Too many lives have been broken, there's too much blood on my hands.

[shifting]

WHO: Sam Merlotte (and Sam "Mickens") & various
WHERE: De Chima & Heropa
WHEN: June 2016
WHAT: Catch-all for June and the Road Not Taken plot. One open plot prompt beneath the cut, character-specific starters in the comments.
WARNINGS: Violence, makeouts, mentions of childhood abuse
-


[Open] RNT: a bar in De Chima or Heropa, 6/10 - 6/15]

[Sam Mickens hardly needs three fingers of whiskey warming his gut to get rowdy, but it sure as shit helps. The past hour has seen him sending any woman who looks his way a devilish, inviting look, whoever they're with. He's shouldered his way past any guy too close to his space, sent the fruitiest drink he could to the guy he thinks will appreciate the suggestion the least - whatever Sam thinks will get a rise.

The goal for tonight, for this whole damn outing, is to hound a fight or a fuck out of whoever bites first. Give him something to work his teeth on, burn off some of this heated energy and frustration gnawing under his skin. The burglaries have been good - easy, profitable - but they don't do shit to ease the anger that he's in this world at all, not knowing where the hell his brother Tommy is or if the little shit's okay.

But hey. Whatever. He'll figure it out. Sam Mickens hasn't made it this long in life without being adaptable. Someone's gonna make him feel better tonight - they just don't know it yet.]

Comments

[Closed] De Chima Vineyard: Daryl Dixon (6/8) & James Patrick March (6/9)

[shifting]

[the De Chima Vineyard tries hard to mix Southern charm with outright extravagance. To some extent, Sam has to admit it succeeds. The long drive up to the main building is gorgeous, lush and verdant, the groundskeepers clearly aren't paid enough for the amazing job they've done, and people find the view so lovely that the winery actually doubles as a wedding venue, which even the uninvolved can watch from the the back patio.

But a step inside the winery's polished upper tasting room (there's one in the cellar as well) tends to smack one in the face. The stonework and wood interior is lovely, don't get him wrong, but it's a struggle to find any hominess to it, and even dressed for the part Sam sometimes feels vaguely like someone from Coach who's stumbled into a First Class seat, and at any moment a well-meaning stewardess is going to direct him back to where he belongs. He's been getting more used to it lately, but he can't say he doesn't miss being able to wear jeans to work.

On Wednesday and Thursday, he's expecting company of the important and imPort variety. The shifter has the staff keep an eye out so he can be the first one to greet their guest when they come up the steps, his grin wide and his hand out for a strong, welcoming handshake.]

Hey! Glad you could make it out here. Goddamn gorgeous day, right? We've been damn lucky this week it hasn't rained on us. Can I give you the tour?

6/8

[dirtyredneck]

[Daryl rode up the long drive on an older motorcycle that matched his own less-than clean cut look. Even in the south, he'd have stuck out like a sore thumb on one of the old plantation house and with that style reflected here, he definitely stood out. He pulled his bike to the side of the circle drive and the valet standing there. He recognized the confused look he was being given, like the man wasn't sure if Daryl belonged or if he was just so rich that he could get away with the grunge-chic aesthetic in a place that normally saw suit coats and polo shirts. When he gave the name of the man he was looking for, though, the valet instantly straightened and offered to park the bike for him with a very cordial smile.

Well, Sam had said he was the assistant manager. Had to have some clout, right?

Daryl asked if he could just leave his bike where it was, and if not he'd park it himself. It wasn't that he didn't trust the valet, but well, he didn't trust the valet. And he'd only just bought it. Didn't want anyone touching it and doing something to it he didn't know about. After he got directed to the parking area and got himself headed back to the front, he found Sam waiting for him.

Daryl eyed the extended hand before slapping it with his own and giving one firm pump, then let go.]

Sure, if you want.

[shifting]

[the minute Daryl is close enough for the handshake, Sam realizes that he's met this guy before. Beneath the motor oil, the man's scent reminds him of a day spent furry and four-legged, lounged on the pavement outside a restaurant as a kind soul scratched him behind the ears and brought him something to eat.

Sam's smile quirks up at the corner, and he looks away a moment, schooling the memory out of his face.]

We don't have to if you're not interested - it's a damn big property, to be fair. Could get right to the drinkin' part. Should probably be on the back patio though, nice day like this.

[he nods his head in that direction, indicating for Daryl to walk with him.]

