Chapter 8

"Whoa, whoa! Hustling? No way, Dean."

"Sam, in case it's slipped your mind, hustling is what we do."

"Hunting is what we do, Dean. You've been telling me that for more than two years. Hell, my whole life. We are hunters."

"Yeah, well, hustling is how we pay for it."

Sam shook his head. "But not alone. It's not the hustling drunk bikers with more money than sense that I object to. It's hustling alone. It's too dangerous."

Dean threw his head back with an exasperated sigh. "Sammy, come on. I hustled alone for years, when you were at Stanford, and I was hunting by myself. Hell, before that even, whenever we ran low on cash and Dad was gone. I think I can handle it."

"Oh yeah, and how many times did you get beat up, Dean?" Sam demanded, trying hard not to think about all those times that his brother had gone out on his own when he was barely more than a kid. Sometimes he thought their father had a lot to answer for, demons and monsters be damned. "How often did you get your ass kicked and your stake money stolen because the other guy was a sore loser? Huh? Tell me that."

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Not that often."

"Too often. We're not kids anymore and you're not alone, and you are not going out hustling by yourself."

Shoving the heels of his palms against his forehead, Dean began walking in agitated circles while Baby watched with wide eyes. Abruptly he stopped and whirled on Sam, his pointer finger extended accusingly. "You – you – you! You have turned into a completely wacko overprotective girl!"

"Dean… "

"We can't leave Baby alone while we go hustle pool, Sam," Dean yelled, "and we sure as hell can't take her with us. Look at her!"

Sam looked. Baby gazed back at him in earnest inquiry. His and Dean's clothing was hanging on her like… well, like a guy's clothes on a much smaller girl. She looked like an unusually clean homeless waif, or maybe some downtrodden housewife who'd married way, way too young and was expected to stay home and pop out a new baby every year. She looked neglected, possibly abused, definitely maltreated, totally innocent and utterly sexy. None of those looks went real well with pool hall or biker bar. Crap. But it didn't matter. They were not splitting up.

"She'll need decent clothes first," Sam said, "but then she's coming with us. I'll go pick up – no, you'll go pick up something for Baby while I wait here with her. There's a K-Mart like six blocks down the road. Even you can't get in trouble in six blocks." Please God, he added silently to himself.

"I thought you wanted me to stay out of the cold cause I'm all weak and wounded and such."

"I do," Sam said through gritted teeth. "But we can't stay here and you have to be the one to go. Just make it fast. Once she has some decent clothes, then we can all go out together to get enough money for a car."

"Fine. Okay by me. Heck, with that cute little smile, not to mention her cute little – "

"Dean!" Sam all but bellowed.

" – tush, she'll probably distract the hell out of the marks anyway, make our job easier."

Sam spluttered. "Damn it, Dean, we can't use her like that."

"I'd love to help," Baby interjected, putting on hand comfortingly on Sam's arm. She grinned up at him eagerly. "Really, Sam. I want to. I've never gotten to watch you hustle pool before, just heard about it. This will be fun."

"See, she'd love to help," Dean said smugly. "Besides, since when are you Mr. Over-Protective? You're still half-convinced she's some kind of demon." Baby's face fell as Dean spoke, and Sam found himself with the surprising though not unfamiliar urge to kick his brother.

"I am not," Sam hissed back before turning a sheepish smile on Baby and shaking his head. "Really, I'm not. I just – "

"Don't want to leave me alone with her," Dean supplied less than helpfully.

"Shut up, Dean!" If the girl started crying again, Sam was going to strangle his brother, which would kind of defeat the purpose of saving him from whatever danger Baby represented, not to mention his upcoming trip to… the basement.

"Then why don't you want to leave us alone together?" Dean asked, eyeballing Sam knowingly.

"Just go, Dean. You're wasting time."

"I don't have enough cash to cover girl clothes."

"Use your cash for a cab. There should be enough left on your cards for clothes. We can use what's left of my cash for the stake for pool."

"It's only a couple of blocks, Sammy. I'm taking a cab for just – "

"Take the damn cab, Dean!"

"Yes, sir, college boy." Dean braced to attention but stopped short of a mock salute. Their father had never approved of those, and had let Dean feel the sharp side of his tongue the few times Dean had jokingly saluted the former Marine. Sam scowled. Dad hadn't approved of a lot of things. So many pointless rules, so many impossible expectations. He'd twisted Dean into knots, and Dean was the only one who couldn't see it. Luckily, Dean also didn't seem to see Sam's scowl as he pulled his shoes on preparatory to going out. Once he was all laced up, Dean grabbed one of the little note pads they used when pretending to be feds out of his go-bag.

"Come here for a second, honey." Baby walked quickly to Dean's side, overly eager to please his brother as far as Sam could tell. Dean turned her to face him squarely, made sure she was standing up straight and had her extend her arms out to the sides. Then, placing his hands over her hips, he ran his cupped palms up and down her body, skimming just over the surface without actually touching her, an introspective look on his face.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Sam demanded, utterly appalled as Dean's hands hovered over her breasts, rotating in a circular motion.

