Archive of Our Own

Sam had really underestimated how many boxes of books he would have when he moved. Having movers do all his packing had been a great idea but that meant there was no one to help him unpack. Unpacking was a much more difficult task.

The mover’s manifest was in front of Sam on the porch railing. There were thirty-three boxes of books. And that was just the boxes in his office. It would be a very long week.

"Plato!" Sam looked around the empty front yard with a frown etched onto his face.

Then a black streak shot out from the side of the house. "Where were you?"

The medium-framed border collie clicked up the front steps and padded over to sit on Sam's sneakers.

"You better not be getting into anything back there." Sam knew that the fence around the perimeter of his new property didn't mean that Plato wouldn't investigate and find an escape if he could.

When Sam had adopted Plato to save him from being euthanized he hadn't thought the dog would live very long. He'd been an old farmer's dog and had been left in a cage for months at a time. His fur was coming out in patches, some of his teeth were rotten and he had about every kind of infection that was possible.

$10,000 and a raw food diet and lots of love and, finally, breaking the not-allowed-on-the-bed rule, had made Plato a new dog. The new vet they'd visited had told Sam that Plato was probably younger than they thought. All in all, Sam got a lot more dog than he had bargained for; Plato was a match for him.

Almost as though he could read Sam's mind, Plato stood and hopped up and down until Sam reached down to scratch both silky black ears.

"Calm yourself, ya fool." But there was a fond smile on Sam's face. He loved that damn dog; even with his penchant for nosing into cupboards and pulling everything out of them. It was a bit like having a toddler.

"Plato? Wanna help me unpack?"

Plato tilted his head to the side and grumbled. At least, that was what Sam called the not-quite-growl-not-quite-whine.

"Okay," Sam said. "Let's go."

-=-=-=-

One of the things Sam had loved about the old house upon first viewing was the office with built in bookshelves. So, that's where he started unpacking.

Thirty-three boxes of books was a little extreme but Sam loved books. Working as he did with technology all day, the books made Sam feel on a more even keel.

The first box contained a lot of Sam's computer reference books. He specialized in determining what caused major or dangerous core meltdowns. A lot of the books were outdated so Sam began a donate pile. There had to be an organization somewhere that would love them. They might be a month or two out-of-date to Sam, but they would be brand new to other people.

After a loud sigh, Sam sliced open the tape on another box and kept working.

-=-=-=-

The first night in the house was uneventful. For some reason, Plate had refused to come inside. After a half an hour of coaxing and cajoling yielded nothing from Plato but a sneeze, Sam gave up and tied Plato to his new dog house.

Weird dreams had plagued Sam the entire night. He tossed and turned, startled himself awake repeatedly and got lost trying to find the bathroom. Living in a new house wasn't as much fun as he had thought it might be.

When the first sun rays poked through the curtains on Sam's bedroom window he was already wide awake.

He decided that it sucked getting used to new things and that Plato wasn't going to be allowed to sleep outside again.

-=-=-=-

The first thing Sam noticed that seemed a little weird was the lock on the cellar door.

It seemed like every time Sam locked the damn thing it would be unlocked and ajar the next time he walked past it.

As weird as it was, Sam figured there was a perfectly rational explanation. The first thing Sam checked was the level of the door frame. He liked to think that he was a bright guy and could figure things out.

All the surfaces, hinges, knobs and panels on the door were just as they should be. Everything was well-oiled, well-fitted and in damn good condition considering the house was thirty years old. There was no wear on the front of the door. The door wasn't warped or twisted and there had never been a breeze that was strong enough to swing the door open even if it were unlocked.

Sam was stumped.

Because he liked to figure out complex problems, Sam dug an old notebook out of one of the yet-to-be-unpacked boxes and decided to keep track of the status of the door and the weather or anything else that seemed relevant to the unlocking door mystery.

Day 01: Beautiful day. Hot. Mid 90s. Locked at 11:30 pm previous night. Door open about 2 inches in AM. House still locked up tight. Plato still won't come inside. Should get termite screening.

Day 02: Locked last night. Unlocked and wide open this morning. Took lock apart and put back together. Stupid idea. Don't know as much about locks as I thought. Woke up to Plato barking. Asshat. At least he finally let me drag him inside the house. At least as far as the front carpet

Day 03/04/05: Nothing. Weather still fine. No wind etc. Plato came as far as bottom of stairs then dropped into a crouch like he was trying to herd something. Crazy animal.

Day 06: Locked everything when I came in from meeting. Set up laptop in front room where I can see the front, back and cellar door. Only left to piss and once to fix up a thermos of coffee. Nada. Went to bed and passed out late. Plato honored me with his presence tonight. Tucked his tail under and ran past the cellar door. What do dogs detect? Smoke? Tumors?

Day 07: Nothing

Day 08: All locked up. Windows and front door open when I came downstairs this morning. Someone is fucking with me.

Day 09: Really gross smell near cellar door. Other than barking his head off, Plato didn't help. Went down, seemed fine. No rotting corpses or dead raccoons. Plato hadn't shit down there or puked or anything. Hell, he won't even go down there. Maybe I'm having strokes and don't know it?

Day 10: Nothin

Day 11: Zip.

Day 12: Plato wouldn't stop scratching at the cellar door. Had to tie him up outside; will have to sand the damn door now. He's lucky I love his furry destructive ass.

Day 13: Someone was knocking on the door at 3:30 in the damn morning. What do you call that when you knock on the door and run? Knock, knock, ginger or something? No one on the porch. No sounds of car engines racing off. If it weren't for the fact that Plato is scared of his own shadow now we live here, I would think I was going crazy.

Day 15: A disgusting smell again. I could swear that something died in the cellar. Couldn't find anything. Plato wouldn't go downstairs after scratching to get down there last week. He seems to hate the whole house.

The smell is completely gone now. Is there a gas that smells like rotting meat? Houses need to come with an instruction manual.

-=-=-=-

And then things began to get worse for Sam. For many days Sam had been afraid to jinx himself by thinking things couldn't get any worse. Naturally, things could get far more bizarre.

A couple of weeks of random, strange events didn't prepare Sam for waking to a scream in the middle of the night. It was a slice through the heavy night air and Sam's heart instantly began to pound. He was standing beside his bed before he was even fully awake. As his eyes began to adjust to the darkness he could see the outline of Plato where he stood near the foot of the bed.

When he'd finally begun to spend more time inside the house, Plato was never very far from Sam. He was back to sleeping on the bed and seemed to always be awake when Sam woke up.

Sam could see that the hackles were up on Plato's neck and he was staring at the bedroom door. That was more terrifying than the scream.

The scream...

Without conscious thought, Sam moved closer to Plato. "What can you see, Bud?"

The dog let out a small huff and shifted his weight from one front paw to the other. The only time Sam had seen Plato so restless before had been when they'd been camping and crossed paths with a bear.

As intently as Sam was concentrating, he couldn't hear a sound. It was almost too quiet in the old house.

"Plato? What is it? Some kind of critter?"

Almost as though the house heard Sam's question it creaked in a stiff wind that had risen during the night.

The sound sent a shiver moving down Sam's body and he rubbed at the cool flesh on his forearms. "Don't be such a baby, Plato. It's the wind. It's an old house, y'know."

Plato snorted and paced backwards until he almost bumped into the bed.

Another scream tore through the house and Sam jumped then stepped back until he was standing over his dog.

Plato whined quietly and leaned against Sam's leg.

Sam spoke softly as he tried to keep his breathing steady. "You're gonna feel really silly when this ends up being a raccoon."

Now, if only Sam believed that, he'd probably sound more convincing. The thing was, he hadn't seen a raccoon or anything else near the house. He was pretty sure there was no way anyone could get inside but, damn, the scream sure sounded human. Sam was also sure that there wasn't an animal alive that screamed exactly like a human.

The sound still reverberated around the bedroom and lingered in Sam's mind like it had left a stain. Shaking his head, Sam pressed his eyes closed for a moment. There had to be an explanation. There had to be.

The low, gravelly sound of Plato's growl startled Sam. He could feel the rapid fire of the dogs heartbeat against his leg. "What is it?"

Sam was starting to feel a little ridiculous. He was in his own bedroom and scared out of his wits. Sure, it sounded like a scream but it could have been from outside the house. There was a possibility that the TV had turned on. Maybe he'd left the laptop on earlier and an ad had popped up.

"We should check the house. Then we'll feel better." It was surprising how loud Sam's voice sounded in the dark bedroom.

Plato's tail thumped against Sam's ankle and then the dog laid down. He clearly wasn't going anywhere near the bedroom door.

"Thanks," Sam muttered. Plato was the most useless guard dog int he world. "You're lucky I like you or you'd be on the street."

After he stepped clear of his dog, Sam walked slowly forward a few steps then froze. Nothing.

The hardwood felt cool under his bare feet as he crept towards the bedroom door. As usual, it was wide open. Plato didn't like closed doors and would whine and scratch at them.

The hall outside was dark but there was just a little light coming in through the windows and Sam could make out the familiar shapes of the bannister, curtains blowing in the cool night breeze and the old chandelier. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Sam padded down the hall a quietly as he could. The chandelier tinkled quietly in the breeze from the window and Sam shivered.

He paused at the top of the stairs and scanned what he was able to see of the main floor. The moonlight cast a broad path of light across the living room floor and as Sam leaned a little further forward he couldn't see any sign of a person, or anything else for that matter.

"This is stupid," Sam muttered.

Okay. So some strange things had happened around the old house. He could come up with explanation for most of it. It was an old house. And Plato was -

- flying past Sam's legs and knocking him sideways into the wall. His barking was loud and frantic and as Sam was trying to recover his balance he could hear the clatter of Plato's nails on the stairs.

The dog reached the main floor and skidded across the hardwood into the front door with a soft thump. He yelped and took off towards the back of the house.

Sam managed to get himself righted at about the same time that his right foot, somehow, missed the top step.

It was one of those horrible moments in time when everything seemed to slow down even though there was nothing that could be done to change the course of events.

The stairs fell away from under Sam's feet and he felt almost like he was floating until his cheek collided with the bannister. He flung his arms out into the upside down world and felt his fingers glazed off the edge of the railing he was trying to grasp.

The sharp edge of the top step slammed into the small of Sam's back and all the air in his lungs went into a yell of pain. Luck intervened and Sam only slid down a couple of the stairs before managing to catch himself again.

He swore and then groaned when he struggled up to his feet. The pain in his cheek was fiery and Sam rubbed at it gingerly.

Another flurry of barks reached Sam's ears and he limped down the rest of the stairs. "Plato!"

By the time Sam reached the main floor Plato was quiet. Suddenly feeling nervous and unsure, Sam hesitated. "Plato? Come!"

There was no sound of nails on the hardwood. The heavy silence had returned.

Sam shivered again, cold air raising gooseflesh all over his body. He rubbed at his chest and headed towards the kitchen. "Come on, boy."

When there was still no sound, Sam picked up his pace.

Something crashed in the kitchen; Plato yelped and Sam shoved the swinging door open.

At least, he tried.

Something shoved the door back at Sam with such force that he fell back onto his ass and slid back until he hit the wall.

Something black and furry streaked past Sam as the door swung open a second time.

But Sam couldn't see. All the air around him had turned dark. Swirls of grey and black wound around each other like knotting snakes. The last thing that Sam saw was the shimmering cloud through his fluttering lashes. He was sure he felt Plato lean against his side. Then the dark was everywhere and Sam drifted away.

-=-=-=-

The back of Sam's head felt like it was being jack-hammered by a very small man with a grudge. Each pulse of blood in his veins sent a needle point of pain stabbing into the back of each eyeball. It was pretty much the worst hangover he'd ever had.

Only not a single drop of alcohol had passed Sam's lips the previous evening. Hadn't he been in bed? Yes. A scream. Swinging doors.

Sitting bolt upright was a big mistake. The room spun around Sam's head and he could feel the bite of stomach acid creeping back up into his throat. He lay back down again for a little while longer.

A throbbing in Sam's wrist made itself known when he tried to push himself up to sitting.

His fingers slid across the smooth wooden floor and Sam realized he wasn't in bed; he was still lying on the hallway floor downstairs.

A soft, wet, tongue slid along Sam's jaw and he swatted away a furry nose. "Plato, gross."

The dog snorted and pawed at Sam's leg. Letting out a groan of pain, Sam sat up and leaned against the wall. The back of his head was aching and Sam rubbed at it gently. His hair felt crusty and Sam could feel what seemed to be an already partially healed wound. "Jesus."

Plato shook his head and the metallic clinking of the tag on his collar made Sam blink a few times. "What the hell happened?"

Plato tilted his head to the side and stared up at Sam for a few moments. His tail thumped on the floor.

"Okay," Sam said out loud mostly for his own benefit. If he was going insane, he was starting to think that he should just go all out.

"I heard a yell. A scream," Sam muttered. Plato tilted his head from side to side as though he was listening. "The kitchen door. When I tried to get in there to see if you were okay something slammed the door back into me."

The longer Sam thought about it, the more he was able to piece together his vague memory of the previous evening.

When he finally clambered up off the floor it was fast enough to startle Plato. He scampered back a few steps.

"Whoa." The room was swirling around Sam again and he leaned against the wall to settle his brain.

Letting out a shark bark, Plato padded forward and nosed at Sam's shin.

"M'okay, Boy." Sam swept his long hair back from his eyes. The room, thankfully, had almost returned to a nice even keel.

It was a little easier to walk once everything wasn't revolving around his head.

Sam headed for the front door. It felt like morning. The over shadowing darkness was gone from the hallway.

A door slammed outside. It rang a little heavy and hollow, like a car.

Plato stepped forward slightly and barked a few times before racing over to the door. His nose reached the bottom of the door a split second before a knock set him off barking excitedly.

"God. Plato! I'm reconsidering the rescue thing; I really am," Sam muttered as he headed towards the door.

When Sam pulled the door open he squinted into the morning sunlight. Slowly, his eyes focused on a woman's face. "Hey."

The woman nodded and Sam realized that there was a uniformed man standing behind her. "Is something wrong?"

The woman held up a badge. A Sheriff. Something more than a welcome-to-the-neighbourhood was going on.

"I'm Sheriff Mills." She gestured behind her. "This is Officer Fitzgerald. You're Sam Wesson, right?" When Sam nodded the Sheriff gestured for him to step out outside.

"Wh- outside?" Sam had expected a lot of firsts when he'd finally bought his own place but he hadn't expected a visit from the law quite so soon. "Is there a problem?"

Sheriff Mills stepped back and motioned once more for Sam to come outside.

The evening had been pretty surreal and Sam was finding the morning to be almost as unbelievable. Why not step out onto his front porch in sweats and no shirt to talk to the local authorities? "I suppose. What seems to be the problem?"

The problem was blatantly obvious once Sm was able to see the front garden. It looked as though there had been some kind of massacre on his lawn. There were feathery carcases scattered all over the lawn; like they'd been torn apart and bits had been scattered everywhere.

From the gate to the front door all Sam could see were feathers, bits of red flesh and the occasional foot of what appeared to be a crow. In fact, it looked like an entire murder of crows had just ... well ... exploded on his property. Just as he was about to say something a feather floated down from somewhere above him and Sam couldn't help the way that he flinched back from it.

The Sheriff raised an eyebrow as she studied Sam's face. "As you can see there's been an ... event out here."

Both of Sam's hands slid into his hair and he held on tightly. He couldn't tear his gaze from the garden.

There were feathers everywhere; all over the grass, chunks of flesh and about two feet from Sam's bare feet there was a crow's head lying in a small pool of blood.

Plato whined and Sam turned quickly to push his dog back through the door before closing it. "What the fuck happened out here?"

"Well," the Sheriff said quickly. "That's exactly what we're here to ask you. But I'm gonna go ahead and guess by the look on your face that you didn't even know this was out here."

Sam shook his head weakly, hands still clasping his hair as he stared out over the carnage. "I just. I just moved here a little while ago.

"And?"

The sun was bright and made Sam squint. He frowned and looked over at the Detective. "And, clearly, everything's fine here," Sam said sarcastically. "I mean -"

"Look, son. This is not time to demonstrate that you have a sense of humour. You have any idea where all these birds came from? Or what happened to them?"

It hadn't really occurred to Sam that his sarcasm might be interpreted at a poor attempt at humor. "The birds?"

It felt ridiculous to refer to the remains of the slaughter on his lawn as birds. There was very little left that was actually identifiable as having once been alive.

Sam's eyes widened as he stepped back unconsciously. "Ma'am, I have no idea at all what happened out here."

The slight wrinkles at the corner of the Sheriff's eyes deepened as she narrowed her gaze. She seemed to be trying to see right through Sam and it was more than a little unnerving.

Sam cleared his throat and folded his arms across his bare chest. Off in the distance he could see a couple of neighbours appear on their own front porch. "I was inside all night... till now, with Plato."

"The philosopher?" The Sheriff lifted an eyebrow in curiosity.

Sam was used to the retort. "My dog. My dog's name is Plato."

From behind the closed door, Sam heard a muffled bark. "And, my dog. He doesn't even care about birds. I mean. He doesn't kill anything. Nothing like this. He's a border collie but he doesn't... Jesus."

Sam unfolded his arms and gestured towards the lawn. "How could this even happen?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," the Sheriff said finally. She slid her hands into her trouser pockets and surveyed the yard.

The door came up suddenly behind Sam and he hadn't even been aware that he'd been moving backwards. "This is horrible."

The horror that was growing in Sam's chest had to be visible on his face because the Sheriff's expression softened before she turned to the officer. "Fitzgerald? Go and question the nosey neighbors across the street."

The officer nodded and headed down the path before exiting the front gate.

The Sheriff turned her gaze back to Sam. "Look, Sam. This isn't the first incident of this kind that's happened here. Just the first since you've moved in."

Sam's first thought was that he was going to strangle his real estate agent then, probably, the previous owner. He looked down at the ground as the wind blew some feathers into a tiny whirlwind. "So many of them."

The Sheriff nodded and moved down onto the next step down. "Not always birds."

Sam looked down at the woman's thoughtful expression. "What?"

"Was a tidal wave of rats one night. Cats. Few months back all the dogs in the neighborhood ended up in here. By the time the SPCA got here they were damn near mauling each other. Terrible." She shook her head as though she still couldn't believe it had happened.

Bile was starting to crawl up Sam's throat again and he swallowed a few times before clearing his throat. It didn't help much. "What the fuck?"

"I know. It's all a little hard to believe. I've had a lot of explaining to do down at the precinct. To a few other agencies, come to think of it." When the Sheriff turned back to face Sam she pulled a card out of her pocket and handed it over.

The card was smooth and Sam ran his fingers over the raised lettering. Pacific Re-claim.

"I've got one good piece of advice because of the times I've dealt with this. Best company for cleaning up messes like this. I'd call them this morning. It will start to smell pretty bad once the sun is hot."

Speechless, Sam couldn't help being a little surprised that there was a need for a company in such a small place that cleaned up things like animal massacres.

"Crime scene cleanup," the Sheriff said in answer to Sam's puzzled frown.

"What?" Sam shook himself free of his thoughts and looked down at the Sheriff.

"The card. They clean crime scenes. Not just... well, this." She waved a finely-boned hand towards the yard.

"Oh." Sam slipped the card into the pocket of his sweats. There was a crime scene in his front yard. Great. Apparently, there was no need for a house warming. He could just have a cleaning party.

"So, Sam? You call me if anything strange happens. My number's on the back of that card. It's my cell."

For a few, brief moments Sam considered trying to tell the Sheriff about the strange scream, the smells and the way the house would suddenly get so cold. He wanted to tell her that someone had slammed the door into his head hard enough to knock him out.

But the more the strange incidents whirled through Sam's mind, the more insane it all seemed. The Sheriff would arrest him before he got half of the story out and drop him off at the nearest psychiatric hospital.

"Thanks, Sheriff... Mills, right?"

"Yeah. That's me. Call. I'm really sorry this is your welcome wagon." She stepped gingerly around the gory mess that had made it as far as Sam's steps and then headed down the path.

Sam pushed his hair back out of his eyes then let his hand slide down his face. The whole situation was beginning to make Sam feel like he was going completely insane.

"Dead birds," he muttered.

Explaining why he needed someone to come and clean his front yard was going to make him sound crazy enough.

After a last look at the massive amount of blood and feathers on the lawn, Sam shook his head. There was no way he was going any closer to it.

Heading back inside, Sam pulled the business card back out of his pocket as he tried to keep Plato from jumping up on him. The day certainly couldn't get any worse. The instant he thought it, Sam realized that was exactly the kind of thinking that came back to bite him in the ass.

-=-=-=-

Half an hour after the cleaning company left there was another knock at Sam's door. It was a reporter from a regional tv station.

The reporter had said his name and the station information so quickly that Sam had trouble deciphering it. He was still trying to work out what the reporter was telling him when a camera operator emerged through the garden gate. The man already had the camera up to his stubble-covered face and it sure looked like he was filming.

The encounter hadn't ended well, especially not for the camera operator. There may have been some pushing and shoving. There was definitely some swearing. The TV crew had escaped mostly unscathed. Unfortunately, they were in possession of some video footage of the battle.

