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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"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.

Sam glances over at him.

"Sounds like you know something about how that goes."

Sam gets a side-eye.

"And if I did?"

"Just an observation," he says, mildly.

"No desire to commiserate over the life of a small business owner?" The comment's a little acid. Only a little.

"It is what it is, right?"

Besides, given Boyd's attitude toward the walking dead, Sam's pretty sure they're not in the same business.

"But if we're gonna trade stories like that, seems to me it calls for another round of drinks, maybe over a game of pool."

Sam gets an even look.

"It's not my game," Boyd says. "So a friendly game. No stakes."

Sam grins at him.

"It was worth a try. But okay, no stakes."

Boyd just raises his eyebrows.

"Was it?" he says mildly as he shifts to his feet.

"Unless you're going to take it personal."

Sam stands, and picks up his glass from the bar.

"But seeing as one of the few rules they've got around here is 'no business in the bar,' it's not like I was going to try to run a game on you anyway."

Boyd slips the hand not holding his glass in the pocket of his jacket (buttoned, as always, as far up as it goes).

"Now, that's funny," he says mildly. "I heard that rule as no outside business. No grudges. You mean to tell me they prevent third-party dealings entirely?"

"I always figured it same as you," he tells him, even as his glance flicks to the hand Boyd's slid out of sight.

"Running a game on someone tends to lead to grudges, though."