'Uncle Bobby has always had an odd sense of humour. If you're really a close friend of his, I imagine you know that by now. I've always thought he would have made a good cartoonist. Between his constant doodling and his offbeat notion of what's funny, he'd have been very successful.'

An hour later Sam lay in the unfamiliar inn-room bed rerunning his response to Dean Winchester's casually outrageous remarks. He decided he'd handled the scene reasonably well. He would have suspected Winchester of having a warped sense of humour except for the fact that he knew his uncle. It was entirely possible that Bobby Singer had 'given' him to his friend. He'd told him more than once that Sam didn't know how to pick his men. It was Bobby who had the fractured sense of humour, Sam decided grimly. What worried him was that under that trace of whimsy, he sensed Dean might have taken Uncle Bobby seriously.

He turned onto his side, bunching the flat pillow into a more supportive shape, and thought about what his uncle had done. It was annoying, irritating and totally in keeping with Bobby Singer's somewhat bizarre way of arranging things. His affinity for the unexpected was probably some sort of survival trait. A good secret agent couldn't afford to be too predictable, Sam thought with a sigh. Normally, however, Bobby didn't allow his penchant for the unique approach to infringe too much on the lives of friends and family. He knew intuitively where to stop.

But he'd let himself go overboard this time, and Sam found himself wondering why. Couldn't he see that Winchester was a man who took life seriously? You didn't play jokes on people like that. They either got mad or hurt. There was always the possibility that Bobby was deadly serious about handing him over to a man of whom he approved, of course. He'd made it clear often enough he didn't think much of Sam's own choices in male companions. Yes, Bobby might have been very serious in his intent. In which case Sam would be sure to give him a piece of his mind when he showed up again.

Sam watched the shadows behind the gently blowing curtains. The window was open a few inches, allowing the fresh, crisp night air into the room. He knew a lot about his uncle's sense of humour. Over the years he'd seen enough examples of it. Strange that he was such good friends with Winchester. No one would ever accuse him of having much sense of humour, warped or otherwise. The faint flashes of amusement Sam had seen in him that evening disappeared so quickly he might have imagined them. He had the impression that when they did appear they surprised Dean as much as Sam. Winchester was a controlled, quiet man who not only seemed quite different from his uncle but who was also a perfect opposite to the kind of men who circulated in Sam's world.

His ex-world, Sam reminded himself. 'Streamers was another ex-world to add to the pile of such interesting experiments. It had been fun, but he had known when he'd gone into it that it wouldn't be permanent. Sam knew he would recognize the life he wanted to live on a permanent basis when he found it. Until then he played games with the world. He wondered if he was getting a little too old for games.

Restlessly he switched to his other side and plumped the pillow again. Still, he had learned some useful skills during the past few years. For example, he knew how to slide out of a socially awkward situation such as the one that had occurred tonight. A light laugh, a wry expression and an easy comment.

Dean had accepted his withdrawal from the topic, although he had insisted on accompanying him to the inn in Sam's car. He'd offered him a bed at his house but had not seemed surprised when Sam politely declined. There was no sense complicating an already complex situation, Sam had told himself. As much as he had been intrigued by Dean, he had been a little wary of him toward the end of the evening.

Sam was accustomed to men who didn't take anything except their careers, their exercising and their new BMWs seriously, men who knew the socially acceptable vocabulary of the new male sensitivity by heart but who didn't really know how to make commitments. Sam knew how to handle men such as that. He wasn't so sure about Dean Winchester. Sam sensed the other man took a great deal in life very seriously.

There was more age in his eyes than on his face, Sam thought. And there was quiet, implacable strength in that pale green gaze. He thought he understood why his uncle liked Dean. But he could also picture his unpredictable uncle trying to lighten the sombreness that surrounded the younger man like an aura. He could just see Bobby Singer laughing and telling Dean that his nephew would be good for him and that he could have Sam when he'd finished his novel.

Sam made a rueful face. Perhaps his easygoing uncle hadn't realized just how seriously a man like Dean Winchester would take such an outrageous comment. Ah, well. He would do his best to keep things light and easy between himself and the budding author on the drive back into the mountains tomorrow. And when this was all over he would give Bobby a lecture on interfering in the private lives and fantasies of his friends. Assuring himself of that, Sam finally drifted off to sleep.

