Devil's in the House
Title: Devil's in the House
Pairing: Gen
Warnings: None.
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Sam hustles pool to pay for his textbooks, and an unexpected opponent turns up. Pre-series, outside POV.
Normally, Sam hates this kind of bar, and Zach's not entirely sure why he changed his mind about coming out with them. Especially with how twitchy he's been about money lately. He probably thinks nobody's noticed the way he's been quietly panicking ever since his scholarship stopped funding his textbooks, but Zach's known him long enough to see right through the patented Sam Winchester brand of stubborn pride.
The thing with Sam is that he won't accept help, which means that if you want to give him a hand, you have to be sneaky about it. Hell, Zach would be more than happy to just buy his damn books if he thought there was any chance at all Sam would accept it from him. God knows he has enough money.
He buys Sam a beer instead, brings it back to the corner where he's brooding at the pool tables and sets it down in front of him. Sam blinks at it. "Thanks."
"First round's on me," Zach says. On the chair opposite Sam, Jerry squawks indignantly.
"Where's mine?"
"You can buy your own."
"No fair!"
It's too much fun to screw with Jerry sometimes, and he can afford his own drinks. Zach grins at him and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Bar's over that way."
Jerry slides out of his seat. "Asshole."
Zach just laughs at him, slides into the booth next to Sam. His long frame looks awkward folded into the too-small space, and his shaggy bangs are hanging in his eyes. He takes a cautious sip of his beer. "You didn't have to. I have money."
Probably about ten dollars in crumpled ones and assorted change jammed in his coat pockets. The proud, stubborn son of a bitch. It's that military upbringing, that refusal to admit weakness or ask for help, and it's just one more thing that makes Zach vow to punch Sam's father in the face if he ever meets the man.
He doesn't say any of that, though. Sam doesn't ever like to talk about his family and while what little he does say about his father isn't good, he won't stand for other people mouthing off. "I'm the one who dragged you out here on a school night," Zach says instead. "I guess I can spring for beer."
"But not for Jerry."
"Jerry drinks too much anyway. You're a cheap date, buddy."
"Aw, thanks." Sam's grin is more genuine this time. He glances over at the pool tables again, rolls his shoulders like he's getting ready for something. "You up for a game?"
"Against you?" Zach laughs. "Not yet. Give me a chance to drink enough that I can't feel the humiliation."
"Come on, I'll go easy on you."
"Not happening. Ask Jerry."
"Ask me what?" Jerry has reappeared, and he's carrying an obnoxiously pink fruity looking drink.
"How you managed to order that with a straight face," Sam says. "What is it?"
"It's a Pink Pussycat," Jerry says with an impressive deadpan. "I had to tell her how to make it. You want some?"
"No."
Jerry sets the glass down on the table. Just the smell alone is enough to make Zach's teeth hurt. "You're just jealous that I'm secure enough in my masculinity to order this. It's tragic, all these guys who sit around drinking beer even though it tastes like goat piss because they're afraid someone will think they're gay if they order what they really want."
"You are gay," Sam points out.
"Not the point. Seriously, I mean, it's a drink. Getting drunk is like sex; it should be a pleasurable experience. Otherwise there's no point. And--"
"We believe you," Zach says hastily. When Jerry gets on a roll, he can go for hours. "Sam was looking to kick your ass at pool."
"Zach--"
"Hey, I have my pride, man. Humiliate Jerry for a change. You know you want to."
Sam looks like he's going to try to back out of it, but now there's a competitive gleam in Jerry's eyes. He's a good pool player, better than Zach if not anywhere near a match for Sam. Should be interesting to watch, and not at all because he'd love to see Jerry taken down a peg or two.
Well. Maybe a little bit.
"I'd love to get my ass kicked by Sam," Jerry says, grinning sharp and aggressive. "It would be an honor."
"Fine," Sam sighs, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, and Zach stands up to let him out.
***
Zach smirks and steals a sip of Jerry's abandoned drink while they set up the table, and he keeps smirking while Sam chooses a cue and Jerry talks smack in that rapid patter he has. Once the game starts, he can feel the smile slide bemusedly off his face.
Sam loses. Badly. Twice.
***
"I thought you said your boy was good," Jerry remarks, dropping back into his seat with a grin. Zach just slides his drink across the table and watches, brow furrowed, while Sam plays a grizzled trucker. He looks awkward and fumbling, nothing like the guy who cleaned out every single person in Zach's freshman dorm just to prove he could.
