A/N: I guess it bears repeating that I did not write this fic. I STOLE this fic and then slashed it. The author, Jayne Ann Krentz, is a wonderful writer and I just love this story but really wanted to see Dean and Sam take over the main roles, (kinky little bitch that I am). All I did was change Sam's nightgown into a t-shirt and sleep pants and get the boys some lube and condoms when things started to get hot - sorry, not in this chapter ;)

So, anyway, I did not write this.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that he was concealed in the shadows of his balcony and that Dean was isolated, in turn, on his own little island that made Sam feel safe enough to indulge the dangerous curiosity. Or perhaps he was still wondering just how much he had learned about Dean from reading his book. Then again, it might have been simply his endless need to probe the man's words, searching for the real meaning. Whatever the cause, he couldn't resist asking the question.

'Why?'

'Because I think it might be very pleasant to have you fall in love with me.'

The answer was simple enough, Sam had to admit to himself. Straightforward and honest. Just like the man. The bluntness of it served to burst the small bubble of excitement within him before he'd even had a chance to fully analyze it. He stifled a small sigh of regret.

'Pleasant,' he mused. 'That sounds a little insipid.'

Dean seemed surprised at this interpretation. 'No. Not at all. I've learned to value the pleasant things in life,' he continued slowly. 'Pleasant things are civilized. They bring an element of grace and gentleness and peace into our lives. A glass of wine before dinner or a bottle of beer on a hot afternoon, a late-night walk on a beach, a friend you can trust with your life, a person whose love is unshakable even if he knows you've been to hell and back. A wise man values such things.'

'It must be the writer in you that can put the love of a person in the same category of pleasantness as a bottle of beer. Don't expect a real man to be impressed, however. We like to think we're special,' Sam said with a degree of lightness he wasn't feeling.

'You're not going to take me seriously, are you?'

'Not tonight. It's two o'clock in the morning and we've had a disturbing day. I feel a little strange after reading Phantom; restless in some way. And as for you, you're a man whose understanding of life's pleasures seems to be different from the way other men view them. I'm not sure I understand you. All in all, I think there are too many jumbled emotions and unknown factors hanging around tonight for me to risk taking you seriously.' he said it all very easily but Sam believed every word he was uttering.

'You may be right,' Dean agreed. He paused before asking, 'are you always this cautious with a man?'

Sam laughed in spite of himself. 'It's the only area of my life in which I am careful. Or at least that's what my family would tell you. A person can get burned falling in love with someone who's only interested in the superficial pleasures and pleasantries life has to offer. And there are so many men out there who are only interested in the superficial things. Uncle Bobby is right. But then, he usually is when it comes to judging people.'

'I'm different, Sam,' Dean told him as he faced the sea. 'I'm not one of your superficial wimps.'

'No, I don't think you are. But I'm a long way from figuring out just exactly what category of male to put you in, Dean Winchester. And until I do…'

'You'll be cautious?'

'I think so. Good night, Dean.' Deliberately breaking the spell, Sam turned and stepped back into his room. Resolutely he closed the sliding-glass door and pulled the curtain. He stopped for a moment, listening to the silence, trying to examine the strange emotions swirling within him. Perhaps he was only feeling the remnants of the passion Dean had ignited with his kiss.

But that kiss had ended hours ago. Perhaps he was simply disquieted by the tale of Phantom, he thought. No, there was far more to it than the restlessness left by the powerfully told story of a man on the brink. He had to face the fact that his suspicions concerning Dean's serious approach to life were true. In all probability he really did look upon Sam as the prize he'd been promised by Bobby Singer.

What made him deeply uneasy was that he wasn't resisting the idea of being handed over to Dean nearly as much as he ought to. Was it because he couldn't bring himself to take the notion seriously? Or was it because he was finding himself attracted to this stranger in a way that he'd never experienced with anyone else?

Pleasant! Dean thought it would be pleasant to be loved completely by a person he could trust. Sam gritted his teeth. The man had a lot to learn emotionally. Either that or he needed a new vocabulary! After having read Phantom, though, he couldn't believe Dean lacked emotions.

But after having read his novel he could believe he was the kind of man who was determined to stay in control of the emotional side of his nature. The story of Phantom told him that on some level Dean viewed the emotional side of life as full of risk. He would want to be very certain of a person's love before he could allow himself to trust it, Sam realized.

