Sam had learned of a room for rent in town from some cutesy little high school girl at the local grocery store. She'd batted her eyes and adjusted herself until all he could see was cleavage and a jail cell in his future. He'd thanked her for the info and had run like Hell.
The Kirchmann residence was a two bedroom, one and a half story gingerbread cottage lying on the outskirts of town and its owner, Mrs. Anne Kirchmann, was a walking stereotype; an elderly woman, widowed for many years and lonely as the day was long. A tiny little thing in a tiny little house, she was grateful for the company although a little wary and suspicious of the two towering young men on her doorstep. Teetering on frail legs, she carefully led them up and around the narrow stairs to the guest room; Sam with his hand held up behind her back waiting to catch her if she toppled over on them.
The room was par for the course – tiny. A long, narrow room with a slanted ceiling that Dean bumped his head on and under which, Sam was unable to stand up straight at all. On the long wall sat the only bed; a full sized brass number – too large to be a single, much too small to contain both their lanky bodies – dressed in peaches-n-cream frills and lace and twenty pillows too many. It was a bed and breakfast nightmare, but the only bed available in town and so both boys jumped to claim it.
"I call dibs," Dean said immediately.
"Bullshit," Sam answered under his breath, shoving his older, yet shorter brother out of the way.
With a place to stay all lined up and a couple of beers into each of them, Sam and Dean settled down in the one and only tavern and began laying the ground work for a tried and true pool hustle. A small town like this – with an even smaller bar – didn't lend itself well towards scraping together much, but Dean hoped it would be enough to cover the parts, the tow and the too tiny room at Mrs. Kirchmann's.
They played a sloppy first game, bantering and making a few brash statements to each other about how badly one was about to kick the other's ass; all of which was for show and to gain the interest of any onlookers. But beneath the pool talk, an entirely different conversation was taking place in tones only the two of them could hear.
"I don't know," Dean shrugged, leaning his hip back against the table and crossing his arms over his chest, "Maybe I can find me a sugar mama while we're here, or some rich debutant in need of a boy toy. I'd be perfect for that, man. A little arm candy for the days out, someone to keep her warm and well kissed – among other things – at night." Dean flashed a cocky smile at his brother and threw him a wink.
Sam leaned over the green felt and lined up his shot. "There's only one problem with that idea, Dean. There is no way in Hell you're gonna find that here. Not in Bumfuck, Nowhere." Sam glanced around the room at the few denim and plaid clad patrons who were gathered in the small bar and then smirked; an ornery look flashing in his eyes. He rounded the table, hipping into his brother to move him out of the way of his next shot. "That mouth of yours ain't for kissing pretty girls here, man. I can tell you that much."
Scowling, Dean turned and laid a hand over the cue ball, blocking Sam's shot.
"What are you insinuating, little brother?"
"Ohhh…" Sam laughed and took a deep, exaggerated breath. "You know exactly what I'm insinuating. Let's don't pretend you've never been propositioned before."
With a wicked grin, Sam made a crude tongue-in-cheek gesture and Dean couldn't help but throw his head back and laugh loudly. It was true. He had been propositioned; multiple times throughout the years, by men and women alike, but times had never been that tough and Dean had never been without better options. He might be an easy lay, but he wasn't actually a fuck-for-hire; just a guy who really enjoyed sex.
He lifted his own hand in gesture and barked, "Fuck you," his words rolling with laughter.
Sam quickly smacked a hand over Dean's, knocking it away and said as seriously as he could muster with a shit-eating grin stretched across his face, "You can't be offering that up for free, Dean."
"You're such a dick," Dean snorted, throwing his hands up and stepping away from Sam. "This conversation…is over."
"All's I'm saying is: if some guy offers you a hundred for a blow job, you better get with the program."
"Take your fuckin' shot already, asshole. We ain't got all night." Dean gave Sam a playful shove before moving around to the other side of the table.
