They are back at the bunker.
Castiel wants to take the sleeping man straight to the dungeon, but Sam doesn't want him to. He tells the angel to lock him up in Room 11, not so far away from his.
Castiel is not flattered, but he does it anyway. – Sometimes he doesn't agree with Sam, but he trusts him, and therefore is following his order.
Sam hasn't shared his plans with the angel yet, but they haven't got time for that so far, so he goes with it.
Castiel dumps the man in room 11 on the bed and locks the door when he leaves him behind. He tugs the key in his trench-coat's pocket and goes back to the kitchen where he knows he'll find Sam.
The hunter skips two pills into his mouth and chucks them down with a glass of water, when Castiel enters.
Sam's got dark circles under his eyes and heavy bags. It looks like he hasn't slept for a couple of days, though the angel knows that is not entirely true. It's the visions that drain his friend so badly since they were closing in on The Drowner.
He still thinks it's a very bad idea to not kill the man in room 11.
Castiel refuses to give this human creature a name. Because he doesn't deserve one. This man is worse than some demons he knows – and he hasn't let them live either.
Castiel is worried, but he lets it slip and doesn't bring it up again. Not yet anyway. Because mostly Sam knows what he does. Even when it is reckless and dangerous, Cas knows if someone can handle it, then it's his hunter-friend.
"You should get some rest.", Castiel says, when he watches Sam slump down on the bench and rests his face in his hands, elbows on the table.
"I will."; Sam answers, and the angel doesn't believe him entirely. He knows him for too long now. Sam may lay down, but he will think. And thinking is not resting in Castiel's understanding.
Sure, Cas could put him to sleep, but he knows Sam won't like it. The hunter had told him once it's betrayal if he does something like that – or anything else Sam is not okay with – without his consent.
So Castiel does not do it.
Instead, he stays with him, they talk for a while then – about nothing in particular – until Sam heads for his room later on.
Castiel stays for a while longer. He checks on the human in room 11 and the locked door, and makes sure it is safe to leave him there on his own – unbound.
~ The Black Beast ~
The next morning comes late for Sam. He sleeps in – he rarely does – except after a hard hunt, or visions or both of it.
When he wakes he feels a whole lot better than the night before. His headache is gone and he doesn't feel as drained anymore. Quite the opposite.
Though, he stays in bed a couple more minutes and stares ahead at the ceiling, thinking.
He thinks about Castiel's words from last night. That he is dearly suggesting to not harbor that human in the bunker. That he suggests to hand him over to the authorities, or to kill him.
Which are seemingly the only options the angel is seeing.
Sam's not quite sure if it's only because Castiel thinks that the man's better off dead, or if he is too worried about Sam and what it will do to him. Or what HE will do to him in case he frees himself.
Castiel had made clear last night, that he thinks, that if they kill the man, that Sam's visions will disappear. And that's probably the point in all of this. Castiel wants it to stop. So, does Sam. But Sam doesn't want to stop it if it costs another man's life – no matter if he deserves death, or not.
Sam doesn't see only two options, despite his friend's worries.
Dean Winchester has been corrupted. And, he feels strangely connected to the man a few rooms over. Not only due his visions and dreams. He thinks there's more to it. A lot more.
So, he wants to try.
He wants to try and get through to him and talk to him.
Though, he's aware of the possible danger coming from the serial killer. Like already mentioned, he's not a fool. So, he knows he has to be watchful when he is around the man.
Sam Campbell may is reckless, but he doesn't have a death wish.
~ The Black Beast ~
Sam prepares breakfast.
He gets one of the paper-plates and a paper-cup. Like mentioned, he doesn't have a death wish, so there's no way he hands the guy anything sharp and therefore a useful weapon.
He buts scrambled eggs, a slice of breath and bacon on the plate and pours coffee into the cup. He arranges it on a tray, and goes to room 11.
Sam balances the tray in one hand and fumbles with the other one for the key in his jeans.
Now, there's an issue, he thinks.
The man's not cuffed.
So there sure is the possibility, that Dean is waiting for him, intending to get the drop on him. Maybe he's bust the mirror in the bathroom. Maybe he's found something else in the room to be able to kill Sam.
