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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"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.

Boyd's in the process of selecting himself a cue. "You understand the way to read things, when you're talking man to man, like adults. Others, they didn't."

"Well, you get all kinds in here."

Sam chalks the tip of his cue, then moves to the end of the table to study the lay of it.

"It's sure not much like any other bar I've ever seen, I'll give you that."

"Only corpses I've ever seen in a bar -- " That he'll admit to. " -- went in well aware of needing to be able to stagger into work at the appropriate hour the next day."

Boyd stands to the side, speaks to the table.

"None of this necessity of considering religious questions on a day ain't Sunday."

"I've seen more than a few of those myself."

He leans over the table, sets the cue--

--CRACK--

-- and studies the break.

"I guess anyone spends time in a bar sees their fair share." Boyd eyes the table and circles; the green stripe is an easy shot. Lining it up: "Trick's not to be one."

"Always a good start," he agrees, watching.

Sam holds his silence while Boyd takes his shot, then adds,

"I'd venture a guess that a lot of the people here don't exactly have all that much experience with bars of the kind it sounds like we both know."

Yellow stripe's a little trickier.

He glances up at Sam before he lines it up.

"If you had to venture a guess," casual, "what kind of bars would you say those are?"

Sam eyes him for a second, then shrugs.

"More roadhouse than not, for one."

Boyd takes his shot, misses, grimaces, wheels away to pick up his glass.

(The grimace might have more to do with the bullet wound in his shoulder than genuine irritation at missing.)

"Now, that's a word we don't have in our parlance except as it comes from the outside. Easy Rider and all."

And at the end of Easy Rider, it's the hillbillies who blew up Peter Fonda and fucked up Dennis Hopper.

Boyd's well aware of that.