AN: Just a reminder, none of this is mine. No, really, this is truly not mine. I stole it, slashed it, and posted it. I wish it were mine, and I kind of wish it were a true story but then there would be mean people out in the world and that's just wrong.

Sam concentrated on another bite of the chocolate-chip ice cream he was eating as he strolled along the Seattle waterfront. Beside him Dean neatly licked around the edge of the pecan flavoured cone he had chosen. The ferry wouldn't be leaving for another half hour. It had been Dean who had suggested they take a walk on the picturesque wharf before they caught the boat. Neither had said much until after they bought the ice cream at one of the many fast food stalls that dotted the wharf.

Sam knew the reason for his silence was probably the same as Dean's. They were both lost in contemplation of the scene on the ferry with the man who called himself Nick Sa'mael. Finally Sam polished off the last of his cone and flipped the napkin into a trash container outside the entrance to the aquarium.

'You know what I think?' he announced, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

'What?' Dean seemed fascinated with his disappearing ice cream.

'I think that legend Uncle Bobby told you about the gold is not pure fiction.'

'Brilliant deduction.'

Sam slanted him a disgusted glance. 'Either it's for real or else-'

'Or else other people such as Nick Sa'mael believe it's for real, which amounts to the same thing,' Dean concluded grimly.

'Know what else I think?' Sam went on determinedly.

'Let me guess. Your uncle's idea of the perfect wedding gift is a cache of gold buried somewhere in the middle east.' Dean swore softly.

Sam sighed. 'He always did like gold. Said it was the only real hedge against an uncertain world. I can imagine him thinking gold would be the perfect present for me. Whenever he's giving me a gift, it's usually been made out of gold.' he extended his wrist briefly, displaying the heavy gold chain. 'And he did say something about going off to protect our, uh, wedding gift.'

'Does chronic idiocy run in your family?'

'My uncle is not an idiot!'

'I know,' Dean agreed derisively. 'He just has a bizarre sense of humour. You'd think I'd realize that by now.'

Aware of Dean's irritation, Sam felt obliged to turn the conversation away from a defence of Bobby Singer's odd actions. There would be time enough to defend his uncle later. With any luck he would return to take up his own defence. Heaven knew it had always been a little tricky making excuses for him. Sam decided to go on the offensive.

'Are you quite certain that Uncle Bobby didn't say anything about that legend being for real when he told you the story?' he demanded.

'He told me it was only a tale. There are others like it that came out of the war, you know. I turned up a lot of them while doing research for Phantom. It certainly isn't unique.'

'Really?' Momentarily distracted, Sam stared up at him, his eyes widening. 'Tell me some of them.'

Dean lifted one shoulder in a heedless shrug and tossed away the end of his cone. A trolley car designed to carry tourists from one end of the waterfront to the other clanged past along tracks that paralleled the street. Dean didn't speak until the sound of the whistle had faded. 'Well, there's a story about the CIA agent assigned to destroy vital documents in the hours before the embassy was overrun.'

'And?' Sam prompted.

'According to the legend he kept some of the more interesting ones, such as a list of agents and their covers operating in the Middle East. Then he tried to hold an auction.'

'He was going to sell the list to the highest bidder?'

'That was the plan, I gather.'

'Did he?' Sam demanded interestedly. 'Hold the auction, I mean?'

'Sam, it's just a legend. How should I know what happened?'

'Oh.' Disappointed, Sam pushed for more information. 'What other tales did you hear?'

'Leftover legends from that particular war?' Dean's heavy brows came together in thought. 'I think there was a story or two about businessmen who were supposedly hired by the U.S. government to supervise construction projects in Kuwait City and the surrounding area. Apparently they used their visits to Kuwait to establish drug connections that continued long after that war ended, making them very rich men. Then there are the tales of gold deals made in the north. The list of such stories is endless, Sam. Wars breed them. Just think of all the stories and legends that came out of World War II and Vietnam. People still write novels based on them.'

'I see what you mean. So when Uncle Bobby told you the story of the gold, you assumed it was just that; a story.'

'Umm.' Dean appeared lost in thought. 'It still might be just that.'

