shatterverse | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

At another time, a little later than the first time, the Cooper farm finds itself presented with yet another carload of newcomers.

At least these don't apparently plan to stay -- and certainly wouldn't seem to have close bonds, the way they're all three bitching at each other, or the way the car doors slam in order as they get out and immediately stalk in different directions.

[Tag under subthreads of who you're tagging, plz? <33]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Dean regards her doubtfully.

On the other hand ... spirits don't tend to be so much with the sarcasm. Usually, more with the killing-you-and-eating-you or such.

"Pleasure, Lucy," he says, after a moment longer, and continues to watch her suspiciously.

She grins, abrupt and wonderfully innocent. (Lucy Cooper is twenty years old and five feet tall, a tiny thing. Harmless-looking, if she doesn't have one of her crazier faces on.)

"Here with Rachel?"

The intonation suggests a question. Her posture, somehow, suggests a statement of unequivocal fact.

"Yeah," Dean says, quirking an eyebrow. "You know her?"

Solemn nod.

Sigh.

"How?"

Shrug.

Beat.

"Gave her some fruit once."

"Fruit. Right."

This chick is crazier than Rachel is. Dean's eyebrows say so, even if nothing else does.

"Well, that's good."

She nods again, and vanishes briefly back into the house.

Fifteen seconds later, she's out front again, approaching the car with a pear held in one hand. There is a bite out of it. Shortly, there is another.

"Yes," she says affably, as though there was no interruption.

Dean blinks at her, and nods, gently. "Yeah. Fruit. I getcha. It's good for you, huh? Fruit?"

... this is the 'kid gloves for the crazy girl' voice. It is not a bad voice, much.

"And delicious," confirms Lucy with a little smile that-- somehow-- suggests he is the one being humoured here.

"Yeah, sure is that."

Dean looks around at the farm.

"You had this place long? Looks ... well-kept."

Compared to everywhere else he's driven by, anyway.

"Since Anne died."

By way of clarification: "Sister. She made Kansas safe."

Ooh. Interesting. Dean's eyebrows display curiousity and possibly suspicion.

"Made Kansas safe? How?"

"Sang it."

As though aware this is less than explanatory, she offers an apologetic shrug.

"Flashbangs don't come here. Less monsters."

"So we're talking magic. Serious protective magic."

Dean frowns a little.

(He needs Sammy at times like this, dammit.)

"When you say 'sing.' You mean chant? Was it old Latin?"

Lucy shakes her head rapidly. "Sing. Sound. No words."

"No words?"

Doubtful Dean is doubtful.

"How's that work?"

Shrug.

Eyeroll.

Patiently: "Anne knew."

(Implied: I don't.)

"And she died doin' it?"

She nods, and drops her eyes to the ground, fingers curling around the pear in a slow, sad motion.

"Yes."

Dean knows something about siblings.

He lifts a hand towards her in awkward sympathy, lets it drop.

"Sorry to hear that."

Lucy glances back up and offers a brief half-smile, nonverbal acceptance of his gesture.

"Thanks," she says quietly.

Dean shrugs awkwardly, turning to look around at the farm again.

"How do you guys keep it running? Fuel for tractors an' shit's gotta be kind of rare these days, don't it?"

"No tractors. Wasn't a farm, when Anne lived here. We manage."

"Doin' good," Dean says, out of a vague sense of politeness. "Hear the food here's good, anyway."

This is v. v. important to the Deanstomach, obviously.