No Dominion

By Inzane

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Chapter title and quote are from the poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas.

Summary: After a year of increasingly desperate research, Sam finally accepts that there is no way to break Dean's deal. But that doesn't mean he's giving up.

A/N: Thank you for all of the kind reviews. They keep my muse alive and kicking.

Warning: Language, mild violence, and angry Winchesters.


Chapter 2: Rage Against

"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Dylan Thomas

The only sound in the motel room was the soft whirring of the air conditioning unit as the words Sam had just said bounced around inside Dean's skull. No matter how many times he tried to figure out some possible different meaning for those words, they still came out the same.

"I have to die," Dean replied flatly, as if he expected Sam to tell him that he'd heard it wrong.

"Yeah," Sam replied, a pained expression on his face. He shifted uncomfortably, then added, "And go to Hell."

"Huh." Dean stared blankly as his brain processed the additional information. Then his eyes focused and found Sam's. "I hate to say it, Sammy, but your plan sucks."

Sam looked down at the floor, hands folded. "Told you you wouldn't like it," he said, sounding once again like a twelve-year old.

Dean pushed himself off of the bed and started pacing, retracing the same path Sam had taken earlier.

"What's to like? I die and go to Hell. Which is exactly what I was going to do in the first place. I really don't see how this constitutes a plan, college boy."

Sam's breath caught in his throat, and he paused a moment to regain his composure. "There's more," he said quietly, almost hoping that Dean wouldn't hear.

Dean picked up on the slight tremor in Sam's voice and came to a halt. He turned and pinned his little brother with a glare. "Like, worse more?"

"Umm... that kind of depends on your point of view."

Sam knew what Dean's point of view would be, which was why he had been afraid to tell his brother about the plan in the first place. It was the more part of the plan that Dean wasn't going to like, so much so that Sam was afraid that he wouldn't be able to get Dean to cooperate. This wasn't going to work if Dean didn't cooperate. And it had to work.

It had to.

Dean waited for Sam to go on, but his brother was apparently having trouble getting his brain and his mouth to work in concert. Sam kept making abortive attempts to continue, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

"Dude, I haven't seen you this tongue-tied since you tried to ask out Tracy Anderson out in the 9th grade. Just spit it out!"

Sam ducked his head, and Dean could've sworn his brother was blushing. Whether it was from his current inability to form complete sentences or the memory of that rather embarrassing moment in his teen years, Dean couldn't say.

"It was Stacey Endicott," Sam muttered, and with that Dean found himself in danger of following up on his earlier threat of an ass kicking, puppy dog eyes be damned.

"Whatever!" Dean snapped. "Now, spill!"

"Okay!" Sam snapped back, getting to his feet so he could glare down at Dean, and even now, with events spiraling out of control, he still got a little thrill from the fact that he could glare down at his older brother.

Dean had always been--and, in some ways, was still--larger than life to Sam. When he'd gained those couple of inches on Dean, Sam felt that he could finally measure up to, maybe even surpass, his brother in something.

In Sam's eyes, Dean had always been the perfect son. He was better at fighting, hunting, playing pool, running scams--better at all the things that mattered in the Winchester world. Sometimes, he had tried to hate Dean for it, but he never could.

Sam still remembered the first time they both realized he was taller than Dean. He'd hit a major growth spurt in the 10th grade, and had been steadily creeping toward Dean's height for months. He'd made Dean stand back to back to compare their heights so many times that Dean had finally gotten irritated and refused to do it anymore.

Then things had gotten crazy with a hunt that had taken them two months and across three states, and Sam had sort of forgotten about his burgeoning height. He'd been too busy bitching (and he was grown up enough now to admit that it had been bitching) at Dad for moving them so often that he didn't have time to enroll in school. The most they stayed in one place was a week, ten days tops. Sam had always hated missing school, because he often felt like it was the only place where he could be the person he wanted to be, not the person Dad, and even sometimes Dean, expected him to be.

He'd been so busy hating every moment of that hunt that he'd gotten distracted, and Dean had paid the price. Sam had been engaged in general bitchery, running off at the mouth when he should've been watching what was going on around him. He should've paid for it with his life, but Dean had stood between him and whatever the thing was they had been hunting--Sam couldn't even remember, but it had been something with vicious claws, because it had managed to tackle Dean and put a few holes in him before Sam had realized what was happening. The younger Winchester had shot the thing in the head with consecrated iron shot four times before it died.