Maybe it wasn't a good idea to not lock him in the dungeon after all, Sam muses
Sam decides, that it doesn't matter, because whatever the man may have planned – or may not – Sam is aware of him and the danger he is representing.
He puts the tray on the ground, puts the key into the lock and draws his Taurus.
"You awake?", Sam hollers – not because he wants to be nice, but to locate where in the room Dean Winchester is right now.
"Sure.", comes back – muffled due to the door. It doesn't sound as if he's somewhere close to the door.
So Sam unlocks it, nudges it open with his elbow and points his gun into the room.
Dean's sitting on the bed, facing him, elbows propped up on his thighs, his features relaxed.
Sam squats down, never leaving the man out of his sight, never lowering the weapon. He thinks for a moment.
There's another issue …
How is he supposed to get the plate and the cup into the room – without leaving the tray to Dean, not coming to close to the man, and not giving Dean a chance to come too close to him?
Besides, he has to close the door again and since it opens to the inside, the cup and plate are in the way of pulling it closed without messing the breakfast up.
Dean Winchester is chuckling amused and he shakes his head. "Haven't held someone hostage so far, huh?"
Sam glares at him.
Yeah, that guy's right up his alley. Wayward and strong-willed. Rarely someone would dare to look at him that way, Dean thinks. He's a rarity. It's a real bummer somehow.
Dean thinks, that Sam could be a nice extension to him. A trusty sidekick. But the way the man looks at him? Nope, no way. He's too stubborn. He'd probably rather die instead of going darkside.
It's not like Dean Winchester needs a sidekick anyways.
And if the man can't be his sidekick – or whatever – he'll end up as his prey. And that's a pretty nice idea too.
So, Dean decides, he will keep his feet still. He won't do anything that will proof to the stranger, that he – in fact – is a psychotic killer who has got a prone on seeing people die – agonizingly slow.
If Dean's right, the man's a giant softy. He'll let his guard down at some point, and that's when it's on him to make a move.
Sam makes a decision when he gets up to his feet and shoves the tray into the room with his toes. He waves his gun at the man and makes a step back.
"Come and get it.", Sam says calmly.
Dean sighs and shrugs. "You sure? – 'Cause I think it's damn stupid of you letting me come THIS CLOSE to the open door. – and to you." Dean doesn't move, but watches Sam, learns about his body-language just by the tiny reactions of his muscles answering his question.
"You hungry, or not, dude?" Sam thinks, that this really isn't a good idea at all.
Then, Dean moves. He gets to his feet with a disappointed sigh. He has both hands in the air and walks slowly, so Sam can't miss a single move he's making. Dean gets the tray and moves back to the bed with it, where he places it on top of the covers.
He then looks at Sam, with a smug grin on his pouty lips. Emerald-green eyes glistening with mischief. Though, Sam thinks, there's something warm too in them. Something like fondness?
Anyway, it's not adequate to even THINK about the serial killer you have captured could possibly grow fond of you within 24 hours, so he would pour his heart out in front of you.
He's probably already planning on how to kill you, Sam keeps telling himself.
Alone the thought makes Sam think about how fucked u his life really is.
The door is closed again and locked, and Sam takes a relieved breath when he tugs the gun back in his waistband and the key into his pocket.
For the first time eye to eye with a real living and breathing serial killer, it didn't go so bad now, did it?
Besides. – The man's making him nervous somehow. From what he's seen at the crime-scenes, Sam's awaited a more … crazy guy?
Dean Winchester lets him forget that Sam's a killer too. May not as psychotic, as him, but he still is a dangerous man. He's killed more vicious creatures in his life then he can count. – And though … Dean Winchester is making his skin bristle and the tiny hairs in his neck stand up.
~ The Black Beast ~
The next time Sam brings him food, he's prepared.
He's got his gun, handcuffs and the food.
He tells Dean to cuff himself to the headrest of the bed with one hand and tosses him the cuffs.
Dean does as he is told. He even tugs at them, fully visible to Sam, that they are tight enough so he can't slip out of them.
Sam places the yellow tray beside the man on the bed, keeping his distance and then takes the brown one, which he's used to bring him breakfast.