It was all too complicated to figure out tonight and there were so many other things to worry about. Sam took a deep breath and went back to bed.

It was the kind of conversation that neither of them would want to mention the next morning. He felt certain of that. The late hour and the inherent safety of being on separate balconies with the soft rustle of the wind in the trees as background had combined to create a strange mood that had infected both of them. The mood would be gone by morning, and he had a hunch Dean was wise enough to let it go.

Besides, he didn't really care to be lumped into the same category as a glass of wine or a bottle of beer.

Out on his balcony Dean watched the shadowy sway of a tall pine and decided that, as a writer, he really ought to pay more attention to his choice of words.

Obviously words such as 'pleasant' and 'pleasure' were not the right ones to use around Sam Campbell. To Sam they were part of the games one enjoyed in life. Not matters of seriousness. Sam just didn't realize how much Dean valued the softer things in this world, or how seriously he took everything. Well, he'd try to watch it in the future.

After all, he sure as hell didn't want to fall into the same category as all those lightweight males Singer claimed Sam dated.

Straightening away from the railing, Dean paced back into his room and closed the door. He had been unable to sleep earlier, his body far too aware of the fact that Sam was awake next door. The glow from his room while he read had lit his balcony and had been plainly visible from Dean's own room. Now that Sam had finally turned out his light perhaps he'd be able to get some rest.

The next morning Sam decided to take the initiative. He would put the mood and the conversation back onto a safe track. Setting an assured, easygoing tone was second nature for him. It was a skill he'd picked up early on in the world of corporate management and perfected even more in the world of casual dating.

'I've been thinking,' he said as Dean slid behind the wheel the next morning, 'that you never really got a chance to properly celebrate the sale of Phantom. You had a beer by yourself and a glass of wine with me later, and that was it. Since then, I've had you running around helping me break into a private house, clean up a nasty mess and ease my concerns. This evening I think we should celebrate properly.'

'How?' Dean turned the key in the ignition.

'I'll cook dinner for you. How does that sound?' Sam smiled.

'It sounds very pleasant.' His mouth twisted. 'I mean it sounds very nice.' He cleared his throat and tried again. "It sounds great.' He appeared pleased with his final choice of words. 'Can you cook?'

'A good 'streamer can fix the current gourmet fad food at the drop of a hat,' he assured Dean.

'How about an ex-fad food like pasta?'

'No problem, as long as it's not macaroni and cheese. Imbedded in my brain cells is a recipe for a wonderful pasta and vegetable dish that will knock your socks off.'

'No meat?'

'Absolutely not. Meat would ruin the delicate flavour of the dish, anyway. We'll need a nice Chardonnay to go with it.'

Dean nodded. 'Sounds like we'd better make a stop at the Pike Place Market before we board the ferry home.'

'Terrific. I'd love to see the market. I've heard about it for years. I keep meaning to go whenever I visit Uncle Bobby, but somehow we've never had the time.' Sam's sudden enthusiasm bubbled over.

'It's one of Seattle's main attractions. The only problem is finding a place to park. The place is usually crawling with tourists on a day like this.'

They followed the highway down out of the mountains, crossed the bridge that connected Bellevue and Mercer Island to Seattle and then descended the steep streets downtown to First Avenue. Seattle's aggressive new skyline faced Elliott Bay, hugging the western coast of the continent and waiting eagerly for the daily traffic of cargo ships from around the world. The Pike Place Market, an old and honoured institution, occupied prime territory a block from the waterfront. But if anyone had dared to suggest that it be razed and replaced by high rise, he would have been lynched by the local citizens, Dean told Sam. Seattle loved its market, with its blocks of vegetable stands, craft shops, bakeries and restaurants.

Dean pulled off the neat coup of finding a parking space not more than a block from the busy outdoor market. He seemed quite proud of himself for being able to avoid one of the expensive parking garages. Men always seemed to see it as a challenge to find street parking, Sam realized with an inner grin. He congratulated Dean as he led him up a flight of steps into the bustling atmosphere.

'I got lucky,' he acknowledged modestly. 'Stay close. I don't want to lose you.'

