The place smelled of cigarettes and alcohol; the room was foggy with smoke and it burned Jack's throat when he inhaled too big of a breath. It was a 21st century bar: that much he could tell by a first glance at the joint. The stools were made of cheap metal and some bits were already rusting brown and orange. There was a pool table in the back and men would gamble and argue and there would be sounds of marble hitting marble and sounds of objects dropping into the baskets; and the sounds would be followed by cheering or muffled groans of disappointment – or both. He could remember when he used to visit places like that. What he couldn't remember was how he'd ended up there. One second he was traveling with the Doctor and Rose, and the next he was saying hello to the blonde bartender who was behind the counter (basically, flirting). He was almost positive it wasn't because he had too much to drink or some other stupid antic that would have caused him to temporarily loose part of his memory. The idea that perhaps someone or something might've wanted the trio to be there, like what happened back at Satellite Five momentarily crossed his mind, but in the next second was replaced by more pressing needs, like asking what time the blonde's shift was over.
The girl laughed and shook her head, one of her blonde strands of hair falling in front of her face. She fiddled with a glass she held in one of her hands, cleaning the inside of it with a white rag as she gazed over at Jack. "You think you can just come in here with those blue eyes of yours and charm anyone who looks your way, don't you?"
Jack smiled, showing off his white teeth as he reached to tuck the strand behind the blonde's ear gingerly. "Well, I don't know about anyone."
Her name was Jo; he'd learned this awhile back when he'd asked for the location and time. She'd thought he was joking, or just plain hammered, but she answered his questions anyway, giving him no more trouble than a peculiar look. He'd also asked for the name of the bar he was at, and she responded with a shake of her head that was done in some disapproving manner and 'Harvelle's Roadhouse.' It was located near a city (he forgot the name of the city within minutes after she told him) in Nebraska. She then proceeded with inquiring how many glasses of beer he'd had to which Jack smiled wittingly.
Jo sighed, running her tongue along her bottom lip. "Sorry, dreamboy. Not that easy, not with me," she said finally in response to Jack and his charming smile and white teeth, his blue eyes and cheesy pick-up lines (though they were hardly that at all); she pulled back from the counter she'd been leaning on. She placed the glass on a rack and threw the towel on her shoulder, about ready to leave.
Jack chuckled, unfazed. "Of course – just, one more question." He waited until Jo turned around and quirked her eyebrows up expectantly, and then asked, "Have you seen a blue police box by chance?"
"What?"
"From the 60s, doesn't look like it's from around here. Ring a bell?"
"Haven't seen any of those."
"Have you heard any strange noises?"
She laughed. "Depends on what you mean by 'strange.'"
"How about someone called, 'the Doctor'?"
Jo raised an eyebrow at him. "You need a doctor?"
"No, not 'a doctor'; 'the Doctor.'"
"Look, I haven't seen or heard of any kind of doctor lately."
"How about –"
"Isn't that more than one question?"
"No." Jack paused as though thinking over his words. "This is my 'one more question': does this kind of thing happen often to you?" He winked her way and she responded with a roll of her eyes.
"What, getting hit on or getting hit with a whole bunch a questions that don't make the slightest lick of sense?"
"Both."
A smile spread across the blonde's face. She was silent for a few seconds as though in thought before saying, "You remind me of someone."
"Yeah?" Jack asked, half-interested. "I don't hear that often." His blue eyes glinted with something unrecognizable. "I'm one of a kind." He showed off a grin that practically went ear-to-ear.
A laugh escaped her lips. "He likes to think he is, too."
"And who is this 'he'?"
"Like I'm going to tell you! Hell, I barely know you."
"Is that what's stopping you? Well, I'm Captain Jack Harkness –"
"Oh, so now you're a Captain?"
"I've been a Captain."
"Yeah, right, whatever you say, dreamboy."
"Are you gonna' tell me or not?" It wasn't that Jack needed to know – because he didn't; but it wasn't like he had anything better to do than go around asking intoxicated humans if they'd seen a blue box anywhere. Plus, his curiosity had already gotten the best of him, and he wanted to know if this bloke actually was what Jo had been leading Jack on to believe that he was. Jack doubted that 'he' was even half as irresistible as himself; and even if he was, that'd be pretty damn irresistible.
