Sam has spent the better part of the day hiding away in Lucifer’s massive library, so when he finally emerges as night falls, he’s pleasantly relieved to find that the rest of the ostentatious monstrosity the angels dare call a “house” is still standing. Lucifer and Michael have been much better about channeling their passions in non-destructive ways these past few months, but many of those non-destructive ways tend to involve chasing Sam up the proverbial tree; it was well within the realm of possibility that—deprived of their favorite toy—the ill-mannered mutts might take to gnawing on the furniture or pissing on the carpets. Luckily they seem to have turned to a game of cards instead.
Lucifer and Michael are sitting across from each other at the rec room card table, alternating between glaring at each other and glaring at the cards in their respective hands. The tension between them is palpable. How the sea of cards spread out between them hasn’t caught fire is anyone’s guess.
Proving once again that the third Winchester son inherited all of the self-preservation instincts that had apparently skipped the first two, Adam has found refuge behind the bar—close enough to the action to be entertained and distant enough to avoid being pulled into the drama himself. If things start exploding, he’s also in prime duck-for-cover position. (It’s not paranoia; they’ve already lost two card tables to explosions of temper. Adam’s face had been burned pretty badly last time. Sam had only lost an eyebrow. Michael had patched them both up quickly and been very contrite and promised not to do it again, but angels, you know?)
Discretion being the better part of valor, Sam heads for the bar.
Adam greets him with an easy grin and gestures for Sam to pull up a stool. “So you’ve finally decided to join us. I was starting to think that maybe you’d fallen into a geek-gasmic coma up there or something. You want your usual? Jack and Coke, right?”
Nodding, Adam procures a bottle of reliable ol’ Jack Daniels from under the counter, pours it over ice and tops it off with a spritz of Coke from the soda gun. Sam accepts the drink thankfully and nods his head toward the angels. “Are they playing what I think they’re playing?”
Adam smirks. Sam glances back at the card table with growing amusement.
The archangels are still for several long moments, locked in silent battle. Then, voice loud with triumph, Michael says, “Do you have a Queen?”
“Go fish,” Lucifer says flatly.
Michael deflates instantly, triumph replaced by a mulish scowl.
“They seem to be taking that game awfully seriously,” Sam observes.
“You can’t guess why?”
Glass pressed to his lips, poised to take a drink, Sam pauses—considers. He puts his glass down with a resigned sigh. “There’s a wager involved, isn’t there?”
“And that wager is…?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
The brat looks far too smug for Sam’s peace of mind.
“To the victor go the spoils,” Adam sing-songs. Then, at Sam’s blank expression, he gleefully clarifies: “Basically, the winner gets first dibs on your pasty ass whenever you decide to stop playing hard to get.”
Sam looks at Adam, looks over to the angels, looks at Adam again—and then he looks down on the glass of alcohol cradled between his hands. Jack would never betray him like this. Jack is his friend.
“I am not nearly drunk enough for this,” Sam says and downs the glass all in one go.
“Drink all you want and don’t worry,” Adam says, sliding the entire bottle of Jack across the counter before adding, “I’m sure Luci and Mikey would never dream of taking advantage of you in such a vulnerable state. Your virtue will be perfectly safe.”