"… because I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. As long as I get results, what they don't know won't harm them. In fact, it's far more likely to harm them if they did know… far more likely to harm you, too..."

Dean looked up from his laptop as Sam and Mick entered the library, Ketch's recorded voice playing from the phone in Mick's hand. The dark look of anger on Sam's face as he took in Ketch's threats was one Dean had seen many times before – usually right before Sam took the life of some monster or demon caught in the act of harming an innocent. The two men stopped at the far end of the table, and Sam reached out a hand to rest just below Mick's shoulder, concern in his eyes as he studied Mick's face.

"Did he hurt you?"

"No," Mick replied, though the smile on his lips was a little bright, a little forced. "In fact, he was rather careful not to hurt me, actually. Empty threats, that's all."

Sam frowned. "Tell me if he does. I'll take care of it."

Sam's voice was firm, commanding, and yet touched with a note of tenderness that Dean rarely heard there. He studied his brother's face closely, taking note of the warmth, the protective affection in his eyes. Dean shifted his gaze to Mick in time to see him lower his eyes, self-conscious and a little shy, as he nodded and spoke quietly.

"I will. I – I know."

Dean knew that he wasn't imagining it; something was very different between his brother and the wayward Man of Letters he'd taken into his charge. And he was almost certain he would have noticed it, even if Sam hadn't told him about the conversation he'd had with Mick the night before, and the offer he'd made which Dean wasn't quite sure Sam would be able to keep, or should keep.

"All he needs is a chance, Dean… for someone just to give a damn, you know? He's been alone his entire life… he just needs someone…"

"And that someone has to be us?"

Sam hesitated, glancing down at the floor for a moment, then looked back up at Dean with certainty in his eyes. "I – I think it has to be me."

"This is good." Sam's expression softened into a smile, and he squeezed Mick's shoulder gently as he took the cell phone and tucked it into his pocket. "This is just exactly the kind of evidence we need. It's a little vague to stand on its own, though. We're going to need more, but this is a great start. You did great, Mick."

The way Mick responded to Sam's praise – eyes lit with pleasure, the anxious tension of his shoulders easing with relief – it touched something in Dean, something old and secret that he rarely allowed himself to think about. It felt familiar in a way that ached a little deep down, and suddenly Dean's mind was filled with memories of his father, and the early years of his training to become a hunter.

John Winchester's praise had been a rare gift, and Dean well remembered how good it had felt when he'd received it. The rush of confidence, the validation – but mostly the simple relief, to have pleased his father, to have not been a disappointment.

He could see those same emotions etched across Mick's face now, as he gazed up at Dean's brother with adoring eyes.

"He's got so much potential…"

"Yeah," Dean scoffed. "The potential to get us all killed every time we go out on a hunt…"

"That's not fair." There was a protective edge of anger to Sam's words. "You know he's improving already. He's smart, thinks fast under pressure, and even better, he wants to learn. He wants to be a good hunter, Dean… he just needs somebody to teach him."

Dean could see what Sam was talking about, though he was reluctant to admit it. Mick had been instrumental in figuring out their last case, and to hear Sam tell it, he'd played a key role in taking down the Alpha Vampire, too. And Dean had to acknowledge the steel will and cool head it had to have taken to face down Ketch in that recorded conversation – to deliberately provoke him, in order to goad him into saying something incriminating, knowing the kind of violence he was capable of.

There was one thing he had to give the little limey, even if he was a bit green – he was certainly no coward.

"Do you think you can get to the report he turned in to the council on that last case?" Sam asked Mick, drawing Dean's attention back to the situation at hand. "I'm sure he didn't give them the one you turned in; that one's saved and dated on my computer right now. If we can turn in both versions to his superiors, that'll prove he's been lying to them, keeping secrets."

