FIC: Pokerface
Summary: Sam's just trying to play the game.
Words: 932
A/N: Oh my god. It's Wednesday and it's not even noon and I'm a little drunk and I was kind of buzzed when I wrote this and I still am here you go. I am so unprofessional.
Jerry Singbad has the nicest house out of all of us, but this week we’re gathered at my place for poker night. It’s small, just me and my wife, with just one story and a small living room and a broken air conditioner. That’s okay though. The windows are open and the flowers are blooming in the garden and all around the windowsill, and even though it’s night time we’ve got the porch lights turned on so our guests know where to find us.
It’s through said open windows that we can all hear said guests, a low voice saying, “We’re really strapped for cash, Sammy. It’ll be fun. Won’t take long,” followed by some light coughing from the other party.
“Hey man, glad you could make it!” greeted Mike. He’s our youngest player, “the kid”, although at twenty-eight you wouldn’t really take him for a kid anymore. He’d met Winchester at a bar just a few hours ago and took a liking to him, invited him over for a game. We aren’t much of a serious bunch. The more the merrier. “Guys, this is Winchester,” he continues.
“Dean,” Winchester elaborates. “And this is my brother, Sam.” He motions to the tall fellow behind him, long arms and shaggy hair and sad melty eyes.
We’re seated around my kitchen table, round and wooden and falling apart (it slides sometimes on the linoleum flooring), and Jerry’s our dealer. I pass out the beers and he hands out the cards and the younger (bigger) Winchester, Sam, clears his throat.
I’ve been playing with these guys for years now, and I’ve become accustomed to their tells. Jerry’s eyes flicker to the ceiling when he’s got a good hand, like he’s thanking the Lord for his luck. When Andy’s dealt a bad hand he stiffens his lips. Mike’s the best of all of us, I think, but when he likes his cards sometimes I can see him tugging at his sleeves.
Sam folds and I win the first round while I wonder if he’s given away his tell already.
Next round, he starts rubbing his nose and sniffling, and he doesn’t stop even after his brother wins a decent amount of chips. Once we’re all given a fresh set of cards, Dean looks at Sam with a concerned, questioning expression when he thinks the rest of us are distracted. Sam just pinches his nose and shakes his head subtly, then offers in more than half of his chips.
He’s bluffing.
I match his wager and Jerry follows my lead. Dean’s in too, but I figure that they’ll both be sharing winnings anyway. I’ve got a straight, which isn’t the best but it’s definitely something and since the younger Winchester’s bluffing I figure I don’t have much to worry about.
Sam has a flush. He shrugs and sniffles and collects his winnings.
“Hey, not bad,” Andy says, sounding a little impressed but mostly confused.
Sam smiles at him very briefly before his expression crumples and he sneezes into his shirtsleeve.
“Bless you,” Mike tells him.
“Thanks.” Sam clears his throat. “Next round?”
Jerry hands out the next set of cards and Sam sneezes again, twice this time, muffled and a little suppressed. Still sniffling, he pushes a fair amount of chips into the center of the table.
By now I know his tricks. I’m sure he isn’t bluffing this time, so I fold, and I’m not the only one that isn’t falling for his tricks again.
Nobody matches him, so Sam shows us his cards. He’s got nothing.
Okay, so he was bluffing this time. I hear him sneeze again - now it’s three times - and apologize quickly.
“You okay, man?” Mike asks.
Sam answers his affirmative and sounds horribly congested. He sneezes twice again less than a minute after the next hand is dealt.
Last time, that meant he had a bad hand. We all match his bet, but he has a full house and cleans us out once again.
What the hell?
I can see the other guys trying to figure out his pattern, too. There’s no way he’s lucky enough to be doing this well. Andy’s almost out of chips.
A couple rounds later Sam’s still winning and he’s also still sneezing. Dean isn’t doing bad either and I’m starting to get a headache from trying to figure them out.
Sam beats his record with a total of seven - no, eight, Jesus - sneezes and Andy says to Dean, “Should we take a break?” (Because if he had asked Sam he would have insisted on being “fide” and had us continue playing.)
Dean does it for him and looks at his brother. “Sam?”
“I’b fide,” Sam answers (what did I tell you?) and we keep going.
But Sam gets worse and we can see his eyes starting to swell and Jerry announces that he thinks it’s time to call it quits.
“Not a bad idea,” Mike agrees, and then stands to get a few more beers, patting Sam’s shoulder on the way. “You wiped the floor with us, kid.”
We all hand Dean the money since his brother seems to be having trouble keeping himself together for more than a few seconds at a time. Still, I offer to Dean, “Would you like to stay for a few beers?”
“Thanks, but we’d better get going. Nice of you to have us over though, I appreciate it. Good playing with you,” Dean replies.
“No kidding!” I grin. “You know, for a winner, your brother’s got some really interesting tells.”
Dean looks confused. “Sam doesn’t have any tells,” he corrects me. “He has allergies.”
