care for him so much you'd easily die for him, but you feel as though that's not even enough. He's everything you care about, and as long as he's happy, there's nothing you wouldn't be able to endure. If you had your way, you would make everything perfect for him, then erase yourself from the world, and let him forget you forever."

Dean didn't speak, his heart now starting to race. He hadn't told anyone that, in fact, he'd barely realised it himself. He scooched away a little. Holy shit, how the Hell did he know?!

"Well, while I must admit it is to a lesser extent," He's lying, Dean thought. "I feel the same way about Sherlock, so my request is this." He looked Dean in the eyes, actually looking genuine for the first time they'd met. "Keep an eye on him. For my sake, and for everyone else's. Sherlock is dangerous, and emotional, and he has an awfully bad habit of destroying everything he touches. It'll be bad for everyone, and most importantly, to himself." Dean hesitated a moment, mostly concerned by the fact that Mycroft considered him emotional.

"Why should I watch over him?" Dean asked. "The only experience I have with him is watching him torture my little brother."

Mycroft smiled softly, knowing he was right. "Look him up. I believe you will learn everything you wish to know with just a little research," He told him. "Good luck, Dean. Be careful." Dean caught the drift that that was his way of saying goodbye, and he thankfully nodded and hurried out of the tense rom, leaving Mycroft sitting alone.

"What was that?" Sam asked him, as he was standing right out in the hall. Dean shrugged, mock-casually.

"I dunno," He said. "Just something about the case, probably, but I can barely understand the man."