To Live and Die in Las Vegas by Stormy Stormheller
 

They spent the last week of Dean’s life in Vegas.

Sam had suggested it months ago. Dean had said he still had lots of time to decide, although he knew he really didn’t. He pondered the “where should I die” question seriously, weighing each option like a pound of flesh from nearest his heart.

With three weeks to go, Dean announced he’d narrowed it down to any place that had ever been known as “sin city.” And was boycotted by Mormons.

“That means Reno, Atlantic City, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Key West, Provincetown. Oh, yeah. And Vegas.” Sam reeled off names as if he’d been thinking about it for a while.

“I get the gambling ones, but what’s with the… Oh. Never mind.” Sam’s raised eyebrow gave Dean all the clue he needed.

“There’s always Paris. The original sin city.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause getting on another motherfucking plane is so high on my list of things to do before I die.” 

“Dude. Your Samuel L. is motherfucking lame,” Sam said. “What about New York?”

Dean just glared. He had actually gone so far as to buy an I Hate New York travel mug last time they’d visited. He’d loved that mug, and used it first to keep his coffee warm and cola cold and later to keep one of Sam’s molars on ice until they could get to a dentist to have it re-seated. He hadn’t really wanted to drink out of it after that, and had tossed it into the flaming grave of an unidentified manifestation with a mean left hook.

“So Vegas, then?”

“Maybe,” Dean answered, scratching at the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave.

Ten days before Dean’s last day on earth he’d announced that yeah, maybe Vegas was a good idea. They made the drive in four days. It would have taken only one if they hadn’t gone via the Grand Canyon, where Dean had actually bought proper hiking boots. At first he’d said: “Why would I buy new anything? It’s not like I’m going to wear them out in the next…” he squinted upwards, lips moving a little. “Nine days.”

“I’ll give them to a shelter or something,” Sam said, and Mr. Ronald Biggs bought them new boots and camping gear and a first class trip by mule way down inside the Grand Canyon, which would be a big surprise to the MasterCard collection department when the payment date came and went. And went. And went.

They snuck away from the tour group and made love by moonlight. Sam got an inch-long cactus spine in his thigh. Dean produced a leatherman tool and came at Sam brandishing the needlenose attachment like a sawed-off.

“Dude! I know you like getting poked, but that’s just buckets o’ crazy. You got some sort of pain kink you never told me? What we’re doing here not kinky enough for you?”

Dean yanked out the barbed spine while Sam laughed.

They wandered back to the tour group as the sun rose spectacularly over the edge of the canyon.

The tour guide looked pissed; he’d told them not to wander away from the group. “So you meant ‘brothers’ in the metaphorical sense, then?”

“No. Not so much,” Dean answered, not taking his eyes off Sam’s lazy-ass smile.

Five days before Dean’s last, they made the shocking transition from the heat of Vegas streets to the cool, overdressed lobby of the Bellagio Hotel. The nonexistent but very obliging Mr. Leonard Helmsley booked them into the Cypress Suite for the balance of the week.

“Enjoy your stay at the Bellagio, Mr. Helmsley.”

“Thanks. We intend to.” They explored the grand lobby, rubbernecking at the architecture and holding hands like teenagers.

Biggs, Helmsley, and a few other assorted benefactors bought them gambling chips and juicy steaks, and a couple of nice new jackets. Waiting for them at the concierge desk were high-priced tickets to all the best events.

“How the hell did you know we’d even be coming here, Kreskin? I didn’t know. For a while I thought of going back to L.A. I liked it there. And Key West, man. I googled it and it is one pretty place.” Dean leaned in and kissed Sam a quick peck on the lips. Right in the lobby. The concierge grinned hugely. “Seriously, dude. You must have bought these weeks ago.”

“Months, actually,” Sam smiled. “I just know you, man. You’re my brother.”

The concierge’s smile faltered. “Do you need assistance with your luggage?” He cast a scathing look at their worn duffel bags.

“Nah. We’re good.” Sam’s smile outshone the gilded décor by about a thousand watts. “Elevator this way?” The concierge just nodded.

Dean grabbed his bag and headed across the lobby; Sam a few steps behind. “You know, the cost of this lobby alone would feed a Third World country for a decade.”

Dean ignored his brother’s tree-hugger remarks. He’d earned this. He had. In truth, he felt somewhat overwhelmed by the glamour and splendor of it all; the sheer opulence cowed him a little.

Of course, once the elevator pinged open, he just had to say it: “‘Well, color me happy! There’s a fuckin’ sofa in here for two!’”