Sam had pushed the thing off of Dean and given his brother a hand up. And that had been the moment. Dean--standing there with bleeding gashes in his chest and splattered in monster brains, hanging on to Sam's hand so he wouldn't fall down--had to look up while Sam looked down. The brothers' eyes locked, and the moment of realization hit them.

Dean's brows had furrowed, and he'd grimaced, either from the pain of his injuries or from the realization--maybe both. Then he'd set his jaw and narrowed his eyes at his bigger-little brother, reluctantly accepting the now undeniable truth. Dean had said, "Don't think this means I can't still kick your ass," before promptly passing out.

Dean had always seemed invulnerable, like some hero in a comic book that could weather horrific danger with barely a scratch. That first moment Sam had realized that he was looking down at his brother instead of up had been something of an epiphany. It was the first time he'd really, truly accepted Dean's mortality.

It wasn't as if Dean hadn't been hurt before. Sam had lost count long ago of how many times his brother had ended up broken and bloody. But before, he'd always accepted that Dean would pull through without a hitch. Before, he'd never had doubts, never a moment of worry.

That moment, when Sam first looked down on a blood-stained Dean instead of up, he realized that his brother was not some untouchable superhero.

Dean was human. And he could die.

Sam closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, trying to push past the memory. It seemed the closer they got to Dean's expiration date, the more memories would flash through his mind, as if his brain was trying to eulogize a man who was already as good as dead.

Fuck that. Dean would have to die, but Sam was damn well going to make sure he didn't stay that way.

"All right," Sam said, his tone calmer. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, pushing it back from his face. "Just... sit down, okay?" When Dean didn't move, Sam added, "Please?" in a tone that held just enough desperation to cause his brother to relent.

"Fine." Dean said, crossing back over to the bed and sitting down on the edge. He felt like he wanted to scream, break things, do something that would ease the tension building inside of him. Instead, he put his hands on his knees, fingers digging in until the knuckles turned white, and said, "Tell me about this plan."


"Absolutely not!"

"Come on, Dean!" Sam half-yelled, half-pleaded. "You haven't even..."

"NO!"

"Dean..."

They'd been arguing for twenty minutes now, and though he hadn't thought it possible, Sam's desperation had increased with every lost minute. He hadn't even gotten to Dean's part in the scheme of things, except for the whole dying thing. After he'd told Dean what he intended to do, it had basically devolved into a Yes!/No! shouting match, and Sam was no closer to convincing Dean than he had been twenty minutes ago. His brother had a stubborn streak a mile wide, and he'd dug in his heels and would not be moved.

"Forget it, Sam! There's no fucking way I'm letting you do this."

Dean's thoughts were even more frantic than his words. No. No. Can't do it. I can't let him. I don't wanna die, don't wanna turn into one of them, and, Jesus, I'm scared. Scared shitless, and I'd risk almost anything, any fucking thing, but not this. Not him.

Sam stood toe to toe with his brother, once again looking slightly down and now suddenly wishing that he didn't have to. He found himself wondering how it had come to this--Dean's next to last day and they were on the verge of coming to blows. But then again, he'd known Dean wasn't going to like what he'd had to say, which is why he'd waited until the last minute to tell him.

It was also why he'd asked Dean to sit down first. Sam figured it would give him extra time to brace himself if Dean decided to argue with his fists.

Sam hesitated for a moment, because it was a cold, cold thing he was about to say. But Dean needed to understand that he wasn't being given a choice in the matter.

"How're you gonna stop me, Dean? You'll be dead."

Dean froze, and all hint of emotion fell from his face, transforming it into something Sam had rarely seen aimed at him. Sam barely had time to think, Oh, shit, before he found himself being slammed into the wall with Dean's forearm barring his throat, applying just enough pressure to let Sam know he meant business.

"I'm not dead yet," Dean said, his voice dropping an octave and deadly dangerous. Inside his head was a different matter. Inside, he was frantic and screaming, danger and terror and Save Sam.

Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's wrist and pulled to give himself some extra breathing room. "What're you gonna do? Put me in the hospital? Because that's the only way you're gonna stop me."

Sam saw the determination in Dean's eyes falter for just a second, and there was a hint of pain in those eyes, but then the stubbornness reasserted itself and Dean buried the pain like he always did.

"I'll do what I have to," Dean said, his earlier outburst replaced by quiet determination.

