A/N: This fic was completely plagerized from The Waiting Game, a Harlequin Intrigue by Jayne Ann Krentz. I totally love the story so of course I stole it, slashed it, and posted it. ...um, sorry?

Sam Campbell paused in the act of searching Dean Winchester's desk and told himself for the hundredth time that what he was doing was illegal and potentially dangerous. And while he had his faults, as his family had only recently pointed out to him in some detail, he had never, until that moment, sunk to the level of doing something of this nature.

But Sam was concerned, worried, anxious and more than a little suspicious of the stranger whose study he was going through with such haste. Besides, he told himself with his customary impulsive enthusiasm, the opportunity had been too good to let pass. The door to Winchester's isolated home had not been locked when he had arrived twenty minutes earlier. And he had, after all, no intention of stealing anything. He just needed some answers.

Impatiently Sam scanned the room as he closed the drawer of the desk. The study was a clean-lined, orderly room. It was a quiet, solid, masculine room, and he couldn't help wondering how accurately it reflected its owner. Hardwood floors, simple, substantial furniture and a great deal of shelving were the main features. If the den did mirror its owner with any degree of accuracy, Sam would be in trouble should Winchester happen to walk in the door. Something about the place seemed to resist and resent his intrusion.

A greenhouse window that overlooked the cold, dark water of Puget Sound provided the main source of light. Dusk was settling in on Bainbridge Island, where Dean Winchester made his home, and across the expanse of water the lights of Seattle began sinking into life. Sam didn't dare turn on a lamp for fear of alerting a neighbour to his presence. The house was tucked away by itself amid a stand of fir and pine, but one never knew who might pass by on the road outside. It was late summer and he ought to have enough fading twilight to get him through the rest of the search.

He was turning away from the desk, intent on exploring the bookshelves, when he noticed the apple. Startled, Sam reached out to pick it up. In that moment he was forced to acknowledge that he might have been mistaken in his suspicious of Dean Winchester. After all, Sam had an apple just like this one and there was only one person who could have given it to Winchester.

Sam held the object up to the fading light and studied it intently. It was not just any apple, of course. It was fashioned of heavy crystal, and the stem with its leaf was of intricately worked gold. The person who had made a gift of the apple believed in substantial things such as gold, Sam knew. Small bubbles had been captured inside the apple by the artist. They reflected the light in an intriguing manner, making anyone who held the object want to examine it more intently.

All in all, it was a very attractive paperweight, and the fact that it sat on Dean Winchester's desk put a whole new light on the situation. Sam stood still, turning the apple so that the crystal caught the light, and wondered what he was going to do next.

'Offer me a bite.'

The deep, gravelled voice came from the doorway. Sam chilled for an instant as alarm and embarrassment washed through him. He nearly dropped the crystal apple as he spun around to face the man who was lounging calmly against the doorjamb. Frantically Sam struggled for self-control and a reasonable explanation of his presence in the study. Unfortunately the situation did not do wonders for his presence of mind. Sam found himself wishing very badly that he had never succumbed to the temptation the empty house had provided.

'I'm sorry,' he managed, stumbling over the words. 'I didn't hear anyone. I mean, there was no one at home when I arrived, and the door was unlocked. I had no business wandering in to wait for you, but it seemed pointless to sit outside in the car and I…' he broke off abruptly as something occurred to him. 'You are Dean Winchester, aren't you?'

Eyes that were either unusually colourless or else were washed of colour by a trick of the dim light swept curiously over him. Sam had the feeling that the stranger had taken in every detail in that brief glance.

'If I'm not Dean Winchester, this situation is going to get even more complicated, isn't it?' the man noted softly.

Sam's fingers tightened on the paperweight as he force himself to sound reasonably cool and collected.

'It would mean that there are two intruders in Mr. Winchester's home instead of just one. Yes, I would say that would complicate things. But I don't think that's the case. You are Dean Winchester.'

Arms folded across his chest, the man regarded Sam with mild interest. 'What makes you so sure?'

'You're leaning much too casually in that doorway, for one thing,' Sam retorted. Whatever he was thinking, the man didn't seem intent on doing him any immediate harm. Actually, he really didn't look like the sort of man who would harm someone unless greatly provoked. The fear died away, leaving only the embarrassment. 'Look, I can explain this, Mr. Winchester.'

