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Fic post, whoo! Two more fics to go!
So, um, who wants 2000+ words of Sam playing pool and manipulating his body language? Seaica even fixed my grammar mistakes for me! I know somebody wants the fic. Come on, raise your hands. Anyone? Okay then. *kicks things*
This is what happens when people give me prompts. There is no h/c (which was requested), but there is pool(also requested)! One out of two isn't bad, right?
Fair warning, searchgirls.com is actually a porn archive search engine. You probably shouldn't look at it if you're in public. There's not nudity until you start clicking links, but it's definitely a porngine. *nods* The bustyasianbeauties.com link? Goes to a WB site, which amuses me to no end. *grins*
Title: One of You is Lying
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Pairings: None
Dean's cranky (pretty normal, actually, no matter how much Dean insists he's the one on a perpetual menstrual cycle) and healing (not as normal, though it's not particularly weird either). It means they're stuck sitting in a motel room until Dean's well enough to drive and Sam doesn't feel the need to try to shove his brother out of a moving vehicle.
None of this would have actually been bothering Sam, if there were more than thirty dollars to their names. As it is? Either he has enough for dinner and gas tomorrow morning or just gas, depending on how much the Impala feels like guzzling. His brother mutters under his breath about idiots maligning his baby, but Sam's pretty sure the car is going to eat more than thirty dollars and he knows he and Dean can demolish a small army of pizzas, so he makes a decision.
Sam's not bad at pool; he's pretty good at it, actually. Dean had taught him the basics before he even hit puberty, and he'd played for money more than once in college. He doesn't have Dean's raw talent at going into a bar, screwing over every single occupant, and coming out with a waitress on his arm and everyone else falling all over themselves to declare him their best friend, but he can hold his own.
While Dean's in the bathroom, cursing loud enough to here over the water as he tries to take a shower without getting his stitches or his cast wet, Sam goes hunting through their clothes. He pulls out Dean's rattiest shirt, stretched almost to the point where Sam can wear it comfortably and full of questionable stains and holes, then pokes around in his own bag until he finds the jeans that are marked for emergency bandages.
He looks sort of like a hobo when he gets dressed. More so than usual even (it's kind of a sore point that he is, for all intents and purposes, a hobo who lives out of his brother's car. He doesn't think about it much because otherwise he'd beat his head against said car door and give himself a concussion he doesn't really want).
"Dude," Dean says, stumbling out of the bathroom while Sam's still looking for the jacket with the bloodstains all over the sleeve and shoulder, "I know we haven't been doin' laundry lately, but those are actually worse than wearing clothes that don't pass the sniff test. I've got a clean pair of jeans somewhere."
"I don't want to look like I'm ready for the floods, man," Sam mumbles back and makes a little noise of triumph when he finds the jacket, wadded up in the bottom of Dean's duffle.
Dean grumbles about not being that much shorter than he is, to which Sam just snorts and casually waves a hand over his brother's head. He darts a glance to check Dean's stitches (neat, ugly, and healing well) as he pulls the jacket on and slouches down.
"You look like a hobo," Dean says bluntly. His brother pauses for a second and squints his eyes, "A really young hobo who gets beat up a lot."
"I'm not the one with twenty stitches and a cast," Sam retorts. He walks over to where Dean's left his clothes in a little sweaty heap on the floor and fishes around until he finds his brother's wallet; he nicks the twenty out of it and slips it into his back pocket.
"It was a freaking unicorn, Sam," Dean says defensively.
Sam purses his lips around the correction he wants to make; it was a kere, Dean, he wants to say. They're aggressive. It had killed three children before they'd gotten there. Instead, he rolls his eyes and checks the usual hideouts for money. "And you froze like an idiot and asked it if it shoots moonbeams when it farts. Not your greatest moment, dude."
"Shut up. How was I supposed to know it understood English?" Dean watches him hunt for spare cash and finally says offhandedly, "We going somewhere?"
We, because Dean doesn't like letting him out of his sight, and Sam's not dumb enough to think he'd be going out alone. "I saw a bar a couple of miles up the road," he offers
Dean doesn't say anything about not having the money to waste on drinking booze because he's not stupid either. "Can't really hustle with a busted arm, Sammy."
"You're not going to. I am."
---------------
After Dean stops snorting over the idea of him hustling pool, Sam bundles his brother into the car. The Impala is, predictably, on empty.
