Sam drained the shot glass and lined it up carefully with the rest of the glasses. "Man, I love me some fucking tequila!"
Were there really thirteen shot glasses? Shit.
Awesome.
He looked around for the bartender. Nowhere in sight.
"Can't leave it at thirteen," he mumbled, listing sideways on the stool. "Unlucky number." He got up, staggered and caught himself on the bar. "Hey, bartender!"
"Sam?" A firm hand wrapped around his arm and he twisted around to see Dean's familiar scowl. "What the hell?"
"Dean!" he slurred. "Dude, you're behind! Sam thirteen. Saint Dean fucking zero! Drink up!"
