milliways_bar | (no subject)

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."

"Yeah," Dean cuts in, giving Sam a dirty look.

"And thanks again for setting me up to play chicken with the damn thing. In my baby."

No, Dean is never getting over that.

Ever.

Edited 2008-09-22 04:21 (UTC)

Sam gets a short, assessing look; Dean gets a more amused expression.

"Jokes," she says. "My husband--my first husband, but they were two of a kind, he killed it with bad jokes."

To Dean: "What do you drive?"

He meets her gaze with a bland expression and raised eyebrows, but says nothing.

"Damn, that's some talent."

Hey, Dean knows what's important in life.

Then his grin broadens, slipping away from that previous smirk.

"Impala. '67. It was a damn good year for 'em. You know cars?"

"Not really," she says. "But I know a favorite subject when I hear it. You the kind who names them?"

"What, you mean like Bessie?"

Dean snorts.

"Hell, no. Why, you know somebody that does that?"

"I had a driver who did, once," she says. "And I've known a few other gear-heads over the years."

"Huh. Yeah. Some of 'em do that. Guess it doesn't hurt that there's only ever been one car for me, huh?"

His grin is a little self-deprecating this time.

Hey, it happens.

"A true romantic," she says. "Good for you."

"Hey, now," Dean says with an easy grin. "Too much talk like that and you're gonna ruin my reputation."

He's worked hard for the one he's got, thanks.