The story ran on the 5 o'clock news and the reporter made it sound as though Sam was, basically under investigation. Of course, they covered their asses and didn't say anything that was slander or worthy of a call to a lawyer. Somehow, they'd even acquired what looked like cell phone footage, probably via his neighbors. So far, the move was turning out to be a great decision.

By 7 pm there was a group of teenagers gathered just outside Sam's yard. At first, they had just been standing around. Their laughter seemed a little too loud, their voices piercing.

Plato had started barking shortly after the group arrived. By the time one of the kids had worked up the courage to head up the path to ring the doorbell Plato had gone crazy.

Plato stood at the door growling so much that he began drooling.

Naturally, by the time Sam flung the door wide open the kids had run off up the street.

For a long time Sam stood on the front porch, his arms lead weights, his feet feeling like they were embedded in drying cement.

Every bone in his body ached and he was beyond exhausted. The huge lump on the back of his head was still throbbing and he just wanted the day to be over.

Plato padded over and sat at Sam's feet; he leaned heavily against his owner's leg.

The dog's warmth was comforting and Sam let some of the tension drain from his shoulders.

"What the hell do we do now?" he asked his canine friend.

-=-=-=-

Sam only managed to sleep that night because he was so exhausted he didn't really have a choice. He was so drained that he couldn't continue to keep his eyes open. Instead of heading up to the bedroom though, Sam pulled the couch over closer to the front door.

He dragged a blanket over his legs, then leaned down to pick up the baseball bat that he'd found in the garage. He sighed.

For some reason, Plato jumped up on the couch and turned around twice before lying across Sam's feet. Normally, he wouldn't sleep with Sam on the couch but he seemed to realize that everything was a bit messed up.

It was unbelievable how much things had changed in a few days. Sam still thought of the house as his new home.

In the recesses of his mind, hidden behind the rationalizations and the excuses, there was something about the house that was unsettling. Sam could feel it. Maybe he'd felt it all along. But, there were some things that just weren't real. At least, he was still trying to convince himself of that.

Moving his long legs to the side, Sam wrapped an arm around Plato's neck and moved him a little closer.

The dog's huge black eyes were sharp and alert as he looked around the living room. His fur was soft and warm under Sam's hand and he closed his eyes.

Plato huffed and shifted around a little.

It would be a long night.

-=-=-=-

A loud banging wrenched Sam from an innocuous dream. Confusion tangled his thoughts as he tried to wake up enough to understand where he was.

Something knocked the wind out of Sam's lungs and he was smothered by fur as the pounding intensified.

"Christ," Sam muttered when he could breathe.

Awareness nudged its way into his mind. Fur. Plato. The couch.

The banging resumed.

"Someone's at the door," Sam muttered.

Door was the magic word that set Plato off like a delayed alarm. For a handful of harrowing seconds the dog flipped and wriggled besides Sam as he tried to untangle himself from his owner and the blanket.

When the dog finally righted himself and leapt onto the floor Sam felt like he'd been beaten up.

"For fuck sake." Sam threw the blanket off and stood quickly. Another flurry of banging followed by barking made Sam jump. He rubbed at his temples and headed around the couch to the door.

"Who is it?" Sam called out. Plato growled.

The voice on the other side of the door was muffled. "... the news story. Thought I could ... you need help."

Forehead thumping against the door, Sam groaned. "No more press. I'm not talking to anyone." The very thought of having to deal with anyone in the media made Sam's blood boil.

"...not press.... Just...help." He couldn't hear much with Plato growling and yipping.

"Seriously," Sam said firmly. "I've had enough. The last story was done without my permission." The story may or may not have been accurate; Sam had no idea. Whether or not it was factual didn't make any difference to Sam though. It was just one more thing to deal with.

Plato yipped once more and began to scratch at the door. He usually did that when he wanted out so Sam unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The dog's tail began wagging immediately; thumping against Sam's leg incessantly. it was weird for him to be friendly with a stranger ... and kind of annoying.

As Sam squinted into the sun, a face came into focus.

The man on the top step was smirking slightly. His lips were full; his teeth straight and bright white. For a smirk it was pretty dazzling. It was too bad the guy was a reporter.

The man ducked his head down to catch Sam's eye. Oh. Staring at lips.

When Sam looked into the man's eyes he felt a little flare of heat rush through his body. Long black lashes outlined jade green eyes and the overall effect was something Sam had never seen before.

"You okay?" The man's voice was deep and roughed up as though he'd had too many nights in a bar hunched over a whisky. But that didn't do one single bit to make him less attractive; quite the opposite.

"I'm ... I just woke up," Sam mumbled.

There were freckles on the man's cheeks and Sam suddenly found it more difficult to swallow. Why did the first attractive guy he'd met in town have to be a reporter.

"Look. I'm not a reporter," the man said. His smirk faded and he looked a little concerned as he took in Sam's demeanor.

"I saw the bit on the news about what was happening here. Thought I might be able to help."

A little mesmerized by the man, Sam nodded. But, this was just the kind of guy that would work at a TV station. He certainly had the look. "Listen...uh, Mr...?"

The man held up his hand and grinned at Sam. "Dean. Dean Winchester. No Mister."

Dean laughed and the sound slithered down Sam's spine.

Dean Winchester. Freckles.

There seemed to be a vice tightening around Sam's neck because he was having a hell of a time swallowing ... or breathing, for that matter. "Listen, Mr. Winchester-"

"Dean."

"Dean. I don't need help. I don't know what you even mean. I just need for the media to piss off. It's - it's all fine here."

Dean took a moment to look around the yard and its freshly manicured state. "Call me crazy, but if what happened here earlier is your idea of fine-"

Sam could feel his jaw twitching.

"I really can help, Sam."

Sam's head snapped up. "I knew you were a reporter. I didn't tell you my name." Sam backed away and snapped his fingers for Plato to come back to the door and away from the reporter.

Reluctantly, the dog padded back into the house and flopped down on the floor just behind Sam.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Dean held his hands up in surrender and stepped back as though scalded by Sam's anger. "It was on the TV; in the TV story. Your name."

A little feeling of victory blossomed in Sam's chest and he squared his shoulders. The guy was right; his name had been mentioned in the story but there was just something about the guy that was a little too perfect.

"Get off my property," Sam growled.

"Aw. Don't be like that. We're just getting to know each other."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Sam sputtered before formulating a reply. "No, we weren't. You were annoying me. And I want you to go now."

Head tilted to the side slightly, Dean just stared at Sam. It was just beginning to feel uncomfortable when Dean clapped his hands together.

"Okay then. Don't want to get you more riled up than you already are. If you're sure you're okay." Dean nodded.

"I'm fine." Sam stepped back inside and pushed the door closed slightly.

Still nodding Dean backed up a few steps, shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and then turned and headed down the path.

Relieved, Sam closed the door and let himself fall forward into it. He pushed his palms flat to the warm wood and let out a long, slow, breath. He really needed to get it together. He was letting his imagination get the better of him.

"You know what we need to do, Plato?" Sam dropped his hands and turned so he could look at his dog.

Plato's tail thumped against the floor a couple of times.

"We need to go to the store and get some beer and a couple steaks. Have a barbecue and try and freaking relax."

Tilting his head from side to side, Plato stared up at his owner as he spoke.

"Good idea?" Dropping into a crouch, Sam scratched behind Plato's floppy ears.

Plato whined softly then lifted a paw to set it on Sam's knee.

"Alright, Buddy. I'll get you your own steak."

-=-=-=-

Sam's idea proved to be a good one. By the time he'd devoured a huge steak and three beers he was feeling a lot more relaxed.

They were sitting outside in the lingering warmth of the early evening. It was a beautiful night and Sam had been in no rush to go back inside.

Even though Sam had made a concerted effort to put all the craziness behind him, he was reluctant to go back inside. Truth be told, he would have preferred to set the tent up in the back yard. But that would just be admitting defeat.

Convinced that there had to be a rational explanation for everything that had happened, Sam continued to run through everything in his mind.

If he were the paranoid type, he might think that someone was trying to get him to leave. He made a mental note to do some research on his property titles. He'd done a lot of research in school; it seemed a little crazy to overlook what could be a perfectly rational explanation.

When Sam sighed, Plato looked up briefly from the bone he was gnawing on. He licked his lips before returning to his meal. Sam couldn't help laughing. No amount of fear or craziness would keep Plato from a steak bone.

They stayed outside for most of the evening, lingering. Even once Plato was done his meal he seemed just as hesitant as Sam to go back into the house. The back yard was nice. There was nothing crazy happening. It seemed like a nice reprieve.

Sadly, by about 10 pm Sam was starting to feel the cold. By that time, Plato was sitting by Sam's feet with his head on Sam's thigh. "You wanna go inside, don't you?"

Plato snorted.

Sam looked up at the bedroom window and sighed.

How bad could it be?

After gathering up most of the debris outside, Sam opened the back door and they headed inside.

The house felt pretty normal. For a few moments they both stood there in the kitchen listening after Sam closed the door. There wasn't a sound in the house other than the usual creaking and clicking that happened as the daytime heat was drained from the house. Nothing unusual at all.

Nodding his head, Sam shrugged and headed over to the counter. He dropped off the empties and put the rest of the meat in the fridge before heading upstairs. He smiled because he could hear Plato clattering along behind him. The two of them made enough noise to wake the dead. Another one of those things Sam should teach himself not to say.

The upstairs was a little warm and Sam opened the windows in the bedroom and bathroom before washing up. There was still no sign of anything weird or spooky and Sam was finally beginning to relax.

By the time he got under his quilt and managed to wrestle almost half of the bed from Plato, he was happy. "Maybe we can finally have a good night, Buddy."

-=-=-=-

The room was dark when Sam felt the bed fall out from under him. It was like floating for a couple of seconds and then it really hurt.

The floor was unforgiving when Sam crashed down onto it. He yelled something as all of the air was forced out of his lungs. The pain made the muscles across Sam's chest clench tightly and he couldn't draw in a breath.

Panic got a firm grip on Sam as he felt a vice-like grip on each ankle. He only had about two heartbeats to consider his fate before he was being yanked across the room.

As the door frame rushed past Sam it collided with his cheek. The impact rattled through his body and everything faded away for a few moments before slamming back into him.

It was a confusing flurry of passing walls and floor and Sam's body suddenly stopped when his mid-section collided with the post at the top of the stairs.

The pain made Sam snap his teeth shut. He moaned as the searing agony of the collision spread out from his belly. It was like being cut in half.

Sam's fingers snagged the bars in the banister and he struggled frantically to get a better grip.

Kicking his feet seemed useless. There was nothing that Sam could do to loosen the grip of whatever was holding him. Twisting slightly, he looked down. The blood racing through his veins turned to ice. There was no one there.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he fought to keep his grip on the bannister rails. Whatever was pulling him was stronger than his grip though. Why couldn't he see anything?

The spicy, metallic taste of blood was strong in Sam's mouth. He gagged as his stomach muscles cramped painfully.

It sounded like a tornado was tearing through the house. The cacophony was clawing at Sam's ears and fighting its way into his mind. Why was there no one there?

The grip on Sam's ankles intensified until he felt like his bones were going to snap. He couldn't help crying out. Desperation Flooded Sams body as he felt his fingers begin to slip from the smooth wood. "Nooo!

A last attempt at kicking free took all of Sam's energy. His fingers snapped off the railing as he was given a final, brutal, tug.

Then he heard a pounding on the stairs, metal clanking. He thought he heard his name but there was so much sound; it was deafening. Sam sucked in as much air as he could to force out a weak, "Help."

The grip on Sam's ankles was suddenly gone. Something clanked into the railing above Sam's head and he clawed at the hardwood as he tried to crawl back towards his bedroom.

"Sam!"

Gasping for air was hurting Sam's chest. There was no one there. But the husky voice was vaguely familiar.

"Sam! Stop! It's me-"

In a blind panic, Sam swung his fist ahead of him as he rolled. His fist collided with flesh and all the fight melted out of him when he saw a familiar face.

"It's me, Sam. Dean! Remember?" The man had caught Sam's fist and was still holding it; his thumb moved over Sam's skin slowly like he was trying to soothe a wounded animal. Back and forth.

"Dean?" The man's skin was cold as though he had just come in from outside. Sam blinked a few times; it was difficult to focus his eyes and the pounding in his temples was distracting. Something warm was running down Sam's cheek and when he wiped his hand across it, a stinging sensation brought tears to his eyes.

"Careful," Dean said softly. He dropped Sam's fist so he could slide his hand over Sam's tousled hair.

It wasn't until Dean was cupping Sam's skull that Sam relaxed slightly. His arms fell heavily to the floor and he sucked in a shaky breath. "What? What the hell?"

There was a slight smile on Dean's face as he looked down at Sam. "Let's get you off the floor and clean you up a bit. Then I'll explain everything."

"Cleaned up?" Puzzled, Sam frowned and tried to sit up. His head pounded instantly and viciously and he groaned.

"Whoa, you're bleeding, Dude." Dean slid his free hand under Sam's arm and waited until Sam was ready before helping him to his feet.

The house tilted back and forth a few times and Sam moaned softly. "Fuck, my head."

"Yeah," Dean murmured. "Looks like you got bashed about quite a bit." He steered Sam back into the bedroom and lowered him to the bed.

"You got a first aid kit or somethin'?"

"A what?" Sam poked at his eye gently. It was already swelling and Sam wasn't even sure what had hit him. He waved his hand in the direction of the ensuite. "Bathroom."

Dean headed to the bathroom and Sam could hear him searching the cupboards. When he emerged from the bathroom he was carrying a small box of supplies and sat next to Sam.

The room was still swimming a little and Sam grabbed Dean's shoulder to try and anchor himself. "Dizzy."

"M'not surprised. Ya looked like you were losing the fight with -"

"What the fuck was that?" Sam spat. Someone or something had tried to drag him down the fucking stairs. And there had been nothing there. He could still feel the aching around his ankles where he'd been held.

Dean set the box down beside him and focused his attention on Sam. "Okay. Calm down; it's over for now and you're safe while I'm here."

"There was nothing there but something slammed me into the - my dog...Where's Plato?" When Sam tried to stand he swayed forward dangerously and Dean grabbed his arms to steady him and nudged him back to the bed.

Right on cue, Plato darted into the bedroom and skidded to a halt at Sam's feet.

"He was downstairs barking up a storm," Dean said quietly.

Reaching down, Sam ran his hand over the silky fur between Plato's ears. "Barking at you?"

Shaking his head, Dean turned his attention back to the box of first aid supplies. He shuffled things around until he found some disinfectant wipes.

"I think," Dean began. "He was trying to get my attention."

Still staring down at Plato, Sam smiled slightly. The smooth surface of Plato's tongue lapped at Sam's hand.

"Wait." All the crap in Sam's brain was starting to sort itself out again. "Get your attention? Where were you?"

It was beginning to become clear to Sam that there was a relative stranger sitting on his bed in the middle of the night.

"Don't freak out," Dean ordered.

Sam was just wondering what he wasn't supposed to freak out about when Dean pressed a small wipe to his cheek.

A hiss of pain passed Sam's lips and he dug his fingers into Plato's thick fur.

"Sorry," Dean murmured.

Warm breath tickled Sam's cheek as Dean studied the wound as he cleaned it. "Almost done. Doesn't need stitches or anything."

Without thinking, Sam nodded and Dean had to reposition the bandage he was trying to attach to Sam's face. He brushed Sam's hair back from his battered cheek and taped the gauze down.

"I was outside," Dean said. He continued to clean Sam's cheek and jaw as he spoke. "I know that sounds weird but, well, you did just get your ass handed to you by a spirit."

"A spirit?" Sam straightened up so quickly that he got a little dizzy again. When the room stopped spinning, Sam laughed dryly and pushed Dean's hand away.

"So. You're not a reporter?" Sam asked. "What then? A stalker? Some guy who just sits outside a stranger's house in the middle of the night. You need to leave now or I'm calling the Sheriff."

A little taken aback, Dean pressed his lips together tightly before drawing a deep breath in through his nose.

Everything was off kilter and Sam was more than a little freaked out. Something - something Sam couldn't see or touch had yanked him out of bed and thrown him around like a rag doll. On top of that, a complete stranger had been lurking around outside his house in the middle of the night. The guy next to him might have saved him, but he could just as easily be involved in the whole event.

Suspicion sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through Sam's veins. He shifted further away from Dean and glanced around for his phone.

The bedroom was a mess. When he'd been yanked out of bed the sheets had been tangled around him and the night stand had been knocked over. The lamp was in pieces on the floor. The carpet was all bunched up and one of the paintings had been knocked off the way and was lying bent and broken near the closet.

When Sam's gaze settled on Dean again the stranger didn't look at all like he was planning on going anywhere. In fact, Dean looked so relaxed it pissed Sam off a little. Maybe he wasn't all that intimidating in his boxers but Sam still thought of himself as a pretty big guy. He could throw Dean out if he wanted.

"Leave," Sam said firmly. the intensity of his voice made Plato whine softly before resting his head on his owner's knee.

The expression on Dean's face hardened a little. "Listen to me, Sam. I'm tryin' something' new here. I'm telling you the truth. This thing that attacked you? You couldn't see it at all, right?"

Sam nodded reluctantly.

"Way stronger than you?"

Sam shrugged at first and then nodded once.

"Bad smells? Cold spots? I bet your poor dog has been goin' crazy since you moved here, yeah? And those birds on your lawn that those dicks from the news place covered."

Everything Dean was saying was sounding eerily familiar.

"Raccoons," Sam muttered.

Dean laughed; he actually laughed. Sam huffed and crossed his arms. Unfortunately, the movement sent a breath-stealing pain searing across his ribs.

"Hey. You alright?" Dean asked. His fingers curled around Sam's wrist gently. "You need to rest, Sam."

The pain faded slowly, one throb at a time and Sam let his arms fall to his lap. He was exhausted and every single part of his body was aching.

After a few moments, Sam looked straight into Dean's eyes. "What was that thing?"

Hell, he knew Dean didn't have anything to do with the attack. The longer Sam sat with his blurry memories of the evening, the less insane Dean's theory sounded.

As though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, Dean began to run his hands down Sam's arms as though checking for broken bones. "It's some kind of pissed off entity. Could have been here for a long time. Has the house changed hands a lot? Did you get a really good deal?"

Sam's eyes widened and he nodded slowly. "Was a steal. And. And, yeah, its changed hands a few times but I figured that was because there was so much work to do....or something."

The idea that he'd bought some kind of haunted house made Sam shiver slightly. This was the kind of thing that was only supposed to happen in movies.

"Most people just sell," Dean said with a wry smile on his face. "That way they don't have to believe in anything that's uncomfortable. No one wants those things that go bump in the night to be an actual thing."

The explanation made sense to Sam. Frankly, if he didn't have all his money tied up in the house he would be considering selling it first thing in the morning.

"The clanking, that was you," Sam muttered as he rubbed at his aching head. "How'd you get rid of it?"

"Iron, Sam. Very handy to have some iron chains. One swing and it splits all it's molecules or, you know, whatever, into a thousand different directions. Cool, right?"

Sam must have looked really confused because Dean rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Okay. So I suck at explaining things. Iron makes the entity dissipate for a while."

"It'll come back?" Now that hadn't occurred to Sam. The last thing he needed was another beating. He was pretty sure that he couldn't take much more.

"Hey," Dean said quietly. He ducked his head down to catch Sam's eye and smiled. "I can fix this. For tonight, I can make it pretty safe if you stay in here."

"That's possible?" For the first time that evening, Sam felt a little hopeful. For some reason it was easy to trust Dean. It shouldn't be, but it was.

And if Sam had to admit that ghosts were an actual thing then he was sure as hell going to believe that there was a solution to it.

"It's very possible to solve your problem." Dean seemed momentarily satisfied that Sam was okay. “It's what I do."

For a while, Dean sat there looking at Sam. "You seem fairly calm."

"Now." Sam laughed softly. "Nearly had a stroke before. Not every day I get yanked out of bed in the middle of the night by some freaky ghost then rescued by a hot stranger."

Dean froze where he was and cocked an eyebrow. Sam flinched back regretting his words instantly.

"I. It's not - I just-" Sam couldn't think of a way to back up safely. Hell, it wasn't even the kind of thing that he would normally just blurt out. It wasn't that he'd never seen a hot guy before; he just usually managed to keep his mouth shut and, therefore, his life simple. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm. I'm all messed up."

"Dude," Dean began. "Don't blow a gasket. It's fine." Dean's smile had faded a little but he seemed okay.

Sam sighed. His hands were still shaking which was probably left over adrenaline. There was no way that he would be going back to sleep any time soon. "You okay?"

"Me?" The slightly lopsided grin was back in full force on Dean's face. "I am great. Could use a drink though."

"I can make some coffee or something." Seeing as Sam's head had stopped spinning he was relatively certain he could make it downstairs without kill himself.

Dean shrugged a shoulder and Sam noticed how well the man's leather jacket fit his broad shoulders. when their eyes met there was a mischievous sparkle in Dean's eyes.

"What?" Sam asked. "Oh. You mean a drink drink."

