At the warning tone of voice, Dean turned quickly to look over his shoulder, eyes assessing the intruder quickly in the kind of immediate, inherent hunter fashion that his old man had drilled into him since day one. Non-threat, he established, but certainly capable. A hunter, maybe, by the way he carried himself, but Dean wasn't jumping to any conclusions. A frightened part of him thought maybe he was there looking for Sam; particularly because he hadn't seen head nor tail of Sammy yet, he didn't want to believe that, but with all the trouble that bitch was getting him into, it wouldn't surprise him all that much.
"Fairies," chalk one more up to the hunter theory. At least he had better things to fuck around with than his antichrist brother -- even if said things were a bunch of kid's stories and bullshit wrapped up in one. "You think the Easter Bunny's gettin' 'em organized, or did they team up with My Little Pony?" The venomous edge to his sarcasm was hard to miss, but he wasn't here to make enemies so he tried to at least keep the look on his face pretending it was jovial to some extent.
"I hear Santa Claus is a pretty big douche. That whole army of elves slaving in sweatshops, y'know?" Des smirked, automatically approving of the kid's sarcasm, venomous or not. He could appreciate anyone who had the balls not to take these bitches seriously. They like being feared and even if Des knew better than to fuck with them, that didn't mean he ever shut his mouth around them.
"You're not a lightweight, but I'm guessin' the pointy-eared SOB's passed you over." He removed the bolt from his crossbow and held it up. "Iron-tipped. Handmade. Don't get much better when it comes to huntin' Fae. Not that anyone hunts the fancy ones and this? This looks like one of the fancy ones. Anansi or Loki could whip this shit up in their sleep and those girls are sugar cookies compared to big guns."
All of this said like he expects Dean to know exactly what he means- if he doesn't, whatever. If he does, Des had a kindred spirit here and given how many people sucked at the paranormal where he came from, that was good in his book. Sometimes it really sucked being the most competent guy in the room.
All right. Sense of humor, check. Sure, the guy was a psycho who thought fairies were up there with Loki and Anansi -- both of which were trickster gods, which was leading Dean to a very likely but very unfortunate conclusion -- but at least he had a sense of humor. It would make for good, if a little slow, company until he could find his brother. Of course, after he hooked back up with Sammy, all bets were off on other alliances. They didn't need the extra baggage at this point in the game.
But, even Dean had to admit -- to himself, not Des -- that he probably wouldn't have come up with the idea of a trickster -- the trickster, the only one who was interested in a collection of Winchesters -- being responsible for the whole mess. Teleportation would be just his style, too. Sure didn't compare to a slow-dancing alien, but it was definitely a leaf outta his book.
"Iron-tipped'll keep a lot at bay, but I don't know how many fairies you're gonna be gettin' the chance to point that thing at. You say fae, I call trickster. Who wants to make a bet on which of us is the right one?" He took one last glance at the statue, inspecting it, wondering if it could even suck his soul out through his eyeballs like the guy had claimed.
The fact that he was even considering it a legitimate possibility made Dean want to cringe, but hell, if angels were sweeping in to storm Hell's gates over Dean freaking Winchester, he sure as shit wasn't putting it past that tricksy sonnuvabitch to work up some soul-stealing freaky pagan statue.
"They're the same damn thing," Des rolled his eyes. "Subspecies. Fairyus Annoyingus. You're familiar with 'em?" Even in a vague, nonstandard way. Des was starting to suspect they were a little far from Kansas than he thought, because most of the informed masses were pretty well informed that anything not of the ordinary fell under the heading of fey creature, if it wasn't an angel or a demon. Then again, Tony hadn't been too bright about that shit either and it had nearly gotten the kid killed.
Bets didn't really tally in Des's world- all in, all out, whatever. But if these people were with him right now, then he'd do his damnedest to make sure they didn't make asses of themselves and then go from there. If Pagiel and Mathias were around, they'd probably get his ass out of here, eventually.
