Chapter Seven
Dean looked around at the crowd in the bar. "What is it with these people?" he demanded. "Don't they have studenty stuff to be doing, you know, study to do, assignments to finish, essays to write, potplants to talk to, Dungeons & Dragons games to play?"
"It's getting to end of semester," Sam told him, looking around casually for anything that might incur a Hunter's interest, "For undergraduates, anyway, so some of 'em are finishing exams and assignments, and winding down. The older ones could be post-grads, or post-docs, or research Fellows, or academic staff. And people who don't have a direct connection to the academics, there's a lot of support around the ones who study."
"Yeah, I guess somebody's gotta cut their hair," Dean shrugged. "Or maybe not. There's guys over there with hair longer than yours."
"When student money is tight, haircuts are one of the first things to go," Sam smiled in memory. "Funny thing was, there always seemed to be enough to buy at least a moderate amount of beer."
"Well, at least some of what I taught you stuck," Dean mused philosophically, snagging another handful of peanuts. "Although if you'd just called me, I'd have lifted a set of clippers for you to... oh yeah, ohhhhhh yeah, thank you God, I take back nearly everything I said about You bein' a deadbeat dad asshole..."
"Dean," Sam almost growled, "We talked about this, don't you dare leer at a hot woman..."
"No hot woman, Sammy." Dean's smile was not leering, but it was decidedly predatory, as he indicated the knot of men at the pool tables. "Well, yeah, there are hot women there, but looky there, it's Mr I'm Too Sexy For My Towel." He watched the group over the rim of his glass, like a wolf eyeing a wounded caribou. "You know the drill, we'll let 'em start playing, then give me five minutes."
"Fine," mumbled Sam, thinking that if his big brother was hustling pool, then at least he'd be concentrating on something other than women. Mostly.
It was a textbook case, really: Mr Hot Guy couldn't resist taking on a short, slightly pudgy guy with thinning hair and a big mouth, especially in front of his friends. Especially when said big-mouth lost the first game. Sam might've felt a bit guilty if he thought the mark was a student, but it was clear he wasn't. Or if he was, he was spending too much time in the gym and not nearly enough in the classrooms or labs, so he deserved it.
The stake went up, then up again, Dean's calculated act of alcohol-fuelled over-confident obnoxiousness was pitched perfectly to goad an ego used to admiration and deference (although in this case, Sam thought, he didn't have to try very hard to get the obnoxiousness right). Sam, playing the worried side-kick, was dispatched to fetch more beer, so with a show of reluctance, he headed for the bar.
The bar was quiet, a lull in business; the bartender was the same unremarkable woman they'd seen previously, and with the lack of customers, her attention was on something else. Sam saw that she was writing on a notepad, no, it wasn't writing, he realised, it was equations of some sort. He craned his neck, vaguely recognising the format of symbols.
She'd never make a Hunter, he thought with amusement, because it was a full thirty seconds before she stopped writing and looked up, startled. "Oh!" she yipped in surprise.
"Er, sorry," Sam offered her the sort of smile he'd been trying to coach Dean in, "Didn't mean to startle you."
"Oh, no, it's my fault," she apologised, "Mixing work and... work. Next time, just throw something at me."
"Well, I didn't want to interrupt your train of thought," Sam admitted, considering the line of symbols and numbers. "It's, uh, hang on, that looks a bit like a geometric harmonic mean calculation, but..."
The bartender's tired face broke into a smile. "Do you know, nobody's ever taken any notice of what I'm writing, let alone recognised it?" she told him.
"Oh, I only recognise the format of the equation, vaguely," Sam went on hurriedly, "I, uh, didn't take much math. I was pre-law, once." He looked up at her. "Are you post-grad?"
"Doctoral student," she sighed, stifling a yawn, "There are days when I don't remember why I'm doing this to myself."
"I think anybody who studies has days like that," he commiserated.
"My parents tell me that I'm wasting my life, because there's no professional future for a Statistics major," she confided, "Let alone a PhD in the subject. They want me to 'get a real job'. My father says that if I end up working for the IRS he'll disown me."
