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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Yep," Sam confirms. "The business keeps us on the road most of the time."

Boyd shoots; in goes a stripe.

"And what would happen," he says, lining up another shot, "if someone were to inquire as to the nature of that business?"

"Depends on who's asking," he replies, with a quick grin.

It's absolutely true, as it turns out.

"Are you?"

Another shot, another pocket, Boyd lines up a third.

"Only if it should not offend."

"No reason it should."

And since given the entire conversation about the dead, the guy's clearly not likely to buy the truth of what it is they do --

"We're private investigators."

Boyd misses his third and retreats to his glass.

"The kind for hire?"

"Pretty much. We don't work for the cops, or anything like that. More... independent clients, you could say."

Although they impersonate them from time to time.

Sam sinks the recalcitrant three and lines up his own next shot.

"What about you?"

"Currently unemployed."

Boyd's watching the table.

"Coal mine's hiring. Not a lot of other options."

He nods, and shoots again, then moves for a third.

"West Virginia?"

"Harlan."

If he's as well-traveled as he says, Boyd doesn't need to specify further.

"Kentucky, right?"

He steps back from the table as the ball kisses the edge of the side pocket and spins away, and glances over at Boyd.

"Heard of it; never been there, though."

"It don't tend to be a place people go to," Boyd agrees, circling the table for his next shot. "Not if they got any choice in it."

Sam shrugs.

"Yeah, well."

Matter-of-fact.

"Folks also don't got a lot of cause to hire private investigators, neither."

They take care of their own dealings.

Not, of course, that Boyd would know anything about this.

He takes a shot, misses, frowns.

"Might be part of why we've never been there."

He eyes the lie of the table; they're pretty evenly matched.

Boyd finishes off his drink, and stays silent; time to see if Sam's willing to give anything up of his own accord.

"Spent some time down in Tennessee last summer, though," he adds, and bends to line up his next shot.

"And how was that?" He waits until after Sam shoots.

"Liked it fine. The job took a while, but that's how it goes sometimes."

Especially seeing as how last summer Dean hadn't exactly been around to help.

"As they do sometimes," Boyd agrees, thoughtful, though he's more thoughtful about whether or not to get another drink.

"Yep." Sam gives him a sideways look.

"Want another?"

"I wouldn't want to interrupt the game," Boyd says, mild.

"Um. About that."

His expression grows extremely wry, verging on sour.

"Anyone introduced you to the waitrats yet?"

"There are certain places in which the county health department and I are in full agreement," Boyd says. "Rats is one of them."

Sam glances around, making sure none of the rodents in question are in earshot, and nods to Boyd.

"Not gonna argue. Still, sometimes you gotta adapt, you know?"

He still looks pretty sour about it.

"I try to keep it less than more in this case, to be honest. But they can handle drinks well enough."