Words: 932
A/N: Oh my god. It's Wednesday and it's not even noon and I'm a little drunk and I was kind of buzzed when I wrote this and I still am here you go. I am so unprofessional.
Jerry Singbad has the nicest house out of all of us, but this week we’re gathered at my place for poker night. It’s small, just me and my wife, with just one story and a small living room and a broken air conditioner. That’s okay though. The windows are open and the flowers are blooming in the garden and all around the windowsill, and even though it’s night time we’ve got the porch lights turned on so our guests know where to find us.
It’s through said open windows that we can all hear said guests, a low voice saying, “We’re really strapped for cash, Sammy. It’ll be fun. Won’t take long,” followed by some light coughing from the other party.
“Hey man, glad you could make it!” greeted Mike. He’s our youngest player, “the kid”, although at twenty-eight you wouldn’t really take him for a kid anymore. He’d met Winchester at a bar just a few hours ago and took a liking to him, invited him over for a game. We aren’t much of a serious bunch. The more the merrier. “Guys, this is Winchester,” he continues.
“Dean,” Winchester elaborates. “And this is my brother, Sam.” He motions to the tall fellow behind him, long arms and shaggy hair and sad melty eyes.
We’re seated around my kitchen table, round and wooden and falling apart (it slides sometimes on the linoleum flooring), and Jerry’s our dealer. I pass out the beers and he hands out the cards and the younger (bigger) Winchester, Sam, clears his throat.
I’ve been playing with these guys for years now, and I’ve become accustomed to their tells. Jerry’s eyes flicker to the ceiling when he’s got a good hand, like he’s thanking the Lord for his luck. When Andy’s dealt a bad hand he stiffens his lips. Mike’s the best of all of us, I think, but when he likes his cards sometimes I can see him tugging at his sleeves.
Sam folds and I win the first round while I wonder if he’s given away his tell already.
Next round, he starts rubbing his nose and sniffling, and he doesn’t stop even after his brother wins a decent amount of chips. Once we’re all given a fresh set of cards, Dean looks at Sam with a concerned, questioning expression when he thinks the rest of us are distracted. Sam just pinches his nose and shakes his head subtly, then offers in more than half of his chips.
He’s bluffing.
I match his wager and Jerry follows my lead. Dean’s in too, but I figure that they’ll both be sharing winnings anyway. I’ve got a straight, which isn’t the best but it’s definitely something and since the younger Winchester’s bluffing I figure I don’t have much to worry about.
Sam has a flush. He shrugs and sniffles and collects his winnings.
“Hey, not bad,” Andy says, sounding a little impressed but mostly confused.
Sam smiles at him very briefly before his expression crumples and he sneezes into his shirtsleeve.
“Bless you,” Mike tells him.
“Thanks.” Sam clears his throat. “Next round?”
Jerry hands out the next set of cards and Sam sneezes again, twice this time, muffled and a little suppressed. Still sniffling, he pushes a fair amount of chips into the center of the table.
By now I know his tricks. I’m sure he isn’t bluffing this time, so I fold, and I’m not the only one that isn’t falling for his tricks again.
Nobody matches him, so Sam shows us his cards. He’s got nothing.
Okay, so he was bluffing this time. I hear him sneeze again - now it’s three times - and apologize quickly.
“You okay, man?” Mike asks.
Sam answers his affirmative and sounds horribly congested. He sneezes twice again less than a minute after the next hand is dealt.
Last time, that meant he had a bad hand. We all match his bet, but he has a full house and cleans us out once again.
What the hell?
I can see the other guys trying to figure out his pattern, too. There’s no way he’s lucky enough to be doing this well. Andy’s almost out of chips.
A couple rounds later Sam’s still winning and he’s also still sneezing. Dean isn’t doing bad either and I’m starting to get a headache from trying to figure them out.
Sam beats his record with a total of seven - no, eight, Jesus - sneezes and Andy says to Dean, “Should we take a break?” (Because if he had asked Sam he would have insisted on being “fide” and had us continue playing.)
Dean does it for him and looks at his brother. “Sam?”
“I’b fide,” Sam answers (what did I tell you?) and we keep going.
But Sam gets worse and we can see his eyes starting to swell and Jerry announces that he thinks it’s time to call it quits.
“Not a bad idea,” Mike agrees, and then stands to get a few more beers, patting Sam’s shoulder on the way. “You wiped the floor with us, kid.”
We all hand Dean the money since his brother seems to be having trouble keeping himself together for more than a few seconds at a time. Still, I offer to Dean, “Would you like to stay for a few beers?”
“Thanks, but we’d better get going. Nice of you to have us over though, I appreciate it. Good playing with you,” Dean replies.
“No kidding!” I grin. “You know, for a winner, your brother’s got some really interesting tells.”
Dean looks confused. “Sam doesn’t have any tells,” he corrects me. “He has allergies.”