Everyone on the bottom floor raised their head to the ceiling. The voices were muted through the wood, but there was no denying the angry yells both men were throwing at each other.
There was the noise of angry feet stomping down the stairs. Dean watched as John's weird, skinny friend came into the living room. Sherlock's eyes dashed over him, Sam, and Bobby. "Where's Castiel?" he demanded.
"He's not here," Dean stood, crossing his arms across his chest. John told him Sherlock was dangerously smart, stronger than he appeared. The dude looked as if a strong enough wind could knock him over. "He's out on a mission. He may not be back for a week. What do you need him for?"
"Then do you have a mobile?"
Dean blinked at him. "A what?"
"A cell phone!"
The way this guy kept demanding stuff, Dean was going to punch him in the face. No way was he going to lend this weirdo his cell phone.
John was trying unsuccessfully to calm down. "Sherlock, it was just a theory, I don't-"
Sherlock rounded on him. "How long have you suspected, then?"
John bit down on his lip, guilty. "Almost since from the beginning."
Sherlock turned away disgusted, his attention back on Dean. "Your cell phone, give it to me."
"You forgot to say the magic word."
"Your FBI file hints you sleep with your brother."
"Oh Christ," John hissed, bowing his head and pinching his eyes.
The tiny grin Dean had on his face turned bitter. He then cracked his knuckles. "I'm going to kill your friend, John," he said as he stepped forward.
"Five dollars on Dean," Bobby whispered to Sam.
"Enough!" John stepped forward, putting himself between the two men. "Dean, sit down. Cas isn't here and I am not patching up your split knuckles. Sherlock, outside!" He didn't bother to wait for Sherlock to argue. He grabbed the taller man by the arm and roughly dragged him outside to the porch.
Once outside, Sherlock held out his hand. "Phone."
"Dammit, Sherlock," John said, reaching into his own pocket and drawing out his phone. "The next time you insult Dean, I'm just going to let him hit you."
Sherlock ignored him and started pressing in numbers.
John frowned at him. "Who are you calling?"
"That's a regular mobile, I can't get calls from outside the US-"
"Mycroft," Sherlock said into the phone, ignoring John's gaping face. "You bastard."
"Ah," Mycroft said calmly through the phone. "I assume you found Dr. Watson."
"If you knew, then why did you allow me to run this ridiculous goosechase?"
"Perhaps we should talk about this in person."
"I am not waiting a day for you to get over here!"
A voice popped up near them. "Nor would I think you should."
Both John and Sherlock twirled around, just in time to watch Mycroft put his mobile away in his front pocket. Anthea stood next to him, her hand on his shoulder. "Thank you," he said to her.
Anthea stepped away, then disappeared.
John groaned. "I knew it…"
Sherlock snapped the phone closed. Gripped it tightly in his fist. Mycroft ignored him in favor of looking at John. "It's good to see you again, John. I wish there was more time for formalities, but you can see… if you can excuse us for a few minutes while I talk to my brother."
"Alright," John said cautiously as he moved away. "Holler if he starts murdering you."
John left. Sherlock stared at his brother. He was so angry, he was shaking where he stood. "How long have you known?"
"About what?" Mycroft asked smoothly.
"Don't play dumb! About the supernatural! About John, about all-" he waved his hand over Singer's junk yard. "-all this!"
Mycroft didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped down from the porch and walked casually into the yard. "Walk with me, Sherlock. And I'll answer everything you want to know."
Sherlock had to fight down the urge to toss the phone at the back of his brother's head. He resisted, knowing pandering to Mycroft's dramatic flair was the only way of making him cooperate. Tucking his hands into his pockets, Sherlock caught up with his brother, glaring the whole time.
"I learned about the supernatural when I was fifteen," Mycroft began as soon as Sherlock was with him. "I've always known John was a Hunter, but I never knew he had connections to the Winchesters until he disappeared."
Sherlock sneered. "But you knew about the Winchesters."
"Of course I did. They may be human, but they're very powerful, Sherlock. I suggest keeping on their good side. Especially Dean's. He won't hesitate breaking your jaw if he sees fit."
"I'm surprised you're still so fat from the all the effort you exert to keep this hidden from me."
Mycroft doesn't take the bait. "There are a few cases that slip through my fingers, I'll admit. Luckily there are enough Hunters in London to catch them. The common cases are ghosts, the occasional shapeshifter. My focus is on demons, low-level Demi Gods, tricksters; basically any supernatural creatures with extraordinary powers."
"You would allow John to fight against them." Sherlock was getting angrier by the minute. So much knowledge, so much of the world hidden away from him, all because of his meddling older brother.
