Hustler Meets Hustler, Gen, Psych/SPN Free For All Fic
This will be my last post before the holidays so HAPPY HOLIDAYS everyone. Safe travels if you are travelling, look after yourselves, I send a hug to those missing loved ones and peace and goodwill to all.
I finish this year fulfilling my last Challenge fic for the moment.
For sams1ra for the Fall Fandom Free For All. Apologies for its lateness; it's only fairly wee but I hope you like it and wish you Happy Holidays!
With much thanks to oxoniensis for the beta help. None of these characters belong to me.
Hustler meets Hustler
Gen, PG13. Psych/SPN Crossover.
1600 words.
Shawn bets Gus he can win money off some guy in a bar...
Shawn has made Gus buy the drinks three times. He’s trying for four. Five is his record, on a night when Gus was feeling especially generous and Shawn especially persuasive.
“My hands won’t reach my pockets. They’ve been affected by a shrinking syndrome.” Shawn hunches up his shoulders and waves his hands three inches too short of his pockets. “Look, they won’t go that far.”
“Shawn. If you have no money, say you have no money.” Gus drinks the last drop of his beer and leans back in his chair. He makes no move toward the bar.
“Where’s the fun in that? You’re such a dark cloud sometimes Gus. A storm the day you planned a party outside.” Shawn’s beer bottle has been empty for some time. He pushes the empty bottle across his table, pretending he can’t quite reach it first with his newly short arms. “It’s not that I have no money. I have money. It’s just not on my person. It’s in my bank. It likes it there. It’s warm and cozy and it can play with all its twenty dollar friends.”
“Go to the ATM, Shawn. That’s what it’s for.”
“I don’t want to go to the ATM. It’s cold outside and the machine is at least fifty paces away. Can’t you buy them? C’mon.” Shawn gets out of his chair and bounces lightly on his feet. “I need a beer so I can burp the theme tune to Knight Rider.”
“I’ve heard it before Shawn. Many times. I’m happy that two beers are enough.”
“Fine. I’ll win the money.”
“You’ll win the money?” Gus sounds despairing, as if he thinks this is going to be a repeat of the time Shawn lost all their pocket money betting he could fly. Why hasn’t Gus learned not to doubt Shawn by now?
“Sure. I spent a summer hustling pool in Reno.” Shawn takes a step toward the pool tables. “I bet you a beer I can win at least fifty bucks.”
“You’re on. If you don’t, you owe me a beer. With money from the ATM.” Gus joins Shawn, their shoulders meeting. “I’ll pick your victim.”
“Fine.”
They survey the bar. Most of the clientele are young women or couples out for a drink. There’s one pool table near the back. It's empty, but two men are sitting next to it, one nursing a beer, the other shaking his head.
The one drinking a beer glances around. His gaze lingers on the same people Shawn considered - the man who might be looking to impress his girlfriend, two men who have several empty glasses in front of them near the bar. He is a guy here to hustle.
Gus speaks right into Shawn’s ear. “Guy by the pool table.” Dammit, sometimes Gus is more observant than Shawn gives him credit.
“With the leather jacket over his chair?” Shawn cocks his head to the side and Gus nods his agreement. “Fine. Watch and learn my friend. Watch and learn.”
Shawn walks over to the pool table. “Hey. You guys using this?”
The beer-drinking guy shakes his head. His friend pulls a paper toward him off the table. He's already settling in for a wait. They're definitely here to win some money.
That turns it into a challenge. “You want a match? Gus here thinks a cue is what people in England do at the bank.”
“Sure. I’m Dean.” Dean pushes himself off his chair and grabs a cue.
“I’m Shawn.”
“Wanna make this interesting, Shawn?”
Man, this guy is making it easy. “Fifty bucks on it?” Shawn asks. Dean nods.
Shawn lets Dean rack them up, listening while Gus introduces himself to the other waiting man - Sam.
Sam sticks his feet out in front of him, and flattens the paper down. Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn sees Sam scrutinizing Gus. He peeks back at Dean. Dean is doing the same thing to Shawn. They are fairly subtle about it - not as subtle as Shawn, but not as obvious as Gus would have been. They check people over the same way the police do.
Checking to see whether they think he and Gus are good guys, or easy marks.
“Nice sneakers man,” Gus tells Sam. Sam’s wearing pumas, Shawn notes, the same type Gus wears. The sneakers have all manner of stains on them: mud, what appears to be blood, a green stain he can’t place.