It was sunny and warm the next morning as Sam showered and dressed for breakfast. Accustomed to that kind of weather in San Diego, he didn't think much about it. He pulled on a pair of clean jeans and buttoned up a plaid flannel shirt over his plain white t-shirt. Hastily he ran his fingers through his damp hair knowing that a brush really wouldn't help and wondered if Dean Winchester would be on time for breakfast as he'd promised. Sam decided he would be. Authors were entitled to be erratic in their habits, Sam felt, but Dean was the kind of man who would be exactly where he said he would be at the specified time. Dependable.

He hurried downstairs and across the street. The coffee shop Dean had pointed out last night when he'd escorted him back to the inn was full of people who weren't nearly so inclined as he was to take the local weather for granted. There seemed to be a kind of desperation in the air, as if everyone was determined to grab the last of summer before the Northwest winter took hold. Everyone from the hostess to the busboy commented in a dazed fashion on the fact that the Seattle area was getting another day of sunshine.

'Yes, it certainly is marvellous weather,' Sam agreed politely as he was seated. Privately he thought that no one in San Diego would have even bothered to comment on it. 'By the way, I'm waiting for someone.' Something made him glance back toward the doorway. 'Oh, there he is now. Would you show him to my table?'

The gray-haired, middle-aged hostess chuckled. 'Sure.' She waved energetically at the man who stood in the doorway surveying the room. 'Hey, Dean. Over here.'

Not just Dean but everyone else in the room looked around. Sam experienced an acute twinge of embarrassment. He should have guessed that in a small community like this everyone knew one another. Determinedly he smiled as Winchester walked toward him.

Striving for a casual pose of polite welcome, Sam was astonished to realize that he was actually mildly fascinated with Dean's approach. His stride was a deceptively easy, flowing movement that covered the distance between the doorway and the table very quickly. He had a coordinated, masculine grace that went beyond the kind of athletic motion Sam's friends developed by running or working out. He had a feeling Dean's physical control and smoothness had probably been born in him, the way a cat's coordination was.

The sandy dark hair that he obviously kept disciplined with a scissor was still damp from his shower and combed severely into place. He wore jeans and a cream-coloured button-down shirt. On his feet were the usual sneakers, Sam noted in amusement. The shoes made his progress across the coffee shop quite soundless. If Sam hadn't been watching him, he would never have heard him approach the table. Just as he had never heard him come down the hall to the study last night, he reflected as Dean greeted the hostess.

'Good morning, Angie. How's it going today? Looks like a full house this morning.'

The hostess nodded, pleased. 'Give these Northwest folks a little sunny weather and they crawl out of the woodwork in droves. We've been doing real good this past week. Real good. Have a seat with your boy here and I'll send Liz on over for your order.' Beaming impartially down at Sam and Dean, the hostess bustled off to find the waitress.

'Your boy!' Sam winced. 'I've always heard that in small towns people pay a lot of attention to what their neighbours are doing but I hadn't realized they were so quick to jump to conclusions! Better be careful, Dean. When everyone finds out you're gone off to the mountains with me for the day, you'll be a compromised man.'

'I can live with it.' He appeared unconcerned, turning his head to greet the teenage waitress as she hurried over to the table.

'Morning, Dean. Coffee for both of you?' Liz began filling Dean's cup without waiting for confirmation and then glanced inquiringly at Sam.

'Please.' Sam smiled.

'Ready to order?' Briskly Liz whipped out her pad.

'Try the scones,' Dean suggested before Sam could speak.

'Scones?'

'Ummm. Homemade. They're great,' he assured him.

'Well, I usually just have a bagel and coffee,' Sam began uncertainly.

'You're leaving that 'streamer life-style behind, remember?' Dean pointed out seriously.

Sam felt a wave of humour. 'All right. An order of scones and scrambled eggs,' he said to the waitress.

'Got it,' Liz responded. She glanced at Dean. 'The usual for you? The number-three breakfast without the bacon?'

'Fine, Liz.'

Liz giggled and hurried off toward the kitchen.

Sam stirred cream into his coffee and slanted a glance at Dean. 'Okay, I give up. Why the giggle over your order of a number-three breakfast?'

