Season Four

Episode Twelve: Ut Victor Vado Spoilum

By JennyF

Part Two

Sam flung his arm in a wide sweeping curve, watching as the flotilla of daggers dropped to the floor like leaden balloons. Crouched behind the display stand he could hear Dean’s labored breathing, interspersed by the odd involuntary groan.

Satisfied there were no more flying objects, Sam crawled out from his hiding place, quickly locating Dean. His brother was lying on the ground, hands clutching at his abdomen, eyes screwed tightly closed and sweat shining on his brow. He had drawn his knees up as close to his to chest as he could and he was rocking ever so slightly from side to side.

“Dean!” Sam was at his side in a heartbeat, hands hovering uselessly over his brother’s trembling body. Dean’s fingers were stained with blood and were wrapped tightly around his torso.

“Sam?” he gasped.

“’S okay,” Sam soothed, gently prizing Dean’s hands away from his body. Dean’s eyes flew open at the touch and he grasped Sam’s wrists, trying to stop his ministrations.

“No, Dean,” Sam remonstrated, pulling out of Dean’s frighteningly weak grip. “I need to see the damage,” and he pushed the edge of Dean’s jacket to one side, trying to hold back the sharp intake of breath the sight of Dean’s blood-soaked tee shirt elicited. Biting his lower lip, he glanced up to check how Dean was doing. The older hunter had closed his eyes again and was breathing heavily through his nose. Sam could see how hard he was trying to control himself and hated himself for causing even more discomfort as he gingerly peeled the fabric away from Dean’s torso.

Dean could feel his brother’s fingers, cool and gentle against his burning skin, and he tried to relax into his touch. And then he couldn’t get far away enough as Sam brushed the open wound, sending shards of pain spiking along his nerves until the cry of pain escaped from his lips and he flung his arm across Sam’s chest, trying to push him away.

“Sorry, dude,” Sam whispered, pulling Dean’s arm back to the floor. He looked around the studio for anything he could use to staunch the flow of blood from the stab wound he’d discovered lurking just below his brother’s ribcage. Finding nothing of any use in the vicinity, he balled up the edges of Dean’s tee shirt and carefully pressed against the gash, pushing down as carefully as he could while still applying enough pressure to stem the blood.

“Here,” he said, taking Dean’s hand and placing it on the fabric. “Keep that there. I’m going see if Antony had a first aid kit round here somewhere.”

“’S not that bad, Sammy,” Dean muttered, even as his forehead creased in pain. “It can wait till we get back to the motel.”

Sam straightened his long legs and cast a disbelieving look down at the fallen man at his feet. “Dean, you’re bleeding. A lot. It’ll take me two minutes to find something to clean you up with. Just, stay there.”

Dean let his head drop to the ground and closed his eyes in silent submission. He could hear Sam moving around the studio but his attention was distracted by the throbbing in his side. He held on to the bunched fabric as best he could but his concentration was waning and every couple of seconds he found his hand slipping down to the side and he had to jerk it back into place.

On the fourth or fifth time this happened, Dean decided he was too tired to fight gravity anymore and he let his hand drop. He could feel the damp stickiness of his blood pooling beneath him but he didn’t have the energy left to do more than slide his hand away from his body. Where he felt something cold and metallic. His fingers instinctively closed around the object, all his hunter’s training telling him he’d found the weapon and he knew, without doubt, it was a dagger.

When Sam returned from his search of the premises, the first aid kit he’d retrieved from the back office clutched in his hands, he found Dean lying on his back, face pale and drawn, turning the dagger round so it caught the light above his head. The older hunter turned his head slightly as soon as he became aware of Sam’s presence.

“I found a knife,” he stated and waved it at Sam. “I think this might be the one that got me,” and he offered Sam a weak smile.

“Yeah, I think so too,” Sam agreed, dropping to his knees at Dean’s side and taking the dagger out of his grasp. “The blood kinda gives it away.” He looked to the injury and, taking an alcoholic wipe from the kit, swiftly began to clean the skin around the stab wound. Ignoring the hisses emanating from his brother, he worked quickly and efficiently until he had exposed the hole in his brother’s flesh made by the dagger he’d placed on the floor next to him.

“It looks clean,” he told Dean. “You’re lucky it caught you the way it did. The way those knives were flying through the air…” He trailed off, not quite able to finish the thought. Taking a dressing out of the kit, he placed it gently on his brother. He was so intent on the job at hand he almost didn’t hear Dean’s next statement.

“It wasn’t flying, Sammy.”

“What?”

“The dagger. It wasn’t flying. Someone stuck that thing in me and pulled it out again. Nothing accidental about where that one landed.”

