I want to apologize for the delays. Real life and a few other writing commitments have slowed me down these last few weeks, but now I'm freed up and I promise I'll finish this story before anything else comes up.

Geminigrl11 is an awesome beta. She helped me out with this chapter in a huge way! Bug her about the Puppy-fic when you get a chance.

I own nothing. Reviews welcomed.

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Chapter 8

Anthony stepped out of the shower, dried off, and donned some clean clothes. Sam's clothes…. He'd have to go shopping, he supposed, since Sam's clothing choices were lame. Jesus, how many layers can one guy wear?

He felt refreshed. It had taken a lot of scrubbing, but he'd finally managed to get all of Dean's blood off of his hands. Speaking of.

He walked out into the bedroom, half-expecting to see Dean making another break for it, or already gone. Despite the weakened hunter's desire to keep Sam safe, Anthony didn't really think Dean would stop fighting. It didn't seem to be in his nature.

Much to his surprise, Dean was still lying on the bed.

"Huh. I figured you'd be running again," he said, tossing a comb onto the nightstand and smirking when Dean jumped at the sound. "Giving up, Dean-o?"

Dean glanced wearily at him, apparently not as amused as Anthony was in the situation. "Find another body and then go fuck yourself."

Anthony couldn't help but laugh. "Funny. Knew I was keeping you alive for a reason."

He sat on the second bed and pulled his shoes on. "So, is this Sherry girl hot?"

Dean sighed, resignation coloring his voice. "Yeah. Athletic, keep-you-up-all-night type."

"Heh. Good," Anthony replied with a grin. But then a foreign, almost wistful feeling came over him. It had been so long since he'd had someone to talk to…well, someone he didn't want revenge on, anyway. Dean was a pain in the ass, but underneath all the macho bullshit, he was a decent guy. Loyal.

Loyalty had been hard to come by in Anthony's life.

"You know, Dean, I kinda wish I'd met you…you know, before."

He didn't look back, but he heard Dean's snort. "Yeah, that would have been swell."

So much for bonding. Anthony ignored the dig, and stood. The wistful feelings disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. "I can see through that tough guy routine just as easily as Sammy can. I know you're full of crap."

He frowned when Dean didn't answer. He'd been hoping to get under the other man's skin a little more. He liked watching him squirm. Oh, well, he'd keep Dean around for another day or so, then put him out of his misery. It was the only humane thing to do at this point. His step-mom had always told him not to play with his food.

He moved for the door. "You gonna stay put or do I need to tie you up?"

Dean looked up at him, his expression gloomy but determined. "As long as you stop hurting Sam, I won't give you any trouble."

Anthony rolled his eyes. It was always the same with these two. They act like there's no one else in the whole fucking world.

"I gave him a happy memory, Dean," he explained with annoyance, "I never wanted to hurt him anyway. You keep quiet and play nice, and it'll stay that way. I gotta go. I'm meeting your 'date' in a half hour."

Dean didn't answer. Anthony hadn't really expected him to. He snagged the car keys and stepped out the door, making sure it locked behind him. He tried to imagine what Sherry might look like based on her voice.

She sounded like a screamer.

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Dean sagged a little on the bed when the door slammed shut. He'd been trying to look a little stronger than he felt. He didn't want Anthony to know how close he was to collapsing. He doubted it had worked, but his captor seemed to think that he was harmless, and that wasn't a bad thing.

At the sound of the car door opening and closing, Dean took a few deep breathes. He needed to shore himself up if he was going to get himself---and Sam---out of this. His preparations were hindered by the fact that all his body wanted to do was lay back and sleep for two days. His left arm hurt like a sonnuva bitch from where Anthony had carved his skin with the knife. Bastard.

He figured, though, that it could have been worse. He could have continued carving up Sam. Dean could imagine telling his brother about that, after everything was over. Once Sam was safe again. Which he would be. Uh, yeah, dude. You helped me and he was pissed, so I let him cut up your arm like a roast.

Yeah. Not going to happen.

The distinctive roar of the Impala's engine starting drew his attention back to the moment. He saw the car's headlights on the window, and watched them pull back and turn away. Psychic creep had taken his car twice now. Dean didn't care whose skin he was wearing…that just wasn't cool. He shook off the irritation.

It was time.