Dean's mouth twisted wryly. 'Because a number three without bacon is really a number one. The first time I ate here I didn't notice the difference on the menu and just told Liz I wanted the number three minus the bacon. For some reason she's made it into a standing joke between us.'

'I see. You don't like bacon?'

'I don't eat meat,' he explained gently.

Sam was instantly intrigued. 'Somehow you don't look like a vegetarian.'

He leaned back against the cushion of the booth and picked up his coffee cup. 'What do vegetarians look like?'

'Oh, I don't know. Maybe like leftovers from a sixties' commune or like a member of some exotic religious cult. Do you avoid meat for health or moral reasons?'

'I avoid it because I don't like it,' Dean said too quietly.

Feeling rather put in his place, Sam managed a faintly polite smile. He knew when he was being told to shut up. 'I guess that's as good a reason as any other. So much for that topic. Let's try another one. When will you be able to leave for the mountains? I'd like to start as soon as possible, if you don't mind.'

Dean's dark lashes lowered in a thoughtful manner and then his steady gaze met Sam's. 'Was I rude?'

'Of course not,' Sam assured him calmly. 'I should never have pried. What you eat is entirely your own business.'

'I didn't mean to be rude,' Dean insisted.

'You weren't. Forget it. Here come the scones and they do look good.' Sam flashed his best and most charming smile. The one he reserved for cocktail parties and management types.

'Don't.'

Sam blinked and arched a brow in cool question. 'I beg your pardon?'

'I said don't,' Dean muttered as his plate was set in front of him.

'Don't what?'

'Smile at me like that.'

'Sorry,' Sam said rather grimly. Perhaps he would go to the mountains alone.

'It looks like something left over from your 'streamer days,' Dean explained carefully. 'Kind of upwardly mobile. A little too flashy and not quite real. I'd rather have the real thing.'

Sam couldn't resist. 'Choosy, aren't you?'

'About some things. I can leave right after breakfast if you like.'

'Actually,' Sam began forbiddingly, 'I'm on the verge of changing my mind.'

'About breaking into your uncle's cottage?' Dean slid a bit of egg onto a piece of toast.

'About taking you with me,' Sam said sweetly.

Dean glanced up, surprised. 'Just because I was a little short with you a few minutes ago?'

Put like that, it did sound rather trite. Sam was at a loss to explain exactly why he was vaguely reluctant to have Dean accompany him, but the feeling had been growing since he'd awakened that morning. He didn't really have a valid excuse for refusing his companionship, however. After all, he was the one who had sought Dean out and he had done so precisely because Bobby Singer had advised it several months ago. The sense of ambivalence he was feeling for Dean was a new emotion for him. Sam drummed his fingers on the table and decided to lay down a few ground rules. Normally he didn't think too highly of rules, but there were times when they represented a certain safety.

'I suppose I can't stop you from coming with me, although I'm not as all sure it's necessary. But I would appreciate it if you would keep in mind that this whole plan to get into the cottage is my idea.'

'Meaning you're in charge?' Dean munched his toast, watching Samm with intent eyes.

'Something like that. Forgive me if I'm jumping to conclusion, Dean, but I have this odd feeling that you might be the type to take over and run the show.' Even as he said the words, Sam realized the truth of them. Perhaps that was the source of his vague wariness regarding this man.

'Think of how nice it will be to have someone else along to share the blame in the event you get caught breaking and entering.'

Sam's eyes widened. 'Not a bad point,' he conceded. Then his sense of humour caught up with him. 'What did you do before you became a writer, Dean? You seem to have a knack for getting what you want. Were you a businessman?'

He considered the question. 'I guess you could say I was sort of a consultant.'

'A consultant?'

'Ummm. Someone you call in when things go wrong and have to be fixed in a hurry. You know the type.'

'Sure. We used a lot of consultants in the corporation where I recently worked. What's your area of expertise? Engineering? Design? Management?'

'Management.'

Sam nodded, familiar with the field. 'Get tired of it?'

'More than that. I got what is casually known as burned out.'

'I can understand that. I think that in a way that's what happened to me. Uncle Bobby is right. It takes a certain type of personality to be really happy in corporate management. I guess neither you nor I is the type.'

A slight smile edged Dean's hard mouth. 'Maybe we have more in common than you thought. We're both in the process of changing careers and we both like Bobby Singer.'

