an agent of the random (riyku) wrote,
an agent of the random
riyku

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fic: It's How You Play the Game

Title: It's How You Play the Game
Rating: NC-17 (just to be safe, maybe more like a hard R)
Disclaimer: I think we all know this isn't how it all went down.
Word Count: ~1,800
Warnings: Established relationship. This may be a little underage-ish. Depends on how you look at it, but in my head Sam is somewhere around 17 or so.
A/N: Written for flawlessglitch , who deserves a lot more than this.
Summary: Dean teaches Sam how to play pool.



Dean spun, swayed, and leaned heavily on his pool cue. Sam bit back a small smile.

His brother had been working the room all night, losing a couple of games and winning a few more. Always keeping it balanced enough that no one was the wiser. But one by one his opponents had skulked out of the game room at the back of the bar, all with their tails between their legs and a couple of bills lighter than when they’d started.

“Rack ‘em up,” Dean said to the balding guy leaning up against the side rail.

Baldy eyed him up, taking note of Dean’s sloppy movements and the way his feet couldn’t manage to get out of their own way. “Nah, man,” he replied. “I don’t take candy from a baby.”

“Just one more,” Dean slurred, “give me a chance to make good on it.”

It was an act, and Sam knew it, figured if the hunting gig ever went belly up then Dean could always land a part doing Shakespeare in the Park.

Dean held his glass up to his mouth, the same two fingers of bourbon that he’d been picking up all night long, just wetting his lips with it. He chased it with quick sip of beer. Only his second.

“It’s your funeral,” the guy said with a shake of his head as he started racking the balls up. “I’ll break.”

Dean’s lips curled up in a smirk that only Sam could see.

The crack of the cue ball striking was loud in the empty back room. Baldy sunk a solid and started lining up his next shot.

Dean watched with mild interest as the man landed two more then missed, all the while idly chalking up his cue. He pursed his lips to blow off the excess but then pointed the stick to Sam instead. “For good luck,” he said.

Sam knew that luck had nothing to do with it but blew anyway.

Dean circled the pool table twice, absently tracing a finger along the table’s polished rail as he studied angles and trajectories. All traces of his earlier drunken swagger were now gone, replaced by the unconscious grace of a man who has spent the entirety of his short life fighting. He took aim and shot.

Three minutes later the table was empty with only the eight-ball remaining, and Baldy’s initial shock was being replaced with self righteous anger.

“Eight-ball in the side pocket.” Dean called the shot, pointing his cue stick toward the pocket, and Sam had to laugh.

Sam didn’t have a lot of experience with the game, but could tell that the corner pocket was obviously an easier shot. Now his brother was just showing off. Dean glanced over his shoulder, winked at him, turned back and banked the shot perfectly.

“You—“ his opponent started, the man’s face going a dark shade of red and his hands tightening on his cue.

Sam placed the chemistry book he’d been pretending to read for the last few hours on the table, leaned back on the barstool with his hands on his knees and waited for the show to start.

Dean held up his own cue, spun it loosely between his fingers and cocked his head. “Are you sure you want to start this?”

He had his back turned to Sam, but Sam could tell by the smile in his brother’s voice and the relaxed slope of his shoulders that Dean hoped the guy did want to start something. Rounding out the night with a good old-fashioned fight against something that didn’t want to eat them was Dean’s idea of a real fine time.

And the other man knew it. He tossed a pile of folded money on the table, and threw his pool stick down beside it. He shot one last murderous glare in Dean’s direction before he stormed out.

Dean’s smug grin would have irritated the hell out of Sam if it wasn’t already threatening to make his heart beat clear out of his chest. “Cheers,” he said to Sam, tipping the glass in his direction and drinking it down in one long swallow, licking along his bottom lip for a second.

Sam stared, a heat creeping into his skin that had nothing at all to do with the jacked up AC in the joint and everything to do with the way Dean was running his fingers up and down the pool cue. He cleared his throat, tried to think of covalent bonds, electron clouds, and the goddamned periodic table.

“One of these days, you’re gonna take the wrong guy’s grocery money,” Sam pointed out.

“Just another day at the office, Sam,” Dean said innocently. “Besides, that poltergeist we nuked in Shreveport turned out to be a really shitty tipper.” He collected the money from the table, held up a fifty-dollar bill between his first and second fingers. “Care for a wager?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t have any money.”

“I’ll spot you,” Dean countered.

“Besides," Sam shook his head, "you could beat me blindfolded with one arm tied behind your back.”

Dean frowned and nodded. “True enough.” He rolled a pool cue along the table, checking it for warps and then threw it toward Sam, who caught it easily. Dean quickly collected the balls and racked them up. “Come here,” he waved at Sam. “Show me what you’ve got.” He placed the white cue ball in the center.