“I don’t remember Julia Roberts being quite so colorful in the movie,” Sam said, but he didn’t resist when Dean pushed him into the elevator and down on the little bench. The couple who’d been waiting beside them apparently decided to take another elevator.

Dean kissed his brother sloppily and repeatedly, one hand clenched in Sam’s hair, making it hurt just the way Sam liked it. They kissed and groped in the elevator and down the hallway. They finally pulled apart in the foyer of their room in order to reconnoiter as they’d been trained to do since childhood. It was called a suite, but it turned out to just be a big hotel room with the bed right off the main entrance. Just past the bed a couch and a couple of chairs were arranged under a gigantic window. A soft scrabbling noise came from the open doorway—probably the bathroom— just past the bed.

Dean was at the bathroom door, gun drawn, Sam, with his wickedly curved blade, only a step behind him. They stood just outside the door, one to each side. Dean nodded at Sam, meaning, “I’ll go in first, you back me up.” Sam shook his head. Dean knew he meant: “No, man. I’ll go in. You back me up.”

Dean rolled his eyes at the silent exchange and just walked in, Sam a pace behind him.

“Pardon, señor. I’ll just be one more—Madre de Dio!” The maid fell back against the white marble tile, scrub brush outthrust as if it could ward off evil. “Please don’t shoot. I—”

“No, sorry. No. Look. The knife’s going away now. We just... And the gun is going away, too, Dean.” Sam glared meaningfully at his brother.

“Hey. How do we know—?”

“She’s the maid, Dean. She’s making little points on the toilet paper. It’s not anything you need to be afraid of. Listen.” The maid had swapped her scrub brush for a rosary, murmuring a soft litany of Hail Marys. “See. She wouldn’t be able to do that if she were possessed, right?”

Reluctantly, Dean put away his gun.

“We’re so sorry.” Sam squinted at her chest. Since it was Sam and not Dean doing the squinting, he was probably only trying to read little brass name badge pinned to her uniform. “Serena. We just… We’re only…” He extended his hand to help her up from the floor. Instead, she grabbed the towel bar and hauled herself up without his assistance. She looked close to tears.

“Uh. Here,” Dean said, holding out a fifty-dollar bill.

“Dean, I hardly think—”

Serena interrupted him saying, “Sir, I couldn’t possibly…” even as she reached for the bill. “Well, it’s okay, I guess.” She shoved the bill in her uniform pocket and swiped at the corner of one eye. She made a half-assed attempt at a smile. “Not the first time.”

“Awkward,” Dean said, withdrawing from the gigantic bathroom back into the main part of the suite. Sam joined him. Serena fussed a bit longer in the bathroom and then edged past them toward the door.

“Thank you, Serena. We’re really sorry for…” Sam gestured toward the bathroom.

“It’s okay, señor. I am fine.” She patted the pocket with fifty in it.

“Um, Serena?” Dean said. “You don’t have to make those little toilet paper points for us. We’ll manage somehow.” A blinding smile and another fifty hastened her recovery. She sauntered out of the room, swinging her bucket of cleaning supplies.

Sam moved over by the window. “Check out the view. It’s amazing.”

Dean had to agree, especially once he’d pushed Sam down on the couch and stripped him bare. “Yeah. This view is amazing.” So amazing, in fact, that he leaned in close and closed his eyes.

~ ~ ~

Over the next couple of days they gambled enough to get their food and drinks comped. Dean checked out all the different acts Sam had scored tickets to, and they had a blast seeing George Carlin, Jimmy Buffet, and Penn and Teller. He declared the last two demons, but since they weren’t actually hurting anyone he decided they could live.

They wandered around town looking at the pretty lights and pretty people, holding hands a lot, grip sweaty and a little desperate. They lost track of time, eating, sleeping, and fucking as the mood struck them.

Twice more they pulled weapons on Serena. “She’s scamming us, dude,” Dean declared the third time she left with an extra hundred in her uniform pocket.

Sam was inclined to agree. The “Madre de Dio” routine had lost some of its spontaneity.

Once they ran into a hunter they’d met briefly at the roadhouse before it burned. He seemed pleased to see them, complimenting them on both the quantity and quality of their kills. His eyes grew wide when Dean, nodding and recounting tall tales, let one hand stray up under Sam’s shirt, stroking gently, exposing tan skin.

“Ah, no offense or nothin’, but aren’t you guys brothers or somethin’?”