Sam laughed. 'Do you think we can keep each other company on a long drive given those two limited things in common?'

'I think we'll make it without boring or strangling each other.'

An hour and a half later Sam was inclined to agree with Dean. The drive east of Seattle into the Cascades had passed with amazing swiftness. There had been stretches of silence, but the quite times had not been uncomfortable. Dean was the kind of man a person didn't feel they had to keep entertained with light conversation. In fact, Sam was privately convinced that Dean would be disgusted if he thought someone was deliberately trying to entertain him with meaningless chatter. It was rather a relief to feel so at ease with him in this area, he realized. His early morning tingling of ambivalence faded as Dean guided the car deeper into the forest-darkened mountains.

When they did talk, the topics varied from the spectacular scenery to speculation on Bobby Singer's whereabouts. In between they discussed Dean's fledgling career as a writer and the turning point Sam had reached in his own life.

'Are you in a hurry to find a new job?' Dean asked at one point.

He had calmly assumed the role of driver and Sam had acquiesced primarily because he suspected Dean would be excellent behind the wheel. He was right. Dean's natural coordination and skill made Sam feel comfortable at once. Dean had insisted on using his car and Sam couldn't complain about that, either. The classic Impala hugged the curving highway with a mechanical grace and power. Normally Sam wasn't particularly enthusiastic about being a passenger in a car being driven by someone whose driving techniques he didn't know well.

'I've got enough of a financial cushion that I can afford to take my time,' he told Dean, his eyes on the majestic mountains that rose straight up from the edge of the highway. Small waterfalls spilled over outcroppings of granite. A crystal-clear stream followed the path of the highway on one side. Heavily timbered terrain stretched endlessly in front of the car. It was hard to believe such mountain grandeur lay so close to the heart of a cosmopolitan city. 'But I'll get restless if I sit around too long trying to make up my mind about what I really want to do with my life.'

'Any ideas?'

'Well…' Sam hesitated, realizing that he hadn't discussed his tentative plans with anyone else, not even his family. 'I've been thinking of going into your old line of work.'

Dean's head came around in a sudden, unexpected movement. 'My old line?'

Sam nodded, smiling. 'That probably seems odd to you, but to tell you the truth, I think I'd be a fairly good management consultant. I'd like the opportunity to be my own boss, though. I wouldn't want to work for a firm of consultants. And I'd pick and choose my contracts. I know it sounds like a contradiction in terms, Dean, but even though I don't like working within an organization, I do have a flair for management techniques that work in an organization. It's one of the reasons I hesitated so long about quitting my last job. I was good at it in a lot of ways.'

Dean's attention was back on the road ahead. 'I don't think it sounds like a contradiction. A lot of people can give objective advice about things they wouldn't want to make a living doing.'

'It would take a long time to build a clientele,' Sam said slowly.

'I know the feeling. It will take a long time to build a writing career.'

'But I do have some good contacts who would be glad to recommend me to companies looking for a consultant,' Sam went on more enthusiastically.

'And I've sold my first book. Sounds like we both have a toehold on the future,' Dean said with the first hint of a smile that day.

Sam grinned. 'Assuming we both don't wind up in jail because one of Uncle Bobby's neighbours sees us breaking into his cottage!'

It was shortly after noon by the time Dean pulled into the drive of Bobby Singer's mountain cabin. They had stopped for lunch at a small roadside café en rout.

The weatherworn house was one of a number of such cottages scattered about the forested landscape. Many were filled with summer visitors but a few, such as the one just over the next rise, were owned by permanent residents. Bobby Singer liked his privacy, however, and had purchased a cottage that was not within sight of the next house. Unless his nearest neighbour happened by on a casual walk, no one would notice two people jimmying the back window, Sam told himself.

'Have you ever done this before?' Dean asked blandly as he climbed out of the Impala and stood surveying the cottage.

'I got into your place, didn't I?' Sam reminded him.

'The front door was unlocked, remember?'

'You should probably start locking it,' he told Dean seriously. 'You can't be too careful these days.'

'I'll try to remember to do it,' Dean said dryly. 'Now, about this little business…'

'Well, I'll admit I have no direct experience of prying open a window, but how hard can it be? People break into houses all the time.'

'And occasionally get shot doing so.'

Sam gave him a bright smile. 'Maybe we should knock on the front door first, just to make certain no one's home.'

