The town only had one bar and when they walked in it was packed. Sam was momentarily surprised at how busy it was considering the size of the town, but then he realized it was full of movie personnel. Presumably the rain had disrupted filming and some members of the crew were taking a break. And Sam was soon forcibly made aware that it wasn't just the crew who were taking refuge in the bar as Dean suddenly thumped him in the shoulder and indicated toward a table in the corner.

"SASHA NOVAK!" he mouthed, silently but excitedly. His eyes were a touch too wide and bright, and Sam started to worry a little. He hoped Dean wasn't going to turn out to be one of those people who lost it around celebrities. They needed to be cool and blend in.

They threaded their way to the bar and ordered a couple of beers. Dean was still scoping the room and pointing out people he recognized. At least he was doing it quietly, and it was quite impressive how many he could identify: not just actors but technicians as well. The woman with Novak was his co-star, Sarah Michelle, reprising her role from the original Grudge Holder movie. Another guy Dean knew worked on cinematography on a movie called Savage Messiah. A guy involved with the music for a Def Leppard biopic had recently won a "best new composer" award. And the list went on. Dean was a veritable IMDB on legs.

While Dean continued his who's who of Grudge Holder II, the door at the far end of the bar opened and a pretty, petite brunette walked in looking somewhat bedraggled from the rain. Her gangly, grinning companion was equally sodden and looked a little like a big soggy puppy.

WHACK!

Pain thrilled through Sam's arm when, once again, Dean thumped him in the shoulder.

Whack. Whack. WHACK!

"What?" Sam snapped.

"Duh! Do you know who that is?" Dean gasped hoarsely.

"Should I?" Sam thought he might vaguely recognize her from something, but he couldn't place her.

"It's . . . it's . . . GUH!"

Crap! Dean was really losing it. He was doing a lot of gesticulating but nothing intelligible was coming out of his mouth. Any other time Sam might have been amused at the sight of Dean speechless but this wasn't the time or place for a melt down.

Whack! "Gilmore Girls!" Whack! Whack!

"Quit it, Dean!"

Dean took to tugging at Sam's arm instead. "G – guy from The Gilmore Girls!" he gasped.

Oh! The guy! The name of the show rang a faint bell but he couldn't place it. He took another look at the actor. He and his girlfriend were standing and talking with Novak. For the life of him, Sam couldn't see what the big deal was, but Dean was looking at the guy like he was God with special features.

"Never saw the show."

Dean wasn't listening. He was watching the man working his way through the throng to the bar. Then he suddenly turned and thrust his beer into Sam's hand.

"Hold that," he hissed, and disappeared into the crowd.

"What? Dean, wait!" But it was too late. Dean was gone, and the next time Sam saw him he was standing over the other side of the bar next to the celebrity puppy who was just trying to order himself a drink.

Briefly Sam considered which would cause more of a scene: letting Dean do his fanboy thing, or trying to drag him away. But then, as Dean engaged the actor in conversation Sam became horribly fascinated with the exchange, with Dean's body language – all eye-contact, gesture mirroring and . . . damn! He was even smoothing back his hair! Dean was making a present of himself to this guy and he didn't even know he was doing it.

Sam shook himself. It didn't matter. So Dean was making a fool of himself, but he was doing it quietly. He wasn't making a scene. And the guy was being nice about it. Humoring him.

Don't fucking humor him, you smug bastard. You don't know him. You don't know what you're looking at. He's not just another adoring fan. He's seen and done things that'd make you piss your pants.

Dean pulled out his cell phone. There were fake smiles, a flash, then a handshake, and he was done apparently. Thank God. Because this was worse than watching Dean batting his eyelashes at some strange waitress that Dean didn't take any more seriously than she did him. This guy seemed to mean something, like Dean thought he was better than him somehow. And why?Because he'd been on TV? Because he'd had 15 minutes of fame on some obscure TV drama Sam had barely even heard of? So what? How did that make him special? Take away the fame and the money and the smart clothes and who was he, really? How was he any different from the next guy?

Maybe if Sam grew his hair . . .

