Sam was genuinely worried, Dean reflected a few hours later. Tense, nervous, restless and worried. Dean had spent the past three hours alternately trying to reassure Sam that Bobby Singer could handle his own problems and trying to convince him that he was letting his imagination play havoc with his common sense. Neither attempt had been particularly successful. But then, he hadn't had a lot of experience attempting to soothe the fears of others.

It had been late by the time they'd finished cleaning up Bobby's cabin, and when Dean had suggested they spend the night at a nearby motel instead of driving all the way back to Seattle, Sam hadn't argued. Dean had scrupulously booked two rooms at a charmingly rustic little lodge located just off the main highway.

Now, as he studied Sam across the restaurant table, it occurred to Dean that he was going to have his hands full trying to carry out the task Singer had assigned him in that damned voice message.

Nothing was going the way he had thought it would, and the knowledge irritated him. For the better part of the past year the unknown Sam had been hovering in the back of his mind, his nebulous image planted there by Bobby Singer.

'The two of you are going to be great together,' Bobby had told him with vast assurance. 'But you both need a little time. You've got to get Phantom out of your system and he has to reach a few conclusions on his own. I figure in another few months-'

'Bobby, you may be my best friend but I don't want you playing matchmaker. Understand?' Dean had been very firm even though he'd already downed a great deal of beer before the conversation had gotten around to the subject of Singer's nephew.

'You're going to love him, pal. Trust me. The two of you have a lot in common.'

'That's rather doubtful, isn't it?'

'I know people, Dean. You should realize that by now. Sam's perfect for you. He's intelligent and full of life. He's also fundamentally genuine and honest. He'll help you keep your life in balance. You need a dose of enthusiasm and optimism. You're too cautious. Furthermore, he's capable of making a commitment to the right man. Luckily for you, he hasn't found him yet. And he won't as long as he hangs around those wimps he's been dating for the past few years. He's smart enough to lay with the dross but wait for the real gold.' Bobby had grinned. 'He's really very good at playing with life. In college he played at being a pseudo-intellectual. He used to spend hours arguing about philosophical treatises. A lot of people thought he was serious, including his teachers. Got good grades. When he graduated he decided to play at being an artist for a while. Rented a genuine garret, wore his hair long and went around in paint-stained jeans. He actually sold a couple of paintings through a gallery that made the mistake of taking him seriously. Then he went through an activist phase during which he went around protesting against environmental polluters. Eventually he wound up as the epitome of what they call a 'streamer. He always did have a good sense of timing. He also has a real flair for management. He enjoys life the way some people enjoy a game.'

'And just what am I going to be offering him in return?' Dean had asked roughly as he popped the top on another can of beer. The discussion was outrageous, but such conversations were allowable when you were sharing several beers with your only real friend. Besides, there was something about the unknown Sam that intrigued Dean more than he wanted to admit. He found himself wondering what Sam would think of him if Bobby ever got around to introductions.

'Sam needs someone strong, someone who can appreciate what he has to offer. He also needs a counterfoil for his natural enthusiasm and impulsiveness. Someone stable and steady. When he does give his heart for real, it will be completely. He'll need someone who will make the same commitment to him that he'll be making to them. A lot of people aren't capable of that. They might know several fancy names for spaghetti or how to select the right brand of running shorts but that's about the extent of their sensitivity.'

'Been reading those articles on the 'new male,' I see. I warned you about that. You should cancel some of those magazine subscriptions. Bunch of garbage and you know it.'

'Is that so? Well, how many people would you trust with your life or your wallet or your lover these days?' Bobby had countered.

That had struck a chord, Dean remembered. 'Not many. Maybe you. That's about it.'

'And you're about the only one I would trust with anything I value. I value my nephew, Dean. Perhaps because there's something in him that reminds me of my self.'

'So you're going to give him to me? I'm not sure that you're taking your responsibilities as his uncle seriously enough.'

'I know what I'm doing. You should be thanking me. You need a man who can give himself completely. You also need someone who has a real understanding of loyalty. You could also use someone who occasionally shakes you up a bit. You're so damned controlled, son, that it worries me at times. It's as though you've built a carefully organized, well-defined little world for yourself and nothing gets in unless you've fully analyzed and comprehended it first.'