"I can get it. It's on his computer, I'm sure." Mick nodded. "I just need to wait until he's busy somewhere else in the facility, and if I can work out his password…"

"Let's wait on that for now." Sam's brow furrowed slightly. "I think I can get you some software that will make the password a non-issue… but I'm more concerned about what happens if he walks in and catches you getting onto his computer. I think I have an idea. Just give me a couple days and we'll figure it out, but don't try to get that report by yourself. All right?"

"All right," Mick agreed immediately. "Just tell me what you need me to do."

"You're doing it." Sam assured him. "You're really convincing on that recording. Just keep doing what you're doing. We'll get there."

Mick opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated, looking away for a moment before admitting, "There – there may be a problem, though." He looked up at Sam again, biting the corner of his lip and wincing a little. "Sam – he's a bit suspicious, after – the incident with Morgan. Thinks – maybe you were a bit too concerned about my well-being. You might have to – to be a little more careful."

"So what you're really saying is, be a little more mean." Sam frowned, his voice heavy and troubled. "I might have to put on a better show next time we're there." He met Mick's eyes with concern. "Can you handle that?"

Mick bit his lip again, lowering his gaze, and then nodded. "I can. I – I know it's just an act. Whatever we have to do to convince him."

Sam shifted in closer to Mick, his hand raised to touch his face, and Mick dutifully met Sam's eyes again. "You know I won't hurt you."

Mick nodded again, holding Sam's gaze, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I know."

Dean studied them closely, the gratitude and trust in Mick's expression, the tender concern in Sam's touch and in his eyes. They were standing a little too close, without either of them seeming to realize it, and neither seemed to have noticed that there was anyone else in the room with them. All at once, Dean recognized exactly what it was that he was seeing. He'd experienced it for himself enough lately to know.

Oh, no, Sammy. Please, no…

"Go get some rest," Sam instructed. "You've got to be worn out. I'll come get you when it's time to eat, okay?"

Mick immediately headed off to his room – so swiftly obedient, so eager to please Sam in any way that he could – and Sam actually turned to watch him as he walked away. Dean kept his gaze trained steadily on Sam until Sam finally turned back around and noticed that he was being watched.

"Oh, hey, Dean."

Dean met Sam's eyes, silent and dubious. Sam blinked, a little taken aback, staring back at Dean for a long moment before he finally broke the silence.

"What?"

"Dude," Dean replied, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair a little. "You are so screwed."

"What are you talking about?"

Sam laughed a little, but it had a nervous quality to it, and Dean recognized it as further confirmation that he was most definitely not imagining things.

"You two are getting pretty – up close and personal there, aren't you?" Dean paused a moment before adding, carefully choosing his words, "I think maybe you're getting a little too – involved."

"It's nothing," Sam insisted, but a little too quickly, as if this wasn't a new idea that Dean was just introducing to his mind. "So I'm a little protective…"

"And a little touchy-feely," Dean added pointedly.

"Come on, Dean," Sam objected with a little scoffing sound. "It's not like that. Mick needs some support right now. He needs – to connect with someone. The only touching he's had from anyone in years is the bad kind. I just want him to get that he's safe here, that he's wanted, that – being touched can be a good thing…"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure he's definitely getting that."

"Dean." Sam flinched a little. "I wouldn't."

"I know you wouldn't," Dean conceded, quiet, all trace of teasing gone from his voice. "He would, though. In a heartbeat, if he thought it's what you wanted. The way he looks at you, the way he hangs on every word out of your mouth, like his next breath depends on it…" Sam glanced away, a little guilty, and Dean knew his brother knew what he was talking about. "… that's a problem."

"He's not used to making his own choices," Sam explained. "He's afraid he's going to piss me off, or make me change my mind about him staying here…" Sam's jaw set, and there was a stubborn note of challenge to his voice as he concluded quietly, "And I'm not going to change my mind about him staying here, Dean."