“Dean…” Sam felt confused. The daggers and knives he’d seen had been flying around haphazardly. Admittedly they had all been heading in Dean’s general direction, but there had been too many of them to have had any real focus.

Dean could sense the hesitation in Sam’s response. But he knew what he was talking about. He’d been on the receiving end of more than one accidental knife wound, and several deliberate ones. He knew the difference and this was definitely a deliberate stab wound.

He levered himself up on one elbow, pausing as the studio tilted to the left slightly, swallowing heavily. Looking Sam in the eye he took a deep breath. “Whatever caused those knives to…” he waved a hand aimlessly, searching for the right word and giving up with a sigh. “It wasn’t a lucky shot.”

Sam stopped his ministrations. “What d’you mean?” he queried, looking confused.

“Someone stabbed me, Sam. Pushed the knife in and pulled it out again.”

“You think it was our ancient Roman?” Sam taped the gauze into place and pulled Dean’s tee shirt back down over it. He held a hand out to Dean, who took hold of it. Sam tried not to notice the lack of strength in Dean’s grip as he helped his brother gain his feet.

Dean swayed and blinked several times once upright, holding onto Sam for support while he regained his equilibrium. Gingerly taking one step forward, he shrugged in answer to Sam’s question.

“I guess,” he agreed. “I can’t think of a better answer and there’s definitely something here that shouldn’t be.” He looked to Sam who was studying his stomach with disconcerting interest. “What?” he demanded, shuffling forward away from Sam’s line of vision.

“Bleeding’s stopped,” was the reply. “We should go. You lost a bit of blood. You should probably be resting.”

“Mmm,” Dean agreed and Sam decided not to fret over the ease with which Dean had agreed to that suggestion.

“Car’s out front,” he reminded Dean and shoved him into action with one hand in the small of his back, pulling out his cell phone with the other. Settling Dean in the car with instructions to stay alert, Sam dialed and stepped away from the car, out of earshot but still in sight of his now slumbering brother.

“Sarah?”

“Sam? Are you done yet?” Sarah’s reply was fast, as though she’d been waiting on his call for a while. “Did you find anything? Where should we meet you?”

Running a hand through his hair, Sam laughed at her enthusiastic torrent of questions. His smile faded as he looked across at Dean though. “We’ve got a couple of leads to follow up on,” he replied evasively. He trusted Sarah completely but he knew the company she was in at the moment and, as far as he was concerned, Portia was still an unknown quantity, no matter how much she claimed to understand.

“Oh, okay.” She sounded disappointed but Sam knew it wouldn’t last long and he really did have other priorities at the moment. “Should we wait for you?”

“No,” Sam frowned. He needed to make sure the gallery remained closed until he and Dean had dealt with Portia’s ancient Roman, or whatever was in there, but he didn’t want to cause any undue alarm or panic. He didn’t want to put Sarah in the position of having to lie to her friend or come up with excuses. The best course of action was to tell her nothing. “Sarah, listen,” he continued, mind made up. “Can you make sure the gallery stays shut for a few more days? We might need to go back there, and if it’s all been disturbed we might never get to the bottom of this.”

There was a long pause at the other end of the phone and Sam could almost hear the cogs whirring in Sarah’s head. Then she huffed out a small sigh. “Sure, Sam. Anything.” She paused again and Sam could hear Portia in the background demanding information. He could imagine Sarah shaking an annoyed head at her and smiled to himself. The art dealer’s voice brought him back to reality. “Is everything okay?” she asked somberly and then, more quietly, “Are you okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” he lied, the image of Dean’s blood-soaked tee shirt imprinted on his brain.

“Sam? Really?” She had dropped her voice and Sam guessed Portia was either out of earshot or Sarah had turned her back on her briefly.

“Sarah,” he began, tentatively.

“There is something there, isn’t there?” she demanded and Sam really couldn’t think of a reason not to tell her.

“Yes,” he told her. “But keep it to yourself for now, okay? And stay away from the gallery too.” He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the morning sun warming his face. “Please?”

*****

Dean slouched against the passenger door, eyes at half mast as the painkillers Sam had found in their meager first aid supplies stowed in the trunk slowly worked their magic. He let the sounds of the passing traffic wash over him and the emo college rock coming from the radio didn’t even elicit a single curse, which Sam found particularly worrying.

Glancing across at his brother, Sam could see the dark stain on Dean’s tee shirt, a constant reminder of the pain he must be in, and he knew when they got back to the motel he would need to do something a little more permanent to remedy that.

