WARNING: Warning for homophobic language and general assholery.

Book Two

Of Planning and Pool Cues

CHAPTER THREE

There were three bars within a mile of campus that Sam had scoped out once he arrived. He was aware of a few more within a ten mile radius but he wasn't interested in finding his way to them tonight. Cab rides were expensive and he didn't want to deal with the hassle.

Instead, he picked the closest bar, a little rundown joint carded Barbed Wire and Lace that he thought Dean would enjoy for the name alone. He'd been in it before during his first run and was somewhat familiar with it, though he and his friends had preferred a bit more upscale bar on the other side of town when they were celebrating. Sam wasn't out to celebrate tonight. Barbed Wire and Lace hosted exactly the sort of clientele he was looking for.

The bar was smokey inside, the air thick with a nicotine haze, but Sam ignored it. He'd been in enough bars running around with Dean and his dad that he'd grown accustomed to the smell of cigarettes and he had a fake ID in his pocket that would pass an FBI inspection if it was so required, so he didn't have to worry over been caught out as too young to drink. In a few months, when his professors were more familiar with his face, that could become a problem, but he had some time yet.

He made his way to the bar and took a seat, ordering a beer from the bartender with a vague glance, his eyes scanning over the people. College towns brought college people to the bars and he recognized a few faces with vague memory, noting a few professors he wouldn't have this time around and even catching sight of someone he thought might be his former Anatomy professor. That man could dissect people with his eyes. Sam would not be taking his class again.

The bar scene was relaxing in its familiarity but Sam found himself missing the presence of his brother. Dean would normally be sat beside him, nursing his own beer and scoping out the possibilities. Well. Once upon a time that had been the case. Less so near the end.

Sam smiled into his beer and thought about the ridiculousness that was his brother and Cas dancing around one another. He forced himself to ignore the possibility that nothing of the sort might happen this time. That Cas might be someone that once was and could never be, because he was changing things.

He wasn't going to think of it. Not tonight.

There was a curse from across the room and then laughter. Sam turned his attention to the pool game that had just ended, one party handing over a handful of bills to his grinning opponent. He studied them through his lashes, head ducked down and breath exhaling into his beer. He watched the loser sulk off to nurse a beer at a far table while the winner began to set the pool table up again, clearly planning for another game.

Good.

He was tall - almost the same height as Sam was currently - but bulkier, with wide shoulders and a stomach that spoke of nights spent on a barstool. Jeans and a plain shirt told no sure story, but the cowboy boots were scuffed with heavy use and the ten gallon hat was faded from the sun. A frequent at bars but not this one, and not a local, if Sam had to guess. He wasn't a student here, then, just someone passing through, working over the college students in much the same way Sam had planned to, but the sneer on his face told a cruel story.

Sam's fingers tapped against the glass bottle in his hands as he watched the pool table put back to rights, watched the man chalk his pool cue and circle the table like a tiger. After a few minutes, the man began a solitary game, sending the cue ball into the rack with a crack . Sam watched the numbered balls burst like a firework around the table, bouncing off the edges but none of them going into the pockets.

The man was better than some other players, yes, but he had no true skill.

An easy mark.

Sam didn't go over right away, though. He watched. The man stalked the table with an arrogance that grated on Sam's nerves but would be a benefit during the game. As would the three beers the man consumed while showing off his skill. When he disappeared to the bathroom, Sam ordered himself another beer and finished off his first, making his way over to the abandoned pool table.

He was putting the rack back in place when the man came out of the bathroom. Sam deliberately ignored the heavy tread as it stalked up behind him, beer in one hand as he switched a few of the balls around so the numbers were in order.

"Oi, girly. Get yer hands of my balls."

Sam took his time fixing the rack before he turned around, schooling his face into a look of disinterest. He eyed the man for a moment before going and fetching the cue ball.

"You hear me?"

"I heard you," Sam said, turning back around and placing the cue ball at the headspot. "And you couldn't pay me to touch your balls." He leaned his hip against the edge of the table and lifted his pool cue from where it rested across the green fabric. "These balls, though… you'll have to play to claim them."

"And what if I don't wanna pay for what's mine?" the man demanded, stepping forward. His size and the ferocity of his glare would have deterred most people, but Sam was definitely not most people. Not even when he was actually nineteen.

He took a casual swig of his beer and raised an unconcerned eyebrow at his giant mess of an opponent. The man's fingers tightened around his pool stick but he let out a growl of acquiescence, probably deciding it was better to wipe the floor with Sam and be done with him than risk getting thrown out of the bar for good because he decided to try and kick Sam's ass.