"No one's asking you to," Dean replied. "I get it. Last night, yeah – I was a little thrown, and I still think you should have talked to me first, before offering to let him just – move in, indefinitely…"

"I didn't plan to…"

"I know, you told me," Dean acknowledged. "And I get it. From what you told me, I figure he needs to get out of that place, Ketch or no Ketch. And he's got nowhere and no one else. But – I'm not sure that's the only reason you've got for offering to let him move in here…"

Sam opened his mouth to protest, and Dean held up a hand in silent request for his brother to simply hear him out.

"I trust you, Sammy," Dean insisted. "Don't get me wrong. I know you've got only good intentions here. But – he was brought here to be your fucking sex slave, okay? And – he just might think he still owes you something – might think he needs to earn his way in. So – you've just gotta be careful, all right? If anything like that – happens, between the two of you, it could be really fucking confusing for him." Dean paused before adding softly, "Could be really fucking confusing for both of you."

Sam was quiet for a moment, nodding once, slowly. "It won't," he insisted at last, his voice firm with quiet conviction. "I'm not blind, Dean. I see how it could… go terribly wrong. And I'm not going to let it. I didn't bring him here to – to take advantage of him. After everything he's been through, that's the last thing I'd ever want to do."

"I know."

Dean did know that his brother's intentions were pure. Sam really did want to help Mick – but Dean wasn't sure if that was all Sam wanted. Not anymore. No, Sam wouldn't take advantage of Mick, wouldn't push anything on him that Mick didn't want. But if Mick did want it, or think he wanted it – Dean wasn't so sure that Sam would be able to resist the allure of those pretty blue eyes looking up at him as if he were the source of Mick's next breath, the only one in his entire world who mattered.

Dean was no psychologist, but he had more experience than he wanted with the mental and emotional impact of trauma and abuse. He knew all too well how devastating a gentle touch could be, when all you'd felt for what seemed like an eternity was pain and degradation.

He knew that Mick had feelings for Sam already. He just couldn't tell if they were real or not.

Problem was – Mick probably couldn't tell, either.

But Sam was right about one thing. The promise he'd put out there couldn't be taken back now. It'd be too cruel, to offer Mick a refuge, a sanctuary from the suffering he'd experienced, only to snatch it away a moment later.

Dean just had to hope that Sam knew what he was doing – and watch out for his little brother, as always… just in case he didn't.

"Well, I must say this report is far preferable to the last one."

Ketch was actually smiling, as he leafed through Mick's report, surveying the details of a newly completed case, while the Winchesters sat near him at the conference room table, waiting for his reaction. This case wasn't nearly as complex as the last one – a simple haunting, without the need for any difficult decisions. The Winchesters had dispatched the ghost easily, and Mick had even managed to be helpful, getting in a few well-aimed salt rounds that had kept the spirit at bay until the Winchesters could finish burning its bones.

They'd finished late the night before, and simply gone back to the bunker. Mick had emailed his report to Ketch, and the Winchesters had promised by phone to report in person the next morning. Of course, that meant that Mick had a full day ahead of him to be spent with Ketch – but he was feeling surprisingly unbothered by that. Ketch hadn't hurt him in over a week, and it was unlikely that he would do so now, as pleased as he seemed with their work on the case.

He'd immediately ordered Mick to begin his daily tasks while he discussed the case with the Winchesters – but Mick really didn't mind the dismissal. He found himself even humming a little as he swept the conference room floor, a few yards away from where Ketch and the Winchesters sat at the table. Ketch hadn't been hurting him, and Sam was pleased with him, and his presence here was merely temporary – just a few hours he would pass as quietly as possible, before returning home to the bunker with Sam. Mick felt satisfied, and peaceful, and almost… happy.

And then Morgan walked into the conference room.