'I can't wait to hear the explanation.'

Sam felt a warm flush rise along his cheekbones. Carefully he set the crystal apple back down on the desk. It was a relief to have an excuse to look away from that strangely colourless gaze. 'Then you're going to acknowledge your name, at least?'

'Why not? This is my home. I might as well use my name,' Dean murmured easily.

'I'm Sam Campbell,' he said quietly, turning his head to meet Dean's eyes once more. 'Bobby Singer's nephew. I have a paperweight just like this one at home.'

'I see.'

He hadn't expected the silence that followed. It made Sam feel uneasy and awkward. Hurriedly he tried to fill it with further explanations. 'I came looking for you because I couldn't locate Uncle Bobby. I just arrived from his place in the mountains late this afternoon. I caught the ferry here to the island and by the time I found your house it was getting pretty late. There was no answer when I knocked on your door, and when I tried it, it was unlocked. I'm afraid I just came on in to wait for you,' he concluded with a tentative smile.

'And wound up searching my study as a means of passing the time?' Dean didn't return the smile but he didn't seem unduly upset.

Sam took a deep breath. 'I happened to notice the paperweight,' he lied politely. 'It really is just like the one I have. Uncle Bobby gave it to me a few months ago. I assume he gave you this one?'

'Umm.'

Sam decided the noncommittal sound was an affirmative. 'They're quite stunning, aren't they? I have mine on my desk at home.'

Dean ignored Sam's determined chattiness. 'What were you looking for, Sam?'

Something about the calm manner in which he asked the question convinced Sam that Dean Winchester wasn't going to accept his explanation of why he happened to be in his study. Sam exhaled slowly, considering his options. This might be a clear-cut case of honesty being the best policy, he decided ruefully. Folding his arms across his chest in a subtle mockery of Dean's own stance, he leaned back and propped himself against the edge of the desk. He met Dean's gaze with a level one of his own.

'I was looking for something.'

Dean nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 'For what?'

Sam shrugged. 'That's the problem. I don't know. Anything that might give me a clue about where my uncle is.'

Dean continued to regard Sam with solemn interest for another long moment. This time Sam resisted the impulse to fill the silent void with attempts at explanations. He could be just as remote and laconic as Dean Winchester could, he promised himself.

'What makes you think I might have some answers for you?'

'I'm not sure you do. But Uncle Bobby once told me that if anything ever happened to him, I was to notify you. He gave me your address several months ago, shortly before he sent the apple, in fact.'

'And you think something has happened to Bobby?'

'I don't know,' Sam admitted. 'I only know that he's not at his home up in the mountains.'

'Perhaps he's taken a short trip. Was he expecting you?'

Sam hesitated uneasily. 'Well, no. I just showed up on his doorstep unannounced, I'm afraid. I did try to call but all I got was his answering machine.'

'Then why the concern?' Dean pressed quietly.

Sam looked at him searchingly. 'How well do you know my uncle?'

'Well enough.'

Not much to go on, but he might as well see what happened when he told Dean the reason for his concern. 'His neighbour said he went hunting.'

Dean Winchester greeted that bit of information with more silence. Then he straightened away from the door. 'Have you had dinner, Sam?'

Sam frowned as Dean turned away and started down the hall. 'Wait a minute! Don't you understand?' he demanded, following after the other man. He caught up with him just as he rounded the corner and walked into the small, rather old-fashioned kitchen. 'They said he went hunting.'

'And Bobby Singer doesn't go in for blood sports. Yes, I understand.' Dean opened the refrigerator door, examining the contents with a wary eye.

'It's because of his old job,' Sam said quickly. 'Before he retired he worked in a rather violent world, you see.'

'He worked for the government, you mean.' Dean finally decided on a plastic-wrapped chunk of cheese. He removed it from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. Then he opened a cupboard and reached for a box of crackers. 'I know what your uncle used to do for a living, Sam.'

Sam blinked, watching Dean carefully. 'Oh.'

'You didn't answer my question. Did you have any dinner?' Dean began slicing cheese with smooth, methodical strokes of a knife.

'Uh, no, I haven't had time,' Sam said vaguely. His mind was on other things and had been all afternoon.

'Neither have I. Cheese and crackers and some vegetables okay?'