With a Herculean effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position. A few more deep breaths and a wave of vertigo later, he had moved to the chair by the curtains. He glanced outside. Neither Anthony, nor the car, was anywhere to be seen. Dean let the curtain drop and continued forming the plan he'd started while Anthony was in the shower.

He could "find" a car and head out to the cemetery now, then finish the salt and burn on Anthony's corpse. It was the only way he could think of to exorcise the spirit from Sam's body. If that didn't work…well, they were both royally fucked.

Problem with Plan A was, it wasn't going to take Anthony long to discover that Sherry wasn't coming. He'd be furious. And if what he'd said about the psychic link between them was true, then it might not take Anthony long to track him to the cemetery and stop him.

Jesus…he might be listening in on me right now….

There was no way to know for sure. Anthony had said that even Sam was unaware of it, so Dean had no knowledge of how the supposed link worked.

Plan B took a little longer, and was even more dangerous.

He could find some way to knock Anthony out. But, that meant being there in the room after the 'date' fell apart. Anthony might not give him a chance to do anything. The psychic might just walk in and kill him on the spot.

But rendering Anthony unconscious gave him more time. And knowing Anthony's sadistic habits, the psychic might try and rough him up before finishing him off. This would give Dean the opportunity he would need to strike.

It was definitely the better of two lousy plans.

All of that was assuming that Anthony wasn't listening in on his thoughts at that very moment. If that was the case, he'd not only screwed himself and his brother, but Bobby and Missouri as well. But, given a choice between going down fighting, and just waiting around for the end, he'd pick fighting every time.

Dean shook off the distraction of his exhaustion, and focused on the matter at hand. He could knock Sam out relatively easily, if he had the element of surprise. The problem was, Sam wasn't easily surprised. And since Dean had spent many years sparring with his little brother, Anthony would know his moves. Even if Anthony wasn't a trained fighter, Sam was, and Anthony had access to all of that. No, he needed something less direct.

I could drug him.

He pondered that for a few moments. The only things they had available were some sleeping pills and some industrial strength cold/fever pills that had seriously knocked Sam on his ass when he'd picked up the flu the previous year. But he doubted he'd get Anthony to eat or drink anything, and even if he could, the pills would take too long to affect him. If he knew his psycho-killers, Anthony would be returning to the motel in a rage. There wasn't going to be much time.

Well, there was a hospital just down the street. They might have something more useful on hand.

If he could stand up long enough to make it down there.

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The boat's rocking was hypnotic. Sam sighed contently in Sarah's arms, her warmth and soothing voice easing his frayed nerves. His latest nightmare had been particularly vivid, and had she not been there, he doubted he'd have returned to sleep at all.

Thanks to her, sleep was now all he wanted. He closed his eyes, letting his forehead press against Sarah's on the pillow. He felt his body relaxing.

Dean shuffled past the door again, making yet another pilgrimage to the bathroom. His brother's seasickness had been unexpected. Sam was glad they'd bought some seasick patches before leaving the waterfront. Dean was going to need them.

Dean…. There was something about Dean. Something he was supposed to be worrying about….

Dean!

Dean needed his help.

Sam opened his eyes. The boat's interior was gone, replaced by the now-familiar black void. Sam inhaled sharply, surprised by the change. The warmth and comfort of his memory of Sarah faded, leaving only the odd not-numb-not-anything feeling of his mental prison. Figures. The happy dreams are always short….

Shaking off the effects of the dream, he rolled over onto his back and sat up slowly. The memories of being on Sarah's boat were easier to shrug off than the more paralyzing ones from the cabin in Ohio. Sam idly wondered why Anthony had switched.

It really didn't matter, he supposed.

He pushed himself to his feet. He was becoming so accustomed to this place that he didn't even notice that he couldn't hear his grunt of effort or his clothes rustling. He moved to the "edge" of the void. Where whatever light there was here began to fade out into the nothingness beyond.

There was no wall, per se, no physical barrier. There was the calm, silent place where he was trapped, and a dome of inky black. Not really nothing, but not really anything either. Beyond that, he knew, lay control, five senses, the ability to feel and act.

And Dean. Dean was out there, too.

Sam wasn't sure it made sense even to him. He only knew that once through the black shell that formed his prison, he was in control of his real body again. The last time, Anthony was there too. They were sharing the same body, and it was like having another person inside him. There was a constant headache, pressure on his muscles and behind his eyes, like someone was competing for the same space in the universe as he was…and whoever could hold on the tightest won.