All the time, Dean watches him with a weirdly fond look and a mischievous glint in his eyes, what makes Sam's intestines squirm. It makes him utterly uncomfortable in his skin, makes him want to slip out of it and run for the hills.
Dean Winchester doesn't say anything.
He only watches.
He picks up on every ever so tiny movement of Sam's muscles flexing under his skin. He notices each twitch in his face, he memorizes every line, when Sam's forehead wrinkles up when he looks at the killer.
Dean doesn't say anything.
Only smiles.
And watches.
And it makes Sam want to hide, or run, he doesn't quite know yet. He only knows, that he has to leave the damn room and it takes him everything to not look as if he is fleeing from the man, when he leaves the room and locks it up again.
As he leans against the door on the outside, he takes a steadying breath and closes his eyes for a moment.
He knows the tactic Dean's probably trying on him. And Sam can't help it, the man's getting to him. – In every single way and into every single fiber of his body.
It's ridiculous, Sam knows that, there's not really something to fear. After all he's in control and not the locked up guy the entire nation is looking for. He figures, maybe it's because of the weird feeling of being drawn to the man, which makes him so uneasy.
Sam's so wound up, that he doesn't notice at first. – The slight pull under the skin of his head. The tickling sensation behind his eyes. And it hits him like a freight train, when pain sears through his skull. It's so overwhelming, the tray clutters to the floor and Sam's on his knees before he even realizes he's falling.
He grips his head and grunts, when another wave of pain crushes him and leaves him breathless.
The world around him swims, and shifts and flickers and then he's not in the corridor anymore … He's in the kitchen. Soaked in his own blood. And Dean Winchester hoovering above him …
~ The Black Beast ~
Dean looks up, when he hears – what's probably the tray – bouncing off the floor, shortly followed by a muffled thud and a loud groan.
He cocks an eyebrow at the locked door and his eyes narrow. For a moment he intends to get up and walk over, but then he remembers he's still cuffed to the bed and not supposed to go anywhere.
So, he stays where he is and pokes as the microwaved burger on the paper-plate. He decides to go with the chips for now and takes one.
He listens carefully, as he munches the salty chips.
The yell that follows should have make him flinch, or at least startle him, he thinks. But it doesn't. He keeps eating chips and thinks, that it'd be a pity if the man'd die before he gets his hands on him.
Dean shrugs off the thought and goes for the burger.
Can't be that bad – he's still breathing.
~ The Black Beast ~
When Sam regains consciousness, he's settled on the couch in the library, a wet cloth covering his forehead. Castiel is standing beside him, staring down at him in that creepy angel-way he does all the time.
"Where's he?", Sam croaks out and hisses when he opens his sensitive eyes to the bright light in the room. He's about to sit up, but Castiel has his hand on Sam's shoulder and pushes him back down.
"He is in his room.", the angel answers clinically. "What happened?"
Sam closes his eyes again and adjusts the cloth on his forehead, tugs it over his eyes. "Vision."
Castiel cocks an eyebrow.
Yeah, Sam knows too, that it's the first time that he actually passes out due to having a vision and he doesn't think it's funny too. – At least that's what he imagines he could read on his friends face if he'd open his eyes to look at him.
"What have you seen?", the angel asks.
Sam takes a deep inhale. Holds it. And exhales audibly. "Winchester got the drop on me. – Somehow. – We were in the kitchen – He's been killing me, I think."
Castiel frowns. "You think?", he asks, too many emotions for an angel in these words.
"I didn't see the end, Cas.", Sam informs him annoyed.
"That is enough." And Castiel is about to turn on his heels and go somewhere, but Sam's faster and grips him by the wrist.
"We know how this works. – He won't get the drop on me.", Sam's sure of it – at least mostly. "I just have to be careful."
Castiel scowls down at him. Sam can feel it.
"I've been called. – I must leave. And I can not leave as long as that man is alive and breathing in the bunker with you. Alone."
Yeah, Cas is a sweet Honey-Bunch, isn't he? Sam would feel fluttered, but he actually isn't. He's annoyed.
"Trust me. – Everything's under control." Well yeah, Sam doesn't believe that either. But he can't help it. He's gotta do, what he's gotta do.