He sighed quietly and turned his attention back to the road. “So,” he said, breaking through the daze Dean had sunk into, “what do you think that was?”

Dean tilted his head wearily to one side until he could see Sam with minimum effort. “I thought we had this conversation?” he muttered.

“So you’re ready to accept this is a job then?” Sam would have reveled in his victory if the proof hadn’t come at the cost of his brother’s safety.

“If you say ‘I told you so,’ I’m gonna kick your ass.” Dean rolled his shoulders, wincing at the pull and the irritation it caused to the dull ache he was just about getting used to. He let his head drop back on the seat of the car and closed his eyes.

For several minutes neither Winchester spoke, Sam busy negotiating a particularly complicated junction and Dean breathing steadily through a bout of clashing nerve endings.

“It’s tied to the exhibition,” Sam suddenly stated, breaking the silence in the Impala.

“What?”

“This entity, manifestation, poltergeist, whatever it is,” Sam rambled on. “It must be connected to the exhibition.”

“And that means what? Exactly?” Dean rolled his head till he could see Sam’s face.

“Well, it means we have a place to start,” Sam pointed out. He eyed Dean surreptitiously under cover of making another turn. “The exhibition.”

Dean gave a tired smile and a little puff of air escaped from his lips. “Whatever, Sam. I just wanna sleep.” He let his eyes drift shut. “How much further?” he asked, sounding for all the world like a petulant five-year-old. Sam was almost tempted to ask him if he needed the bathroom.

“Nearly there. You okay?”

“I’m fine, Sam. Quit your worrying and just get us back to the motel.”

“Don’t go to sleep,” Sam nagged. “Not yet.” He paused, checking his words had sunk in before attempting to engage his brother in conversation again. “What d’you think is keeping this Centurion here?”

“Who knows,” Dean mumbled, a slight frown creasing his brow, and Sam tried to ignore the way he held one hand to the knife wound in his side. “Maybe old Julian knows more than he’s letting on. Or maybe Portia’s up to her pretty little neck in it. Or maybe both of them are. Maybe it was a family vendetta against poor old Ant. Or maybe…” Dean’s vague ramblings trailed off into silence just as Sam pulled the Impala into the last space in the parking lot.

“Maybe we should just get you sorted out, man,” Sam suggested, switching the ignition off and studying Dean closely. He had his eyes firmly closed and his breathing had evened out. His face was relaxed and peaceful and Sam was convinced he’d fallen asleep, against his orders. He smiled at that thought. When did Dean ever follow his orders?

“Maybe we should talk to Portia.” Dean’s soft statement startled the younger Winchester. He raised his eyebrows as Dean prized his eyelids open and slightly glazed eyes fixed on his face.

“What?”

“Portia,” Dean repeated. “Perhaps Daddy dearest knows something. She could probably get us in to see him. ’Cause it was, like, his exhibition and he is apparently the leading authority on these things round here.” He sank back into his seat, exhausted from his momentary burst of clarity, a smug half-grin on his face.

Sam shook his head. Dean never failed to surprise him. He could be at death’s door and still have his head in the game. Then he looked to where Dean’s hand was resting on his body and realized the wound had reopened, blood seeping through his brother’s fingers, staining his skin and fingernails. He glanced around, assessing their chances of getting to the motel room unnoticed. Any attention right now would only cause problems they could happily do without.

He cursed as he spotted a lone figure hovering by the soda machine a couple of doors down from theirs. There was no way they were going to get to their room unobserved, especially since Dean refused point blank to oil the hinges on the Impala’s doors. There was no avoiding it – Dean was going to have to manage the few short steps to the door by himself.

“Okay,” he sighed, more to himself than to his brother. “We’ve got an audience. Can you make it by yourself?”

Dean’s lips curled up into a smile and Sam could have sworn that was a snort he heard. Cranking open his eyes, Dean simply glared at his little brother. Reaching over to the door handle, he shoved the door open, giving Sam a cocky told-you-so head tilt. Then he turned his head away so Sam wouldn’t see how much effort it was actually taking in his current condition. He could feel the warmth of fresh blood on his shirt and hand and knew he must look like a horror movie reject. The dull ache was throbbing in time with his heartbeat and he was desperate to get cleaned up.

Swinging his legs out, he was vaguely aware Sam had already exited the car and was now standing stock still. Assuming he was waiting for him, Dean grasped the top of the door and heaved himself upright, pausing to let the ensuing head rush settle down. Pulling himself together, readying himself to put on a front for whoever might be in the vicinity, he slammed the door shut with a little extra vigor, the sound of metal on metal echoing round the parking lot.

And attracting the attention of the figure at the soda machine.

