"You don't know?" Sam's voice rose, "What do you mean you don't know?" In his state of agitation and frustration, Sam was barely able to control himself and not lunge at Bobby.

Seeing Sam's tight face and clenched fists, Bobby held up his hands peaceably and grumbled, "Now hold on there, Rocky Balboa. I don't know—yet. There are some theories out there. I'm waiting for a call back from someone I trust. He'll know for sure."

Sam relaxed his hands and sighed out an apology. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm just . . . I'm scared—for Dean."

Bobby gazed sympathetically at the tall hunter, who, at that exact moment, looked far younger than his years. "I know, son. I know. You may not believe it, but I am too."

Glancing over at his brother, Sam said, "I have a feeling Dean's running out of time. When is this guy supposed to call you back?"

"Should be anytime now. Why don't you go take a shower? Try and relax a little. I'll clean up and keep watch."

Not knowing what else to do, Sam ran a hand over his face and nodded in agreement. He walked to the bathroom, shutting the door softly instead of giving in to the urge to slam it shut. After turning on the water, Sam stripped quickly, stepped into the small tub, and snapped the orange shower curtain closed. Adjusting the nozzle to better accommodate his height, he ducked his head beneath the rushing spray and let the water soak his longish hair. With strong, slender fingers Sam massaged his scalp, easing away the last of his headache. The cascade of hot water also helped loosen tight muscles that were bruised and sore from his recent encounters with Dean. Resting his palms on the green-tiled wall, arms straight, Sam leaned forward, closed his eyes, and purposely blanked his mind of all thought. He stood that way for several minutes, simply breathing deeply. Finally feeling more steady and in control, Sam soaped up, rinsed, and terminated the flow of water with a hasty twist of the metal knob.

He quickly toweled off with the only dry towel left in the bathroom, combed his fingers through his still-damp dark hair, and re-dressed. After a moment of hesitation, Sam grabbed his toothbrush, squeezed a generous bead of mint Colgate on the bristles, and energetically brushed his teeth—if for no other reason than that it felt absolutely normal. After spitting and rinsing, he returned to the outer room, pleased and hopeful to see Bobby on the telephone.

Sam checked on Dean, who was still asleep, before sitting down on the edge of his own bed to wait for Bobby to finish.

The conversation ended a few minutes later.

"Was that the guy?" The words were out of Sam's mouth before Singer had time to flip his cell phone closed.

"Yeah, that was him."

"So what do we have to do?"

"You aren't gonna like it."

"Bobby, tell me," demanded Sam, "What do we have to do?"

The older man sighed. "This guy says that if the Encantora summons Dean again, and you and I know she will, we have to let him go."

"WHAT? No. No way. That's crazy. Bobby, look at him!" Sam gestured toward his sleeping brother. "He's too sick. For God's sake, he can barely stay awake anymore, let alone stand and go anywhere. We can't just let him walk into a trap!"

"That's why we have to follow him."

"But if she gets her hands on him—"

"Sam, we don't have a choice. We can take care of the Encantora, but that alone won't save Dean. We need to get our hands on that secespita. It's essential to breaking the curse."

Worry painted itself across Sam's expressive face. He didn't like this plan at all.

"How's he even gonna make it to her?"

"She's an animator, remember? She'll pretty much be in control of his movements. Believe me, she'll give him enough strength to get to her."

"God, I hate this. I feel like I'm sending a lamb to its slaughter." Sam slumped down on his bed.

"H-Heard that, Sam-my. C'mon. A l-l-lamb? Way to insult your b-bad-ass big brother."

Surprised, Sam looked up to see Dean gazing at him with tired, bleary eyes. There was a ghost of a smile curving his mouth.

"So you heard what Bobby says we have to do?"

"Yeah."

"Dean, I don't—"

"Gotta do it."

"But—"

"N-No choice, Sam."

Even when he was sick, the implacable Winchester stubbornness rang through loud and clear in Dean's tone. Sam knew—had known all along—that it wasn't an argument he could win. He sighed and looked at Bobby.

"So, what, we just wait around now for her to call him?"

"Yeah, that," Bobby nodded, "and we prepare what we need to get rid of her."

"And that would be?"

"Eventually, a consecrated iron round to the head and the heart."

When Sam grimaced, Bobby grumbled, "Gotta remember she's no longer human, Sam. She's gonna look as human as you or I, but she's not. She gave it up when she chose to become an Encantora."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. What else do we need?"

"Rock salt rounds in case she conjures any spirits to use against us. Skullcap, lavender, and Holy water. And I need to find the correct unbinding spell."

"Let's get to it then," muttered Sam.

The next hour passed quietly, if not quickly, as the younger man gathered together the various items they needed while Bobby poured over a collection of his books looking for that unbinding spell.

"Got it!" exclaimed Bobby suddenly, shattering the charged silence into which they had fallen. He pointed a finger at the page in front of him.

Sam bounded up from where he was sitting on the bed. Nervous energy radiated off of him in waves. He read the spell over Bobby's shoulder. "So that's it—we have everything ready then?"

"We're good to go."

"Hey," whispered Dean, "you guys might wanna get rid of these then." He weakly rattled the handcuffs still anchoring him to the bed.

Marching around the bottom of the bed, Sam undid the lock mechanism and released the cuff from around his brother's wrist, rubbing gently, guiltily, at the red mark left behind.

"Bobby, how long do you think it'll be before she tries summoning him?"

"My guess is it won't be too long."

"You sure about this, Dean." Sam chewed at his bottom lip.

"Quit worrying, Sam. I . . . I know you guys got my back."

Dean's words were meant to sooth, but they fell on deaf ears. Sam would worry every second Dean was in danger. However, he wouldn't let it interfere with protecting Dean in every way imaginable. After all, he, too, was his father's son—a hunter—and had learned his lessons well.

Bobby's prediction that the Encantora wouldn't wait too much longer proved to be all too true. Not long after Sam had released the handcuff, Dean rocked forward, gasped, and grabbed at his head, moaning as a tidal wave of pain overtook him. After a few seconds, his hands dropped to his sides. With unnatural speed and alacrity given his physical condition, he gained his feet and sauntered across the room and out the door, never faltering. Never once looking back.

Sam and Bobby followed him out the door and slid into the waiting Impala. Noting the direction in which Dean headed, Sam started the car, calmed by its reassuring throaty rumble.

The elder Winchester paid absolutely no attention as the sleek, shiny black car followed him out of the parking lot and continued to keep pace with him as he hurried up the street.