Disclaimer: I don't own AC/DC or the song "Shoot to Thrill" (though it is a very good song, and I highly recommend it!).
Rule Six: Lose at least one game of pool before going for the kill.
Smoky, musty air was filled with the clanking of bottles and the hard crack of cue balls breaking open a sea of color. Turning down the collar of his leather jacket, Dean stepped into the dimly lit bar with a satisfied glance around the place. Dirty, filled with half-witted drunkards, and rocking with a fine taste in music, Dean decided that this was the perfect place to spend a Friday night.
Making himself comfortable at the bar, he waited for the rather scantily-clad brunette of a barmaid to turn around and see him. When she did, he flashed his most charming smile and tried to guess her age—probably in her late twenties, early thirties, he suspected. "Hey there, Cowboy," she greeted in a heavy Southern accent.
"Hey yourself," he replied, his smile widening.
Before he got a chance to say another word, her eyes narrowed slightly as she spat out, "You wanna show me some ID? Because if you're underage, I know your ass would not be on my barstool."
Reaching into his coat, Dean extracted his wallet and flipped through it for an ID. He handed it to the barmaid triumphantly—after all, she didn't really need to know that he was actually just shy of turning twenty. Of course, Dean had always attributed the ease with which he tricked bartenders to his mature, manly features. Sam had always commented that it was a shame he didn't have a matching brain to go with his exterior maturity.
"Well, Mr. Harper," the barmaid said with a slight undertone of suspicion as she handed the ID back. "What'll it be?"
Turning the charm back on, Dean grinned. "Please, call me—" But, upon discovering that he didn't recall the first name on the ID and it was already being tucked safely back in his coat pocket, he cut himself off. Son of a bitch. Name… name… "Uh, actually, Mr. Harper is fine." He flashed another toothy smile as he ordered a beer, and the woman returned a wary, scrutinizing half-grin. Lifting the slippery, sweating bottle from the counter, he stepped away from the bar to survey the area he had come here to utilize: the pool tables.
There were two of them positioned on opposite corners of the barroom, along with several tables strewn throughout the dump. A rather large, round table in the corner could be seen through a thick veil of smoke—at it were several tough-looking, burly guys blackening their lungs with cigars and throwing around money by means of a deck of cards. Dean considered joining them for a moment before a large man from the table with a tattoo of a broken heart on his muscular upper-arm stood up, slugged the man next to him, and stormed off. No, thank you; he didn't feel like getting into a brawl tonight. All he wanted was some spare cash.
His tactic was simple yet effective. Striding over to the empty pool table, he picked up a stick and fumbled with it for a moment as he chalked the tip. He took a quick swig of beer before clumsily setting the balls on the table, dropping one loudly on the floor in the process. That attracted a couple of guys leaning by the wall, who jabbed one another in obvious amusement. Smirking, Dean leaned over the table to place the ball back with the others, thinking, Come on boys; take the bait. A quick glance at the gathering of guys at a nearby wall enticed him to take the show a step further.
Stumbling to the other side of the table where the cue ball resided, Dean lined up a piss-poor shot and struck the tip of the stick against the round white orb. It darted off down the table, colliding with the edge and doubling back to feebly strike the triangle, hardly moving the balls at all. That elicited a hoot of laughter from one of the guys, and Dean paused to take a long swig from his beer.
"You up for a game?" a thick, growling voice asked from amid the group of men. A brawny black man stepped forward, enveloped in a circle of smoke that slunk artfully from his cigar.
"Sure, a game sounds good to me," Dean replied in a perfected slur reminiscent of one who has had a few too many drinks. "Wanna make it interesting?" he offered, pulling a fifty from his pocket and slamming it down on the pool table.
The black man smirked and pulled out two twenties and a ten. Once the money was collected, it was weighted down on a nearby table by Dean's bottle of beer. "Boy, he gun' eat yew right up," a squat man, who both looked and sounded like a hick, spoke up from the conglomeration of onlookers.