Sam spared a second to glare at Dean and then dropped his head, rummaging in his pocket for the room key while stepping away from the car.

“Sam? Is that you?”

The person was now only a couple of yards away and the distinctly feminine voice sounded familiar. Holding back a grimace, Sam turned to face the interloper.

“Portia.” He ground out the greeting, conscious Dean had halted in his progress to the room. “What are you doing here?”

Portia stepped forward, sparing Dean only a cursory glance, eyes fixed on Sam, sliding over his body in a way that made him feel like a bug on a microscope. Dean’s head shot up and he couldn’t help the groan that escaped from his lips as he moved automatically to his brother’s side.

Portia’s attention, momentarily distracted from Sam, slid over to the older Winchester, eyes settling on the bloodstained shirt, and she gasped as her gaze shot back to Sam.

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “What happened? Are you alright, Sam?” She stepped forward, up in Sam’s personal space, hand outstretched to check for herself. Sam stumbled back, keen to avoid any unnecessary contact with the woman.

Dean, in the meantime, had opened his eyes wide in disbelief. He waved his free hand fruitlessly in the air. “Hello? In pain here, Sammy.”

“Right,” Sam agreed, grateful for an excuse to get rid of Portia. Unfortunately for Sam, she was a determined woman and, like a dog with a bone, she refused to be dismissed so easily. Looking past Sam to his brother, she wrinkled her nose in what Dean could only describe as distaste, whether it be directed at him personally or the bloodstained image he presented, he neither knew nor cared. The motel room was looking more and more inviting to him and he just wanted to collapse on a bed.

“I can help,” she announced with confidence and, ignoring the slump of Sam’s shoulders and the glare Dean cast at his brother, she marched past both boys toward their room. Arriving at the threshold, she stopped abruptly and turned to see the Winchesters watching her with a blend of annoyance and amazement.

“Come on then,” she commanded. “Or did you want to bleed to death there?”

Sam sighed and took hold of Dean’s elbow, gently steering his somewhat shell shocked sibling in Portia’s direction. “Sorry, dude,” he whispered, although he wasn’t clear what he was apologizing for.

Propping Dean against the door jamb, Sam reached into his pocket for the key while Portia took the opportunity to assess Dean’s injuries visually herself.

“This happened at the studio, didn’t it?” she finally ventured.

Sam turned to her, trying to gauge if she knew that for a fact or if she was digging for information. Key still held in his hand, he shook his head briefly. “What makes you say that?” he asked.

“It’s fairly obvious,” she replied haughtily. “You haven’t been anywhere else. And with what happened to Antony...” she trailed off and Dean swore he could see the glint of crocodile tears in her eyes. He just hoped Sam wasn’t going to fall for it.

“There is something there,” Sam admitted, a little reluctantly. “We just don’t know what. We didn’t have time to get to the bottom of it before…” he waved a hand in Dean’s direction, as though that would answer all the girl’s questions.

Portia leant forward, a hand snaking out to rest on Sam’s bicep. “Did you see it?” she whispered. “How did you get away?”

“No, no, we didn’t see anything,” Sam replied, getting caught up in the conversation. “But usually there are signs, little things that happen when a spirit is around.”

“Like what?” she pressed. “Tell me. Please?”

Dean groaned and closed his eyes. “Can we take this inside? Please?” he muttered, just loud enough for Sam to hear him. Mortified that he’d forgotten about his brother’s predicament, Sam spun on his heel till he was facing Dean, shaking Portia's hand off and reaching out to Dean to offer support.

“You okay?” he asked, searching Dean’s face for the lie he knew was about to be delivered.

“I’m good, Sammy.” Dean never disappointed.

Sam turned away, hurriedly opening the door and ushering his older sibling through, watching till he was settled on the nearest bed and leaving Portia in their wake. True to form, she followed like a lost puppy without a home. An admittedly irritating lost puppy.

Ignoring her and hoping she would take the hint and leave, Sam crouched down in front of Dean, gently pulling his shirt away and examining the crude dressing he’d managed to apply before leaving the studio. Blood had seeped through the bandage and the wound had clearly reopened. There was no option other than to stitch Dean back together. No words were needed as Sam conveyed his intentions in a single look.

Acknowledging the need for a more permanent medical solution, Dean grimaced and gave a slight nod. Closing his eyes, he submitted to his brother’s ministrations, letting Sam take control, cleaning and stitching and redressing his injury. The occasional moan slipped through his lips when the pain got the better of him but each time he stifled it before he could be accused of being a girl.