'I like to be sure of things, Bobby. You know that.'

The older man had grinned complacently. 'Once you get to know Sam you'll realize you can be sure of him in all the ways that count. There's a lot of love and loyalty in that man, and the person who taps it is going to be very rich. You'll see.'

The conversation, as Dean recalled, had gone downhill from there. The beer had flowed freely, and mercifully it had inspired Bobby Singer to bring up other topics for discussion. Dean couldn't remember too many of them the next morning, but he definitely recalled the little matter of Singer's nephew.

Phantom had absorbed most of his time and energy in the ensuing months. He hadn't seen a great deal of anyone, not even Bobby, but the older man had known what he was doing. As usual.

The seed had been planted, and as he'd worked steadily, often painfully, on the novel, Dean had found the presence of the mysterious Sam hovering in the corners of his mind Sometimes late at night after he'd put in hours on the manuscript he'd dosed himself with brandy and gone to bed thinking about what he would do if he had Sam there. He'd let himself fantasize about having a man who loved him, a man who knew what loyalty meant. And then he'd gone to sleep with a body that still ached from the stirrings of an irrational passion.

On the rare occasions when he did talk to Singer, Dean had heard himself ask after Sam with what he hoped was deceptive casualness. Bobby had supplied information readily enough, telling him about his success in his job or the latest 'wimp' he was seeing.

When he'd begun to realize he didn't like hearing about the newest males in Sam's life, Dean had finally acknowledged to himself that he might have a problem. It was ridiculous and quite asinine to start wanting a man you'd never met, but the sense of anticipation had taken firm root. That anticipation had been followed by a curious sensation of possessiveness that was even more perplexing than the fantasy-induced desire.

Sam's undefined image had remained on the borders of Dean's mind, always waiting for him. Sam was there when he took a break during the day from Phantom. He emerged to haunt him before he went to sleep at night. And he casually made himself felt when Dean sat by himself in front of the fire in the evenings sipping a lonely bottle of beer.

Bobby had said he'd see about introducing Sam to Dean when the book was finished. Over a period of months Sam had begun to seem like the prize at the end of a quest.

Last night when he'd returned from his small celebration of the sale of Phantom and walked home to find the man in his study, Dean had experienced the disorienting sensation of having met his destiny. The quest had been completed and now his gift was within reach. The fantasy hadn't diminished since the previous evening.

It should have, Dean thought objectively as he watched Sam prod a sun-dried tomato in his pasta salad. Fantasies were supposed to die quick deaths when reality took over. But reality was proving very interesting in this case, far more gripping than fantasy.

'So what are we going to do?' Across the table Sam finished up his salad and set down his fork. Challengingly he waited for Dean to say something brilliant.

Dean realized he couldn't raise to the challenge. 'Nothing.'

'As an answer, that lacks a certain something,' Sam muttered. 'In management training I learned that you're always supposed to sound confident and in charge.'

'Maybe I should take the course.'

'This is not a joke, Dean. We can't just sit around and wait.'

'Why not? It's what your uncle wants us to do. We'll drive back to Seattle in the morning. You can stay with me on the island until Bobby returns.'

Sam eyed him with abrupt wariness. 'I don't think that's such a good idea.'

'It sounds perfectly reasonable to me. You're certainly not going to spend the time waiting in Bobby's cottage. If you think I'd leave you there knowing that whoever went through that place once might return, you're out of your little ex-corporate skull.'

He hadn't raised his voice, but Sam felt the diamond hard determination in him more clearly than if he'd shouted the words.

'Don't worry,' Sam said bluntly, 'I'm not particularly eager to stay alone at Uncle Bobby's cottage. Not after seeing that sketch of the wolf.'

Dean glared at him and picked up his wineglass. 'What the devil is all this nonsense about the wolf, anyway? You've been acting as if you'd seen a ghost ever since you saw Bobby's dumb doodle on my manuscript.'

'I did. In a way.' Sullenly Sam stared at the tablecloth in front of him, remembering. 'It's a long story, Dean.'

'We've got a long evening ahead of us,' the other man noted grimly. 'You might as well tell me the tale.'

