Sam checked his watch for what must have been the seventh time. 10:50pm. A whole twenty minutes had gone by and still not a whisker of the man who said he'd be there at half past.

Sam peered through the gathering darkness at the people who were still wandering round at this time; hoping to catch a glimpse of the (very late) mystery man.

His eyes alighted on group of teens sauntering over the bridge where Sam was sat. He narrowed his eyes. They seemed to be giggling. At him? Sam realised that he looked to all the world as if he had been stood up. He cast an angry glare at the streetlight which was currently illuminating his obvious state of loneliness on a love-seat clearly meant for two.

It wasn't like he would be able to be in a relationship with anyone anyway, he thought bitterly. Everyone he got close to usually didn't last very long. It wasn't something he could ever get over, but he had resolved to never let it happen again.

He checked his watch again. 10:55pm.

Maybe it was a trap. It probably was a trap. Especially considering the man on the phone refused to tell him who he was, only saying that "I'm a friend who knows something. Meet me on the bridge at 10:30, Friday night."

Oh it was definitely a trap.

Sam groaned at the obviousness of the plot that had plainly been fabricated to result in his capture... Or death he contemplated morbidly.

How could he have been so stupid?

Dean didn't know where he was. Bobby didn't know where he was. Even the Angels didn't know where he was. He was screwed.

Maybe those teenagers had been demons. Maybe his exit from the bridge was completely blocked off from both sides. In fact, scratch 'maybe'; try 'doubtlessly'. Knowing Sam's luck, he'd never get out of here completely intact.

He was wondering if there were any demons swimming around in the water (and if he could possibly survive the drop) when he heard a distinctive clearing of the throat from behind him.

He whirled around to confront whatever had decided to try and coerce him into doing something almost definitely completely against his will when he was met by a startlingly familiar face.

A face he'd beaten at poker.

A face that had held Dean's life.

A face that he desperately wanted to smack.

He didn't.

"You!?" Sam spluttered through his embarrassingly slack jaw, staring at the Irish witch stood in front of him.

"Yes Sam. Missed me? I must say that I'm still rather impressed with that game you played. 300 years and nobody's beat me quite as well as that..."

"Yeah yeah, cut to the point! Why are you here?"

"It's about Dean."

Don't tell me he challenged you at poker again? Sam thought despairingly. Oh god, what if he's been a dick?

"What's he done this time? Pissed someone off?"

"Please. Dean pisses almost everyone and everything off." Lilted the witch in his Irish accent.

"No, this is about something else."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"All in good time, Sammy. Now, in a few minutes something is going to happen that you may not be entirely happy with..."

"You know, when anyone says something like that, it is always a hundred times worst than it sounds. And it sounds pretty crappy already."

"It won't be permanent, don't worry, it will just last as long as it takes for Dean to realize."

"Realize what?! And what will last as long as it takes?!"

"Patience is a virtue Sam. As you know I'm actually quite a nice guy-"

Sam snorted at that.

"Watch it, or you'll find yourself with something a lot worse than the clap."

Sam shut up.

"As I was saying, I'm actually quite a nice guy and as such, I've decided to make Dean face up to something that he's been ignoring for too long..."

"That doesn't sound particularly 'nice'." Sam's hands made air quotes around the last word. "And you still haven't told me what in hell's name it is that you're going to do to me!" Sam was becoming increasingly frustrated with the witch and his petulant persistence in sidestepping every question Sam threw at him. "And what does Dean need to face up to?! What do you want me to do?! I'm not your little manservant! I can walk away right now! You don't have any years of mine that you can barter with! So tell me. Why should I stay here and listen to you babble leprochaunish riddles and suicidal plans just so Dean can have some sort of zen-like revelation?! Tell me THAT!"

Sam was breathing heavily when the witch replied:

"Because I'll even take you to the hospital."

"Wha-I-AAARRRGGGHHHHH" Sam suddenly had the most excruciating sensation that his head was being split apart like an egg at the hands of an inexperienced cook. Through the haze of pain he received a blurry glimpse of the pointed Irish face and managed to catch: "Sorry I had to do this Sam..." as if from a badly tuned radio station, before he slipped into the untroubled waters of total darkness.

Sam awoke with a jolt. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out for, but the room still appeared the same as the room he'd been staying in before going to meet the witch, so he figured only a couple of hours at most.

Sam shut his eyes again. What disconcerted him was how normal everything was... He didn't feel too odd, nor was he in some weird location in the middle of nowhere... Actually, finding himself in the hotel room where they were staying was a little strange...

Especially as the witch had explicitly stated that Sam was to be taken to a hospital.

Opening a single eye, Sam looked at the room again, fully expecting it to be white walls and rows of beds with crinkly sheets.

No. The hotel room was still there. It was only when Sam sat up on the springy mattress and looked at the room as a whole that he realised that there was something very wrong with the picture. Dean and Cas were sat together on the couch. That wasn't what was unusual. What was unusual was the fact that Dean's shirt had somehow been mislaid and Castiel was currently in the process of exploiting this state of undress by running his hands across Dean's midriff. Sam watched, paralysed with shock as Cas replaced his hands with his tongue, which elicited some highly unholy sounding noises from Dean, and a sickened squeak from Sam, who then proceeded to regain both his voice and a vague degree of composure.

He cleared his throat loudly.

The two entwined men didn't appear to have heard and Sam noticed that Dean was now attempting to remove the Angel's suit jacket. The trench coat was already crumpled in a beige heap on the floor.

Just breathe Sam. He thought to himself, fighting to remain calm through the scene that was becoming increasingly sexual by the minute.

"Um, guys?" No response other than the crinkle of the dinner jacket as it hit the floor.

"Guys! Guys! I am right here! Now I am completely FINEwith whatever it is that you two might have between you, just please, PLEASE! Think to tell me when you're going to engage in this kind of activity so I can go fill up the impala or do something useful that gets me out of the way of you two! No matter what you might think, I do not appreciate waking up to gay porn at the end of my bed!"

"Sam?" Dean had temporarily stopped in his worship of the angel and was looking at Sam as if he had three extra heads. Maybe he did. After all, who knew what that witch had done to him?

"Yes Dean. SAM. You know, that guy who just so happens to be your brother."

"But you're not supposed to be here."

"What do you mean; 'I'm not supposed to be here', I get it that you and Cas want some alone time but hey, I must have missed that memo."

"No no. I don't-I mean-urgh"

"Wow Dean. Eloquent."

"Shut up Sam!"

"Excuse me? I'm the one being woken up by-" Sam gestured wildly with his hands "-that, and you're telling me to 'shut up'?!"

"It's not my fault you're here Sam! I don't know what you're doing here but get out!"

"This is our hotel room!"

Dean huffed out a breath and started pulling on his shirt. Cas seemed to have disappeared.

"You really don't get it Sammy do you?"

"Get what?!"

"This is my dream Sam! Get out of it!"