Sam looked like he'd just swallowed something awful. "Not funny, Bobby."

Bobby went on. "That spell I gave you will mimic death, giving you a small window of time where the person can survive in a coma-like state until the spell is reversed. Your breathing, heart rate, all normal functions will all be so low as to be virtually undetectable."

"So," Dean said, "you're talking about playing possum."

"That's the idea," Bobby affirmed. "Trick the nymph into thinking she's killed one of you, and then leave her hanging for the inevitable sob-fest that's sure to follow. After a few minutes of not getting anything out of you, she should start to waste away to nothing."

Dean tapped his fingers against his leg. "Okay, but won't this nympho-thing know if we're not really dead? I mean, it kind of sounds like she's into doing this professionally, you know. Offing people."

"It's a spell. It's designed to put one over on folks. Professionally."

Sam cleared his throat. "Just to be clear, Bobby," he said. "There's… no question of us being brought back, right? The spell can definitely be reversed."

"Boy. Do you think I'm that much of a moron?"

Dean stifled a grin. "Awesome," he said, picking up and reading over the list of items Sam had written down. "What do I have to do to make this work?"

"No. Me. I'm doing it," Sam said curtly. He looked at Dean and saw his brother's face set in a way that meant he was already digging in his heels. "Dean," he started.

"Absolutely frigging not," Dean said. "If either of us is doing this, it's me."

"You don't get to just decide that."

"The hell I don't."

"Okay, look," Bobby interrupted. "Have your little pissing match on your own time. Either way, whichever one of you doesn't do the spell has to stand by and keep a lid on your emotions long enough for the nymph to die off. She should be toast within a few minutes, and you'll have ten good minutes before you absolutely have to administer the counterspell."

"Ten minutes before what?" Dean asked, suddenly liking the plan less. "What happens after ten minutes?"

"The same thing that would happen if you didn't pull someone out of the water in time. Just don't let it go that long."

Dean chewed the inside of his lip. After a beat, he said, "Got it. Thanks, Bobby." He ended the call.

Dean looked across the table at Sam. "No," he said just as Sam was opening his mouth.

"Dean, listen."

"Sam—"

"Okay, wait. Just wait." Sam stood up next to his chair and held out a fist. "We'll throw for it. Rock paper scissors. Winner does the spell, deal?"

Dean shook his head. "Really, Sam?"

Sam nodded insistently. So Dean shrugged. And threw scissors.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, jamming his hands into his pockets and instinctively feeling for the folded piece of paper that held the words to the counterspell.

Sam met his eyes and gave him a half-hearted smile. It was meant to be reassuring, Dean knew, but all it did was ratchet up the tension. There was nothing to do in that moment but wait. Not with guns drawn and a plan of action, but rather a plan of inaction, which felt like every kind of wrong.

Sam was standing a few feet in front of him with his back to the pool, its dark, still surface reflected calmly behind him in the warm night air, and after-hours security lights cast long shadows over the rows of neatly stacked deck chairs and tightly closed patio umbrellas.

"Dean," Sam said uneasily, breaking the silence. "How long has it—"

It's like slow motion, with his eyes on Sam's face seeing the transition from surprise to fear to the realization of what's happening. That they planned this. That something is pulling him down, back, underwater, and that Dean can't—won't—help.

"Sam!"

The moment Sam hit the water, his entire body went unnaturally limp, and Dean stopped breathing at pretty much exactly the same moment. He had to force himself to draw his next breath, and he started counting seconds in his head because otherwise his thoughts would disintegrate into an irrational stream of no-no-no-no and he needed to shut that down.

He looked down at the ground in front of him, away from Sam floating face-down and unmoving in the cold, dark pool, which felt wrong, so very wrong. He locked his hands into fists at his sides and focused everything he had on the idea that Sam was fine—would be fine.

Take care of your brother, Dean. Take care of Sammy.

Dean was almost knocked over by a rising swell of panic.

What the hell was he doing?

He struggled to regain his hold on the idea that Sam was fine.

But no, screw that. Screw everything. He was putting his brother's life on the line, and for what? This was insane. He was probably already too late. They didn't have any assurance that the spell even worked. Was he supposed to stand there and watch Sam drown.

He needed to get Sam out of the water. Now.

Dean made a move toward the pool, and then stopped, the hair on the back of his neck rising.

He was acutely aware of the feeling of being watched.

To be continued.