Fandom: Pairing: Crossover: Supernatural/Boondock Saints: Sam/Dean/Connor/Murphy
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar goof, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Summary: Two pairs of brothers, one pool table, St Patrick's Day and a bundle of cash...
Notes: This makes new fandom #3 in this last week alone. *weeps*
Written for mickey_sixx's comment_fic prompt: Boondock Saints/Supernatural; Murphy/Connor/Sam/Dean (or any combination of), "Luck o' the Irish". Happy (belated) St Patrick's Day!
They start off at adjoining tables, two by two, playing at first for fun and then for beer. At some point during the evening, banter begins to flow back and forth – mostly fake commiserations for missed shots and laughing braggadocio.
Introductions are made - Connor and Murphy McManus, Sam and Dean Winchester; soldiers all, joined at hip and shoulder and heart by family business, though neither pair is eager to explain exactly what.
Soon enough, they're trading partners and tongue-in-cheek tips on how best to grip their cues and make their strokes count. Several cold pitchers of green beer are swiftly consumed, and then they up the stakes with vodka shots.
They're as discreet as not quite sober people often are, which is to say that hands and eyes both wander every now and then, despite the best of intentions.
When the final bet's been made and the last ball's been sunk, the Winchesters are out three hundred bucks to the McManus twins. The four of them stare at the bundle of grubby notes, folded neatly and held in trust beneath a deeply worn cube of powder blue chalk.
With a falsely carefree shrug, Dean steps right up into Connor's personal space and smiles, all cocky charm and dancing eyes. He raises his last glass of beer in a silent toast and then tosses it back.
"Guess we should have known better than to bet against you, today of all days."
Connor lays his cue down gently on the smooth green baize and leans his weight on one hand on the edge of the table, not increasing the space between them by even a fraction of an inch.
"This had nothing to do with Naomh Pádraig, friend, or the luck o' the Irish. We've both been playing pool since we were old enough to stand on a fucking stool and see over the edge of the table. You're not a bad hustler – easy on the eyes, and you've the gift of the gab for sure – but we beat you, fair and square." Connor licks his lips and shares a moment of silent communication with brother Murphy, which ends in a pair of small, satisfied nods.
"You can keep your money if you let me have a taste of your boy there."
Ignoring Dean's affronted – and slightly intrigued - expression, Connor's gaze traces the length of Sam's lean body from head to toe, and then crawls slowly back up, pausing just long enough to find, and encourage, the unmistakeable signs of arousal at crotch and throat.
He's admiring the deep flush that's highlighting the angles of Sam's face when Dean finally manages to find his words and swallow his indignation.
"Dude, I don't know where you got the idea that we-" His jaw snaps shut around the rest of his denial as Murphy moves in and cups Connor's jaw with his tattooed hand, angling Connor's face so that he can lay an open-mouthed kiss on his brother that curls Dean's toes in his boots.
The kiss lasts long enough that Dean has time to read the tattoo - Aequitas - on Murphy's right hand, and also the complementary Veritas on Connor's left when he lifts it to catch the back of Murphy's head, pulling him even closer.
"Jesus," Sam whispers, directly into Dean's ear. He's pressed up against Dean's back now, one hand resting on Dean's hip, the other clutching the edge of the pool table in a white-knuckled death grip. "That is so-"
"Oh, hell, yeah."
Dean reaches out and taps Connor gently on his closest shoulder, not really wanting to disturb the pretty tableau but curious to know just what exactly was on offer here. It's a long, tense moment before Connor disengages from his brother's mouth and turns to blink Dean back into focus.
He licks lips that are already slick and slightly swollen as he studies the frank interest in Dean's eyes. "Do we have a deal?"
Dean drops a hand down to his hip so he can tangle his fingers with Sam's before upping the ante with a counter-offer. "We've got a room at the Motel Six up on Banyon."
The McManus boys lock eyes again and share a nod, and then Murphy flashes a grin and plays the winning stroke.
"We've got a loft two blocks over, with plenty of beer and red meat in the refrigerator. And no fucking neighbours to be pounding on the walls when we get to fucking too fucking loud."
Dean laughs and tugs Sam by his hand until they’re standing side by side, face to face with their new friends.
"So what the fuck are we waiting for?"