Jo shrugged. "Just an old friend." When it was made evident to her that Jack wanted a name she sighed, exasperated. She gave him a once over and murmured something to herself that was along the lines of, 'You seem pretty damn harmless to me.' She paused, eyes boring into his as if seeking tell or tale before speaking the words, "Dean. His name's Dean Winchester. Just – don't tell him I told you, alright? If you ever run into him then you'll know –"
Winchester. Like the rifle.
"He's here, isn't he?" The girl didn't need to respond to that before Jack spun around on the stool he was seated at and placed his elbows behind him on the counter, drumming his fingers on the edge, blue hues scanning the room expectantly. There were tables scattered across the floor and the sound of wood scraping against wood emitted from around them, the sound of chairs being pulled in and out was continuously being played. Seated around various tables were mostly rowdy men and women, fighting or drinking, seducing, or, well, being seduced. Waitresses were serving beer by glass and there was a tense atmosphere that enveloped the room; it made everyone on edge as though a fight could erupt at any moment with anyone. It was the perfect picture of what a bar in the 21st was supposed to look like.
"You want to meet him so bad? Fine, knock yourself out," Jo spoke, minding her attention to refilling a man's glass. "Don't drag me into it."
"So which one is he? What's he look like?" Jack pressed the subject, completely ignoring what Jo had stated previously and the indignant groan that followed afterwards. He pointed a finger, elbow rested still on the counter he was leaned up against at a man in the back with dark brown hair and electric blue eyes. The man wore a trench coat – not like Jack's – but beige, and a there was a suite under it with a blue tie that appeared (from where Jack was sitting) to be backwards around the collar. He sat with another man with shaggy hair – that's the least Jack could tell because his back was facing him. "That's Dean?" He asked, his brow furrowing slightly, studying the figure from across the room. "He is pretty good looking. Not as good looking as me, but –"
"That's Cas," Jo said, abruptly, cutting Jack off mid-sentence. She sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose like she hadn't meant to say that aloud.
"Ah," Jack breathed out a laugh, returning his attention to the scene, scanning over the crowd. A part of him hoped he'd see the Doctor, or Rose. He thought of Rose, with her blonde hair and brown eyes, like Jo's – except not like Jo's, not at all like Jo's. The two were incomparable; they were from two different worlds. Well, no, they weren't. They were from two different continents. They didn't have the same accent or wear the same clothes. They weren't familiar with each other's mannerisms or food. Someone might've thought it ridiculous, or impossible, or completely and utterly presumptuous, but Jack could already tell who Jo was, what she was like, just by spending time with her, talking to her. He knew her. Someone from the 21st century would argue with him upon the subject because they didn't know of Jack and his ideals and where he came from. Hell, no one could even imagine where he came from. He sighed deeply to himself, inwardly sick with his thoughts. He imagined Rose the Doctor sticking out like a flower in a garden of weeds amongst the cluster of people; they'd probably be asking questions, or confusing people, or both (probably both), and the thought of the two of them together, safe, almost made him smile before he caught himself and bit down on his lip to conceal it. It was a long shot; he'd be getting his hopes up. They could be anywhere. Or nowhere at all.
"I'm telling you now," the blonde's words cut through Jack's thoughts like blades; they were even and slow as though carefully crafted, pieced together individually before the action of them being spoken aloud even crossed her mind. "I don't think he's going to be in the mood to, you know…" she drifted off nonchalantly before finishing off with, "chat."
"You're going to show me which one he is, then?"
She narrowed her eyes at Jack, indignantly. "…Did you ignore everything I just said?" She threw her towel down on the rack and then pressed her hands onto the counter, steadying herself. "Really – I – fine, look, he's seated at the right hand corner of the room." She paused, leaning in close to Jack's ear and saying sternly, "Don't annoy him. Don't cause any trouble. And if it's not too much to ask, don't mention my name. Can you handle that, dreamboy?" A warning tone laced through her words like string, tying itself there.
