For the Pot
Dean was glaring around the table, apparently unhappy with his hand.
The Campbells, on the other hand, looked confident. They were still a little confused as to how Sam had dragged his inept brother into their weekly poker game.
Sam, of course, had chosen to sit out. Instead of playing, he was leaning against the back of Dean's chair, watching. Dean didn't seem pleased with that either.
The pot had grown expensive. Seeing as they were hunters, though, there was no money to be seen. Instead, there were all sorts of odd items.
A Hoodoo charm guaranteed to ward off ghosts. A necklace strung with the finger bones of a witch that could be used to make someone ill. A hex bag whose holder became forgettable and unnoticed. An angel sword. A grimoire detailing exorcism rituals from 12th Century Europe. A bandolier of wrought iron rounds bathed in salt and carved with the sign of the cross. A cursed rosary first owned by a Catholic-bishop-turned-necromancer in the early 1800's. The blueprints to the LaLaurie Mansion in New Orleans. A 1910 Browning semiautomatic pistol once used to assassinate the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, since modified to fire shots packed with rock salt.
The pot had officially become a pile of things most hunters would kill for.
And Dean was looking more than a little out of his depth, shifting in his chair and twisting his ring.
Gwen smirked, raising with a pair of charmed iron manacles that would contain and control any fae locked into them.
Christian surveyed his cards, sighed and folded.
Samuel just kept smiling, like he hadn't a care in the world, and added a compass spelled to reveal the source of ghostly activity in a home.
Then it was back to Dean. Abruptly, all the uncomfortable shifting, all the little tells the Campbells had picked up on, were gone, exchanged for a sharp, predatory grin.
Every movement weighty, the older Winchester reached up and pulled off the necklace he'd worn ever since Sam returned in. The amulet hanging at the end of the black leather band was powerful and protective. More than that, the Campbells had come to understand it was a symbol for the relationship between the brothers. Dean wouldn't offer it up for the pot if he wasn't absolutely sure he would win.
The next go round, everyone folded – with a single exception. Samuel knew his hand and he knew the pot was his. He raised Dean a ring that made the wearer immune to werewolf bites. It was the only one of its kind, the steps of creating and spelling the ring having long since been lost.
Dean called, throwing in the demon-killing knife, and Samuel showed his hand first.
A full house, consisting of paired aces and trip-tens. His smile was triumphant when he reached out to scoop in the winnings.
Dean chuckled. "Not so fast, old man." Flipping his own cards, he revealed a royal flush, all spades.
Sam laughed easily as Dean gathered up the pile of strange objects, than glowered over his shoulder at his brother. "You are such a whiney bitch," he growled, handing the taller man the grimoire.
As he stood to leave, and hooked the amulet back around his neck, Sam walking close at his heels, the Campbell cousins realized that Dean only bought into the game because his baby brother wanted the book.
Mark snorted, amused, Christian stared, disbelieving, and Gwen scoffed. "We got hustled, boys."
Samuel, on the other hand, groaned and poured himself another drink. He really should've known better than to underestimate Mary's sons.