Dean was back, flushed and beaming and grinning manically at his cell phone.

"Nice pic, huh?" he said, briefly flashing the photo at Sam. "He seems different in real life. Taller. How tall do you think he is? Six foot three? Six foot four?"

I'M six foot four, Sam thought irritably.

"He's put on some muscle since he did the show, too. Reckon he's been working out."

I work out.

"He's got a really great smile, don't you think?" Dean flashed the photo again.

"What's the matter with you, Dean?" Sam snapped. "Are you in love with the guy or something?"

Dean's face fell and he stared at Sam for a moment wide eyed, lips parted, bottom lip drooping a little. Then he jerked his head back and snorted, as if the suggestion was preposterous. "No – o!" (Two syllables. Key change.) "I just admire his talent is all."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure his smile is real talented."

Another beat and then Dean rallied. "Well, you had a nice big bowl of bitch flakes this morning, didn't you? What is with you lately?"

Sam grabbed Dean's arm and directed him into an alcove that wasn't so crowded. "In case you've forgotten, Dean, we're here on a job," he hissed. "Is it too much to expect you to act like a professional?"

Dean snatched his arm away and his eyes flashed. "Oh, I'll be professional as all hell," he growled.

"Good."

They sipped their beers in awkward silence and Sam surveyed the room, without the benefit of Dean's film buff knowledge this time since Dean wasn't offering it and Sam didn't feel comfortable asking. A few feet away a mature but striking woman was having a discussion about lighting with a man in a suit, and Sam listened to their conversation to take his mind off the noisy silence that was standing next to him.

"There are conventions," the woman was explaining wearily. "The darkness in horror movies is a metaphor; it signals that you're entering the world of the shadow and the underworld from which it springs. The only time you'd use bright colors in a supernatural show or movie is when you want to signal to the audience that they're watching a dream sequence or that what they're seeing is in some other sense not real."

"The prank's going down tomorrow, by the way" Dean said in a low voice, with a would-be casual manner.

Sam stared at him. "How do you know?"

"Some intel I got while I was being unprofessional." His voice dripped sarcasm. "The love of my life is in on it. He told Sasha he was just dropping in on a visit to his hometown, but he's actually going to be part of the con."

Sam was stunned. "How the fuck did you get him to tell you that?"

"Just my natural charm, I guess," he said, flashing his broad shark-tooth grin, and Sam felt the shock of its sharpness. Dean hadn't turned its bite on him since the first night they'd met.

The heat of shame started to creep into Sam's cheeks. Something else he had in common with the Gilmore guy: he'd underestimated Dean.

"And that's Fran Spires," Dean added, subtly indicating the woman with the suit guy. "Director of the movie."

She had an intelligent face framed by flame red, curly hair and she dressed flamboyant but stylishly in a short, sleeveless tunic and very, very high heels. An array of curious jewelry, mainly bracelets and bangles, graced her distinctive ensemble. Sam's eye was particularly drawn to her pendant – a variant of a Taijitu with a red S bisecting the yin and the yang – that hung in the valley of her plunge neckline. Despite her years she was clearly a woman who was very comfortable with her sexuality. She struck Sam as . . . interesting.

She became aware that she was being observed and she turned her attention toward Sam and Dean, her lips twisting whimsically as her gaze swept them from head to foot. She directed an enigmatic, oddly knowing, smile at Sam that made him feel decidedly uneasy then she fixed Dean with a look that was positively lascivious.

"Pretty boy! Make yourself useful!" she chided, holding out her glass.

Dean looked behind him as if he expected to find someone else standing there, then he looked questioningly at Sam who just inclined his head back toward Spires.

"Oh, I'm pretty boy?" Dean exclaimed.

"Yes!" Oop. That came out a bit quick, Sam thought.

Spires waggled her glass. "Yes, you. You are a P.A., aren't you? This is what you do? Get me a refill."

Sam jumped forward and laid a hand on Dean's chest to restrain him from coming back with some smartarse response. "Yup! Yup, he . . . ah . . ." He took the director's glass from her. "One refill, coming right up!" he assured her, pausing only to check what she was drinking before leading Dean back to the bar.

