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 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."

This time -- this time -- it's a wholly innocent hand.

Boyd catches Sam looking, and raises his eyebrows.

"Don't it just."

"Mm-hmm."

Beat.

"Which is why I wasn't planning on it."

There are times when it's wise to speak and establish your proper place in the order of things.

And there are times when it's much wiser to remain silent until you can get a better read on the situation.

Boyd ambles over toward the pool table, glass in hand.

Sam follows after him.

"Rack or break?"

Boyd grabs the plastic triangle hanging below the table. "Rack, if that suits."

"Fine by me."

He sets his own drink on a nearby table and walks over to choose a cue.

Boyd arranges the nine balls in the triangle one-handed.

"Now, I'd be hurt if you take this the wrong way," he says, casual, "but you're the first I've met here rings anything remotely close to like me."

"How so?"

Matter-of-factly asked, and Sam doesn't seem bothered by Boyd's observation. He tests the cue's weight, rolls it on the table to make sure it's not warped, then picks it back up and glances over at the other man.