A Psychic, a Hunter, and a Werewolf Walk Into a Bar [1/4]
Title: A Psychic, a Hunter, and a Werewolf Walk Into a Bar
Series/Collection: Psych You Out (A Supernatural Remix)
Rating: M
Characters: Shawn, Dean, MotW
Warnings: language, gore, Dean and his normal brand of roguish charm
Spoilers: none
Genres: Friendship, Gen, Supernatural, Hurt/Comfort, Action/Adventure, Humor
Chapters: 4
Completed: Yes
Word count: 1837 (total: 10,479)
Disclaimer: I have copies of the DVDs and rumor has it I have the boys in question living in my closet, but I am making no money from this and I'm not in charge of writing or making either show or THIS WOULD SO BE CANON. :D
Notes: Inspired and betaed by the incomparable musicalluna. I just wanted to write about a cat. She demanded banter and blood. :D
TIMELINE MARKER:
Psych: Pre-series by about a year.
Supernatural: Pre-series by a matter of weeks.
Awards:
Summary: Shawn was just minding his business and playing some pool when his life took a sharp turn South. And he's not talking Georgia here. But at least it's good company.
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Dean tipped his bottle up and watched his target.
His eyes momentarily strayed to the waitress bringing another round to the distant table, but, sadly, he couldn't linger.
Well, maybe for a moment.
But then he had to go back to watching one Virgil Westinghouse the Third.
A very prestigious name for someone who lived in East Bumfuck, Iowa.
But maybe that was why his parents had moved here. Because they had names and money and no one looks too closely at people who have names and money and are willing to use both to help the town grow.
Unfortunately for poor Virgil, his senior year of college was not going so well. In fact, he'd had to stop attending school and finish via correspondence courses because he was just so traumatized by all the killings going on at his school.
Dean snorted. Yeah. It was probably very traumatic indeed to turn into a serial killer virtually overnight.
Virtually and literally, actually.
Because Virgil Westinghouse the Third had met a pretty coed at a frat party on Greek Row one night. They'd talked and flirted and, well, he was richer than hell so when the pretty coed had invited him back to her place, he'd, of course, assumed that it had everything to do with his good looks and charming wit and nothing to do with his money.
Yeah, Dean thought, watching Virgil show off his 'skills' at the pool table. Right. Good looks and charming wit. Or something like that.
And, honestly, that could have been it. Dean had no way of knowing because he hadn't exactly stopped to ask before he plunged the silver knife into that pretty coed's chest and sent her wolfy soul to hell.
But whatever her reasoning, she hadn't stolen Virgil's heart that night -literally-as might be expected by one of her kind. Instead she'd turned him.
And he'd dumped her. No surprise there. Who wants a girlfriend who thinks a fun date is committing a double homicide with fresh human heart for dessert?
And then, after things got a little warm at school with two active werewolves hunting prey and drawing attention, he'd come running home to Mommy and Daddy and their big safe house with their big full bank accounts.
Dean had a feeling that Mommy and Daddy had accounted for that first month's need to feed, since they were last seen by someone besides Virgil a week after he arrived home, which happened to also be the day before the full moon. And the killings didn't start until the second full moon after he came back, so yeah, it was a pretty sure bet that Virgil Westinghouse the Third had taken care of his inheritance.
Oddly enough, one month to the day after one could say the Westinghouses vanished there was another disappearance. But it was a guest at a local motel and his stuff had been gone too, so he might have just checked out.
Except for the fact that he never reached his destination and he was never seen again at any hotels-or even gas stations or restaurants-within a day's journey by car. Local police weren't really concerned because there was no proof anything had happened to him here.
And they said the exact same thing about the other seven people who had stayed here in Whatever-The-Hell-This-Place-Was-Called, Iowa, and vanished without a trace.
The police didn't consider it a case.
Dean did. More importantly, John Winchester had. But not one that he felt required both of the Winchester men to take care of, so he'd sent Dean here and headed off after a poltergeist in Georgia.
Dean had spent a few days tracking Virgil's schedule and finding out more about the illustrious Westinghouse family scion.
And tonight, being the full moon, was the last night Dean planned on staying here. He just had to follow Virgil when he left the bar-hopefully alone-and then one silver bullet to the heart and some salt and gasoline later he'd be in bed-maybe meet up with one of the waitresses before getting to the bed part, depending on how the timing all worked out-and on his way to New Orleans to meet up with his Dad in the morning.
But he had to wait for Virgil to leave the bar first.
So he sat and waited and flirted with the waitresses and pretended to nurse an endless bottle of beer because even if he could hold his liquor with the best of them, drinking and hunting didn't mix.