Sam resisted the urge to give an exasperated roll of his eyes and just gave Dean a little smile instead. As if the other man would lose him. With Sam's height he couldn't see it happening anytime soon.

Street musicians, a mime, a puppeteer, craftspeople and various and assorted panhandlers added noise and interest to the basic colour of a working public market. Sam was fascinated by the array of intricately arranged vegetables in the produce stalls. The fish vendors hawked their wares in loud voices, waving live lobsters around to attract attention. Meat vendors offered every cut imaginable. Tourists and locals thronged the crowded aisles and spilled out onto the cobbled street that ran down the centre of the market. Sam noticed that Dean did not glance at either the fish or meat stall.

'There's a shop where we can get the pasta at the far end of the market,' Dean advised as Sam halted to study an artistically arranged pyramid of red peppers. 'And there's a wine store across the street.'

'Why don't you go select the wine and pick up the pasta while I choose the vegetables?' Sam suggested. 'I'll meet you back at the flower stall on the corner. That way we can save a little time. It's getting late.'

Dean hesitated. 'Sure you won't get lost?'

'I'll be fine. The flower stall in fifteen minutes.' he flashed a reassuring smile at Dean.

'Well, all right. You said you wanted a Chardonnay?'

'Right.' Sam turned to plow through a gaggle of tourists who were trying to photograph the red peppers forming a pyramid. He was intent on finding the perfect broccoli. And he mustn't forget some Parmesan cheese, he reminded himself. There was a cheese vendor up ahead.

Somewhere between selecting the broccoli and choosing the fresh peas Sam began to lose track of time. Fifteen minutes went by very quickly and he was in the process of ordering the grated Parmesan when he happened to glance at his watch and realized he was going to be late meeting Dean back at the flower stall. But surely Dean wouldn't hold him to the exact minute, he decided. Dean would realize Sam was bound to be a little late what with all the hustle and bustle and the endless distractions around him. On the other hand, Sam had a hunch Dean Winchester was a man who valued punctuality. No sense kidding himself, he thought wryly. Dean would insist that Sam be where he said he would be when he said he would be there. Demanding punctuality was an element of control one could exert, and Dean liked exerting control.

Sam thought about that as he ordered the cheese, realizing he had just had a strong insight into Dean's personality. The older man needed to be in control of his environment. He needed to be sure of things. Maybe Sam had better hurry.

Sam handed his money to the cheese vendor and accepted the package of Parmesan. It was as he turned away to plunge back into the stream of foot traffic that a large, male tourist careened into him.

'Excuse me,' Sam said hastily, hanging on to his armful of packages. 'It's so crowded here, I-' he broke off as the man gripped his arm.

'Your uncle wants to see you,' the stranger grated. His fingers tightened, digging into Sam's skin through the fabric of his shirt. The man began pushing Sam deeply into the passing crowd.

Sam nearly dropped his parcels. His mouth fell open in shock. 'My uncle!'

'Come on, kid, we don't have time to waste.'

Sam looked at the man, about the same height as him, narrowed dark eyes, gray-streaked black hair with an aquiline cast to his features. Sam was suddenly very alarmed.

'Who are you?' he managed, aware that he was being pushed forcefully toward the far end of the cobbled street. Around him the crowd ebbed and flowed. A string of cars vainly searching for the few parking spaces right next to the market stalls inched through the crowds. The flower stall was in the opposite direction. 'What do you know about my uncle? And let go of arm!'

The man didn't answer, intent on making progress through a cluster of tourists wearing name tags that declared they were all from New York. They seemed to resent his insistence.

'Hey, watch it, buddy,' one of the group snapped.

'I thought folks out here were supposed to be laid back, not pushy. I coulda stayed home if I wanted this kinda treatment,' muttered a heavyset woman with a huge camera strung around her neck.

The man with the face of an eagle didn't bother to respond. He simply forced his way through the grumbling tourists, pushing Sam ahead of him.

'Wait a minute,' Sam gasped, beginning to get irritated. 'I'm not going with you until you tell me who you are and what you know about my uncle! Now, unless you want me to start shouting-'

'Sam!'

He turned his head at the sound of Dean's voice. 'Dean! Over here.'

With a savage oath the man holding his arm released him. Sam spun around, slightly off balance, trying to watch him as he melted into the crowd. He disappeared in an instant.