Sam almost wished he would try.

"One hundred down on me mopping the floor with your hair, Princess ."

Sam smiled benignly, unconcerned with the nickname. Really, Dean called him a girl at least once a week. Come up with something more original at least.

"Sure," he said, pulling out the hundred he had stuck in his back pocket. He placed it on the edge of the table in plain view and raised an eyebrow at the man, who growled and yanked a few twenties out of his pocket.

"Don't believe I'd keep my bets?"

"I like putting my money where my mouth is," Sam said casually. "Especially since the stakes might get a bit higher as we play." He phrased the second like a question but didn't give the man time to answer as he motioned at the cue. "Challenger's first."

"I ain't no challenger."

"Fine, then. I'll go." Sam moved over to the edge of the table and positioned his shot. He sent the cue ball into the rack with a cracking sound that wasn't nearly as satisfying as the sound the two balls made as they dropped into the pockets.

Sam sent a casual smile at the other man and followed the cue ball around the table.

This was going to be so much fun.

Dougherty was the name of Sam's opponent and his creativity with swearing didn't get any better the more he lost. By the third game, his face was red with a mixture of fury and embarrassment and he had graduated from calling Sam a girl to using some derogatory language that might have sincerely embarrassed Sam if he hadn't accepted his attraction to men a long time ago. Instead, he simply raised the bet another hundred and watched the man struggle with his pride.

They had gained a bit of an audience. He noted with amusement the glee on some of the faces of college students as they watched the man curse up a storm as Sam put another ball in the pocket. He had dragged out the first game, purposely shooting poorly and talking constantly, keeping Dougherty distracted and unprepared for the fullness of his skill. Sam had won the game by a bare margin and collected his winnings ($300 by that point), and managed to talk the guy into a second game.

Halfway through, the man had started calling Sam a cheat. This was after Dougherty's last opponent (Jonesy, Sam had heard someone call him) had taken a seat at a nearby table to watch. Sam had performed a trick shot that Dean had taught him just to piss the guy off, sending the 6 ball into a far pocket after it bounced against three walls and somehow missed a cluster of other balls. The subsequent cursing had attracted a couple other patrons who joined Jonesy at his table, nursing their beers as they watched Sam trounce the asshole who had spent the last couple nights tearing down any opponent that he came across. Sam kept his attention half on the crowd, listening, and heard murmured stories as they were traded between the patrons. This guy had been an unholy terror, not with his skill but with how he would verbally attack his opponents or even prevent them from backing out of a game. He was unsurprised when the bartender commented to another woman as she refilled her drink that the bar had begun to lose business because of it, people choosing to hit up one of the other areas with nicer clientele.

Sam took immense pleasure in putting five of the balls into pockets on the second round and netting himself another $200.

The man was snarling under his breath as he fixed the rack. Sam leaned casually against the table, chalking his pool cue, and only vaguely listening to the stream of derogatory nonsense coming from his lips. He tilted his head to the side, thinking, and then interrupted with a casual air. "One more game?"

Dougherty snorted. "You think I'm a fucking dumbass? I ain't putting any more o' my money against your cheating ass!"

"I'll bet you a thousand dollars I can get every ball into a pocket before you manage one."

He didn't imagine the hush that fell over the bar. A thousand dollars on a game was a ridiculous bet. Not even on their biggest hustles had Sam and Dean ever dared to bet so much money. For one thing, they rarely had that to spare. For another, it was simply ludicrous. No one would take such a stupid bet.

"A thousand fucking dollars? Are you serious?"

Sam shrugged, not looking up from the beer in his hand. He had ordered another from the bartender while the man stalked the table on one of his turns, trying to figure out how Sam was cheating. "I already won $500 from you. I'll just bet that back and double it. I hit all the balls in, you pay up. I miss one, I pay you back what I won from you plus another five hundred." He finally glanced at the man. "Deal?"

He waited as Dougherty considered his offer. The man appeared to be in deep thought about it, no doubt mentally wading through a lake of alcohol as he tried to weigh the pros and cons of taking the bet. The rest of the bar remained silent, waiting for his decision, and Sam kept the bored look on his face even though he wanted to grin at how much he would enjoy this.

"Nine Ball," Dougherty finally said, looking up at him.

Sam nodded slowly. "Nine Ball," he murmured.

"What's Nine Ball?" he heard someone whisper to a friend.