Sam let his hand drift low on Dean’s ass. “Yeah. We are. But Dean here’s got two more days before a demon comes for him, and I’m, you know, the anti-Christ or something, so relatively speaking, we’re okay with this.”

“‘Relatively.’ ‘Brothers.’ Ha! Good one.” The hunter chuckled. “Oh. Okay. Well, enjoy yourselves then. You’re goin’ to hell, might as well be for somethin' good. You only live once.” He squinted at Sam. “Or, you know, twice.”

“Yeah. Been there, done that,” Sam said.

“Me, too,” Dean added.

“Well, you know that’s it for you both now, right?” He was the fatherly type, so Sam removed his hands from his brother’s body out of respect.

“No. What’re you saying?”

“Just that no way I ever heard of can a person be brought back more than once.” He looked all concerned and parental. In the background his wife, who was busy corralling a couple of misbehaving kids, called to him.

“Thanks, man. We didn’t know that.”

“Well, now you do. So take care then. Gotta go help the missus with the young ‘uns. Make the most of the time you got left.” He clapped Dean on the shoulder hard and walked away.

“Huh,” Dean said. “Should have known a hunter would get it.”

Sometimes Sam wondered if he shouldn’t be trying to do some last bit of research, try and find some tiny bit of intel he’d missed. But he couldn’t. Not anymore. For 11 months and 22 days he’d researched demons and deals until his eyes bled. Now he just wanted to spend every second with his brother. Every last second.

The day before Dean’s last Bobby called saying he’d found something. Maybe. Kinda. It wasn’t much, but maybe it was “somethin’ you boys could use”.

“I found this reference. The text is pretty obscure, but I correlated it with somethin’ in Ash’s notes Ellen got from the roadhouse safe. It’s not much, but I’m pretty sure it’s accurate.”

“Just spit it the fuck out,” Dean yelled at the nice speakerphone that came with the room.

“I’m getting to it, Dean. Hold your horses.” He paused; Sam could hear paper rustling over the phone line. “Okay. It says here when a demon makes a deal with a particular timeline—like you got a year, Dean—then they have to take your soul exactly a year later. No earlier, no later. So if she would’ve come for you before now, she’d have voided the deal. And if you can—”

“If we can stall her long enough,” Dean cut in, “She forfeits my soul, right? Bobby, is that right?” Now Dean was shouting, as if he didn’t trust the phone and needed Bobby to hear him five states over.

“She’s got from midnight to midnight to take you, Dean. Midnight where you currently are, even if it’s a different time zone from where you made the deal. If you can stall her till 12:01 day after tomorrow, you’re free and clear. Free and clear.”

“Free and fuckin’ clear!” Dean hollered, while Sam could barely whisper, “Safe. With me.”

They thanked Bobby profusely and assured him he didn’t need to come to Vegas right then. They could handle it.

In truth, Sam felt he could either handle it or he’d follow Dean to hell. He didn’t need Bobby there to talk sense and reason. Yesterday he’d bought a pomegranate and eaten exactly twelve seeds. He hadn’t let Dean eat even one.

Dean pushed the disconnect button on the phone, looking pale. “Now how are we going to contain her for 24 hours? She’s on to the whole bait-and-switch demon trap thing.”

“Gimme a minute.” Sam moved to the window, gaze jumping from one overblown hotel to the next. Muted car horns, hoots, and shouts rose up from the street.

“Not contain, Dean,” Sam said. “Distract.”

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, toying with a fold of the bedspread. “How is this not going to get you killed in the process? You know what she said about us trying to break the deal.”

“We’re not going to break the deal, Dean. She is.”

Dean smiled. “Dude, Vegas is just full of distractions.”

~ ~ ~

They expected the crossroads demon at midnight, figuring she’d be anxious to get her hands on Dean’s soul. Nervous as they were, they drifted off, clutching each other even in slumber. They didn’t wake until well past sunrise when Serena came in to make up their room.

“Dude. What the— Oh.” Dean uncocked his gun and let it rest on his hip. He leaned back against the headboard, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

“Sorry, Serena. Guess we forgot to put the Do Not Disturb sign out again last night.”

Still half asleep, Dean reached into the bedside table and held out a wad of wrinkled bills.

“If only it were that easy, boys.” And just like that, the nice young maid they’d known for four days now became unmistakably the demon of their nightmares. A confident smile replaced the embarrassed grin; she stood straighter. Today’s uniform was better tailored, showing just a hint of cleavage.

Serena had been a nice girl; Sam hoped she survived.

“So.” The demon sidled over to the bed where they both still lay, her eyes flashing red. The gun and knife made a quick re-appearance. “Miss me?”

