The End (One-Shots)

Reprisal

The orange haze of the dim tavern echoed a memory from her childhood, a simpler time long forgotten and buried in the recess of her past. Regulars dotted the bar, some chatting, other silent as they sipped their liquor, their beers, and stared their blank stares at nothing.

Natalie edged her way to the end of the bar, careful not to draw any attention. The last thing she needed was a guy old enough to be her father desperate for attention and seeing it from her. God, but that would be her luck. All she wanted was a drink while she waited.

She had hoped that the dive bar would prove profitable but as she scanned her surroundings, that notion was dead on arrival. There were no games she could bate someone into, not a deck of cards in sight – she scolded herself for not keeping one on her, but very few people were stupid enough to get hustled by a chick in a bar with her own deck of cards – and there was little else at which she was skilled enough to even attempt a hustle.

And then there was the pool table, isolated in the corner with its single overhead light. The felt was in abysmal shape and the cues looked as curved as timber curing for a ship hull. Even then, she could use all that to her advantage, but there wasn't a soul in that bar dumb enough to hustle. No, these folks were hardened veterans and farmers, mechanics and construction workers. She couldn't take their money.

But she could use the cash, her grumbling stomach reminding her of that fact. A bowl of popcorn slid to her hands as if summoned by her thoughts, and when Natalie looked up, an eyebrow quirked towards her hairline.

"What'll it be?"

Natalie hesitated, baffled by the bartender. Beautiful, tall and blonde like Elizabeth, but thin instead of muscled. The tip bucket must be overflowing if her plunging tank top and two bras meant anything.

"You okay, hun?"

"Er ..." she stuttered with a shake of her head, "Yeah, I'm good. I'll take a Balvenie, neat."

The bartender smirked as she said, "My kinda girl. You in town long or just passin' through?"

Before Natalie could respond, the door of the bar swung wide with a dull ring of its bell hung from the ceiling, announcing a newcomer. Both women turned, the bartender with her careful eye and Natalie ready to run in a hot second. But when Sam appeared, she eased back in her seat, relief washing over her.

It was the bartender's turn to stare, an eyebrow twitching skyward as she looked between Sam and Natalie. When Sam spotted her tucked in the far corner, a grin spread from ear to ear, and the bartender gaped. Natalie did her best to hide her smile; it wasn't the first time a woman had read her flannel, jeans, boots, and scotch wrong.

And it won't be the last, she thought.

In a few quick strides, Sam crossed the bar and took a seat beside Natalie. He dragged the chair to her side, so close his radiating warmth washed over her in a heady scent of gun oil and musty books.

"Sorry, I'm late," he said as he gave her thigh a squeeze. "Dean needed a hand."

She nodded as the bartender returned with her drink, then spoke to Sam. "What'll it be, sweetie?"

You'd think a guy would get used to that sort of talk from a bartender, but not Sam. No sir, if a pretty woman smiled at him, his embarrassment was your best bet. Sure enough, a twitch flicked the corners his lips into a small smile as he averted his stare and hint of pink colored his nose. Natalie promised herself to give him shit for it later.

"Bottle of Margie, please," he replied, cool and calm as ever.

The bartender left them once more and Natalie spoke in her absence.