"John made his decision," Mycroft said tightly.
"And you made that decision for me!" Sherlock yelled. "You had no right-"
"Look at yourself!" Mycroft suddenly bellowed, jabbing towards Sherlock's bloody, torn shirt. "You almost died today! In this world, Sherlock, there are fates worse than death, and I'll be damned if I allow your life to end the same way as Father's!"
Sherlock was struck dumb by that last sentence. "Father? What the hell do you mean?"
Mycroft turned his head away, clearly angry he had let that loose. "I guess there's no point in keeping it from you." He sighed, gritting his teeth. "When you were five, you were diagnosed with cancer-"
"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, waving it away. "It went into remission. John does my checkups, he hasn't seen a trace of it."
"No, Sherlock," Mycroft shook his head sadly. "It didn't go into remission. A month after you were diagnosed, you went into a coma for a week and died shortly after."
Sherlock stepped back. A sick feeling was settling into his stomach. "What? How-"
"You've done your research, I'm sure. Have you come across mentions of Faust?"
Of course he has. In preparation of confronting the Winchesters, Sherlock had read nearly everything he could on the supernatural, to understand better why the Winchesters did what they did. Up until now, he found the whole thing very tiresome, so very pointless.
"Father sold his soul for me."
Mycroft nodded. "Now you know why he died suddenly so near your sixteenth birthday. Most contracts only get ten years and father was not the exception. Do you understand what I'm saying, little brother?" Mycroft sneered, moving forward coming into Sherlock's space. "Father is in hell right now. I have a goddamn demon as my assistant and yet there's nothing I can do to bring him back. In this world, selling your soul is as easy as buying a guitar on ebay."
"You think I would give myself up that easily?" Sherlock spat. He was trying not to think of Father. Tried not to think of fire and brimstone.
"You've overdosed three times in your life. Three times! If you treat your body in such a cavalier way, then it's safe to assume you would treat your eternal soul in the same way."
Slowly but surely the anger seeped out of Sherlock. He tried to hold on to it, keep it flaring deep inside him. "If that's what you believe, then why didn't you try to stop me from going after John?"
Mycroft laughed. Actually laughed, the fat bastard. "Like I could stop you."
Sherlock allowed himself a smile. But only a small one. "Is it true? Is the world ending?"
"I do not have connections to angels like the Winchesters do. Only demons and psychics," Mycroft said as he pulled out his mobile and entered a few numbers. "However, I have noticed the sudden increase in monster activity and natural disturbances. If anyone here has the real answer, it's with the Winchesters."
Sherlock felt his hair kick up as Anthea appeared next to Mycroft. Sherlock tried to see all that had been hidden from him, and yet no matter how hard he tried, the woman looked nothing more than a woman.
Anthea must have sensed his staring because she looked right at him. She blinked once to reveal the blackness, then blinked again, her natural browns as sharp as ever.
"If it is truly the end of the world, then I must get back to London," Mycroft sighed. Anthea placed a hand on his shoulder. "I would say be careful, but I know how much you love to go against my orders, so I'll say this instead: there's more at stake now, than your own life. Be prepared to follow something beyond you."
And without any indication to show he was finished, he and Anthea disappeared from sight. All that was left were footprints in the soil.
Sherlock stared at the empty space for a few seconds longer, then turned and walked back towards the house. The true reality of the world around him was still settling upon him, like a blanket of fresh snow. He knew he was going to have get a grip on it soon or else it could bury him.
He wasn't sure how he felt about his father's ultimate fate. Sherlock loved his father, but the man's been dead for twenty years and Hell had yet to become a real place in Sherlock's mind.
Hell was real. Angels were real. God was real.
If Sherlock was a lesser man, he might've been crying by now. Instead his heart thrummed loudly in chest and his fingers tingled.
So far, today has been the best day of Sherlock's life.
As he reached for the front door, he felt himself grinning madly.
Then a fist flew out and punched him right in the jaw. Pain exploded on the right side of his face and Sherlock fell, clutching his jaw.
Dean Winchester stepped out, shaking his hand. "That's for making fun of me and my brother."
On the ground, Sherlock spat out a mouthful of blood. "Noted," he said. "Are we even?"
Dean considered this. "Not even close," he said, turning back to go inside.
Sherlock touched his teeth gently with his tongue, testing if any of them were knocked loose. John stared down at him, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. "I would ask if you're okay, but something tells me you're loving every minute of this."
Sherlock smiled up at him, his teeth stained with blood.
John rolled his eyes. He reached out a hand for Sherlock to take. "C'mon. Let's get to work."