“Not especially,” Dean answered, still cocky even when wearing nothing but old boxers.

She ran a hand up his leg, rubbing the hair against the grain, making him shudder and pull away. “Awww. Not even a little glad to see me?” She cast a critical eye at his groin. “Last time he saw me, Sam, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on me.” Blood-red lips pouted prettily. “He’s quite the kisser, you know. But then, of course you do.”

Sam just stared at her, light glancing off his knife blade.

“What about you, Sam? Once Dean’s gone you won’t have to bend over for him anymore, partake in the ultimate sin against creation.” She turned her focus on Dean, a look of false surprise on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess you didn’t know. Sammy here was prepared to let you go to your fiery little grave believing he loved you, liked being your… how shall I put it delicately?” She paused, as if giving it consideration. “I think the kids call it ‘butt-boy’, but really, Dean, he was just fucking with you. Quite literally.” She sighed. “It helped him with his guilt, to suffer like that. Since your going to hell is entirely his fault.”

Dean never even flinched; Sam would have felt it, with his side pressed up against his brother. The heat radiating between them seemed like the only warmth in the room.

“Okay, bitch. We’re done here. Can I have a second to put on some pants? I’d really rather not walk into hell half-naked.”

Sam shoved the covers back to stand over her, refusing to be intimidated by his own nakedness. “Take me instead. You demons are always saying how important I am. Boy-king or whatever the hell that means. Take me. Leave him.”

“Sam, no. That’s not an option.” Dean froze, jeans hanging off one leg. Sam couldn’t believe Dean hadn’t been expecting this; trading souls for loved ones had become a Winchester family tradition.

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Dean on this one,” the demon said, blinking up at Sam. “Did you really think you could just go on trading your souls for each other until you died of old age? No, we’re very, very invested in keeping Sam among the living. You did us a favor, Dean. If you hadn’t come to us with the offer, we probably would have had to resurrect Sam anyway, and the last time we did that… Well, let’s just say we’re still feeling the fallout.”

“You mean you would have brought Sammy back anyway? That I traded my soul for nothing! You should have said something, bitch.”

“Yes, because showing one’s hand is always such a good play. I got lots of props for that one: resurrecting Sam and getting your soul.” She laughed. “You have quite the fan club in hell, Dean Winchester.”

Dean pulled his jeans up and reached for a T-shirt. “Why’d you give me a year, anyway? You knew I’d do anything, give anything to get Sam back. Why didn’t you just take me then and there?”

“Now where’s the fun in that? We needed Sam to know what you did. To suffer and feel tortured and guilty that he’d gone and cost his brother not just his life, but his immortal soul. You see, Dean, your brother here, unlike you, still believes. The way he figures it, if there’s a hell, there must be a heaven. But you and I know better than that, don’t we?” Her eyes glowed red for a moment.

“And don’t bother trying to follow us to hell, Sam. As your friend told you yesterday, no one gets resurrected twice. You enter hell, you never get out again. You understand me?” She flicked her hair over one shoulder. “And that means Dean can’t leave again either, once he’s there. Even if the whole world were to offer up their lives in return for his filthy, damaged little soul.”

“Fuck you.” Dean finished getting dressed, shoving his gun down the back of his pants.

“No weapons, Dean.”

“What is this? Homeland Security? There’s a lot of, uh, folks down there who’re going to be really glad to see me again. I’m going in packin’.” He bent to secure a second, smaller gun in his left boot, his right already occupied by a nasty-looking Bowie knife.

Sam unearthed a pair of wrinkled boxers and pulled them on. “Don’t you…” he began, eyes on the carpeting. “Don’t you…” he repeated. For some reason this got the attention of both Serena and Dean. “Don’t you demons like being here? On earth or whatever. Away from hell?”

“Why?” Curiosity was the first genuine emotion she’d shown since revealing herself to them.

Sam carried on quickly. “Why not spend the day with us? We’ll make it a big going-away celebration for my bro here. And for you, too, since I’m guessing you don’t get out that often. We’ll gamble, party, maybe get a little drunk. Take in a show.” He let his gaze grow hot and traced it up and down the lines of her body. “And after, who knows what?”

“Yeah. Party. Man, we’ll show you a time and a half.” There was a slightly hysterical edge to Dean’s cajoling. “Dude, what have you got on tap for us tonight?”

Sam reached for his pants, finally, drawing out a few remaining tickets. “We’ve got a pair of front row seats for Celine Dion. You and I can go, and Dean can wait here for us. Or you and Dean can go. Whatever.”

