milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Dean's changing the oil on the Impala. Sam should be in the motel room, working on gathering more background information for their next case.

He can't make himself sit still long enough to focus.

After the sixth circuit of the room, he throws his hands in the air and stalks through the door to Milliways instead.

At least there he can grab better coffee than the cheap vending machine crap, right?

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On second thought, screw the coffee.

Sam walks up to Bar, nods to the man with the paper and glass, and sets some cash on the bartop.

"Jack and Coke." Beat. "On second thought, skip the Coke."

Rough night everywhere.

Boyd returns the nod, and starts folding up his resume.

It's been creased for some time, by the looks of it -- folded, unfolded, refolded.

He picks up the glass, considers tossing it back, then decides against it for now and takes a sip instead.

"Haven't seen you around before," he observes. It's neutral enough to be an invitation, matter of fact enough not to pry.

"You're looking often?" Boyd inquires, in a friendly enough manner.

Sam shrugs.

"Off and on, when I can. Time's weird enough around here it's hard to say."

He takes another sip.

"Name's Sam."

"Boyd," he returns.

He tucks his resume in his pocket.

"What's that mean?"

"The time thing?"

Sam glances over at him.

"Yeah, uh... time runs weird between here and the outside world. Stops for some when they come in, not for others. People are here from all kinds of times in history, too."

Another sip.

"It takes some getting used to."

Boyd's regard is even.

"Hasn't happened like that for me."

Beat.

"Yet."

"Maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones."

A beat.

"Me, I try not to think about it. Not much point."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sam glances over at him and gives him a wry grin.

"Just that this place can pull some crazy shit sometimes."

Beat.

"Beer's still good, though."

Boyd looks down at his glass. Quietly: "Jack tastes the same no matter where you drink it."

He lifts his own glass to the other guy in a silent salute of agreement, and tosses back half of what's left.

Boyd's in no such hurry.

"What kind of crazy shit?" Beat. "If you don't mind me asking, of course."

That last is a little sardonic.

"I don't mind."

Based on the fact Boyd's asking that question in the first place, Sam figures he's probably missed all the apocalyptic shit that went down in the last however long, so he should probably start smaller.

"Just so I can get a sense - you've got a drink, so you've figured out about Bar and the rats, I'm guessing." Sam casts a quick glance around the room, then back at him.

"You met or seen any of the more, um, unusual types who come here yet?"

A little acidly: "Met somebody who says she's a part of the X-Men." Boyd drinks.

"Uh, yeah -- her name X, by any chance?"

"That's what she said."

"Yeah, about that... thing is, it's true."

A soundless laugh, and Boyd takes a drink.

"She's a mutant," he says to his glass.

"Yeah. Like I said, this place..."

He shrugs.

"... something else you should probably know, about the people who come here."

Beat.

"Some of them are dead."

Boyd lifts his head.

Looks at Sam, unblinking.

"Someone else said that. He couldn't prove it."

Sam returns his look without evasion.

"Only proof I could give you is that I've met people here who I saw die in front of me."

Beat.

"'Course, you just met me, so it's up to you, man. I'm not gonna tell you what to think."

Half a smile, and Boyd drinks again.

And says, thoughtful, "What I can't figure is what benefit you and he would get from having me believe such a thing."

He examines the whiskey in his glass. "And it might well run contrary to my religious beliefs."

"No benefit. More like it's the kind of thing that can come as a hell of a shock if you're not expecting it--"

His tone is incredibly dry, with something in it that hints at experience.

"--so I figured I might as well pass on the warning."

Sam takes another sip of his own drink.

"Religious beliefs, huh?"