'Sam, what the hell is going on?' Dean came up beside him, pushing aside a few more New Yorkers in the process. He paid no attention to their enraged lectures on manners. 'When you didn't show up at the flower stall on time, I figured you'd gotten lost. You're just lucky you're so tall. Who was that guy?'

'He said my uncle wanted me,' Sam huffed. 'He grabbed my arm and started pushing me along as though I were a sack of potatoes or something. Dean, he knew who I was! How could he possibly know me? I've never seen him before in my life. And how could he know about Uncle Bobby?' he felt a wave of calm wash over him as he was pulled firmly against Dean's side. Dean's arm wrapped around his waist, fastening him securely as he began propelling him back toward the car.

'What did he look like? Tell me his exact words, Sam,' Dean ordered.

Sam clutched his packages and tried to think. 'He looked very vicious. Sort of like a hawk, and his eyes were mean.'

'Sam, that's not exactly a description, that's an emotional reaction, for heaven's sake.'

'Well, I can't help it. I didn't have a lot of time,' he defended himself. 'He – he had dark eyes and dark hair that was turning gray. I'd say he was probably in his late-forties. He was wearing very nondescript clothes. I can't even remember what colour his jacket was. He said my uncle wanted to see me and that we didn't have a lot of time to waste.'

'Those were his only words?'

'I think so. He was quite rude. Just ask those New Yorkers.'

'He simply walked up to you and said that?' Dean demanded. 'Nothing else?'

Sam shook his head, trying to think. 'No, I don't think so. I asked him who he was and what he knew about Uncle Bobby, but he didn't answer me. I was getting ready to start shouting when you showed up. Dean, I have to tell you, I was very glad to see you. In fact I was never so happy to see anyone in my life as I was to see you a few minutes ago!' It was the truth, he realized. The sight of Dean had meant safety.

They reached Dean's car and he unlocked the door. His eyes narrowed as he settled Sam in the front seat. 'You're trembling.'

'No I'm not,' Sam denied looking anywhere but at Dean. 'That man startled me, that's all,' he said evenly. 'There was something a little frightening about him.'

'Given the fact that it looks like he was trying to abduct you, I imagine he was somewhat scary,' Dean growled as he slipped into the seat beside Sam and started the car. 'The bastard. I should never have left you alone.'

'I can take care of myself.' Sam muttered, then paused. 'You know, I said he had hawk like features but you could describe them another way,' he noted thoughtfully.

Dean slanted him a sharp glance. 'How?'

'You could say that with those dark eyes and those strict features he looked a little like a wolf. Ruthless and potentially violent.'

Dean froze, his hand resting on the steering wheel. 'You're letting your imagination get carried away again, Sam.'

'I don't think so,' he murmured, staring out the window. Behind them an impatient driver who wanted the parking space honked loudly.

With an oath Dean put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He headed down toward the wharf and the ferry docks. 'Sam, listen to me. I'm the writer in the crowd, remember? Leave the melodramatic touches to me.'

'But I didn't get a really cold feeling.' Sam went on, remembering his reaction. 'I was startled and my palms got damp, but it wasn't like the temperature dropped twenty degrees or anything.'

'For Pete's sake, it's eighty-three degrees today! The meanest-looking guy in the world is hardly likely to make you feel as though the temperature dropped into the low sixties.'

'True,' Sam admitted dryly. 'And I suppose Uncle Bobby only used that bit about the temperature drop for effect.'

'You uncle likes to tell a good tale and he's quite happy to embellish it for a willing audience.'

Sam's mouth curved upward. 'I know. I've been a willing audience since I was five years old.' But there had been something different about the way his uncle had described the man called Wolf. Sam hadn't had the impression that his uncle was embroidering a story for his benefit. He had been in an oddly reflective mood the night he'd told Sam about the man he'd trained. Bobby Singer had been uncharacteristically quite that evening. Almost morose.

'Forget your uncle's descriptive turn of phrase,' Dean said grimly as he guided the car into the line of traffic waiting for the white ferryboat. 'We've got more important problems on our hands, thanks to him.'

Sam shivered. 'You mean the fact that someone knows who I am and managed to find me in that crowd at the market?'

'Exactly. We have to assume someone followed us. Probably from your uncle's cabin. Must have been watching it. The freeway was busy coming into Seattle today. It would have been hard to spot a tail even if I'd had the sense to be looking for one.'