'I don't know,' Sam mused. 'I can see Uncle Bobby doing something like this – hiding a cache of gold in a bizarre location and then telling me it's supposed to be my wedding gift.'

'Our wedding gift,' Dean corrected. 'don't forget he gave me the story first.'

Sam ignored that. 'What I can't see is him stealing the gold in the first place.'

'We don't know that he did. At this point all we've got is Sa'mael's version of things.'

Sam shivered. 'Creepy guy, isn't he?'

Dean looked at Sam with a wry expression. 'That's one way of putting it.'

Sam came to a halt and leaned over the railing to stare out across Elliott Bay. Several long piers on either side of him, many full of import shops and souvenir stands, poked finger like out into the water. Around him, children ate popcorn and other assorted goodies while their parents browsed around the shops and enjoyed the sun. Another large ship was making its way into port flanked by tugs. Its deck was stacked high with containerized cargo. The ship carried a strange name and a foreign flag. A sailing yacht skirted the tip of a pier, seeking a place to tie up so that its passengers could come ashore for a meal at one of the many restaurants featuring fish. The sight of all the seagoing traffic made Sam think of places he had never been to and which, under normal circumstances, he would probably never go to, places that had bloody histories stretching back a thousand years.

'Have you ever been to the Middle East, Dean?'

There was silence for a moment and then Dean moved to lounge against the rail beside him, his eyes following Sam's gaze. 'Why do you ask?'

'Just curious. I was wondering what it's like.'

'You're not going to find out in the company of Nick Sa'mael,' Dean told him roughly.

Sam's head came around, his face mirroring his serious mood. 'I may not have a choice, Dean.'

Dean's fingers tightened on the railing. 'You think I'm going to let you get on a plane with Sa'mael forty-eight hours from now?'

Sam moved restlessly, not quite certain how to handle the harshness in him. 'That reminds me,' he said, not answering Dean's question. 'What made you think of asking for a couple of days' leeway?'

'I didn't ask.'

'That's right.' Sam nodded, remembering. 'You just told him that we were going to take that much time, didn't you? That was very quick thinking, Dean.'

'I try,' he murmured sardonically.

Sam frowned. 'Maybe writing thrillers helps you think fast on your feet in situations such as this.'

'I was sitting down at the time.'

Sam peered suspiciously at Dean's profile, wondering if he'd actually attempted a small joke. 'Well, I'm just glad you were there. I'm not sure that he wouldn't have been able to pressure me into going with him if I'd been alone.'

'You're not accustomed to dealing with people like him. They can be very convincing, especially when they're using the fate of someone you love as bait.'

'You really think Sa'mael is lying?'

'There's a hell of a lot we don't know about this mess, Sam.'

Sam was silent for another moment or two as he turned things over in his mind. 'He must be who he says he is, Dean.'

'Who? Sa'mael? What makes you think he's telling the truth?'

'Well, there was that business about being able to get me a passport on two days notice, for one thing. I mean, no one but a real government agent could accomplish that.'

'Money and the right connections can buy just about anything in this world.'

'Oh, yeah?' Sam was beginning to resent Dean's calm, cynical superiority. 'And just where would someone like Sa'mael go to buy a fake passport?'

There was a slight pause and then Dean said quietly, 'Just about anywhere. Los Angeles, New York or Mexico City.'

'Mexico City!'

'Umm. It's huge, Sam. One of the largest metropolitan areas in the world. Here in the western hemisphere it's one of the places frequented by a certain kind of 'in crowd.' A man can shop for anything, including a fake passport. He can also get lost there and reappear on the other side of the globe without bothering to answer a lot of inconvenient questions.'

Sam stared at him. 'More lore you've picked up from writing thrillers?'

Dean watched the sailing yacht make another pass along the piers. 'Legends and tales, Sammy. A writer of thrillers collects them.'

'Which is probably why Uncle Bobby couldn't resist feeding you that story of the gold.'

'Probably, Bobby knows a sucker when he sees one.'

'Well, we'll deal with him later,' Sam vowed. 'In the meantime, we have to deal with Sa'mael.'

'Sam, we can't trust that guy one quarter of an inch,' Dean said evenly. 'You said yourself he's a, uh, creep.'

'But he knows where Uncle Bobby is,' he protested.