"He is good," Zach says, bewildered. The trucker knocks in the 8-ball, grinning, and Sam slumps heavily against the nearest wall, rubs a hand over his eyes. If he didn't know better, Zach would swear up and down that the kid's drunk.
"You owe me a beer, boy."
"Why don't we make it double or nothing?" Sam says. He sounds drunk, too. And okay, Sam's kind of a lightweight for a guy his size, but even he won't be slurring after half a beer. "Come on, one more game. Fifty bucks."
Oh, no. No, no, no. Sam might have fifty bucks on him, but Zach highly doubts it. And the way he's been playing tonight--well. Not a good plan.
Of course, the trucker is already agreeing. "Fifty bucks. Sure, kid."
Jerry winces, sips his drink. "That's not good."
"No," Zach mutters. Bars like this, smoky dim places where the locals are rough-edged and the only entertainment is a jukebox and the occasional fight are not the place to welch on a bet. And he's almost sure Sam doesn't have the money, which means that Zach will have to cover it if he loses. When he loses. Sam usually has more common sense than this. Maybe somebody slipped him something. "I don't know what the hell's gotten into him."
Sam fumbles the break and misses a couple of easy shots, and Zach swears under his breath.
"This is too nerve-wracking for me to handle sober," Jerry says after a few minutes. "I'm getting another drink. You want something?"
"Get a pitcher," Zach says absently, watching Sam fumble another easy shot. He's not taking his eyes off the game unless he has to.
"You owe me."
"Yeah, whatever." He returns Jerry's rude gesture before turning back to the game. And thank God, it looks like Sam's finally found his rhythm. The trucker's grin is starting to sag a little by the time Jerry gets back.
He's got a pitcher in one hand and another fruity drink (green, this time) in the other. And there's a guy with him. Nobody Zach's seen before in his life, and from his tattered jeans and work boots, he's a local, not a college kid.
"Who's your buddy?" Zach asks. Winces, because his tone sounds vaguely accusatory, but Jerry just shrugs and slides into the booth.
"He followed me over. Not that I mind." His grin is suggestive, and so is the long, appreciative look he gives the guy over his shoulder. Jerry likes to fuck with people, make them uncomfortable; sometimes it feels like Zach spends half his time at bars baby-sitting.
The guy looks more amused than uncomfortable when he holds out his hand. "John Bonham." His voice is deep, hint of a drawl. Not a local, then, either.
"John Bonham's dead," Zach says, challengingly.
"So he is." The guy doesn't even look offended, and there's something weirdly familiar about his disarming grin. "Hope you don't mind. Just watching the game."
"Whatever, man." Zach smiles back, reluctantly, and the guy props a hip against the side of their booth and watches while Sam sinks the 8-ball.
The trucker swears viciously enough that for a minute Zach's sure there's gonna be trouble, but he finally digs his wallet out of his pocket and shoves a handful of bills in Sam's direction. Sam pockets them with a disarming smile. "You want to go again?"
"Hell with that," the trucker snaps, and the guy calling himself John Bonham pushes himself away from the booth. The jukebox flips over to a new song--Metallica, Zach thinks, although he doesn't recognize the song itself--and the guy has to raise his voice to be heard over the screaming guitar intro.
"I'll go a few rounds."
Sam's head jerks around, and Zach watches his face turn white and stunned in the uncertain light. "I--what are you--"
"Three hundred sweet enough for you?" asks the guy. Even Zach can hear the challenge in his voice.
Don't do it, you idiot.
But of course, Sam's jaw goes hard and angry, and his fingers tighten around the pool cue. "Great."
"Awesome," says the guy.
"Awesome," Sam says back. "Let's do this."
***
"So, am I the only one who thinks he's missing something?" Jerry asks in a conversational tone, sipping on his drink.
"No," Zach says dryly. Sam and the guy are circling the pool table like a couple of angry dogs about to attack. At least, Sam is. The new guy looks perfectly at ease, broad shoulders relaxed under his brown leather jacket, hands easy and skilled on his cue. Sam looks like he's one wrong word away from throwing a punch.
"Think they know each other?"
"You think?" It comes out even more caustic than he means it to, and Jerry laughs.
"Dumb question."
"Yeah."
It doesn't help that the new guy's a damn good pool player, but Sam seems to have mysteriously regained all the skill he hasn't been displaying all night. By the time the table's down to four balls, they've attracted a crowd and Sam is practically vibrating with nerves.
"Come on, Sammy," the new guy says easily. And yeah, that about cinches it, because Sam hasn't said more than three terse words the entire game, and none of them were an introduction.