Dean's self-disgust was plain in his voice and it bothered Sam. 'It's certainly not your fault that man found me in the market. For heaven's sake, don't blame yourself, Dean.'

'Well, he's not going to find you alone again.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I'm going to start doing my job,' he stated resolutely.

Sam smiled. 'You mean keep an eye on me?'

'Umm. You'll stay at my place, not the inn, while we wait for Bobby to get in touch. I don't want you out of my sight again.'

Sam absorbed the deep determination in his voice and knew he meant every word. Dean had decided he had a job to do, so he was going to do it properly. That meant in Dean's mind that he had to be in complete control of the situation. Sam would be spending the next few days with him. On the whole, Sam wasn't inclined to object at the moment. The man in the market may not have scared him… really, but the relief of having Dean appear at the critical moment was still with him. Sam wouldn't forget that sensation soon. The instinctive knowledge that Dean offered safety and protection was one more element to add to his growing list of things that seemed to fascinate him about Dean Winchester.

'What do we do about him?' he asked after a moment.

'The man you think is Wolf?' Dean shrugged negligently. 'Nothing right now. There isn't anything we can do except take care to keep him away from you.'

'But we have no idea when Uncle Bobby will get back from wherever it is he's gone. We can't just wait indefinitely,' he protested.

'Sammy, a long time ago I learned the value of patience. We'll wait.'

'I think we ought to do something, Dean.'

'We'll wait,' he repeated stonily.

'But that man seemed to know where Uncle Bobby was,' he pointed out.

'If that character knew where your uncle was, why would he need you?' Dean asked simply.

'Good point. Why would he need me?'

'Possibly because he intended to use you to lure your uncle out into the open.'

Sam swallowed uneasily. 'You have a devious turn of mind, Dean.'

'Umm. Probably an occupational hazard of being a writer of thrillers.'

'So we wait?'

'It's either that or try the police – and your uncle specifically asked us not to do that.'

'I doubt there's much they could do anyway,' Sam said glumly.

'No, I don't think there is.'

'I guess we'll have to start locking your front door, won't we?' Sam offered, trying to keep his tone light.

'Lock the front door?' Dean glanced at him quizzically. 'Oh, you mean the door you walked through so easily the other night.'

'No offence, Dean, but I got the distinct impression you haven't had to be too security conscious on your island,' he said quietly.

'Don't worry about it. You'll be safe. There's an alarm system installed. Bobby helped me install it a year ago.'

'It wasn't on the night I walked in the front door?'

'It was on.'

'But I never heard an alarm and no police came,' he protested.

'My system works on a slightly different principle from most alarm setups.'

'What principle?' Sam was deeply curious now.

Dean parked the car inside the ferry and reached for the door handle. 'The idea that it's sometimes simpler and more effective to trap an intruder inside the house than attempt to keep him out. I can set it in the reverse mode, however, and keep intruders out just as easily as I can let them in. When I'm inside the house I set it that way. But when I'm gone, I use the first setting.'

Sam blinked, not finding the idea either simple or effective sounding. But what did he know about alarm detection systems, Sam asked himself. 'I see,' he responded vaguely. 'If I had tried to get back out of the house the other night, would I have found myself trapped?'

Dean's mouth picked up at the corners in one of his brief flashes of humour as he watched Sam get out of the car. 'Weren't you?'

'Hardly. I mean, you just walked in and happened to find me in your study,' Sam grumbled. Dean was leading him up to the passenger deck and it was hard to hear him distinctly in the noisy stairwell.

'I knew where you were in the house before I came through my own front door, Sam. I carry an electronic device that warns me when the system's been activated. The device starts working within a mile of the house.'

'Really?' Sam was impressed.

'You never had a chance,' Dean drawled.

Sam laughed. 'Is that supposed to reassure me?'

'If you don't like my alarm system, blame your uncle. He's the one who helped design it.'

'It sounds like something he'd come up with,' Sam admitted. 'It's that sense of humour of his. It would be just like him to design a system that can reverse the general principles of burglar detection. It fits in with some of his other theories, such as hiding something right out in the open where the whole world will see and overlook it. Well, if you're convinced it's safe, I'll trust your judgment.'