"Why yes, Sam. I do." When he stood, Dean reached into his jacket and pulled a phone out of his inside pocket. After glancing at the screen he put it back and smiled down at Sam. "Need a hand?"

There was a real danger to Sam's manhood. He'd been beaten on by a ghost; he might have even screamed. He was in tight boxers and nothing else. Now, Dean wanted to help him up.

As usual, Plato seemed to feel the need to contribute to the conversation. After a quick bark he backed up a few steps then spun round once.

"Ya want out?" Sam said. It was difficult to tear his gaze away from Dean's. His eyes were a vibrant shade of green that only seemed to be enhanced by long, dark lashes.

"Earth to Sam?"

"Yeah." Heat raced to Sam's cheeks. "Sorry. Still a bit out of it I think." It was a lie, but whatever; it didn't necessarily have to be a lie. He'd just found out there was a ghost living in his house. He could cut himself some slack.

"Gotta get some stuff from the car anyway." Dean headed out of the room and Plato followed him.

"Traitor," Sam muttered.

-=-=-=-

The routine of pouring drinks and letting Plato out into the back yard went a long way toward calming Sam's nerves. There sure was a lot for him to process, though. A haunted fucking house. Who did that actually happen to? It was a little like being trapped in a strange reality TV show. Sam half expected people with cameras to show up outside.

But Dean seemed believable enough. The more Sam had spoken to him, the more he liked him. There was an unusual trustworthiness about the rough-around-the-edges stranger. He was unpolished, said what he needed to without embellishment but there was something a little sad about him. For some reason Dean seemed a little lonely to Sam - but maybe that was just Sam projecting.

The front door banged shut and Sam heard some things being set down on the hardwood floor. "Dean?"

"Yeah," was the answer from down the hall. Sam heard the quiet thumping of Dean's boots as he came towards the kitchen. "Hey, Sam."

Smiling, Sam gestured toward the kitchen table. "Drink over there."

Dean nodded his thanks and sat down in the chair nearest the back door. He stared out into the darkness as he took a drink. "Nice Scotch."

"What?" Sam glanced over his shoulder. "Oh. Yeah. Got it as a present when I left my job. At that point, they were still trying to convince me to come back."

"Come back?" Dean swivelled in the chair and gave Sam his full attention.

"Long story."

"I've got time and I've got a good drink." That smile on Dean's face was smooth and inviting and Sam felt his resistance melt a little more.

"I'm a writer now. I mean I write. I used to work at a technical company helping test software and find holes in security systems. I just wanted to do something different."

Dean nodded as though needing a change made sense to him. If what the man did was break into people's houses at 3 am, Sam could understand.

"So you're more of a facts guy." Dean drained the rest of the whisky and a satisfied expression appeared on his face.

"I guess. Are you ... asking me if I believe I was just attacked by a ghost?"

Dean tilted his head slightly.

Before he answered, Sam poured Dean some more Scotch. "All I know is that things have been weird ever since I moved in here. Tonight was pretty messed up."

"Yeah."

"Is there - can you do something?"

Dean's face split into a grin. "Of course, Sammy. I can fix this no problemo."

Sammy? Sam was pretty sure no one had ever called him that before and pretty sure he didn't like it. He did feel like he owed Dean, though.

"Well!" Dean downed the second glass of whisky and banged the glass down on the table. "I'd better get out of here and get some sleep. I've gotta do some research tomorrow, figure out who's so pissed off at you and why?"

As Dean stood Sam felt a little resurgence of fear. It was probably a coincidence but it felt like the house and whatever resided in it had calmed since Dean had chased it off.

"You've got to go now?" Sam tried not to sound too desperate.

Checking his pockets, presumably for everything he'd brought with him, Dean nodded. "I gotta have at least three hours of sleep or I'll be useless tomorrow. It could take me a while to find out the history of this place. I have to look into local events... find out what might have happened here that could trap a spirit in the place."

"Happened?" Great, something more for Sam to obsess over.

"Well, shit like this doesn't happen because an entity is pleased to see you."

It seemed like a valid enough point but Sam wasn't sure he was in a position to judge.

The expression on Dean's face softened and he took a step closer to Sam. "Look, I won't be gone that long. Library. Maybe the city or state records if it comes to it. Depends how far back I have to look for information. The quickest way to deal with this is probably to find where any bodies might be buried and - well - deal with it or them."

It sounded a little ominous to Sam but then, so was the idea of being in his own home alone. "Could. Could I go with you?"

Looking a little hesitant, Dean was silent for a while.

"I can sleep in a chair, or on the floor. It doesn't matter."

"I suppose."

"While you do whatever you need to in the morning, I could take Plato to the dog park. Or I could help you. I'm good at research."

There was a strange look on Dean's face as he watched Plato trot into the kitchen, tail wagging full force at the mention of the park.

"Plato. Your dog," Dean said quietly.

"Yeah. Don't know how old he is. Was a rescue. Border collie. He loves car rides and he certainly seems to like you, which is unusual." In fact, Plato was sitting at Dean's feet looking up at him with his tail wagging furiously.

"I, uh. No dogs in my car-"

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't even think-"

"- it's kind classic. 1967 Chevy Impala," Dean said proudly.

Sam nodded. He didn't know much about cars but he knew what people could be like about their cars.

A sigh escaped before Sam had a chance to do anything to stop. He sat back down and Plato padded over to rest his chin on Sam's thigh. Sam scratched the silky fur on the top of the dog's head.

The kitchen was too silent so Sam looked up and smiled slightly. "You goin' now, then?"

Looking a little uncomfortable, Dean nodded slowly. His full bottom lip rolled under his straight, white teeth and he looked thoughtful.

"I suppose he could sit on a blanket. Or something." Dean's expression was a cross between hesitance and guilt. It made Sam feel good for some stupid reason.

"He has a blanket. And I bathe him all the time; he smells really good." To prove his point Sam leaned down and kissed the top of Plato's head.

"Okay. Well. Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Well, it's nearly four in the morning," Dean said. he slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and shifted his weight nervously.

"Yes, it is," Sam said quickly. he stood and, for the first time since he'd been hauled out of bed he realized that he was wearing his boxers. "I should put clothes on."

There was a smirk on Dean's face again so, without waiting for an answer, Sam hurried back to the laundry room . There was no way he was going back up to the bedroom. Clearly, Plato had no intention of going anywhere alone because he was stuck to Sam's leg like he was glued there.

There were jeans and t-shirts in the dryer and Sam pulled them on quickly. At least he was dressed. It was a start.

-=-=-=-

The drive to the motel wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as Sam had expected. In the first place, the car was pretty awesome. The pride on Dean's face when he pointed to the car was clear.

Fortunately, Plato was well trained. Sam spread out the dog's blanket at his feet and Plato climbed in under Sam's legs. It was a big of a squeeze but the dog didn't seem to mind.

The hotel was only a short ride away from Sam's house but miles different in terms of comfort. Even with its old cigarette smell, sagging mattress and dingy blanket it was still preferable to Sam's house. The house that had come with a fucking ghost included.

Dean strode into the room and dropped a heavy-looking duffle bag on the rickety table.

Sam looked around the room. There was a door that, he assumed, led to a bathroom and after a quick glance at the well-worn carpet, Sam decided to leave his boots on. He wandered over to the bed and sat down on the end of it then shrugged out of his jacket.

"The dog sleep with you?"

A little startled, Sam looked up quickly. "Sometimes; he'll probably sleep by the door."

Dean just nodded and shrugged out of his leather. When he tossed it over the back of the chair by the front window he glanced back at Sam. "You good?"

Nodding, Sam reached down and loosened the laces on his boots. When he had kicked them off he clasped his hands in his lap and looked around. He had no idea what to do. It was obvious that his temporary roommate wasn't much of a conversationalist. Dean seemed like the kind of guy who spent most of his time travelling solo. The thought of spending all that time alone had Sam reaching for Plato's head. He traced his fingers over the smooth black fur.

"Hey, Sam? Your - Plato. You think he'd want last night's pizza?" Dean was holding a slightly crumpled white pizza box.

"I'm sure he would love it. But it's not good for him?" Plato was rarely given people food and Sam wanted to make sure there was nothing on it that was bad for him.

Looking a little surprised, Dean peered over the open box top. "Does he have a preference for certain toppings?"

Sam smiled. "No. There are just some thing dogs shouldn't have. Like chocolate, for instance."

Dean's eyebrow shot up and he gave Sam a rather skeptical look. "I can safely say that no chocolate would even touch any pizza of mine."

This time, Sam actually laughed, which kind of surprised him. "I didn't figure there was. No pizza but there are treats in my jacket pocket. If you give him some of those he'll be your friend for life."

Plato's ears perked up as Dean set the pizza box down and headed over to the bed to pick up Sam's jacket. As soon as the bag containing the treats rustled, Plato stood and padded over.

"Wait," Sam said softly and Plato dropped to the floor as though he was stalking prey.

"Whoa," Dean said. "Is he gonna fight me for them?"

"Only if he doesn't like ya." Smiling, Sam felt a warm flush when he saw that Dean was smiling too. Under different circumstances, Sam could entertain a fantasy or two about the man.

As though he knew Sam was distracted, Plato let out a snort and licked his lips.

"Sorry, boy. You can tell him, Dean."

"What do I say?"

Sam held up his hand so Plato would stay and mouthed "Okay".

Dean held out a treat and said, "Okay."

The dog leaped forward and bit the treat right out of Dean's fingers. Dean yanked his hand back then smiled when he realized that Plato didn't actually bite him. "Close!"

"Gentle," Sam said and Plato gave a full body shake before yipping at Dean.

"I take it that means another?" Dean grinned and sat down on the bed beside Sam and pulled out another treat. Plato was more gentle when Dean gave him the second treat. "There's beer in the fridge if you want any."

Four am seemed a strange hour for beer but then, the entire night had been strange. "Sure. You?"

Dean nodded and fed Plato another treat.

Sam headed over to the fridge and grabbed two bottles before heading back to the bed. When he sat down, Dean popped the top off both bottles with his ring.

The bottle was cold and moist with condensation so Sam wiped it across his forehead. When he looked up, Dean was watching him again. "What?"

By way of an answer, Dean shrugged a shoulder. "You must have questions."

Obviously, Dean had rescued people before because questions had been brewing in Sam's mind since they'd left the house.

"Ghosts. They're real." Maybe it was too obvious but Sam was still rooted in the unbelievability of it all.

Nodding, Dean took a long pull on the bottle of beer. "Felt pretty real, didn't it?"

"Yeah." Wincing, Sam rubbed at the side of his face. It was gonna hurt like hell in the morning.

"And - where do ghosts come from?" Sam asked. "Is it like in the movies?"

Once more Dean's lips curled into a smile. "Depends on the movie. And, who really knows till we get over there. Some people die and just stick around for some stupid reason. Like a grudge or unfinished business."

"We actually have a choice?" It seemed like a child's bedtime story to Sam.

"Whether you stay here as a spirit or you go? Yeah. Not so much your final destination. That ticket is punched by the Big Boss. Whoever the hell that is."

"God?"

A shrug was all the answer Dean gave.

"No theories?"

"No interest." Dean took a few swallowed of been before setting the bottle on the floor. "Here's the thing. No matter what, I'm thinkin' we're on the train track racing forwards and there's no way to stop it after we've started. So really, do I need to know where I'm goin' or who drivin' the train? I'm gonna end up at the same place at the same time."

The analogy made Sam's stomach ache. "So those religions in the world, books, places of worship. You think they're all wrong? You think that it doesn't matter what we do here? We can't change anything?"

"That's not what I said." There was a evasiveness about Dean's eyes and his smile had all but disappeared.

Plato patted at Dean's boot with one paw, trying to earn another treat.

"Enough, Plato."

After a sigh of protest, Plato padded over to the mat in front of the door, circled around then flopped down.

"He goin' to bed?"

Sam nodded. "When we're in strange places he always sleeps against the door. Guess he feels like he's protecting me."

"Sounds like a good dog."

"He is." Sam turned slight and was face to face with Dean. "What do you call yourself?"

"What?"

"Ghosthunter? Exterminator?" Shrugging a shoulder Sam studied the freckles scattered across Dean's cheeks.

"Just hunter is fine. Hunt more than ghosts."

"Right," Sam said. "I really don't want to know any more about that." He looked at his beer and decided against drinking any of it. He set it against the wall by his feet.

"Most people don't." Dean stood, slowly, as though his body ached then stretched his arms high above his head. His t-shirt rode higher on his flesh and Sam found his gaze drawn to tight abs and a bizarre pattern of scars.

"You get hurt a lot?"

When Dean frowned with a strange distance in his gaze, Sam gestured to the scars on the man's hip.

"Oh, yeah. Nothing bad." The t-shirt fell back into place as Dean dropped his arms back to his sides.

"I guess its dangerous." There was still a part of Sam's mind that was trying to neatly slot the evening into the easily explained category. But supernatural... well, he didn't have any categories for that yet.

"Look," Dean said. "Get a bit of sleep; you look beat. we'll go find some info on your property and I bet tomorrow night you can put this all behind you."

It shouldn't matter to Sam that Dean was going to exit as quickly as he'd entered but it did. Maybe it was the lingering uncertainty.

When Dean reached out a hand to sweep Sam's hair back off his forehead, it seemed far more natural than it should have.

"You got a hell of a bruise here." As he spoke, Dean ran his thumb gently across Sam's forehead. "You got a headache?"

Closing his eyes against the rising tide of heat and confusion in his body, Sam shook his head. He ached other places; he had considered he might have a cracked rib earlier, but not his head.

The slide of Dean's thumb continued down Sam's temple and across the cut on his cheek bone before bumping over his lips to, finally, fall away.

Sam's lashes fluttered open and he peered up at Dean. There was an expression on the man's face that was hard to read. It made Sam feel a little on edge and more than a little hot under the collar.

But Sam had very little experience with men in terms of feeling like he wanted to run his hands over their entire body.

Yeah. Clumsy fumblings in the front seat of a car, a failed attempt at picking a guy up in a bar once. It hadn't occurred to Sam that there'd be no intimacy - no names - nothing, so he had bolted.

"Hey."

Sam jumped.

Dean smiled. "You were a million miles away. We're perfectly safe here, you know. No lie. I've taken care of it. You can sleep and I can stay awake if you want."

"Doesn't seem very fair," Sam mumbled.

"It's all good." Dean tousled Sam's hair, again far too familiar. And Sam liked the way it sent a buzz of pleasure rippling down his back.

"Are you gay?" Sam blurted out before immediately hoping he would choke on his own tongue and die.

"Don't hold back, Sammy." Dean's eyebrow was up again, his mouth twisted into a smirk.

"I'm sorry. It's none of my business." As for their earlier conversation? Sam now had definitive proof there was no God because a gigantic hole hadn't opened up beneath him and taken him away from the most embarrassing situation he'd ever been in.

"No," Dean said.

For a blissful second Sam didn't realize what Dean was saying no to but then his brain caught up and it felt like someone had set fire to his face.

Of course, Dean wasn't gay. A man like him? It had been a completely stupid question, not to mention out of line. "Man, I'm ... all fucked up. it's my head or the night or everything," Sam began. "Not my business. You're right."

"I didn't say that," Dean answered smoothly.

As Sam shook his head weakly he couldn't help running his tongue along his bottom lip as his eyes traced the full swell of Dean's.

"Okay," Dean said. "Just because you've had a fucked up day and you're feelin' a little bit like you had the rug ripped out from under you? Here's what's gonna happen."

In one seamless movement, Dean stood and moved around close enough to push Sam's knees apart with his own. He stepped into the V of Sam's legs and got a grip on Sam's hair that was firm enough for him to tip Sam's head back.

A gasp parted Sam's damp lips and then the rug was ripped out from under Sam for a second time because Dean's lips were pressed to his.

The kiss was a little rough like Dean wanted to leave no room for doubt. His fingers tightened in Sam's hair as their mouths moved together. The pressure, the slide and the heat when the tip of Dean's tongue probed forward made Sam's heart forget how to beat.

Pulling back slightly, lips still brushing Sam's, Dean spoke in an almost-whisper. "Now, you're gonna lie down and get some rest. Okay?"

Mutely, Sam nodded. He wasn't sure he had it in him to disagree.

Dean straightened slowly, his grip on Sam's hair loosening though his fingers remained tangled in the strands. "We'll fix your house problem tomorrow then we'll talk, yeah?"

Sam nodded again and sat there until Dean pressed two fingers to the middle of his chest. Sam fell back onto the bed, relieved to be free of the intensity of Dean's gaze.

"You get comfy. I'm gonna get some ice for your cheek."

The door clicked open and then closed while Sam was still staring at the stained ceiling.

Dean.

Jesus.

Sam launched into motion while the hunter was gone from the room. He glanced briefly at Plato. The traitorous dog was sitting to the side of the door as though he was waiting for Dean to come back.

Sam yanked his t-shirt off over his head, slipped out of his jeans and battled his way into the tightly-made bed.

By the time Dean returned to the room, Sam was under the covers and practically hidden from view. But Dean didn't seem to be looking when he crossed the room.

Three different cans of soda clunked on to the nightstand. "Didn't know what you liked."

Sam would drink anything Dean gave him and that made him roll his eyes at himself.

"Thank you."

"It's all good." Dean's fingers were on Sam's cheek briefly once more then he headed back to the chair by the table to take off his boots. He pulled his t-shirt off and undid the belt on his jeans before padding over to the bathroom in loose wool socks.

As soon as the door closed, Sam gasped for air. He had no idea what the hell was going on but he had mixed feelings about it.

And then, something strange happened. Sam's eyes felt scratchy and sore, his throat dry and aching. He was exhausted. He went with it because he didn't want to face Dean or anymore confusion. He was about to say good night when the mattress sank under Dean's weight. Sam squeezed his eyes shut even harder.

But Dean's voice was low and a little hypnotic. "Sleep. We'll fix this tomorrow."

The last of the stubborn need to stay awake fled Sam and he succumbed to slipping deep into it, like sliding into a bathtub full of hot water.

-=-=-=-

And that was how it came about that Sam woke up to discover he was sharing a bed with Dean Winchester. At least, as far as Sam could remember from the night before, Dean had sat down on the side of the bed about the same time as Sam had succumbed to his exhaustion.

It had seemed like a hundred other mornings, at first, but when Sam rolled over he found himself pressed up against a warm, firm, body. Dean.

When Sam opened his eyes he could see all the freckles littered along Dean's cheeks, his nose and along his eyelids. There was even a freckle on his lip and that made Sam bite down on his tongue.

He shifted as close as he could and let his nose push through the hunter's dark hair. It smelled good. It smelled like outdoors and the inside of the car and some other things Sam couldn't put his finger on. But he would never forget them.

There was only his deep inhale and the smooth scent of the man who lay sleep-hot at Sam's side.

Sam's lips just touched the stubbled skin of Dean's jaw. He froze, not wanting to wake dean. The man was lying so still; his breathing was deep and even.

Sam knew he should be wondering what the hell is was doing. He wasn't the kind of guy who ended up in bed with a stranger. But then, it wasn’t like he'd had anything to do with the decision.

But, he wasn't moving away. Sam's entire body leaned towards Dean's. The motel room had cooled over night; Sam could feel it on his bare shoulder.

Dean let out a sigh and Sam held his breath and leaned back slightly.

"Don't." Dean's voice was gravelly and low.

"I'm sorry. I was - it was weird waking up here -"

"No," Dean said sleepily. "Don't move away." His hand reached out and rough fingers slid over Sam's forearm a few moments before dragging up Sam's skin to drape lazily over his shoulder.

Little zings of pleasure were making their way through Sam's body and he felt the way his next inhale shuddered its way into his lungs

"You okay?"

Now the hunter was laying on his side, his breath was hot against Sam's cheek, and still, Sam could feel that crazy fucking heat from Dean's bare chest.

"I. Yes. I fell asleep before you..." Sam blinked as he struggled to find a place to put his hand. He settled for curving it over Dean's hip. The feel of boxers under his palm was a bit of a relief.

"Before we had sex?"

Sam's blood felt like it froze solid in his veins. There couldn't possibly be any way that he could have touched that body and not not had it seared into his memory. Okay, so he was a little shy - introverted - what the fuck...

About the time all the circuits in Sam's brain felt like they were going to overload he noticed that Dean's expression changed.

"Sam? Don't have a stroke. I was kidding." The solitary twitch in Dean's bottom lip disappeared as a smile worked its way onto his face.

"Kidding?" There was much too much squeak in Sam's voice for his liking.

Something about the very not funny situation seemed to have touched Dean's funny bone because he burst out laughing. All Sam wanted to do was punch him and he'd always tried to be pretty non-violent.

"That wasn't funny." It was the best Sam could come up with and it felt sadly lacking in competition with Dean's heartfelt laughter.

When he finally stopped chuckling, Dean was still smiling. "Trust me, Sam. If I'd fucked you? You would know it."

All the moisture vanished from Sam's mouth and he couldn't swallow for an uncomfortable few moments. After he cleared his throat, Sam pushed himself away from Dean.

"Sam! It was a joke! I joke!" But there was a little too much amusement in Dean's eyes.