"Like you did what you had to last year?"

The muscles in Dean's jaw clenched a little tighter. "That's right."

"So why is what I'm about to do any different?"

Dean drew his arm slowly away from Sam's throat and took a step back. Why'd Sam have to go and get all logical on him? Damn college education. "It just is," Dean grumbled.

"Why?" Sam asked.

"Because I said so!" Dean snapped back, unable to come up with anything better. As soon as he said it, he knew he was losing ground in the argument, because Sam had never been one to accept that reason in his entire life. It was questions, always questions, with Sam, until he got an answer that he liked.

Sam took a step forward, pressing the advantage while he had it. "You think I wouldn't risk everything for you?"

Dean looked away, feeling a twinge of guilt he knew he shouldn't feel at the hurt on Sam's face. He shouldn't have to feel guilty about protecting his brother.

"I know you would, Sammy," Dean said softly. Those words, and the truth of them, were at the heart of Dean's problem.

"What, then? You think I can't do it?"

"Yes!" Dean blurted, then ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "No. I don't know." How did this get so out of his control? He did trust Sam. He did. But this was beyond crazy. Beyond dingo-ate-my-baby crazy. He shook his head. "But I'm saying you shouldn't. And you're not going to."

"The hell I'm not!"

"It's too dangerous! We could both end up dead! What good would that do anybody? In case you forgot, there's a war on out there!" Dean yelled, angrily pointing a finger toward the window and the world they were destined to save.

"I don't care!"

Dean grabbed ahold of the front of Sam's shirt, wanting to hug him and throttle him at the same time. "Sam, listen..." he began, feeling desperate and not liking it one bit, but Sam's desperation was greater than his own and he was cut off.

"No, Dean!" Sam yelled, grabbing Dean's wrists. "You listen! Selling your soul for me was one of the most generous, noble... and selfish things you've ever done. Yes, selfish," Sam repeated as Dean opened his mouth to protest. "You know it, and I know it. You saved me for your sake as much as my own. I know exactly how that feels. I don't wanna fight this war alone, man. I don't wanna face another day alone. I can't." Not again. "So it's my turn to be selfish, you got it?" He yanked Dean's hands from his shirt and growled, "Mine," through clenched teeth.

"What the hell you boys think you're doin'?"

At the first word, both Winchester's had simultaneously reached for the guns they each had concealed at the small of their backs. In concert, they turned and drew down on the intruder before he could finish his sentence.

Bobby Singer stood in the doorway, looking a bit scruffier than usual and supremely irritated at having two guns pointed at his face.


"Bobby," Sam and Dean said in unison, standing there with identical shell-shocked looks on their faces.

"Yeah, and you're lucky it's me, ya dumb shits, and not the cops," Bobby scolded gruffly. "You boys were raising enough ruckus, you could hear it across the parking lot!"

Bobby watched as the Winchester brothers slowly lowered their weapons and stared, rendered mute.

The elder hunter ignored the twinge of pain in his heart as he looked at Sam and Dean Winchester, standing together, maybe for the last time. These boys were the closest thing he had to a family--they were his family. Hell, like it or not, they'd been his family since the day John Winchester had shown up on his doorstep with a silent, wary little boy and his baby brother.

Sam and Dean had popped in and out of his life, time and again, gaining inches and months, sometimes years, while they were gone. He'd seen them grow from young boys--babies, really--to men, men he was proud to acknowledge that he'd had a hand in bringing up.

Sometimes he wished that he'd never held a gun on John Winchester and told his sorry ass to disappear. It had been a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing, and he'd realized, too late, that when he'd ordered John Winchester to get the hell gone, that would mean Sam and Dean would get the hell gone with him. To this day, he wouldn't admit, even to himself, just how much he'd missed them. They were his sons as much as they were John Winchester's. And it was a sad thing to say about a dead man, but Bobby knew that even though he'd only been there for bits and pieces of their lives, he was probably a better father to those boys than John Winchester had ever been.

Not like he'd had any other chances at being a father.

John Winchester may have been a hero. He may have been the one of the smartest, most driven hunters Bobby had ever seen. He may have given his life for his eldest son. But as a parent, John had pretty much sucked ass.