'I'll take care of you, Sam,' Dean said very seriously.

He meant it, Sam realized. The knowledge touched him on a very deep, perhaps primitive level. Sam hadn't met a lot of people who would say that sort of thing these days. And if they did say it, a person couldn't risk believing it completely. Dean Winchester, Sam decided, meant it. And he could trust him.

Sam thought of something as they took a seat in the passenger section where they could watch the Seattle skyline recede into the distance. 'Did you remember the pasta?'

'How could I forget the featured item in my celebration dinner?' Dean asked whimsically.

In spite of the unnerving scene at the public market, Sam found himself enthusiastically preparing his specialty pasta and vegetable dish later that evening. Dean poured each of them a glass of wine and lounged in the kitchen, watching as Sam put the finishing touches on the dinner. Dean seemed to be fascinated with his every move. The kitchen took on a cozy feeling that made Sam almost forget his unease of that afternoon.

'I can see you're going to expand my culinary horizons,' Dean noted as he sat down at the kitchen table he had set while Sam had fixed the Parmesan flavoured sauce for the pasta. 'This sure beats macaroni and cheese.'

'When did you stop eating meat?' Sam asked casually. Too late he remembered the last time he had asked Dean a question on the subject he had cut him off rather quickly.

'A little over a year ago,' Dean answered calmly.

Relieved that he didn't seem to be taking offence over the issue, Sam decided to risk another question. He couldn't seem to stop wondering about every aspect of this man, Sam realized. 'You don't miss it?'

'No.' Dean plucked up a spinach leaf from the salad bowl. 'Great dressing on the salad.'

'Thank you.' Sam hesitated and then tried again, delicately. 'Did you just suddenly lose your taste for meat?'

'In a way.' Dean eyed him silently as he sat down. 'I was going through a mid-life crisis at the time. When I emerged, a lot of things in my life had changed. I quit my job, moved to a new state, started a book and decided I really preferred being a vegetarian.'

'All those changes sound wonderful.' Sam smiled. 'I'm in the mood for some massive changes myself. Have you ever married?'

Dean arched his eyebrows as he forked up a mouthful of pasta.

'Sorry, I didn't mean to pry,' Sam mumbled, lowering his eyes to his plate. It was difficult to know just how far he could push with this man.

'It's all right,' Dean surprised him by saying after a moment. 'I'm just not used to personal questions. No, no long term relationships. There's never been time. What about you?'

'No. I always seem to be changing careers and that tends to keep the available pool of men changing, too. The right one never seemed to come along.'

'You'll know him when you find him?'

'Definitely.' Sam laughed softly. 'Uncle Bobby has been telling me for two years that the right man never was going to come along in the world in which I was living. He's always been a bad influence on me. Just ask my parents. They think I get my occasional bursts of unpredictability and unconventional behaviour from his side of the family.'

Dean nodded. 'He can be unpredictable and unconventional but he has a way of getting things done. He really did give you to me, Sam. I'm not making that up.'

The camaraderie he had been feeling faded into a new kind of uneasiness. 'It was a joke, Dean. I'm sure of it. Even Uncle Bobby wouldn't go that far.'

'Then why the matching gifts?'

'The crystal apples? They probably just took his fancy in some shop and he decided to buy a couple.'

'He told me he had them specially made by a craftsman on the coast who works in glass,' Dean said.

'Dean, I really don't know why he would give us a matching set of crystal apples, but I don't see that it matters one way or the other!'

'And what about that voice message at his cottage? The bit about protecting our wedding gift?'

'Now that,' Sam admitted dryly, 'was fairly bizarre. Your guess is as good as mine. But knowing Uncle Bobby, he was probably referring to something obvious.'

'It would be just like him,' Dean agreed thoughtfully.

'When he shows up,' Sam went on forcefully, 'I'm going to have a few pointed remarks to make to him.'

It was after dinner that Sam began to experience a strange nervousness. He knew the focus of it was the inevitable approach of bedtime and the necessity of making a dignified exit that was neither provocative nor rude. You learned to distinguish such subtle variations of behaviour when you'd been through as many different careers as he had, he decided ruefully.