'Good idea.'

Dean strode to the front door of the cottage and pounded loudly. There was no response. There was also no sign of Bobby's car.

'Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way,' Dean observed morosely. 'We'll probably wreck the window and Bobby will send me the bill.'

Sam started around the corner of the house looking for a window at the right height and of the right size. 'Don't be so pessimistic. I brought you along to help and to lend moral support, not to paint a picture of doom and gloom.'

'It's just that I have this image of Bobby coming home and finding his window broken. He won't be pleased.'

'I'll leave a note,' Sam offered as he stopped in front of an appropriate window. 'What do you think about this one?'

Dean frowned and stepped forward to examine it more closely. 'I guess it's as good as any of the others. We'll need something to jimmy it with. Maybe the jack handle in the car. I'll go see what I can find.' He swung around and then halted abruptly, staring at the next window on the side of the cottage. 'Well, hell.'

'What's wrong?' Sam turned to follow his gaze. 'I don't…'

'Looks like someone else has been here ahead of us,' Dean said softly.

Sam peered more intently. 'Do you really think… oh.' For the first time he felt a distinct chill of unease. It was obvious the window had been crudely but effectively forced open. The frame was badly marked from whatever instrument had been used, and the window itself was still half raised. 'Vandals?'

Dean was examining the damage. He didn't look around. 'Surely you're not going to be satisfied with the notion that a couple of young punks broke into your uncle's house. Not after all the exotic mischief and mayhem you've been imagining.'

'Don't be sarcastic. What are you doing?'

'I'm going inside to have a look. ' Dean shoved the window completely open and casually swung a leg over the sill.

'Wait!' Sam grabbed for his arm. 'What if someone's still in there?' he hissed.

Dean glanced inside the house and shook his head. 'The place is empty.'

'You can't be sure. It's very dangerous to corner burglars in a house. You're supposed to go call the cops before going inside.'

'Is that right?' Dean said vaguely. Then he swung his other leg over the sill and dropped lightly to the floor inside.

Annoyed, Sam leaned through the window to lecture him further. But the words caught in his throat as he took in the chaos of the room. 'Oh, my God.'

'Umm.' Dean walked past a bookcase that had been ransacked and came to a halt in front of the old roll top desk.

Feeling stunned, Sam followed him through the window. Inside the house he stood staring in speechless dismay as Dean examined the desk. Sam remembered the desk well. He had helped Bobby select it at a junk shop in Seattle. His uncle had spent hours refinishing it.

Now the surface was a jumble of strewn papers, books and magazines. The drawers had been unceremoniously hauled open and emptied. Folders of personal business papers had been tossed on the floor along with a notebook of Bobby Singer's sketches.

Infuriated more than anything else by the way the sketchbook had been dumped on the well-worn Oriental rug, Sam bent down to retrieve it. 'Stupid bastards,' he muttered as he tried to smooth the pages and close the cover. 'Whoever it was just wanted to make a mess. I thought we had all the mental flakes down in California.'

'We have a few up here in the Northwest.' Dean walked slowly through the living room into the adjoining kitchen. 'Looks like someone really enjoyed themselves.'

'It's sick.' Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell of decaying food. The contents of the refrigerator had been thrown against the walls. 'Absolutely sick.'

'Or else someone wanted it to look that way,' Dean murmured slowly.

Sam swung around to stare at him wide-eyed. 'Damn, I hadn't thought of that. That's a possibility, isn't it? Whoever broke in might have deliberately tried to make it look like the work of vandals. That way no one would be able to figure out what he or she had been looking for.'

'On the other hand, it might have really been a couple of genuine vandals.' Dean shrugged, moving on into the single bedroom.

'Make up your mind!' Sam followed after him.

'How can I? I don't know what's going on here any more than you do.'

'Good point.' Sam couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. 'Given that basic fact, I guess we'd better go find the local police or sheriff or whatever passes for the law here.'

Dean paid no attention to this. He was looking at the phone that still sat in it's cradle on the table beside the bed. Whoever had gone through the room yanking open drawers and closet doors had ignored the telephone. A red light was flashing, indicating a message had been recorded.

'The message on there is probably from me.' Sam said quietly. 'The one I left when I called him a couple of days ago to let him know I would be arriving. There was no answer, so I just kept driving.'