Dean bitches about having to let him drive because he's convinced Sam's going to manage to a. crash the Impala, b. have a vision and crash the Impala, c. hit a deer and crash the Impala, or d. all of the above. Dean's got a massive gouge going down one side of his ribcage, though, and a broken arm on the other side, so there's actually no way in hell Sam's letting him drive. Especially not after he'd forced him to down a couple of painkillers.
Sam swerves once, just to piss him off, then drives like a grandma all the way to the bar (also to piss Dean off).
Dean croons at the Impala for a full two minutes after Sam parks. He pushes his hands into his pockets and tries not to listen as Dean promises the car outrageous things for putting up with "my idiot brother driving you. I'm sorry, baby."
There's a waitress there, probably in her early thirties or late forties, old enough to maybe have a teenager. Sam watches out of the corner of his eye as she takes him in and narrows her eyes in the universal sign of "we don't want any trouble here, son."
He purposely curls defensively around Dean, who narrows a glance his way and mouths, "What the fuck?" Sam kicks him in the back of his foot and steers him into a nearby booth.
The waitress's eyes ease into a vaguely worried, maternal look, going from "homeless bums are about to fuck up my workplace," to "motherless, down on their luck kids are having a hard time," in the blink of an eye. Which is what he was aiming for, so kudos to him.
Dean just grunts. "Gimme the laptop, dude, and go suck at pool."
Sam hands it over, waits until Dean's engrossed in trying to figure out the password to log on, and then sidles over to the waitress.
"I get you anything?" she asks as soon as she realizes he's looking at her.
"Can you do me a favor?" Sam asks. He slumps his shoulders, puts on the helpless "what can I do?" face, and watches the way the waitress melts a little more, against her better judgment.
"What do you need, honey?"
"I'll give you twenty bucks if you make sure he doesn't get any alcohol," he says, pointing at Dean. The last thing he needed was for his injured brother to get drunk and pick a fight to prove he wasn't a sissy who got taken out by a unicorn.
The waitress, Marge, Sam notes, looks at Dean and then turns her gaze back to him and sucks her teeth in thought. Sam looks a little more dejected, a little more worried, and she finally says, "He on any pain meds?"
"Yeah."
"Then a bar's not the best place for him, hon," she says decisively, "Why don't you take him home?"
Because then I'd have to worry about him trying to walk out here to make sure I wasn't in any trouble.
"I need to," Sam motions towards the pool table and thinks about Dean sending him to school in a dress when he was ten until he starts blushing madly, "We're gonna get kicked out of our room if I don't make a couple hundred tonight."
Marge sucks on her teeth again, loud enough to put Sam's own teeth on edge. He slouches a little more, bringing his height down from "Oh my God, Godzilla's gonna eat us!" to what Dean refers to as normal human, and stares at the cast that Dean's resting on the table.
"Alright," she says, then, "But you keep your money. You're gonna need it more than I need that pedicure tomorrow."
He walks towards the knot of college kids playing pool as soon as Marge sits a glass of orange juice (Dean hates it, but he'll drink it if it's free) in front of his brother.
College kids are weird, Sam knows. If they're anything like the ones he went to school with, they'll open up to let him watch before one of them realizes he's dressed like a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Another one'll figure he can fleece the poor kid by betting his daddy's money and every single one of them will take a turn trying to win their friend's money back afterwards.
Sam hadn't really played pool in college, but he'd watched enough to know what they were going to do. On a good day, a fair hustler could walk away with over three hundred dollars and three college kids grumbling under their breath.
Right on cue, the smallest one, the one with the most to prove, Sam assumes, looks him up and down and grins nastily. "You wanna play?"
The other two guys try to loom nonchalantly. Sam wants to snort and straighten (his back's starting to hurt), but he just nervously darts a glance towards the biggest one and says, "Yeah, um, alright."
"Fifty bucks." Fifty's all Sam has, actually, but he doesn't think the guy's any good, so he shuffles and hesitantly pulls it out of his wallet.
The guy sucks, to put it mildly. Sam can feel Dean's amused gaze on his back, can practically hear his brother muttering about sucker bets and idiots who think they're better than they are.
Sam jitters as he sinks four balls in a row. He purposefully takes his time about it, letting his hands shake a little bit and biting his lip as he lines up the shots. The cue ball takes the six at an angle that looks like a complete fuck up but actually sinks the ball right where Sam wanted it; the three is knocked into the opposite pocket in what looks like a one in a million luck shot at the same time.
The next two are easier and Sam scratches his next shot because he can feel his opponent getting antsy.