“Thanks. I lost one of my last pair. Had to buy these ones.” Sam lets out a small laugh and crosses one foot neatly over the other, trying to hide his shoes away.
“I lost my shoes too. Lost some at the bank. Lost others running … on a job.” Gus sounds mournful. Shawn knew he should have carried out that funeral for them, like he’d intended.
“A job?” Sam leans over the table toward Gus, the paper forgotten.
“Sure. Shawn and I, we run a psychic detective agency.”
Sam freezes. Just for a second, but enough for Shawn to notice it. “Psychic?”
“Sure. Shawn, he’s psychic.” Gus taps the table and then waves toward Shawn.
“You’re psychic?” Sam spins around to look at Shawn. Dean finishes racking the balls. He walks over to Shawn, his body tense. They’re both waiting for Shawn’s response.
Shawn takes a shot at the balls and pots nothing. All stage one of his plan. “I’m psychic. For example.”
Shawn stands aside and lets Dean take a shot. He runs over what he’s noted so far. They're both stiff, stretching their legs out at occasional intervals, so they've been on a long car journey. Dean has the same bloodstain on the bottom of his jeans. They both have dirt under their nails. There is the top of an ID sticking out of Dean’s pocket that does not contain the name Dean. Shawn bets Dean doesn’t know he is displaying it.
“Sure… I’m sensing you have just had a long car journey. Crossed a state line. Perhaps ‘cause you were hunting something… I’m sensing blood. A small animal… “ They don’t look like the kind of guys who would hunt large game. Shawn clutches his head dramatically. “A small animal that you buried afterwards, but didn’t eat.” Shawn opens his eyes. Dean is giving him a small smile.
“Impressive.” It is said with the sort of tone that implies Dean doesn’t for one moment believe Shawn is really psychic.
By the end of the match he will.
Shawn watches Dean carefully as they play. They both start off pretending to be bad. When Shawn realizes that is Dean’s game plan too, he starts taking better shots, and Dean soon follows suit. Dean glances at the ball he plans on going for next before Shawn takes his shot. A tiny, subtle, flick of the eyes. Shawn then makes Dean’s next shot difficult. Dean is a good player, better than Shawn, but Shawn always has the advantage of observation.
“What are you guys doing in town then?” Gus is leaning over Sam’s paper. Sam hasn’t looked at it since the game started; he’s been watching Shawn and Dean with interest.
“Maybe Shawn can tell you, if he’s psychic and all,” Sam says. There is a smile playing on his lips.
They definitely don’t believe Shawn, but what they are doing in town is an easy one. “That’s simple. You’re private detectives, investigating a death that happened at the Connor mansion.” The article Sam was reading when they came in gave that away; Dean’s fake ID their P.I. status. Why else would Dean need one?
“Fuck man, that’s… that’s good. How do you do that?” Dean takes a shot, makes a pot. Shawn might not win this game.
“Did you see us at the police station earlier?” Sam asks.
“No. We do often visit our friends Lassie - I am sensing he wasn’t helpful - and Juliet - I’m sensing she would have been more sympathetic - but no.” Shawn taps the side of his head. “Just using my psychic abilities.”
Shawn lines up his shot. As his cue touches the ball, Dean pushes his hands into his pockets. He’s done that several times at a nervous moment. Shawn can win this, then. Shawn clears the last two balls he needs to, then sinks the eight ball.
“Congrats man.” Dean fishes in his pocket.
Shawn sees Sam shake his head and pat his own pocket briefly. When Dean pulls out his money, he barely has the fifty. They were trying to win more than a couple of drinks each.
Shawn waves his hand. “Forget it dude. I just wanted enough for a beer each.”
Dean hesitates, still holding the money out toward Shawn. Shawn can see he wants to keep it but his pride is holding out.
“Seriously, my defeated friend, the loser in the ring, it's enough that I’m the Ralph Macchio and you’re the other guy. I’ll take a beer. Gus?” Shawn pulls up a chair next to Gus. He wants to know what they are investigating at the Connor Mansion; no foul play was noted after the recent death that took place there.
Gus sighs. “Me too.”
Dean laughs. “Okay then.”
“So. The Connor mansion?” Shawn asks Sam. “Want me to tell you what I sense about it?”
Sam turns the paper over. His eyes meet Shawn’s. He clearly still doesn’t believe Shawn is psychic. Shawn flutters his eyes closed then open again, and touches his forehead.
Sam smiles and clears his throat. “Okay then, Shawn. Tell me what you know.”
Shawn grins. People usually go along with it in the end. Plus, Shawn hasn’t bought a drink all night. He’ll chalk this one up as a success.