He didn't acknowledge the Winchesters as he passed, going straight to Ketch and wordlessly taking the file he held out, before retreating to the far end of the conference table to peruse it. He glanced at Mick as he passed him, a nasty smile on his lips that made Mick shiver. Just that single passing glance, just Morgan's presence in the room at all, was enough to fill Mick's mind with vivid memories of their last encounter – and suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

He could feel Morgan's hands on him again, strong fingers wrapping around his throat and pressing tight until he couldn't get any air… rough, grasping hands shoving him up against the wall and tearing at his clothes… panic closing in on him, drowning him as he struggled uselessly to draw breath against the crushing weight in his chest, Morgan pinning him down, moving in closer…

"Mick."

Sam's voice penetrated the haze of memory that surrounded him, the smothering press of his panic shattered by his sharp, commanding tone. Mick looked up immediately. Sam's expression was one of cool anger, a tight smile on his lips as he looked down the table at Morgan, then met Mick's eyes, snapping his fingers and pointing down at the spot beside him.

Mick drew in a deep, shaky breath, unclenching his hands around the handle of the broom and setting it down in the corner, wiping his damp palms down the sides of his trousers as he obeyed. With every step – away from Morgan, past Ketch, toward Sam – he felt the grip of his own panic slipping. Sam's focused attention meant that he was safe. Sam knew that Morgan was there, saw the effect of his presence on Mick. Sam would make sure that he was all right, that nothing could happen to him.

Sam would take care of him.

He moved around the table to the side Sam had indicated, so that Sam was between him and Morgan, between him and Ketch. Mick sat down on the edge of the seat next to Sam's, the anxious tremor of his shallow breaths slowing, steadying as he watched Sam closely and waited for further instructions.

Sam gave him an incredulous look, arching an eyebrow in disbelief, before grabbing the sleeve of his shirt and yanking him out of the seat and down to the floor, onto his knees. Mick bit back the little cry on his lips, lowering his gaze and flinching a little as Sam reached toward his head. He was more startled than scared; as violent as the gesture was, Sam hadn't actually hurt him.

He wouldn't… he has to be rougher, has to convince Ketch…

Sam won't hurt me, he won't, it's all right… it's all right…

A shiver passed through him as Sam's hand came to rest at the back of his head, but the touch was gentle, Sam's long fingers toying possessively with his hair. Sam's voice was soft, but with an edge of warning to it.

"That's better. That's where you belong, isn't it, sweetheart?"

Mick nodded, eyes closed, focusing on the feeling of Sam's hand stroking through his hair, slow and rhythmic… hypnotic. Mick swallowed hard. He wasn't afraid, not of Sam – but still, his mouth went dry. His pulse quickened at the pleasurable sensation of Sam's touch.

"Yes," he whispered, surprised at the fervency in his own voice, thick and hoarse.

On the cold, hard floor at Sam's feet, knees aching and heart pounding, he felt safer, calmer, than he'd felt on his feet. He couldn't see Morgan at all anymore, and knew that Morgan couldn't see him. He could hear Ketch's voice as he asked the Winchesters questions about the case, but it sounded muffled and far away – utterly disconnected from him. All he felt, all that seemed to be able to touch him, was Sam's hand, gentle and soothing. He allowed himself to focus on that, to shut everything else out.

Mick was vaguely aware as Morgan walked past them again, on his way out – but Morgan didn't matter to him anymore, not as long as Sam was touching him. As long as Sam was touching him, Mick knew that no one else could – not Morgan, not Ketch. He was safe.

All too soon, the conversation was over, and it was time for the Winchesters to leave for the day. Sam's hand drifted down to brush against Mick's throat, then tilted his chin up. Sam met his eyes with a teasing wink. "See you later, sweetheart. I've got some… interesting ideas for you, tonight."

Mick shivered. Despite his knowledge that it was all part of the act, he found his mind drifting, wondering what sorts of ideas Sam might have when he looked at him, like this, on his knees. He swallowed hard, looking down as Sam moved away from him, headed toward the door.

"Get up and get over here," Ketch snapped at Mick.