"No, they're totally wrong," Sam said emphatically, "Ten years ago, okay, maybe, but in the last decade, bioinformatics has really become a thing; the advances being made in the collection of big data – especially in biosciences, with the advent of high volume DNA sequencing – have outstripped the capacity to analyse it, pull useful calculations out of the raw numbers. That goes for big pharma high throughput drug screening too, and there's a lot of money in looking for the next magic bullet, so if what you're working on has any connection to that..."
She actually clapped her hands in glee. "You get it! Oh my God, somebody gets it! That's..." she stopped and took a deep breath. "I'm at work," she said firmly, more to herself than Sam, "And I will not start spouting about this to a customer. What can I get you?"
"Another jug," Sam replied, "I don't mind you spouting a bit. I never mind chatting to someone who can use words of three syllables or more and make sense. Unlike somebody I could mention," he added under his breath.
"I think he might actually be winning this one," she nodded towards the pool table, where Dean swayed ever so slightly as he lined up his next shot. "Good. Guys like that group can be arrogant assholes, and I'm happy to see them taken down a peg or two."
"Oh believe me, he can do asshole too," Sam smiled, looking at the equation again. "So, if you use small words and short sentences, maybe you can tell me the gist of your thesis."
She smiled broadly as she pulled the beer. "It is to do with data analysis," she began, "Lab on a chip stuff. And working out what the most useful calculation for an average is, for a really big data set, and how that changes if you add a third, or even a fourth, or fifth, variable to your test."
"By average, do you mean the mean, or the median? Which one?" Sam looked at the scribbled equations again. "It would depend, wouldn't it? A mean, rather than the median, for something like drug screening. If you're looking to do a multi-dimensional plot, that would save time – and I guess the idea of the harmonic mean would be the best strategy to start with, but, uh, after that, you lose me."
"You got a lot further than just about anybody who walks into this bar." She pushed the jug of beer across the bar, and offered her hand. "Karen," she said.
"Sam." He shook her hand, and she smiled again, shaking her head.
"In the last year, I don't think I've ever met anyone who was, well, like you." Her smile changed somewhat as he paid. "All this, and brains, too." Karen appeared to make a decision, then she scribbled something on the notepad. "I get off in an hour – after that, if you're free, I'd be happy to talk to you about my work. Or, well, anything, really," she finished, leaning onto the bar to look up at him as she slid the torn paper across the worn surface. He picked it up.
It was a phone number.
Sam gave her a regretful smile. "Oh, God, Karen, I'm, uh, I'm sorry," he apologised, "You're a really interesting person, but, I don't really, uh, the whole casual thing..." he gestured sheepishly over his shoulder, "And I gotta keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't do anything really stupid. Well, no more stupid than normal... sorry."
She sighed. "Damn, and a nice guy, too. But it's okay. Really. Don't ask, definitely don't get, right?"
"Absolutely," Sam agreed, "And there's nothing wrong with a woman asking, because..."
"Sammy!" The ever-so-slightly-too-loud voice behind him indicated the approach of Dean. "Where's the beer? I need beer, dude, so I can fuel up for the next game! I'm gonna win my money back! Come and watch me win my money back!" He raised his voice for the benefit of his clueless mark.
Sam almost managed not to roll his eyes. "Here's your precious beer," he growled as he handed over the jug, "And in case you didn't notice, I'm talking to somebody. With more than two alcohol-marinated brain cells to bang together."
"You can do better'n that, even if you are a great big geek," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "Come on, I got a game to win!"
Sam turned back to the bartender. "Oh God, I'm sorry," he began.
Sam had seen women being callously brushed off by men before, and he was acquainted with the reactions: anywhere from a shuttered expression of concealed hurt to philosophical amusement. Karen clearly tended towards the amused end of the spectrum – she was even smiling wryly. "I get that a lot," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm nothing special to look at. And some men are just...mean." She chuckled to herself. "I'm sure you could do better than me, Sam – but I doubt he could. Not when he's that mean."
"Uh, well, sometimes his mouth goes into gear before his brain, especially if he's been drinking," Sam told her awkwardly, "I'd uh, better go and..." he gestured vaguely at the pool table. "Good luck with the thesis. And the job hunt afterwards."
