"So you're telling me you ain't a demon?"
The brunet hung his pale head.
"...are not."
His voice was meek, but defiant.
Silence echoed about the steel room, and none but the two men heard it.
"Clearly," the man tied to the chair spoke deeply, "you are a tortured individual but for GODS SAKE!"
he shouted without glancing up from the floor.
When he didn't speak again, Dean turned his back to the wall and began to stroll towards the chair in the middle of the room, stress stiffening his movements. He let the hollow silence weigh upon his conscience- he didn't enjoy this role. He didn't enjoying having to like this.
But he had to forget that.
This was more important than him.
...
The ceiling fan-skylight, the only opening in the safe, whooshed dully twenty feet above their heads.
He had noticed it had some strange, almost Celtic symbols worked into the steel netting of the fan, and the bunker itself was decorated with bizarre ancient patterns, books, teaching, tales, lore.
No, these men were not imposters: they were convinced this was real.
Perhaps they were right.
…
"Look at me," Dean said gruffly, standing before the pale man in the chair.
Several seconds passed and then the piercing light eyes flicked up from behind the dark curls.
That look, those eyes. Something about the man's face made his skin crawl. Dean clenched his teeth and leaned forward into the chair menacingly.
The man's low, humming voice spoke and it was more of a statement than a question.
"Why? What possib-"
Dean let his right hand fly, striking the captive's cheek with a cacophony of cracks. Who was he to think he could ask questions? It was bothering him. Something was wrong here.
The noise echoed around the room, soon followed by echoes of the dark man's calm breaths. Too calm.
"Why don't you just say it, hm!?" Dean asked, leaning closer once more, trying to look at the mans face. Breaking people was something he learned, something he hated. Never before had the mind across from him been something he feared. This was messed up.
"Who ARE you?!"
Nothing.
"What are you doing here?!"
Nothing.
He let out an exasperated breath and walked across to the other side of the room. His head was bent as he stood motionless over a desk, his hands shifting papers around and his head looking for an answer.
…
The man in the chair, his head passively frozen turned to the right (it had stayed there after he was hit from the left) saw the American and almost laughed to himself.
What was this fools game?
And though he sincerely hoped himself wrong, he deduced that this would likely be too easy.
…
Whimpering sounds started to come from behind him. Dean looked up from Bobby's desk, but didn't quite want to look at the man in the chair.
Those were not normal noises- those were ugly. Pathetic, hideous sobs and it hurt Dean's heart in a disgusting way, one which he turned a cold face upon and stepped quickly towards the center of the room.
"Stop."
He didn't. And his face was hung towards his lap.
"Stop it!" His voice came out angrier then he meant it to be, and probably for the best.
"Please," the man said, and his British accent was strong now. His face was wet and miserable, Dean looked at it and saw a disturbing picture. No. Another sob escaped him. "Just let me go home."
Enough.
"STOP!" Dean gripped the edge of the chair, and shouted into the mans wide, cat-like eyes.
He took a breath and regained some of his composure.
"Cut the act, Shirley Temple."
In a moment the dark-haired mans face transformed. A form of darkness seemed to sweep it over, and suddenly it was a blank slate.
His icy eyes glazed over and stared at Dean, every one of his cold features the definition of stolidity.
Dean looked back at him with poorly concealed dislike.
"Look, we know what it is," he spoke frankly, his gaze never leaving his captives face.
"No one just does what you do."
The fan whooshed gently, and the icy gaze didn't change.
"No one falls off a six-story building and SURVIVES."
Silence.
Dean moved closer to the man, pessimally hoping to get through the stare that still gripped him.
Yet he could almost swear he saw amusement dance across those marbled eyes.
"Are you not gonna tell me what you are?"
The mans skinny lips stretched out into his cheeks.
"What I am?" he repeated, mocking the tone.
Dean was not amused. They had had enough of this, and of all the sick bastards, of all the power struggles and rebellions, Heaven had given them enough of this crap.
Enough of this same routine, enough of these pompous, satirically ironic angels.
"Tell me one thing, then," he growled, "Tell me your name."
A smile spread across the mans white mouth.
"You know it."
"Yeah, well lets say I'd like to hear it from you," Dean answered as he leaned against the desk, picking up a pen and tapping it against the wood.
His teeth floated faintly across his smirk, and Dean almost saw his entire face come to life.
Several seconds passed, and then the man spoke in an uncomfortably smooth voice.
"Sherlock Holmes."
