DA/SPN Fanfic: The Time Alec Got Hustled By An Ordinary Old Guy (1/1)
Title: The Time Alec Got Hustled By An Ordinary Old Guy
Author: poestheblackcat
Rating: PG-13
Crossover: Dark Angel/Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Alec, mystery man from SPN (Gen)
Warning/Spoilers: Season 2 of DA, not much from SPN. This story is set in the future of SPN and mentions the death of at least one SPN character, but angst is not the focus.
Summary: Just what the title says. One special pool game. Not part of my "Ghosts of the Past" crossover stories.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners.
AN: Birthday fic for FirstBorn on fanfiction.net. Happy Belated Birthday!!
One thing you need to know about this fic-I know absolutely nothing about pool. Just that it’s the game with the balls with the colors and you hit them with sticks to make them go into the little pockets on the side of the table, and you can’t get the black one into the hole until the very end and…the person who gets that last one wins. Right? Ooh, and it makes Original Cindy quip about “men with their balls and sticks.” I love OC.
The Time Alec Got Hustled By An Ordinary Old Guy
He should have listened to his gut, Alec would think later. There was a reason he was still alive, and it sure wasn’t his luck. His gut instincts were usually right.
Take that one night at the end of January.
He’d sauntered into Crash as if he owned the place, same as always, and he’d been lured to the pool table by what seemed to be a ridiculously easy mark.
Old guy, wearing several layers of battered clothing that had seen better days, back stiffly stopped, and making his way around the table with a severe limp. His face was so scarred there wasn’t an inch of smooth skin anywhere. His scars had scars. He moved in slow, tottering jerks, supporting his weight on a battered metal cane.
What could be seen of his hazel eyes under the marred lids was glazed, as if he’d had three too many to drink. That was perfectly all right by Alec, especially if it resulted in the old guy making large bets and waving a thick wad of bills around.
As mentioned before, the poor bastard seemed like a ridiculously easy mark.
A slow smirk formed on Alec’s mouth as he ambled over to the table.
“Who’sh up nexsht?” the old guy was saying in a gravelly voice, the words coming out slurred. He stumped around the table, waving his free arm. “Cummon, itsh a shpeshul djay ta-day. Who wantshta play a good game-a poo’, huh?”
Unfocused eyes landed on Alec and for a moment, sharpened. Then as fast as they’d cleared, they fogged up under a drunken haze again. Crooked fingers pointed at him. “You. How aboud you? You wanna play shum poo’?” Ragged lips smiled lopsidedly.
Alec would later pinpoint that moment as the time he should have declined and turned around to get a beer with the guys like always. But no, he ignored that feeling in his gut and let his greed take over. To be fair, though, that money was just sitting there in plain sight, a fat fold of assorted bills.
He flashed a smile back. “Sure, man. Game sounds great.” He stepped up to the table and grabbed a stick.
The next time he should have felt uneasy: a couple titters sounded around the crowd gathering to watch the game. Alec figured they were laughing at the poor drunk bastard.
The old guy slapped the money. “How mucha wage-ah? How ‘boud $400?” He said it “fo-hun-re.”
Alec shrugged. “You sure about that, old man? Okay, sounds good. Stripes or solid?”
“Sholid,” the drunk guy said with another swig of his beer.
“That makes me stripes then,” Alec said. “You wanna break?”
The guy shook his head and swayed precariously on his three legs. The cane waved in the air as he caught his balance. “Naw, you break. I like ya, kid.”
“Okie-dokie,” Alec said and lined up his shot. The colored balls scattered and the sound of their clinking against each other cut through the noise in the bar.
Needless to say, Alec won the first round. He couldn’t have lost to save his soul-if Transgenics even had souls in the first place-the guy was so tipsy. He actually had to try really hard to lose the first couple rounds, and couldn’t even accomplish that.
The guy kept up a stream of drunken chatter the whole time.
“Ya know? You r’mind me a lodda mah bruddah.”
Alec spared him a glance as he calculated his next shot so that no balls would fall into the pockets. “Your brother?”
Drunk guy nodded and took another swig of alcohol. He breathed beer fumes into the younger man’s face. Alec’s heightened sense of smell revolted against the foul air. “Ye-ah. Mah bruddah. Besh bruddah in the worl’. You goddany bruddahs, kid?”
Alec took a drink from his own mug of beer. He shrugged. “Nah, not really, man. I’m not too big on family.”
“Faaam’ly bishnush,” the old guy mumbled, suddenly somber.
“Dean,” he said suddenly. There was a world of meaning in the utterance of that one name.
“What?” Alec’s eyebrows arched way up.
“Dean,” the guy repeated, “Tha’sh ‘is name.”
Alec watched the guy chalk his cue. He kept missing the point of the stick. “Yeah? Where is Dean now?” Drunken talks always amused him because he could never indulge in them himself, courtesy of his Transgenic inability to get smashed.
