[ Yeah, Dean remembers him. Who even hires a guy like that as a bartender? Must own the place, or be married to the owner's kid, or something. Sam's better for it, hand down. He just loves being a shoulder to cry on. ...Or, well, he's good at faking it, anyway.

Dean's gotten into a couple arguments along his booze-and-swindle tour, but amazingly enough, he's ducked any real fighting. You better believe he's noticing the signs of it on Sam, though. He doesn't ask about it, even if his eyes go over the cuts and the way he's using his left hand more than usual. ...Oh, he will. But the last thing he wants to do is start a fight when he just sat down.

So he doesn't ask, smiles wide instead and leans his elbows on the counter. ]

Hey, Sammy. Look at you, a real working stiff. I bet the tips are good.

[ He turns and looks around. It's not a bad place. Clean, decent-looking kind of people, considering most of them are aliens. If not all of them. He looks back over his shoulder at Sam. ]

What's on draft around here? Or should I stick with whatever they've been giving me when I asked for whiskey?