John had loved his sons. This Bobby knew, without a doubt. The problem was, Bobby Singer had always figured that love--real love--was akin to obsession. The way Bobby saw it, a father's love for his children should be an obsession--all consuming and all powerful. Unfortunately, there was only room in John Winchester's heart for one obsession. His desire to find the demon that had killed his wife had often supplanted his desire to do what was right for his boys. And, though the outward cause had been something else entirely, it had been this, at the heart of it, that had caused Bobby to threaten to fill John Winchester full of buckshot.

To see them now, these boys that he'd somehow let become his own, so close to unhinged and at each other's throats, was hard to handle. Tomorrow, they were going to lose Dean, maybe Sam too, if this thing didn't work.

This plan… it was absolute insanity. There were too many things that could go wrong. He'd tried to talk Sam out of it as best he could, but he'd known it wouldn't work. Bobby had seen it a year ago with Dean, but working with Sam over the past month, he could see it was the same with the younger Winchester.

They were lost without each other.

Not like Bobby was planning to tell them that. They wouldn't be at each others' throats right now if they didn't already know it.

Instead, he chose to remind them of that little fact the only way he knew how--by chewing out their dumb asses.

"Now, you wanna tell me why you two are 'bout to go at each other like a coupl'a rabid dogs?" Bobby continued, asking a question that he already knew the answer to. His eyes shifted to Sam.

He knew the answer, because he'd been arguing with Sam for the past week about it. One week until the demon came for Dean, and Sam still hadn't told his brother about the plan to save his soul. He knew that as of yesterday afternoon, Sam had still not told Dean, and it looked like the boy had decided to wait until the last minute.

Unless they had been arguing since yesterday, that is… which was entirely possible. After all, they were Winchesters.


Sam felt the weight of Bobby's gaze, and his expression immediately morphed from shock to guilt. He could see the disapproval in Bobby's eyes, and it heaped hurt on top of everything else he was feeling.

In his rebellious years, Sam had disappointed his father so many times that he'd convinced himself he had no longer cared. He'd always cared about what Bobby thought of him, though. Maybe it was because he'd always thought of Bobby as a kindred spirit, their love of books and research setting them apart from the regular hunting crowd. It threatened the little remaining control he had over his emotions to see Bobby stare disapprovingly at him like that, even if it was deserved.

Dean, however, was too wrapped up in freaking out over Sam's insanely risky solution to his death-and-Hell problem to notice the look that passed between Sam and Bobby.

"Man, I'm glad you're here," Dean said as he reached back to tuck his gun back into his waistband. "Maybe you can talk some sense into my dumbass of a brother," he added, giving Sam a sidelong glance.

Sam bit his lower lip and buried his hands in his pockets, suddenly finding the patterns in the carpet very interesting. Bobby's glare intensified, and this time, Dean did pick up on it. His head swiveled from Bobby to Sam and then back again. The significance of that looked clicked, and Bobby morphed from ally to enemy.

"So, what, you're in on it, too?" Dean asked, brows furrowing.

Anger warred with the hurt of betrayal, and it seriously sucked that it was not an unfamiliar feeling. He'd felt something similar when his dad had whispered those horrible words in his ear at the hospital, before the demon had come to take his soul. When Sam had just up and left and almost ended up getting them both killed by Gordon. When Sam had fucking died on him, and sure, it was kind of harsh to blame the kid for that one, but didn't he know that you don't go and do that to somebody? To Hell--heh, irony--with the fact that he was about to do the same damn thing. He was in no mood for comparisons between then and now.

Bobby's lips twisted down in a frown. Looked like the younger Winchester hadn't gotten very far in telling the older the details of his plan. Knowing Dean, though, he probably hadn't let Sam get too much into the details. As soon as he'd heard enough to understand the risk that Sam would be taking, he'd probably been too busy arguing to listen.

People that had seen Dean with John might've found it hard to believe that Dean even knew how to argue, but when it came to Sam, and, more specifically, Sam's safety, Dean was ten times more bullheaded than his brother. With the two of them dead set on saving each other, it was going be hard to get anything done.

It was a good thing he'd come when he had.

"Look, Dean," Bobby began, a bit haltingly, feeling extremely uncomfortable at being dragged into Winchester family dynamics. It had been different when the boys had been kids, but now that they were men, it was a little awkward. "Sam called me 'bout a month ago with this idea he had. I know it's risky. I tried to talk him out of it, but… well, you know your brother."

"A month ago," Dean said flatly, and his eyes were as emotionless as his voice.