Two hours later, Sam had moved on to his first mark and then right on to his second. He was up about $300 and well on his way to pulling in another $50. Dean had hung around for a while, shooting the shit with Sam's marks, pointing out Sam's faults, making fun of Sam's 'slop shots' and generally aiding the camaraderie within the group, which could only help Sam's chances – a tried and true method.
Once the scene had been set, he'd scooted off towards the bar and the pretty little redhead who was perched at one corner. They chatted casually, flirted heavily, but come the end of her night she'd gotten up and left; returning home to her husband and four kids.
"I used to be better at calling those," Dean joked to the bartender. He turned on the stool, leaning his back against the bar, watching his brother work and feeling much better overall about their situation. He did the calculations in his head and figured if they could pull in a few hundred a night, they'd be able to hole up here until the parts arrived in two weeks.
A roof over their heads, a bar to pick up cash and the little diner down the street that served up a mean Denver omelet…it really couldn't get much better than that.
"I know what you're doing," the bartender said quietly behind him and hearing the danger in those words, Dean looked cautiously over his shoulder, checking to see if there would be a firearm brought into play. "Your partner and you…I've been around the block one too many times not to recognize your scam."
"Mister, I don't –"
"Turn around here, boy and let's talk like grown-ups."
Maybe it was the man's tone of voice, maybe it was just something ingrained in Dean since childhood, but Dean found himself jumping to fall in line. He did as instructed, raising his hands slightly, so as to prove that he had no intentions of causing more problems, but there was no gun in sight.
Looking inconspicuous, the bartender lifted Dean's glass and topped off the beer draft, replacing it in front of him and then used the white bar towel over his shoulder to wipe away any drips from the surface.
"I don't go for these games you're playing in my bar. There's good people in this town; people who work too damned hard for their money to have to lose it to a couple of screwball drifters like you two. So, we're gonna strike a deal, you and I. I'm gonna let you off easy. You walk away…with half your winnings."
"Half?"
"You're lucky. The only reason I'm letting you walk away with that much is because those two nimrods have it coming. Plus they owe me a sizable tab. But make no mistake…if I see either of you in here for anything other than a beer, I'll call the cops. Do we have an understanding?"
The man was no nonsense; straight to the point, level-headed and more than fair, considering the circumstances. Dean had no choice but to agree. There was no way they could risk a county lock-up and a court hearing; couldn't risk any news of them finding its way back to the FBI. Things were bad enough as it was, without making it worse, so Dean bowed his head obediently and nodded, answering with a low, 'yessir'.
"You boys do this often, I take it; hustle pool?"
"Yessir."
"S'better than the alternative, I guess. So what, you haven't got jobs?"
Dean didn't answer; just continued to stare, fascinated by the water ring stained into the bar's wooden top.
"A home?"
No answer.
"A family?"
"Sam's my family," Dean answered abruptly, raising his head and meeting the bartender's concerned gaze. "My brother," he added when the bartender gave him a raised eyebrow. He'd seen that look way too many times not to understand what the man was thinking.
And then just like that, the dam broke and Dean found himself inexplicably pouring all of his problems out to the stranger behind the bar.
"My car broke down this afternoon – up on the highway – and we're stuck here 'til I can get the parts to fix'er up. But with Christmas in a few days, I was told I wouldn't get the parts 'til after New Year's. We've got an uncle who runs a salvage yard in Sioux Falls. Normally, I'd call him, but he's not there or at least we can't get ahold of him. And now there's something wrong with my credit card, so…"
"So you're here, hustlin' pool. I get it kid, but –"
"Dean. My name's Dean."
"Dean," the bartender repeated, trying the name out, "you can't keep doing this here; not in my bar, not in my town. Alright?"
"Yessir."
Dean was back to staring at the water ring, wondering how in the Hell he was gonna tell Sammy that he'd just cost them half of his night's winnings. Wondering how they were gonna make it two weeks on just a couple hundred dollars and an assload of problems to deal with. His freight train of thought was stalled by a hand splayed over top of his, stilling his fingers as they traced the dark circle.
"It's 2am. I'm closin' up shop. You go fetch your brother and wait for me around back. I'll come get you in ten minutes or so and we'll settle up."