'Look, Dean… Mr. Winchester… I'm really not very hungry. I just came here to see if you knew anything about Uncle Bobby.'

'And you stayed to rifle my study.' Dean nodded. 'Sorry I can't offer anything more interesting. But it's kind of late in the evening to start something more elaborate. And I'm really not that good a cook in the first place.'

'I didn't rifle your study!' Sam exploded, beginning to lose his patience. He didn't have a great deal of that commodity in the first place. Life was short enough as it was, he felt. What good was an excess of patience? 'Now, about Uncle Bobby…'

'There's some wine in that cupboard next to the sink. Why don't you open a bottle while I slice up a few carrots and some broccoli?'

'But I don't want any wine!'

'I do.' Dean glanced back at Sam over his shoulder, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 'I'm celebrating, you see.'

That stopped Sam. 'Celebrating what?'

'The sale of my first novel.'

Sam stared at him, astonished. 'Are you really?'

'Umm.'

Again Sam assumed the noncommittal sound was a yes answer. His enthusiasm sprang up, as usual, out of nowhere and rushed into his voice. 'Dean, that's fantastic! Absolutely fantastic! A once-in-a-lifetime event. I can't believe it. I've never even met an author before.'

'Neither have I,' Dean said dryly. He finished slicing the cheese and opened the refrigerator to pull out a handful of carrots. 'Choose whichever bottle of wine you want.'

A little bemused, Sam found himself obediently reaching into the cupboard

and selecting a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir. He'd heard the Northwest wine industry was starting to flourish but he hadn't yet had much experience with the products. 'You must be very excited.'

Dean thought about that. 'Well, it was a relief to make the sale,' he began consideringly.

'A relief! Why, it's marvellous! Terrific! Thrilling! What's the matter with you? I should think you'd be doing handsprings or something.'

'I imagine it's easier to get excited when there's someone else around to get excited with you,' he murmured, arranging raw vegetables on a platter and putting a dollop of mayonnaise in the centre. 'I did go out and have a beer down at a local tavern. That's where I was when you arrived, in fact.'

Sam poured the wine and handed Dean a glass. With a smile he raised his own glass in a grand salute. 'Congratulations! And here's to nice, fat royalty checks.' He sipped his Pinot Noir with attention. It was good. Sam made a mental note of the fact. There appeared to be a future in the Northwest wines. Then he remembered belatedly that he didn't have to worry so much anymore about being on top of the latest culinary trends. 'Too bad you can't tell Uncle Bobby. I'm sure he'd be very happy for you.'

Dean regarded Sam over the rim of his glass as he took a deep swallow. 'Yes, I think he would be quite satisfied.'

Sam smiled at him quizzically. 'Did he know you were writing a book?'

'He knew.'

'Then you really are a close friend of his?' he went on doggedly.

'Umm.'

Sam shot him a narrow glance. 'Can't you just say yes or no?'

'Sorry, Yes.'

'Then you do realize that it was odd he would tell his neighbour he was going hunting?' he continued more seriously.

'Is that exactly what his neighbour said? That Bobby said he was going hunting?' Dean picked up the platter of vegetables and led the way into the rustic living room. He set the plate down on a low wood-and-brass table in front of the couch and went over to the old stone fireplace. Going down on one knee, he reached for a handful of kindling. Although it was still technically summer and the day had been sunny and warm, the first hints of autumn was in the air tonight.

Sam sat down in the corner of the worn black leather couch, studying the man in front of him. 'That's what the woman who had the cabin near his said. Her exact words.'

Dean didn't respond, his attention on constructing the fire. Sam sipped his wine and continued to watch him. There was a certain fluidity to his movements that intrigued him. There was also a definite logical precision to the way he built the fire. A coordinated, controlled man. Dean was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a black denim work shirt. The clothing moulded a lean, tautly built body that seemed totally balanced. On his feet he wore a pair of dusty, soft-soled canvas sport shoes. Now that Sam had a moment to think about it, he decided the strange eyes were really a shade of clear green. In the right light they might appear as silver.

Dean was a friend of his uncle's and that took the nervousness out of contacting him, even if he had caught Sam going through the contents of his desk. Although Sam's uncle gave the impression of being easygoing and very friendly, Bobby Singer was actually quite cautious in his friendships. He had worked too long in a world where few people could be trusted. If he liked Dean Winchester, then Sam knew he, in turn, could trust the stranger in front of him. His uncle had always been an excellent judge of people. Sometimes his life had depended on those judgements. The fact that he had survived and been able to retire at a normal age was evidence of just how accurate his analyses of other people had been over the years.