"Good luck to you, Sam," she said, turning back to her notepad.
He returned to the pool tables, where Dean swilled more beer in preparation to clean up. Sam let out the required gasp of horror when he saw how much was riding on the game, then stepped back to watch for trouble when the trap closed.
Dean's timing was perfect: he let his opponent get down to one colour left, then knocked all his remaining balls off the table.
As he watched the black roll and drop, he straightened up and pocketed the stake, turning an infuriating smile that would be identifiable as 100% Deanness on any face to the gobsmacked group. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said, "Lessons are over for today, but I'm up for a rematch tomorrow if you want more instruction."
There was some sneering and grumbling as Mr Chick Magnet realised that he'd been royally hustled, but his pals steered him away from the tables, with mutters about not getting his hands dirty on a fat balding runt.
"Huh," sniffed Dean, "Rude as well as a sore loser. Maybe once I'm my awesome self, I should come back and fleece 'em again."
"There's nothing here that I can pick up," Sam told him, "So either we think of a way to get Jimi in here, or we backtrack further. And given the look on Mr Irresistible's face, I think we should leave sooner rather than later," he added, "He's really not happy."
"But he's much wiser," Dean's annoying grin reappeared. "And I aint goin' anywhere until I finish my drink. And my snacks." He shoved a handful into his mouth. "And maybe you can find some female company – the bikinis may not venture out after dark, but the women who carry them around do. You need to get laid, Sam."
"I was actually talking to a woman, before you interrupted," Sam pointed out.
"I mean, find a hot one," Dean clarified. "And go home with her. Show her a good time."
"Dean..."
"Have yourself a good time, too, obviously."
"Dean..."
"If you don't make her toes curl at least twice, you aint a true Winchester, bro – I taught you better'n that."
"Dean..."
"You can take the car, me and Jimi will walk back."
"Dean..."
"Provided that when you get back you tell me all about it."
"Dean!" Sam shot his brother a searing Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk). "Shut! Up! About! Getting! Laid!"
Dean sighed sadly. "I don't know where I went wrong with you," he declared wistfully. "I mean, you could have your pick of the bikini transports here tonight, and you were talking about..." he paused. "What exactly were you talkin' about?"
"Statistics," growled Sam, "And before you ask, yeah, it was interesting, and yeah, I know you don't get it."
"The only statistics you need to know about when you're talkin' about a woman are..."
"If you say one word about measurements or cup sizes, I will punch you," Sam growled. "There are days when I look at you and think, Neanderthals didn't become extinct, they just evolved into you." He paused. "Then I stop thinking that, because it's probably slandering Neanderthals."
"Nothin' wrong with bein' in touch with the Inner Caveman," Dean grinned, "Sometimes, it's damned useful."
"Well you aren't going to be hitting any woman over the head and dragging them back to your cave for now," Sam responded, annoyed into acidity, "Not looking like that. You want to get laid, you'll actually have to talk to her."
"I do talk to women!" protested Dean, "The Living Sex God knows exactly how to talk to women!"
"With a selection of pick-up lines that don't even count as single entendres," Sam shot back. "Face it, bro, right now, that would be the verbal equivalent of leering."
Dean sighed, and drooped. "This sucks," he muttered, finishing his drink, "One more sweep, then we head back. If I can't look at and chat up hot women, I don't want to be in this reality any more. I don't like it. I want to leave right now."
A final surreptitious check of the bar didn't reveal anything suspicious, so they headed back out to the car.
There was no way they could've missed the sounds of feet behind them, even if they weren't Hunters: the night's hustle victim and his friends weren't even bothering with stealth, so the Winchesters just kept heading for the car until an angry voice called "Hey, you!"
Dean turned, looking completely relaxed to anybody except Sam, and smiled that infuriating grin. "Sorry, boys," he drawled, "I did say, school's out for the day. But nice try, and thank you for playing."
"You cheated," Mr Chick Magnet growled, stepping forward, "You fucking cheated me!"