Sam smiled wryly, knowing exactly what was going through Dean’s head. He mumbled apologies and worked as fast as he could, acutely aware of Portia hovering in the background, examining the motel room with an air of disdain for her surroundings. Taping the new gauze into place, he reached into the first aid supplies, digging out a couple of painkillers which he handed to Dean, who accepted them wordlessly.

Pushing himself to his feet, Dean stiffly shuffled toward the bathroom, throwing Sam a significant look on his way past and nodding imperceptibly at Portia. His meaning was clear – get rid of the woman – but Sam wasn’t entirely sure how that was going to happen. Knowing Sam was going to have his work cut out for him and that he simply couldn’t be bothered with Portia at the moment, Dean yanked the bathroom door open in a blatant display of bad temper and locked it noisily behind him.

Sam sat on the bed his brother had just vacated and set to clearing up the scattered first aid supplies. Portia moved forward, stopping just short of the discarded bandages which she turned her nose up at. Waiting till Sam had sanitized the area for her, she folded her arms and Sam grit his teeth against the invasion of his personal space, expecting her to start tapping her foot when he took his time with the task at hand.

“Will he be alright?” she finally asked.

“He’ll be fine,” Sam replied. “He’s had worse.”

“I don’t doubt,” Portia replied caustically.

Sam shot her a sharp glare. “What does that mean?”

Portia hesitated, realizing she’d crossed a line she hadn’t known was there. “I just meant he seems the heroic type,” she stuttered.

“Yeah, kind of,” Sam admitted. There was a slight, awkward pause in the conversation. “Where’s Sarah?” Sam finally asked.

Portia looked slightly surprised at the sudden change of subject and shrugged her shoulders in a noncommittal fashion. “I don’t know,” she told him. “We went our separate ways. She’s probably gone home. Or to her boyfriend’s place.”

“Boyfriend?” Sam couldn’t help the surprise that filtered through to his voice. Or the disappointment that settled in the pit of his stomach which he didn’t quite understand. “She didn’t mention a boyfriend.”

“Didn’t she? Well, it’s not a surprise really.” Portia smiled, a tight, emotionless smile. “She’s very secretive about him. And, be honest Sam, did you really think she’d wait for you?” She inched closer to Sam and sat down next to him on the bed. “She’s a very attractive girl. She’s never going to be short of attention and, between you and me, she’s never going to be alone for long either. If you know what I mean.”

She reached out a hand to Sam, unable to hide the frustration when Sam recoiled slightly from her touch. Part of him hoped she was lying but another part of him had to acknowledge the truth in what she was saying. No, he hadn’t ever expected Sarah to wait for him, for something that he couldn’t promise would ever happen, but he had hoped she would at least share things with him.

Standing up abruptly, he made his way over to the small table where his laptop lay. “This exhibition,” he started, deciding to make the most of Portia's presence. “What was in it?”

Sighing, Portia stood and sauntered over to Sam, looking over his shoulder at the screen he’d brought up. “You won’t find anything about it on there,” she told him. “My father took everything down when Antony died. He thought it would show more respect to him.” She stifled a small laugh. “It’s about the most concern he’s ever shown.”

Sam frowned, the girl’s attitude to her family grating on him. “So, what was on show?” he repeated, unwilling to get drawn into a discussion on family politics.

“My father organized most of it – it was his baby. And, I have to admit, it was fun. Have you ever wondered how people lived all those years ago, Sam? How the Romans managed to conquer the world? Do you have any idea how much we’ve learnt from them and how much knowledge has been lost over the centuries? Just a little more funding, a little more interest and we could still learn so many things.”

Sam couldn’t fault her for her enthusiasm and he couldn’t help feeling a little interested. She sounded so much like a lecturer he found himself reminiscing over his Stanford days. Her eyes had lit up and her whole posture had changed. She no longer resembled the ice maiden Dean had her pegged as, an obvious love of her subject shining through her every word and movement.

“But what about the artifacts?” he pressed. “What were they?”

“Mainly military artifacts dating from around 100 BC. They were discovered just outside Rome about forty years ago on a privately funded dig. The Italian government agreed to let the financier keep the collection. I expect there was some sort of deal struck – he was a very rich and influential character at the time. When he died the collection passed to his son. It took my father nearly fifteen years to track him down and another three to persuade him to allow the collection out of the country.”

She paused and looked at Sam who seemed as captivated by the story as she had been herself at the time.

“How much is known about the weapons?” he asked.

“They were examined at the time by leading archeologists and Roman experts. They generally agreed the weapons were from a march led by General Sulla and his army returning from the East. We don’t know much about the individuals but some documentation survived. Enough to know that Sulla had a couple of loyal soldiers.”