Saw your bike when you pulled up. Never learned how to ride a bike myself - [and werewolf biker gangs killed any taste for them] - but I've gotta admit yours is damn gorgeous. She have a name?

[asked with a sly smirk, considering Daryl had been the one to choose the name for Sam's own vehicle.]

[idesof]

[Charm and extravagance are right up March's alley, so forgive him if he spends a bit of time lingering to take in the full sight of things. He isn't late, of course not, but Sam may spot him taking his sweet, sweet time because he's clearly just in love with the place already. It's been so long since he's seen anywhere like this, making the vineyard a breath of fresh air and a reminder of times long past all at once.

Dressed to the nines as usual, he's brought along his cane for this outing as well. By the time he makes his way to the steps, his smile is broad, happy, fond. He smiles often, yes, but this one is a bit different. Like smiling in relief at being home, a personal sort of joy he can't contain.]

Absolutely gorgeous, yes! [His face lights even more (how) as he shakes Sam's hand, firm and enthusiastic.] I'd love to! This land is beautiful, truly beautiful. You must feel blessed to see it every day.

[shifting]

[it's like the guy's got a little sun behind his skin, just beaming away. There's no way Sam can look at that and not smile back himself, happily completing the handshake. He's honestly a little surprised to see March this pleased with the natural aspect of the vineyard though - the guy's the sort of pale you don't see on outdoors people.]

It's the best part of workin' here by far. No contest. The drive in's just as pretty too. [and a hell of a lot better now that he can do it in his own vehicle.]

Here, let's start with the outside then. I'll give you a look at the grounds 'fore I take you inside to get cozied up with the wines. [and he'll gesture in the direction they should head off down, a lovely path towards the wedding venue, outdoor patio, and the rows of grapes themselves.]

You much of a wine drinker? Or is the Countess? Can't lie that I'm a little disappointed you weren't able to bring her with you today, much as I understand needin' to leave someone in charge behind to make sure the employees don't go burnin' things down.

[Closed] RNT Heropa: Kitty Jones (6/12)

[shifting]

[owls this early in the evening are an odd enough sight on their own, much less one flying this low through a populated area. Even more noticeably, this particular bird of prey seems to have given up hunting for rabbits and rats in favor of whatever it's carrying in the bag between its talons.

The bird swoops, banking hard between two stores and into the empty, overgrown lot behind them. Out of view of the street, the owl slows, its huge wings flapping awkwardly before they disappear altogether, feathers melding seamlessly into the naked, muscled flesh of a lean and naked man. Decorating the body are odd, deep scars: claw marks and bites, one or two larger stripes across the shoulders as from a stick or cane, and what may have once been the untreated graze of a bullet across the left thigh.

Sam grunts and stretches before picking the bag up from where it's been dropped in the dirt. He makes his way to a nearby dumpster, then shoves it from the wall just enough to pull free a hidden backpack containing a pair of jeans and a white tank.

It's a routine Sam Mickens has practiced more times than he can count, and clearly he doesn't expect anyone to interrupt him today.]

[rathercommon]

[ But there's a girl watching him.

She's an elegant thing, no question of it. She wears fine clothes in a cut that suits her well - tailored trousers, a silky blouse, a well-looking jacket. Sensible flats. The expression on her face is at once haughty and just a bit wary - she knows she should look only haughty, shouldn't look afraid in the least, but she never could learn to school her expressions like she ought to have done...And her summoning circles have brought forth none of her servants, leaving her effectively defenseless.

It might be smarter to leave it be. At least now. But this...this is the first demon she's seen. And she must have answers from it.

So she steps forward and speaks in a low, commanding voice - a voice of firm authority - to the half-concealed form of the wicked spirit, crouching even now behind a skip. ]

You. Who is your master?

[shifting]

[he's slipping the button of his jeans into place when he catches scent of her. A moment later and he's looking over his shoulder in brow-cocked surprise at some slip of a teenage girl asking him - well, asking him a question that really makes no goddamn sense.

(Did she see? There's no way, right? Who the fuck would ask a question like that if they'd just seen a bird turn into a man?)

Licking his teeth thoughtfully, the shifter turns around fully to face her. Subtly, he nudges the backpack in the dirt further to the side. His gun is in there, if he needs it; he doubts he'll need it.]