'I only know bits and pieces of it.' Sam sighed and pushed aside his empty dinner plate. 'Uncle Bobby never told me all the details. He probably couldn't because of security reasons, although lately my uncle has begun to demonstrate an amazing disgust for all the bureaucratic paranoia that generally controls matters of security.' A brief flicker of amusement lit his eyes for a few seconds as he thought about that. He heartily approved of the trend.

'So what did he tell you about this wolf business that has you so upset tonight?'

'There was a man,' Sam began slowly, recalling the conversation with his uncle that had taken place nearly a year ago. 'A man who carried the code name of Wolf. Uncle Bobby said it suited him.' He gave Dean a level glance, willing him to understand the importance of what he was trying to say. "Bobby said he was so good at what he did, so dangerous, that when he walked into a room the temperature seemed to drop by twenty degrees.'

Dean considered that in silence for a moment and then murmured very distinctly, 'Bull.'

Sam scowled at him. 'It's true.'

'Your uncle's right. You do have an overactive imagination.'

'It was Uncle Bobby who told me about the guy. That business of the room going cold was his description, not mine. He meant that the man could literally chill your blood. Even Uncle Bobby's blood, apparently. Now do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?'

Dean shrugged and buttered a roll. ' Go ahead.'

'All right. But only if you're going to listen seriously to what I'm saying. This is not a wild tale, Dean. Uncle Bobby meant every word the night he told me the story. He was… upset.'

'Bobby was upset?'

'Yes. You see, he knew the man they called Wolf. The guy was supposed to be his replacement. Uncle Bobby had the job of grooming him to step into his shoes when he retired.'

'Bobby officially retired five years ago.'

Sam nodded. 'But my uncle kept tabs on his replacement, I guess. He must have been very uneasy about him right from the beginning. He said this Wolf was almost frighteningly ruthless. He seemed to have no emotions, no human sensitivity. Sending him on a mission was like aiming a gun and pulling the trigger. From what Uncle Bobby said, the man would probably qualify as a sociopath. You know, someone who doesn't really function in society. No emotional equipment. Sick. Working for the intelligence group Uncle Bobby was in gave him an outlet for his antisocial tendencies and his ruthlessness. If he hadn't gotten that kind of job, he probably would have ended up as a first-class criminal.'

'Bobby said all this?' Dean seemed both sceptical and reluctantly fascinated.

'Some of it I've inferred from his description that night. My uncle was very restless about something that evening. He wanted to talk to someone, I think. I've never seen him in quite that mood. And he'd certainly never made a habit before of talking about his, uh, former business associates. Sometimes he'd tell me stories and tales but they were always deliberately vague on details. I could tell that the story wasn't being embroidered or altered for security reasons this time. Anyhow, he'd come down to spend a weekend with my family in San Diego. We had all gone out to dinner, and when we were finished he drove me over to my apartment. I knew something was bothering him, and when he started talking, I just let him go on until he'd gotten it all out of his system.'

'Did he give you any specific details on this character he calls Wolf?' Dean asked softly.

'You mean like a description or his real name? Of course not.' Sam smiled wryly. 'Even when Uncle Bobby's in a chatty mood, he knows how to watch his tongue. I guess he spent too many years being cautious. All I know about Wolf is that Bobby was worried. I think he believed his protégé might be slipping over the edge. Wolf was dangerous enough when he could still be aimed by his superiors and fired like a weapon, but if he could no longer be at least minimally controlled… if he decided to go into business for himself, for example…'

'You're saying Bobby thought the guy might have gone renegade?' Dean demanded.

Sam took a breath. 'That's the impression I got that night. I only know that Uncle Bobby was tense and worried about what he had helped create.'

Dean chewed meditatively on another chunk of his roll. 'Dr. Frankenstein and his monster.'

'I know it sounds melodramatic,' Sam admitted, 'and if I hadn't seen that little drawing of a wolf's head on your manuscript, I wouldn't have thought twice about that conversation with my uncle. But after hearing the voice message and seeing the mess that the cottage was in and then finding the drawing-' he broke off, his anxiety clear in his eyes.

'Why do you suppose your uncle happened to make that little doodle on the front page of my manuscript?' Dean asked reflectively.

