Bronchitis. Removal of tooth (bonus pharmaceutical discovery: oxycodone doesn't work on me, but it give me insomnia!). Veterinary dramas. Vehicular dramas. Real Life – le sigh. I keep hitting the 'ESCAPE' key, but I'm still here…
Chapter Nine
Dean and Sam usually avoided using their bogus credit cards or hustling pool in Sioux Falls – the phrase 'Don't be shittin' in your own nest' had been drilled into them by Bobby from an early age – but they needed cash.
"We'll never come here again lookin' like this," reasoned Dean as the Impala pulled into the lot of a bar, "So it don't matter. Anyway, we don't cheat people – we just let the greedy ones cheat 'emselves."
"That outfit might count as cheating," Sam opined, casting a disapproving glance at the ensemble that Dean had chosen. "And if you fall off those heels and break something, I'm gonna laugh all the way to the ER."
"This aint cheating, Sammy," 'Dee' flashed a winning smile, "This is just makin' the best possible use of the available terrain."
"What, by leaving as much as possible of your 'terrain' on show?"
"Exactly!"
"You look like you're here to do a pole dancing routine, not to play pool," Sam sniffed disdainfully. "And stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"That. The Killer Smile. You walk around in that outfit, smilin' like that, the next thing we know, you'll be complaining about the guys hanging around you, drooling on your shoes."
"This is the twenty-first century, Sam," Dean replied sternly, "A woman can walk into a bar wearin' whatever she wants, and demand to be treated with respect."
Sam looked at him sideways. "Since when have you been taking classes in post-modern feminism?"
"Well, it's true," humphed Dean, "I should be able to walk in anywhere, wearin' whatever I like, and be treated like a human being. I should be able to walk in stark naked, and be treated respectfully."
"Right up until the moment you get arrested," snarked Sam. "Am I really listening to the Living Sex God burn his bra?"
"As much as I'd like to," Dean sighed gloomily, "I think it would be a bad idea. But yeah, you gotta be of age to go into a bar, right? Well, by the time you're of age, you should be able to act like an adult, and behave in a civilised fashion. Be polite, be civil, be respectful of the rights of others."
"And what if some guy tries to get fresh with you, Germaine?" asked Sam.
"Then I'll respect his right to get the shit beaten out of him for bein' an asshole," shrugged Dean, opening the car door then taking the compact from a pocket and balancing it behind the wheel. "Mirror mirror on the dash, who will go home with the cash?"
The glass swirled with billowing grey clouds and the mirror replied:
One more button on that shirt,
You'll hustle 'til they really hurt.
"Okay, then," grinned Dean, undoing a button on his blouse and getting out of the car, "Let's go raise some money, Sammy."
"I'm not completely happy about this," griped Sam.
"Never mind, little sis," Dean smiled sympathetically, "You never know, there might be a meeting of a debating club, or a math tute, or something – there could be a geek with your name on him in there right now, just waiting for you to show up and factorise his equations.'
"Dean…"
"It's Dee in public, Sammy. It's okay, really, no hands though, okay, but if you like the look of his pocket protector, go ahead if he wants to talk nerdy to you…"
"Jerk."
Dee and Samantha left the car, and headed in.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sam had never been completely comfortable with being an object of attention; whether that was due to the way they'd grown up, with attracting attention to be avoided at all costs, or just due to his nature, he wasn't sure.
Watching 'Dee', who'd grown up with the same understanding of having to avoid attention, though, he thought that it must be a large component of nature rather than nurture, because his 'bestie' seemed determined to attract attention. Seriously. A crippled fawn wearing a bacon jacket limping past a pack of wolves would get a better score for 'avoiding attention'. A cheerleader wearing nothing but a pom-pom and a smile sashaying through a football team's locker room would get a better score for 'avoiding attention'. A chocolate cake deliberately waving itself under Ronnie Shepherd's nose whilst shouting "Eighty percent cocoa ganache and fresh cream filling, baby!" would get a better score for 'avoiding attention'.
Dee strutted in like 'she' owned the place, heels clicking and hips swaying, and headed for the bar, where the bartender made a magnificent yet ultimately unsuccessful attempt to talk to her face, got them beers, then joined her friend 'Samantha' at a table. Dee had the usual effect on the other patrons, Sam noted, that his brother Dean had whenever he swaggered into a bar oozing devil-may-care bravado and the irrepressible ambiance of the Living Sex God, only now it was the other way around: this time, men wanted to hit on her, whereas women just wanted to hit her.
"Do you have to do that?" complained Samantha.
"What?" demanded Dee with an impatient pout.
"That!" Sam snapped, "Do you have to do that thing you do?"
"What thing?" Dee asked, crossing her legs and sipping her beer.
"That, that, you know, that 'look at me' thing!" Sam clarified. "The thing with the pout, the thing with the legs, do you have to be so, so, so…"
"Awesome?" Dee's perfectly shaped brows waggled as suggestively as ever.
"Not the word I would've chosen," muttered Sam between clenched teeth.
"Calm your tits, sis," Dee grinned, "Or at least, calm your chest where your tits would be if you had any. It's all part of the act – people see an airhead who's had maybe a bit too much to drink, has too high an opinion of her capacity to play, they'll be more willing to let 'emselves get hustled."
"If you don't get your eyes scratched out first," Sam warned, watching a woman at another table smack the man accompanying her in the arm as he did a lousy job of trying not to stare at Dee.