"You piss off a lot of Tricksters?" Des chortled, moving to circle the statue, while avoiding touching it. It sure as hell looked like something pulled straight out of Ceirdowyn's copy of Better Homes and Gardens: Creepy Fairy Castle edition. "Name's Des, by the way. Desmond Descant. Paranormal investigator."
There weren't words to describe how badly Dean wanted to take this information, hunt down that sadistic sonnuvabitch and shove in his face that he was a goddamn fairy. But, for now, he settled on a noncommittal response to this paranormal investigator. Sounded like a pretty friggen' fancy word for a hunter, and Dean wasn't all that sold on it.
"Familiar enough. I do my homework," or, rather, Sam did his homework for him and Dean took control after they knew what was going on just fast enough to play with the necessary pointy objects. God, where was that kid? He already felt his gut twisting with concern that maybe he wasn't here because he'd woken up and headed off with Ruby.
The fact that it wouldn't be the first time caused the muscles in his jaw to tighten.
"Dean Winchester, hunter. Do a lot of pissing a lot of supernatural sons of bitches off with a job like that. Sure you know what that's like," even though it was a statement, the quirk of an eyebrow that followed was asking for confirmation. He wanted to know just where this guy stood on going past investigating and into killing.
"Pissing those bastards off is on the business card," Des barked a laugh. He might not actually be joking about that. He has a business card. "Angels, demons, Fae- all of 'em wanna bitchslap me for one reason or another. I'm just so fucking charming."
He arched his eyebrow right back and then shifted the crossbow in his hands again, as if that was enough of an answer. Killing? Yeah, he killed. Killing any and all of them, he'd find offensive, but the ones who deserve it? Fuck yes, they're going down.
"Which is what makes me think this is because I pissed someone off. Between the two of us and hangover kid in the corner over there, I'd say the one thing we've got in common is we're probably really fucking good at pissing off shit that can yank the rug out from under us and strand us in something out of fairy Silent Hill."
Good. He was definitely gonna be a good wingman until he could get ahold of his brother, which made Dean ease up a bit. Hunters may not trust one another, but in a situation like this, it was a pretty safe bet that you could put your faith in the other's abilities and character, even if this guy seemed like he might be erring a little on the side of loony bin.
But, there was one thing that definitely caught Dean's attention. Something that he wasn't going to just let go under the radar, dismissed as casually as it had been thrown out. Des had mentioned angels. Pissing them off, specifically, and Dean could only think back to Cas' explanation of Uriel's death and why it had needed to happen. Angels turning on Heaven. Angels following their own path, a terrible path. One that lead to the kinda shit Dean had been forced into -- no, that wasn't right.
He wasn't forced into anything. He'd jumped at the chance to get Alastair back one for all that shit he'd been dragged through.
"Angels, huh? How many of those you run into?" He made it sound nonchalant, patting a hand on the statue and compliantly taking a step back from it -- the last thing he wanted was his soul sucked out through his eyes -- and this guy seemed legit enough to have a pretty good idea about it, which was reason enough for Dean to heed his warning.
"Just a couple, but I hear shit through the grapevine. Pagiel's scared to death of her superiors and Tabris? Well, he's about as useful as a yuppie at Woodstock. How many have you run into?"
Because as far as he knew, they didn't make a point to appear to just any old sucker, unless they were guardians like Pagiel. And, well, Dean didn't seem like the guardian angel-getting type.
And God, he couldn't stress how much more relaxed he felt being able to casually talk shop like this with a complete stranger. Paranormal investigators were few and far between- the hunting types were usually whackjobs, and Des wouldn't touch Huntsmen with a forty foot pole.
Pagiel, Tabris, not names he recognized. Not that he was the one up on the angel lore -- Sammy kinda had a monopoly in the department. Probably went hand-in-hand with the whole faith with a capital F thing, something Dean had never been able to find within himself. Still, he tried to keep up with the names Des was throwing out without looking too overwhelmed.