Jack's eyes flickered over at the corner, finding a table with chairs for four. Only one man was seated there. He had sandy brown hair and eyes like emerald; his skin was light but not so much so that you couldn't tell he'd been in the sun. He had a beer in one hand and his feet were rested against one of the other vacant chairs, one crossed over the other. He held himself like a military man; someone who'd seen war, not just heard of it. "I'll keep that in mind, Jo," Jack said smoothly before giving her a wink good-bye. He got off the stool and stepped onto the wooden floorboards that creaked beneath his feet. He walked past rusting stools and tables and rowdy men and women who were having arguments and conversations. The wood beneath his feet gave quiet sound from the soles of his shoes hitting against it, but it was drowned out by everything else. When he arrived at the table Dean Winchester was at, he pulled up one of the open seats and spun it around, then sat down, straddling it. He crossed his arms over the head of the chair. The man with the emerald eyes looked up from his beer, and then set it down on the table, furrowing his brow at Jack. Silence settled between the two while the sound of conversation and laughter, and the smell of Tabaco mixed with alcohol carried over to them. "Howdy, partner," Jack said, finally.
Dean raised an eyebrow and uncrossed his feet, planting them on the floor. "…Howdy?"
It was more like a question than a greeting. Perhaps this man has lived under a rock, Jack thought to himself. Or perhaps this was just the wrong saying for this time? He was sure most 21st-centurians knew this word. "Howdy; you know, like hey," he explained.
"No – I mean, yeah, I know what howdy means."
Jack exhaled a breath of air in relief. He would have thought himself a complete idiot if he'd gotten something of that level of simplicity wrong. "I thought so. Or else I'd have the wrong lingo. But, you know, I'm pretty familiar with 21st century context," he mused the last few words to himself.
Dean pursed his lips. "Okay. What I meant was: can I help you?"
Jack gave Dean a once over. "Oh yeah."
Dean looked at him for a few seconds. Then his gaze fell and he laughed nervously, proceeding with a fake cough that Jack assumed was supposed to cover up the laugh. "Look, uh, I don't swing that way."
"Swing what way?"
Dean seemed to be having trouble finding his words. "Your way."
"You're not a door."
"No, I'm not a door." It looked like Dean was going to continue on with saying something else, but then at the last moment decided not to, and instead got a hold of his beer and took a swig from it.
"You seem tense, Dean."
"Oh, do I?" Dean asked rhetorically, sarcasm practically dripping from his lips. "And – how do you even know my name? What, were you just asking me up with Jo over there? You just had to know who I was or somethin'?"
That wasn't the reaction that Jack hoped he'd get, let alone thought. He shrugged. "You were interesting."
Dean seemed to be caught off by the words. "Well it's damn good to know a total stranger thinks so."
Jack smiled mirthlessly. "I sense you don't want me to be here."
Dean glanced over at Jack and sighed. A small puff of air exhaled from his lips, and he brought his free hand up to them, running his thumb across his chin before placing his beer down on the table. "No, that's – it's fine," he said to Jack. His tone was slightly apologetic.
Jack nodded at him, a smile gracing his lips. His attention was then directed to a fight that broke out a few tables down. Everyone went silent. Of course, it was over in the next moment, followed by muttering, and then slowly the whole bar began to continue with itself. "21st century bars," he chuckled lightly to himself. "They're not what I'm used to. But they sure do seem like a lot of fun."
"…See, that's another thing." Dean crossed his arms over the table, leaning in slightly, his brow knitting together. "You keep saying '21st century' like you're not from it or something. I mean, you could be plastered or as high as a kite from where we're sitting, but you seem –" Dean cut himself off, studying Jack as if he held the right word. "Normal. Not normal like normal, but – normal."
"Do you always have this much trouble with your words?" Jack asked, amused.
"Only when around handsome men."
"Now you're just humoring me." There was a subtle curl of Dean's lips that Jack caught. It was silent between the two for the next few seconds. He studied Dean quietly, studied the way he took a drink from a beer bottle, the way the lines of his eyes would wrinkle. Simple things. "Jack," he said, breaking the silence like glass.
Dean tilted his head up in acknowledgement. "Hm?"
"My name's Jack."