Dean set a match to the kindling and the yellow flames leaped to life. He crouched for a moment in front of the fire, making certain it had caught properly, and the flickering light illuminated the hard line of his profile.

He was an extremely handsome man, Sam reflected. The planes and angles of his face had been carved with finely chiselled care. There was a primitive strength in the aggressive nose and the austere cheekbones. Dean wasn't the kind of man who would smile easily but his full lips held promise. Sam guessed Dean's age at somewhere close to thirty.

Sam thought he saw something of the fundamental sureness and strength in him that his uncle must have seen before he decided to make Dean a friend. Bobby Singer was sure of this man and therefore Sam knew he could be sure of him, too. He relaxed even more and took another sip of his wine. He sensed he had done the right thing by seeking out Dean Winchester.

He just wished Dean had shown a little more interest in his concern for Uncle Bobby. But then, a man who had just sold his first book probably had a right to be thinking of other things at the moment.

'What's it called?' he asked as Dean got to his feet and paced back to the couch.

'My novel?' He seemed to have no trouble following the abrupt shift in the conversation. Dean picked up a cracker with cheese on it and downed the whole thing in one bite. 'Phantom.'

'Is it a horror tale?'

He shook his head slowly, his eyes on the fire. 'Not in the sense you mean. It's what's called a thriller.'

'Ah, secret agents, espionage, plots and counter-plots. That sort of thing. I read a lot of thrillers.' he smiled. 'Are you writing under your own name?'

'I'm writing under the name Dean Winchester.'

'Good, then I won't have to jot down your pseudonym. You'll have to autograph a copy of your book for me when it's published. I'm sure Uncle Bobby will want one, too.'

'Bobby's already seen the manuscript,' Dean said quietly. 'Because of his, uh, background, I thought he might be able to give me a few ideas that would make Phantom sound more authentic.'

'Did he?'

'Umm.' Dean stared into the fire. 'He was very helpful. You're really worried about him, aren't you?'

Sam resisted the temptations to say 'umm.' 'Yes. My uncle doesn't hunt. He doesn't even like to fish. Why would he tell his neighbour he was going hunting and then drop out of sight?'

'Beats me.' Dean swirled the wine in his glass. 'But don't you think you may be overreacting? You should know your uncle can take care of himself.'

'He's in his late sixties now, Dean. And he's been out of the industry a long time.'

Something close to amusement gleamed briefly in Dean's eyes. 'The industry? You sound like an insider. Bobby uses words like that.'

Mildly embarrassed, Sam's mouth turned down wryly. 'That's how he always referred to his government work. I guess I picked up the term.'

'And some of the skills?' he asked too blandly.

Sam looked away, reaching for a carrot. He knew Dean was referring to the fact that he had found him prowling around his study. 'Obviously I didn't pick up the skills. If I had, you would never have caught me the way you did this evening. How did you sneak up on me so quietly, anyway? Must be those sneakers you're wearing. But I was certain I'd hear any car pulling into the drive.'

'I walked back from the tavern. The car is still in the garage behind the house.'

'Oh.' Chagrined, Sam chewed industriously on his carrot.

'You'd better practice checking out those sorts of details if you plan to follow in your uncle's footsteps.'

'Don't worry, as much as I like my uncle, and in spite of the fact that I happen to be in the market for a new career, I do not intend to go into intelligence work. I can't think of anything more depressing and grim. Imagine living a life in which you couldn't trust anyone or anything. Besides, I like to limit my close association with violence to reading thrillers,' he added with a small smile. 'It's okay on a fantasy level but I certainly wouldn't want to make a career out of it.'

'If you feel that strongly about it, you'd better give up the habit of going through other people's desks. You could have just as easily turned around and found yourself facing an irate homeowner holding a gun as a friendly, trusting soul such as myself.'

Sam eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. 'Actually, you did take the whole thing quite calmly.'

'You didn't look that dangerous,' Dean informed him gently, ignoring Sam shifting his muscular six foot four frame indignantly. 'In fact, you appeared rather inviting standing there in the twilight, gazing into the apple. Besides, as soon as you said you had one just like it, I knew who you were.'