Eyeing the wad of cash, Dean grinned and tilted his head as he took another long drink before setting his bottle back on the future winnings. "Well, I'm always up for a challenge. Gotta name, bud?"
The black man glowered, taking up a pool stick and striding heavily over to the table. "Shooter," he rumbled, his voice like the revving engine of the Impala.
"Right, figures" Dean mumbled as he gathered the balls once more and inexpertly shoved them into the triangle, consciously remembering to slur his speech as much as possible and stumble a bit as he walked back around to the other side of the table. "Wanna break?"
Shooter let out a low, earth-rattling laugh. Hick-Man wheezed with hilarity. "I think yew gun' need all the help yew kin git."
Shrugging—and all the while enjoying how these yahoos predictably played right into his trap—, Dean bent over, lined up his shot, and sent the cue ball whizzing down the table like a rampaging Wendigo. The triangle of pool balls scattered across the table, three of them landing in pockets. As Dean took an unsteady step back, a wouldja-look-at-that-good-luck? grin playing on his face, he turned to Shooter. The latter's features were impassive, but Dean could see his surprise by the hard glint in his furious eyes.
Shooter eyed his opponent suspiciously before taking up his shot and sinking a ball easily. Meanwhile, Dean leaned awkwardly against the table, his spirits rising with the prospect of another fifty to adorn his wallet of fake IDs. A warm cockiness bubbled in his stomach, like a burst of invincibility, and as he easily made his next shot, he let his mind wander a bit. After this he'd play a few more games, see if he could finish with an extra two hundred. Then he'd head out—maybe stop at that bookstore (much as he hated them) down the street, see if they had that Shakespeare thing Sam needed for school. He was supposed to have started reading it already, but John had never been one to waste money on school supplies. So Sam had been snatching bits and pieces of it when his friends talked about it, walking around the house repeating the lines he'd heard so he wouldn't forget them. Dean was sure he had, on occasion, heard Sam mumbling, "Fair is foul," several times as the kid pored over his homework.
Shooter was livid; his mouth was in a thin, straight line, and his eyes threatened a slow and bloody murder to anyone who crossed his path. Dean merely grinned, watching as the ball slipped eagerly into the corner pocket before turning around and leaning on his stick. "Well, Shitter, I think you've just made me fifty bucks richer," he enunciated, gracefully leaning his stick against the wall and reaching for the money. But before he could get to the table, Shooter was in his face, towering above him and baring his obscenely white teeth.
"You're a cheat, aren't you little punk?" he growled, stepping in further.
"I don' think he even drunk, Shoots," Hick-Man pointed out needlessly, a frown pulling the corners of his lips down over his missing-a-tooth mouth.
Dean took a step away from the table with the money on it, putting his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "Hey, I won fair and square, so why don't you just back off, Shoots?" he offered, searching out the bar's exit, which was impossible to find in all the smoke.
"You didn't win nothing, punk. You played us. You're a con artist and a hustler, and I ain't letting you get away with my money," Shooter replied, rolling his hands into fists menacingly.
Despite his years of training, Dean still had no urge to fight this huge, muscular man; he didn't have a death wish, and he certainly wasn't about to get killed off by something that wasn't even supernatural. But the son of a bitch is trying to keep the money—, he thought, money that I won. Fair and square. Tough shit for him if he thought I was drunk.
"I don't want to fight you, Shooter," he announced at last, having backed up until his backside brushed up against the pool table. "But I'm not leaving here without my money."
"Wrong answer." And with that, Shooter's fist came careening through the air, straight as he shot stick. But Dean—having predicted such an outcome—ducked, grabbed Shooter's arm, and twisted it around the man's back until he was fairly certain the shoulder would pop out of its socket at any given moment. Like a caged animal, Shooter gave a ferocious growl.
Well, so much for not getting into a brawl tonight.