It wasn't that he was expecting a heavy-handed pass from Dean. He didn't seem to do things heavy-handedly as far as Sam could tell. Just very deliberately. He certainly wouldn't pressure Sam into bed. But there was no denying the sexual tension that now existed between them, and if he alluded to it, he would find it difficult to deny.

The graceful approach was to keep things light and casual, he decided. That's the tone he would strive to maintain. After this first night it would be easier. Tonight would set the tone for the rest of his stay under this roof. Sam sensed it instinctively.

'Ah, a checkerboard,' he exclaimed as he followed Dean into the living room after dinner. It struck him as the perfect answer to the question of how to spend the rest of the eyeing. 'Are you any good?'

'At checkers? Fair, I guess. I'll give you a couple of games.' Dean poured two brandies and carried them across the room to the table where Sam was busily setting up the game. 'I've played your uncle a few times.'

'He prefers chess.'

'So do I, usually.'

'I only played it during my college years,' Sam confided cheerfully. 'It seemed to fit the academic image. Haven't played it since. I didn't really like it.' he lined up the checkers in their little squares. 'All that business about strategy and having to think several moves ahead was far too much like work to me. When I play games , I like to play.'

'I see.' Dean gave him a half-questioning, half amused glance. 'Checkers may be simpler but it's a game of strategy, too.'

'You play it your way and I'll play it mine,' Sam ordered, reaching out to make the first move.

Four games later they faced each other across the width of the table. Dean's expression was one of wry wariness. Sam was feeling quit cheerful.

'That's two wins apiece,' he pointed out. 'One more game to settle the matter.'

'Who the hell taught you to play?' Dean grumbled as he set out his pieces.

'I'm strictly self-taught,' Sam acknowledged brightly. In truth, he was secretly pleased with his two victories. They had been achieved with wild, haphazard moves that clearly offended his opponent, who had won his two games with careful, precise strategy.

'It shows. You didn't win those two games with hard work. You got lucky on some wild moves. You have an extremely off-the wall manner of playing, if you don't mind my saying so.'

'You're just envious of my inborn talent. The way you play, a person would think the fate of the nation hinged on your next move. You're much too serious about the game, Dean. You'd have more fun if you'd just loosen up a bit.'

Dean looked at him, green eyes intent. 'I'm afraid I tend to be a serious sort of man.'

'Not given to fun and games?'

'No.'

Sam caught his breath as he realized that they were suddenly, inexplicably discussing more than a game of checkers. For reasons he didn't want to analyze he was afraid of the new direction. Desperately he tried to find a casual way of turning the conversation around before it strayed into the realm of the personal again. 'Well, we'll see whose approach works best with this next game. Just a warning, I'm going to be at my most off-the wall!'

'In the long run, strategy and planning always succeed more often than wild luck, Sam.'

'Prove it,' he challenged rashly.

Dean shrugged and proceeded to do so. Fifteen minutes later Sam was left staring in vast annoyance at the board. He didn't have a single playing piece left on it. Dean had beaten him with cool, deliberate ease, never relenting for a moment. Every move from first to last had been plotted and carried out with ruthless intent. Sam's cheerfully haphazard approach had netted him only a few of Dean's playing pieces. Even those, he was convinced, Dean had deliberately sacrificed at various points to lure him into traps he had set.

'I demand a replay! You don't play fair. You play exactly like my uncle.'

'What's unfair about it?' Dean asked, tossing the checkers back into the box.

'I don't know, but there must be something sneaky and underhanded about all that strategy,' Sam complained. 'It must be quite terrifying when you and Uncle Bobby play together.'

'The games tend to last a long time,' Dean said with a faint smile.

'Who wins?'

'We're fairly evenly matched.'

'You mean you win frequently?' Sam asked curiously.

'Umm.'

'That's interesting. I don't know of anyone who can consistently beat Uncle Bobby at checkers or any other game. But sometimes I can take him,' he added proudly.

'With one of your wild moves?'

'Yes.' he grinned. 'The thing about people who always use intense strategy is that you can occasionally upset them with my technique.'

'Only occasionally. Not consistently,' Dean informed him politely. 'You got lucky twice tonight, but that was about the best you could do, playing with your style.'

'Something tells me that people who play with your style will never appreciate people who play my way.'

And on that note, Sam decided suddenly, he had probably better make his gracious, unprovocative exit to the bedroom Dean had given him earlier.

tbc