Sam lifted one shoulder negligently. 'You know him. He's constantly sketching and doodling. He uses what ever is handy. I've seen him make the most intricate little drawings on cocktail napkins or paper towels or the back of his income-tax forms. Your manuscript probably happened to be nearby when he was thinking of this Wolf person. Or…' Sam's eyes widened as a thought caught his attention. Maybe something in your manuscript reminded him of the wolf.'

'Not likely. Not from the way you've described the guy,' Dean said flatly.

Sam thought about that. 'Then he must have been thinking of the wolf at a time when your manuscript was lying nearby. Which means that something was making him uneasy. He tells us in his voice mail that he's going to take care of unfinished business. I think… I think Uncle Bobby always considered Wolf unfinished business.'

'Because he'd trained him and then turned him loose?'

'Something like that. How would you feel if you'd been assigned to train someone and had him turn into a… a criminal or worse. Perhaps a renegade killer. Wouldn't you feel you had to do something about it?'

'Not a pleasant thought,' Dean said slowly.

'But wouldn't you feel responsible?'

'I might.'

'Then maybe-'

Dean interrupted abruptly. 'But, Sam, that doesn't explain Bobby's message completely. Remember, he said he was out to protect our, er, wedding present.'

'I know. I can't figure out that part,' he admitted morosely.

'Face it. We don't stand a chance in hell of figuring any of this out until your uncle gets back and tells us just what was going on. The only thing we can do is wait.' Dean's rare smile flickered briefly at the corners of his mouth. 'At least I got assigned a task to keep my mind off Bobby's problems.'

'What task?' Sam frowned at him across the table.

'Taking care of you. I'm suppose to keep you out of mischief, remember?'

'Oh, that.' Sam waved the entire matter aside. 'That was just a casual comment on my uncle's part.'

'Nevertheless, I feel obliged to take it seriously. After all, you're worried, and if someone doesn't keep an eye on you, I can envision you getting into all sorts of trouble.'

'Don't' be ridiculous.'

'You might,' Dean concluded without any trace of amusement at all, 'even manage to make some trouble for your uncle.'

That caught Sam's attention. 'What do you mean?'

'I think that, left to your own devices, you'll convince yourself that Bobby really is in trouble. You'll start poking around, perhaps asking questions. There's no telling what small waves you might set in motion that could ripple back to Bobby.'

Sam studied him, stricken. 'You're serious, aren't you? I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize my uncle.'

'I know you wouldn't do anything deliberately, but how could you even begin to guess what might or might not have an effect?'

'Oh, come off it, Dean, I'm hardly in a position to do anything dramatic one way or the other,' he protested.

'No?' Dean pushed aside his plate and leaned forward, his arms folded on the table in front of him. 'What if you go back to talk to that neighbour of his? What if you decide to do a little investigating on your own? Find out if anyone noticed someone hanging around your uncle's cottage recently, for example. And what if someone notices you and takes exception to your involvement? I can see you doing all sorts of little things that could blow up in Bobby's face. Or worse yet, your own face.'

'That's ridiculous and you know it. Now you're the one whose imagination is running wild,' Sam scoffed. But deep down he felt a prickle of guilt. It had occurred to him only a few minutes earlier that it might be interesting to talk to his uncle's neighbours. A vague plan to talk to some of them had been formulating in the back of his mind. He knew his flushed cheeks betrayed this.

Dean gave his a very deliberate look. 'Going to deny you were making a few plans?'

'Well, no, but I certainly don't think…' he trailed off, flustered.

'Umm. I think my little assignment is going to be the tough one,' Dean groaned. 'I have a hunch Bobby knew exactly what he was doing when he asked me to keep an eye on you. If you're finished with your food, let's head back to the rooms. It's getting late.' He stood up without bothering to wait for Sam's agreement. The waiter hurried over with the check.

Disgruntled at the abrupt termination of the meal and the conversation, Sam got to his feet more slowly and allowed Dean to lead him out of the small restaurant. His head was spinning with worry, speculation and half-formed plans. In fact, his attention was focused so completely on his thoughts that he didn't notice where Dean was guiding him until he suddenly became aware of flagstone under his sturdy boots. Dean was leading Sam along a path that wound around the motel.