"It's Sam," he snaps.
"Okay, Sam. Come on. Shoot."
Sam's jaw is working silently when he bends over to line up his last shot, and he misses it by a mile. Zach swears under his breath, mentally tallying up the ready on his ATM card. No way in hell can Sam cover a three hundred dollar bet.
Zach is so going to take this out of his hide later.
The new guy puts away his last three shots, one after another, and if it weren't for Led Zeppelin wailing away on the jukebox the corner would be dead silent as he lines up to sink the 8-ball.
He misses. Badly.
"Shit," Jerry mutters reverently under his breath, and Zach lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Sam just looks stunned. "You lost," he says, and his voice is almost accusatory.
"Hey, happens to the best of us," says the new guy, straightening up. He's smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners and way too cheerful for a man who just found himself out three hundred dollars.
"Not to--" Sam grits his teeth, shakes his head. The new guy rolls his eyes.
"I'll be at the bar if you want your money," he says, and slants a grin toward Zach and Jerry. "Nice meeting you guys."
He sets down his cue and walks away without a backward glance. Sam stares after him, eyes narrowed, but doesn't move as the crowd around him begins to dissipate.
"Dude," Jerry says, and Sam jumps.
"What?"
Jerry makes a vague stabbing motion in the direction of the bar. "Go after him!"
Sam's eyes cut to Zach, but Zach just shrugs. There's some history there one way or another, and he makes it his business not to get involved in that kind of thing if he doesn't have to.
Jerry has no such compunctions. "Sam, I don't care if the guy fucked your girlfriend or stole your lunch money or whatever. He owes you three hundred dollars. That's the rest of your books for this semester. Don't be stupid."
"I'm not--" Sam starts, then shakes his head, takes a deep breath. "Okay. Okay, you're right." He hesitates again, squares his shoulders. "Wait here."
***
Sam drops onto the nearest seat, braces his elbows against the bar, and scowls pointedly at the stack of money that's slapped down in front of him. "I've never once beat you in a fair game."
"And you never will."
"Is this some kind of joke to you?"
"You have no sense of humor," Dean mutters. He's a dull blur in the corner of Sam's eye, slouched against the bar like he owns the place, and he sounds mildly exasperated. "Just take the money, you whiny bitch. Buy your damn textbooks."
God knows how he even knew about that. Finally, Sam looks him in the eye. He has the worn-out expression that Dad used to get when they were on the road for days, a new scar healing down the side of his neck, and he's watching Sam with that half-amused smile that makes Sam want to simultaneously hug him and deck him.
It's been almost a year.
"I don't need your help," Sam says mulishly.
"Jesus, you're a pigheaded little bastard." Dean downs his whiskey, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and drops a handful of crumpled ones on the bar. "Buy your textbooks or go to Pleasure Palace down the street and blow it on strippers. I don't really give a damn."
"Did Dad put you up to this?"
Dean doesn't even bother answering a question that stupid, just stands up, stretches, shrugs his shoulders to settle Dad's old coat. There's the tell-tale lump of a handgun shoved in the waistband of his jeans. A Colt 1911; Sam can't see it but he doesn't need to. Dean's carried the same gun since he was twelve.
Almost involuntarily, he glances over at the other end of the bar. Jerry is talking and gesturing exaggeratedly, but Zach is looking at Sam. They both look strangely young in the disco-ball lights. When he looks back at Dean, the knowing expression on his brother's face makes him flush, half-guilty, half-defiant. "I--"
"Don't worry," Dean interrupts. "I'm on my way out. Got a gal to see about a knife down in San Felipe."
"You're going to Mexico?"
Dean grins crookedly. "Good time of year for it. Sun, sand, chicks in bikinis..."
"...chupacabras," Sam mutters, and Dean's grin gets even wider.
"Doesn't matter how much they domesticate you here, Sammy. You'll always be a Winchester." Before Sam can open his mouth to deny it, Dean steps forward and pulls him into a quick, hard hug. He smells like gun oil and smoke and leather, like blood and whiskey, like all the things Sam's tried so hard to walk away from. Like home. "Take care of yourself, moron."
"Yeah," Sam mutters, instead of saying any of the three dozen things he really should say. "You too."
"Hey, you know me." Dean steps back, jerks his chin at the booth where the waitress is setting down a second pitcher of beer. "Your buddies are waiting."
And then he's turning and walking away with that cocky, rolling swagger that makes him look like a modern-day gunslinger. The door slams shut with a puff of cold air, and he's gone.