"Figuring out sizes," he replied matter-of-factly. "It's not like she's going to know her measurements, and I wouldn't know how to use a measuring tape even if we had one."

"You can tell her bra size by groping her?" Sam retorted irately.

"Listen, princess," Dean snapped, making Baby giggle, "any self-respecting American male can tell a pretty girl's cup size by using his hands. And, may I remind you, I am not actually touching her so there's no groping involved. You're just ignorant and dirty-minded."

Sam glared at his brother, making Baby laugh all the harder. "You can touch me anywhere you need to, Dean," she said, grinning brightly. "I don't mind."

To Sam's intense amusement, this pronouncement caused Dean's pale skin to turn a nice, vibrant red. His brother hastily dropped his hands, actually taking a nervous step back. "Uh, no. No, that's okay. Thanks anyway." He cleared his throat, then stared down at Baby's sock-clad feet. "Shoes." He looked up at Sam, a helpless and still mildly alarmed look on his face. "Sammy, I have absolutely no idea how to measure feet. They're not my area."

Taking pity on his brother's dismay, Sam grabbed a newspaper off the bathroom counter and walked over to join them. "Give me your pen," he said as he kneeled down in front of Baby.

"What are you going to do?" Dean asked, clearly puzzled by the purpose of the newspaper.

"Back before equal rights, black people weren't allowed to try on clothing in stores. That included shoes. Stand here, Baby," Sam instructed, pointing to the spread out newspaper. Once she was in place, he took the pen and began to outline the shape of her feet. "So when black children needed new shoes, their parents would trace an outline of their feet on a piece of paper, usually newspaper because it was cheap, and then take that with them to the store."

"Huh. But don't you mean African-American children, college boy?" Dean snarked.

"Nope. Not all black people are African-American as one of my dormmates was quick to point out. Joseph was from Fiji and he absolutely hated being called an African-American, so I stick with black."

"Always bet on black, baby," Dean said in his best Wesley Snipes giving his own Baby a wink. Sam rolled his eyes.

An hour later, Dean was gone, Sam was pacing and deeply regretting his decision to let his injured brother go out alone, and Baby was stretched out on her stomach on Dean's bed and watching their hotel room's crappy television with a curious tilt to her head and her feet swinging back and forth in the air, ankles crossed. Periodically she'd ask him a question, some extremely perceptive and insightful, others so naïve that Sam found himself more certain than ever that she'd literally been born just hours before. It was after one such incident that he found himself, unexpectedly, asking questions of her.

"Umm, Baby?"

"Hmmm?"

"You said you've heard us talk about hustling?" She nodded without looking away from the television. "Did you ever hear my dad talk about hustling pool… talk about Dean hustling pool?"

Baby looked over at him, concern writ large on her face. "What wrong, Sam? Your voice sounds all tight."

Sam cleared his throat self-consciously. "Do remember how old Dean was the first time you heard him or Dad talking about it?"

Baby frowned and closed her eyes. Sam could practically see the wheels spinning in her mind as she tried to remember, and he couldn't help but picture the Impala's shiny silver rims, though the engine might have been a more apt metaphor. "Dean was… I think he was about twelve years old."

"Twelve!" Sam exclaimed. "You must be wrong. There's no way Dean could have hustled that young."

"No, I think he did. I remember John came back from hunting a trio of ghosts in Saratoga and when he got back to the motel, you were there alone. I know because he muttered about it the whole time he was driving around and looking for Dean, about how irresponsible it was for him to leave you alone when you were so little. Then he found him walking down the side of the road, and when they got back in me, Dean was bleeding and crying and John was cursing a blue streak. Dean said something about some asshole not paying up on his bets, and John said he was too young to be hustling pool alone. Dean said something about groceries and taking care of you and then John got real quiet. That's all I know."

It wasn't, however, all that Sam knew. He remembered that. God, he remembered Dad being gone longer than expected and them running out of food and money. Sam had lost his only pair of sneakers to the local bully, and Dean had bought him a new pair, a brand new pair. Thinking back on it, Sam knew that his brother shouldn't have been able to afford those. He had to have used the last of their food money for the shoes, and when they actually ran out of food… Dean took care of it. Dean always took care of everything. He'd been quiet for days after that, not hugging or wrestling with Sam, favoring what, Sam now realized, must have been cracked ribs. What kind of bastard would break a kid's ribs, Sam wondered furiously. He was overcome by the urge to try and find the guy now, fifteen years later, and show him how it felt to be a human punching bag. But for all the anger he felt toward the unknown stranger, it was nothing compared to what he felt when he thought of his father putting Dean in that position in the first place. Was it any wonder that Dean had sold his soul to Hell to save Sam's life when he'd already been living in Hell for years to give Sam a life?

Sam swallowed hard, trying not to let Baby see just how upset he was. Hurry up, Dean, he thought silently. Hurry up and get back here where I can keep an eye on you for a change.