'He says he knows where he is. But if we go on the assumption that we can't trust Sa'mael, we have to assume we can't trust anything he tells us, right?'

'It's very confusing, isn't it?' Sam groaned 'And in the meantime Uncle Bobby could be in real trouble.'

'I think we're the ones in real trouble, thanks to good old Uncle Bobby,' Dean said, pushing himself away from the rail. 'Come on, Sammy. The ferry will be leaving soon. We'd better get going.'

'Forty-eight hours isn't a very long time, Dean.'

'I know.'

'What if my uncle doesn't get in touch before the deadline?'

'I didn't set the deadline because I hoped Bobby would have sense enough to contact us. I set it to give myself some time.'

Sam glanced at him in astonishment. 'Time to do what?'

Dean wasn't looking at him. He appeared to be concentrating on the brightly dressed crowds of casual strollers who were ambling along the waterfront. 'Sam, I'm going to leave you alone for a while tomorrow.' He spoke slowly, as though measuring each word.

'Why?' Sam demanded, utterly startled.

Dean hesitated. 'There's something I want to check out. A man I want to see.'

'Are you going to try contacting that government agency my uncle used to work for?' Sam demanded.

'No. I'm not sure we could trust any answers we got from that source,' he told him honestly. 'Look who we're dealing with from that department now.'

Sam wrinkled his nose. 'Sa'mael. I see what you mean. So who are you going to contact?'

'Somebody who may know for certain whether or not Bobby really is in the Middle East.'

'But if we don't know it for certain, who would?'

'Sam…' Dean reached out and threaded his fingers through the other man's. His tone was low and urgent. 'Sam, would you please not ask any more questions? Your uncle and I have talked a great deal during the past year. He's told me things I don't think he's told anyone else.'

'But, Dean…'

'Please, Sam. Just trust me, okay?'

Sam wanted to shout that no, it was not okay. He wanted to tell Dean it had nothing to do with trust, that he simply deserved some explanations. Sam was infuriated and worried and he felt like lashing out but he realized with an instinct that went to the bone that it wouldn't do any good. His uncle had apparently shared some confidence with Dean that neither of them had seen fit to share with him. Dean would not tell him anything else at this point. He was certain of it.

'If you've known someone we could contact all along, why haven't you already done it?' he asked in a carefully controlled voice.

'Because your uncle wouldn't want me doing it unless I thought we had a full-fledged crisis on our hands. Up until now I've been going by what he said in his voice message.'

'You've been assuming he could handle his 'old business'.'

'Yes.'

Sam pulled his hand free from Dean, putting a small distance between them. 'All right. There's not much I can say if you won't tell me what's going on. Go ahead and contact whoever it is you think can give us some information.'

'You're angry, aren't you?'

'I'm feeling a little annoyed at the moment, yes,' Sam bit out. 'I don't like being kept in the dark.'

'I'm sorry, Sam,' Dean began but Sam cut him off.

'Forget it. Just don't ever again accuse me of playing games. You're turning out to be a real pro at the art.'

That stilled Dean for a moment. He said nothing until they were back at the ferry terminal and walking on board the boat. Then Dean told Sam the rest of his decision. 'It will take me most of tomorrow to do what I have to do. You'll be alone at the house.'

Sam sprawled down on a seat, his arms folded across his chest in cool disgust. 'Why? Or is that part of the game?'

Dean sat down beside Sam, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He studied his linked fingers. 'I'm not playing games, Sam. I have to leave you alone because I wouldn't dare risk using the phone to contact your uncle's friend, even if I thought I could get through to him.'

Sam watched Dean's profile through suddenly narrowed eyes. 'You think the phone's tapped?'

'After meeting Sa'mael, I'd say we have to assume the worst, wouldn't you?'

'Probably. What do you mean, you aren't sure you could reach this man on the phone even if you did dare use it?'

'From what your uncle says, this guy isn't the sort who trust people over the phone. I'll have to see him in person.'

'Where is he?'

'Not far,' Dean answered evasively. 'I can catch a plane and reach him in a few hours. I'll leave as soon as I can book a flight in the morning. I should be home by late tomorrow afternoon.'

'And in the meantime I just sit patiently waiting, is that it?' Sam muttered.