Pairing: Gen
Warnings: None.
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Sam hustles pool to pay for his textbooks, and an unexpected opponent turns up. Pre-series, outside POV.
Normally, Sam hates this kind of bar, and Zach's not entirely sure why he changed his mind about coming out with them. Especially with how twitchy he's been about money lately. He probably thinks nobody's noticed the way he's been quietly panicking ever since his scholarship stopped funding his textbooks, but Zach's known him long enough to see right through the patented Sam Winchester brand of stubborn pride.
The thing with Sam is that he won't accept help, which means that if you want to give him a hand, you have to be sneaky about it. Hell, Zach would be more than happy to just buy his damn books if he thought there was any chance at all Sam would accept it from him. God knows he has enough money.
He buys Sam a beer instead, brings it back to the corner where he's brooding at the pool tables and sets it down in front of him. Sam blinks at it. "Thanks."
"First round's on me," Zach says. On the chair opposite Sam, Jerry squawks indignantly.
"Where's mine?"
"You can buy your own."
"No fair!"
It's too much fun to screw with Jerry sometimes, and he can afford his own drinks. Zach grins at him and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Bar's over that way."
Jerry slides out of his seat. "Asshole."
Zach just laughs at him, slides into the booth next to Sam. His long frame looks awkward folded into the too-small space, and his shaggy bangs are hanging in his eyes. He takes a cautious sip of his beer. "You didn't have to. I have money."
Probably about ten dollars in crumpled ones and assorted change jammed in his coat pockets. The proud, stubborn son of a bitch. It's that military upbringing, that refusal to admit weakness or ask for help, and it's just one more thing that makes Zach vow to punch Sam's father in the face if he ever meets the man.
He doesn't say any of that, though. Sam doesn't ever like to talk about his family and while what little he does say about his father isn't good, he won't stand for other people mouthing off. "I'm the one who dragged you out here on a school night," Zach says instead. "I guess I can spring for beer."
"But not for Jerry."
"Jerry drinks too much anyway. You're a cheap date, buddy."
"Aw, thanks." Sam's grin is more genuine this time. He glances over at the pool tables again, rolls his shoulders like he's getting ready for something. "You up for a game?"
"Against you?" Zach laughs. "Not yet. Give me a chance to drink enough that I can't feel the humiliation."
"Come on, I'll go easy on you."
"Not happening. Ask Jerry."
"Ask me what?" Jerry has reappeared, and he's carrying an obnoxiously pink fruity looking drink.
"How you managed to order that with a straight face," Sam says. "What is it?"
"It's a Pink Pussycat," Jerry says with an impressive deadpan. "I had to tell her how to make it. You want some?"
"No."
Jerry sets the glass down on the table. Just the smell alone is enough to make Zach's teeth hurt. "You're just jealous that I'm secure enough in my masculinity to order this. It's tragic, all these guys who sit around drinking beer even though it tastes like goat piss because they're afraid someone will think they're gay if they order what they really want."
"You are gay," Sam points out.
"Not the point. Seriously, I mean, it's a drink. Getting drunk is like sex; it should be a pleasurable experience. Otherwise there's no point. And--"
"We believe you," Zach says hastily. When Jerry gets on a roll, he can go for hours. "Sam was looking to kick your ass at pool."
"Zach--"
"Hey, I have my pride, man. Humiliate Jerry for a change. You know you want to."
Sam looks like he's going to try to back out of it, but now there's a competitive gleam in Jerry's eyes. He's a good pool player, better than Zach if not anywhere near a match for Sam. Should be interesting to watch, and not at all because he'd love to see Jerry taken down a peg or two.
Well. Maybe a little bit.
"I'd love to get my ass kicked by Sam," Jerry says, grinning sharp and aggressive. "It would be an honor."
"Fine," Sam sighs, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, and Zach stands up to let him out.
***
Zach smirks and steals a sip of Jerry's abandoned drink while they set up the table, and he keeps smirking while Sam chooses a cue and Jerry talks smack in that rapid patter he has. Once the game starts, he can feel the smile slide bemusedly off his face.
Sam loses. Badly. Twice.
***
"I thought you said your boy was good," Jerry remarks, dropping back into his seat with a grin. Zach just slides his drink across the table and watches, brow furrowed, while Sam plays a grizzled trucker. He looks awkward and fumbling, nothing like the guy who cleaned out every single person in Zach's freshman dorm just to prove he could.