Dean pressed the button that started the playback. The first voice on the machine was Sam's, as he had predicted.

'Uncle Bobby? I'm driving up from California to see you. Just wanted you to know I took your advice. Mom and Dad are in deep depression over the whole thing but I think they'll survive. Maybe they're getting used to my life-style changes. Personally, I feel great. You were right. See you tomorrow.'

Sam caught his breath when he heard the next voicemail. His uncle's easy growl was as unconcerned and laconic as ever.

'Dean, if you and Sam are the ones listening to this, then you'll have realized I have a small problem on my hands. I can't explain everything just now but don't worry. We'll talk later. Pay attention to me. This isn't anything I can't handle but I need a little time and privacy. Some unfinished business regarding your wedding present, I'm afraid. It's tough enough to find just the right gift for a special couple like you and Sam. I didn't realize it would be even harder to protect it. Do me a favour and don't bother the local cops. This is a personal matter. Oh, and Dean, Sam tends to have a rather vivid imagination and he doesn't handle waiting very well. A distinct lack of patience in that boy at times. I heard his message when I phoned in to leave my own. I know he's on his way here and when he doesn't find me he'll probably look you up. Which, of course, explains why you're standing there listening to this message. Aren't you impressed with my wondrous logic?' There was a rough chuckle. 'Take care of him for me and keep him out of trouble until I get back. I'll see you as soon as I can.'

The message clicked to silence while Sam stood utterly still, staring at the machine in astonishment and dread. 'Wedding gift?' he finally got out very weakly.

Dean punched the save button. 'I told you Bobby had plans for us,' he reminded him dryly.

'Dean, none of this makes any sense!'

'Yes, it does.' Dean turned to look at him. His light eyes were unreadable, but the set of his handsome features was intently serious. 'Bobby says that whatever's going on is private business. He'll take care of it. He doesn't want any help or he'd ask for it. And he wants me to keep you from getting involved. I'm supposed to take care of you. It all seems clear enough to me.'

'Don't be ridiculous. There is nothing clear about this mess.' Sam turned abruptly and stalked back into the living room. 'Damn Uncle Bobby anyway. Why couldn't he have left a simple straightforward message or called you and told you exactly what was going on? He headed toward the rifled desk. 'Just like him to leave a lot of questions lying around for us to try to answer.'

'He says it's a private matter. He doesn't want us involved. He probably didn't call because he didn't want to alarm us unnecessarily. On the other hand, he figured if we got this far he'd better leave some sort of message.' Dean followed Sam on silent feet, stopping to examine the stack of books that had been stripped from the bookcase.

'If it's such a personal matter, what was that business about protecting our wedding present?' Sam shot Dean a scathing glance as he began picking up the scattered magazines that had been spilled from an end table. Bobby Singer was an inveterate magazine reader. Sam had frequently teased him about the number of subscriptions he maintained.

'You know your uncle. There are times when he simply can't resist throwing out a teaser.' Dean seemed unconcerned.

'It's his unfortunate sense of humour, I suppose.' Sam sighed and shuffled a stack of insurance papers. 'Dean, this whole thing is going to drive me crazy. How are we going to know he's all right?'

'We won't until he gets back. But I've told you before, Sam. Your uncle can take care of himself.'

'I don't like that comment about 'unfinished business,'' Sam went on unhappily. 'It sounds dangerous. Like something from his past coming back to haunt him.'

'Bobby was right. You do have an active imagination.'

'Well?' the younger man challenged. 'How would you interpret that message?'

'Like something from his past that has come back to haunt him,' Dean admitted in a resigned tones. He picked up a stack of books and put them back on the shelf. 'The real problem is that food on the walls in the kitchen. That's going to be a mess to clean. It's going to take quite a while, too.'

'Stop changing the subject! This is important. We have to figure out what's going on.' Sam frowned intently down at the papers in his hand. Predictably enough, many of them, even the most important looking ones, contained small sketches and doodles. Bobby Singer was forever covering books, papers and notepads with his drawings. He did them almost unconsciously, Sam knew. Bobby could be talking about one thing and sketching a totally unrelated subject. He remembered once having coffee with him in a restaurant and discussing Sam's growing dissatisfaction with his latest job. Bobby had carried on a detailed and logical conversation while making comical character sketches on a napkin of the people in the next booth. 'What do you suppose whoever did this was looking for?'