Sorta young to be askin' questions like that, ain't ya? [Sam's voice is an amused drawl, and he makes no effort to hide the way his gaze sweeps down her body. His eyes rake bold and lewd, taking their time as he crosses his arms over his bare chest (less scarred than his back, with the exception of a small, old burn on his side - a cattle prod from a dog fight when he was twelve; that one had hurt like a bitch).]

...'Course then again, maybe you ain't. [his smirk twitches.] Either way, girl, you've got it mixed up 'bout which title I like wearin' when I'm with somebody.

[Closed] RNT Heropa: Frederick Chilton (and eventual Raina), (6/16)

[shifting]

[it's pure chance that this home should be one Sam Mickens pays a visit to.

It isn't the first - several other well-to-do Heropa homes have already paid host to unwanted guests (a fly, a mouse, a tarantula) and later found themselves missing stowed cash and jewellery. (Sam doesn't bother with the electronics for the most part, most of those have trackers nowadays, he's not stupid.) If he's feeling particularly cheeky some of their nicer liquor goes missing as well. Might as well have a way to celebrate a profitable night, right? It's not like the fuckers can't afford it.

The home of Frederick Chilton and Raina just happens to fit the profile; it just happens to look empty enough during the early evening for Sam to decide to slither quite literally inside, a copperhead tasting the air of the kitchen before a naked man takes its place. Sam's confident he's chosen well the minute he can see the space properly. Jesus fuck but whoever lives here is a pretentious asshole. The place is so modern it's practically empty, looks like it should be covered in plastic sheeting or page ten in one of some yuppie style magazine. He's half tempted to break something before he leaves just to give the home some life.

But he'll start with helping himself to something from the liquor cabinet, a shot straight from the neck of whatever bottle appears the most expensive. No need to rush - it's not like this place has a lot of extra furniture to search. It won't take long to find the bedroom, to get his hands in drawers and pull out a prize or two worth taking with him.

It's not like anyone's home.]

[slightlyoffchilt]

[Key rattled the keyhole out the back door, and Frederick Chilton shuddered his way inside. It was still an unusual feeling, this airy and personal freedom inherent to movement and space; after a couple of years spent inside his own mental asylum, he feared that this liberation wasn't true. But then again, Chilton could not claim that he felt liberated. His mind was in three places: his vague memories of Heropa, his memories of being convicted as the Chesapeake Ripper, and the whisper of something else. An alternative that he could not fully manifest in his brain, a strata of emotions about Baltimore intrinsically interwoven with the fuzzy snapshots he could recall of Heropa.

Chilton could not trust any of it. He believed these to be intrusive delusions.]

Ahh -- damn it.

[Keys clattered on the cold floor, right at the edge of the kitchen to the living room. As Chilton bent to retrieve them, he froze. Eyes flickered across the floor and catch sight of a heel. Presumably human heel. Flinging himself back around the corner, Chilton reached out to grab for a sheathed kitchen knife.

It was nice to feel that handle firmly in his grip.]

[shifting]

[he's had time to explore while Chilton's been gone. Time to take another shot, to find the bedroom and start filling a high-thread-count pillowcase with whatever looked valuable enough to fill it. He wasn't gentle about it, either. Could've been, there's no reason for brutality, and honestly the less of a mess he makes the longer it takes for homeowners to even notice they've been robbed, which works to his advantage - but there's something off. Something in the smell of this place, of whoever lives here, which grinds under his skin like a layer of grit. Like he knows this person. Knows them and hates them even, but that's fucking impossible. He only got here this week, he doesn't know a damn soul.

But far be it from Sam Mickens to ignore an instinct, so he doesn't restrain himself in literally tossing the bedroom. Drawers lay scattered, upturned on the ground, their contents spilled out in heaps. He shoved aside the bed and threw out the contents of the closet. Turns out there's plenty to find, and even more worth taking. Jackpot. He's shoving a fistful of jewellery in the bag when his ears prick at the sound of the door closing.

Sam curses under his breath and edges out of the room and down the hall. Bare feet help keep the shifter quiet as he makes his way towards the living room. He can slip out of here and still take his spoils. It'll be hard, but he can do it. Just a matter of timing.

Except that something's already given him away. Did he step too close to the door of the kitchen? Make a noise? Doesn't matter, either way someone knows he's here; Sam recognizes the acrid tint of fear in a scent and the quick step of panicked feet. There are two ways to deal with this. He can shift and run, abandon his bag...

...Or.