Bobby's eyes flicked to Sam, and he realized that he had once again put his foot in his mouth. What the hell had Sam told Dean?

Dean felt… he really didn't know what he was feeling. All he knew was that he was completely messed up. He'd been trying so hard to hold it together, but that had pretty much crashed and burned when Sam had told him about the goddamn plan, and now Bobby had come in and pissed on the ashes.

You know what? Screw it. He was done.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, and headed toward the door. Bobby might try to stop him, but Dean figured he could take him. He wasn't sure what he was going to do once he got past the door, though. After all, he had no car, no money, no future.

No future, but he could make sure Sam had one, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

Before he could reach the door, Sam stepped in front of him, barring the way.

"Get out of my way, Sam."

Sam didn't reply with words. He didn't need to. The casual shift to a defensive posture and the steel determination in his gaze were enough.

"I said move."

Sam didn't budge.

Later, Dean would feel guilty about what he did next. But at that moment, he wasn't thinking, he was feeling--feeling way too much for someone who had always tried to keep those nasty emotions under lock and key.

He pulled his arm back, then let fly with a right cross.

His fist connected with Sam's jaw, whipping his brother's head to the side. Dean pulled back a bit at the last second, but there was still enough on the punch to make it hurt like hell.

Sam never even tried to block. He took the hit, wincing as pain lanced through his jaw. The memory of the last time that Dean had punched him in anger filtered through the pain. His brother had been hurting then as much as he was hurting now, but this time, Sam knew that he was at the root of that pain. Dean felt betrayed--Sam could see it in his eyes. Dean's eyes spoke of broken trust... of faith denied. So he took the punch, because he knew that, this time, he deserved it.

Sam slowly turned his head back to Dean, but the expression in his eyes hadn't changed. Dean's punch could not erase Sam's determination to risk everything for the one person that had given so much--given everything--for him.

Bobby took a step forward to intervene, but Dean pointed a finger at him. "Stay out of this, Bobby."

Bobby froze, then took a step back. While he wasn't ready to leave two pissed off, desperate Winchesters alone in a room together, he understood Dean's point. The brothers needed to work this one out on their own.

After that moment, Bobby might as well have been invisible. It all came down to Sam and Dean and a standoff of epic proportion where sheer will alone was the weapon of choice.

And once again, Sam was taken back in time. A collage of memories floated to the surface, of so many staring contests they'd had as children. Sam had always been the one to instigate the game, but Dean was the one who'd always won. It seemed like Dean could just shut down or something, close the shutters on the windows to his soul while his eyes were still open. It got to the point where Sam was almost obsessed, demanding Dean play the game because he was determined that someday, he would beat his older brother. Sam remembered the day he'd finally won the game. He'd been nine. The victory had been tempered by the fact that Sam was pretty sure that Dean had let him win so they could quit having the stupid staring contests.

Didn't look like Dean was going to let him win this time. But Sam wasn't a kid anymore, and this wasn't a game. This was Dean's life.

"You can be angry at me all you want, Dean, but you know why I didn't tell you. This," Sam said, gesturing back and forth between them, "is why I didn't tell you. I knew exactly how you were going to react, and no way was I going to give you any time to sabotage this." Dean worked up a look of semi-righteous indignation, but Sam cut it off, "And don't even tell me that you wouldn't have tried it, dude. I know you."

Dean felt his anger begin to slip away, and he wanted to hold onto it, because anger was better than fear. Anger was so much better than being scared out of your goddamn mind. But he couldn't do it. He had about twenty hours left--God--and there was no point in arguing when he knew he wouldn't win. Sam had made up his mind. His little brother was going to do this with or without his cooperation. It would be easier to cooperate, but, Christ, he was so fucking scared.

Dean's mask slipped, and the shutters on his eyes were open wide, soul shining through, bare and unprotected, for Sam to see.

"You think you can trust these people?" Dean asked, his voice gruff with emotion.

Sam suddenly felt boneless as relief overtook him, and he grabbed Dean's arm when he felt himself sway a bit.

Dean had conceded the battle. He'd let Sam win.

"We have to," Sam whispered, closing his eyes for a brief moment when they began to sting with threatening tears.

"It's too risky," Dean said half-heartedly, feeling that he had to make one last ditch effort to stop this insanity.

Sam opened his eyes, and Sam's eyes, which he had never been able to shutter in his life, spoke volumes. They always had.

"It's all we've got."

"Sam."