'Sam, you'll be safe in the house,' Dean told him quietly.

'I'd rather go with you.'

He shook his head, staring down at his clasped hands.

'Can't you at least tell me why I can't come with you?'

'Sam, please-'

Sam interrupted whatever it was Dean intended to say with an exclamation of impatience. 'Forget I asked.'

They were politely remote with each other for the rest of the day. They walked up the street from the ferry docks and into Winslow so that Dean could make his plane reservations at a pay phone. Sam was too proud even to attempt to overhear his conversation with the airline clerk. Later he berated himself for not having tried to eavesdrop. At least he could have found out where he was going. When Dean rejoined him to walk back to the cottage, he asked only if everything was settled.

'I can't get a flight out until nearly seven tomorrow morning.'

'I see.'

'That means I'll have to take the first morning ferry to Seattle.'

'Yes.'

His mouth thinned as he listened to Sam's aloof responses. 'Sam, there's one thing I want to make very clear.'

'That would be a change.'

Dean ignored that. 'You're not to leave the house for any reason after I've gone.'

'I understand.' Sam didn't look at him, his gaze fixed stonily ahead.

'Good. You're safe in the house after I've set the alarms. No one can get in unless he decides to use explosives.'

'What a pleasant thought.'

'Don't worry about it,' Dean said dryly. 'Just give me your word of honour you won't leave the house until I get back.'

'Or until Uncle Bobby gets back,' Sam amended smoothly.

Dean nodded. 'Promise?'

Sam wondered briefly what would happen if he didn't promise and decided not to push the matter. 'All right. Word of honour.'

'I swear I'll return within a few hours, Sam, I'll be back on the five-fifty-five ferry.'

'I believe you.'

'Then can't you stop giving me the ice treatment for a while?' he asked gently.

'Speaking of cold,' Sam drawled slowly.

Dean gave him a sharp glance as they walked down the drive and opened the door of the house. 'Is that your imagination I hear cranking up again?'

'I think Sa'mael might really be the one they called Wolf,' Sam told him in a low voice. 'It would make sense, wouldn't it? He was once very close to my uncle, so he might know about the gold.'

'There's no sense speculating about it, Sam.'

'Why not? Maybe if we speculate long enough and hard enough, we'll come up with some answers.'

'Not on that subject.' Dean stood in the hall for a moment, listening. Then he ushered Sam inside.

'Just think, Dean. That creep is probably the renegade. Uncle Bobby might have gone to the Middle East thinking he could hunt him down and remove him before he got the gold.'

'Sam, all we've got at the moment are a lot of questions. Not answers.'

'But why would Sa'mael be hanging around here if he was after Uncle Bobby's gold?'

'How the hell should I know?' Dean stalked into the kitchen and pulled a beer from the refrigerator.

Sam trailed after him. 'Dean, I think we're missing something. Something crucial.'

'Like your uncle?' he suggested bluntly.

'I mean a clue!' Sam gritted. 'Listen to me, Dean. Let's assume Uncle Bobby really does have some connection with that gold and that he had some fantastic notion of giving it to us as a… a wedding gift.'

Dean popped the top from his beer and leaned against the counter taking a long drink from the dark bottle. He eyed Sam deliberately then tilted to top of the bottle towards him. 'All right, for the sake of argument, let's assume it. Now what?'

Sam tried to construct his thoughts into a logical sequence. Frowning intently, he began to pace the kitchen. 'Okay, he knows where that gold is but he hasn't made any attempt to date to retrieve it. At least no attempt that we know of. In his voice mail he didn't say he was going to fetch our wedding gift. He only said he was going to protect it.'

'True.' Dean watched him closely.

'Now if he suddenly decided he had to protect it for us, it must be because he got word that someone was out to steal it. We have to assume that very few people would even know for certain that the tale was anything more than a legend. The most logical person my uncle might have confided in besides you or me is he ex-protégé.'

'We're back to Wolfie?'

'This is not a joke!' Sam hissed.

Dean exhaled heavily and turned around to pull out another beer from the refrigerator. 'I know. Go on.'