**
Feedback is adored. Thank you if you read this. Happy Holidays!
I finish this year fulfilling my last Challenge fic for the moment.
For sams1ra for the Fall Fandom Free For All. Apologies for its lateness; it's only fairly wee but I hope you like it and wish you Happy Holidays!
With much thanks to oxoniensis for the beta help. None of these characters belong to me.
Hustler meets Hustler
Gen, PG13. Psych/SPN Crossover.
1600 words.
Shawn bets Gus he can win money off some guy in a bar...
Shawn has made Gus buy the drinks three times. He’s trying for four. Five is his record, on a night when Gus was feeling especially generous and Shawn especially persuasive.
“My hands won’t reach my pockets. They’ve been affected by a shrinking syndrome.” Shawn hunches up his shoulders and waves his hands three inches too short of his pockets. “Look, they won’t go that far.”
“Shawn. If you have no money, say you have no money.” Gus drinks the last drop of his beer and leans back in his chair. He makes no move toward the bar.
“Where’s the fun in that? You’re such a dark cloud sometimes Gus. A storm the day you planned a party outside.” Shawn’s beer bottle has been empty for some time. He pushes the empty bottle across his table, pretending he can’t quite reach it first with his newly short arms. “It’s not that I have no money. I have money. It’s just not on my person. It’s in my bank. It likes it there. It’s warm and cozy and it can play with all its twenty dollar friends.”
“Go to the ATM, Shawn. That’s what it’s for.”
“I don’t want to go to the ATM. It’s cold outside and the machine is at least fifty paces away. Can’t you buy them? C’mon.” Shawn gets out of his chair and bounces lightly on his feet. “I need a beer so I can burp the theme tune to Knight Rider.”
“I’ve heard it before Shawn. Many times. I’m happy that two beers are enough.”
“Fine. I’ll win the money.”
“You’ll win the money?” Gus sounds despairing, as if he thinks this is going to be a repeat of the time Shawn lost all their pocket money betting he could fly. Why hasn’t Gus learned not to doubt Shawn by now?
“Sure. I spent a summer hustling pool in Reno.” Shawn takes a step toward the pool tables. “I bet you a beer I can win at least fifty bucks.”
“You’re on. If you don’t, you owe me a beer. With money from the ATM.” Gus joins Shawn, their shoulders meeting. “I’ll pick your victim.”
“Fine.”
They survey the bar. Most of the clientele are young women or couples out for a drink. There’s one pool table near the back. It's empty, but two men are sitting next to it, one nursing a beer, the other shaking his head.
The one drinking a beer glances around. His gaze lingers on the same people Shawn considered - the man who might be looking to impress his girlfriend, two men who have several empty glasses in front of them near the bar. He is a guy here to hustle.
Gus speaks right into Shawn’s ear. “Guy by the pool table.” Dammit, sometimes Gus is more observant than Shawn gives him credit.
“With the leather jacket over his chair?” Shawn cocks his head to the side and Gus nods his agreement. “Fine. Watch and learn my friend. Watch and learn.”
Shawn walks over to the pool table. “Hey. You guys using this?”
The beer-drinking guy shakes his head. His friend pulls a paper toward him off the table. He's already settling in for a wait. They're definitely here to win some money.
That turns it into a challenge. “You want a match? Gus here thinks a cue is what people in England do at the bank.”
“Sure. I’m Dean.” Dean pushes himself off his chair and grabs a cue.
“I’m Shawn.”
“Wanna make this interesting, Shawn?”
Man, this guy is making it easy. “Fifty bucks on it?” Shawn asks. Dean nods.
Shawn lets Dean rack them up, listening while Gus introduces himself to the other waiting man - Sam.
Sam sticks his feet out in front of him, and flattens the paper down. Out of the corner of his eye, Shawn sees Sam scrutinizing Gus. He peeks back at Dean. Dean is doing the same thing to Shawn. They are fairly subtle about it - not as subtle as Shawn, but not as obvious as Gus would have been. They check people over the same way the police do.
Checking to see whether they think he and Gus are good guys, or easy marks.
“Nice sneakers man,” Gus tells Sam. Sam’s wearing pumas, Shawn notes, the same type Gus wears. The sneakers have all manner of stains on them: mud, what appears to be blood, a green stain he can’t place.
“Thanks. I lost one of my last pair. Had to buy these ones.” Sam lets out a small laugh and crosses one foot neatly over the other, trying to hide his shoes away.