He'd lost the last time.

He ended his musings on his predicament. He needed to focus. He reached out for the nothingness that lay before him. The instant he made contact---if you could call anything "contact" in a place where there wasn't anything physical---he felt a nightmarish memory assault his mind.

Max aimed the handgun at his stepmother. Dean moved in front of her, trying to keep her safe. Max pulled the trigger with his mind and the contents of Dean's head exploded onto the dull, featureless white walls.

It wasn't like the memories of Drew. It didn't suck him in. He didn't relive it. He was just an observer. He chose to ignore it. It was easy, since he knew that the vision hadn't happened. Max hadn't killed Dean, because Sam had gotten there in time to save him. Just like Sam needed to now. He needed to get to Dean and nothing was going to stop him.

He moved past the memory of Max Miller, and pressed forward.

He stood next to Dean, staring down at the nondescript pine box that held John Winchester's remains. He could feel Dean's grief next to him like a wave breaking against him.

Their few friends, some more family than acquaintance, slowly filed away. Sarah offered a short, sympathetic condolence. It had been nice of her to fly down from New York. He wanted to thank her, but his own grief was drowning him, and he had to leave the extra effort to Missouri. He'd have to fix that later.

Dean spoke softly once their audience had left. "It's over."

The grief was too much, the loss too raw. Sam wanted to run away and hide. He couldn't face this again….

No!

Sam came back to himself, pulling out of the memory. It was harder this time; this memory was real---all too real. It had really happened that way, in the small cemetery outside Lawrence.

Sam tried to pull himself together. He was on his knees at the edge of the void. That wasn't the way out. That path led only to pain.

He rose and moved along the perimeter. The exit was there. He'd found it before. He would again.

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Anthony drummed his fingers impatiently on the Impala's steering wheel. It was 7:15. Sherry was late.

He didn't particularly care about this woman. He didn't know her, past Dean's half-hearted description. She was just a toy, really, a chance for him to play with his new body. He'd use her for a while, then move on. Hors d'oeuvres when there was an all-you-can-eat buffet to be had. He could do anything he wanted.

Though, he would be more careful this time. He'd made a mistake with Ryan. He should have finished off Brenda and Ryan at the same time. Instead, he'd let the authorities get involved, and Ryan had taken advantage of his vulnerability. He couldn't let that happen again.

He felt Sam, clawing at the walls of his cage. The young hunter was trying to escape again. He wasn't getting anywhere soon, though; from the looks of it, Sam was being repulsed by his own bad memories. It was a well-constructed cage. But, if Sam did get out again, he was going right back to his nightmares of Drew, regardless of whatever deals Anthony had made with Dean.

Anthony figured that was the fail-safe, the guarantee that Sam would stay relegated to the backburner, impotent. Exactly where he wanted him.

He glanced at the clock. 7:20. Sherry's lateness was heading for "stood up" territory. That angered Anthony more than he'd like to admit. He didn't really care about her, but he'd been stood up enough to still hate the feeling on principle. That was a feeling he was sure ego-ridden assholes like Dean knew nothing about---

Dean.

Something wasn't right about this.

Anthony thought about what he'd seen before leaving the motel. Sam's impressive memory came in handy. He'd seen Dean, lying on the bed in the same place that he'd been when Anthony had gone into the shower. Nothing---

Wait, no. Dean had moved to the top of the bed. Next to his phone.

Sonnuva bitch!

Anthony pounded the steering wheel with his fist. Dean must have warned Sherry that it was a setup. The little bastard had been playing on his sympathies the whole time!

Anthony started the car, throwing it into drive with a growl. Forget a few days…he was going to finish off Dean tonight.

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Sierra Vista hospital was small, compared to some of the medical facilities Dean had seen before. Of course, with the life his family had led, he'd been in and out of hospitals of all sizes, and after a while, he didn't even notice the differences anymore, only the uncanny similarities.

He rested his head for a moment---any longer and he'd surely fall asleep---before opening the door of the stolen Volkswagen and climbing to his feet. For once, he didn't even care about the car he'd hotwired in the motel lot. Beggars couldn't be choosers. Or so his Dad had occasionally mentioned.