"We can use this," he explained. "If she thinks you're a P. A. it'll give you access to the movie shoot. You can keep an eye on what's happening there tomorrow while I check out the town. Spires had to approve the Prank'd team hitting Novak while he was shooting, so they have to liaise with her. If you stick close to her you might be able to get in with them, too."

"Oh, so now you want me to mingle?"

Sam sighed and rolled his shoulders. "Look, Dean, I'm sorry, O.K.? I thought . . . never mind. Truth is, you're good at getting people to talk." Dean blinked in surprise and Sam hurried on. "You do it so well even I can't tell when you're acting."

"Not acting, Sam: multi-tasking." Dean attracted the attention of a woman serving behind the bar and tossed her a wink.

O.K, he was getting cocky again now. "Yeah, Dean, I want you to mingle," Sam confirmed. "Try to strike up some sort of casual acquaintance with the team members, see what you can find out about them, see if anyone's got an axe to grind – "

"Yeah, I get it, Sam. But I want pie for this. You know what a P.A. is? They're like robot slaves." He paused to order the drink and took the opportunity to order two more for himself and Sam, and he put those on the production tab as well. When he'd been served he picked up the drink stiffly and spoke in a deep, stilted, mechanical voice: "Now I must return to my mistress with her alcoholic beverage."

Sam couldn't help grinning. "Don't talk to her like that," he warned. "She might like it."

Dean's eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. "My, my, Sammy!" he exclaimed. "Was that humor at another's expense? I'm so proud of you right now."

Sam shook his head and tongued his cheek. "Go personally assist, slave," he said.

Dean grinned broadly: warm and genuine this time. It made Sam's heart beat a little too fast.

As Dean moved back toward Fran Spires' table he tossed back over his shoulder "and I want shampoo!"

They spent the rest of the evening in the bar. Not like there was anywhere else to go. They ate there, played some pool, mingled (like Sam said). Dean kept an eye on Fran and made himself useful when he saw an opportunity. Turned out a couple of the Prank'd crew were there already, keeping a low profile, so he chatted to them when he got the chance. He discovered most of the crew were staying at the motel because, again, where else?

Sam was doing a toned down version of his happy drunk act. More of a slightly tipsy act, really: just enough to make himself look like an inconsistent player, dropping the odd easy shot and compensating with 'lucky' ones. He wasn't winning big, not enough to piss anyone off, but he was winning steady, replenishing the coffers. Dean could almost smell the Herbal Essences.

Dean liked tipsy Sam. Tipsy Sam seemed relaxed, acted like he was enjoying himself. He smiled. Hell, he even laughed. And Sam was kinda beautiful when he laughed. It made Dean sort of sad that he didn't do it more often. He wondered what it would be like if he could really get Sam pie-eyed. Was there anything of the real Sam in that performance, he wondered? In any of them: Agent Sam, roving reporter Sam, hell, even the every day puritanical Saint Sam. Was that real? Or was that a performance, too?

So, will the real Sam Campbell please stand up?
And put one of those fingers on each hand up?
And be proud to be outta your mind and outta control . . .

Now there was a concept: Sam Campbell out of control. Hard to imagine.

. . .

Actually, now that his mind was trending that way, Dean was surprised to find that it wasn't that difficult to imagine, just . . . inappropriate.

Dean turned his attention to checking out the women in the room instead. Because, surely, if ever a woman was gonna notice Sam it was now when he was being all tall and cool and flashing his dimples and even bending over occasionally and showing off his not too shabby butt . . .

And . . . . . . there! Two women over by the bar, and one was definitely checking Sam out. But then the other one spotted Dean looking at them and nudged her friend.

No, not me! Eyes left, ladies. Eyes left!

Dean looked away so as not to distract their attention from what was happening at the pool table, but he logged the information for later use. And there were two of them, so: bonus.

Dean returned to his reflections about the many faces of Sam. Was there a little of Sam in each of them, perhaps? Or did he hide behind all those personas because he was afraid to be himself? Afraid of what?