Mick blinked, swallowed slowly, a dull, empty ache building in his chest with every step Sam took away from him. It was as if he'd been floating, somewhere half within a dream – and had suddenly been dropped, hard, back to the earth.

He rose to his feet, each step weighted and difficult, as he went to stand beside Ketch, eyes carefully lowered, posture subdued; Ketch was clearly irritated by Sam's little display, and while Mick was almost certain he wouldn't go so far as to actually hurt him, he forced himself to focus, to wake up – because Sam was leaving in a matter of moments, and any semblance of safety Mick had would be walking out the door with him.

Sam laughed. "Take it easy, Ketch, I realize it's technically your turn as soon as we walked in the door." Sam's voice was patronizing, tauntingly placating. "Just didn't want that ass Morgan getting any ideas."

"No, it seems you've more than enough ideas for the both of you," Ketch snapped, but didn't argue the point any further. No, that would have kept Sam there longer, and he clearly couldn't wait for Sam to leave.

"Come on, Sam, let's hit the road." Dean rolled his eyes. "I've got better things to do with my day than watch you two wave your junk around. You're both hung like Clydesdales. Happy? Let's go."

Once the door closed behind Sam and Dean, Mick felt his apprehension rise again as Ketch slowly approached him, his attention coming into focus on Mick, intent, studying. Mick barely managed not to flinch as Ketch raised his hand – but all he did was to mimic Sam's gesture, touching Mick's chin and tilting his head up in silent instruction for Mick to meet his eyes. Mick didn't dare pull away, and managed with an effort to hold Ketch's gaze, though the piercing scrutiny made him want to look away.

"Sam must quite fancy that pretty face of yours," Ketch remarked at last. "He never seems to mark it up, does he?"

Mick swallowed hard, thinking quickly. "He does," he explained, quiet and careful. "Mark it up, I mean. But – I suppose you're right. He never wants the marks to stay long. Has his angel clean it up straightaway after."

"Odd," Ketch mused, taking that in. "In many ways, Sam Winchester is a mystery to me. I find myself… quite curious…" As he spoke, Ketch allowed his hand to trail down Mick's throat to the top button of his shirt, toying with it a bit but not quite unfastening it. "… just what sorts of things does a man like Sam enjoy?"

Mick's stomach lurched, sick with the memory of the kinds of things that Ketch enjoyed. He looked down, brushing Ketch's hand away with his own and taking a step backward.

"I don't want to talk about it…"

Ketch caught the collar of his shirt and hauled him in close, turning them and pinning Mick's hips against the table. Ketch's free hand wrapped around Mick's waist, fingers sliding teasingly across the top edge of his belt. Mick tensed, his fist clenched at his side, but he bit his lip, stifling his protest, and kept still as Ketch shifted in, his larger body pressed close against Mick's so that he could feel just how much Ketch liked the thought of the things he imagined Sam did to him.

Ketch's eyes were hard and angry, but he was smiling, and his voice remained soft and controlled, not acknowledging Mick's resistance with his words. "You know, one of these nights," he mused, "I may just pay a visit to the Winchesters' bunker… slip in and see for myself."

Mick's heart plummeted.

Ketch had a key.

Of course Ketch had a key to the Winchesters' bunker. All Men of Letters leadership had access to any of the bunkers worldwide at all times. Somehow, he'd forgotten. He should have remembered; at any time, Ketch could have come in and surprised them, caught them in their act, and it all would have been over.

He was so foolish, so very stupid – because he'd allowed himself to start to think of the bunker as safety. But with the reminder that Ketch could enter any time he wanted, Mick felt that sense of safety shatter into a thousand jagged shards at his feet.

He wasn't safe. He'd never been safe.

None of them were.