“Every general needs back up,” Dean commented from where he was leaning against the bathroom door. He looked slightly fresher but still too pale for Sam’s liking.

Portia turned and gave him a cool, appraising stare. “Yes,” she finally agreed. “And General Sulla’s right hand man seems to have been a centurion called Ovidius.” She turned her attention back to Sam. “But Sulla misjudged his enemies and a lot of soldiers were slaughtered. Including Ovidius. Most of the dead were either left to rot or buried. But Sulla valued Ovidius and as a mark of respect he had him cremated.”

“Cremated?” Dean raised his eyebrows and exchanged a discreet look with his brother. “As in, no mortal remains anywhere?”

Portia frowned at the seemingly bizarre question. “No,” she shook her head. “Not once he’d been cremated. That usually disposes of bodies.”

“Thank you. I know that,” Dean responded, narrowing his eyes at the girl, at the same time wondering why Sam hadn’t got rid of her by now.

But Sam was frowning, digging in the back of his mind for what little information he remembered from high school about the Romans. “Why did he do that?” he enquired. “Cremation wasn’t generally practiced.”

“No,” Portia smiled at Sam. “But Sulla didn’t want their enemies to dig him up and scatter his body in pieces. It was a huge honor to be cremated.”

“Huh.” Dean pushed himself away from the doorframe, waving Sam away when his little brother made to help him. He shuffled forward with exaggerated care until he reached his bed and perched gingerly on the edge of the mattress. “So what made Ovidius so special? How come he gets a name check of his own when nobody else does?”

Portia tilted her head to one side, hair covering half of her face. “Life in the Roman army was hard. Comforts were few and far between. Maybe Ovidius was more than just a soldier. The ancient Romans took their pleasure as and when.” She paused and glanced briefly at Dean before gazing at Sam again. “It wasn’t uncommon for generals to use their legionnaires for more than just fighting. Whatever the reason,” she continued, “it was Ovidius’ knife that killed Antony.”

Dean raised his eyes to meet Sam’s and he knew his brother was thinking exactly the same thing. Portia’s presence, while never having been welcome had, at least, proved useful. But her usefulness had been exhausted and all Dean wanted was for her to leave. Now.

Sam stood and, moving over to the door, smiled at Portia. “Thank you,” he said. “I think we can take it from here.”

“But I’ve got lots more I could tell you,” she objected, looking up at Sam flirtatiously through long lashes.

“I’m sure you could, honey,” Dean interjected quietly, ignoring the glare Sam threw in his direction.

Portia hesitated, her eyes sliding over Dean, halting when they reached his chest where his hand was resting over the bandages Sam had so expertly applied. It was almost as if she hadn’t registered his presence before and she seemed genuinely surprised to realize he was in discomfort, although Sam suspected his brother was putting on a show for the girl.

“Perhaps I should go,” she conceded finally. “You really don’t look too good. At all.”

“We’ll call you, I promise,” Sam offered, holding the door open. Portia glanced from Sam to Dean and back to Sam before finally taking the hint. She reluctantly nodded and slid past Sam to get through the door. Just as she was face to face with him, she looked up.

“Make sure you do,” she whispered, voice seductively husky, and made her way out into the parking lot.

She was hardly through the door before Sam had it closed and Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d got out the salt to lay lines behind her. He smirked and lay back on the bed.

“Don’t,” Sam commanded, knowing his protestations were going to fall on deaf ears.

“She likes you, Sammy,” Dean teased.

“Shut up,” Sam retorted. “It got us information. I didn’t see you doing any work there.”

“No point,” Dean declared. “She hates me. Which is strange. Why do you think that is, Sammy? Women love me,” and for a moment he sounded genuinely confused.

Sam hovered at the threshold to the door and eyed his brother’s supine figure and closed eyes. Although he was looking considerably better than when they’d arrived, he still wasn’t presenting a picture of rude health.

“She has a point, though,” he declared, continuing when Dean’s brow creased into a puzzled frown. “You don’t look too good. You need anything?”

Dean shook his head. “I’m good.” He paused and raised himself up on his elbows. “So, you think Ovidius is our spook?”

“I’d say it’s a safe bet,” he agreed. “But I don’t see why he’s here now. And why Antony?”

“Wrong time, wrong place,” Dean suggested quietly.

“Maybe,” Sam acknowledged.

“More to the point,” Dean continued, “how? If Sulla had him cremated, how come he’s still around?”