'You were certain I was Uncle Bobby's nephew?'

'When he gave me the crystal apple he told me he'd given a second one to you. He had them made up specially for us, you know.'

'No, I didn't know. That is, I didn't realize he'd had a second one made until I saw it sitting on your desk. When I spotted it, I decided I probably didn't have any reason to go on being suspicious of you,' he added apologetically. 'Unfortunately, I came to that brilliant conclusion a bit late. You'd already snuck up and found me in what I guess qualifies as a compromising situation. You really don't know where Uncle Bobby might have gone or why he would say he was off hunting?'

'No. But I do think Bobby can take care of himself. My guess is he'd want you to stay out of the way until he's handled whatever needs handling.'

'Then you do believe something's happened to him!' he pounced.

'I didn't say that,' Dean protested mildly. 'I only meant that he probably had his reasons for disappearing. Maybe he just wanted to take off by himself for a while. Maybe he's got a woman friend and didn't feel like explaining all that to his neighbour. There could be a hundred different reasons why he's not at home, none of them particularly sinister.'

'I don't like it,' Sam muttered, feeling pressured by the logic.

'Obviously, or you wouldn't have taken the trouble to find me. So Bobby told you to look me up if you were ever worried about something having happened to him?'

'He said you'd want to know, or something like that. I wasn't exactly certain what he meant. He doesn't have a lot of close friends. I assumed you might be one of them.'

'But you weren't sure where I fit in so you decided to take a quick look around my desk drawers while you waited for me to return. Are you always that impulsive?'

'It seemed prudent, not impulsive, to take the opportunity to find out what I could about you before I confronted you,' he said cautiously. 'Some of my uncle's old acquaintances aren't the sort with whom you want to get involved on a first-name basis.'

'You've met a lot of them?' Dean inquired politely.

'Well, no. But Uncle Bobby has told me about a few of them.' Sam shivered slightly, remembering one particular tale. 'He's got a great collection of stories and personal recollections, although he always changes names and locations to protect the guilty. I suppose he's mentioned a few of the more colourful characters to you if you used him as resource material for Phantom.'

'We've shared a few beers and talked on occasion,' Dean admitted.

'You see a lot of my uncle?'

Dean moved his hand in a vague gesture. 'He doesn't live that far away. I get out to his place once in a while and sometimes he makes it over here. What about you? See a lot of him?

Sam grinned, dimples flashing. 'Not as much as I would have liked over the years. I'm afraid Uncle Bobby has always been considered the black sheep of the family. As you can imagine, though, I found him fascinating. He was the unconventional relative, the one who had the mysterious career, the one who showed up when you least expected him. He was unpredictable, and kids like that, I suppose. The rest of the family thought he was a bad influence on me and, of course, that made him all the more interesting.'

Dean leaned back against the sofa, slanting him a glance. 'Why did they think he was a bad influence?'

'Because he always encouraged me to do what I wanted to do, not what my family wanted. And he had a way of understanding me, of knowing what I was thinking. He told me two years ago, for instance, that I wasn't going to be happy for long as a mid-level manager in a large corporation. Said I didn't have the proper corporate personality. He was right. I think I knew it at the time but everything seemed to be on track and running smoothly in my life. I was living the perfect 'streamers life-style, and to be honest, it had its moments.'

'Streamer? Ah,' Dean nodded, '-following all the new trends, mainstream.'

Sam gave him another laughing smile. 'I was into the whole scene down in California. I had a lifetime membership at the right athletic club, dressed for success, had my apartment done in the high-tech look and kept up with the trends in food. I ground my own coffee beans for my very own imported Italian espresso machine, and I can tell you the precise moment when pasta went out and Creole cooking came in, if you're interested.'

'No, thanks. I eat a lot of macaroni and cheese. I don't want to hear that it's 'out.' So Bobby advised you to dump the 'streamers life?'

'Macaroni and cheese does not count as real pasta,' Sam told him forcefully. 'Streamer pasta is stuff such as linguini and calamari or fettuccini Alfredo. And, yes, Uncle Bobby did advise me to dump the 'streamers life-style. Along with the 'streamer males I was dating at the time,' Sam confided cheerfully. 'I think he thought they were all wimps. He said none of the ones I introduced him to would be of any use in a crunch. I explained I didn't plan to get into any crunches but he just shook his head and told me to come visit him when I came to my senses.'

