"Well, I ain't some people," Boyd Crowder said, by which he meant no apologies necessary - but, like speaking succinctly, speaking entirely straightforwardly had never been Boyd's way. He liked the way the other man spoke, straightforward and bluntly earnest without much affect about it. He liked it because it was unique and because it didn't remind him of anything, of anybody. Because it was singular to this moment. He didn't know what to make of Castiel, and he liked that too, the illusion of mystery before everything came spilling out. At bars, everything came spilling out.
He caught himself before interrupting, or maybe he was caught before interrupting. There was something unusual in the eyes that caught his attention, that created a feeling of Otherness where there wasn't any in the face, in the hair, in the clothes. Boyd felt a strange sense of breathlessness, like every time their eyes met he was being scraped to the core, being found out, being understood. He liked and hated it all at once; liked being understood for a half second, hated the feeling that his every sin was painted on his soul to be counted. It made him miss God for one second. Made him shut down that feeling in the next.
"That's right. I take it from your question that disappearin' and appearin' ain't that uncommon around these parts. I guess it beats perambulatin'. You know what that means, my friend? Walkin'. Funny how a thing can seem so complex and be just as simple as that."