"You don't think I've got enough going on? Fuck. Last night I was nearly beat to death. You tell me that ghosts are real. I don't do this all the time like you do-"

"Sam-"

"If you can't tell, I'm really stressed out by all of this stuff. And you. You're stressful!"

"Sam!"

Gesturing between himself and Dean, Sam stared hard at the man lying across from him. "I've never even. Not with a guy. And you show up looking all crazy hot and changing everything -"

"Jesus Christ, Sam! Unclench for a second and listen to me."

There was an uncomfortable silence until Sam nodded his head. He could at least listen. He nodded again, a little more firmly.

"Look. Man, I'm sorry. I spend a lot of time workin' alone. My people skills might be a little rough."

Sam nodded again but he still felt pretty tense. The whole situation felt weird - out of sync. It was like he'd fallen asleep in one life and woken up in another. Once again, Sam found himself feeling exhausted again and more than a little lost.

The worn mattress bounced as Plato jumped up on the bottom of the bed. He walked around in a circle a few times then laid down.

Both men had to pull their feet up to give the dog more room and their knees bumped together. This time Sam didn't pull away and Dean smiled hesitantly.

"We good, Sammy?"

Brow furrowing, Sam managed to stop himself from flinching back. "Don't call me that. It's. It doesn't. I don't know."

"You are one of the most high strung people I have ever met." Dean slid his hand over Sam's hip and then slapped his palm on the meat of Sam's ass. "I'm gonna shower. Library opens soon."

Dean rolled away and climbed out of bed.

Sam was beginning to think that Dean was a little nuts. But then, who wouldn't be when they spent all their time hunting ghosts.

The door to the tiny bathroom banged shut and Sam let out a sigh of relief. It was easier to think with Dean and his body in another room.

"What the hell is going on, Plato?"

The dog rolled over lazily and stretched his paws up into their air. For the one millionth time, Sam marvelled at the amount of space that Plato could take up on a bed when he wanted to.

Dean.

"God." They hardly knew each other. Sam rolled onto his belly and buried his face in the pillow. Everything was crazy. Everything.

-=-=-=-

The library had just opened when the Impala pulled up in front of the old, stone building. It all seemed as though it was perfectly routine to Dean. After a pretty limited conversation with the librarian they headed off to a microfilm machine.

While Dean was hunting down rolls of film that contained news stories that might be relevant, Sam searched through some real estate information.

Sam watched Dean sometimes while the man was working. He was focused; there was an intensity in his gaze that gave Sam a lot of confidence that things would get better. Maybe that was all part of it; part of the strange feelings that Sam was experiencing for a stranger.

They flipped through papers, stopping to read the occasional snippet and hardly said a word unless it related to the information in front of them. There were no big "ah-ha" moments like Sam expected. Things seemed to come together over the course of a couple of hours.

First, Dean had Sam search for the build date of the house. He seemed pleased that they only had twenty-eight years of history to deal with which made Sam wonder how far back some of Dean's research went.

From that point, Dean moved forward with the research. He cross-referenced the dates of residency in the house with newspaper films from the same time. He said they were looking for deaths and that was pretty disturbing. Sure, Sam knew that a ghost could only appear if someone had died but he hadn't really put the two things together until the visit to the library.

All Sam knew was that whatever it was that had yanked him out of his bed was strong. He was a pretty big guy and the hands that he'd felt around his ankles were huge. He might not know much about supernatural stuff but Sam's instincts told him they were looking for a guy.

Dean seemed to believe Sam because he narrowed his search to deaths of males. He gave Sam some explanation about spirits manifesting with more strength but explained that they seemed to always maintain their original form and skills. A lot of it went over Sam's head but he was glad Dean knew what he was talking about.

Sam was a little startled when Dean finally declared he'd found something.

"What you think of this one, Sam?" Without looking away from the flickering screen in front of him, Dean held out a story he had printed out.

Sam grabbed the paper and read through the article carefully. Bert Mitchell had lived in the house with his young wife, Rebecca. They were a sweet couple, according to the paper - part of the article focused on them being sweethearts from the local high school.

They were well known around town. Bert was a football player. Football players are usually strong.

After the information about the wedding, the article took on a much darker direction. Bert's body was discovered at the bottom of the stairs one morning twenty years back by his neighbor.

The police had seen no reason to pursue any arrests. It looked as though Bert had gotten himself drunk and fallen down the stairs.

"Looks like an accident," Sam said quietly.

"Keep reading." Still, Dean kept his eyes on the microfilm.

Frowning, Sam looked back at the article. The police had said they'd been out to the house three times in the month prior to the death. All calls unrelated to the accident.

After reading the article twice, Sam turned on his chair to stare at Dean's profile. "I don't get it."

The screen in front of Dean flickered as he moved on to another film. "Bingo."

"Bingo?"

"C'mere." Dean reached for Sam's chair and dragged it closer. Their shoulders pressed together and Dean stabbed a finger at the screen. "So. I'm bettin' Bert wasn't as cute and cuddly as everyone seems to think."

Scanning the lines of text and numbers on the screen, Sam leaned in closer. "Wait. What is this?"

"Records from the local law. It's been transcribed, not the original but check this out." Dean's fingers moved to an entry at the middle of the long list.

Sam squinted.

"The law was called out to check on Mrs. Mitchell, seems there'd been some screaming. Neighbors thought she was alone but she wasn't. The man of the house was home and insisted that Rebecca was fine.

"And this is interesting, why?" The whole thing was confusing Sam.

"Well, thirty years ago, Sammy, people weren't so bothered by a women getting disciplined by her husband. There are four other entries similar to this. Not a great relationship, I'd say."

Sam had been about to complain at the use of the unwanted nickname again when the weight of the woman's situation had sunk in. In the old photos Bert looked about a foot and a half taller than Rebecca. It was horrifying to think of what might have caused her screams.

"Shit," Sam whispered.

"Yeah." Dean slumped back in his chair and ground balled up fists into his eyes.

"So - you think he's doing this? He tried to drag me down the stairs? ... Oh."

As soon as he'd uttered the words, things began to make sense to Sam.

Dean arched his back into a long stretch and moaned with pleasure as his spine cracked. "Maybe he's pissed that he fell. Didn't want to leave the house? Being pissed off is a good recipe for a violent spirit."

Nodding, Sam tried to drag his gaze away from the line of flesh that had appeared between Dean's shirt and jeans. When he looked up, Dean was smirking.

Clearing his throat, Sam turned his attention back to the screen. "What about Rebecca?"

"That's where things get really interesting." The chair creaked when Dean leaned forward again. He grabbed a small, dog-eared notebook and opened it to a page with a folded corner.

When Dean angled the notebook towards Sam, their thighs pressed together. Feeling a little defiant, Sam stayed still. "Ever thought of getting an iPad or something, Dean?"

"Shut it." But Dean was smiling. "Here. There was a note in the death report that neighbors said Rebecca had been talking about leaving. Mrs ... uh ... Weitz said Rebecca was leavin' and they hadn't seen her at all in the days leading up to the discovering of Bert's body.

"Well, I guess it got to be too much finally."

"Yeah," Dean said. But, the frown on his face showed his confusion.

"What?"

"Well." Dean shrugged. "It's just odd. There's no record of her living anywhere else near here; no one heard from her again. Just weird." Chewing on his bottom lip, Dean flipped slowly through his notebook as though he was checking his assumptions and conclusions.

"You said yourself. Thirty years back people didn't know much about spousal abuse. Maybe she changed her name to keep away from him. She'd be what, late forties now?" The whole situation left a bad taste in Sam's mouth. He wouldn't blame Rebecca for disappearing.

"Yup. That's why I figured there would be a record of her. He died...there was no reason for her not to come back and get the house or whatever. You're right though. Name change would do it. Probably the records are incomplete."

"What now?" Even though it felt like they were a little bit closer to a solution, Sam had no idea how they'd be proceeding.

"Let's go get your dog. He's been in your yard all morning; he's probably lonely." Dean flicked off the viewer in front of him and stood. The small notebook and some stray bits of paper were tucked into his jacket pocket. "C'mon."

It was a little surprising that Dean was suddenly worried about Plato's well-being. Dean hadn't seemed too worried about leaving him at the house when they'd dropped him off. But Sam could work with anything positive Dean had to say about his dog. "Then what are we gonna do?"

"We, Sammy, are gonna go diggin' for bones."

-=-=-=-

"I am not diggin up bones in a fucking cemetery," Sam said firmly.

"He's dead, Sam. He's not gonna mind." Dean was still driving towards the cemetery and Sam was still vehemently protesting his involvement in any part of the venture.

They'd been through it all in the hours since they'd left the library. Sam had done nothing but worry about it while Dean had been gone picking up a few things. Neither man's opinion had changed while they were apart. The argument had sparked up again once they were in the car.

Plato and his blanket had been promoted to the back seat of Dean's car. He was resting his head on the back of the front seat and looking from one man to the other as they argued.

"It's just wrong," Sam said weakly.

"And, it's also just the only way to get rid of this guy." Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened and he glared at the road ahead like it had offended him somehow.

"There must be some kind of alternative. What if you didn't know where the bones were?"

"We do know where they are-"

"- and what about that iron stuff you told me about? What if I somehow lined the stairs with iron?" Sam was reaching a little, he knew it.

"Really?"

"What?"

"Line the stairs - Jesus, Sam. It won't stop anything. He came at you in the bedroom, right? You wanna line your entire fucking house with iron? What if you just end up trapping him in there and he snaps your neck some night? Don't be stupid." Dean pounded his hand on the steering wheel.

Sam flinched. A snapped neck seemed a bit harsh even for the rough-around-the-edges hunter. He folded his arms across his chest and sighed. Dean was, no doubt, making the right decision but it was way out of Sam's comfort range. He found it curious that, given Dean's experience with people, Sam's hesitancy was a surprise.

What Sam really wanted was to get his life back and, like it or not, Dean seemed to be the key to that.

"Okay."

If Dean was shocked by Sam finally relenting, he didn't show it. The man simply nodded once and kept his eyes on the road. Sam did notice that Dean's grip on the steering wheel relaxed slightly.

They were silent for a while. Sam stared out the window at the darkening sky. Night would fall completely before they reached the cemetery and the thought of it made Sam shiver.

"I'm sorry," Dean said gruffly. His gaze was locked on the road but his hand found Sam's leg and squeezed once just above his knee.

Even with all those little expeditions into too personal Sam was still a bit bewildered by the physical touches. It could be that Dean just thought that Sam needed it. There was a distinct possibility that Dean's people skills were far better than Sam had initially thought.

But he couldn't help the way the firm grip on his thigh made him feel. A burst of heat radiated out from the center of Sam's chest and he closed his eyes for a few moments. "It's okay. You're the expert."

There was a rustling sound and Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him. The feeling made Sam's breath hitch. When he finally looked towards the driver's side of the car, Dean turned back to the road quickly.

"How long will it take?" Sam asked. The car felt too close when they were quiet.

"The digging?"

"Yeah."

"Not as long as you might think. I'll have you back home before curfew." The slightest smile appeared on Dean's face.

It worked. Sam felt himself relaxing even as he looked at Dean. As the smile grew on the hunter's face, little crinkles appeared at the corner of his eyes. Sam liked it. He seemed to like a lot of things about Dean and that seemed pretty pointless. At least, it seemed as though Sam's interest meant little to Dean.

"What's goin' on in that brain of yours?" Dean shifted a little on the seat, getting more comfortable.

Dean's hand rested on the seat between them and Sam felt like a teenager all over again because he was thinking about how the placement could be a hint. He wasn't about to tell Dean that.

"Just thinkin' ... how crazy all this is. I mean, I hardly know you but - it's like we've known each other for a long time. I guess it's just the intensity of all this. For me. I mean."

Dean glanced over at Sam as though checking to see if he was going to clarify his statement. "I might have done this before but it's always a little intense. Kinda like the buzz a boxer gets before going in the ring."

"How did this happen anyway?" Sam turned and pulled his knee up onto the seat. The back of Dean's hand pressed against Sam's shin.

"Your haunting?"

"No," Sam said. "You doing this. How did that happen?" It wasn't like someone
could take a career quiz and come up with ghost hunter as a future profession.

"Family business," Dean said gruffly.

"With that guy you called? Bobby?" Sam had overheard Dean on the phone earlier. It sounded as though he and Bobby were having a disagreement about something.

"Don't miss much, do ya?" The smile on Dean's face broadened and Dean chuckled.

"I don't know anything about you and yet ... I'm doing everything you are telling me to." Saying it out loud made it seem a little crazy. At the very least it could be considered poor judgement. "Figure I should be making every effort to find out about you."

"I work with Bobby sometimes," Dean began. "Mostly, he stays at home safe and sound and helps with research. Old guy has a memory like a fuckin' elephant. And if he doesn't know somethin' he will have a book that explains it. If he can find it."

It was a much longer answer than Sam had expected. He'd figured he’d be told that it was none of his business.

"So he's family?"

Dean shook his head. "I've known him practically my whole life, though. He was a friend of my Dad's."

"Was?" Sam could see the tendons in Dean's neck tightening.

"Dead."

Jesus.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't-"

"It's okay, Sam." Dean's hand move over the denim covering Sam's knee and squeezed once. This time, however, the hand stayed there.

Sam had trouble swallowing. He hugged his arms a little tighter across his chest to stop himself from reaching for Dean's hand.

"Your Mom?" Sam had never known his own parents. He'd been dumped into the whirlpool of the child care system when he was about two years old.

"She ... died." Dean sighed.

"How did she die?"

"Another time, Sammy." There was a finality to Dean's words that sliced at Sam's heart. He knew there wouldn't be a lot more times between them.

Sam's chest felt too tight but he needed the sound of their voices in the car so he didn't focus on their destination. "I didn't know my parents at all."

"No?" Dean was relaxing again now that the focus had shifted back to Sam.

"Don't remember them at all. Put up for adoption but I ended up in care forever." Sam could still remember how horrible it felt to have no one; to be wanted by no one.

"That's shit. Shouldn't happen to kids. Not like that." Dean quieted again, thumb moving back and forth over Sam's thigh. "How old are you?"

It could be Sam's imagination but he saw a note of concern flicker across Dean's face. "I'm twenty-six. I know I look younger. Pretty well-adjusted considering my lack of personal upbringing. At least, I thought so until all this."

"The bright side of having me around is that you have confirmation that you're not crazy." Dean grinned and the mood in the car felt lighter finally. That was odd considering their destination was still a cemetery.

"Dean? Do you have to dig up a lot of graves?"

"More than most people, I figure."

Whenever Sam asked Dean a question he felt like the hunter used humor to deflect any real answers. "I'm serious, Dean."

"So am I, Sam. Do I dig up more graves than your average person? Yeah. You bet. But I do it because it's my job. It's what I do." Dean gave the car a little more gas and they were speeding down the dark road again.

"I'm sorry." Sam wasn't really sure what he was apologizing for but his question seemed to have touched a nerve.

But it seemed, Dean wasn't finished answering. "I don't like what I have to do sometimes. Hell. A lot of the time I don't like it. But I like the part where people don't get thrown down the stairs because I clean up the mess." He took a deep breath and nodded as though to let Sam know that he was finished.

"Okay." What the hell was Sam supposed to say? Thank you for doing such hideous shit so that other people - so that I can be okay.

Digging up graves.

For some reason, it was at that moment that Sam decided that he absolutely would help Dean with the grave. Sure he had intended to since he'd agreed, but he'd known he could back out. Now, it seemed like too much for one person to bear alone.

They were quiet for the rest of the drive. It felt a little more comfortable but that might have just been in Sam's head. Perhaps it was the fact that Sam had made his decision to help Dean, to share the burden.

He rubbed his damp palms on his jeans and stared out the window at the dark landscape. The land was all familiar to him during daylight - at night it looked so much different.

The cemetery was on the outskirts of town and by the time the Impala pulled up at the huge wrought iron gates the sky was black. There was a smattering of stars in the sky but the moon was only a thin sliver.

When the trunk creaked open Sam could only stare with his mouth open slightly. As soon as the weak interior light came on it illuminated strange pentagram-like symbols that were made in bold white paint on every surface of the trunk.

"What..."

Dean did a double take when he saw the shock on Sam's face. He traced one of the patterns with the pad of his thumb. "Little extra insurance. Wards. Charms. Stuff like that."

"Wow," Sam murmured. His stomach cramped slightly when his gaze dropped to the stash of weapons and tools that was so well protected.

Dean busied himself pulling out a couple of shovels, a lantern and bottles of water.

A glint of light caught Sam's eye and he found himself staring at a long, very sharp, blade. The curve of it looked sharp enough to slice through just about anything.

Dean nudged Sam's arm with one of the shovels and held it out for him. "Dude. If you don't like the idea of ghosts and grave digging then you really don't want to know what I kill with that." He grinned and slammed the trunk shut before heading off into the darkness.

Rolling his eyes, Sam got a better grip on the shovel and headed after the hunter.

"Plato!" The dog trotted up from the side of the car, tail wagging slightly. He wasn't really worried about cemeteries and grave digging; he was just glad to be outside.

"C'mon. Let's get this over with."

Sam trudged down the gravelly path, Plato at his heels. Dean had a map of the cemetery with Bert's grave plot marked on it and strode ahead confidently. It seemed that libraries were an important part of hunting. Who would have thought?

They followed the path deep into the cemetery. The gravestones got older, looked more weathered and some were even broken. The path was a little overgrown and Sam wondered if anyone was still taking care of the old section.

It was eerie. All Sam could hear was the rhythmic crunching of Dean's boots, crickets all around them, and Plato padding along in their wake.

When Dean finally stopped, Sam ran into his back because he was so used to the forward movement. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

Plato lifted his nose and sniffed the night air.

"I'm gonna have the lantern on real low," Dean said. "Don't wanna attract any attention."

"I guess." That would be a conversation that Sam wouldn't want to have with anyone.

"Let's get started."

The sound of Dean's shovel thumping into the dirt seemed way too loud in the cool night air.

"Jesus," Sam whispered. He was going to dig up a grave.

-=-=-=-

The smell of the coffin and its contents was embedded in Sam's jacket. It was in his shirt and his hair. He'd never smelled that kind of death before. It was musty and thick, oily and heavy and it was one of the most horrifying things he'd ever experienced.

It was all over Sam and he hated it. All he could think about was having a shower. He wanted it off him and he didn't want to wait.

"You good, Sam?" Dean was driving back to town. His leather jacket was lying over the back of the seat where he'd left it during their task. His arms were covered in dirt, it was even on Dean's neck and ran along his jaw.

Sam didn't want to think about what was on his own face. He rubbed at his jaw roughly and nodded. "I'm peachy. I just helped to dig up a dead guy and then set him on fire."

"Sam-"

"No. Don't worry, Dean. I'm fine." Everywhere Sam's skin was exposed it felt itchy, burning. He wiped at his nose and gagged at the smell on his hand.

"You wanna clean up at the motel room before I drop you at home?" There was a gentleness to Dean's voice that Sam had never heard before.

"Motel," Sam murmured. The idea of going back home covered in dirt from the grave made him feel ill. "Thanks."

Dean reached for Sam but dropped his hand to the seat at the last moment.

Everything was different and nothing would be changing anytime soon.

Sam stayed quiet for the rest of the drive and whatever Dean was thinking, he kept to himself. The smooth rumble of the engine was the only sound in the car. Sadly, even that didn't drown out the sound of the shove hitting the dirt that was still reverberating through Sam's mind.

In fact, Sam couldn't get any of the evening out of his head. The way the faint light from the lantern had cast strange shadows over the grave. The deeper they had dug, the more unfamiliar the smell had become. It was horrifying and there was nothing that could have possibly prepared Sam for what the reality had been.

By the time they got to the motel, Plato was asleep in the back seat. As soon as Dean turned the engine off though, Plato's head popped up from behind them.

"Let's get cleaned up," Dean said as he climbed out of the car.

After a deep sigh, Sam followed. He rubbed his hands on his jeans again trying to get rid of the dirt. It was ground into the fine lines in his palms and he wanted it off of his skin.

The motel room key jangled slightly as Dean unlocked the door. Plato rushed right in and hopped up onto the bed. Poor dog had spent most of the evening tied to a tree so he wouldn't get into anything. At least he didn't need a bath.

"You can have the first shower if ya want." Dean poured himself a double shot of whisky and downed it in one shot. He held up the empty glass and raised his eyebrows.

Sam nodded.

Dean flipped over another glass and poured the whisky before holding it out to Sam. "The first time is always hard."

Standing as still as stone for a few seconds, Sam closed his eyes. "There won't be a second time."

Nodding, Dean poured himself another drink. "Right. Help yourself to the shower. Clean towels in there."

After downing his drink Sam headed to the bathroom.

As soon as he closed the door he fell back against it. He could finally let go of the tension he'd been holding in his body and it sped up his breathing and made his heart thump wildly.

God He'd dug up a dead guy's bones then he had stood and watched as Dean had squirted lighter fuel all over what was left of the guy in the decaying coffin. Then Dean had lit a package of matches and dropped them into the hole. Sam had dug up a guy, helped to pry open his rotting coffin and then watched him burn.