Sam circled the table, thinking. "Nine Ball," he said, loud enough for the other patrons to hear, "is a game of pool using all nine balls, placed in a specific order." He picked through the balls where they sat in the rack, placing the nine ball in the center and the five behind it. "It requires that the balls be hit into pockets in numerical order, starting with one and ending with nine. Meaning sinking the eight ball won't lose me the game unless I hit it out of order." He looked at Dougherty. "Correct?"

"That's right," he growled out, bravado heavy in his voice. "You miss one of those balls and sink 'em in the wrong order and I get one thousand bucks." His eyes were cruel when they locked on Sam's. "You know how to count, faggot?"

"I've managed to count to five hundred so far tonight. I think I can manage nine." He finished off his beer and set it on an empty table out of the way. "Do we have a deal, then?"

"Deal," the man snarled. Sam found himself smiling in amusement, thinking of Crowley and what was required to sign a deal with the King of Hell. He wondered what Dougherty would say if Sam demanded they kiss on it, tongue optional.

"What're you smiling about?"

"Just enjoying the game." He lined up his shot for the break and hit the cue ball into the first ball in the rack. The balls burst around the table, ricocheting off the walls, and Sam's eyes tracked the ball with the 1 on its front. It had been the first in the rack and missing it and hitting a different ball would have lost him the game right there. Now he needed to be sure it was the first one he sunk.

"Scared, Potter?" Sam muttered under his breath.

Dougherty stared at him in complete confusion, which made sense since that meme wouldn't become a thing for a few years. Sam merely grinned at him and sunk the one ball into the far pocket with absolute fucking glee.

What followed was a game the locals would be talking about for years. Sam sank every ball into the pocket in order, one to nine. He missed three times and during Dougherty's turns, the man failed to pocket a ball even once. By the time Sam sank the nine ball, the man was nearly burgundy in rage, but to his credit, he paid Sam one thousand dollars in cash and didn't try to take his head off with the pool cue.

Sam blushed as their audience erupted into cheers. He pocketed the cash he had received from the man except for a hundred, which he passed to the bartender as she headed over to pick up his empty bottle from the table. "Buy everyone a round, okay?"

She glanced at the hundred, surprised. "Your friend, too?" she asked carefully.

"Everyone," he said, smiling softly.

She huffed a breath and took the bill, patting his cheek lightly. "What a cute thing you are. You got it, hun." She disappeared behind the bar and called out a free round, which resulted in more cheers.

Sam used the noise and the ensuing chaos of drink deliveries to slip out the back door. He could usually drink a few more beers before he had to worry about his state of mind, but he didn't really want to test whether or not a tolerance to alcohol would transfer with his memories across time. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and made his way back toward campus, a small smile on his face.

He'd ruined any chance he had of ever hustling pool in that bar again but he thought it was worth it. After being so soundly trounced, it was likely that Dougherty would make his way out of town as quickly as he could. He might find another bar where he could torment people, but Sam hoped maybe his lesson would give the guy even a second's pause.

He snorted. His lesson . He sounded like fucking Gabriel.

Shaking his head, Sam considered his options. The downside of staying in one place was that hustling pool wouldn't be a source of income that he could keep up. Eventually (or rather quickly, if tonight was any example of how things would go), Sam's face would be recognized as someone you didn't bet against. In all likelihood, he would be welcome in Barbed Wire and Lace again, but not permitted to play pool. It wouldn't be the first time he or Dean had been barred from betting on games. Sam could maybe get a few nights out of the other two local bars, and a few more at the bars further away from the campus, but it wouldn't be something he could keep up.

He could run some credit card scams like he and Dean did on the road, but that was dangerous for the same reason. Sam would be staying in the same place for the next four years - for the most part, anyway. He hadn't decided whether he'd be hanging around over the summer and taking extra classes or going off to do some hunts elsewhere. Still, questions would come up and it wasn't worth the risk.

He needed another source of income.

His mind mulled over possibilities, categorizing them in his head as something he might look into or something that wouldn't work. He considered the possibility of getting a part-time job, which was more possible now than it would be later when he got into his more difficult classes, but he still questioned how he would fit that around everything else he needed to do, though he could probably manage it if he planned well.

He was unlocking the door to his apartment when the answer came to him and he nearly tripped over the threshold. He shut the door and leaned back against it, pressing his fist against his mouth to keep from waking his neighbors as he shook with laughter.

It was a ridiculous idea, completely mad, and it would never work.

Sam dropped his head back against the door and gave in to his laughter.

It was going to be hilarious.