"He is good," Zach says, bewildered. The trucker knocks in the 8-ball, grinning, and Sam slumps heavily against the nearest wall, rubs a hand over his eyes. If he didn't know better, Zach would swear up and down that the kid's drunk.
"You owe me a beer, boy."
"Why don't we make it double or nothing?" Sam says. He sounds drunk, too. And okay, Sam's kind of a lightweight for a guy his size, but even he won't be slurring after half a beer. "Come on, one more game. Fifty bucks."
Oh, no. No, no, no. Sam might have fifty bucks on him, but Zach highly doubts it. And the way he's been playing tonight--well. Not a good plan.
Of course, the trucker is already agreeing. "Fifty bucks. Sure, kid."
Jerry winces, sips his drink. "That's not good."
"No," Zach mutters. Bars like this, smoky dim places where the locals are rough-edged and the only entertainment is a jukebox and the occasional fight are not the place to welch on a bet. And he's almost sure Sam doesn't have the money, which means that Zach will have to cover it if he loses. When he loses. Sam usually has more common sense than this. Maybe somebody slipped him something. "I don't know what the hell's gotten into him."
Sam fumbles the break and misses a couple of easy shots, and Zach swears under his breath.
"This is too nerve-wracking for me to handle sober," Jerry says after a few minutes. "I'm getting another drink. You want something?"
"Get a pitcher," Zach says absently, watching Sam fumble another easy shot. He's not taking his eyes off the game unless he has to.
"You owe me."
"Yeah, whatever." He returns Jerry's rude gesture before turning back to the game. And thank God, it looks like Sam's finally found his rhythm. The trucker's grin is starting to sag a little by the time Jerry gets back.
He's got a pitcher in one hand and another fruity drink (green, this time) in the other. And there's a guy with him. Nobody Zach's seen before in his life, and from his tattered jeans and work boots, he's a local, not a college kid.
"Who's your buddy?" Zach asks. Winces, because his tone sounds vaguely accusatory, but Jerry just shrugs and slides into the booth.
"He followed me over. Not that I mind." His grin is suggestive, and so is the long, appreciative look he gives the guy over his shoulder. Jerry likes to fuck with people, make them uncomfortable; sometimes it feels like Zach spends half his time at bars baby-sitting.
The guy looks more amused than uncomfortable when he holds out his hand. "John Bonham." His voice is deep, hint of a drawl. Not a local, then, either.
"John Bonham's dead," Zach says, challengingly.
"So he is." The guy doesn't even look offended, and there's something weirdly familiar about his disarming grin. "Hope you don't mind. Just watching the game."
"Whatever, man." Zach smiles back, reluctantly, and the guy props a hip against the side of their booth and watches while Sam sinks the 8-ball.
The trucker swears viciously enough that for a minute Zach's sure there's gonna be trouble, but he finally digs his wallet out of his pocket and shoves a handful of bills in Sam's direction. Sam pockets them with a disarming smile. "You want to go again?"
"Hell with that," the trucker snaps, and the guy calling himself John Bonham pushes himself away from the booth. The jukebox flips over to a new song--Metallica, Zach thinks, although he doesn't recognize the song itself--and the guy has to raise his voice to be heard over the screaming guitar intro.
"I'll go a few rounds."
Sam's head jerks around, and Zach watches his face turn white and stunned in the uncertain light. "I--what are you--"
"Three hundred sweet enough for you?" asks the guy. Even Zach can hear the challenge in his voice.
Don't do it, you idiot.
But of course, Sam's jaw goes hard and angry, and his fingers tighten around the pool cue. "Great."
"Awesome," says the guy.
"Awesome," Sam says back. "Let's do this."
***
"So, am I the only one who thinks he's missing something?" Jerry asks in a conversational tone, sipping on his drink.
"No," Zach says dryly. Sam and the guy are circling the pool table like a couple of angry dogs about to attack. At least, Sam is. The new guy looks perfectly at ease, broad shoulders relaxed under his brown leather jacket, hands easy and skilled on his cue. Sam looks like he's one wrong word away from throwing a punch.
"Think they know each other?"
"You think?" It comes out even more caustic than he means it to, and Jerry laughs.
"Dumb question."
"Yeah."
It doesn't help that the new guy's a damn good pool player, but Sam seems to have mysteriously regained all the skill he hasn't been displaying all night. By the time the table's down to four balls, they've attracted a crowd and Sam is practically vibrating with nerves.
"Come on, Sammy," the new guy says easily. And yeah, that about cinches it, because Sam hasn't said more than three terse words the entire game, and none of them were an introduction.
