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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"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?"

"The righteous go to heaven, and the sinners burn."

Boyd has a small smile devoid of pleasure or amusement.

"Isn't that the general idea?"

"More or less, yeah."

Never mind that he's got reason to know, now, that it's not always the sinners who do the burning in hell.

"That's what I've heard, anyway."

"Well, this place isn't hell," Boyd says. "There's a general lack of flames, and that shit -- " Indicating the observation window. " -- it don't count. That's not what the preachers say. Hellfire isn't explosions, because a flame requires oxygen."

And that's very calm.

"And this place isn't heaven, either, by any account, because you have to be dead to go to heaven. I'm not dead. Sounds like you aren't, either. When you're dead, you go to one place or the other. So by the religion I came up from, there oughtn't to be dead folks here at all. The going theory is that God don't stand for that shit. So either -- " Boyd's pontificating now, gesturing with the hand with the glass, pointer finger waving. " -- either those who've said the dead walk this place are mistaken, if we're being generous about it, or those religious beliefs -- "

And now Boyd's grinning, and there's no joy in it at all.

"Are a load of shit."

"I'm not dead," Sam confirms.

Not any more, anyway.

"And yeah, this isn't hell. Or heaven either."

Sam finishes off his drink and sets down the glass, but keeps hold of it.

"That religion back where you're from," he says. "Which sounds like the South to me -- it have anything to say about ghosts? Or, uh, Purgatory maybe?"

"While it might be a well-known fact that ghosts exist," Boyd says, "Purgatory is a papist conception, and belief in it, as with any papist conception, will send you straight to hell."

He'll let the remark about the South pass for now.

Sam's grin is quick and easygoing.

"Guess you could think of it as a well-known fact here too."

"I don't know much about Purgatory myself, but if it's out there, somehow I don't think this is it."

"No, not Purgatory," Boyd agrees. "But there's a difference in this thing about dead people. Because neither you nor he said ghosts. You said the dead. And to me that suggests they still got a physical body. Ghosts don't. If it's Purgatory -- and again, belief in that sends you to hell -- but if it's Purgatory, then wouldn't we all exist here as souls, without a physical body?"

"That's because they don't look like ghosts," he says, matter-of-factly. "They look just like you and me. I don't know how, or why."

"If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck," he says, "then it's a duck. But if they look just like you and me -- then it don't seem to me as though they're ghosts."

Sam shrugs.

"Anywhere but here, they probably wouldn't look like this."

Boyd's stare gets a little beady. "So you're saying it's this place. That makes them look like... not ghosts."

"That's what I'm saying, yeah."

His mouth quirks to the side, turning his expression wry.

"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing that's happened here, by a long shot."

Boyd glances back at the contents of his glass. "Now, I know what appeal this place has for someone like me. Appears out of nowhere. Liquor's cheap. Nobody I know. But if I'm being honest -- and honesty's a good policy, maybe not always the best, but why not -- the idea of the dead walking around gives me a little pause."

Beat.

"You seem like you have some degree of sense. Why do you come here if there's weirder things than the dead walking like they're living?"

"Like I said... the beer's good. Rest of the liquor, too."

Sam taps his glass as if to illustrate, which Bar takes as a hint and replaces with a fresh drink.

"My brother and I -- we travel a lot. Family business. Sometimes the local bars really suck, and, well, we can always get here."

Usually, anyway.

"Convenient," Boyd observes.

And drinks.

And says, casual (and not caring how casual he sounds, meaning he's not troubling himself to be subtle), "Family business?"

"Mm-hmm."

Sam takes a drink of his own.

"Keeps us pretty busy."

"They do tend to." He turns his glass on the bartop.