BIG SHOTS
WOW: quarter. Dean's determined to assert his dominance over Mick. Sam's got other matters to concern himself with ...
Disclaimer: I don't own them
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Standing either side of the table Dean and Mick stared, eye to eye.
On the table between them, stood forty shot glasses, holding enough Icelandic Potato Vodka to blast both mens' livers into orbit.
Dean's fingers flexed into fists; Mick pulled in a deep breath, his insubstantial shoulders squared.
Glimmering green met ice blue.
Silence reigned as the two minds locked in mortal combat; each man preparing to push his body to the limit to humiliate the other. No quarter would be given.
And from a safe distance, a third mind wondered idly if two buckets was going to be enough.
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