Chilton might be surprised to find the next room empty, should he peek around the corner. Not a living soul in sight, the space unoccupied but for a lumpy pillowcase left abandoned on the floor. It would be easy to miss the fly when it buzzes past him into the kitchen, and if the doctor doesn't think to look behind him he won't see when it shifts silently back into the shape of a man. A man who throws himself forward immediately, hoping to get a hand securely around the arm holding that knife.]

OPEN Heropa

[burningbothends]

[So the problem with working at a bar is that everyone at the bar knows you. It's hard to get a drink in peace. After the last couple of months and the recent throwdown with Satan and his best friend coming back from the dead, Roy is desperately craving a nice, quiet drink in an anonymous bar where he can relax, maybe chat up a couple of contacts, and most importantly, drink.

The problem with working at a bar that caters to a mostly homosexual population is that it really skews ones idea of what a socially acceptable drink is. So to Roy's view, what happens is this: Sam buys a large, burly man a drink, and the man, totally unprovoked, gets up, approaches him, snarling insults. Roy was practically raised in a bar—he knows when a fight's about to break out, and he knows they're easier to break up before they really get started. He gets up, accosts the burly man with a very firm "Excuse me, sir" which turns all that snarling fury on him, and Roy tries a couple more times to verbally dissuade him but—

It goes about as well as expected. The guy takes a swing at him.]

[shifting]

[Sam is out of his stool and grinning the minute the burly bastard makes his way towards him. There we go, there we go, let's get this fucking party started -

- but then some asshole kid (probably? Hell if Sam can tell) of a bartender gets in the way. The shifter's upper lip curls, calculating quickly. The guy's attention is diverted and he wants it back, and if he can use protecting this little pissant as a cover... now there's an idea.]

Hey, asshole!

[so you're welcome, Roy. That man's punch is gonna swing wide and miss because Sam Mickens has just busted an empty bottle over the back of the guy's skull. The brute roars an obscenity, staggers, and his punch (and his body) sail forward into some other poor bastard at the bar. That guy hardly looks amused to be slammed into the counter, and judging by that fury in his eyes, he might be of a mind to do something about it.

Needless to say, the four men have most of the bar's attention now, and if this fight isn't contained it's only going to snowball.]

[Closed] Heropa garage: Satya Wallace (6/14)

[shifting]

[De Chima turned out profitable. Nice enough city to have some damn nice jewellery stores, and hell, you'd think with all these assholes running around with weird powers they'd be better guarded, but you'd be wrong. Works for him.

Still, Sam knows better than to press his luck so quick, establish a pattern, so he made his way down South (and aren't those Porters fucking convenient?) to Florida of all places, that little place they call Heropa. Stupid name, sounds like an STD, but it's been profitable for him so far. He's had a dumb run-in or two already, but nothing he couldn't handle, and he's looking to push his luck again tonight.

The garage catches his eye tonight - out of the way, not too many bright lights or foot traffic. He's not as handy as some others - Tommy is admittedly better around a car - but he knows what tools are nicest, sell quickest, and with all that equipment around he'll be able to use their own shit to break into their safe. Fucking easy.

A few quick shifts and Sam's a brute of a pitbull in the darkened space, snorting at the strong stench of oil and gas and cleaning fluids. He'll shift back when it's time to fill a toolbox, but for now he'd better just make sure he's the only one here.]

[instars]

[She's upstairs in her apartment - really, her sylie - and she doesn't smell him. She's distracted by the act of molting. Twice a year she molts, leaving behind a carapace that she guards carefully, and this is the second time she's done it in this world. It doesn't take long, but it's long enough that she doesn't hear or smell Sam's break in.

If he looks up, though, he might see the glint of a light in the upstairs apartment. She keeps a tidy room, but there are secrets in the walls of his garage.

Secrets that make the noise of a spider crawling up through the walls.

Come upstairs, Sam.

Come see what's waiting for you.]

De Chima

[irassible]

[ He'd been looking for him.

Not because, from Six's end of things, that anything was necessarily wrong. He'd intended, once the farm cleared out and things began to trend back toward a little normal again, to revisit their plans for the future. The sudden influx of guests and the reason behind them had reinforced the idea that he needed not only another source of income, but another place to go. Somewhere safe.

Calling had proved fruitless for reasons unknown. He hadn't known any of Sam's other acquaintances. So that only left searching places he knows that Sam would like.