Sam glared at Dean's broad shoulders. 'Not only is Wolf or Sa'mael or whoever he is the one man who might know about that gold and might even know its approximate location but we have the evidence that Uncle Bobby was definitely thinking about him before he left for parts unknown.'

'You mean that sketch on my manuscript. Sam, that's pretty damn slim evidence.'

Sam shook his head. 'I don't think so. I think it means that the man called Wolf was on Uncle Bobby's mind recently and that could easily be because he had reason to fear the guy was going to make a move on the gold. Something or someone we don't even know might have tipped him off. Who knows how many mysterious contacts my uncle has left around the world? You yourself are going to try to find one of them tomorrow!' He flung his hands outward in a sweeping gesture. 'Don't you see? Uncle Bobby is trying to protect our so-called wedding gift from the one man who might be able to steal it.'

'Then what's Sa'mael doing hanging around the Northwest?' Dean asked logically. 'Why isn't he in the Middle East?'

'Because he doesn't know where exactly in the Middle East the gold is hidden. No one knows except Uncle Bobby. Sa'mael is probably looking for my uncle. Maybe he thinks he can use me somehow.' Sam chewed on his lower lip while he considered that. 'My uncle has dropped out of sight. He told the neighbour he'd gone hunting. Guess who the quarry is?'

'Wolfman?' Dean asked mockingly.

'Go ahead and laugh if you want, but I think I'm getting a handle on this.'

'I'm not laughing at you, Sam.' Dean handed him the extra beer. 'You may be right for all I know. But I think the first thing to establish is whether or not your uncle is where Sa'mael says he is. And I only know one way to do that.'

'Find that man whom Uncle Bobby mentioned. I know. I'm not going to argue with you any more on that score, Dean. I can see your mind is made up,' he said wearily.

It was over a rather strained dinner a couple of hours later that Dean brought up the subject again. Sam was poking idly at the roasted red pepper salad he had made when, after a long silence, Dean spoke.

'There's one other thing,' he began thoughtfully.

Sam glanced up. 'What's that?'

'Bobby told me the story of the gold for a reason. He knows it forms the kernel of the plot in Phantom.'

'That's right.' Sam set down his fork.

'If you're right about the wedding gift being that cache of gold, then what he was really doing was-'

'Giving you the first clues about what your wedding gift actually was and where it was located,' Sam finished on a note of excitement. 'I can see him doing something like that.'

'So can I. Damn it, I may pound the man into the ground if and when he finally does show up,' Dean growled. 'He knows I don't like games.'

The sparse conversation at dinner faded into a very long silence by mid-evening. The strain in the atmosphere grew stronger as bedtime approached. Dean watched the clock move slowly toward ten and knew from the remote expression in Sam's eyes that he would be sleeping alone tonight.

He'd been expecting to find himself in a cold bed, of course, ever since he'd awakened that morning and realized that for Sam everything was happening much too quickly. Sam had a right to some time to adjust to the idea of having him as a lover. After all, Sam didn't have all those months of fleshing out a fantasy that he'd had. Dean was too much of a stranger to him yet, too much of an unknown quantity.

Dean inclined his head politely when Sam excused himself and disappeared down the hall to his own room shortly after ten. He sat in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, and repeated the admonitions he'd been giving himself all evening.

Not enough time.

Too much of a stranger.

Too many other problems at the moment. Big problems.

And Sam was mad as hell because he wouldn't take him with him tomorrow.

All in all, a formidable list, he thought wryly. But the logic and the rationalizations didn't seem to be making much of an impact on the pulsing desire that was going to keep him awake tonight.

He thought about what he had to do in the morning and told himself that he needed sleep, not a night spent brooding in an armchair. He'd already had enough of those during the past year.

No doubt about it. He needed sleep; he could do without the brooding and he had no right at all to go to Sam's room. All three things were perfectly clear and logical in his head. But, as he'd learned the hard way, clear logic didn't always chase away the shadows of emotions. Dean wondered briefly at that. Emotions were odd things. There had been a time when others had sworn he didn't have any. Dean knew better.

Slowly he got to his feet and began a silent tour of the house. Sam would be safe here. The house could keep out intruders. And Dean would be back for him as soon as possible. Quietly he checked and double-checked the hidden alarms and the exotic barriers Singer had helped him install. Bobby, with his skilful hands and his crafty, convoluted mind. Where are you tonight, my friend?