He was tired. Anthony had done a professional job of feeding on him, and it was only the caffeine in the extra-strong coffee he'd hastily purchased on the way here that kept him on his feet. It didn't have enough sugar in it, but it would have to do.

Twenty minutes had passed since he'd left the motel room. Anthony probably knew something was up by now, presuming that Sherry hadn't made their "date," and that Anthony wasn't taking out his anger on some poor innocent off the street. Either way, it meant that he didn't have time to waste.

He'd decided on the direct approach. He walked in through the front door and headed straight for the large glass sign cabinet with the building map. No one challenged his entrance. It was 7:30, still visiting hours, and several people were moving through the lobby. He blended in well enough; though he knew he had to look pretty rough. He hadn't shaved in two days, and he'd only managed a half-hearted cleanup, enough to change his clothes and bandage his bloody arm.

He found the pharmacy on the map by the nurse's station. It was on the first floor, in the north wing of the building. It looked fairly secluded, and he hoped that there wouldn't be many staffers near it. He just hoped his luck held out for a few more minutes.

He moved casually down the hallway---noting all the exits and stairwells, in case he needed a fast getaway, and the lack of security cameras---and even managed a convincing smile to a few of the nurses and passing visitors. He hoped they didn't notice how stiffly he was moving or how bleary-eyed he was. Just a little while longer and this will all be over….

It had to be, because if he failed, he doubted Anthony would let him live through the night.

The pharmacy was mostly just a door covered in caution labels, and a small pickup window for the orderlies to leave and retrieve prescriptions. Unfortunately, the door was locked. Great. He had neglected to bring his lock-pick, which was probably a good thing since, on second glance, the door was wired with an alarm.

It was time for a more subtle approach. He found an uncomfortable-looking bench just a few feet away from the pharmacy door, moved to it and started fidgeting with his cell phone. Sitting would be unwise, he decided, since at this point, he'd sleep on anything, so he stood, leaning on the wall and trying to look casual.

He kept a covert eye on the area, and waited. There was little traffic through this section of the building, and he noted that there wasn't anyone actually in the pharmacy either. He heard footsteps behind him, and returned his gaze to the phone.

A young man, not much older than Sam and with the same hairstyle, walked by and approached the pharmacy door. He was typing something on a PDA, and took no notice of anyone else in the hall. Dean pocketed his phone, double-checked to make sure they were alone, and took a calming breath.

The man produced a ring of keys, and found the right one without taking his eyes off the PDA screen. Good, Dean thought, that means he probably can shut off the alarm too.

The door opened, and Dean waited until the shorter man had entered a code on the door's keypad. The red alarm light turned green. The man was halfway inside before Dean pounced. He grabbed the man by the shoulders, kicked the door all the way shut, and pushed his prisoner up against the wall. The PDA went clattering across the floor. The man was startled, and Dean clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle the cry of fear. For a moment, the man struggled. Dean kept him pinned against the wall, placing him in a head lock and cutting off the younger man's air. All struggling stopped a few moments later.

The young doctor, or whatever he was, collapsed bonelessly, and Dean guided him to the floor, checking his pulse on the way down. He'd wake up with a headache, but he should be all right. Dean stood and headed over to the storage cabinets.

He tried to clear his mind and remember the name of the drug he needed. After the showdown with the yellow-eyed demon, he'd been in and out of consciousness a lot during his stay in the hospital. Once, he'd pulled some of his sutures---reaching for the TV remote of all things---and the doctors had gone back in to re-stitch them. It was a quick procedure, and they'd given him a shot that put him out for a very short time.

Sam had said it was about ten minutes.

That was what he needed now. The problem was he couldn't remember what it was called. The doctor had told him, talking in that annoying monotone they liked to use to "relax" you. Dean had always found that tone irritating.

Prop--- Propo-something… Propane? No, stupid, that's not right….

Dean knew it was similar though, so he scanned the shelves for a word that started like that.

He'd gone through three cabinets when he finally found a tray labeled with the name Propofol emulsion. Gotcha!

Dean pulled the tray of syringes out and placed it on the counter. The syringes were plastic, and after reading the fine-print, he discovered that they were single-dose injectors. Perfect.

He laid two out on the counter, then used his sleeve to wipe his fingerprints off the tray, and placed it back on the shelf.