They discuss for a while longer.
Sam gets the upper hand and defeats his friend with words of wisdom and logic.
Castiel is beat, and even if Sam doesn't believe quiet his own words, Castiel seems to though. So, the angel leaves to do whatever his angel-business demands him to do.
~ The Black Beast ~
It doesn't take Sam long to recover.
He keeps lying on the couch for a couple of hours with closed eyes and some Vicodin running through his veins. When he gets up it's half past nine at night and his stomach is making sounds as if daring to eat his insides if he's not going to feed him.
His thoughts travel to the man in room 11. – He's still cuffed to that bed. Damn it.
Hopefully he hasn't peed himself yet – or WORSE.
So, Sam hurries up, despite his still hazy brain and foggy vision and pats down the corridor to Dean's room. He unlocks it and tugs the door open. Without looking up, or even thinking of surveying the room before entering, he steps inside and is aiming straight for where he thinks the tray is supposed to be and the man is supposed to be cuffed to the bed.
Except the man's not cuffed to the bed anymore.
That's when Sam realizes, that he doesn't have a weapon on him. – And that is a real shitty thing to happen right now.
Sam freezes mid-step and his head snaps up, when the Winchester is emerging from the bathroom. The only thing he's wearing is the towel wrapped around his waist, his clothes lying on ha heap in the middle of the room.
Dean's skin is still damp and it shimmers in the dim light of the room. Sam doesn't realize at first that he's staring at him. That he's even checking him out – from tip to toe. Practically ripping the towel off with his looks to get an appropriate few what's hiding beneath.
He stops himself right there, because he's so not supposed to even THINK that way.
Sam looks over to the bed, and there are the handcuffs – on the tray.
Sam doesn't reach behind his back for the weapon that's not there, because he knows that the killer will know. So he plays it cool, like the professional he is.
Though, he doesn't go any further into the room. Instead, he straightens up and sets his jaw and looks the smiling man straight in the face.
"You don't really think they can hold me, do you?" Dean's smiling sympathetically at the taller man and winks at him as he walks over to the tray and takes the cuffs from it.
Sam tries damn hard to not show the rising panic, his pounding heart and his trembling hands to the guy, who's coming straight for him now.
Dean stops mere feet in front of him and extends his hand holding the cuffs towards him.
Sam takes them and breaths deeply, not moving a fraction away from the door, blocking it with his body.
"I hoped they would, though.", Sam speaks as soon as he's sure his voice won't fail him.
Dean winks at him , wearing a damn fucking charming smile, and strolls back towards the bed. He takes the tray and hands it to Sam too, then sits down on the edge of it.
"What's for dinner?", Dean asks then.
Sam huffs out a breath in disbelieve. "Baked beans.", he answers – not quite believing what he's seeing. He's reminding himself to not leave his guard down. To not dare and think he is safe. Because he isn't.
Not with Dean Winchester in the bunker.
~ The Black Beast ~
Sam throws the cuffs carelessly on the kitchen-table and goes for the kitchen-cabinet. He takes two cans with baked beans from it and pours their contents into a pot.
Sam gets himself a glass of whiskey and stirs in the pot while sipping at it.
That's when he realizes, that baked beans are difficult to eat without a spoon. He thinks about baked beans and how to eat them without a spoon and a bowl.
Sam's pretty sure he won't give pottery and cutlery to the killer. It'd be like offering his own throat to a bloodthirsty vamp.
So, Sam's putting the baked beans into two paper cups and eats his share from the pot as soon as they're heated up.
When he's done eating, he brings the cups to Dean.
It's the same old, same old.
Telling Dean to stay away from the door. Unlocking it. Placing the cups on the floor from where Dean takes them. Shutting the door and locking it back up.
Sam then goes into the storage room and looks through the boxes with old clothes. For a moment he thinks about washing them, but dumps that thought again on his way to the washing-machine.
Sam goes back to room 11, unlocks it, dumps a heap of clothes on the floor and kicks them towards Dean's feet who's currently slurping his baked beans from one of the cups.
He's still in the towel and looks damn amused, when Sam stares dump folded at him for a few moments too long.