"I may be more in touch with my feminine side than usual right now, but the Living Sex God is still capable of charming the females of the species," Dee said firmly.
"Oh, God," Sam almost wailed, "Don't you dare go 'charming' any women while you're female yourself, I don't think I could cope…"
"Don't be so unenlightened, it's the twenty-first century, sis," Dee sniffed disdainfully, "Informed, consenting adults, Sammy."
"You're so informed you could make Dr Ruth hand in her microphone, and you sure as hell will consent to just about anything," griped Samantha, "But I have my doubts about the 'adult' bit."
"My body, my choices, bitch. Come on, there's a free table."
They headed for a pool table, pausing on the way for Dee to compliment the woman who'd whacked her partner's arm on her hair, gushing about the styling and asking where she had it done.
"See?" Dee grinned and nodded in the direction of the woman, who was now smiling, "Living Sex God. Charming the females of the species, one pair of ovaries at a time."
"Yeah?" Sam racked the balls as Dee chalked her cue. Well, how do you think you'll do charming the males of the species?" Sam asked snidely, "Because there's one at the bar watchin' you like a shark watchin' a lousy swimmer who rolled in meat paste before heading out beyond the breakers."
Dee took the compact from her pocket, flipped it open casually, and studied the man who was clearly checking her out. She smiled. "Mirror mirror, in the dark, is this guy tonight's first mark?"
After a moment, the mirror replied.
His wallet's full, he just got paid -
He wants to play. And then get laid.
"Well, he's gonna be sadly disappointed," Dee sighed, pursing her perfectly glossed lips to blow chalk off the cue tip. She handed the mirror to Sam, then bent more than was really necessary for the break, letting her tush sway ever so slightly in the guy's direction.
They quickly fell into a slightly strange version of their usual hustle. Bar-guy did a pretty good job, Sam thought; he sat there, just appreciating the view, listening to Dee chatter and giggle as the two of them played a meandering game, before he sauntered over, drink in his hand, smile on his face, and lust wafting off him.
"Good evening ladies," he said, "Are you alone tonight?"
Samantha gave him an attenuated Bitchface™. "How can we be alone if there's two of us?" she demanded tartly.
"Oh, don't mind her, she was dropped on her libido when she was a teenager," said Dee carelessly, tossing her hair over one shoulder as she took her next shot. "Oh, damn! I had that lined up perfectly! This table is defective."
"It's your game that's defective," sniffed Sam, "I told you to lay off the Cosmopolitans."
"The table at that place was defective, too," Dee pouted, "I'm much better than this," she smiled up at bar-guy. "Really. I just need another drink…"
The poor bastard never stood a chance.
"This table's defective, I did say," Dee said sympathetically later, as her first victim for the evening drifted away, lighter of wallet, but still managing to give her a smile.
"He seems kind of happy for a guy who just got his ass whupped at pool by a blonde airhead," Samantha remarked.
"Of course he's happy," Dee replied, "He's had the pleasure of my company. And I gave him my number."
"You WHAT?" Sam's eyes bugged.
"Well, I gave him a number, and said it was mine," Dee qualified carelessly.
"You gave him some random number?" Sam's voice rose in disbelief. "So some poor unsuspecting person is gonna get a call later from some drunken horny guy tryin' to arrange to screw you?"
"It's the number for a sex chat line," Dee said, "So at least he'll have more company than just his hand."
Samantha dropped her head into her hands. "Oh, God, you're just as bad female as you are male. In fact, I think in some ways, you might be worse…"
There was brisk business in the bar; 'Dee' and 'Samantha' ran their hustle, like the seasoned pros they were. Dee was outrageously bimbo, while Samantha was relentlessly disapproving (which was not entirely an act), and they provided a certain amount of entertainment for the patrons who stayed long enough to watch a number of hopefully horny men be grabbed by the hormones, then shaken down until their teeth rattled.
"You're gonna get us thrown out of here," muttered Sam.
"I don't think so," Dee smiled smugly as she gave her most recent conquest a consoling wave, then tucked the cash away in her blouse. "See?" she indicated the bar tender, and smiled at him; he smiled back, and shook his head, clearly finding the situation amusing. "He thinks I'm adorable."
"You do realise that if you were you, you know, if you were Dean, you'd have been invited out to the lot to discuss your pool playing by now," cautioned Samantha.
"Maybe," Dee's smile managed to become even more smug, "But if any asshole tries it, he'll regret it."
"What are you gonna do?" asked Sam sourly, "Stab him with a stiletto?"
"That's a possibility," Dee shrugged, "But just punching him in the self-respect would be my first line of attack. Face it, Sammy," Dee beamed at her 'bestie', "We should use it while we got it. Tonight, aint nobody with a dick can beat me, and that's a fact."
Sam was the one who felt the presence approach, and the figurative drop in temperature, first, but Dee's metaphorical hackles went up a split second later. She actually hissed in displeasure at the figure behind them, as it dropped a fifty on the table, and drawled,
Aren't you a little short for a Nazgul, Winchester?"
Gaaaaaah! Where the #^$% did that last paragraph come from? Srsly, it just popped out of Alfie-Con just then, right at the end. What's the little… wretch up to? Feed him reviews, because they are the Useless Painkillers Hurled Aside In Favour Of A Soothing Cup Of Tea On The Couch Of Life!