'A little late for a walk, isn't it?' Sam asked, glancing into the shadows of darkened stands of trees. Behind them the lights of the motel flared in the night.

'I thought a walk before turning in might calm you down a bit.' Dean took a firm grip on his arm as Sam ducked under a low hanging branch and stumbled slightly on a cluster of pebbles. 'Watch your step.'

'That's tough to do since I don't see well in the dark,' Sam complained.

'I'll guide you.'

'You can see in the dark?' he asked very politely.

'Umm. I've always had good night vision.'

'That must come in handy for this sort of thing,' he allowed still more politely.

'What sort of thing?'

'Enforced midnight marches with unsuspecting people,' he drawled.

''It's only nine-thirty and believe it or not I can't even remember the last time I went for an evening walk with anyone, unsuspecting or otherwise.' Dean hesitated, mulling that over. 'It's very pleasant.'

'Even though I'm having trouble walking in a straight line?'

'That's the best part.'

'Oh.' his brief amusement vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and Sam went back to thinking about his missing uncle.

'It won't do any good, you know,' Dean said after a moment.

'What won't do any good?'

'Worrying.'

'But I'm so good at it.' Sam sighed.

'What you need is something to take your mind off your problems.' Dean came to an unexpected halt, catching hold of Sam with both hands as the younger man stumbled into him. 'And I think I need the same thing,' he added almost under his breath as he stood very close in the darkness and ran his palms down Sam's arms.

Sam felt the strength in Dean's hands as he was pulled in close. Aware of a fierce surge of sudden awareness as he realized Dean was going to kiss him. For an instant he tried to read the shadowed gaze, seeking answers to questions he couldn't formulate. But in the almost nonexistent light Dean's eyes were colourless and infinitely unintelligible. Sam was enthralled by his own reaction to that gaze. It lured him, promising something he wasn't sure he wanted. Before he could fathom the strange sensation, Sam felt himself pressed against a warm chest, and in the next moment Dean's mouth was on his.

What startled him most about Dean's kiss was the urgency in it. It seemed to wash over him, a combination of male curiosity, hunger and carefully restrained desire. Sam had found that the first kiss from a man was usually tentative, polite and as practiced as he could make it. This was something else again. There was nothing tentative or polite about it. Nor was there any element of practiced seduction in the damp heat of Dean's kiss.

Sam was tinglingly aware that it was the most honest kiss he had ever received. He wasn't sure how he knew that with such certainty but there was absolutely no doubt in his mind. It was like finding gold after years of sorting through scrap metal. The vivid realization brought forth a response from him that he'd had no intention of indulging until it flared into life. Then it could hardly be denied.

Slowly, savouring the moment of unexpected awareness, Sam slid his arms around Dean's neck and found the dark strands of his hair with questing fingertips. He was twenty five years old, he thought, and not given to such episodes of instant attraction. This was something unique and he was wise enough to know it.

'Sam?'

Slowly, reluctantly, Dean drew his mouth away. He raised one hand to tangle in Sam's hair while with the other he stroked the length of his back. Sam could feel the intensity in the other man as Dean pressed the hard lines of his lower body against Sam.

'I believe you said this was supposed to give me something else to think about?' Sam murmured huskily.

'I don't know about you, but I may have given myself a little too much to think about tonight. Forgive me, Sammy, but I've been wondering what you would taste like for a long time.' Once again he slanted his mouth across Sam's.

Sam felt his lips being parted and then Dean was deep in his unresisting mouth, exploring him with such intimacy that Sam heated with desire. For countless moments time stood still for him there on the narrow path. He gave himself up to the intriguing, captivating touch of a man who qualified as a near-stranger and wondered why he seemed so right to all his senses.

He offered no resistance as Dean drew him deeper and deeper into the embrace. When Dean's palms slipped down to cup the contours of his ass, he nestled closer. Dean's leaping desire made itself felt through the fabric of his jeans and Sam's own body struggled to answer the ancient call. Sam had never known such driving urgency. When Dean freed his mouth to seek out the sensitive place behind his ear, he heard himself murmur a throaty response. Dean's breath was exciting and warm in his hair.