“I lost my shoes too. Lost some at the bank. Lost others running … on a job.” Gus sounds mournful. Shawn knew he should have carried out that funeral for them, like he’d intended.
“A job?” Sam leans over the table toward Gus, the paper forgotten.
“Sure. Shawn and I, we run a psychic detective agency.”
Sam freezes. Just for a second, but enough for Shawn to notice it. “Psychic?”
“Sure. Shawn, he’s psychic.” Gus taps the table and then waves toward Shawn.
“You’re psychic?” Sam spins around to look at Shawn. Dean finishes racking the balls. He walks over to Shawn, his body tense. They’re both waiting for Shawn’s response.
Shawn takes a shot at the balls and pots nothing. All stage one of his plan. “I’m psychic. For example.”
Shawn stands aside and lets Dean take a shot. He runs over what he’s noted so far. They're both stiff, stretching their legs out at occasional intervals, so they've been on a long car journey. Dean has the same bloodstain on the bottom of his jeans. They both have dirt under their nails. There is the top of an ID sticking out of Dean’s pocket that does not contain the name Dean. Shawn bets Dean doesn’t know he is displaying it.
“Sure… I’m sensing you have just had a long car journey. Crossed a state line. Perhaps ‘cause you were hunting something… I’m sensing blood. A small animal… “ They don’t look like the kind of guys who would hunt large game. Shawn clutches his head dramatically. “A small animal that you buried afterwards, but didn’t eat.” Shawn opens his eyes. Dean is giving him a small smile.
“Impressive.” It is said with the sort of tone that implies Dean doesn’t for one moment believe Shawn is really psychic.
By the end of the match he will.
Shawn watches Dean carefully as they play. They both start off pretending to be bad. When Shawn realizes that is Dean’s game plan too, he starts taking better shots, and Dean soon follows suit. Dean glances at the ball he plans on going for next before Shawn takes his shot. A tiny, subtle, flick of the eyes. Shawn then makes Dean’s next shot difficult. Dean is a good player, better than Shawn, but Shawn always has the advantage of observation.
“What are you guys doing in town then?” Gus is leaning over Sam’s paper. Sam hasn’t looked at it since the game started; he’s been watching Shawn and Dean with interest.
“Maybe Shawn can tell you, if he’s psychic and all,” Sam says. There is a smile playing on his lips.
They definitely don’t believe Shawn, but what they are doing in town is an easy one. “That’s simple. You’re private detectives, investigating a death that happened at the Connor mansion.” The article Sam was reading when they came in gave that away; Dean’s fake ID their P.I. status. Why else would Dean need one?
“Fuck man, that’s… that’s good. How do you do that?” Dean takes a shot, makes a pot. Shawn might not win this game.
“Did you see us at the police station earlier?” Sam asks.
“No. We do often visit our friends Lassie - I am sensing he wasn’t helpful - and Juliet - I’m sensing she would have been more sympathetic - but no.” Shawn taps the side of his head. “Just using my psychic abilities.”
Shawn lines up his shot. As his cue touches the ball, Dean pushes his hands into his pockets. He’s done that several times at a nervous moment. Shawn can win this, then. Shawn clears the last two balls he needs to, then sinks the eight ball.
“Congrats man.” Dean fishes in his pocket.
Shawn sees Sam shake his head and pat his own pocket briefly. When Dean pulls out his money, he barely has the fifty. They were trying to win more than a couple of drinks each.
Shawn waves his hand. “Forget it dude. I just wanted enough for a beer each.”
Dean hesitates, still holding the money out toward Shawn. Shawn can see he wants to keep it but his pride is holding out.
“Seriously, my defeated friend, the loser in the ring, it's enough that I’m the Ralph Macchio and you’re the other guy. I’ll take a beer. Gus?” Shawn pulls up a chair next to Gus. He wants to know what they are investigating at the Connor Mansion; no foul play was noted after the recent death that took place there.
Gus sighs. “Me too.”
Dean laughs. “Okay then.”
“So. The Connor mansion?” Shawn asks Sam. “Want me to tell you what I sense about it?”
Sam turns the paper over. His eyes meet Shawn’s. He clearly still doesn’t believe Shawn is psychic. Shawn flutters his eyes closed then open again, and touches his forehead.
Sam smiles and clears his throat. “Okay then, Shawn. Tell me what you know.”
Shawn grins. People usually go along with it in the end. Plus, Shawn hasn’t bought a drink all night. He’ll chalk this one up as a success.
**
Feedback is adored. Thank you if you read this. Happy Holidays!