Rating: PG - Gen
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Winchesters are bad at getting robbed.
"Just get away from me."
"I'm serious Sam, go walk on the other side of the damn street!"
"Don't be retarded, look I said I'm sorry!"
"Sorrys don't get me my freakin' money back!"
Sam bit back his next outburst and fell back a few steps behind his brother. Dean could always revert him right back into being a kid, the indignant outrage and the petty insults coming back like they had never grown up. It was sometimes an effort not to just give in to it and use a word like dickwad. Or jerkoff. Maybe even a good dorkus tossed into the mix. His maturity would prevail. All he had to do is not let himself be dragged into useless juvenile bickering over some stupid midnight card game--
"And you know what else you dickwad?" Dean swung back around at him, his ire still at a full boil even though they had walked at least three city blocks. "Next time I tell you to whipsaw, maybe you can maybe actually do it next time!"
It was an old poker cheat tactic. Two players working together raise and reraised their bets to force the other players between them to fill up the pot. Apparently Sam's meager raises had done little but make the other more experienced men at the table smile into their warm scotch glasses.
"And that signal?" Dean's frustration caused him to toss up his hands and rub his face. "I told ya to signal the aces not the royals..."
Sam knew he remembered there had been some reason that he never liked going in on his father and brother's scams. He had never been real good at dishonesty, not even in the context of a relatively harmless game and its rules. Even when he actively tried, his attempts still maintained some measure of fair sportsmanship.
"I had four of kind!" Dean was actually holding his head and leaning back to appeal to the night sky. "Four of a fucking kind. Kings Sammy! Kings!"
"And what did that piece of shit have?" Dean demanded in agony.
Sam hadn't been allowed to forget just exactly what the grinning holder of three weeks of Dean's pool winnings had since they had left the cellar gambling establishment.
"Four aces." Sam provided.
His brother groaned bitterly again and spun back around to continue his brisk stalk back to the car. Sam made to follow, hoping that maybe a few more blocks of cold night air would settle his brother down a little. Maybe the promise of some beer. He could use one himself.
But they both suddenly halted.
A young man was standing very still just several feet from them. They hadn't noticed his approach during Dean's lamentations. Better dressed for the evening, he was also semi elaborate. The nylon down jacket and carefully sideways tilt of his baseball cap made him look like some white kid that had just wandered off a the set of a cheesy R&B video.
He raised a pretty impressive semi automatic pistol and cocked his head to the side in some semblance of rehearsed but confident intimidation.
Dean shrugged in insincere apology. "Hey pal, I would but guess what? This little jerkoff right here landed me TWO Ben Franklin's in the hole."
The guy hesitated for a moment but quickly regained his composure.
"J-Just gimme your wallets."
His brother turned back at him. "And you know what else Sam?"
Sam couldn't wait to hear it.
"If you can't even tell when the two guys sittin' right next to you are doin' some serious hand-mucking... I mean, we were supposed to be riggin' the game. Not the other way around!"
"I said gimme your wallets or I'll shoot you in your mother fuckin' face--"
Dean dropped the guy with one solid blow under the chin while simultaneously kicking the expensive looking piece straight up into the air. Sam caught it easily and briefly admired it before slipping it into the back of his jeans. Street weapons sure were getting nice these days. When he was a kid you really had to go looking for the good stuff.
"I'm doin' the next hustle myself." Dean shook his head as he zipped up the front of his jacket to ward off the chill. "You can stick to reward money for lost cats."
"Fine." Sam responded airily and with enough mocking dismissal he could fit in his own voice. "I don't wanna play anyway."
"Good, because you aren't."
Sam fell in behind his older brother as they continued back towards the car. It was there, at the tip of his tongue. Waiting for him to let it go. Sometimes it was useless to resist what just came as naturally as anything possibly could.
"Don't make me come up there." Dean warned without turning around.