Author's note: Okay, I know the summary sucks and is a little vague, but this is going to be a short one and if I tell you anymore it really ruins the plot. All it all a bit of angst, bro arguement, brolove, and a Weechester moment too. More to come soon. And yes, I'll be updating the other stories too.

Dean needed a way out, but he was sure as hell not going to let something like this happen again. Unfortunately, there were no gracious ways to get out of this one. This would have to be sloppy, uncool. He groaned at the options before him.

Sizing up your opponent, much like a master painting, was an art. Not everyone had the knack, but Dean prided himself on his skills, knowing when to push and when to back away. Like any good dog fight, battle, or war, a good pool hustle was a just a cutthroat.

Even with a few beers in his system, he manipulated, missing and sinking shots in a detailed plan, always making sure his missed shots that set his opposition up with a lousier shot. Yet, sometimes the skill, or lack thereof, on the other side didn't quite follow Dean's plan.

Slowly walking around the perimeter of the table, Dean studied the configuration of the balls, acting as if he couldn't decide which shot to attempt, which was true. Both possibilities required a level he could easily do, but both would leave his mark with an impression he was cheating. One good expert shot could damn his carefully laid scheme to ruin.

"Oh, well. You only live once and I'll try anything once." The stick balanced between his fingers as his other hand pulled back with a seeming determination of a sharpshooter. His lip curled in confidence, and when the waitress passed he couldn't help but wink. Seconds later, his eye narrowed on the white ball and then followed the sudden jerk of his arm as he sent the shot careening into the Purple 12 stripe. The ball skipped, hopping and missing. "Damn beer."

"Blamin' beer won't help ya a bit." His massive opponent chortled, stumbling as he leaned against the wood of the table.

Sometimes the virtues of buying a round of beer were sorely underestimated. All it took was a good beat the clock night and a bucket of cheap beer to be a one of the locals. Plus, Dean drinking two to the other guys four didn't hurt his money making return at all.

"2 Ball in the side pocket."

"Ah... shit... Harry, you can't make that." Brad gaffewed.

"Dude, that's so supportive. Way to go." Dean uttered. "Seriously, you should work for Hallmark or somethin'…. Maybe a soap."

"Yeah!" Harry bellowed. "Then his wife and he could share a Kleenex."

Harry bore his bleary eyes on the shot, eyeing the blue ball with lust. Dean might have felt uncomfortable with the way the man stared at the object had the bet not been so sweet. Anyway, he was resisting the urge to salivate himself, seeing the end of this game quickly. His drunken friend would have to be a master to make this shot. Even if his opponent slammed in the blue shot, he would spiral the white ball straight towards the black ball of death. Game over- End Game- Jackpot.

Sure enough, Harry went for it. The force he used to crack the ball, overkill by any standards left little chance of the intended shot going in, but just as Dean predicted the 8 ball fell with all the impact of a comment, straight into the corner pocket.

"OH!!" All three men groaned at once.

"Dude.. aww.. that's harsh."

"TOLD YA!" Brad smarted.

"Well, boys. It's been a blast, but I'm afraid my old lady's going to have my head in a thropy case if I don't get home." Dean said, gathering his winnings.

"Now you can't leave without a chance to win back some of that."

"I'd like to.. really.. but… you know… Death by… well she has many ways of making me pay, if I show up late again. You know how it goes."

This time Brad stood up, "I don't think you're being a good sport about this."

"Yeah, I got that."

Suddenly Dean remember the other rule of hustling, sometimes you should size up your opponent not by the size of the wad of cash, but by the size of their fist. In this case the size of the fist plus one friend. This was going to get ugly.