It's raw luck that he finds him. The place is dirtier, dingier, and more crowded, but it's also rowdier, louder, and more alive with a dangerous electricity than the last. Pros and cons; the fur on his tail is already starting to stand on end when he enters. The stares are the usual and easy to ignore. There's nothing about him that has changed since he started going out into town more, save for one thing:

He has a large laptop case strapped to his back. It's obviously stuffed with something, but who knows what. His knives are suspiciously absent.

Six, once he spots those shoulders and hears that telling twang in his words, comes up right behind him, a hand landing on the human's shoulder. ]

Sam.

Where in the Seven Hells have you been? I've been trying to contact you.

[shifting]

[it's poor luck that Six manages to find him at all.

Sam doesn't recognize him - not his voice, his scent, or his hand. Really resents being touched at all by some asshole he doesn't know from Adam, so that's a notch against the guy already. Knowing his name - that's suspicious too, could mean he's some asshole detective investigating the string of burglaries; another mark. But when Sam spins around with a 'fuck off' in his mouth just to be faced with some cat-eared, grey-furred freak?

That sparks a shot of fearful surprise, enough for Sam Mickens to attempt a two-handed shove to the guy's chest at the same time he aims a snarl towards Six's face.]

Get the fuck off me!

Heropa bar;

[itistolaugh]

[ Harleen has to admit, as disquieting and uncomfortable as her time here has been so far, it is really nice to go to a bar without almost certain risk of being held hostage or straight up murdered. She hasn't had a night out alone in, oh... Years. Certainly not since her husband--

Well, anyway, it's nice. She hopes she doesn't look as uncomfortable as she feels, because other than her work clothes everything in her dresser is approximately half a garment. Harleen hasn't worn anything this revealing since college, but ... Fuck it, she probably won't run into anyone she knows, and Florida is fucking hot.

Also? You get the bartender's attention for refills real fast when your rack is trying to escape your shirt. Neat bonus. ]

[shifting]

[Sam isn't the first guy to notice her in there. A woman with Harley's looks, there are eyes on her the moment she walks through the door. All sorts of dogs perk their ears, weighing their chances of getting a closer sniff. Most are too chickenshit to do much more than cast a nervous glance now and then, maybe make a lewd comment to some buddy they're with for a laugh.

One of the bolder assholes makes to walk over to her, and when he passes Sam Mickens purposefully, subtly trips him. Both eyebrows climb the shifter's head in a surprised 'shit, my bad, buddy' when the guy stumbles himself into some skinhead's table, but he doesn't hang around to watch the ensuing confrontation. No, with his path newly cleared he'd much rather beeline for the blonde at the bar.

He leans his elbows on the wood, cozied up next to Harley with his eyes on the bartender - like their closeness is more fluke than forethought. But it's clearly Harley he's talking to when he comments, out of the corner of his mouth:]

You're gonna want to avoid their margaritas. Their sour mix ain't shit. ...'Less you're orderin' somethin' else, that was just a guess on my part.

[and here he glances over, smirking devilishly.]

You just look the sweet 'n salty sort.

Heropa

[textualhealing]

[While staying away from crowds sounds like a fine idea considering his rising agitation, the idea of staying at 'home' and drinking appeals even less. It's odd back there, like everyone shares an affection for the man that he isn't; the charming lawyer he was before the accident, their apparent knowledge of something he can't remember and hasn't lived through making everything one confusing fucking mess. He was here before, he knows that much, but not as he is now. And if the other him was as successful and liked as first appearances are showing? Then my God, he'd love to meet that guy and beat the shit out of his handsome face. Being bested by himself is a new low.

He drinks alone, sat at the bar, his weight leaning forward onto an elbow as he wallows over a full glass of whiskey. There's a look of disorder about him like he can't quite be bothered with keeping up appearances, his hair ruffled to the point of chaos, his beard in need of a good trim and- more notably- the currently knotted right sleeve of his hoody lacking any limb.

It doesn't take much to set him on edge, but it's the bump into his back that finally pushes him past the breaking point, the gesture causing his elbow to slip mid-mouthful and spill half his drink down his chin and onto the bar. He doesn't even care what happens to the rest of his glass as he slams it down, sliding off the stool he's on with an easy step and puffing out his chest in challenge.]

Hey! Watch it!

[shifting]

There somethin' here worth watchin'?

[rude? Yeah. But if Sam Mickens is supposed to look apologetic about that then someone forgot to give him the memo. The shifter has both eyebrows raised, looking at Jeff the same way someone might look at a possum trundling away from their trashcans. He'd been heading back from a pretty agreeable time in the bathroom with some girl whose name he forgot to learn not four minutes ago and he's still riding the afterglow. Astonishingly, the shoulder-check actually was an accident. A careless accident, and one he doesn't give two shits about, but that should still count for something in his book.