That one broken, whispered word from Dean held all his worry, all his love, all his fear. It was a plea and a cry for help and a flag waved in surrender. It was the sign of a man that discovered he still had something left to lose.

"We are doing this, Dean." Sam said quietly, knowing the battle was already won.

There was a long moment of silence, the soft whirring of the air conditioning unit once again reigning supreme. Then Dean closed his eyes and sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Bobby visibly relax.

When Dean opened his eyes, they held the tired look of a man that had fought the good fight and found that he just wasn't good enough.

"What do I need to do?" Dean asked, and he wondered if he was making a mistake.


They went over the plan. Over and over and over.

"Enough," Dean huffed, falling back onto the bed.

Sam sat on the floor, surrounded by various printouts and books cracked open to important pages. He shook his head at Dean's declaration, not bothering to look up from the research around him. "We need to go over it again," he said absently, not really paying attention to Dean's complaint.

Dean groaned, reaching up to tug at his short, spiky hair. "I feel like my head's gonna fall off, man."

Bobby, who was seated at the small table in the room, shifted with the discomfort of a man too long in one position. "I gotta go with Dean on this one, Sam."

Sam looked up, about to protest, but he caught sight of his brother, lying on the bed with his head in his hands. His brother, who was going to die tomorrow. They really should go over it one more time, but making his brother miserable wasn't really what he wanted to do with what time they had left.

Dean sat up, then raised his eyebrows at Sam. "Besides, my part's not that complicated, anyway."

Sam's face crumpled as he was reminded of Dean's part--the most simplistic part--of the plan. He'd been so busy worrying about the rest, he had almost let himself forget what he had asked of Dean.

Die and go to Hell. Die and go to Hell. Die and go to Hell.

"I wish there was another way," Sam said hoarsely, feeling his red-rimmed eyes begin to sting once more.

Dean slid off of the bed and crouched beside his brother, careful to avoid any of Sam's precious research. He clapped Sam fondly on the shoulder. "Never really thought I'd live to see thirty, anyway."

Sam's eyes flicked to his, and the hurt in his eyes made Dean wish he would've kept that thought to himself. Dean also saw that by interrupting his brother's research groove, he'd interrupted the very thing that was keeping Sam's fear at bay. But Dean knew of better ways they could do that.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleaded, doing his best imitation of the patented Sam Winchester puppy dog eyes. "This is my last night. I don't wanna spend my last night pouring over notes and moldy books."

Sam ducked his head, feeling guilty for burning up Dean's little remaining time, even though he knew it was necessary. "I guess we could use a break."

"Awesome."

Dean smiled, one thousand watts of pure Dean Winchester charm, and it caused a weird tightness in Sam's chest. He hadn't seen his brother smile like that in a long time.

Dean stood and held out his hand. Sam took a deep breath, then blew it out in a rush and took his brother's hand. Dean pulled Sam to his feet, then turned to look at Bobby.

"You comin'?"

Bobby looked at the boys that had somewhere along the line become his boys. Both exhausted and scared to death, but holding on to a glimmer of hope.

This was their time, not his.

"Nah," Bobby said, shaking his head, "you two go on. I'm too old to keep up with you boys."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You sure?"

Bobby scowled to cover the smile that threatened to break free. That wouldn't do his reputation any good. "Go on. Git."

Both Winchesters nodded, then turned to walk out, both grabbing their previously abandoned guns and concealing them in moves that were second nature. As they approached the Impala, Sam turned to look at Dean and warily asked, "So what're we doin'?" He was almost afraid of the answer, envisioning strip clubs and hard liquor, the latter of which would turn him into a complete, possibly karaoke-singing idiot in less than three drinks.

"Sammy," Dean said, wrapping his arm around Sam's shoulders and pretending that it wasn't a stretch, "tonight, we're gonna eat, drink, and be merry, 'cause tomorrow… well... you know."

Sam rolled his eyes and groaned.

Dean shook his head, having the decency to look chagrined. "Yeah, okay, that was bad."


A/N: I know there wasn't a lot going on in this chapter, but I hope you will bear with me for the moment. I needed to set the stage. And I also needed to have an angry Winchester moment, because, you know, who doesn't love angry Winchesters?

I am seriously, seriously, trying not to change the plot of my story based on details from the last four episodes. That said, I will be AU from the point of Jus in Bello. Please ignore anything that happened/will happen in these four episodes in relation to this story.