Pool's all angles and lines to Sam, ways the cue ball can hit his colors and rebound to set up best for his next shot. He doesn't particularly like playing it, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that the shot the college kid's leaning over to take is going to end up sinking nothing but the 8-ball.
"Double or nothing?" the kid asks after the ball sinks. He lays a hundred dollar bill on the table, breaks when Sam accepts, and promptly manages to knock the 8-ball off the table after sinking the twelve.
Somewhere behind him, Sam can hear Dean start to laugh. He ignores him and offers a sheepish smile to the kid.
"Petey, man, you've got to quit betting so high. Your mom's gonna kill you!" one of the kid's friends hoots, and Petey turns bright red. "Hey, dude, what do you say? Gimme a chance to win back Petey here's bill money?" the same kid continues.
That friendly tone would be a lot more convincing if the kid hadn't started to brandish a cue like a mace. Sam wants to roll his eyes so badly it almost hurts not to.
"Hey, he's pretty good, might not want to risk it," Petey mutters.
The thing is, the other guys actually stop and listen to him. Sam hadn't even done anything in that last round and they're all looking at him like they think he's the hustler from hell. He knows how to get rid of that look though.
He very obviously tenses and looks around until he sees Dean morosely poking at the laptop. He'd set him up in the corner on purpose, because he's pretty sure his brother is looking at porn in a public place and he really doesn't want to be kicked out. Sam relaxes again after he's sure that the guys have seen where he's looking and are going to be snobby about it.
"That your little boytoy over there?" Petey asks.
"No, that's, that's my big brother, actually." Sam smiles stiffly at the ground, flicks his eyes up to take in the men's expressions before he studies the crack in the leg of the pool table. He hunches his shoulders enough that they actually start to hurt and scratches uneasily at the back of his head, shouting, "I'm lying, ask me how!" as loudly as his body language will allow.
Predictably, one of the guy's friends leans over to whisper loudly, "He's a fag, man. You can take him; fags can't play pool for shit."
Dean chooses that moment to look up and smirk in Sam's direction. Sam sees "you kind of suck if they're not eating out of your hand already, little brother." They seem to see "are you almost done? I'm gonna take you home and fuck you."
There's actually a world of difference between the two expressions and Sam has never (thank God) been on the receiving end of the latter one, but it gets Petey's buddy to rack the balls with a nasty smile and say, "I'm breaking."
Thank you, Dean, Sam thinks, and thank you, stuck up college kids.
He carefully keeps staring anywhere but at the mark or his brother.
---------------
"You're cheating!" Petey's friend Greg says at the top of his lungs. The other two guys, already out of money and pissed off, back up his claim.
Sam straightens his back and looms. He lets his hand drift suggestively, nervously, towards where people always assumed knives were hidden (he's actually only got one knife, and that's in his boot. He does, however, have a gun stashed in the back of his jeans.) He makes his eyes go narrow and slightly crazed, tucks his head down like he's planning to charge at the nearest person.
All three of them stop and back up. Sam snatches the money off the pool table and goes to make sure Dean isn't going to collapse from pushing to his feet so fast at the first sign of trouble.
"You don't have a knife in that pocket," is what Dean tells him, watching the trio of guys over his shoulder as Sam packs up his laptop (open on searchgirls.com, which is kind of a trip up from bustyasianbeauties.com, so Sam wasn't going to say anything), "In your shoe, maybe. Or in your belt. I taught you better than to hide things in your front pockets."
"They don't know that," Sam points out and tucks a twenty under Dean's half-full glass of orange juice, "Let's get out of here before they figure it out."
---------------
"Okay, so maybe you don't suck that much," Dean concedes.
They both stare at the pile of cash on the Impala's dashboard. There's well over five hundred sitting innocently up there, in crisp little twenties and hundreds. It's almost ridiculous just how much money three college kids were carrying around with their fake I.D.s.
"Man, you got some awesome suckers," Dean finally decides, and leans his head against the window. "By the way? Your computer froze. It's a piece of shit, Sammy, you should get a new one."
"Dude," Sam says. He reaches over to pocket the money and rescues his computer from Dean's lap with his other hand. It only takes half a second to boot up, because contrary to what Dean says, it's a pretty good computer, and then he tilts it over so that Dean can see the naked blondes. "If you stopped looking at porn it would stop freezing all the time."
Dean contemplates the girl onscreen for a second. "You look like a hobo," he says easily, not even looking up.