Then, slowly at first but with gathering strength, the night breeze began to make itself felt. Sam became vaguely aware of the gathering chill as it swirled and eddied around them. The warmth of Dean's body warded off some of it but not all. Dean seemed to realize what was happening at about the same moment and slowly relaxed his grip.

'I think it's time to go back,' he said huskily.

'Yes.' Sam didn't argue. Dean was right. It was time to go safely back to his own bed. But he felt unexpectedly breathless and he found himself holding on to Dean.

For a moment longer Dean's palms framed his face. Sam sensed the hesitation in him and was warmed by it. Dean was reluctant to break the spell and that pleased him. He didn't want to be the only one caught up in the magic, Sam realized.

'If it weren't getting so cold out here and if you'd had a little more time to get used to the idea…' Dean let the rest of the sentence trail off as he took Sam's hand and started back toward the lights of the motel.

'Get used to what idea?'

'Never mind,' Dean told him laconically. 'My imagination is proving to be as vivid as yours, although it seems to be running along different lines.'

Sam smiled smugly to himself in the shadows, knowing exactly what was going through Dean's head. Dean wanted him, and the knowledge sent a primitive thrill through his veins. Dean wouldn't do anything about it tonight, of course. It was much too soon. They barely knew each other and there were a great many factors that might get in the way of a relationship between them. Still, tonight he would go to sleep with a sense of anticipation that was entirely new to him.

But an hour later as he lay in bed in the room next to Dean's Sam realized that, anticipation or not, sleep was not going to come easily that night. Dean had succeeded in distracting him for a while, he decided ruefully, but now that he was alone again, too many jumbled thoughts were swirling in his head. His mind skipped around from worries about his uncle and his 'unfinished business' to memories of Dean's urgent kiss. He needed something to relax him.

'Like a good book,' he decided aloud, pushing back the covers. And he knew just where to get one.

Padding barefoot across the carpet, his flannel sleep pants riding low on his hips, Sam went to the duffel bag in the corner. Opening it, he reached inside and removed the manuscript of Phantom that he had picked up off his uncle's desk. For a moment his gaze rested thoughtfully on the sketch of the wolf in the upper corner, and then he told himself to ignore it. He was after relaxation, not added worry.

A deep curiosity filled him as he climbed back into bed and started Phantom. Silently he admitted to himself that it was the desire to learn something more about the man he had spent the day with rather than a wish to see how the story ended that prompted the feeling. How much could you tell about a man by his writing, he wondered.

On the surface, Phantom was a high adventure. It involved the perilous race to retrieve a cache of gold that had been smuggled out of Kuwait during the chaotic days of the Gulf War. The treasure had been hidden somewhere near the Persian Gulf in Saudi Arabia and had been inaccessible for years because it was simply too dangerous to go after it. Only a handful of men knew the location.

As the story opened, it was learned that more than a treasure had been hidden. Secret documents that could destroy the career of a powerful government official had been buried along with the gold. Suddenly any risk was worth taking to retrieve the cache.

The action was well plotted and moved with the swiftness of an avalanche, but what held Sam's attention until nearly two in the morning was the inner conflict of the protagonist, the man called Phantom.

He was portrayed as a man who had clearly reached the limits of his emotional and physical endurance. Too many years of tension and violence had taken a savage toll. Now he had been assigned one last job by the government agency for which he worked. He was told to retrieve the gold and the documents hidden with it. At any price.

In the end the man called Phantom did the job he had been assigned to do, but it had nearly destroyed him. Then he had accidentally discovered that the incriminating documents buried with the gold constituted a shattering indictment of the man who ran the very agency for which he himself worked. The secret papers pointed at treason at the highest levels. Phantom had learned far too much. He had not been expected to survive his mission, but now that he had, his life was in jeopardy.

By the time Sam finished the harrowing and emotionally gripping tale, he felt exhausted but not at all relaxed. The writing had been lean and stark, which didn't surprise him. Dean Winchester struck him as the kind of man who wouldn't use one more word than necessary to tell his story. But he was left with the same question he'd had when he'd begun reading. How much insight could you gain into a man by reading his fiction?

Restlessly he restacked the manuscript pages and climbed back out of bed. He put Phantom back in his duffel bag and turned to eye the rumpled sheets. He really didn't feel like climbing back into bed just yet. The book had left him far too keyed up and strangely tense.