Salting and burning bones. Spirits. Dead fucking birds all over his lawn. It was too much; it was way too much for one person to deal with.

A moan managed to escape Sam's lips and he covered his mouth with his hands and let himself slide down the door until he ended up sitting on the floor.

He squeezed his eyes shut because they were burning and watering. As he sat there, knees pulled up as close to his chest as he could get them, Sam tried to calm his breathing. In and out. All he needed to do was stop thinking about the bones, the grave, the smell but it seemed to be all that could stay in his mind.

A tapping on the door made Sam jump.

Dean's voice was muffled. "Sammy? Ya okay?"

Sam let his head thump back against the door again and sucked in a shaky breath. It took a few more slow inhales and exhales before he could answer. "I. Yeah. I'm okay."

For some reason, hearing Dean say Sammy really got to Sam. Maybe it was because it seemed so personal, so intimate, like some other guy who would never dig up a grave.

"How come it sounds like you're on the floor then?"

Sam rubbed his hands over his face a few times before answering. "I. I just."

"Open the door, Sammy."

Unsure why he was doing it, Sam leaned forward until he could see the counter to pull himself up. He unlocked the door and Dean pulled it open quickly.

The hunter stepped forward and curled his hand around Sam's neck, then slid his fingers into the hair at the nape of Sam's neck. His fingers massaged Sam's strained muscles. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you go with me."

The words sank into Sam's mind slowly. Why should Dean be sorry? He was trying to solve Sam's problem.

It felt wrong. Sam shrugged then pushed Dean's hand away. "It's alright. I. You didn't make me. It just wasn't what I expected. You know?"

Dean dragged his thumb across his bottom lip and stepped back. "You had expectations?"

"TV. I don't know...movies."

"O ... kay." Dean looked skeptical.

"Whatever." Sam brushed his hair back off his face. "I'm fine."

"You're bleeding again," Dean said.

When Sam touched his cheek it was warm and sticky. He might have tried to rub the dirt off his face a little too vigorously.

The touch of Dean's hand on Sam's shouldn't have made him jump but he forced a smile before turning to lean on the counter. There was nothing but exhaustion; nothing else.

"Sammy?"

Something inside Sam's mind snapped as the nickname suddenly really got under his skin. "Why the hell do you call me that?"

Dean raised his eyebrows and just stared at Sam.

"I mean. You don't even know me. Just because I was kind of freaked out the other night. It's just false intimacy. You don't know anything about me."

"And you don't know anything about me. We done with the psychobabble now?"

"I've never dug up a dead person before. I'll get over it." Sam picked up one of the greyish white towels and rubbed at the back of his hand.

Dean leaned his hip against the counter and watched for a while before curling his fingers over Sam's wrist. "That why you've been trying to sand off your own skin since we left the cemetery?"

Sam shook his head slowly but he kept rubbing the facecloth over his hand. "The dirt kinda got into my skin. Like little black veins or something. It was cold. I didn't think it would be so cold down there. And now. I mean now I know that's what it's like. That's horrible that the guy was there in the cold." Sam couldn't stop the words that were coming out of his mouth and he really wanted to, he really did.

"Whoa, whoa, Sam?" Dean stilled Sam's hand and pulled the towel away from him slowly. By the time he set it on the counter Sam was already twisting his hands together.

"Let's get you in the shower, buddy," Dena said softly.

Sam couldn't look up. He couldn't meet Dean's gaze because that would mean that it would all be out in the open. He couldn't admit how much he needed Dean to help him in that moment. There was no frame of reference for Sam to deal with everything and he was beginning to drown. "Dean-"

"It's all good, Sam." The way Dean held on to Sam it was like he was trying to keep him anchored there. The grip was firm and Sam tried to focus on it.

"Hope ya don't like this jacket too much," Dean said. He slid his hand up Sam's sleeve until he could tug on the collar. Very slowly he pulled the jacket off Sam's broad shoulders.'
There was no fight left in Sam and he just let his shoulders relax so his jacket could slide free. It was an old jacket and he didn't care if he ever saw it again.

Sam heard the jacket hit the floor outside the bathroom. Next Dean's cool fingers slipped under the hem of Sam's thin t-shirt. He pulled it up and off over Sam's head then tossed it over his shoulder.

"Smelled like death," Sam muttered.

"That it did," Dean agreed. His fingers trailed over the bruises down Sam's side. "You sure got beat up the other night. Looks worse than I figured."

"Doesn't hurt right now," Sam mumbled. It wasn't a lie, Sam couldn't feel much of anything beyond the way the dirt was making his skin crawl.

"You shoulda told me. You could have taken a knee on this."

"It's my problem you're fixing."

For a moment, Dean was quiet; maybe he was trying to think of a way to say Sam was wrong. "Shower, Sam."

The warmth of Dean's touch disappeared and he moved behind Sam to turn on the water. The rushing sound of the water finally drowned out some of the thoughts in Sam's mind.

Shower. Sam fumbled with the button on his jeans and finally managed to get it open. The jeans fell off his slender hips and Sam realized that he still had his boots on. When he bent to untie them his ass bumped against Dean's hip.

Dean's arm looped around Sam's shoulders in time to stop him from falling over in the tangle of jeans at his feet.

"You don't need any more bruises, Sam. Steady."

The breath Sam sucked in hitched and he grabbed onto Dean's arm with both hands.

"Sam?"

The hot, moist breath against Sam's ear made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He leaned back against Dean and managed to get out of his boots and jeans.

He stood there, naked, holding on to Dean's arm and wondered what the hell he was doing. So many times during the day he'd wondered what he was doing but it seemed to have reached a pinnacle.

"C'mon, Sammy... Sam."

Sam felt bad for calling Dean out about the nickname but he didn't have the energy to worry about it.

When Sam let go of Dean's arm he turned slowly. The cotton of Dean's t-shirt was soft and warm against Sam's back, the zipper on his jeans cool and rough. Then all Sam could see were those green eyes as he was finally facing Dean.

The weight of Dean's hands fell on Sam's hips and steered him closer to the cloud of steam emanating from the shower.

When the curtain was swept back Dean pushed towards the tub.

It was easy to step in and, for some reason, it was really easy for Sam to take Dean's arm at the same time.

The water was hot enough to sting some life back into Sam's skin. His head felt heavy and he just let it fall forwards under the hot spray. He heard the hooks on the shower curtain clink as Dean closed it.

After the day and night he'd had, being in the shower was like sinking into a bottomless hole of heat.

All of Sam's muscles ached. His ribs hurt each time he took a deep breath. The cut on his cheek was stinging as the hot water trickled over it but it was all better than the feel of the encrusted dirt.

When Sam looked down he could see all that graveyard dirt swirling around the drain as it was washed from his skin. His stomach knotted as he thought about the coffin for a few fleeting moments.

Sam opened his mouth and let the hot water flow into his mouth. If he'd ever had any doubt about it, he knew that when he was dead he wanted to be cremated. After his heart stopped beating he wanted no trace of his body left. He didn't want to leave a grave for people to dig up.

-=-=-=-

Sam stayed in the shower until the skin on his fingers was wrinkled and his legs were aching. After he finally convinced himself to climb out he headed back into the motel room with one of the towels wrapped around his waist.

Dean looked up from the book he was flipping through where he sat at the small table. The smile on his face was warm. "Better?"

Nodding, Sam headed over to the bed. There was a t-shirt and a pair of boxers on the end of the bed.

Dean closed his book and stood before gesturing over at the clothes. "Just some of mine. Thought you might want something clean. The boxers are new. I bought 'em but didn't like - anyway. If you want them." For once it was Dean who was blushing.

The air in the room felt really cool and Sam nodded. There was no way he wanted to put his own clothes back on again. Actually, he didn't plan on doing anything with them other than tossing them in the garbage. If he'd had to go home naked, so be it.

After towelling himself off, Sam pulled on the t-shirt and boxers. He smoothed his hand over the design on the front of the thin cotton shirt. "Indian motorcycles?"

"Yeah." The flush on Dean's cheeks had begun to fade. "If I ever retire I'm gonna get a bike."

Sam nodded, strands of damp hair falling across his eyes. After a sigh, he sat down on the end of the bed.

"Your house should be fine now. No more spooks." Dean walked over and sat down on the bed beside Sam.

Sam was glad of the warmth of Dean's shoulders and leaned into it slightly.

By the door, Plato let out a long sigh and rolled onto his side.

The two men sat there for a while, too close for strangers, but then, they weren't really strangers anymore.

"Stay here tonight," Dean said softly.

The words made Sam smile. His limbs felt like lead and he was drained. The idea of going back to the house felt overwhelming. He nodded.

"Good," Dean said. "Good." His hands were rubbing up and down his thighs slowly. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" As far as Sam was concerned, Dean had nothing to apologize for.

Dean shrugged. "I'm just so used to this stuff. I don't think about how other people might see it."

Sam nodded again. he found it difficult to imagine a world where desecrating graves was an everyday thing. "How long?"

"Hunting?"

"Yeah."

"Since I was a kid. My dad taught me most of what I know." Dean rubbed at the stubble on his cheek.

"Do you hunt with anyone other than Bobby?"

"Not since my Dad died."

It was difficult for Sam to imagine a more solitary existence than his own but Dean had him beat. "Don't you go a little crazy by yourself?"

"S'just life." Dean glanced over at Sam briefly, then looked down. "You tired?"

"Yeah. And sore. Haven't used that many muscles in a while." Sam made a mental note to start working out again. It was no wonder Dean was built the way he was.

"Make yourself at home. There's a burger place across the street. You want something?"

"Sure," Sam said. "Whatever you get."

Grinning, Dean bumped his shoulders against Sam's. "My kind of guy."

For the first time in hours, Sam smiled genuinely.

-=-=-=-

While Dean was gone, Sam wasn't entirely sure what to do. For the first little while he looked around the motel room and tried to gather some clues about Dean's life.

But there was little in the way of clues. The heavy duffel bag that Dean had originally brought to the house was shoved under the table. Sam now knew that it was full of the tools of Dean's trade. Sam hadn't wanted to know too many details about what was in there.

There was one more beat up duffel bag in the room. The zipper was part of the way open and Sam could see the sleeve of a flannel shirt hanging out and what looked like a balled up pair of jeans.

Apart from some empty food containers and beer cans in the small metal garbage can, there was little sign that anyone was even staying there.

So. Dean hunted and he travelled light. That was about all Sam could come up with. It didn't mean anything bad. About all it meant was that Dean wasn't the kind of guy who put down roots anywhere. Sam would probably never see him again once he was dropped off at his recently cleansed house.

It was Sam's luck to finally meet an attractive, interesting guy and that guy was about to be leaving without looking back.

The TV remote was on the night table and Sam picked it up. After he pushed a few buttons, the TV flickered to life and Sam suddenly felt a lot more lonely. There was something about the stark lightfrom late night TV infomercials that made him feel about as lonely as he'd ever felt.

Even when he'd had an office job, Sam hadn't done much in the way of socializing but moving to a smaller town and working at home had really shrunk his world.

There was a lot about that that Sam liked. When it came down to it, the only really trustworthy friend he had was his dog. He hadn't had the best experiences with people.

Sam sighed and muted the sound on the TV then scooted back until he could lean against the headboard. He closed his burning eyes so he could rest them for a while; or at least until Dean returned with food.

-=-=-=-

"Hey, Sammy!"

The voice was familiar and Sam smiled before he even opened his eyes. "You'd better have food."

Deep laughter came from somewhere close to the bed. "I'd better?"

"Yeah. Cause the guy whose room this is will kick your ass when he comes back if you don't." Finally, Sam opened his eyes.

The smile on Dean's face was pretty perfect looking. But then ... that just made sense.

"I have a feast for us, Sam." Looking really pleased with himself, Dean headed back over to the table near the door.

He began to empty the bags. "I have burgers and I have two chocolate shakes. There's also pie and ice cream. I recommend we start with dessert because the ice cream is melting. The burgers we can nuke if we have to."

Laughing, Sam climbed off the bed and headed over to claim his pie. Once he'd showered and had some times to sort things out he'd realized that he was pretty hungry.

Apple pie with vanilla ice cream was what Sam found when he opened the container Dean had slid across the table.

Dean was right. The ice cream was mostly liquid but that didn't stop Sam. He fished a spoon out of the pile of plastic cutlery and dug in. "Mmmm. S'good."

After he sat down, Dean began to eat his own pie. "It's not cherry pie but it will do. Pie, after all, is pie!" Dean looked positively pleased with himself and Sam couldn't help but smile.

He swallowed and licked his lips then grinned at Dean. "So. You like pie?"

"One of a handful of reasons to be alive, Sammy. Sam."

"That's okay really." Sam blushed and set his spoon down so he could wipe the ice cream off his chin with a rumpled napkin.

"Pie? You want somethin' else?" Dean's smile faltered slightly.

"No," Sam said quickly. "I meant the Sammy thing. It's okay."

"Oh." Dean's smile returned full force. "Yeah. Good. I mean." Dean shrugged.

Sam had to look down at the table. All that fuss over a stupid nickname. But, the did like it. It made Sam feel like he mattered. He'd have to invest some serious money into some self-help books or something once Dean left. The more time he spent with the man, the more issues he realized he had to work through.

Pausing long enough to drink some of the milkshake, Sam was staring at Dean when he suddenly threw his spoon down and stood so he could reach for the last bag. "Plato!"

Plato stood quickly and trotted over to sit in front of Dean's chair.

"Okay," Dean began. "While I was waiting for the burgers, I went to this hippy lookin' pet food place and they had this food. Raw. They said it's really good for dogs."

Sam tilted his head to the side and watched as Dean opened the package of raw meat chunks and fashioned it into a type of bowl.

Plato's nose was working overtime and his tail was swishing back and forth on the worn carpet.

"Wait, Plato." Dean held his hand up like he'd seen Sam do the previous evening. He bent over and set the “bowl” in front of Plato. "Okay."

Plato dove into the food and slurped and licked happily.

Stunned was a word that might describe how Sam felt. he knew that Dean had grown to like Plato but the food thing was pretty nice.

Dean looked at Sam and shrugged a shoulder again. "You said he could get sick if he ate crap all the time."

"I did. That's really. Well, nice."

Rather than staring at the flush of embarrassment that was creeping up Dean's throat, Sam looked down at Plato. The dog was almost finished.

Dean sat back down and started in on his pie again. He devoured it with such enthusiasm that Sam began to wonder if the man ever ate.

The pie was pretty good though.

It didn't take them long to work through the food. They'd both worked up quite an appetite. Once they'd had their fill of milkshakes, cans of soda became mix for whisky. For once, the booze seemed like a good idea. Each drink that Sam had put a little more of a buffer between him and all the things he didn't want to think about.

"And one time I blew up a Wendigo with a flare gun," Dean said after a few drinks.

"Wendigo?" For some reason, Sam had ended up lying the wrong way across the bed. His bare legs were stretched up the wall. He wasn't having much success with drinking in that position but he'd probably had enough because his lips were feeling a little tingly. "What the hell is a Wendigo?"

"It's a really hungry, smart, fast, pissed off monster."

Sam laughed. He knew that the reason he was even able to be amused by the story was the haze of alcohol. Earlier he wouldn't have found anything even slightly amusing about the fact that nearly every monster from Sam's nightmares was real.

"It blew up like a fucking bonfire. Crazy." Dean was sitting at the table and glancing out the window every so often.

When Sam let his head fall back far enough he could see the upside-down version of the motel room.

Upside-down Dean pulled the curtain back so he could look out at the upside-down parking lot. There had been rain earlier and it still smelled good when Dean had opened the window earlier.

Sam squinted to try and get his eyes to focus. "What you lookin' for? You expecting someone?"

"Nope. Just a thing I do. You never know, right?"

"Well, I used to not know," Sam mumbled. The more Dean spoke about his work, the more it sounded like some crazy horror story plot. He'd heard about vampires, werewolves and all kinds of things he couldn't even remember the names of. The Djinn sounded the most frightening. Even upside-down should-be-drunk Dean had a little trouble talking about it. That was a bad sign.

"I write articles for tech magazines about potential security holes in networks and websites," Sam said. It seemed ridiculous compared to a job saving people's lives.

"Sammy! That is terrifying. Working with all those machines? Haven't you seen Maximum Overdrive? Even toasters can kill you given the right motivation."

Sam had no idea what Dean was talking about. He rolled over onto his stomach and took a few moments to let the room stop spinning. "I have no clue what movie you're talking about but it sounds terrible."

"Bite your tongue!" Indignant, Dean let caution go and focused his attention on Sam. "It's a cult classic."

Laughing, Sam felt around on the floor for his drink. "I think most of the movies that people call cult classic are crap. What about real classics like Lawrence of Arabia?"

"That's good."

"Good? It's brilliant!" Normally Sam would be able to come up with at least twenty reasons why it was a great movie. His brain seemed to be suffering from a little alcohol-induced delay though.

"We'll watch it sometime." Dean stared over at Sam when he realized what he'd said. He looked down pretty quickly.

"Dean?" Sam had only just found his drink but he put it back down again.

"Hmm?"

"What you thinking?"

A smile settled on Dean's face. It was soft and warm and Sam liked it. "Just that you and I would make a good ... under different circumstances, I mean."

Rubbing at his eyes, Sam tried to get a clear look at Dean. He knew what Dean meant; hell, Sam felt it. Somehow, Sam and Dean seemed to fit together. It was like they'd been in each others' lives for years.

"Where's your home?" Sam asked.

"Home?" Dean smirked. "My car, Dude."

"But you must have come from somewhere." Sam huffed and tucked his arms under his chin.

"Kansas."

"Really?"

"Why?"

"Not sure I ever thought about people coming from Kansas." Sam yawned and rubbed his nose on his arm.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a bit odd?" Dean got up from his chair slowly and rubbed at his lower back.

"All the time," Sam said wistfully. It was true. Even the people who had worked with him online remarked on his uniqueness. "Your back sore?"

"Have you been paying attention to what I do fifteen plus hours a day? There is always part of me that hurts." Dean smiled grimly, teeth gritted.

"Yeah. I guess." No insurance. No hospitals or doctors. No home. To Sam, the whole thing sounded like a nightmare of a job. He wasn't terribly convinced that Dean enjoyed it - but the guy was hard to read. Dean had a good poker face.

As he walked past the end of the bed, Dean let his fingers comb through Sam's hair. "Want a soda?"

"Please." Sam had reached his alcohol limit a while earlier.

When Dean returned he handed Sam an ice-cold Coke. Sam pressed it to the wound on his cheek as the mattress moved under Dean's weight.

"I gotta lay down," Dean said. "So, you gotta move your pretty ass."

Chuckling a little, Sam twisted around then crawled up so he could lean back against the headboard. By the time he was settled Dean was almost on the bed. His legs were hanging off the bottom of the mattress, his head by Sam's waist.

Sam reached out and turned off the lamp The room was left half-lit by the movie that was playing silently on the old TV.

Dean lifted his head for a moment and then let it fall back down. "Zombies."

The film looked really low budget and quite amusing until Sam thought about the possibility that they might be real. "Are they-"

"No," Dean said quickly. "As far as I know. So far, so good."

Dean rolled onto his side and shifted up until he could slide his arm over Sam's hips.

The weight of Dean's arm made Sam feel like he needed to close his eyes. It was crazy the way that the slightest contact with Dean felt so intense.

Sam wriggled down a little more until he was lying on his side and facing dean. "When you gonna retire?"

Blinking a few times, Dean tucked his fingers under the hem of Sam's t-shirt. His fingers skimmed over Sam's flesh and it sent goose flesh racing up Sam's body.

"Hunters don't retire," Dean said quietly.

Smiling, Sam stared into intense green eyes for a few moments. "Okay. I'll bite. What do they do?"

Looking dead serious, Dean pressed his lips together then dropped his gaze. "They die."

The smile on Sam's face disappeared. "That's not funny, Dean."

Without looking up, Dean smiled wistfully. "No. It's not. I'm serious. The shit we do? It happens to all of us sooner rather than later. I'll make a mistake or get too cocky and that'll be it."

There was something about Dean's tone that made Sam's chest ache. The man sounded resigned to the fate he was describing.

It made Sam yearn to be closer, as though, somehow, he could protect Dean from the fate that waited him.

"I think you just retire before something kills you." Sam spoke quietly into the space left between them.

"Retire? me?" There was a kind of sadness in Dean's smile that changed Sam's mood instantly. It made it even harder to ignore how settled Dean was in his own existence.

"Why not? Everyone's gotta do it some time." For his part, Sam had a plan. His job at the IT company had a great salary and Sam had invested a lot of it. He could freelance for a few years and have a nice, extremely early retirement.

"This isn't a career, Sam. It's my whole life." Dean rolled onto his back as though he didn't want to face Sam while he spoke about hunting. "How would I decide when to quit? And if I did quit; what about the next person I saw who needed help? What then?"

"You said there were other hunters. I guess another generation of hunters or something." It was too far removed from Sam's reality for him to have real answers. "You said your Dad taught you everything. How did he become a hunter?"