"What? That doesn't even make any sense in this conversation!"
"Whatever you say, Hobo Sam. Hey, how about we get some pizza?"
This is what happens when people give me prompts. There is no h/c (which was requested), but there is pool(also requested)! One out of two isn't bad, right?
Fair warning, searchgirls.com is actually a porn archive search engine. You probably shouldn't look at it if you're in public. There's not nudity until you start clicking links, but it's definitely a porngine. *nods* The bustyasianbeauties.com link? Goes to a WB site, which amuses me to no end. *grins*
Title: One of You is Lying
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Pairings: None
Dean's cranky (pretty normal, actually, no matter how much Dean insists he's the one on a perpetual menstrual cycle) and healing (not as normal, though it's not particularly weird either). It means they're stuck sitting in a motel room until Dean's well enough to drive and Sam doesn't feel the need to try to shove his brother out of a moving vehicle.
None of this would have actually been bothering Sam, if there were more than thirty dollars to their names. As it is? Either he has enough for dinner and gas tomorrow morning or just gas, depending on how much the Impala feels like guzzling. His brother mutters under his breath about idiots maligning his baby, but Sam's pretty sure the car is going to eat more than thirty dollars and he knows he and Dean can demolish a small army of pizzas, so he makes a decision.
Sam's not bad at pool; he's pretty good at it, actually. Dean had taught him the basics before he even hit puberty, and he'd played for money more than once in college. He doesn't have Dean's raw talent at going into a bar, screwing over every single occupant, and coming out with a waitress on his arm and everyone else falling all over themselves to declare him their best friend, but he can hold his own.
While Dean's in the bathroom, cursing loud enough to here over the water as he tries to take a shower without getting his stitches or his cast wet, Sam goes hunting through their clothes. He pulls out Dean's rattiest shirt, stretched almost to the point where Sam can wear it comfortably and full of questionable stains and holes, then pokes around in his own bag until he finds the jeans that are marked for emergency bandages.
He looks sort of like a hobo when he gets dressed. More so than usual even (it's kind of a sore point that he is, for all intents and purposes, a hobo who lives out of his brother's car. He doesn't think about it much because otherwise he'd beat his head against said car door and give himself a concussion he doesn't really want).
"Dude," Dean says, stumbling out of the bathroom while Sam's still looking for the jacket with the bloodstains all over the sleeve and shoulder, "I know we haven't been doin' laundry lately, but those are actually worse than wearing clothes that don't pass the sniff test. I've got a clean pair of jeans somewhere."
"I don't want to look like I'm ready for the floods, man," Sam mumbles back and makes a little noise of triumph when he finds the jacket, wadded up in the bottom of Dean's duffle.
Dean grumbles about not being that much shorter than he is, to which Sam just snorts and casually waves a hand over his brother's head. He darts a glance to check Dean's stitches (neat, ugly, and healing well) as he pulls the jacket on and slouches down.
"You look like a hobo," Dean says bluntly. His brother pauses for a second and squints his eyes, "A really young hobo who gets beat up a lot."
"I'm not the one with twenty stitches and a cast," Sam retorts. He walks over to where Dean's left his clothes in a little sweaty heap on the floor and fishes around until he finds his brother's wallet; he nicks the twenty out of it and slips it into his back pocket.
"It was a freaking unicorn, Sam," Dean says defensively.
Sam purses his lips around the correction he wants to make; it was a kere, Dean, he wants to say. They're aggressive. It had killed three children before they'd gotten there. Instead, he rolls his eyes and checks the usual hideouts for money. "And you froze like an idiot and asked it if it shoots moonbeams when it farts. Not your greatest moment, dude."
"Shut up. How was I supposed to know it understood English?" Dean watches him hunt for spare cash and finally says offhandedly, "We going somewhere?"
We, because Dean doesn't like letting him out of his sight, and Sam's not dumb enough to think he'd be going out alone. "I saw a bar a couple of miles up the road," he offers
Dean doesn't say anything about not having the money to waste on drinking booze because he's not stupid either. "Can't really hustle with a busted arm, Sammy."
"You're not going to. I am."
---------------
After Dean stops snorting over the idea of him hustling pool, Sam bundles his brother into the car. The Impala is, predictably, on empty.
Dean bitches about having to let him drive because he's convinced Sam's going to manage to a. crash the Impala, b. have a vision and crash the Impala, c. hit a deer and crash the Impala, or d. all of the above. Dean's got a massive gouge going down one side of his ribcage, though, and a broken arm on the other side, so there's actually no way in hell Sam's letting him drive. Especially not after he'd forced him to down a couple of painkillers.