Dean nodded in agreement and made to rise, but his wrist was caught in the bartender's firm grip and the older man caught his eye.
"Don't skip out on me, now. We've made a deal and I expect you to uphold your end of it."
"Yessir."
***Dean was sitting on the table top of a rickety looking picnic table situated out back of the bar; the place where the patrons who smoked came to congregate. His hands were shoved down deep inside the pockets of his coat; its buttons snapped up to his chin and collar pulled high around the back of his neck to ward off the late December cold. He experimented with the cold, moist air, sucking it into his mouth to warm before releasing it and feeling his breath curl up and around his face like cigarette smoke. But all the while, his eyes were trained on Sam, who was agitated and pacing across the stamped down snow that lined the alley behind the bar.
"How are you just sitting there?" Sam grumped.
"It's mental toughness," Dean explained, looking up to meet his brother's intense stare, "I refuse to let the cold get to me."
"I don't mean that. I mean this," Sam waved his hand up and down, indicating Dean's relaxed demeanor. "Why are you so damn calm about this?"
When all Dean did was shrug, Sam huffed in frustration, tearing a hand up through his hair.
"We worked all night for that money and you're just gonna let him take half?"
"I know, just –"
"We need that money, Dean," Sam interrupted, crossing his arms angrily over his chest. "It's bad enough that we're stuck here…carless, but in case you've forgotten, we've got places to be. We do have responsibilities,Dean. And this little pit stop isn't going to stop my visions or the demon. It's not gonna gank itself, ya know?"
"Who are you tellin'?" Dean jumped down from the table and stepped up into Sam's space, making his younger brother square his shoulders and prepare for the right hook he felt coming. "I know what the Hell our situation is, Sam," Dean growled, poking a blunt finger into Sam's chest, "I don't need you to remind me. But when the choice is this…or—or jail…" Dean backed off, rubbing a hand roughly over his face and down his neck, "we can't afford to get hauled in…even in Bumfuck, Nowhere. Not with that Henricksen guy all hot and heavy for us. So yeah, I've fucked us out of half the take. I'm sorry. I don't know what you want me to do here? I had to make a choice and I chose to keep us out of jail. So fuckin' sue me for looking out for our best interests."
"If you girls are done catfightin', you can come in out of the cold."
"Shit," Dean groaned as he and Sam turned as one towards the voice, finding the bartender standing within a few yards from them; most certainly within range of hearing their entire conversation.
"Come on," he invited, holding the door open for them. "It's too cold to be dancing around out here."
Dean glanced at his brother, only to find him staring hard back at him and waiting to see what his move would be. Dean rolled his eyes, ducking his head to the side and trudged up the stairs, back into the bar; Sam following suit immediately.
The man circled around the bar and with a flick of his hand, indicated that they should pull up a seat. He took three bottles from the cooler and twisted the caps free before pressing a bottle into each of the boys' hands. He kept his eyes sharp, glancing back and forth between them as they all took that first tentative drink in silence.
"Alright then, let's get down to it. I assume…Sam," he said, pausing to acknowledge his awareness of Sam's name, "that Dean has already filled you in on our little 'deal'?"
"Not much of a deal," Sam grumbled and received a swift kick from his brother for his trouble.
Dean clenched his jaw and gave Sam a dark look, "Act right." He put his hand out and made a grabbing 'gimme' gesture to his brother. Reluctantly, Sam pulled the roll of bills from his pocket, slapped them into Dean's hand and sniffed his displeasure. They shared a pointed glare and then Dean was handing the cash off to the man before them.
The money was laid out and counted across the bar; $350 in total. Then just as quickly as it had been received, the man was handing the money back, minus $100. Dean looked at bills, confused.
"Those guys owed me $100. I don't see any reason for me to take any more than what's owed. The name's Paul, by the way. And if you're willing, I'd like to help you boys…if I can."
He took a long pull from his bottle while Sam and Dean just stared at him in open-mouthed shock.