'That's something we can't even guess until Bobby shows. Up.'

'Except that we know it has something to do with our so-called wedding gift,' Sam muttered in growing annoyance. 'What in the world could Uncle Bobby have been talking bout?'

'If he'd wanted us to know, he would have told us.'

'You're awfully casual about this, Dean.' Sam glared at him over his shoulder.

'I know your uncle very well, Sam,' Dean said. 'He doesn't want us getting involved.'

Sam ignored that, tapping an impatient knuckle on the desk. Thoughtfully he stared out the window toward a stand of fir. 'He said he'd already gotten the gift. Now he has to protect it.'

'Something like that.' Dean re-shelved another batch of books.

'So whoever did this must have been looking for whatever Uncle Bobby calls our wedding present.'

'Are you going to give me a hand cleaning up the kitchen?'

'You know, Uncle Bobby once told me he believed in that old theory that the best hiding place was the one that was in full view. People really do tend to overlook the obvious. He says answers are always quite clear when you know where to look.' Sam glanced around the room with narrowed eyes. 'He'd had some experience along those lines. He ought to know what he's talking about.'

Dean went into the kitchen. 'If whoever made this mess didn't find what they were looking for, the odds are you won't find it either. It may not even be here. Or Bobby might have removed it and hidden it somewhere else. Or this chaos might really be the work of casual vandals who happened on an empty cabin. A coincidence, Sam, we don't have a clue. There's no point beating our heads against a stone wall. Let your uncle take care of his own business.'

Sam heard water running in the kitchen sink. Reluctantly he put down the stack of insurance papers and got to his feet. Dean was right. They should clean up the kitchen first.

'Uncle Bobby said he was thinking of putting in a fancy alarm system. Too bad he didn't get around to it in time to prevent this,' he commented.

'I know. I was going to help him install it,' Dean said from the kitchen.

Sam took a step forward and his toe brushed a thick sheaf of papers that had been lying on the floor beside the chair. The pile of neatly typed pages was still bound with a rubber band. Automatically he leaned down to pick it up. Halfway down the first page a single word, underlined, leaped out at him. Phantom.

'Dean! Here's a copy of your manuscript,' he called, aware of a surging sense of interest in what he held. Curiously he flipped through a handful of pages.

'I think I mentioned that I had given a copy to Bobby,' Dean said softly from the doorway of the kitchen.

'Would you mind if I…?' Sam's request to read the manuscript died on his lips as he looked at the pencilled sketch in the right-hand corner of the first page. There were other doodles at the bottom of the page, but it was the one at the top that made him grow cold.

The drawing had been done hurriedly, but Bobby Singer's talent lay in the quick character sketch. Strong, simple lines defined the figure in only a few brief strokes. It was the head of a wolf.

'No,' Sam whispered as he stared at the drawing. 'God, no.'

'Sam? What's wrong?' Dean tossed aside the sponge he had been holding and came toward Sam, his expression one of grave concern.

Feeling decidedly unnerved, Sam sank back down into the desk chair and looked up at him. 'See that drawing on your manuscript?'

Dean glanced at the page and then back at Sam's strained face. 'What about it? Your uncle is always doodling and sketching. You know that.' He leaned down to flip through the rubber band bound stack. 'Look. There are little drawings on nearly all the pages.'

'I know. But this is more than just an idle sketch.' Sam swallowed, struggling to remember details. 'There was a real wolf in his past, you see. A renegade killer. Never mind, it's a long story. Uncle Bobby told me about him one night over a few drinks.' Dazedly he stared down at the drawing. 'Dean, if this is the 'unfinished business' my uncle is taking care of, he's in real trouble. We've got to do something.'

Dean's mouth tightened. He reached down and picked up the manuscript. 'We are going to do something. We're going to stay out of Bobby's way and let him handle his unfinished business.'

'Dean, we have a responsibility!'

'My responsibility is to take care of you. Very clear; very simple. That's what your uncle wants and that's what I'm going to do. Now, if you really want to do something useful for Bobby, come on into the kitchen and help me clean up the mess. If we don't take care of it, some helpful, foraging skunks or worse will take care of it for us.'

tbc