Sam closes the door again and locks it. He shoves the key into the front-pocket of his jeans and goes back to the kitchen, where his glass with whiskey is waiting for him.
~ The Black Beast ~
The next day, Sam's still unsure how to handle this situation. How to approach the killer and how to ask him the things he wants to ask him.
The man's not the wild animal he had imagined that he has to be, and that's taking him aback and makes him feel disturbingly insecure. Sam's trying to work out a plan.
But he fails.
He can't invite the guy into the kitchen for a whiskey or coffee. He can't get him into the library to have a nice chat on the couch.
He doesn't want to tie him down and interrogate him either, because that doesn't feel right, since Dean Winchester hasn't tried anything to overpower him, or to escape.
Sam eventually makes a decision.
He's pouring whiskey into two of the last paper-cups he owns and goes to room 11. It's a little over five p.m., so it's not too early for whiskey.
Even if he feels uncomfortable about staying longer than absolutely necessary in one room with the man, he knows it's time to make his first move.
BEFORE another vision strikes. BEFORE something gets out of control – before Dean Winchester gets out of control.
Because who knows exactly how that man ticks?
What if he's having a multiple personality disorder, and the guy in that room's not the killer?
Yeah, Sam's been thinking about the possibilities plenty the past couple of hours.
And he has decided it doesn't matter what it is, that's making the man tick. He has to get on with the task at hand. He needs to learn about his past and what it is, that's connecting the both of them.
What's connecting Dean or him or both of the to the yellow eyed demon.
~ The Black Beast ~
Once again, Sam's unlocking Dean's room. This time he knocks before he does so and waits with opening the door until he hears the man tell him to come in.
Sam steps inside and closes the door behind him with a shove of his heel.
Dean's sitting on the bed – like always when he enters. It's like some prisoner taking his place before the turnkey comes in.
Dean looks quite surprised when he spots the cups and something like awe flashes up on his face, but is gone again the very same moment.
"We need to talk.", Sam says and walks over to the bed, keeping two feet between them as he hands the man one of the cups.
Dean takes it and sniffs on it, before taking a big gulp and swallows it. He makes a content sound and inches back on the bed until he's leaning against the head of the bed against a pillow.
"So … talk?", he asks and looks up at Sam with big eyes.
"About who you are and why you're doing what you're doing." Sam feels himself calming down with every moment that passes with him being in the same room as the man.
He's pretty sure that this could work out.
"You obviously know who I am.", he answers. "And I dearly doubt that you are going to understand why I am doing what I am doing, Chewbaka."
Sam scowls at the nickname. "Okay. – So … Yeah, I know you're Dean Winchester. You grew up with your father John Winchester. – Your mother died when you were a kid.", he tells him clinically. "Then you and your father vanish from the surface when you turn sixteen. – There are no reports, no health-records. Nothing." Sam takes a deep breath and walks over to the table across from the bed. He sits down on it and draws his gun, because it's digging into his lower back in a rather uncomfortable way, and holds it in front of himself so for Dean to see.
"Until a bunch of hunters stumble across a guy – of whom I think it was your dad. They exorcise the demon possessing him and he dies in the process. Though, there's nothing on his Son.", Sam keeps on telling him. "Thing is … Short after that, the killings started." … and with them his visions.
"That was about nine years ago. Sam shifts his weight and nips on his cup. "Now, you are going to tell me what happened. When he's got possessed, and what makes you do what you do."
Dean catches the ball played towards him easily. He has already figured that the man may know bits and pieces about his past.
"You're one of the guys who killed him?", he asks bluntly.
Sam shakes his head. No. "I started hunting a couple of years later."
"What a shame.", Dean counters and gulps down another giant swallow. "Looks like I won't get my revenge then – For killing him before I could though."
"You're not surprised? Me, for mentioning demons?", Sam asks curiously.
Dean shrugs and tilts his head to the side, watching Sam closely. "Nope. I knew something was wrong with him back then. – Changed like flicking a switch." He's cool about it. Stays untouched by any kind of emotions.- Outwardly at least.
"Did he make you do this?", Sam askes.
"What about I answer your questions when you're answering mine?", Dean asks back and rises both eyebrows. "Would only be fair, wouldn't it?"
