He never slept. He used to try and hide it, but now that Cas had confirmed his lack of soul, there was no reason to pretend anymore. He didn't see a reason to hide it in the first place, but Dean could look so broken when he didn't act like "himself." What was himself, anyway? Sam couldn't remember how he had been before. Now he was better, smoother, sharper. He was a better hunter. Dean called him a robot, but Sam felt like a machine – a more defined, better working, upgraded machine. Sleeker and more effective than ever before.

He realized that it was difficult for Dean to see him like this, realized it in his sort of detached and vaguely intrigued way. Apparently he used to understand Dean's behavior, but now it was totally foreign. So that was why he took the job in Vegas. Dean was off somewhere else, with Bobby, and he hadn't said anything when Sam told him about the job. Even telling Dean was an afterthought. Sam's one concern was the job.

It was an old casino, one that had once been the most popular but now was run down and forgotten, lost in the bright lights and blinding high-rises that Vegas had become. Rumor was that it was haunted, and after a company had bought it to renovate, strange things had started happening. Too strange to be anything but what Sam Winchester, hunting machine, specialized in. Of course, it hadn't stopped the business. It seemed nothing could stop gambling, not even what appeared to be a very vengeful spirit.

Sam pulled in and parked. The place was old, and should have had that certain charm that comes with old buildings. But it had definitely seen better days, probably most of them back in the era of the Wild West. If Dean were there, he would have quoted some Clint Eastwood line or something. Sam shook off thoughts of his brother, who now saw him as a stranger, and crossed the parking lot.

He entered the building and was assaulted immediately by the smell of smoke and whiskey. Even if the place no longer brought in gunslingers, it still looked and smelled like it did. There was a large enough crowd, mostly gathered around the tables, gambling their money away. He walked over to the bar and ordered a beer. After a brief chat with the bartender, who refused to talk about the strange happenings, he decided to take a tour of the room.

Sam's long legs made a quick trip of the front casino room and as he walked he found another private room towards the back. He entered the room, clouded in a thick haze of smoke. Taking a sip of his beer to look casual, he waited for his senses to adjust to the darkened room. He scanned the people sitting at the tables, instantly judging if they were suspicious or not. Then his eyes fell on a man, seated way back in the room, his face half covered in shadow. He wore a suit, tailored impeccably, and twirled a poker chip in his fingers. Sam moved closer, wanting to get a better look. Then the man moved forward. And with that small movement, he moved his face into the light. The yellow light from the cheap lamps flooded his features, revealing a strong jaw covered in scruff, sharp cheekbones, a broad forehead, languid eyes, and the most obscenely sexy mouth Sam had ever seen, man or woman. His dark hair was slicked back, but there was something undeniably animalistic about him, Sam thought. His musings were confirmed when the man looked up, and caught Sam's gaze. His eyes shifted over Sam's features, and he felt himself getting warm under his tie. The stranger fixed him with a gaze that was purely sexual, predatory without really being threatening. He moved his shoulders, and twirled the poker chip between his fingers. Sam retreated back into the main room of the casino and tried to review what had just happened to him.

But it seemed that categorizing the stranger was more difficult than it appeared. And after a couple of minutes and another beer, Sam went in search of the manager of the casino. Their meeting was totally useless. The manager, while helpful and earnest because he thought Sam was from a local newspaper, was completely unaware of any supernatural occurrences in the casino. In fact, he looked kind of guilty when Sam brought it up. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. Sam decided he would come back later that night to scan for EMF just in case. He was about to make his exit when he found his way blocked by the stranger from the private room.

"Don't believe we've met," the stranger said, and extended his hand for Sam to shake.

It took a lot for Sam Winchester to feel crowded. He was above six feet, covered in ropy muscles and the sort of confident that only came with being totally aware of himself and what his body could do. But this stranger did it. He wasn't even standing that close and Sam felt invaded. The presence of this man was something Sam had never experienced before. Again Sam was reminded of an animal, barely controlled. The stranger was shorter than Sam, but built powerfully. Sam could see the rippling muscles beneath his tailored shirt. And when that mouth moved and spoke in the huskiest voice Sam had ever heard, his mind went immediately to something pornographic. It was impossible not to think of something like that with the voice that the stranger had.

"Sam Winchester." Sam said, returning the handshake, not even realizing he'd revealed his real name.

"Eames. Pleasure to meet you." Eames answered. "Care for a drink?" He gestured with an empty bourbon glass.

Sam nodded and followed Eames to the bar, not understanding himself entirely. Why was he following this man, a virtual stranger? Why was he sitting down at the bar next to him? Why were they sharing a bourbon together? Why had he given him his real name?

"I don't want to seem rude," Sam began, with one of his newly adopted phrases. Dean had told him that he was often abrupt, and that offended people so Sam started prefacing his thoughts with phrases like that.

"But why have I just invited you to have a drink when we're strangers?" Eames finished for him, his English accent sliding over and caressing the words like a lover's fingertips.

"Yeah."

Eames shrugged and fiddled with something inside of his pants pocket. "I can spot a liar from a mile away. Pegged you the minute you walked in here. So what are you pretending to be, Sam Winchester?"

Sam felt a bodily shiver when Eames said his name with that voice of his. Momentarily distracted by the way his mouth moved over his name, Sam blinked for a second before recovering. "Excuse me?"

Eames leaned forward and took a long sip from his glass. Sam stared at his jaw when he swallowed. "I believe you and I are in a similar business." He leaned back and scanned the bar, the picture of casual conversation. Sam meanwhile, felt hot and intimidated and, yes damn it, aroused. It was impossible for a man to be this beautiful, this unashamedly sexual. Sam wondered briefly if Eames was a siren. "Naturally, I prefer the term forger, but to each his own, really." Eames finished.