His soft-soled shoes making no sound on the hardwood floor, Dean walked from one checkpoint to another, reassuring himself that the gift from Bobby Singer would be safe. Keeping Sam secure was the most important priority in his world, Dean realized. It was a strange feeling to accept such total responsibility for another human being. Almost primitive in a way. He considered just how completely Sam had infiltrated his thoughts and then he headed down the hall toward his bedroom.

He would not pause in front of Sam's door. He would not listen for a moment to see if he was restless in his bed. He would not stand in the hall and let himself think about what he would do if he opened Sam's door. He was a disciplined man and he could deal with his body's hungers.

It was the hunger in his mind he wasn't sure about, Dean admitted as he approached Sam's closed door. How did you discipline the need for another person? Especially when you'd spent a lifetime not really needing anyone?

His steps slowed in spite of all the logic and discipline, and Dean was vaguely aware of his hand curling tightly against his thigh. Sam would be asleep by now.

Sam lay very still in the wide bed and watched the shifting light under his door. He couldn't hear Dean but he knew he was standing there. He sensed the tension in his own body and realized he was waiting for the door to open. He'd been lying there waiting for it since the moment he'd turned out the light and climbed into bed.

Because, Sam thought grimly, there was no way he could allow Dean to leave in the morning without letting him know that he had a right to be in this bed tonight.

The knowledge was sure and complete in his mind. He couldn't account for the certainty, but it was there.

Sam threw back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed. He was reaching for the blanket that had slipped to the floor when the door of his room opened soundlessly. Dean stood framed in the doorway, his face in deep shadow. Sam's fingers froze around the soft fabric of the blanket as he looked up at Dean.

'You're not asleep.' Dean's voice was low and gritty; the words a statement, not a question.

'Neither are you.' Sam let the blanket drop from his hand. The wave of longing that swept through him was startling in its intensity. He was afraid that if he tried to stand up he would lose his balance and need to sit right back down.

'You should have been asleep,' Dean told him very seriously.

'Should I?'

'It would have made things… easier.' He didn't move in the doorway.

'Easier for whom?'

'For me.'

Sam drew a deep breath. 'But not for me,' he whispered, and held out his hand in an ancient gesture of invitation.

'Sam?' Dean's voice was raw with the question.

'Come to bed, Dean. Please.'

Dean hesitated for a timeless moment. Then he moved forward in a dark, silent glide that swept Sam up and bore him back onto the bed.

'Dean…'

'Hush, Sam. There's no way on earth I could let you change your mind now.' He was sprawling heavily on top of Sam, his hands pinning him passionately against the pillows as he sought the younger man's mouth with his own.

Sam wanted to tell him that he had no intention of changing his mind, that he wanted him, needed him, that he had never felt like this about a man before in his life. But the words seemed to be locked in his throat as Dean began to make love to him.

Dean pushed the canvas shoes off his feet without even bothering to sit up on the bed. Sam heard them thud softly to the floor. He felt Dean fumble with the fastening of his jeans and then the buttons of his shirt. And all the while he kept Sam achingly close to him, deliciously trapped under his strength.

'I told myself I shouldn't stop at your door,' he grated as he kicked his clothing to the floor.

Sam's head moved from one side to the other on the pillow. 'No, this is where you belong.' he circled Dean's torso with his arms, pulling him close.

'Sam, my sweet Sam.' He tugged at his t-shirt, forcing Sam to raise his arms so he could pull it all the way off. Flattening the palms of his hands across Sam's chest, he grazed his nipples with a rasping, tantalizing touch that brought them to taut nubs.

Sam uttered a heated sigh into his mouth and dared him with the tip of his tongue. Dean responded instantly, thrusting deeply behind Sam's teeth. Sam traced the contours of Dean's sleek back with his fingertips until he groaned heavily.

Lifting himself for an instant, Dean pulled Sam's sleep pants down, off over his hips and let the garment fall to the floor beside his jeans. Then he came back down beside him and Sam felt the demanding hardness of him against his thigh. He could feel the almost violently taut need in Dean and his own body reacted to it with fierce awareness.