Dean let out a sigh that was thick with emotion. "If I tell you this, I don't wanna have a big discussion about it." He turned his head towards Sam looking for agreement.

Sam nodded.

Dean turned back to face the ceiling again. "When I was about four my Mom-"

As Sam watched he could see Dean struggle to swallow. He was dreading hearing words that carried that much weight.

"I was about four. I think - Dad and I didn't ever talk about it very much. One night my Dad fell asleep downstairs on the couch. Mom was in bed. Asleep but she must have heard something because she went to my room." Dean took a deep breath.

There was little change in Dean's demeanor but Sam noticed his hands were balled into fists at his sides. Sam nudged his fingers against Dean's knuckles and his hands unfurled only to close over Sam's.

"When I woke up, she was on the ceiling. She was. There were flames. So many flames and she was screaming but she wasn't making any sound."

The exact words that Dean said blurred into one another. But, God, the picture that was created in Sam's mind was horrifying.

Dean's mother in flames as she was held against the ceiling. The screams, the smell of burning flesh, blood dripping hot and wet on Dean's skin. As impossible as it all seemed, Sam had no doubt that it was real. There was intense pain written all over Dean's face. The grip he had on Sam's hand was so tight it was a little painful. But, Sam knew it was so little of the pain that had taken up residence in the hunter's body.

"Dad... he lost it for a while. Who wouldn't? I don't remember much of that time. We met Bobby, at some point. I spent a lot of time with Bobby. When my Dad finally came back to himself, he was different. He seemed hollow, like something inside of him had died. Learning to fight the demon that killed Mom - tracking - performing rituals - that became the thing that we had in common."

For a while, Dean was silent. His grip on Sam's hand relaxed slightly and he moved their fingers together.

Sam's heart ached, his chest tight. "And, your father. When did he die?"

"A couple years ago. Feels like longer." Dean rubbed his forehead. "Fuck. Feels like I've been doing this for a million god-damned years."

It made sense. Dean had seen more of his life than most people would manage in several lifetimes.

"And now you hunt alone," Sam said.

Dean nodded. "Team up with someone every now and again." He pulled Sam's hand up onto his chest and traced the line of each of Sam's long fingers.

Sam leaned in closer to the heat of Dean's body. There was a heaviness lingering that Sam wished he could wave away. But he knew there was no quick fix for a grief like Dean's. It was an unhealing wound.

Dean turned tired eyes to Sam and smiled slightly. "No more memories tonight, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed. There were hundreds of question racing through Sam's mind. The knowledge that they may never be answered was maddening and sad at the same time.

"Guess you'll go home in the morning. No more ghost." Dean's smile grew.

"I guess. Have I said thank you yet? 'Cause whatever was pissing that guy off he sure was more than I could handle. If you hadn't shown up when you did-"

"Ah, don't worry about it," Dean said. "Like I said, it's what I do."

A little of Dean's bravado seemed to be back; or as Sam thought of it - a protective wall sliding back into place.

"And you will hit the road as soon as you can, I guess?" The answer was obvious but Sam had the slightest hope than Dean might stay, at least, one more day.

"Yeah. I'll get some sleep. Have another good burger. A good burger is nothing to be sneezed at, Sam."

Dean's eyes had darkened slightly; his lashes lower, cheeks flushed. And Sam's mouth was suddenly very dry.

Dean leaned forward first and pressed his lips to Sam's. The kiss was gentle, Dean's lips soft and full. It was over in an instant but it sent wave after wave of pleasure through Sam's body.

Part of Sam wanted to say stop. Because he knew each slide of their lips, each inch of his skin that Dean's fingers explored - Sam knew that it would feel like so much more than anything else ever had. He wanted to say it would really suck to know what it felt like to touch Dean - feel the muscles he'd been staring at, the scars he'd seen and know that the man was gone.

But, he didn't say no. In fact, he took advantage of Dean's momentary stillness to close the gap between their mouths again.

This time Sam took a little control. He let his fingers trail over Dean's cheek and up into the man's short hair. He was certain he felt a shiver travel down Dean's body as their mouths met once more.

Their breathing was rough, their bodies trembling as each of them tried to hold back.

All Sam knew was that, if he let himself go - there'd be no going back. It was terrifying - even as the exhilaration of the whole situation was vibrating through Sam's body.

Things changed quickly. Dean shoved his hand between them and managed to get a grip on Sam's arm without losing any intensity from the kiss.

Sam's heart was pounding, trying to beat its way out of his chest. He wanted the rough hands that were moving over his tender skin but the fact that time was ticking away from them made Sam groan softly.

Dean retreated slightly; his dark gaze focused on Sam's and held it there. "We good here?"

The question was a big one. It was far more than about being okay for that moment and Sam knew that. He only had one answer on the tip of his tongue though. "Yes."

The moment that Dean hesitated felt like about a year to Sam so he grabbed at Dean's t-shirt and pulled him down.

All the hunter's weight fell on Sam and he moaned again. But it wasn't frustration.

They wrestled a little. Dean knocked Sam's hand off his shirt so that he could get hold of Sam's wrist again. After a brief tussle, Dean managed to get both of Sam's hands pinned to the mattress above his head. Sam tried, a little, to throw Dean off but he'd never experienced anything quite so hot.

Their hips met in just the right way and Sam was pretty sure his spine melted right out of his body. He could feel the thick ridge of Dean's cock through his jeans and shifted to grind his own aching hard-on against Dean's.

"Jesus," Dean said gruffly. He managed to grip both of Sam's wrists in one hand so he was free to torture Sam with the other.

Sam struggled a little harder but Dean's grip held fast and that just made the last of Sam's intelligence flee his mind.

Dean's fingers gripped Sam's jaw for a moment before the hot press of his tongue parted Sam's lips. He pushed his tongue deep into Sam's mouth, claiming it, as though Sam needed convincing and God Sam didn't need it. The twitch in Sam's hips and the damp warmth in his boxers was all the convincing needed.

As Sam struggled to breathe he felt Dean's nails drag down the front of his t-shirt. When they flicked over his nipple Sam couldn't control the way he arched up off the bed. It was over too quickly and Dean's fingers continued their downward path.

When Dean's touch found the over-heated flesh just above Sam's boxers they swallowed each others' moans as their lips moved tirelessly.

Deft fingers tugged on the boxers and pulled them down. Dean pulled back slightly.

Their breath mingled and Dean was staring again as his fingers found the thickness of Sam's cock.

The touch nearly made Sam come. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard that his eyes watered.

"All this for me," Dean almost fucking growled.

The burr in Dean's voice trickled over Sam like hot oil. It should have made him roll his eyes. But there was nothing about Dean that wasn't making every part of Sam ache with want.

Sam wetted his lips and stared at Dean defiantly. "Just stop talkin' about it and -"

Dean's mouth took Sam's at the same moment as his fingers managed to squeeze Sam's cock. It was a little like being set on fire and drowned at the same time. All the fight left Sam instantly and he dug his heels into the mattress for leverage. He needed to thrust his hips up; he needed the slide of Dean's rough flesh over his swollen cock. He needed it like he needed oxygen.

Dean broke back to yank his shirt off over his head and then his mouth was back. Full, hot lips covered Sam's one moment, teased the lightest touch the next. He bit Sam's bottom lip hard enough to make it swell then lapped at it like he was drinking up all the hurt.

The sensations were making Sam crazy. And when Dean finally let go of Sam's wrists he slid his palms down Dean's back.

All the hunter's muscles rippled and contracted under his warm skin. Sam could feel each movement, all the strength in Dean's back.

He dug his nails into the small of Dean's back and ground his hips. When his hands grabbed onto Dean's ass that seemed to change everything.

Dean rolled to the side and fell off Sam's body. He was up on his knees in a flash and tugging Sam's boxers off over his slender hips. "I wanna fuck you, Sam."

There wasn't a bit of a question in Dean's tone and there wasn't a hint of no in the way Sam's cock lifted and fell back against his belly.

Sam's balls were throbbing and he could already feel his asshole twitching in anticipation. He'd never been fucked; oh, he'd thought about it. He'd thought about it even more since meeting Dean. But, there was no way he wanted Dean to know all the things that were going on in his mind; his lack of experience and how badly he wanted it all to change.

Sam tried for a defiant expression again but judging by the look on Dean's face, he managed the opposite.

Dean reared back and stood looking down at Sam for a few moments.

"Dean," Sam murmured. He had really wanted it to sound like a reprimand but he knew it sounded much more like he was begging.

With his eyes still on Sam, Dean unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. There was no underwear and his cock pushed through the denim.

Sam swallowed, fingers digging into the mattress at his sides. He would never forget the image of Dean standing there shirtless. His jeans were hanging off his hips; his hand was rubbing over the dusting of hair on his belly, fingers brushing the curly hairs at the base of his cock. It was absolute torment and quite unfair as far as Sam was concerned.

Instead of trying to protest, Sam simply slid his hands back onto his own body.

As Dean watched Sam's slow movements, his gaze narrowed.

Feeling a little more bold, Sam slid his hands over his hips, thumbs tracing the rise of his hip bones.

One of Dean's eyebrows rose slowly and he reached for his back pocket.

Sam's fingers curled around the throb in his swollen shaft and he squeezed. The movement seemed to spur Dean on.

Dean tore a small packet of lube open and squeezed it out into his palm. He swept his hand over his cock once then trailed his little fingers up the inside of Sam's ankle, his calf, his inner thigh.

The way Sam's chest was rising and falling, he was certain he would hyperventilate before anything more happened. His skin was crawling with want. He'd never felt anything like it and wasn't sure he even had the ability to deal with it.

Slick fingers probed Sam's ass and he moaned in pleasure, discomfort, need and pain. It all blurred together and he couldn't tell what was feeling good and what wasn't. Part of him was horrified at the way his body responded to something that should have been a violation of personal space; shouldn't it have shamed him?

Dean was leaning forward, still kneeling between Sam's legs. With one hand he held one of Sam's legs bent, the other hand worked Sam open and - frankly - tortured him with the most sensation he'd ever experienced.

Sam wanted Dean's mouth, he wanted those hands all over his body. And he had to lie there under Dean's scalding gaze. Well. he was lying there feeling as though he was pinned to the bed by those piercing, green eyes. Each time Dean's fingers pressed into Sam's ass, ripples of yearning traveled through him and it was almost more than he could stand.

Dean's eyes were dark, his cheeks flushed under his two day growth of stubble. Sweat was glistening on Dean's chest. The flesh stretched over his swollen cock was red and blotchy and there was pre-come smeared over the head. It made Sam's heart flutter to know that he had that effect on Dean.

The moment the head of Dean's cock pressed against Sam's body it became difficult to tell who was trembling more. The sounds they made were reduced to groans, the rough gasps for air, moaning when things seemed to be careening towards the unbearable.

With Dean looming over him, Sam felt every push forward of Dean's cock. Dean's strong fingers held Sam's legs tightly and his nails dug into the skin on Sam's thighs. The metal of Dean's belt buckle was cool against the underside of Sam's leg, his jeans rough. But there was something heart-stoppingly hot about Dean in his undone jeans, boots still on, sliding his dick in so slowly.

Writhing on the bed, Sam tilted his hips up to draw Dean into his body. It was a strange ache. It was almost like he was on the verge of being torn apart - but he could never describe it as pain. He felt the stretch, the pull but more than that he just felt Dean.

Time was lost on Sam. He had no idea how long he'd been experiencing the torture of Dean's slow entrance until, with a final roll of his hips, Dean buried his cock deep inside Sam.

As soon as their bodies were locked together, Dean's sweaty palm landed on Sam's chest. "Jesus."

The whisky-rough murmur from Dean's swollen lips sent shivers curling their way down Sam's spine. He grabbed Dean's hand because all the words that were tumbling around in Sam's mind seemed too stupid to find their way out. He wove their fingers together and Dean closed his eyes and let his head hang heavy between straining shoulders. It looked as though he was struggling to catch his breath, struggling to hold back. Sam was sure he could feel the throb in Dean's cock.

When Dean looked up he waited until their eyes met and then his hips pulled back. The emptiness left Sam aching for more. His hips twisted and Dean slid his hand forward to grab Sam's waist.

"Steady," Dean murmured.

If Sam had the wherewithal to get enough of a breath to speak he would have told Dean to fuck off. Steady? But then his hips twitched up again and Dean's thumb dug into Sam's flesh just above his hip bone.

Then Dean snapped his hips forward and Sam let out a cry that clawed at his throat. He was so hot there was sweat beading on his forehead; his chest was already slick and the cry he let out felt like sandpaper.

Dean didn't seem to care. Each time his hips jerked forwards he was staring down at Sam and claiming every square inch of Sam's bare flesh with his eyes.

The intensity of Dean's gaze made Sam turn his head away. The moment he did, Dean lunged forward. The head of his cock brushed Sam's prostate just as Dean's fingers tangled in Sam's hair. He forced Sam to look at him, waited until Sam's eyes were locked on his before fucking into Sam's body so hard that Sam's vision started to fade away.

Hips thrusting non-stop, Dean gripped Sam's hair so tightly it hurt. When Sam opened his mouth to moan Dean managed, somehow, to crush his mouth over Sam's and drink up the noise.

The taste of Dean's control made Sam's weeping cock twitch against his belly. Then when Dean's tongue swept through Sam's mouth he almost whimpered. His hands clawed at Dean's back, urging the man forward, thrust after thrust.

It was hard, fast, their flesh slammed together. Sam finally had to close his eyes because he felt like he was drowning in Dean.

Dean growled softly and loosed his hold on Sams hair so he could grip both of Sam's hips.

He pounded into Sam's ass. His hands burning against Sam's skin, thumb brushing the aching skin of Sam's cock.

The want was so bad, Sam wasn't sure he could even keep breathing. He gasped for air and Dean reared back, his spine curved back and his swollen shaft rammed into Sam again and again.

And then Sam's world blew right-the-fuck apart. He had a few heartbeats to realize that he was going to come and then it was all slamming into him at once.

He had no idea if he made a sound. His whole world narrowed down to the feel of Dean's hands, his cock - watching the glistening shine of Dean's bottom lip.

There was too much going on in Sam's body. As his orgasm cracked through him, Sam's spine arched up off the mattress. His lungs froze and his balls felt like they were going to bust open.

Pulse after hot pulse of come landed on Sam's belly, his chest and as far up as his shoulder. His cock ached painfully with each wave of release.

Then Dean's fingers were slipping through the glistening come and his eyes blazed even hotter.

Dean's hips snapped forward once, twice and Sam felt Dean's thickness pulse so deep inside him.

The air shot out of Dean's lungs and he fell forward, hips still driving against Sam as he worked through his orgasm.

It was all sticky with sweat and come and too much pleasure for Sam to even absorb. The heat of Dean's body, the weight of him made Sam's cock pulse weakly one final time. It was almost painful and Sam could feel his sanity inching away from him.

"Holy fuck," Dean whispered against Sam's neck.

The touch of Dean's lips set off another wave of shivering pleasure racing down Sam's body. His fingers gripped Dean's shoulders so hard he was certain he'd drawn blood.

Too suddenly, Dean pulled free of Sam's body but then he fell forward onto Sam to slide their lips together in a long, slow, kiss.

Sam's teeth caught Dean's luscious bottom lip for a few seconds and Dean groaned. When he shifted slightly, his belt buckle dug into Sam's hip.

A noise somewhere between ouch and a groan of pleasure slipped past Sam's lips.

Dean chuckled darkly into the kiss then rolled to the side and flopped onto his back beside Sam.

They just lay there for minutes, hours, maybe days. Sam had no idea because he couldn't even think. Dean's arms were thrown above his head, his legs sprawled, jeans still hanging off his ass. Sam could stare at that for days and it would never get old.

"That was-"

Before Dean could finish, Sam rolled toward him and slid his hand over the hunter's mouth. He didn't want to hear another Dean-ism that might ruin his mental image.

When Dean laughed into Sam's palm, Sam finally did roll his eyes. His hand fell to Dean's chest, fingers tracing a long scar that led to a pentagram tattoo over Dan's heart. once his finger had traced the outline, Sam turned his gaze upwards. "That mean something?"

Dean sighed and slid his arm down to rest on Sam's shoulders. "Not sure you're ready for that explanation."

Frowning, Sam shrugged. He would try and remember, ask later, when his body wasn't still vibrating with pleasure.

"Dude, you think too much," Dean muttered. he tugged on Sam's shoulder until they were both more centered on the bed.

"I could sleep for a week," Sam muttered as he let the bliss of his fading orgasm reclaim his body and mind.

Dean lifted his hips and kicked out of his jeans then felt around beside the bed until he found his t-shirt. He leaned over and wiped the come off Sam's belly and chest. His movements were lazy, a little clumsy and Sam found himself smiling.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Nothin'," Sam said as his lips curved up into a grin.

Gaze narrowing, Dean leaned back far enough to clean himself up before tossing the t-shirt at the wall. It landed with a soft thump.

"I hope that was your shirt," Sam muttered. He had yet to move and was still enjoying the post-sex buzz.

"They're both mine," Dean answered. When he finally got comfortable he let his hand settle on Sam's thigh.

The touch was nice. It wasn't too overwhelming - too much. But Sam liked it. In fact, he liked far too much about Dean.

"Whoa. What's that face about?" Dean propped his head up so he could stare down at Sam.

Sam scrunched up his face and forced a smile. "My body aches. Not used to... being in that position." It was true even if it wasn't what prompted the downturn of Sam's mood.

A slow smile creeped onto Dean's face, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes.

The storm brewing in Sam's mind dissipated. "God, you never quit, do you?"

"When you got it, you got it, Sammy." Dean winked then closed his eyes and flopped back down on his back.

It was Sam who moved closer after a few moments. He rolled into Dean's body and slid a finger along a rather ragged-looking, raised scar on Dean's chest. "Where'd you get this one?"

"Rugaru. Asshole had this crazy knife thing made out of wood. Was like shark's teeth. Ripped right across my chest." As though he could remember the pain of the wound, Dean rubbed his hand across his chest slowly.

"I probably don't wanna know what that is either, right?" Sam traced the smooth, raised flesh of the scar as he waited for Dean to answer.

"Probably not?" Dean smiled wearily. "All those things that went bump in the night when you were a kid? Probably much more real than you'd like to think. There's always some piece of it that's a real story." Dean sighed wistfully.

"You fight most of them?" Sam refused to steer away from talking about Dean.

"A lot of 'em. Don't like witches. Fuck. Those women need help."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. Witches were, at least, something that Sam could comprehend. It was a little like discovering there was a fifth dimension that Sam had always thought was pure science fiction.

"Ghosts are one of the most straight-forward things to deal with." Dean's nose wrinkled and he smiled again. "You want me to come in tomorrow morning and make sure everything's safe before I take off?"

There it was. Before I take off.

"God," Sam whispered. He tried to remember what his life was like just a few days earlier - before everything had been turned upside down. But Dean was leaving and everything would go back to being mind-numbingly normal. But then there'd be no dead bodies to dig up. "I'm behind; I need to write."

For a moment, Dean looked puzzled then he blinked slowly. "Guess you better get some shut-eye. You get your life back in the morning."

Sam studied Dean's face for some kind of clue as to how he was feeling. The sad fact was that Sam just didn't know the hunter well enough to guess what was going on in the man's head. They were strangers and destined to remain so.

After a heavy sigh, Sam dragged himself a little further up the bed; Dean followed suit. Once they'd pulled the quilt up to their waists, they got comfortable. Dean fluffed up his pillow and Sam checked that Plato was settled by the front door before picking up the remote and turning off the TV.

The darkness crept over them and it took a while for Sam's eyes to adjust. He wasn't sure why he felt so weird. It shouldn't matter that Dean was leaving. People had one night stands all the time; people had weekend flings. But. It mattered.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I wish things were different."

At least, Sam could smile into the darkness at those words. "You're not so bad yourself."

Dean snorted and rolled closer to throw his arm over Sam's chest. He nestled closer then tugged the quilt up over his shoulder. His lips pressed a soft kiss to Sam's collarbone.

-=-=-=-

When Sam woke up he was cold. As he was tugging the quilt up higher on his body he realized where he was. The air in the room felt chilly and dry and Sam shivered a little. When he rolled over he saw that the bed behind him was empty.

The familiar thump of Plato's tail against the wall made Sam smile. He patted the bed and Plato hopped up. "Is Dean gone?"

Plato's head tilted and he nosed at Sam's hand. The shower turned on and Plato tilted his head the opposite direction as though answering Sam.

"Ah," Sam murmured. It really hadn't been all that likely that Dean would have driven off and left Sam in a motel room. Sam curled an arm around Plato and scratched behind his ears as he listened to the faint sounds of Dean humming.

For a while, Sam just let himself drift between almost asleep and awake. It was a comfortable place.

Eventually, the bathroom door was flung open and Dean emerged with a towel around his hips. "Good. You're up. Wanna grab breakfast before I drop you off at home?"

Both of Sam's hands were buried in Plato's fur. He hadn't expected good-bye to be a long process. "Uh. Sure. Marissa's is just down the road from here."

Holding up a finger, Dean grinned before tapping it to the side of his nose. "Instinct, Sammy. Guides me to the best burgers all the time. I've been to Marissa's."