Before he knew it, Shooter had yanked out of his grip and socked him hard in the gut. Winded, Dean bent over sideways as a fist collided with his head and then grabbed him by the lapel of his leather jacket. Stars danced in front of his eyes as he grasped the man's hand, twisted, and pushed him to the floor before delivering him a hard kick to the stomach.
"Boy, yew sure done it now!" Hick-Man called from the safety of the sidelines.
Panting and squinting from the pain ricocheting through his head, Dean replied, "Can it, Corncob, or your ass is next." But the distraction had worked, and the damage was done. Shooter was up, shoving Dean hard against the pool table. A punch to the face cracked Dean's nose and sent warm, coppery blood dribbling over his lips to his chin. An elbow to the chest sent Shooter gasping for air.
Dean spat on the floor as he darted over to the wall, grabbing his pool stick. The wood splintered and cracked in two as it broke over Shooter's bent back, and Dean grinned triumphantly as he back-fisted Shooter's thick head, surely sending him into a momentary oblivion of pain.
Turning around, Dean faced the little gang of cronies by the wall. Several of them were already cracking their knuckles, narrowing their eyes and baring their teeth in fury. "You're gonna regret the day you messed with Shooter," one of them threatened.
Blinking back the stinging in his nose, Dean grimaced. "I never regret the day I win fifty bucks from a bunch of beer-for-brain hicks," he retorted as he stepped over the groaning Shooter, grabbed the money off the table, and stuffed it in his pocket. But suddenly his jaw felt as if it were set on fire as it was blown to the side, and turning, Dean saw five or six men descending upon him. "Son of a…"
Quick as he could, he delivered several skillful punches and kicks to the men around him, successfully taking down two of the skinnier ones. He doubled over from a punch to the gut; and then he felt as if he was taking a punch to the brain as an AC/DC song came on through the bar's speakers.
"All you women who want a man of the street, but you don't know which way you wanna turn…"
Oh, kill me now, Dean thought sarcastically as the irony of the song filled him with exasperated, exhausted amusement. He could feel his knuckles bruising as he slammed another guy straight in the face, sending him stumbling backwards to the floor. A split second later, someone behind him wrapped a bulky arm around his neck, momentarily choking off his air supply—gripping the arm rightly, he threw himself forward with all his might and sent the guy toppling over onto the floor.
"I'm gonna take you down— down, down, down… So don't you fool around…"
There was a moment's lull in the action. Dean took a couple of heavy breaths, trying to block out the blinding pain in his head, nose, and several other body parts that had gotten sufficiently beaten.
"Yew had enough, city boy?" Dean looked up to see Hick-Man standing before him with raised fists. Fortunately, he appeared to be more chub than muscle, and Dean smirked.
"Oh, I'm just getting started," he replied through his panting, and without another thought, he sent his fist sailing forward towards the man. It connected with the flabby, fleshy face with a hard smack, and this time Dean was sure several small bones in his hand had broken by the numbing ache in his knuckles. Still, satisfaction came when he saw Hick-Man give a cry of surprise and fall over himself in his haste to exit the bar.
But as Dean was relishing in his victory, two strong hands grabbed him from behind and spun him around before he was being kneed repeatedly in the stomach. Through blurred vision, he saw that Shooter had gotten up and was now causing the piercing pain in Dean's back by slamming him against the wall. When it stopped, Dean allowed himself to slide slowly down to the floor, his legs no longer able to hold up his body. Through his confusion, he faintly felt someone rifling through his pockets before extracting the wad of cash.
"You thought you could run off with my money, did you?" Shooter's low growl met his ears, and Dean's cheek felt as if it were blasted in by the force of the punch. The metallic taste of blood was filling his mouth, and he could feel the liquid spilling out between his lips, but he was unable to do anything to stop Shooter's attacks. Except…
"Shoot to thrill, play to kill, too many women with too many pills. Shoot to thrill, play to kill—I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will…"
Don't fall unconscious. His dad had taught him that. It wasn't something that could be easily controlled, but John Winchester always said never to let yourself get knocked unconscious; then whoever the hell you're with can do whatever the hell they want with you. But Dean knew there was no way to stop Shooter's attacks, which would surely lead to him slipping into the oncoming darkness.