The stumbling Ordinary lined up his shot with rheumy, red-rimmed eyes. “Dead. He’sh dead. Tryin’ ta shave me. They’re all dead. ’Sh jush me now.” Four solid-colored balls flew cross the table and clacked into the side pockets.
“Huh,” Alec said. “I’m sorry.” He really was starting to feel bad for the guy. “That how you got all those scars, buddy?”
“Mm?” The guy stumped around the table for his next shot. He lost his balance halfway around and would have fallen if Alec hadn’t been there to catch him.
“Hey, ya know,” the man said dreamily, as he struggled back onto his feet. The cane waved in Alec’s face. “Dean loved tcha play pool. He did,” as if Alec had refuted his claim.
“He’d go du a bar, and he’ clean shum poo’ bashtar’ oud. Called it ‘hard-earned cash.’ Pfft.” The guy snorted. “‘Hard-earned cash,’ mah ash.”
His voice turned dreamy again, like he was remembering something. “Loved dat aboud ‘im, doh. He’d call me a ‘wush’ fah shayin’ dat. ‘Cudja be moah gay, Shammy?’ he’d shay.”
‘Shammy’ laughed. “Den I’d call ‘im a ‘jerk’ and ‘e’d call me a ‘bish’ an’ we’d jush drive aroun’. Doze were da daysh, I tellsh yah. Doze were da daysh.” Long hair flopped in watery hazel eyes.
Alec had a sudden longing for a brother. He’d never felt that way. The closest he ever came to family was his unit, and even then, a lot of them were backstabbing sonsabitches after ‘09. He’d had camaraderie, sure, but family? Not really. “I think I woulda liked your brother, man. Sounds like he was an awesome guy.”
Shammy nodded and cackled. “He thought sho.” He lined up another shot. “Hey, know wha’, kid?”
“No, what?” Alec was starting to like this drunken Ordinary.
The last ball, the eight ball, plunged into the corner pocket. “I win.”
The not-at-all drunk guy straightened up to his full height of-whoa-six-foot-four and stood there looking at Alec, whose mouth had dropped open. Did he just get hustled?! That was just…that was totally not fair.
Laughter and cheers erupted around the pair.
Alec snapped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes at the old-not that old-looking now that he was all straightened up-guy. “You cheated.”
The guy twisted his scarred face into something that looked like a shit-eating grin. Clear hazel eyes twinkled under the shaggy mane. “Hard earned cash, dude. Hand it over.” The slur was gone from his speech. He held his hand out and snapped his fingers.
Alec scowled. He pulled his wallet out and took out the money. “I don’t think I like your brother much anymore,” he muttered as he placed the bills in the outstretched hand.
The hustler laughed. “Dean was a sore loser, too. Don’t think I don’t know you were planning on hustling me, buddy.”
Alec’s mouth twitched.
Hustler Shammy counted out the bills. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Alec,” the younger man said sullenly.
The tall man tucked the money into the back pocket of his jeans. “Listen, Alec. I’m gonna give you some advice a wise man gave me once: Never try to con a con man.” He slapped Alec’s shoulder and walked away on his cane. His limp was far less pronounced and he moved with a grace that had been completely absent two minutes before.
Original Cindy found Alec nursing a scotch at the bar a half-hour later. “Hey, don’t feel too bad, boo.”
Alec glared at her. “I just got my ass kicked by a cripple. An Ordinary, Cindy.” He slammed the glass down. “I can’t believe it.”
OC laughed. “Aw, boo. Seriously. I shoulda warned ya, but it was too much fun to resist. Every damn year, some poo’ fool thinks it’s his lucky day and ends up wipin’ that pool table wit’ his face.”
Alec squinted at her. “What do you mean? This happens every year?”
“That was Sam Winchester, boo,” OC said, amusement tingeing her voice. “Every year on the same day, he comes in an’ hustles some poo’ cocky sucka’s pockets clean. I think I heard him say once that it was his brother’s birthday an’ he does it ‘cause he woulda gotten a real kick outta it.”
Alec groaned and set his head on the cool table. “Leave me alone. And don’t tell Max.”
The black woman patted his back and left. “Later, Pretty Boy.”
---------------------------------------------------------
One night the next year, late in January, an old cripple limped into Crash. Rheumy hazel eyes moved around the room. A smile flitted across the man’s mouth when he saw who was at his usual pool table.
He stumped over on surprisingly silent feet. “Hey, kid.”
Green-hazel eyes met his and a familiar smirk lightened the young man’s face. “Sam, right?”
Sam Winchester nodded, all traces of drunkenness and overall defenselessness gone. “Alec. Here for a rematch?”
Alec grinned. “You up for it, old man?”
Sam grabbed a stick. “Watch who you’re callin’ ‘old,’ young grasshopper.”
---------------------------------------------------------
AN: Yes, I scarred up Sammy. No, I don’t know how he got hurt or how Dean died. Sorry.
Comments?