Sam leaned over the table and took aim.

“Here,” Dean spoke low, crowding in so close behind him that Sam could smell the liquor on his breath. “Get your stance right.” Dean kicked at Sam’s boots, nudging his feet apart. “Distribute your weight, think of it like you’re about to go into a fight. It’s all about balance.”

Sam shifted a little, earning a satisfied hum from his brother. “Good,” Dean said. “Now lean forward.”

Dean gave a nudge to the small of Sam’s back, bending him further over. Sam tried to suppress the shiver that ran up and down his spine at the touch. Dean’s low chuckle told him that he wasn’t too successful.

“Now put your left hand on the table.”

Sam followed the order, and Dean covered Sam’s hand with his own, his fingers forcing Sam’s wider, his touch straying there for a moment longer than necessary before laying the wooden cue over Sam’s outstretched hand.

“This is an open bridge. Easy for beginners.” Dean’s eyes caught Sam’s with a dark look that went straight to Sam’s dick. A slow blink, and then Dean broke eye contact to wrap Sam’s long index finger around the cue. “This is a closed one. Better control this way. A straighter shot.”

Dean crossed behind him, fingers skimming along Sam’s shoulders before coming to rest on Sam’s right hand. “Let’s work on your grip.” Sam had the pool cue in a white-knuckled grasp, and Dean pried his fingers loose. “Not too tight, not too loose, Sammy. You don’t need your little finger at all. Just hook your thumb around the stick. You’re tall, so move your hand toward the end.”

Sam relaxed his hand, inching it backward. His palm was sweaty, slid easily along the polished wood.

“’Atta boy.” Dean snugged in behind Sam again, close, thigh to thigh, his rough hand working up and down Sam’s bare forearm. “Keep your arm at a right angle to the table, your wrist straight and loose.” Dean’s hand landed on Sam’s hip and squeezed. “Now let’s talk about the stroke,” Dean whispered, his lips just barely touching Sam’s ear.

Sam’s knees locked, his hips stuttered forward and he pressed himself to the hard rail of the pool table, groaning at the small amount of friction it allowed. He’d lived his whole life in Dean’s back pocket, and knew first hand how Dean could turn anything into a metaphor for sex, could put innuendo into something as innocent as ordering breakfast easier than Sam could say ‘short stack.’ He took a sort of perverse sort of pride in the fact.

“Not yet, Sammy,” Dean said, pulling Sam back. Sam could feel the hard line of Dean’s cock along his ass as he fitted the two of them together, and his mouth went instantly dry. Dean ran a thumb along Sam’s jaw for a moment before pointing at the rack of brightly colored balls at the far end of the table. “Fix your eyes on where you want the cue ball to go, then start with a couple of practice strokes. Take it slow. You don’t want to rush it. Just loosen yourself up.“

Sam took a deep breath, his concentration bent on relaxing his shoulders, and tried to ignore the feeling of Dean’s body draped partially across his back. He made a couple of short strokes.

“Good.” Dean rewarded him with a small bite to the back of his neck, sharp teeth digging in, not too light and not too hard. Sam gasped and pushed back against Dean, undeniable want setting a fire in his bloodstream.

Dean laughed again, breathy and low. “Remember your balance. Nothing should move except your arm. Not your head,” he tangled his fingers in Sam’s hair for a second and moved lower. “Not your shoulders,” another small nip there, “not your hips.” Dean gripped Sam’s hips and squeezed, fingers digging in. “Don’t stop short when you hit the cue ball,” Dean went on. “The stroke is all about the follow through. Don’t hold back, Sammy.”

Sam hit the cue ball, a satisfying crack ringing through the empty room, and the pool balls fanned out across the table. The yellow striped fourteen-ball landed in the side pocket, but Sam didn’t notice. He was already spinning toward Dean. One hand tangled in the short hair at the nape of Dean’s neck and the other splayed across the small of Dean’s back as he pulled his brother in close.

With a needy moan, Sam pressed their mouths together, the taste of expensive bourbon on Dean’s mouth making his head spin as he licked past Dean’s lips, tongue skimming along his teeth, the roof of his mouth, a tangle of tongues as he urged Dean’s jaw wider to deepen the kiss.

Sam worked a hand between them, palming Dean’s cock roughly, and swallowed the gasp that ripped from Dean as he snapped his hips forward.

The sound of breaking glass from the main room of the bar made them jump apart, chests heaving as they both grinned sheepishly at each other. Dean wiped at his bottom lip, a flush running high on his cheekbones and a dark, wicked glint in his eyes.

“There might be hope for you yet,” Dean said.

“Does that mean the lesson’s over?” Sam asked.

Dean fished his keys from his pocket, tossed them in Sam’s direction. “Far from it.”

~fin~
Tags: fic: sam/dean, rated: nc-17
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