Slowly, with deliberately provocative strokes, Dean caressed him. His fingers playing an enticing game across Sam's lower abdomen and down along the inside of his leg until Sam thought he would go out of his mind with desire. When Dean finally moved his hand upward, Sam cried out against his mouth.

Then he was struggling passionately to return the heady thrill and the throbbing anticipation. Sam slid his hand down Dean's back to the slope of his thigh, feeling the crisp curling hair. Then he explored the man above him more and more intimately until he cupped the heavy evidence of his desire.

'Sam, you're driving me wild,' Dean groaned out.

'Yes, please,' he whispered breathlessly.

'Sam, are you sure?'

'I've never been more certain of anything in my life.' Sam used his blunt nails with excruciating delicacy, and Dean muttered something soft and savage against his throat. Reaching out to the nightstand where unconsciously Sam had set condoms and lube before he climbed into bed to wait for his lover, Dean quickly ripped open a condom with his teeth and turned his attention back to the younger man.

'Dean?'

'I couldn't stop now if all the forces in hell got in the way,' he said, and then he was parting Sam's legs with his own, sliding toward his warmth until he was only a pulse beat away from possessing him completely.

Sam whispered his name again and again, lifting himself with undisguised longing.

'That's it, sweetheart. Give yourself to me. Just give yourself to me. I need you so.'

Sam gasped as he entered him, the shock of his passionate invasion ricocheting through his whole system. Then he tightened his arms and legs around him, wrapping him as close as possible.

Lost in the embrace, Dean knew only that he wanted Sam to cling to him forever. There was nothing else besides this shattering moment and Dean seized it with all of his strength. There would be time enough tomorrow to wonder at the intensity of his need, time enough to worry that he was only reacting to the drama of the situation, time enough to reconsider the wisdom of letting himself be swept up in Sam's tight, encompassing heat. There was always time enough to regret the past. But he was living for the moment tonight, he told himself, and for this hour he would revel in it. He would allow himself to believe it was all for real.

When Dean felt the telltale tightening of Sam's body, it precipitated an echo in his own. For an instant he forced himself to raise his head so that he could watch Sam's face during the fiery release. He had a few seconds to wonder at the compelling possessiveness he felt for the man in his arms and then he was trapped in the vortex of their combined desire. It swept them both to a violent, throbbing climax, left them hanging for a sweet moment and then slowly, slowly ebbed.

The moment in which he had been living was already becoming the past, Dean thought distantly as he lay beside Sam. Soon the morning would arrive and with it another slice of the past. Perhaps there was some sense of balance in nature. Perhaps one piece of the past could offset another. He would have the memory of Sam's warmth tonight to carry with him as a talisman against the chill of tomorrow.

Sam stirred in his arms. 'Dean?'

'I'm here, Sam.'

'Good,' he murmured drowsily. 'See that you're here tomorrow night, too.'

When tomorrow night comes will you really want me here, my sweet Sam, he wondered silently.

-o0o-

He left at dawn and Sam was at the door to watch him go. Sam had awakened the instant he did, the younger man's senses aware of the older's every movement. Dean had lain quietly for a long moment looking down into Sam's face and then he'd brushed his lips lightly against his. Words flooded his head but he couldn't find a way to say them aloud. There wasn't time now to say the things that should be said. Perhaps it was better this way.

Pushing aside the covers, he'd climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Without a word Sam had fixed coffee for him while he dressed and then he'd pressed in closely to kiss him good-bye.

'Be careful, Dean. Please be careful.'

'Hey, I'm only going to talk to a friend of your uncle's,' he protested gently. He was afraid of the intensity he saw in Sam's gaze. He liked it better when Sam was laughing at him with his eyes or watching him with passion. Dean realized just how much he had come to value the impulsive warmth that was so much a part of Sam. Life would be very cold without it. 'I'll be home by sundown.'

'Yes.' Sam didn't argue.

'You won't leave the house,' he said again, making it an order.

Sam shook his head. 'Not unless you or Uncle Bobby tell me to leave the house,' he answered obediently.

'Sam…' He hesitated on the porch, turning back to him one last time.

'Just hurry, Dean. I'll be here when you return.'

He looked at him, nodded once and left without glancing back again.