Dean regarded him assessingly. 'And that's why you went to his place today? To tell Bobby you'd come to your senses?'

Sam stirred a little restlessly on the couch, rubbing his hands up and down his thighs as he shifted his focus back to the fire. 'Something like that. I quit my job last week. I think I'm going through a mid-life crisis.'

'You're a little young for that, aren't you?'

Sam ignored the underlying trace of humour in his question. 'Don't patronize me. I just turned twenty five. As it happens, I've been through several mid-life crises and I know them when I see them. I'm ready to make some changes in my life again.'

'You're sure that change is what you want?' Dean got to his feet to throw a bigger log on the fire.

'Oh, yes,' Sam murmured with great certainty, 'I'm sure.'

Sam sounded quite resolute, Dean decided as he fed the flames. He'd heard that quiet certainty in Bobby's voice from time to time. Must be a family characteristic.

For some reason, Sam Campbell wasn't quite what he'd expected, though, even if he did have some of Bobby's iron-hard determination. Dean toyed with the flames a moment longer, considering the younger male who was lounged on the couch behind him. When a man had waited nearly a year to meet someone, it was perfectly natural that he would have developed a few preconceptions.

The few expectations he had, however, had never been fully formed. Bobby had given him some vague, odd bits of information about his nephew but little that was concrete enough to build a picture in his mind. Just like Bobby to deliberately leave a great deal to the imagination. He was, after all, a man, and he knew what a man's mind would do when it went to work on a mysterious figure.

Dean realized that he hadn't expected Sam Campbell to be a raging beauty and in that regard he'd been correct. Taken individually, his features didn't add up to those of a beautiful man. What surprised him was that the hazel eyes, ready dimples, longish chestnut brown hair and tall, slender figure somehow went together to create a subtly appealing combination.

On second thought, it wasn't the collection of physical characteristics that made for that appeal. There simply wasn't anything that unique about eyes that hovered between green and brown or about hair that was worn shaggy, a few longer strands tucked casually behind his ears. The red polo shirt he was wearing emphasized a long lean chest, rather than just muscular strength.

Dean turned the matter over in his mind for an instant longer before he decided that Sam was somehow more than the sum of his parts. There was intelligence, ready laughter and more than a dash of impulsiveness in those hazel eyes. And when he had learned of the sale of Dean's first book, his spontaneous enthusiasm had been very real even though Dean was a stranger to him. It was his inner animation that somehow pulled the ordinary together and made the total package strangely intriguing.

He'd been consciously and unconsciously anticipating Sam's arrival for several months but the end result had still taken him by surprise. He simply hadn't expected to feel such an immediate and compelling attraction to the young man. He hadn't though he'd react to the reality of Sam with such intensity. It was unsettling but he'd lay odds that Bobby would probably say 'I told you so' the next time he saw him.

Satisfied with his analysis, Dean turned and moved back toward the couch. He'd long ago accepted the fact that for some things there were no answers but he still preferred situations that could be taken apart, analyzed and understood. He liked to have a handle on things, Dean told himself. No, it was more than that. He liked to know he was in control of his environment. Having everything accurately assessed and properly analyzed gave him the only real sense of security one could have in this world. Sam Campbell was a new and disturbing element in his environment and it was good to know he was already beginning to comprehend him. More importantly, he was comprehending and accepting his reaction to him. He rather thought Bobby Singer would be pleased at the progress of the situation.

'It's getting late,' Sam mused as he munched the last cracker. 'I suppose I'd better be on my way. If you really don't have any idea of where Uncle Bobby is, there's no point imposing on you any longer.'

'Where were you planning on going tonight?' Dean sank back down on the couch, aware of an unexpected and totally irrational sense of disappointment. Sam had just arrived. It didn't seem right that he should already be planning to leave. That wasn't the way it was supposed to be. A part of him was disturbed that Sam seemed oblivious to the fact that things were different now. Clearly Singer had not given him any idea of what he'd had in mind when he'd set about engineering a meeting between Dean and his nephew.

