Chako jerked his head toward the two men sitting at the other side of the crowded room. "It's Winchester, si?"
Hartwell took another swallow of beer, taking the opportunity to shoot another look at the young man in question. "Yeah, it's him, all right."
Chako grinned. "When do I get my money?"
Hartwell slid an envelope across the table. The old man started to open it and Hartwell speared him with a cold glare. "Not in here, asshole."
Chako's eyes narrowed; then he took another look at the hard look in the American's eyes, shrugged and shuffled out of the bar.
Hartwell finished his beer. He motioned to the waitress for another, then settled in to wait.
ΩΩΩ
Sam stirred, restless.
"What's up?" Dean asked.
"Nothing."
Dean snorted. "Bullshit. You're twitchy as hell."
Sam shifted in his chair and looked warily around the bar. "Feels like someone's watching me," he muttered.
Dean nodded toward their waitress, who was gazing yearningly at Sam. "Probably just your little friend."
Sam didn't look at her, just drained his glass and stood, a scowl on his scruffy face. "Probably."
"Where you going?"
Sam's tone was flat. "Home."
Dean groaned. "Dude, it's not even nine o'clock!"
"So stay."
"Nah." Dean sighed. He'd rather stay and drink, maybe hook up with one of the local senoritas, but experience had taught him not to ignore his brother's 'feelings'. "Well, at least we got dinner."
Sam headed to the door, Dean close behind.
Hartwell followed.
ΩΩΩ