“Celine Dion? Thanks but no thanks, boys. I’ve spent enough time in hell.” She still looked interested, though. “What else do you have?”

Sam rifled through his assortment of entertainment; the reason he’d been able to get Dean in to see exactly the shows that tickled his fancy was that he’d bought tickets to damn near everything he thought Dean might like. What did it matter if they spent money like water? It wasn’t like either of them expected to be around much longer. He’d used clean money—a year’s worth of hustling pool—to buy all the tickets, otherwise there’d be cops just waiting for them to fill the seats. And getting arrested did not fit into his plan to say goodbye to his brother in style.

“I’ve also got…” Sam paused dramatically, holding out the little white rectangles like talismans. “Three tickets to Cirque du Soleil.”

“Three tickets, Sam?” She narrowed her eyes. “You must have planned this.”

“I don’t know about planned, exactly. Hoped, maybe. We didn’t know what time you’d be coming, so I got three tickets.” Sam shrugged. ”I just wanted to make my brother’s last day on earth special. Everyone should see Cirque once before they go to hell.”  

He knew he’d won even before she reached for the tickets. 

~ ~ ~

The first thing they did, Sam, Dean, and Serena, was stop at the hotel dress shop and buy her something more suitable for a day of fun. Both men had reached for their wallets, but the sales clerk’s features suddenly went slack and he announced the new outfit was on the house. “And I’d like these sent up to suite 1007,” she’d said, handing him a navy satin dress and a pair of matching pumps. “And these, too.” She added a strapless bra and a couple of pairs of hose to the pile. The empty-eyed clerk made the appropriate arrangements.

Dean actually laughed and asked Serena how she was with cards and little ivory roulette balls.

“We’ll see,” she smiled; it almost looked genuine. Dean hauled a small blade out of nowhere and cut the tags off her new top. He didn’t touch her, though.

Serena was actually kind of fun once she dropped the whole haughty temptress thing. She had a wicked sense of humor, and actually blushed the first time she tried calling Dean “dude”. Sam had to remind himself to hate her a half dozen times as the day wore on.

“You know, boys, I no more chose to be a demon than you chose to be human.” It was almost an apology, coming from her.

“Demons lie, Sammy. Remember that,” Dean said as they stood side by side at black marble urinals.

The threesome spent the day wandering in and out of hotels and casinos and shops. A street merchant gave Serena a rose, but it turned black and withered as soon as her fingers closed around the stem. She dropped it in the gutter, looking sad.

They ate ribs for lunch, ordering every different permutation of flavor and heat. They fed each other and licked sauce from each other’s fingers and mouths, much to the dismay of the waiter who had to tell them to stop because they were bothering some of the other patrons. Dean offered to lick him instead. The waiter went away looking pole-axed, but slipped Dean his number on their way out. They left with five Styrofoam containers of leftovers, which they distributed to some homeless guys living under a bridge not far from the main drag.

Serena looked perplexed. Sam tried to explain that sometimes humans were nice to other humans. About caring. “This,” Sam said, “is what makes us different from you.”

“No. No,” she responded. “If that were really true, you wouldn’t have these forgotten men living in the shadow of such opulence. Not so different, really,” but she’d sounded puzzled rather than patronizing.

At 4:30, they were tired of wandering, of gambling, tired of the garishness and the crowds. They headed back to the hotel to get cleaned up.

“Man, I ate way too much back there.” Dean rubbed his stomach. “Damn. And I got barbecue sauce on my favorite shirt. Now what am I going to wear to hell?”

Sam actually chuckled at that. “Take it off, Dean. We can put a rush order in to have it washed and delivered back here by midnight. They’ll probably even iron it!”

“Better make it 11:00,” Serena said. She almost sounded wistful, although whether for the day to be longer or to end sooner, Sam didn’t dare make a guess.

The three ended up crashing on the bed, watching TV. Sam awoke to familiar sounds. His brain was foggy with sleep and an overdose of pork so it took him a few seconds to recognize the sounds of fucking. Shocked, he saw Dean and Serena on the couch across the room. Dean was plowing into her brutally. Words shot across the room like rock salt: “Take it.” “Bitch.” And “last time.”

Sam’s heart broke a little with every desperate stroke.

Eventually they drew apart, panting. “You want a turn, bro? I just got her ready for you.”

“I…” Sam faltered. “No, thanks.” He couldn’t forget that Serena—the nice hotel maid Serena—was in there somewhere and hadn’t given her consent to this. To any of this. He wasn’t even sure Dean had used a condom.