Turning, he noticed that the young doctor that he'd knocked out was stirring slowly. "Come on, Doogie Howser, I got to keep you hidden until I'm outta here."

Dean placed his hands under the unconscious man's arms and dragged him over to a closet on the far side of the small room. He opened the door with one hand, then stuffed the shorter man inside.

He closed the closet door, and pulled a nearby chair over to block it, then retrieved the small syringes, placed them gently into his wrist holster, and quietly left the pharmacy, turning the lights out on his way through the door.

The corridor was still empty. Thanking whatever deity was listening for small favors, he made his way down the hall and out one of the unlocked doors leading to the side parking lots.

It was time to face the music.

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Sam pulled back, shaking off the memory of the daevas beating him and Dean unconscious. It was hard to relive it, but this was still the weakest part of the cage he had found, and the easiest to push through. This was his way out.

He just needed to gather his strength, because after he fought his way outside, he'd still have Anthony to contend with. And the demented psychic wouldn't be happy, Sam was certain of that.

Sam extended his hands, ready to push into his escape route, when something shifted around him. He glanced up, noticing that the perimeter of the void was moving violently, like a boiling sea of black ink. This had happened earlier, when Anthony had gotten angry with Dean for trying to escape.

Something was enraging Anthony, and it was weakening the walls of Sam's prison. He smiled to himself. It was more than likely his brother's doing.

Good job, Dean…just don't get yourself killed….

Sam started to push.

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Dean parked the stolen Volkswagen in a remote corner of the motel's parking lot, away from prying eyes, and climbed out with a tired grunt. He checked the syringe, making sure the plastic cover was still in place, then slipped it into his pocket.

The Impala was parked in front of the room. Great. Dean thought glumly. Anthony was there. Here we go….

He crept quietly up the poorly-lit walkway. It was almost eight o'clock, and cloudy, making the spring evening gloomy, and shrouding the area in darkness. He got within ten feet of the door and hesitated, wondering if Anthony could sense his presence somehow. If the deranged killer had any kind of precognitive ability---which wasn't outside the realm of possibility, given whose body he was currently occupying---then all this work would be for nothing.

Dean steeled himself. He had no choice. Anthony had to be stopped. Sam needed to be saved. It was as simple as that.

He thought about Missouri's suggestion earlier, and hoped it wasn't for nothing. He summoned the image of an astronaut's bulky spacesuit in his mind, then imagined what it would look like from the inside.

It wasn't as hard as he'd feared. He and Sam had used their imaginations for more than hunting…once upon a time. They'd played aliens vs. astronauts inside spaceships made of cardboard boxes. They'd played deep sea diver hunting "evil" sea monsters and---Dean's favorite---evil mermaids. Their Dad had occasionally looked up from whatever he was researching and rolled his eyes, muttered about wild kids and crazy games. On the really rare occasions, he'd even left the dining room table and played the monster.

Dean missed his father most when he remembered those all-too-infrequent moments; when John, the great hunter, was just Dad, and he and Sammy were the happiest children on Earth. If only for a few minutes.

So, imagining himself inside a space suit wasn't as ridiculous as he'd told Missouri. In fact, it wasn't that hard at all. He donned his "suit" in his mind, and marched up to the door ready to save his brother. Anthony had forced Sam to relive the worst night of his life, his abduction, over and over. Tortured Sam with it.

Anthony was going to die. For good, this time.

He opened the door and carefully stepped in, all memory of his exhaustion forgotten in a surge of adrenaline.

Almost anticlimactically, Anthony was sitting on the edge of the closest bed, arms crossed petulantly over his---no, Sam's---chest, obviously fuming.

Dean stepped into the room all the way and closed the door. No need to alert any passersby to the trouble that was about to start. He edged along the wall, trying to get close without leaving himself open. But, he acknowledged, the telekinesis made that a questionable tactic. He made sure that as he moved, he kept up the image of the ponderous spacesuit surrounding him in his mind.

Anthony spoke without looking up, his tone low and angry. "You warned the cop? Told her not to come?"

Dean had never seen this expression on his brother's face, this raw hatred, not even when Sam thought about Drew. There was no humanity in this face.

"I should have known you wouldn't give in so easy," Anthony rumbled.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked innocently. "Get stood up, Psychic Boy?"