On impulse he walked over to the sliding-glass door that opened onto the balcony and unlocked it. Taking a deep breath of the chilled mountain air, he stepped outside.

'You should have been asleep hours ago.'

Sam started at the sound of Dean's voice. Turning, he saw him lounging against the railing of the balcony next to his. Dean had one foot propped on the lowest rung and his elbows planted on the top one. The shadows hid the expression on his face, but Sam was aware of a strange tension in the atmosphere between them.

'I couldn't sleep,' Sam murmured. 'I've been reading.'

'Phantom?'

'Yes.'

'Learn anything?' Dean inquired sardonically.

Sam half smiled. 'Only that I think you're going to have a very successful career as a writer of suspense novels. I couldn't put it down, Dean.'

'But did you learn anything?' he pressed softly.

Sam wished he could see Dean's face. 'You know I started it out of curiosity, don't you?'

'Umm.'

'Well, I finished it because it was a very gripping tale. But I don't think I learned much about you in the process.' he paused, thinking. 'No, that's not true. I guess I did pick up a few things along the way.'

'Such as?'

'You have a set of rather fundamental values, don't you? You believe in integrity and justice. Things like honour and loyalty are important to you. If they weren't you wouldn't have been able to portray the hero's emotional turmoil so well. You tore that poor man apart, Dean. Halfway through the book I almost hated the writer for doing that to his protagonist. And then in the end, even though you pull together all the strands of the story and see that justice is done, you leave us wondering a little whether or not Phantom will survive emotionally.'

Even as he spoke Sam realized the truth of his own words. he had learned something about Dean Winchester by reading his manuscript, and what he had learned was disturbing on some levels. This was not a man who would ever understand games, let alone a light hearted approach to life. On other levels Sam was aware of a strong feeling of respect. There were so few men who knew what it meant to have a personal code of honour and integrity. Dean must know or he would never have been able to create Phantom. On still another level of awareness Sam experienced a sensation of compassion. Dean must have known what if felt like to hold yourself together by sheer willpower. Sam wondered what the other man had gone through in order to comprehend the depths of that kind of struggle.

'You wanted a miracle cure?' Dean turned his head to look out toward the night-shrouded forest.

'I like happy endings,' Sam admitted with a soft smile.

'I'm not sure there are any.'

Sam leaned sideways against the rail, the chilly breeze cutting through the thin fabric of his sleep pants and t-shirt. 'Dean, I swear, if you turn into one of those cynical New York-style writers I won't read your next book.'

Dean looked at him then and Sam saw the flash of a genuine grin. 'Maybe the trick is not to write endings. Just cut the story off after the main issues have been resolved and let everyone go their own way. Readers like you can assume it all ends happily.'

'You won't be able to fool me,' Sam warned. 'I know a real happy ending when I see one.'

'I'll work on it,' Dean promised so quietly Sam could barely hear him.

'Dean?'

'What is it, Sam?'

'About the basic story line of Phantom…'

'What about it?'

'Where did you get the idea of the gold being hidden during the Gulf War? It was very ingenious. And you made all the action so realistic.'

'I got the idea from your uncle. He told me the tale of the gold.'

'Really? It's a true story?'

'It's just a legend, of course. There are always a lot of tales and legends that come out of a situation like Kuwait. Bobby told me the story one night about a year ago. Supposedly the gold was going to be used by U.S. intelligence to buy information and finance certain clandestine operations. Your uncle told me privately that it's far more likely the gold was supposed to be a payoff from some big arms deals that were going on in the east. Kuwait was a hotbed for that kind of thing. At any rate the last man to actually see the gold was a U.S. agent. He arrived at his rendezvous point minus the treasure. No one really knows what happened.' Dean shrugged. 'And thus are legends born.'

'You added the bit about the secret incriminating documents?' Sam hazarded.

'It's called literary license. I needed an extra fillip to make the tale more than just a treasure hunt.'

'You certainly accomplished that.' Sam huffed a small laugh. 'I really empathized with your hero. I think I fell a little in love with him.'

There was a moment of silence from the other balcony and then Dean said very calmly, 'I'd much rather you fell in love with me.'

tbc