milliways_bar | (no subject)

"What, no calling dibs this time? Dude, you're slacking off."

Dean's a jerk.

At least it's a good look for him, right?

When they get closer:

"Evening, Sam," she says. She nods to the other (boy) man. "This must be your brother?"

"Dean," he confirms. "Dean, this is Susannah-- I mentioned her, right?"

He knows perfectly well that he has, especially after the recent conversation with Kaylee, but it's something to say.

"Hey, Susannah. How's it going?"

"'Yup."

He gives Susannah a once-over because that's what Dean does. Then he grins.

"Lemme guess, you already know I'm the kickass one?"

"I didn't hear much more than a name," she laughs. "Is that so?"

"He likes to think he is, anyway."

Sam's tone is immeasurably dry.

This... is interesting.

"All talk?" She eyes him appraisingly.

"Oh, sweetheart," Dean drawls.

He's kind of looking forward to the look on Sam's face.

Maybe Susannah's, too. Depending.

"Talking's the last thing I'm big on doing."

Susannah is cracked up. She's had a lot of experience with this--with Eddie Dean and Eddie Toren and every once in a while Cuthbert Allgood--but this one is so young. On top of Reno, too.

"This twenty-first century," she marvels. "I won't say it's not flattering for a lady of a certain age, sugar, but I am not a--what do they call it? cougar."

The expression on Sam's face, as it turns out, is kinda priceless.

At least she's laughing.

He delivers a kick to Dean's ankle without looking.

Dean, noble and virtuous soul that he is, only slaps Sam upside the head.

Forbearance is his greatest virtue. Really.

"So ignoring Sasquatch here--"

Uh.

"--you ain't from the twenty-first century?"

Smooth, Dean. Real smooth.

"Only these last eight years or so," she laughs. "I just meant that the culture has changed over the years, apparently particularly so that no matter how old I get, the men hitting on me stay the same age."

"Maybe it's the worlds thing here."

He realizes how that sounds about one half-second too late.

"Um, not that you're not-- I mean--"

"Stop, before you hurt yourself." She's smiling, though.

"Nah, Sam. You just keep digging that hole."

Dean's smirking, at least. And ain't that what matters?

"But like I said. Ignore the Sasquatch, there. He's crap with women."

Unlike Dean, obviously.

"Anyway, yeah. I'm Dean. Good to meet you."

"And you." She nods, and unscrews the top of her water bottle. "Just think you'd be without a straight man to sputter when you get out of hand, though."

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, that's me. Sidekick to the comedian here. Too bad the pay's for crap."

"Never boring, though," she says. "My husband's one of these." She nods in Dean's general direction.

What Dean thinks but manages not to say is 'See that, Sammy? I'm her type!'

Because he does learn from experience. The smirk might give it away, though.

"Hey, someone's gotta keep things moving. I'm just doing my job."

"I know," she says. "There's a story I could tell you about a train..."

She glances up, at the circle of glass over the bar again, and then shakes her head.

Sam follows her look, remembering, then trades a quick glance of his own with Dean.

"Train, huh? Don't think we have any stories like that. There's one about a truck, though."

He keeps his tone light.

"Oh yes?" she says. "Did it talk?"

Her tone is light, as well; this is a pretty good one. Nobody dies in this one.

"Oh Jesus, no. It being a fucking ghost truck was bad enough."

Well, that and it killed his ex-girlfriend's Dad. And some other people.

Goddammit.

...so that's out on the table, then.

Susannah takes another sip of water. "Mine asked riddles," she says off-handedly.

"Hard to answer those with a gun," Sam observes. "Unless you shoot the engine, or whatever."

A beat.

"We had to run ours over hallowed ground."