Sam shrugged and moved over to the small kitchenette. He opened the small fridge and, after studying its meager contents, settled on a bottle of soda for himself. Grabbing a glass, he filled it with water for Dean, digging out a couple more painkillers to go with the beverage. “Maybe Antony disturbed something while he was clearing the artifacts away,” he mused. “He must be linked to one of the exhibits, maybe even the dagger that killed Antony? I can’t see any other reason for Ovidius to kill him.”

His only answer was a soft snore and when he looked over at his brother he noted that Dean had sunk down on the bed and was fast asleep. He grinned to himself, glad that nature had decided to prevail, preventing him from having to force the issue over the very real possibility of a fight.

Putting his soda back down on the counter, he set the water and painkillers on the nightstand next to Dean’s bed. Moving to his brother’s side, he pulled the comforter off his own bed and lay it gently over Dean. Placing a cool hand against the older Winchester’s forehead, he satisfied himself there was no fever in evidence. Dean had, apparently, got off relatively lightly.

Feeling like a mother hen for tucking in his older brother, Sam smirked at the reaction he would have got if Dean had been awake to witness the little bedtime routine he’d just endured. Unable to resist giving Dean a pat on the head, he made his way over to the rickety table which his laptop rested on.

Preparing to take advantage of some peace and quiet, Sam settled down in front of the screen, waiting patiently while it searched for information about General Sulla and Ovidius. After bringing up a choice of thousands of sites, mostly heavy, academic tomes, Sam decided to skim the top listings.

After half an hour of fruitless research, listening to the soothing sound of Dean’s breathing in the background, Sam found his attention wavering. He couldn’t help but think back to what Portia had said about Sarah, “did you really think she’d wait for you?” Shaking his head, Sam looked back to the screen, trying to clear his head and concentrate on the matter at hand.

He read through a couple more paragraphs of convoluted phrasing and highbrow posturing about the ancient Roman army and its various maneuvers and marches but it was only a matter of time before Portia was echoing in his head again. “She’s never going to be short of attention.”

Sighing, he slapped the lid of his laptop down and stood up from his seat. He looked across to where Dean was still fast asleep, the painkillers waiting for him on the nightstand. Scrubbing his hand through his hair, he gazed out of the window, lost in thought. Did he really care that Sarah had a boyfriend? Portia was right, Sarah was a very attractive girl and he had never, could never, make her any promises. Why would she wait for something he could never give her? Stability, security, a home life – those weren’t things that came with the Winchester lifestyle.

Besides, he told himself sternly, he was still in love with Jessica.

“Are you?” Dean’s voice rattled round his head. “Would Jessica really expect you to be alone and pining for the rest of your life? Is that what she would’ve wanted?”

Sam spun to look at Dean, just to check he hadn’t actually spoken the words that had been so vivid in his mind. But Dean slept on, shifting position and pulling the comforter over his shoulders.

Unable to settle, Sam made a decision. He slipped his jacket on and, casting an apologetic glance in Dean’s direction, whispered, “I’ll be back soon,” before grabbing the keys to the Impala and heading out of the door.

Once he was in the car, Sam realized he didn’t really have a plan. He knew he wanted to see Sarah, to find out for himself what Portia had been alluding to, but he hadn’t actually thought it through any further than that. He had no idea where she lived and he didn’t really want to call her, it would make him sound desperate and pathetic. Although what showing up unannounced made him he didn’t really know, he thought ruefully.

Starting the engine he decided his best bet would be to head back to Antony’s studio. From what he had observed of the area, it appeared to be the local art quarter. It was a fairly safe bet she worked in the vicinity, and if she didn’t, maybe he’d find someone who knew her place of work. Feeling like a jilted boyfriend and not really understanding why, Sam pointed the Impala toward the parking lot exit and peeled into the traffic, destination decided.

*****

Traffic was kind to Sam and he had reached Antony’s studio far quicker than they had managed to return to the motel earlier that day. Parking, on the other hand, proved to be more of a challenge and he had to slow the car right down in order to scour the bays for a free spot. Cruising down the street at such a low speed however, turned out to be advantageous to him.

Passing Antony’s studio for the third time, he spotted Sarah waving frantically to him, a beaming smile on her face. Pulling in to the side of the road, she flung the passenger door open and jumped in.

“What are you doing here?” she queried, surprise and delight evident in her voice.

Feeling his mood lift, Sam smiled back at her. “Looking for a parking spot, actually,” he replied.

“Ha! You could be driving round for a while. It’s tourist season and too many of them bring cars these days,” Sarah observed. “But you’re in luck. I have a dedicated parking spot outside my studio and you’re welcome to use it.”

Leaning back in her seat, she gave Sam clear, precise directions and within ten minutes, five of which were spent waiting for an elderly couple to cross the road in front of them, he was pulling up in front of a neatly presented and tastefully decorated art studio.