Sam swerves once, just to piss him off, then drives like a grandma all the way to the bar (also to piss Dean off).
Dean croons at the Impala for a full two minutes after Sam parks. He pushes his hands into his pockets and tries not to listen as Dean promises the car outrageous things for putting up with "my idiot brother driving you. I'm sorry, baby."
There's a waitress there, probably in her early thirties or late forties, old enough to maybe have a teenager. Sam watches out of the corner of his eye as she takes him in and narrows her eyes in the universal sign of "we don't want any trouble here, son."
He purposely curls defensively around Dean, who narrows a glance his way and mouths, "What the fuck?" Sam kicks him in the back of his foot and steers him into a nearby booth.
The waitress's eyes ease into a vaguely worried, maternal look, going from "homeless bums are about to fuck up my workplace," to "motherless, down on their luck kids are having a hard time," in the blink of an eye. Which is what he was aiming for, so kudos to him.
Dean just grunts. "Gimme the laptop, dude, and go suck at pool."
Sam hands it over, waits until Dean's engrossed in trying to figure out the password to log on, and then sidles over to the waitress.
"I get you anything?" she asks as soon as she realizes he's looking at her.
"Can you do me a favor?" Sam asks. He slumps his shoulders, puts on the helpless "what can I do?" face, and watches the way the waitress melts a little more, against her better judgment.
"What do you need, honey?"
"I'll give you twenty bucks if you make sure he doesn't get any alcohol," he says, pointing at Dean. The last thing he needed was for his injured brother to get drunk and pick a fight to prove he wasn't a sissy who got taken out by a unicorn.
The waitress, Marge, Sam notes, looks at Dean and then turns her gaze back to him and sucks her teeth in thought. Sam looks a little more dejected, a little more worried, and she finally says, "He on any pain meds?"
"Yeah."
"Then a bar's not the best place for him, hon," she says decisively, "Why don't you take him home?"
Because then I'd have to worry about him trying to walk out here to make sure I wasn't in any trouble.
"I need to," Sam motions towards the pool table and thinks about Dean sending him to school in a dress when he was ten until he starts blushing madly, "We're gonna get kicked out of our room if I don't make a couple hundred tonight."
Marge sucks on her teeth again, loud enough to put Sam's own teeth on edge. He slouches a little more, bringing his height down from "Oh my God, Godzilla's gonna eat us!" to what Dean refers to as normal human, and stares at the cast that Dean's resting on the table.
"Alright," she says, then, "But you keep your money. You're gonna need it more than I need that pedicure tomorrow."
He walks towards the knot of college kids playing pool as soon as Marge sits a glass of orange juice (Dean hates it, but he'll drink it if it's free) in front of his brother.
College kids are weird, Sam knows. If they're anything like the ones he went to school with, they'll open up to let him watch before one of them realizes he's dressed like a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Another one'll figure he can fleece the poor kid by betting his daddy's money and every single one of them will take a turn trying to win their friend's money back afterwards.
Sam hadn't really played pool in college, but he'd watched enough to know what they were going to do. On a good day, a fair hustler could walk away with over three hundred dollars and three college kids grumbling under their breath.
Right on cue, the smallest one, the one with the most to prove, Sam assumes, looks him up and down and grins nastily. "You wanna play?"
The other two guys try to loom nonchalantly. Sam wants to snort and straighten (his back's starting to hurt), but he just nervously darts a glance towards the biggest one and says, "Yeah, um, alright."
"Fifty bucks." Fifty's all Sam has, actually, but he doesn't think the guy's any good, so he shuffles and hesitantly pulls it out of his wallet.
The guy sucks, to put it mildly. Sam can feel Dean's amused gaze on his back, can practically hear his brother muttering about sucker bets and idiots who think they're better than they are.
Sam jitters as he sinks four balls in a row. He purposefully takes his time about it, letting his hands shake a little bit and biting his lip as he lines up the shots. The cue ball takes the six at an angle that looks like a complete fuck up but actually sinks the ball right where Sam wanted it; the three is knocked into the opposite pocket in what looks like a one in a million luck shot at the same time.
The next two are easier and Sam scratches his next shot because he can feel his opponent getting antsy.