"You know, if I'm careful and quiet," Ketch continued, his arm at Mick's waist sliding lower, his hand brushing lightly against Mick's ass, the other at his collar jerking him close again when Mick tried to pull away, "there are quite a few ways in which I could still… enjoy you, without Sam ever knowing about it. You remember how creative I can be…" Ketch pressed a kiss against the side of Mick's throat, his hand at the back of his neck hard and forceful, not allowing him to retreat. "I might just pay you a little visit, after Sam's gone to sleep one of these nights. Would you like that, love?"

Mick bit his lip, his breath quickening, struggling to maintain control of his mounting fear. "Don't," he choked out. "Please…"

"Then don't you forget who you truly belong to," Ketch countered softly, leaning in so that his lips were a breath from Mick's trembling mouth, "And I won't have to remind you. Right?"

Mick nodded, swallowing hard, eyes closed.

"Sam Winchester ordered you to his side, and you obeyed without question. Did exactly as you were told like an obedient little slut. And you are an obedient little slut." Ketch's words were razor sharp, his fingers digging into the back of Mick's neck, shaking him slightly as he continued, "But you're mine. Not his. Sam Winchester is only your master when you're not here."

"Right," Mick whispered, nodding hurriedly. "Right, I understand. I'm sorry. He – ordered me to go to him, and I – I didn't know what to do. If I hadn't, he might have…"

"Might have what?" Ketch cut him off, his voice soft again, falsely sympathetic, his grip on Mick's neck easing to something closer to a caress. "Hurt you? You think I'd have allowed him to punish you for looking to me for your orders instead of him?"

Mick shook his head, though he wasn't so sure of the answer. Ketch had given him over to Sam in the first place, hadn't he? He'd sat by and allowed Sam to do what he wanted during the meeting, and had been careful not to touch Mick until Sam had left. Ketch cared what Sam thought, what he did; he wanted to keep Sam happy.

But Sam wasn't here now.

"I'm sorry," Mick whispered. "I was – confused, I didn't know what to do. I – I do, now. Please, I'm sorry…"

"I'm going to step up my recruitment efforts," Ketch said as he released Mick and took a step back. "The sooner our association with Sam Winchester serves its purpose, the better."

Something in Ketch's tone, dark and purposeful, made Mick's stomach clench. "And… what happens then?" he asked softly, watching Ketch closely as he braced one hand on the table and slowly straightened. "What happens once Sam has… served his purpose?"

Ketch smiled – a nasty, malicious smile. "Then we'll no longer need him, and you can stop enduring his attentions every night, and things can go back to the way they're supposed to be."

"So… you'll break the arrangement… let him and his brother go their own way… once we've got most of the American hunters signed on." Mick had the sinking suspicion that that wasn't at all what Ketch meant. "Is that it?"

Ketch's smile faded, and he glared at Mick. "Get back to work," he ordered. "I have far too much work of my own around here to bother with your pointless questions."

Mick obeyed, setting about his daily tasks once more, but his earlier good mood was now a distant memory, replaced with a heaviness of heart that made every step wearying, every moment drag by interminably.

Ketch wanted to get rid of Sam.

For the moment, he was tolerating him, because he knew that the American hunters respected him and would follow his lead. Mick was grateful that so far, no one new had signed on since the Winchesters. The network of American hunters was vast and complicated, and Mick knew it could still take Ketch a while to accomplish his goal.

By then, hopefully, Mick and the Winchesters would have gathered enough evidence to get Ketch removed from his position for good.

But Mick couldn't shake the terrifying image from his mind, of Ketch slipping into the bunker in the middle of the night, to find them laughing and talking like the friends they'd swiftly become – to find him, asleep in own private bedroom, unharmed while Sam slept in his own room down the hall. Ketch would be furious if he learned he'd been deceived. Mick shivered at the thought of what Ketch would likely do to him, if that happened.

He could warn Sam that Ketch had a key and could get in anytime he wanted – but it wouldn't really do any good. Sam could, and probably would, confront Ketch and demand that he turn over the key, and Ketch might even hand it over, rather than risk losing Sam – but Ketch could always get a replacement from his superiors.