"More than I ever wanted to," he responded coolly, shoulders tightening as he reflected on the situation prior to his arrival in the wood. Cas, Uriel. Anna. It was all way above his pay grade. All he wanted was to kill some evil sons of bitches. Raise a little figurative Hell -- never literal. But, apparently, someone had written it to happen literally too, and how he was getting dragged in ass-first.
"Seems like most've 'em have got reason to be scared of one another. Universal trait, I guess. Like breathin', if angels needed to." Did they need to? Maybe he'd ask Cas in their next soul-searching session. Bitter, party of one. He forced the thought back. "You think this might be their bag?"
"Could be, but probably not. They only mess with one human at a time, usually, and this? Looks a little too frou-frou for their tastes. Medieval sense of humor, angels." Des couldn't believe he was having this conversation. The last time he'd had a conversation with a normal human like this was... Well, Tony, and even Tony had balked the first time Pagiel brought out her wings.
"Honestly, whatever it is? I'm probably gonna hear that it's outta my league in about twenty minutes, which makes me all the more ready to knock some heads together to figure it out and get my ass back home."
He rolled his shoulders slightly, looking over at the group. "The way I figure it, we've got people here who can handle themselves in a fight and whoever can't can stick with the ones who don't." He glanced back at Dean. "So I figure if this gets turned into a dick measuring contest, we at least know there's something bigger at stake than our egos." He jerked his thumb, again, indicating the rest of their team.
"Don't know what kinda angels you met, but gotta say, if they're keepin' it to one poor sonnuvabitch at a time, I'm jealous," he gave a raise of his brows and a shake of his head to indicate his surprise at the assertion.
Des so openly admitting that it was probably out of his league was reassuring -- he wasn't gonna have too many problems with Dean taking the lead on this one, and that was helpful in its own right. Hunters and their pissing contests were never something he took any joy in, and right now, he really didn't have the mentality to deal with it. He'd rather focus on the collaborative than take all the responsibility of leadership on himself, anyway. He had enough of that, and it seemed like Des felt the same.
"Good chance whatever grabbed us took us for a reason. Maybe we'll get lucky and some of 'em will be hunters too. It'll make keeping their heads on straight easier," even if it meant putting up with more dick measuring. The thought of having to address that made Dean scrub a tired hand over his face. "I'll go see who I can round up. We keep together a big group, we'll limit casualties if these sons of bitches come back."
"Fairies," chalk one more up to the hunter theory. At least he had better things to fuck around with than his antichrist brother -- even if said things were a bunch of kid's stories and bullshit wrapped up in one. "You think the Easter Bunny's gettin' 'em organized, or did they team up with My Little Pony?" The venomous edge to his sarcasm was hard to miss, but he wasn't here to make enemies so he tried to at least keep the look on his face pretending it was jovial to some extent.
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"You're not a lightweight, but I'm guessin' the pointy-eared SOB's passed you over." He removed the bolt from his crossbow and held it up. "Iron-tipped. Handmade. Don't get much better when it comes to huntin' Fae. Not that anyone hunts the fancy ones and this? This looks like one of the fancy ones. Anansi or Loki could whip this shit up in their sleep and those girls are sugar cookies compared to big guns."
All of this said like he expects Dean to know exactly what he means- if he doesn't, whatever. If he does, Des had a kindred spirit here and given how many people sucked at the paranormal where he came from, that was good in his book. Sometimes it really sucked being the most competent guy in the room.
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But, even Dean had to admit -- to himself, not Des -- that he probably wouldn't have come up with the idea of a trickster -- the trickster, the only one who was interested in a collection of Winchesters -- being responsible for the whole mess. Teleportation would be just his style, too. Sure didn't compare to a slow-dancing alien, but it was definitely a leaf outta his book.
"Iron-tipped'll keep a lot at bay, but I don't know how many fairies you're gonna be gettin' the chance to point that thing at. You say fae, I call trickster. Who wants to make a bet on which of us is the right one?" He took one last glance at the statue, inspecting it, wondering if it could even suck his soul out through his eyeballs like the guy had claimed.