Hustling pool, though . . . that could mix with hunting. He had enough money to get to the next night's stay between here and the Big Easy, but having extra never hurt. Especially when there was no guarantee of a good pool game in the next town.
And it was less suspicious than hanging out in a bar and pretending to drink from a bottle that never needed a replacement.
So he left his seat and headed over to the pool tables, sizing up the competition.
Virgil and his friends were all crowded around a table, though the friends were all just spectators. Money lay in a tidy pile on one side, the balls were scattered over the table, and a shot was currently being measured by someone not of Virgil's social group.
Early to mid-twenties, short hair in a messy kind of style, sharp hazel eyes that judged the table and looked for the best angle to make his shot, clothes that weren't ragged-but that had definitely been through the wash a few times.
Probably a local who was just unwinding after a day working his boring blue collar job.
Dean arched a brow as the cue ball bounced off the side twice before hitting the eight and sinking it into the side pocket on top of which the money was perched.
So he was a local blue collar guy who played one helluva game of pool. Half of Virgil's stripes were still on the table.
Virgil frowned, but the guy smiled easily.
"Good game," he said and folded the wad of cash into his wallet.
"I want a rematch."
The guy looked up into Virgil's stony expression and his eyebrows rose. "Ah, no, thanks. I think I'm going to have a drink or two. Maybe try my luck again with Ashley over there." He grinned at one of the waitresses and Dean stifled a snort. He hadn't had any luck with her. This guy wasn't likely to do so either. Unless Ashley preferred locals. "But I'm done with pool for the night. Thanks for the game, though." He smiled again and turned to walk away, stopping when he came face to face with Dean.
"Are you sure you don't want one more game?" Dean asked, all friendly fellow barfly. "I'm not half as good as those guys, but I'll never learn if I don't play against people who know how to use a cue." He probably should have chosen Virgil because he obviously sucked at pool but Dean was feeling the need for the challenge. Besides, this guy probably had all of the cash Virgil had brought with him tucked his wallet.
The other guy looked Dean up and down, opened his mouth to refuse, then shrugged, half smiling. "Yeah, okay. One game." He held out a hand. "I'm Shawn, by the way."
"Dean."
Shawn nodded and then moved to rack the balls. He cast a glance or two at where Virgil was conferring with his friends in whispers, but didn't seem too nervous.
Which either meant he was a world class poker player, a champion barroom brawler, or dumb as shit.
Dean had even odds on all three at this point.
Dean took the first shot and then settled in to hustle himself up some more gas money for his baby.
o.o
Four games later and Shawn was circling the table looking for a good angle.
Dean was scowling at the table like it had betrayed him.
And it kind of had. But mostly the blame lay on Shawn's friendly shoulders. Because Dean had tried his best to hustle him and had only realized in the last three shots that he was the one being hustled.
Dammit all to hell. If not for his policy of never betting his last hundred dollars he'd be screwed seven ways from Sunday. Because it was probably going to be just enough to get him down the road and into another bar where he could try and get some more.
He just hoped he'd have better luck there.
He'd been right the first time and probably should have left it at his observation. Because Shawn was one hell of a pool player. And from that butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth-innocent face he'd been sporting the last two rounds, probably a damn fine poker player too.
They guy probably made bank in Vegas. If he was even allowed in the casinos anymore.
The eight ball sank into the corner pocket with a thunk and Dean smothered a sigh. Forget trying to find a girl to spend the night with. He was shooting a werewolf and hitting the sack and putting this town in his rearview mirror come dawn. He glanced at his watch. Well, maybe nine or ten.
Speaking of Virgil . . . He looked around.
And spotted the guy in a corner booth with his friends and a few girls, though Virgil wasn't thinking about all those nice curves practically sitting in his lap. His eyes were locked on a target, dark and brooding, and when Dean followed them he found the target was none other than his pool buddy, Shawn.
Oh perfect.
Dean sighed. Well, that was one way to bait a trap. Unintentional, but effective.
Shawn was scooping up the money. "You know, you're not half bad," he said, but the smirk conveyed the fact that he knew exactly what had been going on.
"Neither are you," Dean said with a soft laugh.
"Well, I, uh, I think I really am done for the night. Poolwise anyway. So, uh, later."
Shawn headed off to the bar, flashing a grin at Ashley and Dean watched him go, silently wishing the bastard luck.
Someone ought to get lucky tonight and it looked like the streak was Shawn's.
Dean would have happily called it a night at that point, but he still had work to do and, since he was currently trying to kill Shawn with the lasers in his eyes, Virgil didn't appear to be getting ready to leave any time soon.
So Dean found an empty booth where he could keep both Shawn and Virgil in his sights and settled in for a long night of waiting.
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