Dean blinked, seeing Shooter preparing for another kick—and he forced his arm to move, reaching into his makeshift gun holster and pulling out his trusty .45—much to the ironical astonishment of Shooter, who immediately stopped his forward movements.
In a slightly trembling grip, Dean pointed the gun in the direction of his large opponent, breathing heavily and spitting blood from his mouth. "Take another step. Go ahead," Dean spat, thankful for the thick smoke enveloping the bar and shrouding him from the view of most of the other people. Only a few seemed to notice that a man was crumpled against a wall wielding a gun, and they seemed too drunk to be much perturbed.
"I'm gonna take you down— down, down, down… So don't you fool around… I'm gonna pull it, pull it, pull the trigger!"
Survival. No, Dean had never really considered shooting the man, as much as he hated the bastard at the moment. He didn't kill people; he killed demons. People were generally off-limits. But in that moment, cornered against the wall of the bar with a ferocious man before him—who might have actually killed him willingly had he given him the chance—he felt as though one less Shooter in the world would be more of a gain than a loss, really. Still, his finger wasn't really planning on tugging against the trigger.
Thankfully, Shooter didn't know that.
The large, black man took a hesitant step backwards, as if testing the floor. Dean motioned with the gun towards the general direction of the exit, and Shooter turned and high-tailed it out of there as fast as a cat being hotly pursued by a sheepdog.
Tucking the gun back into his pants, Dean sat there for a few moments, gathering his wits and wiping the blood from his face. As soon as the pain rescinded somewhat, he pushed himself into a standing position, leaning heavily against the wall. Reaching into his pocket confirmed the absence of a hundred dollars.
Son of a bitch. Well, that had blown up in his face. He supposed it was too sudden and too drastic of a change—one minute appearing to teeter on the edge of an alcohol-induced coma, the next having precise enough aim to win a pool game. He had to somehow slow the process, make people believe that he hadn't been conning them all along…
Bending over, which did little to help his back, Dean fumbled around in his shoe until he pulled out a ten dollar bill. "It's just you and me, Hamilton," he murmured with a sigh. When he was sure that his legs worked all right, he strode back in the direction of the exit, passing the bar as he did so. The same brunette barmaid from before grinned at him, and his feet led him over to a stool.
"What happened to your face, Cowboy?" she asked with a curious look in her eyes, and Dean realized that he was probably bruised to holy hell.
Dean grinned. "Long story…"
"I bet another drink would loosen that tongue of yours a bit," she offered suggestively, and for a moment Dean wanted to slam his ten down and see how far he could get with this chick… but he stopped himself.
"No thanks. I'll have to take a rain check," he replied before heading out of the bar.
As he walked through the crisp night air, stuffing his hands into his pockets, his mind wandered back to his major slipup at the pool table. Lengthen the process… He couldn't bring on a crippling win quite so quickly. Next time he'd have to wait a bit, maybe let somebody else win at first so that he'd have more willing competition.
People gave him odd looks in the bookstore, but he paid them no mind. He was used to getting odd looks. Finding the right section, he spotted Macbeth and pulled it from the shelf.
Right, so next time I'll just lose at least one game of pool before going for the kill, he mused—no pun intended, his mind added morbidly as he felt the cool metal gun press against his back. He idly flipped the book in his hands open to the first page.
"Fair is foul and foul is fair…"
I'll say, Dean concurred with the sentiment, thinking back to the unfair pool game and the morally twisted brawl and his brandishing of the gun. That should be the Winchester family motto.
And as Dean went up to the counter to pay with his remaining ten dollars, he hoped that Sammy would ace his Macbeth test.