Something more than this asshole getting in his face, anyway.

Sam purposefully drags his eyes up and down Jeff's body, looking halfway amused. Not the look Jeff might expect from someone six inches shorter than him.]

You gonna try an' make me apologize? I ain't lookin' to fight a cripple.

[Closed] De Chima jail: Saya & Dr. Chilton (6/19)

[shifting]

[turning himself in was the only way he could see out of this.

When you wake up with a bedroom full of stolen goods and the memories of all the terrible shit you've spent the last week doing (and little of it subtle, fucking Christ, how many people knew he was a shapeshifter now?), you start to think ahead. And all the roads Sam could see leading from this led to someone tracking him down. Burying this out in the woods like he did most of his problems wasn't going to work - the best he could do was make it as easy on himself as possible. Explain the situation, hope they believe him. Hope for leniency. He leaves some things out in his confession, most notably a garage full of secrets and a visit to a home in Heropa. There's plenty else to put down, though. To turn in.

The day in jail is mostly just a formality, they tell him; a place to hold him while paperwork gets filled out and they set up his probation program. He's thanked for coming forward and repeatedly told his Registered status will mean this goes easier for him. He also won't lose his job. That's something.

It's about all Sam has while he stares up at the ceiling, surrounded by silence and someone else's memories from inside his temporary cage. He could think of better ways to spend a Sunday.]

[slightlyoffchilt]

Well, well.

[Visitor's pass. Smirk. Visibly healing bruises around the zygomatic bone area. His hands were folded behind his back and his head was cocked in a most indicative manner.

Doctor Chilton was paying an unnecessary visit.]

Guess you aren't incapable of heeling after all.

6/25 - fishing!!

[kickingand]

[ There is, in many ways, not a whole hell of a lot of things that have changed about Dean being that he's now a demon. He's simply more of his lesser qualities, and in this, he's earning his chance to enjoy becoming more of a sloth. Which perhaps isn't so much a quality as it is the universe reminding him how rarely he's had the chance to stop and breathe over the past few years. Decades. How much of his existence he's spent not even knowing what a life really is.

Dean's way of living had never much lended itself towards many vacation opportunities (that's not counting the endless motels, the new locales every week, the hokey tourist stops) and now is his goddamn chance to soak it up - to not be concerned with the lives of others, to not give a flying fuck if he was once upon a time meant to save the world or not. This is his chance to do as he pleases, and if renting a pontoon boat and hitting up Lake Gaston with some guy he just met means 'fuck it' for a day, then that's what he's going to do. Because why the hell not.

Granted, he's no expert at this fishing thing. He's only done it a few times, their father's fucking occasional pitiful attempts at knowing how to be a parent shown at odd intervals. But he gets by well enough with the whole process of getting set up at the send off ramp, earning some extra tips from the rental crew as to how best to control the boat, and then he simply prepares all the important shit while he waits, fishing gear in tow along with the other crap (namely: whiskey) he's brought, waiting for Sam to show up for true send off to begin. ]

something something trouser trout

[shifting]

[the shifter heads down the dock with a cooler in hand, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face, the cool breeze coming off the lake, the birdsong. This - this is what he needs right now. Just returning to nature. Uncomplicated, free. After the whirlwind of shit this month has been for him, Sam can't help but be absolutely delighted to get away from it all. There are little reminders, things he can't shake (the power dampener messing with his sense of smell, for example) but he won't let them be the focus here.

He waves to Dean when the man comes into sight, and gives a low whistle once he's alongside the boat.]

Nice. Been a while since I've been in anything bigger'n a jon boat. She's pretty. The lake is too. [Sam offers a nod of approval, an easy grin.] Good choice on both.

[like nothing has occurred between them - like his only memories of this man aren't filled with bruising pain and split skin. This man is dangerous - Sam knows that. Doesn't rightly know if he's even a man, come to that, but hell... someone could say as much about Sam. Plus he somehow doubts anyone's going to go to all the trouble of paying a rental fee and lugging fishing equipment out just to murder a guy. There are plenty of easier, less conspicuous ways.]

But these beers aren't gettin' any colder. [so it's time to load up and ship out, as it were. Sam glances over his shoulder.]

You done much of this before?