He wondered how much to tell Sam about his Uncle Bobby's plans for him. He wondered how the other man would take the news. He might be furious or he might treat the whole thing as a joke. It occurred to Dean that in spite of being nearly thirty years old he didn't know nearly as much about relationships as he should. It would probably be better not to bring up the subject of Bobby's plans this evening. On the other hand, Dean found himself fiercely reluctant to let Sam go without putting the first delicate tendrils of a claim on him. Something elemental had come alive deep within him, something hard to deny.

'There's an inn on the outskirts of Winslow. It's only about a mile from here. I'll stay there tonight and be on my way tomorrow.'

Dean frowned. 'You're planning on returning to California?'

Sam shook his head vigorously. 'Not until I satisfy myself about Uncle Bobby. I'm worried, Dean, even if nobody else is.'

Dean rolled his empty wineglass between his palms. 'I don't think you have anything to be concerned about.'

'Maybe I've got an overactive imagination. People are always accusing me of it.' He lifted one shoulder in careless disregard for the fact. 'But Uncle Bobby's former career must have contained some loose ends. And I know that at times he was involved with some dangerous people. There was one in particular he once told me about-' he broke off abruptly, eyes narrowing.

'What do you think you can do about the fact that he's not available at the moment?' Dean asked reasonably.

Sam gave the matter some thought. 'I think I'll go back to his cottage in the morning and break in. Maybe he left some notes or something on his desk.' His eyes grew thoughtful with the plans running through his head.

Dean looked down at the glass in his hands. 'The last time you tried that trick you got caught.'

Sam laughed. 'Well, no harm done if Uncle Bobby comes home unexpectedly and catches me in his house. In fact, it will be a great relief. The mystery will be solved, won't it?'

Dean experienced a flash of amused amazement. 'You're going to do it, aren't you?'

'Why not? Maybe I'll get some answers.'

'I think you'll be wasting your time.'

Sam grimaced. 'At the moment I have time to waste. As I explained earlier, I'm unemployed.'

'There are probably more productive things you could do with your newfound time,' Dean suggested dryly.

'I know. Such as look for another job. But I think I'll see what I can find out about Uncle Bobby first.'

'Are you always this impulsive and stubborn?'

'Just since I turned twenty-five,' he told Dean with benign menace, his eyes mirroring an amused challenge.

Dean found himself smiling back at him. Sam's gaze went to his mouth, and he realized Sam was very interested in his expression. Did the smile look that odd on his face? ' Well, if you're intent on another act of breaking and entering, I suppose I'd better go along with you.'

Sam was startled. 'Why? There's absolutely no need for you to come with me.'

'You're wrong,' Dean said gently. 'There are several good reasons why I'd better tag along, not the least of which is that Bobby Singer would probably nail my hide to the wall if I didn't.'

'Why on earth should Uncle Bobby care?'

'You're worried about him to the point where you're willing to break into not one but two private homes. Bobby would expect me to take your concerns seriously, I think. He'd also want me to make sure you didn't get into trouble. What if a neighbour saw you going through a back window and called the law? You'd have some difficult explanations to make. Messy, Bobby likes things neat and tidy.' Dean paused a moment. 'So do I.'

'Well, I still don't see why Uncle Bobby would expect you to take the responsibility of keeping me out of trouble,' Sam declared firmly.

Dean deliberately kept his voice casual even though he was oddly aware of the strong, steady beat of his own pulse. 'Don't you? The explanation's simple enough. Bobby Singer has plans for you, Sam. You've arrived a little ahead of schedule. I think he was planning on you coming to visit him in a couple of months, but the timing doesn't change things.'

For the first time since he had caught Sam in his study, a degree of genuine wariness flared in Sam's gaze. Dean immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut. But the strangely primitive desire to let Sam know he wasn't quite as free as he assumed was pushing him.

'What plans?' Sam demanded suspiciously.

He'd already said too much, Dean decided. In a way it was alarming. He'd allowed his unaccustomed emotional response to push him in a direction he'd guessed would be awkward. Odd. He usually had a much better sense of discretion. Having gone this far, however, he was committed to finishing the business. He couldn't take back the words he'd already spoken. The next best thing he could do was concentrate on keeping his tone light and whimsical.

'Didn't your uncle tell you that he has decided to give you to me? You're my reward, Sam. My gift for finishing Phantom and a couple of other things that were hanging fire in my life.