“This is it,” Sarah remarked as she climbed out. “It’s not much but it’s all mine.” She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a small set of keys. “C’mon.”

She led Sam inside, bending down to pick up a pile of mail, depositing it on a minimalist desk facing the entrance. Turning back to her guest, she smiled.

“Mostly junk but there might be something important,” she commented and then paused, her expression turning to one of curiosity. “Where’s Dean?”

Sam gave a deep sigh. He’d known she would ask this but he hadn’t really prepared an answer. “He’s back at the motel,” he admitted.

“Is he okay?”

“No. Not really.” Sam glanced round the studio, trying to ignore the concern that had settled on Sarah’s face while unconsciously comparing her reaction to the news with Portia's.

“What happened to him?” Sarah demanded and Sam found himself telling her everything, from searching Whittaker’s gallery, the attack on Dean, finding Portia at the motel, and the information she had been able to give them. He left out the rest of the conversation he had had with the woman and repeatedly assured Sarah that Dean would be fine.

Sarah took it all in with remarkable calmness, paling slightly when Sam described Dean’s injury and frowning when he got to the part about Portia.

“How did she know where to find you?” she asked, when Sam had finished his tale. “I don’t know where you’re staying so how did she?”

“She probably looked through all the local places,” Sam told her. “I wouldn’t worry about it. There probably aren’t many places here we could afford so it wouldn’t have taken too much work.”

Sarah nodded, reluctantly. “I suppose,” she agreed and moved over to the small kitchen area at the back of the studio. “So, what are you doing now?” She threw the question over her shoulder, sensing Sam still hovering by the desk. “Shouldn’t you be home, looking after Dean?”

“Maybe,” Sam laughed, relaxing slightly now they were off the subject of Ovidius and Portia. “But he’s sleeping. He doesn’t need me to help him with that. Besides, he’s not the type to appreciate being mother-henned. I’m sure he can take care of himself till I get back.”

Sarah nodded. “I’m sure he can,” she agreed. “He certainly gives that impression. But I also think you’re avoiding the question.” She moved forward and handed Sam a steaming mug of coffee. “So, what are you doing now?” and she looked up at him expectantly.

Sam accepted the mug, fingers brushing Sarah’s as he gripped the handle. He coughed and muttered a quiet “Thank you.”

Sarah tilted her head to one side and gave Sam a mischievous look. “It’s only coffee, Sam,” she teased. “Not a lifelong commitment.”

Sam froze and averted his gaze from the girl in front of him. He could feel the heat rising on his face and his heart had apparently decided to speed up. Whether it was her words or proximity that was provoking this reaction he didn’t know and didn’t care to analyze it.

Sarah frowned, aware she’d hit a nerve.

“Sam? Are you okay?”

Sam closed his eyes briefly, and when he looked at Sarah again, she was studying him with a mix of concern and something else he couldn’t quite identify. He’d seen that look from Dean, and on occasion from John, but usually when he was hurt or sick. It didn’t look out of place on Sarah’s face and for some reason it gave him the confidence to tell Sarah the rest of what Portia had shared with him. About Sarah. About a boyfriend.

“Because, you know, if you do … have a boyfriend that is… that’s okay,” he stumbled on. “It’s just you, you never mentioned him and, you know, I call you often enough. It’s not like I have any claim on you or anything,” he finished, wondering when it had got so hot in the small studio.

Sarah couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Listening to Sam’s slightly disjointed ramblings, she felt herself slowly becoming more and more annoyed at what her supposed friend had been saying. Finally, she stepped forward to Sam and placed a soft finger on his lips to stop him talking.

“Sam.” Her voice brooked no argument and she gazed steadily into his eyes, daring him to look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I haven’t had a boyfriend for a long, long time. And Portia damned well knows that.” She let her finger fall away from Sam’s lips and he felt the loss in the pit of his stomach. “I know you don’t have any claim on me and I’m not waiting for you, Sam. I know where that road leads and it’s not a happy ending. But you know what? You set the bar high. You’re a hard act to follow.” She shrugged and let her hand slip round to the back of Sam’s head, fingers stroking his hair and sending thrills down his spine.

“Portia’s obviously got her eye on you,” she continued. “I guess that’s why she came up with such an out and out lie.”

Sam smiled, relief sweeping over him in inexplicable waves. Putting his coffee down, feeling like a fourteen-year-old on his first serious date, he pulled Sarah into his arms, accepting her warmth and softness, and drew her to him.

Continue...

Comment/Review the episode here

E-Mail the Author!

The Winchester Chronicles