Plato flopped down across Sam's legs. "One of my favorite places."

"See how much we have in common, Sammy?" Dean whipped the towel off and rubbed it across his chest.

For some reason, Sam looked away. His hands had been all over that body but in the meagre sunlight coming through the window it was all a little overwhelming.

As he pulled on his jeans, Dean hopped around a little. Sam managed to get out from under his dog so he could hunt around for the clothes he'd been wearing.

Something soft hit Sam in the shoulder blade and he turned around to discover a B.O.C. t-shirt.

"Wear another one of mine," Dean said offhandedly.

It was easier to agree so Sam pulled the shirt on then caught some sweats that Dean tossed his way. Such a normal everyday thing, getting dressed. And yet, everything felt a little upside-down.

"I swear. You daydream more than anyone I've ever met." Dean was searching through his duffel bag and finally pulled out a pearl-handled handgun. As he slipped it into his waistband Sam's eyes widened.

"It's a habit, Sam. Like I said before, not everything is as simple as ghosts." Dean picked his jacket up off the chair and slipped it on. "Get yer ass movin'."

While Dean bitched about how hungry he was, Sam retrieved his wallet and keys from the trashed jacket then pulled his boots on. By the time he was dressed and ready, Plato was sitting by the door wagging his tail. Poor dog wouldn't be so happy when he realized he'd have to stay in the car again.

Smiling, Dean opened the door and waited for Sam so they could head out into the morning light.

-=-=-=-

There wasn't much conversation over breakfast. Dean picked up a couple of newspapers and tossed one of them on the table in front of Sam as they sat.

Every so often Dean would emerge from behind the paper and offer Sam a tidbit of news; sometimes, Dean just smiled.

The waitress and Dean flirted non-stop while she was at the side of their table. They got along so well, in fact, that Sam noticed a phone number scrawled across the top of the tiny paper bill. Even though Dean's upbringing had been unorthodox and maybe a little void of normal comforts, it struck Sam that when it came to sex, the hunter definitely got what he wanted.

Bill paid, Sam walked Plato across the street and let him run around for a while on the grass. The poor dog hadn't been getting much time to behave like a regular dog. Sam tossed a stick around for Plato while Dean leaned against the trunk of his car and studied his phone.

It was strange. And it was a little bit sad.

-=-=-=-

The Impala rumbled to a stop in front of Sam's house. It looked peaceful, yet a little too empty. But it looked exactly as it had last time Sam had seen it.

Sam lingered in the car for a while. It felt like their goodbye should be bigger; like it should be significant in some way.

The engine clicked as it cooled down and Dean tapped his fingers slowly on the steering wheel. "You know, I could come in with you."

"Well, there's nothing there, right?"

"Nope. Burned bones equals ghost gone." Dean sounded confident.

Sam shrugged. "Nah. If the house is good, there's no reason for you to hang around, right?" It felt really lame that part of Sam hoped that they would see something that would warrant Dean staying.

When he looked up the path towards the house everything looked absolutely normal.

Plato whined softly from the back seat and Sam glanced over his shoulder. "Settle."

"I should probably get on the road. There's this thing just over the state line." Dean ran his palms down both sides of the steering wheel.

Not trusting any words he might come up with, Sam just nodded.

Impatient, Plato barked quietly.

"Shhh." Sam gave Plato a look and the dog just snorted and went back to staring out the window at the house.

"It was. I'm glad. I'm not glad you lived in a haunted house but I'm glad I got to meet you." Looking a little out of his depth, Dean smiled then looked down at his hands.

"Yeah. I'm glad," Sam said softly. "About you. Not the house." After a deep breath Sam clicked the door open and held it ajar. "Thanks, Dean."

"Hey. No problem. It's what I do." Dean reached over and squeezed Sam's forearm. "You gonna be okay?"

Sam nodded even though part of him wanted to answer that, oddly enough, he wasn't so sure if he would be alright and that had little to do with the haunting.

The expression on Dean's face softened and he looked away again.

"You know where I am if you drive through here -"

"I would definitely give you a call -"

"- we could have a drink or something."

The two men fell silent again. When Sam couldn't take it anymore he pushed the car door the rest of the way open. "Okay."

"Bye, Sammy."

On impulse, Sam trailed his fingers over the back of Dean's hand. "Be safe."

Before he could change his mind or say something really stupid, Sam climbed out of the car. He yanked the back door open and Plato hopped down and ran straight up the sidewalk to the porch.

There had been things that Sam thought he might say to Dean but none of them had seemed right in the end. He'd come to the conclusion that he spent too much time alone and was just completely out of the loop when it came to people hooking up. Because that's all it had been; at least, that's what he tried to remind himself of. It was a hook up. It had just felt like it had been more to Sam.

As he walked up the sidewalk Sam heard the engine of the Impala idle for for a while then it revved loudly. But Sam didn't turn and follow the Impala with his eyes as it sped up the road. He knew what he would see: he'd see the tail lights and Dean's silhouette.

Sam couldn't help sighing. He closed his front gate and headed up towards the porch where Plato was waiting. The dog was staring up the road after the car.

"Did you kinda want him to stay?" Sam asked his dog.

Plato sat up and tilted his head.

As Sam stepped up to unlock the door, he scratched Plato between the ears. "I did too, buddy."

-=-=-=-
When Sam stepped inside the house it didn't feel any different. But then, he hadn't noticed anything before he'd nearly been killed by a ghost.

Plato didn't seem to be bothered by the house anymore and that seemed good. Of course, the dog was hungry so he trotted straight through the house to the kitchen.

Unable to help himself, Sam walked around the main floor checking each room for some kind of unusual feeling. He made sure the cellar door was locked and then fed Plato when he couldn't think of anything else to check.

With the sound of his dog crunching loudly in his ears, Sam headed off to the stairs. They didn't seem quite as intimidating during daylight hours. He may have still hesitated before heading up them but he tried to ignore it. There was no reason for him to act differently now that he was back home.

The stairs creaked in the usual places; the old wood complained under Sam's weight. Then he was at the top of the stairs and nothing had tried to hurl him back down.

If there was a part of Sam that was a little disappointed it was only because there was no reason to call Dean back. There wasn't much he could do about that.

The day ended up passing a little slower than Sam would have liked. The plus side was that he finally managed to get some writing done; it felt a little strange to be doing something so normal after all the things he'd been introduced to on the weekend.

Sam found it more difficult than usual to focus on his writing. His thoughts kept drifting from the words he was trying to craft into coherent sentences. More than once he found himself staring out the office window and had to force himself to get back to work.

Images from the weekend kept sneaking back into Sam's mind uninvited. It wasn't the trauma of discovering that ghosts were real that he was troubled by. There were frequent visits from a set of green eyes, freckled cheeks and a muscular body. Those visits were too frequent for Sam to ignore them.

But there really was nothing to be done about it and no point in trying to pretend it was something it wasn't. Dean probably hooked up with people whenever he felt the urge. It could happen in every place Dean stopped for a job. What better routine than providing some comfort to the victims of supernatural monsters. If it wasn't for the strange inkling that Sam had that there was more he might even believe all the things he tried to tell himself.

So Sam just went through the motions. He wrote as much as he could manage then had some lunch with Plato. He wrote for a couple more hours and then gave up so he could take Plato down to the park to burn off some energy.

The problem was that nothing seemed to be filling up the hours of Sam's day enough that his mind would stop running through his weekend.

After a brief stop back at home for a jacket, Sam took Plato with him on a walk downtown. There was a street market he'd never visited and it had seemed like it might be a good distraction.

There were stalls of vegetables from local farms, lots of second-hand books, baked goods, info tables and clothing stalls. There was even a little coffee wagon that served a surprisingly good cappuccino. Mostly, they wandered. Even Plato seemed less inclined than usual to get excited about other dogs or people wanting to pet him.

As they moved through the crowds of people Sam smiled wistfully. Of course, they had to stop quite a few times so that people could pet Plato and remark on how adorable he was. Sam was convinced that Plato seemed to be enjoying the praise less than usual but he was probably just projecting his own feelings onto his dog.

It wasn't until Plato tried to drink out of a small bucket of water near one of the stalls that Sam realized how long they'd been walking. It was much later than he thought. In fact, even though he began heading home right away, they were only halfway there when dusk settled over the sky. Increasing his pace, Sam managed to make it home as darkness fell.

For some reason it felt different to approach the house in the deceptive dusky light. Even Plato seemed a little hesitant.

The house looked normal enough. There was nothing strange about it at all. Sam just didn't like the way he felt.

When they reached the stairs to the porch Plato put one paw on the stair then looked up as he paused. He stared up at the front door, tilted his head but wouldn't move until Sam urged him on.

"At least you're not barking at the house anymore," Sam said. It didn't do much to alleviate his uneasiness but it was a start.

"Let's go in. We're being stupid," Sam said softly.

The deadbolt unlocked with a dull thunk and Sam pushed the door open.

No. It definitely didn't feel right but Sam supposed that was just a result of his experience. Sure, he was still expecting something to happen because his entire weekend had been traumatic. There'd been an attempt on his life, ghosts and stories about creatures he really didn't want to believe were real. It was no wonder he was still feeling spooked by every little nook and cranny in the house. It was no wonder, but he was right, it was stupid. Dean had fixed everything.

"It's all fine now, Plato." Sam looked down at the dog sitting patiently at his feet. "Right?"

Tilting his head, Plato stared straight down the hallway for a while. His ears pricked forward and he was silent. Then he glanced and Sam and for a few moments sniffed rapidly at the air before looking up at Sam again.

"What?!" It was always a little unsettling when Plato seemed to be listening to something Sam couldn't hear. It was even more unsettling when Plato seemed to be trying to tell him something.

"Enough," Sam said primarily for his own benefit. "You're ridiculous and I'm ridiculous for listening to you." Listening to his dog? Really? Sam was losing it.

"Ghosts. Dean. Monsters. All this stuff is making me so crazy that I'm imagining things and you're just picking up on how I feel." Sam leaned down and patted Plato's flank.

Shaking his head, Sam unhooked Plato's leash and hung it up before kicking his boots off. He relented a little and gave in to his anxiety and checked that all the ground windows and doors were locked up tight. He convinced himself it was because he just didn't need one more thing to worry about - and someone could break in if he wasn't careful. Too bad he wasn't convinced of his own excuse.

As Sam moved through his regular evening routine, Plato padded around behind him. The dog would flop down and sigh every time Sam stopped somewhere. The heavy sighs always made Sam smile. After a while things started to feel normal again and Sam began to relax.

Plato was in the house and seemed quite happy; nothing was flying around the rooms and there were no animals lying dead on the front lawn. Everything was fine.

By the time Sam crawled wearily into bed, he'd all but forgotten his earlier fears. Much more prominent in Sam's mind as he pulled his t-shirt off over his head was the missing hunter.

Dean.

Dean who was probably speeding away from Sam at 70 mph without a care in the world. If someone had asked Sam to explain what it was about Dean that had so firmly embedded itself under his skin - he couldn't have come up with anything in particular.

The only thing that Sam could come up with was that he was just drawn to Dean. It wasn't just about him being tall, muscular, all gorgeous lips and eyes. There was something wounded about the man - a little tortured by his own memories. Beyond the tremendous hurt that seemed to lurk under Dean's skin, there was something so noble, so selfless. It was stupid to think that the hunter needed protection but that was exactly what Sam felt the man needed.

Sam slid under his warm quilt and settled on his side so he could stare out the window at the darkening sky. There was no point in wishing that things were different. And when it came right down to it, what Sam knew about Dean didn't amount to much at all.

The sigh that Sam let out was rather epic. He had to roll his eyes at himself. "So much drama."

Plato hopped up onto the bed and launched himself at Sam's face. He got in a few good licks before Sam managed to get his arms out from under the covers. "Crazy mutt."

But really, it was a good thing that Sam had Plato. They were a good team. And he would continue to tell himself that every time he thought about Dean.

-=-=-=-

There was snow falling. Sam could see his breath each time he exhaled. His arms ached because of the pile of wood he was holding in them. Plato was hopping through the snow; he was leaping out only to drop back down, buried up to his neck.

In spite of the fact that he was shivering Sam smiled when he saw the cabin up ahead. A thin spiral of smoke curled up out of the chimney and Sam's smile widened to a grin.

Sam's eyes popped open; everything but the cold of his dream vanished instantly. It was confusing, all wrong, and Sam's blood ran icy when he realized he couldn't breathe.

There was a vice-like grip around Sam's neck and a weight on his chest. He struggled, feeling fear slithering snake-like down his body. His arms were pinned to the mattress and he was scared shitless.

Summoning what energy he had left, Sam bucked and kicked to try and get free but the hold on his neck simply tightened.

Heart banging in his chest, Sam managed to drag in a small breath of air. Hair trailed across Sam's face and as his eyes began to focus he could only just make out a silvery face through a veil of fluid, gleaming white hair.

The woman looked as though she was underwater, all her movements were fluid, liquid, her body was translucent, her hair floating around her. Sam could feel panic nipping at him.

The lights in the room flickered on and then went off again. There was nothing but darkness for a few moments and then the lights began to flicker so quickly on and off that Sam felt like he was going blind.

No matter how he struggled he couldn't move or breathe. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought he could hear Plato yelp and it spurred him to thrash about even harder. Nothing he did made the slightest bit of difference.

Plato whimpered weakly and Sam renewed his struggle yet again but wasn't able to even loosen the women's grip on him. His vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes. He felt the dampness of them slide down his cheeks and into his ears.

The woman's face came closer. Her sharp features wavered in the air that seemed to be rippling around him. The darkness in her eyes was so bleak and evil that Sam began to tremble.

*He was going to die right there in his own bed.

The edges of Sam's vision began to fade first. There was a deafening sound in his ears. And the woman's lips opened into a wide and cruel smile as her grip tightened.

"Sam!" The yell was inside the bedroom but Sam couldn't focus what was left of his blurred vision on anyone other than the woman still swirling in front of him.

Then everything went black.

-=-=-=-

When Sam finally managed to fill his lungs with air he lurched up off the bed and swung his arms out towards the face of his attacker.

"Jesus Christ, Sam! It's me!"

The voice was familiar to Sam but his fear overruled it. He flailed around until hands caught his wrists and held them down to his chest.

"Sam! Look at me. You're okay now," the voice insisted.

Sam coughed, his throat was ching and he tried to focus on the face that was looming over him. Ever so slowly, he was able to focus on green eyes. "Dean?"

"There ya go. You're back. You gonna stop swingin' at me now?" Dean smiled and let go of Sam's wrists slowly. He swept Sam's tousled hair back out of his eyes.

"Dean," Sam rasped. Relief rushed over Sam and he reached up to rub at his throat; it felt a little like he'd swallowed glass. The rush of fear was back when he remembered the hands that had been so strong at his throat and he twisted sideways to look around the room. "What happened?"

"Hey now, it's okay." Dean's eyes softened and he rested a hand on Sam's bare chest. "I got it wrong, Sam."

"Wrong?" Sam's voice was rough. "Plato!" Sam struggled again and tried to sit up but everything hurt and the room started to sway back and forth so Sam had to lay back down.

"He's fine, Sammy. Try and relax. Here." Dean slid off the bed and bent down. Then Sam heard something sliding across the floor.

Dean sat back down on the edge of the bed and slipped an arm under Sam's shoulders to help him sit up. "See?"

When Sam looked down he could see Plato spread out on his side on Dean's jacket. His tail thumped weakly and he lifted his head briefly and whimpered at sam.

Sam looked at Dean and shrugged helplessly.

"I think he's okay, Sam. Maybe got knocked on his head. I gave him some water and he's already moving around a bit more." Dean blinked a few times, looking a little worried.

"Thanks," Sam said. Plato just looked a little dopey. If he didn't continue to get better then Sam could take him to the vet.

His eyes trailed over Plato then he looked at the leather underneath the dog. "He's on ... your jacket."

Dean scratched at his forehead and shrugged a shoulder. "Didn't want him to be uncomfortable."

If Sam wasn't so confused and sore, he was pretty sure he would think that was about the cutest thing he'd ever seen. Sam couldn't help smiling.

Dean let his head fall back and groaned. when he looked at Sam there was a sheepish expression on his face. "Don't get any ideas about that being cute or anything."

Sam shook his head and pain clawed at his throat. He rubbed at it gently.

"You okay? Here. Have some water." Dean picked up a bottle from the bedside table and held it out to Sam.

After a couple of mouthfuls of water, Sam cleared his throat. It still hurt a hell of a lot, but at least he could swallow properly.

"Some woman .. I was being strangled," Sam said gruffly.

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "About that. Okay so , you know how I figured it was Bert who was behind all this?"

Sam nodded slowly and winced as the bruises on his neck throbbed.

"I think. well - I pretty much know - that Bert was the one trying to drag you out of here to get you away from Rebecca. Fuck, I don't know - Maybe they were fighting over ya."

"Rebecca?" Sam's voice was a little squeaky; his brain was struggling to keep up with everything. Sam had seen all the photos that Dean had seen; Rebecca was a small woman and there had been so much strength in the hands around his neck.

"Yeah. Look. I don't know exactly what happened, Sam. I mean. I'm guessing at some of the pieces here."

Frowning, Sam tried to remember all the things they'd found out about the couple that had lived in the house.

"I'm sure she killed him, Sam. Remember how the Sheriff's report said he was found at the bottom of the stairs? While I was waitin' for you to wake up I got to thinkin'. What if she was dead already when he went ass over tea kettle? I figured that he'd killed her and then her ghost pushed him down the stairs."

Sam blinked a few times and tried to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

"And, I remembered you talkin' about the cellar door, how it wouldn't stay locked up. Plato didn't like it, right? I should have put it all together sooner." Dean rubbed his hand over his hair a couple of times.

Sam's eyes widened. "Dean, is someone buried in my basement?"

"Not exactly," Dean answered quietly.

"Not exactly?" Sam's voice was still raspy but it was loud enough to make Plato glance up at the two men.

"Okay, okay. Not anymore. I burned Rebecca's bones," Dean said quickly.

"You what?" Sam massaged his throat again and pushed Dean's hand away with his other.

"I went down into the basement to check it out. There was a false wall and this creepy little room. But there were bones, her dress was all in rags. It had to be her. I think she went in there to do something... God knows what ... maybe that's where he kept her. So she was locked inside and died."

Sam's mind was whirling. All of Dean's words were making sense but it sounded completely insane. "There's a room in my basement?"

"Yeah.” Dean took a deep breath and looked straight into Sam's eyes. "She was trying to strangle you, Sam. Maybe it's what he liked to do to her - I don't know. I mean there are some things that I won't be able to figure out."

"You burned her in my basement, didn't you." Sam was completely convinced that the Sheriff would be showing up any moment to ask why there was smoke coming out of the windows.

Dean flinched back from Sam and looked a little hurt. "I'm not an idiot. And, I'm not tryin' to burn your house down. I gathered her up, believe me there wasn't all that much left, and I burned her in the fire pit out back."

"Oh, my God."

"What? No one saw it. It was that or let you get strangled to death! Besides, I was worried about you and I didn't wanna drive off for hours without knowing you were gonna wake up." Frowning, Dean shook his head. "This is nuts. I saved your ass."

"You burned someone in my BBQ pit!"

"It was bones, not a person. And you were damn near dead when I -"

"- You said everything was fine here," Sam exclaimed as loudly as he could manage.

"I fucked up, okay? You think I wanted to sit outside your place and see the worst possible thing happening?" Dean pushed his fist across his mouth then continued. "And I get in here and you're ... fuck, I thought you were dead."

"You were sitting outside my house?" Sam blinked a few times and tilted his head to the side even though it hurt a little.

"Yes. And before you accuse me of being a stalker, I was worried and I wanted -"

Sam threw himself forward and crushed his mouth against Dean's. His head spun a little at the suddenness of his movement so he was glad when Dean's hand tangled in his hair and held him steady.

Dean gave back as good as he got. His free hand slid up Sam's bare chest and he groaned into the kiss.

Dean's teeth dragged over Sam's bottom lip as he pulled back and then he pressed forward again to dance his tongue across Sam's teeth.

When Dean withdrew it was only far enough to rest their foreheads together. "I thought I was too late," Dean said softly.

Sam let his eyes close slowly and covered the hand Dean still had pressed to his chest. "Thank you," he whispered.

The pain in Sam's throat was more than enough to make him regret each time he spoke.

Dean took a deep breath and grabbed Sam's shoulders to move him back a little until he was reclined on the pillows. "Let me get you something warm to drink and some ice for your throat."

Deciding against speaking, Sam nodded.

When Dean stood, Plato pushed himself up onto wobbly legs and wove his way to the bed.

"Aw, you're killin' me, Dog." Dean bent down and picked Plato up then set him down on the bed beside Sam. "You take care of Sammy and I'll be back right away."

Plato's pink tongue lapped at Dean's hand a few times and then he curled up beside Sam.

After a quick smile, Dean headed downstairs.

Sam ran his hands gently over Plato's body; he checked to make sure the dog really was okay. There didn't seem to be anything broken or damaged permanently.