And then, he would know that Mick had warned Sam. He would be angry, and would question Mick's reasons for helping Sam at all. It would risk their entire plan.

And Sam would be angry that Mick had allowed him and Dean to be vulnerable to Ketch's invasion, had endangered their safety and privacy by not saying something sooner. He'd been so dishonest, so secretive already – there was no way Sam would believe that he'd simply forgotten that Ketch had a key. It was too important a thing, too dangerous a detail to neglect.

You left Sam and Dean at risk, you failed in your duties once more, you pathetic fool… God, how could you be so bloody stupid?

The mental image of Sam's expression, if faced with yet another of Mick's monumental failures, made up Mick's mind. No, he decided. He wouldn't tell Sam about Ketch's threat. The potential danger of Sam confronting Ketch about it was frightening – but nowhere near as unsettling to Mick as the thought of Sam's anger and disappointment with him if he found out about yet another piece of information Mick had kept from him.

He would just have to find some other way to keep Ketch from finding out about their secret.

When Sam picked up Mick to bring him home that evening, Mick seemed quiet, distracted; but when Sam asked him about it, he insisted that he was just tired, and maybe a little bothered by seeing Morgan that day – but really, he was all right, just needed to get back to the bunker and away from Ketch and the British Men of Letters for a while.

Sam didn't push it. Dean and Cas were off somewhere together, so when Mick retreated to his room immediately after dinner, Sam followed suit. He chose a book from the endless stack on the library table and carried it to his own room, where he changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and settled on his bed, planning to read until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

He'd only been reading a few minutes when there was a very soft knock on his bedroom door.

"Come in," Sam called, setting the book aside as Mick opened the door, just a little at first, and then enough to slip inside.

Mick closed the door behind him – and then just stood there with his back against it, watching Sam with wide, worried eyes. He was barefoot, dressed in a pair of soft cotton pajama pants and a plain t-shirt, ready for bed, and it made him seem very young and very vulnerable. Sam smiled, trying to ease his tension, and scooted over on the bed a little, patting the spot beside him.

"C'mere," he said, more invitation than instruction.

Mick still said nothing as he hesitantly crossed the room and sat down on the edge of Sam's mattress, staring down at it and picking at a loose thread he found there.

"So – you going to tell me what's wrong, now?" Sam suggested. "This isn't 'just tired'. Talk to me."

"I – I wanted to ask you something," Mick said finally, still not looking at Sam. "It's – a little odd, and – and awkward, and – I'll understand if you say no, but…"

"That's the worst that'll happen," Sam assured him, sitting up and leaning forward to take Mick's hand, trying to ease his obvious apprehension. "You can ask me anything."

"Right." Mick nodded, drawing in a deep breath. "Right, so – I can't seem to – to fall asleep, in my room…"

Sam was pretty sure he understood. He gave Mick a sympathetic little grimace. "Morgan?"

Mick glanced up at him, hesitating a moment before looking down again and nodding. "Yeah. You – you really helped today, getting him – out of my line of sight, and – and distracting me, and – I can't thank you enough, Sam, for all you're doing, but – seeing him, today, it still – well, now I can't stop seeing him, when I close my eyes…"

Sam's heart ached with sympathy at Mick's confession. He gently squeezed his hand, trying to offer what little comfort he could. After a moment, he asked simply, "What can I do?"

Mick swallowed hard, eyes still focused on the loose thread he was winding and unwinding around his finger, as he answered, halting and uncertain. "I was wondering if – if it might be all right…" He looked up at Sam, and Sam could see his apprehension as he blurted out the rest in a rush, "… if I slept in here tonight. Just for tonight. I – I'd just feel safer knowing you were close by, in case – if something happened…"

Sam felt his pulse quicken a bit at the mental image that filled his mind at Mick's request – Mick slipping under the blankets and into his bed, trusting and willing as Sam put his arms around him and pulled him in close, reassuring him that he would be safe throughout the night, that Sam would protect him.