“Well,” Serena panted. “If little bro doesn’t want to play nice with us, then you’ll just have to take his turn, won’t you?”

“What? I’m not 17 anymore. I can’t just…” Serena inclined her head toward Dean’s groin. “Hey. Or maybe I can. Cool.” He shoved back into her in one rough thrust. Sam fled to the bathroom, where he hid in the multi-jet shower for 20 minutes before venturing back out.

Dean and Serena were lounging on the couch when he returned. “’Bout fucking time, princess,” Dean said. “We gotta get something to eat before the show.” He slapped Sam’s toweled ass as he passed him on the way to the bathroom. Sam watched him walk across the room all loose-limbed and relaxed. He looked at the demon coldly. No need to remind himself to hate her now.

“Jealous, Sammy?”

“It’s Sam.” He turned and started dressing, clean jeans and a white button-down shirt. He dressed for Dean. She deserved nothing.

Eventually Serena emerged from her turn in the bathroom, hair up and makeup subtle. Dean zipped her into her dress. She looked lovely, but there was no way Sam was telling her so. “You look good, dude,” he said to Dean instead when he returned, even though he thought Dean looked good even covered in river mud.

Dean offered the demon his arm and escorted her from the suite. Sam followed a few paces behind. They were waiting for the elevator in uncomfortable silence when Sam suddenly announced he’d forgotten his jacket. It was too hot to wear, but some restaurants insisted. Dean had his over his arm.

“Back in a sec, guys,” Sam said, taking the plastic room card from Dean; they’d only bothered to get one.

The show started at 7:30. Sam wished he’d gotten 10:30 tickets, but this had been the only showing he could get three tickets for.

They grabbed a light dinner in the Café Bellagio, still pretty full from their private rib-fest at lunch. They ordered a bunch of appetizers to share: fried calamari, lobster bisque, shrimp salad. Sam hoped against hope that Serena had a seafood allergy, but apparently not.

Cirque was great, with amazing performers and death-defying acts. “Look, Sam. It’s Miraculous Amanda from Cooper’s. I told you she’d be famous one day.” The show took Sam’s breath away; he nearly forgot why they were there.

By 9:30 they were back out on the sticky-hot streets. They bought gelato in exotic flavors: lychee, tiramisu, tequila. They watched people for a while, played a little blackjack, enjoyed some street performers, until they were obviously just killing time.

“Nearly 10:00,” the demon announced, looking at her watch. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“What, we’re doing it out here? On the street?”

“No. Let’s go back to the room. We have a bit of time left and I like my privacy.” Serena led the way, Dean and Sam following. Dean’s hand slipped silently into Sam’s. They made other pedestrians go around them rather than let go for even a second. It reminded Sam of a game they’d played as children: we don’t stop for nobody! Too bad it didn’t work that way anymore.

The hotel room was warm. Sam turned up the AC and glanced at the clock. Less than two hours till Dean’s life and soul were forfeit. Only one hour, if the demon kept to her earlier schedule. Sam fully planned on delaying the inevitable as long as possible.

Revulsion toyed with arousal as he sidled up to the demon, bending down to kiss, lick, nip at her neck, her face, her lips. His conscience screamed at him that in no way was this consensual—for any of them. He pictured his brother in screaming torment for all eternity and made his decision. He’d committed evil acts before for the greater good, weighed lives in the balance and made cold choices. It got easier each time.

He felt Dean come up behind Serena, pressing against her back. Dean surprised him by bending swiftly and picking Serena up in his arms, carrying her to the bed like a willing bride. He stripped off his clothes and lay beside her. “C’mere, Sam.” He patted the bed on the other side of the demon. “Here.”

The two men went to work on her, kissing, caressing, licking inside and out. She writhed and moaned and let herself be tasted and taken by each of them in turn. “Enough,” she cried finally. Sam raised his head to look at the clock: 11:12. Damn. He nuzzled her throat, but she pushed him away with demon-strength that brooked no argument.

“It’s time.”

Silently, they rose, not bothering to wash, dressing in whatever came to hand.

The demon stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Why she bothered fixing the hair of a body she was about to discard was beyond Sam’s grasp. He gathered up her things, checking them swiftly, placing them in a pile on the bed.

“I’m going to hell with your come in my hair,” Dean bitched at his brother, checking his look in one of the room’s many mirrors.

Sam opened his mouth to make a crack, but all that came out was a gasp, a choked-back sob.