Pool's all angles and lines to Sam, ways the cue ball can hit his colors and rebound to set up best for his next shot. He doesn't particularly like playing it, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that the shot the college kid's leaning over to take is going to end up sinking nothing but the 8-ball.
"Double or nothing?" the kid asks after the ball sinks. He lays a hundred dollar bill on the table, breaks when Sam accepts, and promptly manages to knock the 8-ball off the table after sinking the twelve.
Somewhere behind him, Sam can hear Dean start to laugh. He ignores him and offers a sheepish smile to the kid.
"Petey, man, you've got to quit betting so high. Your mom's gonna kill you!" one of the kid's friends hoots, and Petey turns bright red. "Hey, dude, what do you say? Gimme a chance to win back Petey here's bill money?" the same kid continues.
That friendly tone would be a lot more convincing if the kid hadn't started to brandish a cue like a mace. Sam wants to roll his eyes so badly it almost hurts not to.
"Hey, he's pretty good, might not want to risk it," Petey mutters.
The thing is, the other guys actually stop and listen to him. Sam hadn't even done anything in that last round and they're all looking at him like they think he's the hustler from hell. He knows how to get rid of that look though.
He very obviously tenses and looks around until he sees Dean morosely poking at the laptop. He'd set him up in the corner on purpose, because he's pretty sure his brother is looking at porn in a public place and he really doesn't want to be kicked out. Sam relaxes again after he's sure that the guys have seen where he's looking and are going to be snobby about it.
"That your little boytoy over there?" Petey asks.
"No, that's, that's my big brother, actually." Sam smiles stiffly at the ground, flicks his eyes up to take in the men's expressions before he studies the crack in the leg of the pool table. He hunches his shoulders enough that they actually start to hurt and scratches uneasily at the back of his head, shouting, "I'm lying, ask me how!" as loudly as his body language will allow.
Predictably, one of the guy's friends leans over to whisper loudly, "He's a fag, man. You can take him; fags can't play pool for shit."
Dean chooses that moment to look up and smirk in Sam's direction. Sam sees "you kind of suck if they're not eating out of your hand already, little brother." They seem to see "are you almost done? I'm gonna take you home and fuck you."
There's actually a world of difference between the two expressions and Sam has never (thank God) been on the receiving end of the latter one, but it gets Petey's buddy to rack the balls with a nasty smile and say, "I'm breaking."
Thank you, Dean, Sam thinks, and thank you, stuck up college kids.
He carefully keeps staring anywhere but at the mark or his brother.
---------------
"You're cheating!" Petey's friend Greg says at the top of his lungs. The other two guys, already out of money and pissed off, back up his claim.
Sam straightens his back and looms. He lets his hand drift suggestively, nervously, towards where people always assumed knives were hidden (he's actually only got one knife, and that's in his boot. He does, however, have a gun stashed in the back of his jeans.) He makes his eyes go narrow and slightly crazed, tucks his head down like he's planning to charge at the nearest person.
All three of them stop and back up. Sam snatches the money off the pool table and goes to make sure Dean isn't going to collapse from pushing to his feet so fast at the first sign of trouble.
"You don't have a knife in that pocket," is what Dean tells him, watching the trio of guys over his shoulder as Sam packs up his laptop (open on searchgirls.com, which is kind of a trip up from bustyasianbeauties.com, so Sam wasn't going to say anything), "In your shoe, maybe. Or in your belt. I taught you better than to hide things in your front pockets."
"They don't know that," Sam points out and tucks a twenty under Dean's half-full glass of orange juice, "Let's get out of here before they figure it out."
---------------
"Okay, so maybe you don't suck that much," Dean concedes.
They both stare at the pile of cash on the Impala's dashboard. There's well over five hundred sitting innocently up there, in crisp little twenties and hundreds. It's almost ridiculous just how much money three college kids were carrying around with their fake I.D.s.
"Man, you got some awesome suckers," Dean finally decides, and leans his head against the window. "By the way? Your computer froze. It's a piece of shit, Sammy, you should get a new one."
"Dude," Sam says. He reaches over to pocket the money and rescues his computer from Dean's lap with his other hand. It only takes half a second to boot up, because contrary to what Dean says, it's a pretty good computer, and then he tilts it over so that Dean can see the naked blondes. "If you stopped looking at porn it would stop freezing all the time."
Dean contemplates the girl onscreen for a second. "You look like a hobo," he says easily, not even looking up.
"What? That doesn't even make any sense in this conversation!"
"Whatever you say, Hobo Sam. Hey, how about we get some pizza?"