Afraid of . . . afraid to be . . . to feel – steel. Afraid to feel.

Dean reached for a coaster as rhyming pairs started coupling in his head. Moving over to the bar he attracted the attention of a barman and asked for a pen.

"You can borrow mine, if you like." The woman who'd checked Dean out earlier. And her friend . . . was still watching the pool table. Great. If Sam didn't blow this he could definitely get lucky tonight.

"Thank you," Dean said, accepting the pen and treating the giver to a slow smile filled with subtext. Then he turned his attention to the beer mat and started dashing out lines, eager to get them down while they were fresh in his head. After a few false starts, scratchings and revisions he had a quatrain he was satisfied with. He read over it once more, lips pursed around the top of the pen.

A suffering soul trapped in a mind of steel

An empty heart afraid to feel

Can't think what to do with all that fire and rage

Except to lock it in an ice-cold cage

"Sounds sad," the young woman remarked.

Dean smiled around the pen tip then offered it back to its owner. "Ah, well. Sad songs say so much," he quipped. Sadly, the reference seemed to go over her head.

"So, you're a poet?"

"Lyricist. I'm a musician." Dean explained how he'd become a P.A. looking for his big break, hoping to make contacts who had connections in the music industry. Actually, that didn't sound like a half bad plan but – no. That life was behind him now. He fixed his attention on the present, and his pretty companion. She was pert and blonde and sassy, and Dean liked her. It was a pity that her name turned out to be Penny. Dean could have done without that. It made him sad, mostly because it reminded him how long it had been since he'd last thought of the woman he'd thought mattered so much to him. But he kept talking to the girls, learning all he could about them, and he kept his smile fixed to his face and one eye fixed on the pool table.

Eventually Sam ran out of marks and Dean saw him tucking his winnings away. He waved to draw his attention and beckoned him over. Sam, unfortunately, took one look at Dean with the girls and sized up the situation pretty quickly. He returned a tight, curt shake of the head - but Dean wasn't to be deterred. He waved again, as if Sam hadn't seen him the first time, and called "Sam!" a little too loudly, and followed it with a look that said "I'll yell louder if you make me."

Sam's eyes narrowed but he gave in to Dean's ploy. As he approached, though, there was a steely glitter in his eyes that told Dean that, if this didn't work out, he was probably going to pay for it later.

"Sam, have you met Lori? She's doing some great work in production logistics. And Penny here is a make-up artist."

Sam gave her a beaming smile and draped his finger tips on her shoulder. "Oh, I could tell!" he exclaimed in a honeyed voice a good half octave higher than his usual register. "I can see you really know how to apply. The blending on your eye shadow is so subtle!"

Dean's stomach dropped into his boots. Scratch later. Sam was gonna make him pay right friggin' now.

"Can I say, I just love your ensemble?" It was a crass stereotype, all hand gestures and too much touching but Dean could tell from the girls' faces that it was meeting Sam's requirements. And he wasn't letting Dean off the hook yet. "I bet you're Aquarian. I'm right, aren't I? I love Aquarians. So individual."

"I'm Taurean, actually," she said flatly.

"Oh," Sam sounded disappointed. He gave Dean a significant look. "Ah, well, Dean's Aquarian, you see."

Fuck, how did he . . . ? Does he . . . ?

"It's that individual streak that makes him so attractive." Hand on Dean's arm.

Fuck! Dean seriously needed to do some fast talking damage control . . . but he seriously couldn't think of a thing.

Then Sam delivered his coup de grace. "Aquarians are into unconventional relationships, you know," he said, giving the girls a distinctly creepy smile and a slow, exaggerated wink.

They exchanged an alarmed look and started gathering their purses.

"Wait," Dean interrupted hurriedly. "He's kidding."

"Um, well, it's late," Penny explained. "And I think you two need to . . . whatever."

"No, seriously. He's kidding!" But the girls were already beating a retreat. "Oh, come on!"

Defeated, and slightly in shock, Dean turned back to Sam and regarded him with an expression that was something between admiration and murder in the first. Sam was grinning smugly. Apparently he was embracing the concept of humor at someone else's expense.