"He let you cheat yourself," Sam cut in, trying to defuse the situation and mentally willing Dean to stop kicking the hornet's nest, especially when the hornets might be milling uncertainly for now but had clearly had quite a lot to drink, "You tried to take advantage of a guy who looked drunk, only he wasn't. And it was a fair game."
"I want my damned money back," Mr C.M.'s hands bunched into fists.
"If it was your money, I would give it to you," Dean smiled beatifically, "But it aint your money anymore, so, why don't you guys just flock off?"
"Dean, not helping here," Sam muttered.
"Sam, not worried here," Dean shrugged, "Because let's face it, these guys aint any match for..."
With an angry roar, Dean's latest victim raised a fist.
It was a clumsy punch, an untrained punch, but it had a lot of male muscle behind it, and it broke the dam for the guys behind him.
Ordinarily, five against two might be just about a fair fight for the Winchesters – when a group of drunk-affected men tried to roll them, they tended to get in each others' way more than anything else. However, the situation was not exactly ordinary.
Dean was finding that his mind knew exactly what to do.
Unfortunately, his body wasn't quite as up to the task as usual, and it refused to act as hard or as fast as he instructed it...
"Ooof!" By luck rather than design, a blow to his gut knocked the wind out of him, and his lungs stubbornly refused to pull in enough air. He heard his brother call his name as he fell to his knees.
"I'm fine, Sam," he tried to say, but it came out as a whistling wheeze.
His attacker smiled unpleasantly, and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him upright. "You shoulda just handed over the money while you had the chance, you little shit," he sniggered as he began to rifle Dean's pockets, "So, I'll just take it back, then break your face, and we'll call it quits..."
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr
The five attackers suddenly stiffened when they heard The Noise.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr
It was a noise that travelled through the ground rather than the air, a noise that went straight to the human hindbrain without bothering with the whole complicated ear thing.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrr
Dean smiled up at his would-be attacker as the man's face drained of blood. "Let me introduce you to the cavalry," he smirked.
Jimi stalked forward in a predatory crouch, hackles raised, eyes crackling with red highlights, hell-teeth like boning knives bristling from slavering jaws.
Humans might be the dominant species on the planet, but deep within that highly evolved brain there are still primitive structures that remember a time just a few million years ago when a noise like that meant that you should a) stop what you were doing and a) run the fuck up the nearest tree, b) if you were young and healthy scatter at high speed because it couldn't kill all of you at once, or c) if you were old or injured or pregnant, sit down and wait, since there was no point in running because you'd only die tired.
Mr Chick Magnet and his pals got one look at an angry half-Rottweiler/half-Hellhound, with both halves dialled all the way up to Eat Your Fucking Soul, and went with option b).
"Fuck," gasped Sam, watching them go as he pulled Dean to his feet, "Are you okay, bro?"
"Never better, Sammy," Dean managed to gasp some actual words, as Jimi stopped threatening bloody death and pushed his head under his Alpha's hand with a worried whine.
"Why the hell did you have to provoke them like that?" Sam's dissipating worry found its way out as exasperation. "You nearly got your face punched in!"
"But I didn't," Dean's smirk fought to reassert itself, "Not with the J-man on the case. You showed them, hey, fella?" He patted the big earnest face that gazed up at him soulfully, still whining.
"Well, we should get the hell out of here," stated Sam, turning to head for the car. "Before they come back. And before you collapse. You look terrible, bro."
"I'm fine," Dean's voice sounded breathy as he rubbed at his chest, "I just need to get my breath back, then we can..."
Sam caught him as he fell, and dragged him to the car.
It's true; when you're a student, you might not have enough to get a haircut, and maybe you have to pay the electricity bill a week late, or beg the money from family to get a pair of disintegrating boots resoled (you'd never dream of asking to buy new ones), or live on toast and tea for a few days here and there – but there's always money for beer. There's probably an entire branch of economics around that just waiting to be written up. Studentnomics. There's a lot of thesis titles just waiting to be studied: The Rent Is Late Again, But At Least We Haven't Run Out Of Cheap Rum Entirely. (Maybe that's why Ronnie Shepherd developed a taste for Bundaberg Rum; she was destined for tertiary study before fate intervened.)
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