Attention: for some reason there seem to be more hits for chapter ten than chapter nine - which just defys all logic. I added the two chapters on the same day, so it's possible that many people just went straight to the last one without knowing there were TWO new chapters. Make sure you've read or at least skim-read them all, or the story wont make very much sense. ;-)

Onwards with chapter eleven!

Disclaimer: I un-claim all of this. Its not mine. Well, I wrote it but I dont really own it. It is FANFICTION after all...

Dean was restless. The calming buzz of the beer he'd consumed and the afterglow from his recent social encounter were both beginning to wear off. And his leg was itching like hell.

Dean's slowly clearing mind meant that he had become aware of something. The fact that Sam had been gone for little over an hour with absolutely no word at all was beginning to bother him. Dean knew Sam was smart and he would call – but not because he wanted to. It had something to do with Sam's intuitive knowledge of Dean's mind - something Dean himself didn't understand. Sam would always call because he knew that Dean would get worried and big-brotherey; even if Dean hadn't yet realised that his palms were sweating and his mind was racing because of that that funny little thing called worry.

But Dean could sense his own concern now, and this told him that something wasn't quite right. He felt like a pathetic teenager waiting for a boy to call as he sat and willed his phone to ring. Upon discovering that he - unlike Sam - had no remarkable mental abilities, Dean gave up and hopped his way to the bathroom. Still a little bit light-headed, Dean promptly wobbled and fell against the coffee table.

Dean considered the situation. There were several possible scenarios that arose in his mind that explained why Sam hadn't called. Sam could have found an important lead and was so engrossed in the case that he hadn't thought to call Dean. Sam could be very, very hurt. The car could have broken down, and Sam's cell might not be working. Courtney might have rang Sam as an obscurely disguised booty-call and she and Sam could currently be going at it on the kitchen floor (something Dean did not want to mull over).

"Shit," Dean exclaimed to no-one in particular. He told himself his frustration was due to the fact he was finding it difficult to use the bathroom and control his balance at the same time, but inwardly he knew his worry over Sam was beginning to take its toll. He had tried to do something – anything – to take his mind off Sam. He'd messed around with the settings on his cell phone, so now when someone rang it played the gratifying riff from Thunderstruck. He'd started to watch Jurassic Park, but somehow he couldn't focus enough to enjoy it. He'd sharpened some of his knives and set all his laundry aside, ready for washing the next day.

Dean let out a sigh of relief when he heard a car pull up at the motel just as he hopped his way from the bathroom. But the feeling didn't last long – Sam would've called out to Dean as he walked to the motel door, and the silhouette through the window wasn't nearly close to Sam's imposing 6'4" frame. And when the person spoke in a voice more nervous than he felt, Dean was sure it wasn't Sam.

"Dean? Sam?"

Sam sucked in a breath. It was always times like this that he had to actually remind himself to breathe. He could hear Courtney's car drive away from the house and tried not to focus on the fact that she was headed for Dean.

Dean who was alone. Dean who was injured and intoxicated. Dean who had no idea of the kind of danger he was in.

If only I'd stalled her for longer… Sam's thoughts were all useless "if only"s and painful images of Dean's looming death. Sam pushed them out of his mind and tried to focus on his immediate surroundings. He told himself he had to get out of the almost mockingly comfortable room and to Dean's side as fast as he could before Courtney… before Dean...

Sam inhaled again. He had to find a way out of that chair and out of that room. He wriggled his body, testing his bonds. Courtney was very bad at knots, but Sam discovered this wasn't a good thing. The messy tangle of ropes didn't seem to have a beginning or an end and Sam couldn't find a way to loosen the unstructured knots. Besides, he thought glumly, he couldn't free his hands from his side to loosen the ropes anyway.

He thought back to when he left the motel and tried to remember what weaponry he has crammed into his various pockets before leaving. The rock salt in his back pocket was completely inaccessible and clearly useless. Courtney had taken his pistol and his favourite hunter's knife.

Sam couldn't remember if he had his pocket knife in his jeans pocket or not and shifted his body, feeling for its shape. He discovered with a frustrated expletive that he'd either forgotten his knife or had it taken from him.

Sam remembered the last thing he'd taken from the motel before leaving for Salé earlier that night. He'd seized the spare room key and tucked it into his shoe. It was Dean's tendency of losing unimportant items like keys which had made Sam habitually keep the spare key in a very safe location.

Sam peered down at his feet. He knew he could use the key to saw through the ropes around his hands which would hopefully free his arms enough to untie the rest of him. While the key wasn't particularly sharp, Sam had had practice in his younger years of cutting through rope with much blunter objects. Not for the first time, Sam was very grateful for his abnormal upbringing.

He tried to use his left foot to wrestle the shoe off his right, but the ropes strained and his feet didn't have enough room to move. Sam leaned back in the chair and put all his energy in loosening the ropes around his feet as the rest of the ropes tightened around his waist and neck, effectively cutting off access to his lungs. He managed to hook one foot around the other and, with a tentative manoeuvre of his feet, push of his right shoe. He heard the satisfying clink of the key hitting the hardwood floor and let out a breath.

Sam leaned to the side of the chair in an attempt to throw of his balance and was only slightly aware of how ridiculous he must look. Experience had taught him that untying himself was generally much easier when he was resting at least partially on the ground. The chair didn't tip.

He tried again, with more energy, and soon he was violently rocking himself side to side and the chair began to lurch. Eventually it rocked and fell with a crash, and the chair which was now resting on its side. He'd knocked over the coffee table during the motion and the floor was now littered with cardboard drink coasters and a photo frame had fallen and hit him in the arm. The key was less than a foot from his knee.

Sam wriggled in his ropes, and the upholstered chair shook and slowly nudged across the floor inch by inch. He heard a click and the foot rest of the chair swung out, pushing his extravagantly tied up feet along with it. "Shit," Sam muttered as he saw his foot make contact with the key which slid across the room and under the sofa.

"Courtney?" Dean asked, leaning on the bathroom doorframe. "Sam's not with you?"

"No. He said he'd meet me more than an hour ago and I haven't seen him. He's not answering his cell." Courtney's voice was muffled, but Dean could sense the concern in her hurried words.

"He left. He left to meet you right after you called," Dean stammered out. He felt as though he'd been sucker-punched in the stomach. He wobbled awkwardly into his wheelchair and approached the door.

"Did you check Dylan's? He might have gone inside without you."

"He wasn't there. The place was empty."

"Well, I should go look for him…" Dean said, trying to open the door. It was locked. "Wait a minute, I'll let you in." He scanned the apartment for the key. The room started to spin a little bit and go blurry – but not in a pleasant alcohol-induced way.

"Shit. Look, are you sure he wasn't there?" Dean shouted as he rifled through his bedside drawer for the key which he was sure he had last. Sam always took the spare key, but Dean definitely had the other one. He found the key underneath a pile of take-out menus and moved towards the motel door. "He can't just not be there! You didn't hear him? Did you check everywhere he could be?" Dean's voice had risen much more than he'd meant it to and he took several deep breaths to calm down.

"Yes, Dean, I did. I went in there," Courtney said, her voice not sounding less anxious and more frustrated. "There was no-one there, it was like Dylan just left. I didn't see anyone and the lights were still on and everything was silent… except that Dylan's television was still on playing Jurassic Park."

Dean froze, key poised in the lock. He turned and looked at the copy of Jurassic Park resting on the coffee table.

"Oh, uh, wrong key."

Please reveiw - I'll love you forever! The story hasn't got long to go now and you wont get many more opportunities to tell me how much you hated it! ;-)