“Oh, please,” Serena said as she rejoined them. She extracted her watch from the pile on the bed. “If you’re going to get all maudlin on me, I’m not going to give you a chance to say goodbye.” But she stood back and let them hug one last time. Dean clung to Sam. “Look, Sammy, Sam…” But there was nothing left to say. They’d said goodbye over the last few days, few weeks.

“C’mon, boys. It’s 11:20, and that’s already twenty more minutes than I said I’d give you. I must be getting soft in my dotage. You do know you just made love with a thousand-year-old demon, right?” She laughed, but her demon persona didn’t fit quite as well as it had before.

The boys drew apart. “I wish you didn’t have to do this, Sam, but I know you’ll be all right.” He stepped back toward the demon. “Now, Sam.”

Sam pulled a blade from his jeans pocket. It wasn’t really a knife, just a cheap little box-cutter like you’d buy at Staples.

“Now, what, exactly, are you planning to do with that tiny thing?” The demon looked amused. “Size does matter, you know.”

“Watch and see.” Sam held out both arms in front of him. Almost too fast for the eye to follow he slashed his left wrist, lengthwise, right down the vein. He switched the blade to his other hand, and slashed his right. The gashes were deep and gaping. He spread his arms wide, dripping blood all over the carpet.

“What the hell?” Serena cried, iron grip on Dean’s arm, preventing him from crossing the room to his brother.

“Exactly,” Sam answered, eyes tearing a bit as the pain registered. “You said I was too important to die, and that you can’t bring someone back from the dead twice.”

She nodded dully, looking confused and angry.

“Now you’ve got to get me to a hospital. And fast, before I bleed out. If you don’t, I die, and that isn’t in the plan, now, is it? You want me alive, you’re going to have to keep me alive.”

“I’ll just call hotel security. They’ll look after you. They’ll have a doctor on staff. There’s probably an entire convention of doctors in the casino at this very moment.”

“Sorry, no.” Sam dropped his arms; already they were too weak and painful to hold outstretched. Almost immediately, his right shoe felt wet. “I put a DNR order on file with the hotel doctor and with every hospital and clinic in Vegas. Under my real name. No transfusions, no surgery without my say-so. And Dean, I put him down as my medical proxy. He holds power of attorney to make decisions for me should I be unable to make them myself. So Dean has to be there or I die.”

“You!” she screamed, backhanding Dean, sending him sprawling into the dresser. The keys to the Impala clattered to the floor.

Dean recovered quickly, managing to drag himself up and move to his brother’s side, blood seeping from his nose. On his way he grabbed a pillowcase and tore it to strips, binding Sam’s bleeding wrists loosely; not enough to stop the flow, just enough to slow it a bit.

The clock radio by the bed read 11:40. Factoring in the elevator ride and the Friday night traffic, the nearest hospital was 20 minutes away. Sam hoped his math was correct; he was already feeling light-headed. He leaned heavily on his brother.

“C’mon, then. Let’s go,” the demon ordered.

She worked her dark magic so the elevator was waiting for them, as was a cab. There was no traffic and they made the drive in 10 minutes. Sam could feel himself beginning to slip away. He used the last of his strength to caress Dean’s cheek, laying bloody streaks over the tears.

~ ~ ~

Sam slipped into unconsciousness halfway through their frantic journey, causing Dean to freak out entirely. He screamed at the driver, at the demon, and at the hospital attendants when they pulled Sam onto their gurney.

He tossed an envelope, now bloody, at the admitting clerk, chasing quickly after Sam. He was afraid to lose him in the huge hospital complex. He was afraid to lose him altogether. The envelope contained their real ID, health insurance purchased yesterday, and copies of the DNR order and power of medical attorney just in case they couldn’t locate the ones the boys had dropped off yesterday.

Dean caught up with the gurney just as they wheeled Sam into a private operating room, where, thanks to the demon’s dark arts, a medical team was already standing by.

“You have to wait,” Dean pleaded to the doctor. “Ten more minutes, doc. Just ten more minutes.”

“No. I patch him up now or he dies.”

“Is he lying?” Dean rounded on the demon. “Are you making him lie?”

She shook her head. “No. The deal is Sam lives, I get you. If he dies, the deal’s off. I’ve nothing to gain from Sam’s death. And everything to lose. I’m sorry, Dean.” And she almost sounded like she was.

“Okay.” He moved to Sam’s bedside, and stroked his brother’s pale face. “Okay. Patch him up, doc. Don’t let him die.” The nurse moved Dean gently out of the way as the doctor began his work with quick, efficient movements.