Sam overthinks that.
Reminding himself yet again to not let his fucking guard down, because that's what's happening right now. – He feels himself relaxing. He feels himself feeling not being threatened.
But Dean Winchester is a threat. To him and to everyone else.
"Why not." Sam's in, as long as it works out the way he wants it to, he figures. "So, did he make you do this? Did he torture you?"
Dean laughs at that – utterly amused as it seems and he shakes his head. "No. – He didn't make me do anything. – He showed me how it's done properly. He was my teacher."
Sam's pretty confused now. Because he can't understand, why someone would even consider being taught to torture and kill is something completely normal.
"Don't look at me like that." Dean shakes his head again and sighs. "Some people are just meant to be." He licks over his lips.
Sam catches himself watching as he does so.
"My turn. – When you collapsed outside the door. – What was that about? 're you sick?" He's attentive to everything about Sam now, feeling that he's hit a weak spot.
"No I'm not sick." Sam knows how to play this too. "So, you tell me, you're enjoying killing people?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying." Dean purses his lips and empties the cup. "If you're not sick, what was it then? You fainted?"
Sam shrugs it off and bites back a remark about how men don't faint. "None of your business."
"That's not how the game works, my big hairy friend." Dean smiles at him broadly. "So, you're not sick, but you fainted. – Don't you get enough sleep?"
"I'm sleeping plenty.", Sam answers. "You ever saw a demon with yellow eyes?"
Dean does that thing, where he bites down on his lower lip when he's thinking. "Nope." He thinks some more and looks aside. When he looks back at Sam he sighs. "Not sick, fainting, enough sleep. – What is it then?"
Dean's staring daggers at him now and Sam does everything not to squirm under his scrutinizing gaze. "Haven't eaten."
Dean hums at that. He knows it's a lie but obviously lets it slip. "Why did you bring me here?"
"Because I don't think that a prison's the right place for you." Sam's honest with that though. "And I can't ask you all these questions when you're on lockdown in a high-security wing."
Sam nips on the cup and shifts. – Again.
"How did you know where to find me though? I'm wondering ever since …" Dean shifts too.
Sam's thinking if he's supposed to tell him. – Then again, it's no superficial secret either.
"I've Visions about you. – The things you've done.", Sam answers.
Something in Dean's mind seems to snap into place. "You've had a vision out there?"
Sam gives him a curt nod and adjusts the gun in his hand, his grip tightening.
"That's not how this game works.", Sam reminds himself and Dean out loud. "How did the demon make you like what you do?"
Dean shrugs. "I was born to this. And it …" He draws in a deep long breath as if he is smelling something fabulously delicious, "it makes me feel whole.", his voice is so damn soft as if he's talking about a person he's so deep in love with he's going to drown.
Sam keeps his poker-face on, but winces internally. Probably the man's too far gone to be saved.
"What's your name by the way?", Dean draws him out of his thoughts.
"Sam.", he answers and clears his throat.
"That's a nice name." Dean nods and eyes Sam, his look traveling from his feet upwards – ever so slowly – as if he's undressing him with his look, until he reaches his eyes. "It sounds so warm. – Comforting. " His voice turns low and husky and he props up on an elbow. … like home.
Sam hinders himself from squirming and shifts nervously instead. Sam thinks, he can see something in the man's eyes for a split second.
He can't put his finger on it though.
"Thanks – I guess." Sam chuckles, because he feels discomfort creep into him. He feels like he should say something nice about Dean too, but he tells himself that he shouldn't even think about it.
He knows, the killer's playing with him, trying to lull him in.
That, Sam can't afford. "Well … I think we're done." He pushes away from the table and takes a step forward. He eyes his cup for a long moment, then extends his hand and holds it towards Dean.
Dean sits up and Sam makes another step forward, so he can reach it. When Dean takes it from Sam's grasp, their skin barely touches.
In that very moment, Sam freezes. There's a spark of something in his chest. A weird sensation where his heart beats in a steady rhythm. And for a short moment he can't remember how to breath.
Dean's face changes. The expression in his eyes morphs from amused into a confused one. As if he's seeing something, feeling something that's not supposed to be there …
~ The Black Beast ~