And then his heart sank with the realization of just how much he wanted that.

He'd had no choice about the part he'd had to play that day, at the British headquarters. It was for Ketch's benefit… but Sam could not deny that parts of it had felt good. There was a tremendous sense of satisfaction in seeing Mick kneeling at his feet – feeling Mick's panic recede as he relaxed under the touch of Sam's hand… knowing that he'd made Mick feel safe.

The idea of doing the same thing now – taking Mick into his arms and soothing away his panic… offering comfort and closeness and being rewarded with Mick's trust… it was a nearly intoxicating temptation.

This was just what Dean had warned him about.

He'd crossed lines, complicated things, when he'd made the offer to Mick to live there with him and Dean – not that he'd take it back, if he could – but now Mick was confused, and vulnerable. Sam couldn't be sure whether his request might be due to misplaced feelings, or the belief that he had to somehow pay Sam back for his help, but either way – it was too dangerous. It would send the wrong message to Mick, and it would impair Sam's judgment, and he couldn't allow it.

"Nothing's going to happen," Sam assured Mick softly. "Nothing and no one can get in here. You're safe. I know it's – it's hard, when you've got – things like that in your head, images and memories. Believe me, I've got those too. But – that's all they are. Morgan can't hurt you here, or Ketch, or anyone. You're completely safe as long as you're here."

Mick nodded. "I – I know that, in my head, but – but I still can't sleep, and – if I could – not be alone, just – be in the same room – I'd sleep on the floor, Sam, not…"

"I don't think it's a good idea." Sam didn't really mean to cut Mick off, or to speak so abruptly, and didn't actually realize he had until he saw Mick flinch, and felt the wave of guilt wash over him at the hurt in Mick's eyes. "I'm sorry," he offered. "I just think – you've been through a lot. You haven't had any privacy, or space of your own, and – and now you do. That room is yours, and you can lock that door and no one, not even me, can get in there. No one."

Mick nodded, letting out a rush of breath, closing his eyes. "I know…"

"It's as safe as you could possibly be, and – I think you need to get used to – to having that space of your own, and your own – rights, and choices, and – I just think – maybe there are some lines that – we shouldn't cross right now. You know?"

Mick swallowed slowly. "I wasn't – trying to – to cross any…" He shook his head, rolling his eyes and wincing a little in embarrassment as he rose from the bed. "I'm sorry…"

"Don't be." Sam leaned forward, holding onto Mick's hand and tugging him back a little when he tried to make a hasty retreat. "Mick – you don't need to be sorry…"

"It's silly. Ridiculous." Mick forced a smile, not meeting Sam's eyes. "I'm…" He shook his head again, pulling his hand free and turning toward the door. "I'm sorry."

"Mick…" Sam called after him, not even sure what he was going to say – but Mick was already gone, the door quietly closed behind him.

Sam rose from the bed, everything in him wanting to follow after Mick and make sure that he was okay – but he stopped himself at the door, closing his hand into a fist instead of closing it around the handle and opening it, shutting his eyes and resting his head against the door for a moment with a sigh.

No… no, because if you do that, if you go after him, let's be real, here, Winchester… that only ends one way. With him spending the night in here, and the lines getting blurrier and the boundaries more muddled – even if one of you spends the night on the floor.

It hurts. Both of you. But – it's best to just let him go.

In the morning, you'll both be fine, and you'll have set an important boundary that will help to protect him. He'll be better off. You're making the right choice.

But it really didn't feel like the right choice.

Sam couldn't shake the disappointment and hurt in Mick's eyes from his mind. He debated going after him for a while, but in the end stayed in his own room. Fear of further embarrassing Mick, of confusing him – fear of his own weakness – prevented him from crossing the few yards down the hall that separated them, telling himself over and over again that in this case, the distance was what was best… for both of them.

It was hours before Sam was able to fall asleep.