The demon looked at her watch. “Two minutes to midnight. Let’s go, Dean.”

Dean and the demon stepped out into the hall. It was empty, of course, although whether due to demon magic or just coincidence Dean didn’t know and didn’t really care.

He held out his wrists in a gesture of surrender, as if she was going to handcuff him. She wrapped her cold fingers around them instead, and softly chanting in no language Dean had ever heard. It was guttural and awful, grating painfully on his eardrums.

She waited expectantly, then repeated the words, louder this time. She glared at Dean. The third time she practically yelled her chant, eyes glowing blood red.

“Having some trouble there? Something I can do to help?”

“What have you done? What have you done to me, you stupid, stupid human?” She was nothing but malevolence now, young Serena subsumed by demonic presence. Her grip tightened, and his wrist bones ground together.

“Not much. We stupid humans just set the clock ahead 15 minutes. Remember when Sam forgot his jacket?”

“But my watch? When did…”

“While you were fussing with your hair, you vain bitch,” Dean said, trying to twist out of her grip. “You were so busy being better than us, you weren’t paying attention.”

Lightning-fast she came at him, scratching his face, knocking him to the ground and jarring a few teeth loose. She screeched like cold iron tearing and collapsed to the ground. Greasy black smoke fountained from her mouth: from Serena’s mouth. The maid began to convulse as the last of the smoke roiled clear, escaping out a crack in a nearby window frame.

“Doctor! I need a doctor over here,” Dean shouted, turning her onto her side as she vomited acid green bile all over the floor, herself, and Dean. He felt warm hands push him aside and turned away, rushing back to his brother’s room just in time to see the doctor put the finishing touches on Sam’s bandages. A nurse checked the IV level, calling for another bag of whole blood.

“We gave him something to help with the pain, make him sleep.” Dean vaguely remembered being asked about drug allergies when they first came in. “Because this was a suicide attempt, the State of Nevada requires he be monitored for three days.” The doctor gestured at a security camera in one corner near the ceiling. “Then he’ll need to be signed out by the staff psychiatrist. Any idea why he did it?”

“Yeah. He did it for me. He was saving my soul.”

The doctor raised one eyebrow, jotting something on the chart and hanging it on the end of the bed. “I’m making your brother’s release conditional on you seeing the psychiatrist, too.”

Dean barked a harsh laugh. “Well. That’ll just make his day, I’m sure.” Dean had no intention of talking to a shrink. He and Sammy would have to leave as soon as his brother could move again. No doubt FBI databases were already screaming in Hendrickson’s ear that the Winchester brothers had surfaced. Dean wondered what Mexico was like this time of year, since Sam had said Canada would just extradite them. And they’d never get their arsenal across the border anyway.

Sam slept, which was probably a good thing. Dean stood in a corner, back pressed tightly to a wall, waiting for the medical staff to finish up and leave. As soon as he was alone with Sam, he pulled a chair as close to bed as the wires and monitors would allow. He knew better than to touch the security camera.

He wove his fingers through Sam’s hair, bending awkwardly to lay his head on the pillow next to his brother’s. His lips brushed against Sam’s ear. He whispered over and over: “We won. It’s over. We won.”

His heavy metal ringtone startled the hell out of him. He didn’t care if Bobby could tell he was crying. He just said that he wasn’t going anywhere, after all, and that they’d fill him in on the details later. Oh, and could Bobby please call Ellen and Jo for them.

“Anyone else you want me to call?”

Dean thought hard, focusing with difficulty. He’d spent a year worrying about his deal, his soul, his brother. Now he couldn’t think of anything or anyone else that mattered to him, anyone who wasn’t sleeping peacefully in the bed beside him.

It filled Dean with sadness that there were only three people in the world that he and Sam could relate to, who really knew them. He leaned in and kissed Sam lightly on the mouth, and even in drugged sleep Sam’s lips twitched, trying to kiss Dean back.

“No, that’s okay. And Bobby?” Dean took a deep, hitching breath. “Thank you. If it weren’t for you…”

“Hey, hey. Don’t go gettin’ all mushy on me now. Your daddy didn’t raise no pansies.”

“Yeah, Bobby, actually, he did.” Dean ended the call and went back to watching Sam sleep, stroking his brother’s face, arms, chest, carefully avoiding the bandages and IV.

Dean sighed, realizing that when it came right down to it even their friends didn’t really know them.

But he had Sam and Sam had him and it was enough.

It would have to be.

End

Feed me back here, please.