He immediately regretted his choice of words. That was a term of endearment he'd used with Sammy…he didn't want it related to this monster.

Anthony's eyes latched onto Dean's, and for a moment, Dean faltered. The hatred he'd seen in the face had transformed into blind fury.

Anthony moved faster than Dean would have thought possible. Not for the first time, Dean regretted Sam's football player build, as the psychic grabbed him by the shoulders and flung him bodily into the wall. His feet actually cleared the ground by a few inches.

Dean twisted in mid-air, desperate to keep from landing on the syringe in his pocket, and hit the wall left arm first. Pain exploded in the limb, Dean remembering too late that Anthony had been cutting him there just a short time before. He saw stars for a moment, but had no time to recover as Anthony was on top of him again, slamming him back into the wall and adding vertigo to the lightshow going on behind his eyes.

Dean focused on maintaining the image of the space suit as one of Anthony's hands closed around his throat and the other gripped the side of his head.

"The date's off," Anthony hissed icily. "But dinner's still on."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He was an astronaut. There was an alien Sammy trying to eat him, but the suit kept it out. His suit was impenetrable.

I'll be damned….

It was working.

Then Dean vaguely heard a curse.

"What the---? Oh, very cute, Dean. A shield? Please. You're psychic friend obviously didn't know about the back door."

Psychic friend? Does he know about Missouri? A spark like static electricity popped against his head, and pain spiked inside Dean's skull---the same feeling from when Anthony had told him about the link to Sam. The image of the space suit shattered.

His eyes snapped open, and saw Anthony leaning over him, grinning with satisfaction. "Shields don't work when the victim has a built-in link that lets me in, Dean-o…."

Crap. Dean's chances were fading rapidly. He fumbled for the syringe, hoping that surprise would still give him the edge. He almost had it when he saw Anthony jerk backwards, releasing Dean's head.

The tall psychic flinched, once, twice...then swayed as if about to fall. The eyes rose again, and Dean sighed in relief when they met his.

"Dean…?"

Dean laughed out loud, "You've got fantastic timing, Sammy…."

Sam suffered some kind of spasm, grimacing. His neck was distended a little, veins bulging with the stress of whatever war was being waged inside of him. "He's--- He's gonna kill you this time. I can feel it…. Dean---"

"Don't worry, Sam," Dean said quickly, pulling out the syringe. "Got everything under control, now, little bro."

Before Sam could ask how that was, Dean pulled the plastic guard off the needle with his teeth, quickly checked for any unwanted air bubbles, grabbed the right side of Sam's neck, and brought the syringe up with his right hand. He jabbed it into Sam's jugular and depressed the plunger in one motion. He pulled it back out as gently as he could.

The reaction was almost immediate. Sam pulled away from him, stumbling backwards and holding his neck where the needle had entered. "Dean…?"

Dean pushed himself upright against the wall and stepped forward, mentally ticking off the seconds.

Sam swayed drunkenly, and his eyes visibly dulled.

Almost….

Dean moved forward, placing his hands under his brother's arms. He wasn't quite strong enough at the moment to catch Sam's six-foot-four bulk, so instead he redirected the kid's momentum, dumping him unceremoniously onto the closest bed. A few seconds after dropping, Sam's eyes slid shut.

Dean staggered to the bedside and carefully checked Sam's pulse. It was as strong as ever, and the breaths were steady and deep. Sam was asleep.

Dean couldn't wait around to make sure Sam was comfortable, so he left his brother's legs where they were, oddly angled out with feet still on the floor. It looked uncomfortable as hell, but with any luck, Sam wouldn't have to stay that way long.

Setting the timer on his watch for ten minutes, the length of time he hoped he would have, Dean moved quickly toward the door, snagging the car keys on his way.

As far as he could tell, Anthony hadn't let Sam sleep in the past two days; hopefully, natural exhaustion would keep Sam under a little longer. Dean checked his watch as he dropped into the Impala's driver's seat. Nine minutes.

If he pushed it, Dean could make it over to the cemetery in less than five minutes. He suspected there was only about ten minutes worth of digging left to do from where he and Sam had left off the other night.

So, Dean figured that in about twenty minutes, Anthony would be history.

His adrenaline high was already wearing off, though. He prayed to God---truly prayed---that he'd make it that long.

TBC