"Bicho Papão. It's a Portuguese boogeyman. He's supposed to come with sacks and take bad kids away and sell them."
"Sell them. To who?" Dean wonders and Sam kind of shrugs.
"I dunno. The Spanish?"
That just makes me snorfle. The Spanish? ::snorfles::
The footing is a little slick, the temperature hovering just above freezing. The sharp, metallic scent of snow is in the air and Dean hopes it will hold off until they're done here. He hates driving in snow, mostly because the other drivers are idiots. And he hates getting all that salt and mess on his baby.
A moment of pure Dean-ness. I can actually picture him armed with the salt gun, standing guard against that first snowflake.
Sack Man – boogeyman – they're all connected back to boggarts somehow, who're connected back to fairy, and the one true weapon against fairy is cold iron.
Fucking-a! But when I say stuff like that, people look at me like I'm weird. But they're the ones gonna be sorry when Fairy-on-Earth wreak its awful vengeance on us mortal types. I'll be laughing in my cold iron shed while they're being drowned by a waterhorse. Hah!
So – shoot the bad guy, save the kids. Four, at last count. The latest one's been missing close to fifty hours – the first one already gone a week. Dean hates to see the wounded, wide-open faces of the grieving parents on the news.
Though it's that gung-ho shoot-first-question-never attitude Dean shows to the world, it's powered by those grieving parents'--and childrens' faces. Bloodlust can only take a person so far, and for Dean, it's never been just about that, anyway.
*Kick some Portuguese…some Portu…huh.* "Hey, is there some kinda slang for people from Portugal?"
"No. There isn't." Sam frowns over at Dean and Dean rolls his eyes. Not like he's gonna start using it or anything, he's just curious. Some of Dad's Marine buddies had had names for every race and religion under the sun, but he'd never heard them verbally slur the Portuguese.
Yeah, I tried googling it, and nada. Goddamn those Portuguese bastards.
They're surrounded by heaps of broken pallets and what looks like some kind of conveyer belt, snaking over half the stained concrete floor. The smell of fish is even stronger in here, even though Dean's sure this place has been out of commission for twenty years or more. It's an old cannery and the ghosts of long-dried scales glimmer in the shadows. A rusting chain-fall chimes softly, touched by some vagrant breeze, and Dean nudges Sam and they creep forward, toward the light.
Old canneries are bad news. And I'm totally not being glib, I mean, when was the last time anything good in one? And that rotten fish smell after all these years . . . when ghosts or supernatural whosiwhatsits are around, aren't olfactory senses the first to pick on them? People smell oranges or cinnamon, and it's really Gramma? Or rotten fish turns out to be Sack Man?
They haven't even gotten half way across the building when Dean realizes they're too late. The smell of blood and piss and rot are unmistakable – choking – and they stop bothering to be quiet or even careful and just run.
I was hoping they were still alive. Like in Two Roads Diverged, can't save them all, no matter how hard you try, and how hard you fight.
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"Sell them. To who?" Dean wonders and Sam kind of shrugs.
"I dunno. The Spanish?"
That just makes me snorfle. The Spanish?
::snorfles::
The footing is a little slick, the temperature hovering just above freezing. The sharp, metallic scent of snow is in the air and Dean hopes it will hold off until they're done here. He hates driving in snow, mostly because the other drivers are idiots. And he hates getting all that salt and mess on his baby.
A moment of pure Dean-ness. I can actually picture him armed with the salt gun, standing guard against that first snowflake.
Sack Man – boogeyman – they're all connected back to boggarts somehow, who're connected back to fairy, and the one true weapon against fairy is cold iron.
Fucking-a! But when I say stuff like that, people look at me like I'm weird. But they're the ones gonna be sorry when Fairy-on-Earth wreak its awful vengeance on us mortal types. I'll be laughing in my cold iron shed while they're being drowned by a waterhorse. Hah!
So – shoot the bad guy, save the kids. Four, at last count. The latest one's been missing close to fifty hours – the first one already gone a week. Dean hates to see the wounded, wide-open faces of the grieving parents on the news.
Though it's that gung-ho shoot-first-question-never attitude Dean shows to the world, it's powered by those grieving parents'--and childrens' faces. Bloodlust can only take a person so far, and for Dean, it's never been just about that, anyway.
*Kick some Portuguese…some Portu…huh.* "Hey, is there some kinda slang for people from Portugal?"
"No. There isn't." Sam frowns over at Dean and Dean rolls his eyes. Not like he's gonna start using it or anything, he's just curious. Some of Dad's Marine buddies had had names for every race and religion under the sun, but he'd never heard them verbally slur the Portuguese.
Yeah, I tried googling it, and nada. Goddamn those Portuguese bastards.
They're surrounded by heaps of broken pallets and what looks like some kind of conveyer belt, snaking over half the stained concrete floor. The smell of fish is even stronger in here, even though Dean's sure this place has been out of commission for twenty years or more. It's an old cannery and the ghosts of long-dried scales glimmer in the shadows. A rusting chain-fall chimes softly, touched by some vagrant breeze, and Dean nudges Sam and they creep forward, toward the light.
Old canneries are bad news. And I'm totally not being glib, I mean, when was the last time anything good in one? And that rotten fish smell after all these years . . . when ghosts or supernatural whosiwhatsits are around, aren't olfactory senses the first to pick on them? People smell oranges or cinnamon, and it's really Gramma? Or rotten fish turns out to be Sack Man?
They haven't even gotten half way across the building when Dean realizes they're too late. The smell of blood and piss and rot are unmistakable – choking – and they stop bothering to be quiet or even careful and just run.
I was hoping they were still alive. Like in Two Roads Diverged, can't save them all, no matter how hard you try, and how hard you fight.