Sam cast his gaze around the room and saw that some of his books had fallen from the shelf against the far wall. He had to wonder if one of them had hit Plato during the chaotic few minutes of the attack.

There were sounds coming from the kitchen and Sam smiled again. He could hear the kettle, and he could hear the cupboards opening and closing as Dean searched for something. But it was company; and better than that, it was Dean.

For a while Sam tried to put together what had happened, how much time he'd lost. But he couldn't really make sense of anything. He'd gone to bed early, around 8 or so because he'd intended to read something. But he had no idea when he'd fallen asleep, nor did he know how long he'd been asleep when the attack had started. It didn't matter how many ways that he looked at it, he couldn't figure out how long he'd been out of it. Long enough, at least, for Dean to burn a body ... bones anyway.

Plato looked up at Sam and then pawed at his hand. Sam wasn't sure how long he'd been lost in thought. Sam rubbed one of Plato's ears between his fingers. "It's okay, Plato. Just sleep. Dean's not going anywhere and he'll take care of us."

"That I will, Sammy."

Dean was standing in the bedroom doorway with two mugs and an ice pack.

Sam smiled sheepishly and looked back down at his dog.

"Oh, now Sam." He strode into the room and set everything down on the night stand. "Don't be embarrassed about me havin' to save that perfect ass of yours for the second time this week."

When Sam looked up he couldn't help laughing. The only problem was that it hurt. Sam's smile turned into a grimace and he trailed his fingers over his throat.

Leaning in closer, Dean grabbed Sam's chin and tilted his head back a little so he could examine Sam's neck. "You're already bruising. Gonna hurt for a while."

"She was strong," Sam whispered. Each time he swallowed it burned.

"I made you whatever kind of tea was in the orange box. It smelled good anyway. Put lots of honey in it and ... some lemon." There was a pink flush creeping up Dean's neck.

It was cute. The tea sounded like it might be okay so Sam picked it up. After he'd swallowed a couple of mouthfuls the tightness in his throat loosened a little.

"Better?" Dean got comfortable on the bed beside Sam.

Sam nodded.

"Sam. I'm -" Dean cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. "This shouldn't have happened -"

"- Dean -"

"Lemme finish, Sam. I honestly thought you were gonna be okay. Based on what we found - I mean, how could we know that Rebecca was behind this?"

Sam shook his head and his hair fell forward. Dean had saved his life twice. he couldn't handle being responsible for the weight of any more guilt resting on Dean's shoulders.

But Dean wasn't finished. "I wasn't even here because I thought you - there was something here..." Dean's voice trailed off and he rubbed his hand over his face.

"Why?" Sam asked in a whisper.

"It doesn't matter. It was just lucky I was there," Dean mumbled. The red flush had crept all the way up to his ears and Dean looked like he was in agony.

"Why were you outside, Dean?" Sam was insistent.

Dean shook his head and ran his hand over his hair before he met Sam's gaze. "I. I didn't want to. When I drove away, I went back to the motel and found your clothes. I just. Fuck, I don't know." Dean's cheeks were ruddy and he bit down on his bottom lip.

Sam took Dean's hand in his and threaded their fingers together. Plato snuffled then turned to rest his head on Dean's thigh. Sam squeezed Dean's hand.

The look on Dean's face was pained. For a few moments he looked like he was just ready to flee - then his eyes found Sam's. He reached up with his free hand and slid Sam's hair back off his forehead.

When Dean finally spoke, Sam had to strain to hear.

"Sam, I didn't want to go. Damnit, there's something about you. I felt better sitting in my car down the street just knowing that you were here, watching you move around the house."

Sam actually put a lot of effort into trying not to smile but he wasn't successful.

"Fuck off," Dean muttered. But there was a hint of a smile on his mouth.

"S'cute," Sam whispered. He supposed Dean wasn't accustomed to being on the receiving end of a world like cute.

"You need sleep. You're loopy," Dean said. He leaned in a little closer and pressed against Sam's body. His lips pressed gently to Sam's forehead. "And I need a shower."

There was a slightly smoky smell surrounding Dean which brought back the not-so-cute reality of everything. Sam nodded. "The bathroom is -"

"I know." Dean's trademark smirk was back on his face. "Hunter."

Sam chuckled weakly and slid down into his bed. As Dean headed off to the bathroom, Sam checked the clock. It was five in the morning. He'd definitely lost a few hours somewhere. But then ... burned bones and all that.

Sam shuddered and tucked his arm around the warm ball of fur that was curled up against him.

Plato's soft, warm tongue lapped at Sam's arm once then he tucked his nose under his paw.

Off down the hallway the shower turned on and Sam could hear Dean singing over the sound of the rushing water.

-=-=-=-

It was the sun warming Sam's face that first lured him back to wakefulness. He drew in a deep breath then stretched out his aching muscles and quickly remembered the injury to his throat.

When he tried to lift his arm he couldn't move it and opened his eyes slowly. The bright sunlight made him squint but he could see the body that was sprawled across the bed, head resting on Sam's arm. Dean.

A snort drew Sam's attention and he looked down to see Plato, belly up, lying across Sam's legs.

Confined to movement in one limb, Sam rubbed at his eye. There were far worse ways to wake up, even if Sam did feel a little more like a pillow than a human being.

His free hand drifted to his neck and he explored the tenderness of the bruising. It really felt like someone had tried to kill him. He'd never thought that would be something that would go through his mind. But then, he supposed that most people who ended up in his situation were probably a little shocked. Probably, anyone who wasn't Dean would be shocked.

"What ya thinkin' about?"

Dean's voice made Sam jump. "Sorry. Still a little tense."

"Kinda not surprising."

Nodding, Sam tugged on his arm gently and Dean lifted his head so Sam could escape. "You guys had me pinned."

Dean squinted down at the foot of the bed where Plato was still lying with all four feet in the air. "That dog is so spoiled."

It wasn't like Sam could deny it; he treated Plato more like a roommate than a pet. "I spend a lot of time at home. Alone."

Brow furrowed, Dean rolled over onto his belly and sprawled across Sam's chest.

"You need more pillows or somethin'?" Sam shifted Dean a little until he was more comfortable.

"You're much better than a pillow." Dean kissed Sam's collarbone then looked over at the bruises on Sam's neck. "Shit."

Sam curled his hand over Dean's arm. He felt Dean's biceps flex and rolled his eyes.

Dean's eyebrows shot up and he smirked.

"Dude. Really?"

"What? Not impressed?"

"You really are a teenager trapped in a man's body, aren't you?"

Dean grinned and snaked his arm over low over Sam's hips.

"Your neck is bruised real bad," Dean said after a little while. His fingers moved gently over the tender flesh.

It didn't hurt but Sam's skin was definitely sensitive. It felt a little like he had a sunburn.

"My throat's not as sore as I expected. Muscles hurt though." Sam stretched his neck to the side tentatively. It wasn't too painful but he felt stiff.

"Probably gonna be like that for a while," Dean murmured.

"I guess you've been through this." It seemed likely that Dean had suffered far more injuries than the average person.

"No ... wait there was ... yeah. Yep. Definitely been strangled." Dean grinned and rested his head back on Sam's shoulder.

"You joke about being strangled?" It certainly didn't feel very funny to Sam. In fact, Sam could feel the lingering echo of the fear and pain he'd felt the night before.

"Sam, if I didn't joke about all the insane shit that has happened to me I'd end up in a straight jacket." Dean's lips moved against Sam's shoulder as he spoke.

"I guess." Hunting was so far out of Sam's reality that he really wasn't in a position to comment.

"It's just the hunting thing."

"Yeah," Sam said. Hunting seemed to be the answer to a lot of things Dean was asked. Sam was beginning to realize that Dean avoided answering a lot of questions. At least, he avoided answering them with any real information.

"What?"

Sam looked up and frowned.

"You went all thinky. You got that look on your face." Dean propped himself up on his forearms and stared at Sam.

"I ... no. I'm not. I wasn't thinking," Sam lied. He wasn't sure why he denied it but it felt a little like they were headed into dangerous territory.

"Right," Dean said dismissively. "Bullshit."

"Look," Sam began. "We hardly know each other. How can you tell if I have a look. I don't get you sometimes."

"Get me?" Dean's face contorted as though he'd smelled something bad.

"I don't understand you, whatever. You know what I mean. Don't ... " Sam gave up. There was no part of him that wanted to have an argument with Dean on the third day they'd known each other.

"Not much to understand, Sam. I hunt supernatural pieces of shit. I save people like you. I do this all the time. There's not much more to it than that." Dean rolled away and tucked his arms under his head.

There it was. About as plain as Dean could say it. I do this all the time. Clearly, Dean had no intention of continuing the conversation. He was scowling and Sam could see the muscles in his jaw twitching.

Just like that the mood had changed.

Sam sighed and scratched the side of his head. "You want some breakfast?"

"Nah. I should probably get goin'," Dean said gruffly.

"You want me to argue? Ask you to stay? Is that it?" Sam asked.

Looking a little taken aback, Dean sat up and rubbed his hand across his chest. "This was a bad idea."

"What was?"

"Staying here with you."

Plato rolled over and sat up, the tone of their voices was obviously bothering him.

"Wow," Sam said quietly.

"What?" Dean threw the quilt back and sat on the edge of the bed.

"What are you so scared of?"

The words made Dean turn around and stare at Sam with his mouth agape. "I've never been afraid of anything in my entire life, Sam. My whole life I've just dealt with whatever is in front of me." Dean held his hand up, fingers curled into a fist and just stared at Sam for a few moments before turning away.

"I'm in front of you," Sam said. His voice wavered slightly and he closed his eyes tightly.

"Sam, let's not do this."

Without opening his eyes, Sam nodded. he didn't care if Dean saw him, it wasn't like he was going to continue arguing.

The room was quiet for a while, the silence uncomfortable. Sam sighed again and Plato paced over to Dean and nosed at his hand.

Sam watched as the muscles in Dean's shoulders tensed then relaxed. he reached down and slid his hand over Plato's head. "It's okay, Buddy."

Things weren't okay but Sam was at a loss. he had no idea how things had changed so quickly.

"Sam, I'm sorry."

Dean's shoulders squared but he kept stroking Plato's head.

"For what? Getting involved with me? Leaving? Coming back?" For the first time, Sam actually felt pissed off. Dean wasn't apologizing because he meant it; he just wanted the conversation to be over. Sam did too - but it wasn't the end yet.

The rigid line of Dean's back softened and his shoulders slumped slightly. He surprised Sam by turning around and staring straight into his eyes.

"Sam? I'm not sorry we got ." Dean waited, eyes locked on Sam's until Sam finally relented and nodded.

"I'm just - you stirred up all this ... stuff in me and I don't know what to do with it." when Dean paused he took a couple of deep breaths. "It's why I was sitting outside on your street in my car all night when I should have been driving to Arizona to stir up a nest of vamps."

Sam had never been more confused by anyone in his life, although he had to admit that it was a relief that Dean seemed equally confused. Sam could take some solace in that.

"Say something," Dean said.

The problem was that Sam had no idea what to say. As usual, he went with the first thing that came to mind. "Stay here for a few days."

Dean shifted his body so he could stare at Sam. His brows drew together and his eyes darkened.

"A couple of days. Stay a couple of days and get to know me. Let me get to know you."

The look on Dean's face hadn't changed and Sam began to worry that he'd overshot. He'd been hoping to provoke Dean, not piss him off.

"Why?" Dean asked softly.

Looking down at his hands, Sam shrugged a shoulder. "Because there's no reason not to."

Dean didn't look convinced.

"I could use the company for a couple of days." It wasn't a lie. After everything Sam had been through he could use some company. The entire place seemed less threatening with Dean around and it wasn't all about iron chains, magic symbols and the pearl-handled handgun. It was just Dean.

When Sam looked up, Dean's expression softened. "Company."

Sam nodded and held out his hand toward Dean. "Just give it two days. Can't be that bad."

Sam tugged to urge the hunter closer.

Dean sighed but he scooted nearer on the bed and wove their fingers together.

"So, I park my car in your driveway, we walk the dog, barbeque steaks?" Dean looked sceptical but he didn't let go off Sam's hand. After a few moments he shifted closer.

The already-unmistakable scent of Dean wafted forward and Sam closed his eyes for a few heartbeats. "I don't care what you do. You can lay around naked and read magazines for two days. Just stay."

"And after two days?"

"You do what you want."

"Back to hunting," Dean said resignedly.

"If you want." Before Dean could respond, Sam leaned forward to press a kiss to Dean's bottom lip. He didn't need to hear Dean's speech again. The one about how hunter's had no choices, family business, saving people and all that shit.

The solemn mood was broken for a few moments when Plato huffed and squeezed between the two men only to lie down. The dog's rear was on Sam's lap, his head on Dean's knee; his tail was thumping firmly against Sam's leg.

"He wants you to stay too," Sam murmured.

In response to that Dean rolled his eyes and scratched behind both of Plato's ears. "I got the good end."

Laughter managed to get out past the tension in Sam's chest.

Their fingers threaded together again on Plato's back and Dean squeezed hard. "Sam, I can't. I can't be here and... do all this and then hit the road on Monday like nothing happened."

The smile on Sam's face faded quickly and he looked away. He nodded and blinked slowly. It was a right and a wrong answer all wrapped up in one. But it was an answer.

Sam pulled his hand free and slid to the edge of the bed. "I'd better get dressed. I know you said you didn't want breakfast but I'll make you something before you head out."

When Dean said nothing, Sam got up and hunted around for his jeans. He really hadn't expected any other answer but it had been nice to pretend for a little while. It was completely crazy to expect that Dean, basically a total stranger, would stay with him and take a chance on something so vague and indefinable.

-=-=-=-

The house was quiet while Sam cooked breakfast. He settled on scrambled eggs and bacon because it was something he could do without much thought. He spent half his time at the stove staring out the window and the other half listening for the sounds of Dean moving upstairs.

Plato stayed upstairs with Dean until the man came down with his duffel bag. They clattered down the stairs and the sound made Sam smile. It sounded like the house was full and alive. He would miss that. The short time that Dean had been around had been time enough for Sam to realize that he was lonely. More than that, he realized that he was lonely for the connection he felt with Dean. The hunter might not be the one but Sam was a lot closer to believing there was someone out there for him.

They ate in near silence. Dean spoke a few times. He was going to Arizona to get rid of some vampires. Sam didn't really want to comment on that because it would mean that he'd have to admit to himself that he believed in all the monsters and ghouls that Dean spoke about.

When Dean sneaked a piece of bacon to Plato, Sam said nothing. When Sam's voice broke as he talked about painting his bedroom, Dean pretended not to notice. That was how it went. It was strange, but then everything had been since the two men had met.

After breakfast, Dean took a few minutes to check his phone and then gathered his things to head to the front door. He stopped by the carpet in front of the door and leaned down to pat Plato on his side. "You be good, and you take care of Sammy."

As if he was listening, Plato looked up at Dean then padded over to lay down on Sam's feet. Sam hadn't gone past the bottom of the stairs. He was afraid to be too close to Dean; afraid of what he might do.

"Sam, thanks. Thanks for ... everything," Dean said quietly.

Sam glanced up briefly and smiled coldly.

"I mean it, Sam." Dean shifted his bag to his other hand and blew out a breath that puffed up his cheeks. "I'd better hit the road."

"What do I do with the ache?" Sam finally managed to get out. He folded his arms across his chest and tried not to shake.

Dean froze and looked back over his shoulder. "The what?"

Sam's heart was still beating but it was sluggish and heavy. "That - the knowing that there's something out there. That it's alive and could be amazing and terrifying but I don't get to be part of it. I don't even get to try."

Tilting his head, confused frown on his face, Dean reached out. But Sam backed away.

"It's just like this pit that won't fill up," Sam continued. "And if I forget about it, it's just a dull ache. But when I think about -" He gestured in Dean's direction. "It fucking hurts. Why? I mean - how do I live with that all the time. It's like not being allowed to breathe in a room full of air."

Sam had finally run out of words.

"I ... I don't understand, Sam. You mean knowing that all the stuff you thought was just stories is real?" Dean's knuckles were white on the handle of his duffel bag.

That wasn't at all what Sam meant. What he meant was the way that Dean leaving, felt like it was pulling his guts out. He didn't know the man in front of him, but he didn't want him to leave. There was nothing that made sense about the way Sam felt. But Dean. Dean of all people should be the one person who could understand going with your instinct.

"Yeah," Sam said. "That's it."

"Believe me," Dean said slowly. "You don't wanna get all wrapped up in this. It's not good, Sam. It's broken and it's just not good for anyone to be around."

There was a strange tone in Dean's voice and Sam wasn't sure if they were still talking about the same thing. The problem was, it didn't help. So Sam nodded and forced a smile onto his face. "You take care, Dean. Don't get hurt all the time."

Dean was smiling, but it wavered and he looked down before running his hand over his hair. "Keep out of trouble, Sam. Maybe sometime..."

Sam shrugged. He didn't want empty promises. "Enjoy Arizona."

Finally, there wasn't another word to be said and Dean pulled the door open. He hesitated briefly, looked back at Sam then pressed his lips together and turned away. He didn't say good-bye, he just headed down the porch steps and along the path.

The door was left wide open and Sam watched until Dean walked out of view then stepped forward to kick the door shut. It slammed a little harder than he'd intended it to and Plato skittered back a little.

"Sorry, Buddy," Sam said quickly. He took a knee and waited for his dog to come forward. His hands dug into Plato's thick fur and Sam buried his face in the dog’s mane. He breathed in and out slowly until he was sure he could continue to do it automatically then headed back down the hall.

-=-=-=-

As quickly as Sam's life had changed, it began to settle back into a routine.

Once Dean was gone, the ghost, the attacks ... even the hunter began to seem a little unreal. It was easy for Sam to sink himself into his work. He had to concentrate on the technical side of things while he was doing his research. It was a perfect distraction.

Plato moped a little, at first, but he fell back into normal patterns quickly. Old habits.

There might have been a couple of days when Sam had hoped that he would hear from Dean. He'd really wanted the hunter to turn his car around and drive back to the house.

He had hoped that his phone would ring, maybe he'd hear the beep of a text message.

But there was nothing.

So. Sam's days returned to being about his writing, his walks with Plato and doing some work on the house.

The house had taken a bit of a beating at the same time as Sam. The first thing Sam did was fill and patch some of the chunks that had been taken out of the wall by flying books and moving furniture. He changed the color of paint in the bedroom. He settled on something a little darker, dark green in the end.

The renovations continued from there. Sam replaced the fence around the house and then painted it. He sanded down the hardwood floor in the hallway and refinished it. He repaired the stair railing, put a new basement door in and a million other things that he discovered along the way.

That was how Sam's time passed. He kept busy and he even met a few people who were regulars at the local dog park. It was comfortable and Sam relaxed. He no longer listened for sounds from the basement or for the distant rumble of the Impala's engine.

A week became a month and Sam was a kind of happy. A guy from the pub asked him out and, while he was still considering it, Sam was flattered but figured the guy wasn't his type. But, he couldn't help thinking that things might change for him.

Most evenings Sam would sit on the back porch with Plato. Sometimes, he read. Sometimes he just watched the sunset and threw a tennis ball for Plato; that was a game that could go on forever as far as the dog was concerned.

Friday night, autumn, and Sam was outside watching Plato run circles around the back yard. Leaves were tossed up in the dog's wake and Sam laughed.

He picked up his beer and took a few swallows from the bottle. It tasted good; he was thirsty. Sam had spent most of the afternoon putting a new backsplash in the kitchen. It looked great but he was tired. It had proved to be a little more complicated than he had expected.

"Plato! You're gonna wear yourself out." Sam took another swig of beer and shook his head as he chuckled. Plato circled the oak tree a few times and Sam snorted. The dog was nothing if not entertaining.

Sam's phone beeped and he reached behind him to pick it up. When he unlocked the screen and saw the message his eyes widened slightly.

Dean:You weren't talking about hunting.

There was no clarification necessary. Sam could remember every word of their last conversation. What do I do with the ache? Maybe Sam had blurted out the question in the heat of the moment but it hadn't been about hunting. He'd had a gut feeling that Dean knew that.

Sam's phone beeped again.

Dean: I have to drive back that way in a couple of weeks. Can I park my car in your driveway for a few days? Walk the dog?

Sam smiled and set the phone down. It seemed fitting that he would hear from Dean about the time he was no longer haunted by the man's absence.

As Sam stared out over the back yard he watched Plato crouch down and growl at a pile of leaves.

He could still remember the way Dean's hands had felt on his body. And, he could still remember the way he had felt when Dean had walked through the door and disappeared. The ache that Sam had tried to describe had been the last thing to leave.

Sam picked up his phone and turned it around in his hand a few times before unlocking the screen again.

He hesitated, glanced up at Plato then sighed.

Plato ran around the Oak tree once more and then ran to the bottom stop to stare up at Sam. He wagged his tail and finally barked when Sam was too slow to pet him.

Sam scratched the dog behind his ears and then looked down at his phone for a few seconds before tapping out a reply.

Sammy: Yes.

At least, it was a start.

Sam smiled and chased Plato down the steps and across the yard

-=-=-=- the end -=-=-=-