"It's Sam," he snaps.
"Okay, Sam. Come on. Shoot."
Sam's jaw is working silently when he bends over to line up his last shot, and he misses it by a mile. Zach swears under his breath, mentally tallying up the ready on his ATM card. No way in hell can Sam cover a three hundred dollar bet.
Zach is so going to take this out of his hide later.
The new guy puts away his last three shots, one after another, and if it weren't for Led Zeppelin wailing away on the jukebox the corner would be dead silent as he lines up to sink the 8-ball.
He misses. Badly.
"Shit," Jerry mutters reverently under his breath, and Zach lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
Sam just looks stunned. "You lost," he says, and his voice is almost accusatory.
"Hey, happens to the best of us," says the new guy, straightening up. He's smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners and way too cheerful for a man who just found himself out three hundred dollars.
"Not to--" Sam grits his teeth, shakes his head. The new guy rolls his eyes.
"I'll be at the bar if you want your money," he says, and slants a grin toward Zach and Jerry. "Nice meeting you guys."
He sets down his cue and walks away without a backward glance. Sam stares after him, eyes narrowed, but doesn't move as the crowd around him begins to dissipate.
"Dude," Jerry says, and Sam jumps.
"What?"
Jerry makes a vague stabbing motion in the direction of the bar. "Go after him!"
Sam's eyes cut to Zach, but Zach just shrugs. There's some history there one way or another, and he makes it his business not to get involved in that kind of thing if he doesn't have to.
Jerry has no such compunctions. "Sam, I don't care if the guy fucked your girlfriend or stole your lunch money or whatever. He owes you three hundred dollars. That's the rest of your books for this semester. Don't be stupid."
"I'm not--" Sam starts, then shakes his head, takes a deep breath. "Okay. Okay, you're right." He hesitates again, squares his shoulders. "Wait here."
***
Sam drops onto the nearest seat, braces his elbows against the bar, and scowls pointedly at the stack of money that's slapped down in front of him. "I've never once beat you in a fair game."
"And you never will."
"Is this some kind of joke to you?"
"You have no sense of humor," Dean mutters. He's a dull blur in the corner of Sam's eye, slouched against the bar like he owns the place, and he sounds mildly exasperated. "Just take the money, you whiny bitch. Buy your damn textbooks."
God knows how he even knew about that. Finally, Sam looks him in the eye. He has the worn-out expression that Dad used to get when they were on the road for days, a new scar healing down the side of his neck, and he's watching Sam with that half-amused smile that makes Sam want to simultaneously hug him and deck him.
It's been almost a year.
"I don't need your help," Sam says mulishly.
"Jesus, you're a pigheaded little bastard." Dean downs his whiskey, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and drops a handful of crumpled ones on the bar. "Buy your textbooks or go to Pleasure Palace down the street and blow it on strippers. I don't really give a damn."
"Did Dad put you up to this?"
Dean doesn't even bother answering a question that stupid, just stands up, stretches, shrugs his shoulders to settle Dad's old coat. There's the tell-tale lump of a handgun shoved in the waistband of his jeans. A Colt 1911; Sam can't see it but he doesn't need to. Dean's carried the same gun since he was twelve.
Almost involuntarily, he glances over at the other end of the bar. Jerry is talking and gesturing exaggeratedly, but Zach is looking at Sam. They both look strangely young in the disco-ball lights. When he looks back at Dean, the knowing expression on his brother's face makes him flush, half-guilty, half-defiant. "I--"
"Don't worry," Dean interrupts. "I'm on my way out. Got a gal to see about a knife down in San Felipe."
"You're going to Mexico?"
Dean grins crookedly. "Good time of year for it. Sun, sand, chicks in bikinis..."
"...chupacabras," Sam mutters, and Dean's grin gets even wider.
"Doesn't matter how much they domesticate you here, Sammy. You'll always be a Winchester." Before Sam can open his mouth to deny it, Dean steps forward and pulls him into a quick, hard hug. He smells like gun oil and smoke and leather, like blood and whiskey, like all the things Sam's tried so hard to walk away from. Like home. "Take care of yourself, moron."
"Yeah," Sam mutters, instead of saying any of the three dozen things he really should say. "You too."
"Hey, you know me." Dean steps back, jerks his chin at the booth where the waitress is setting down a second pitcher of beer. "Your buddies are waiting."
And then he's turning and walking away with that cocky, rolling swagger that makes him look like a modern-day gunslinger. The door slams shut with a puff of cold air, and he's gone.