The fact that he was even considering it a legitimate possibility made Dean want to cringe, but hell, if angels were sweeping in to storm Hell's gates over Dean freaking Winchester, he sure as shit wasn't putting it past that tricksy sonnuvabitch to work up some soul-stealing freaky pagan statue.
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Bets didn't really tally in Des's world- all in, all out, whatever. But if these people were with him right now, then he'd do his damnedest to make sure they didn't make asses of themselves and then go from there. If Pagiel and Mathias were around, they'd probably get his ass out of here, eventually.
"You piss off a lot of Tricksters?" Des chortled, moving to circle the statue, while avoiding touching it. It sure as hell looked like something pulled straight out of Ceirdowyn's copy of Better Homes and Gardens: Creepy Fairy Castle edition. "Name's Des, by the way. Desmond Descant. Paranormal investigator."
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"Familiar enough. I do my homework," or, rather, Sam did his homework for him and Dean took control after they knew what was going on just fast enough to play with the necessary pointy objects. God, where was that kid? He already felt his gut twisting with concern that maybe he wasn't here because he'd woken up and headed off with Ruby.
The fact that it wouldn't be the first time caused the muscles in his jaw to tighten.
"Dean Winchester, hunter. Do a lot of pissing a lot of supernatural sons of bitches off with a job like that. Sure you know what that's like," even though it was a statement, the quirk of an eyebrow that followed was asking for confirmation. He wanted to know just where this guy stood on going past investigating and into killing.
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He arched his eyebrow right back and then shifted the crossbow in his hands again, as if that was enough of an answer. Killing? Yeah, he killed. Killing any and all of them, he'd find offensive, but the ones who deserve it? Fuck yes, they're going down.
"Which is what makes me think this is because I pissed someone off. Between the two of us and hangover kid in the corner over there, I'd say the one thing we've got in common is we're probably really fucking good at pissing off shit that can yank the rug out from under us and strand us in something out of fairy Silent Hill."
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But, there was one thing that definitely caught Dean's attention. Something that he wasn't going to just let go under the radar, dismissed as casually as it had been thrown out. Des had mentioned angels. Pissing them off, specifically, and Dean could only think back to Cas' explanation of Uriel's death and why it had needed to happen. Angels turning on Heaven. Angels following their own path, a terrible path. One that lead to the kinda shit Dean had been forced into -- no, that wasn't right.
He wasn't forced into anything. He'd jumped at the chance to get Alastair back one for all that shit he'd been dragged through.
"Angels, huh? How many of those you run into?" He made it sound nonchalant, patting a hand on the statue and compliantly taking a step back from it -- the last thing he wanted was his soul sucked out through his eyes -- and this guy seemed legit enough to have a pretty good idea about it, which was reason enough for Dean to heed his warning.
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Because as far as he knew, they didn't make a point to appear to just any old sucker, unless they were guardians like Pagiel. And, well, Dean didn't seem like the guardian angel-getting type.
And God, he couldn't stress how much more relaxed he felt being able to casually talk shop like this with a complete stranger. Paranormal investigators were few and far between- the hunting types were usually whackjobs, and Des wouldn't touch Huntsmen with a forty foot pole.
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"More than I ever wanted to," he responded coolly, shoulders tightening as he reflected on the situation prior to his arrival in the wood. Cas, Uriel. Anna. It was all way above his pay grade. All he wanted was to kill some evil sons of bitches. Raise a little figurative Hell -- never literal. But, apparently, someone had written it to happen literally too, and how he was getting dragged in ass-first.
"Seems like most've 'em have got reason to be scared of one another. Universal trait, I guess. Like breathin', if angels needed to." Did they need to? Maybe he'd ask Cas in their next soul-searching session. Bitter, party of one. He forced the thought back. "You think this might be their bag?"
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"Honestly, whatever it is? I'm probably gonna hear that it's outta my league in about twenty minutes, which makes me all the more ready to knock some heads together to figure it out and get my ass back home."
He rolled his shoulders slightly, looking over at the group. "The way I figure it, we've got people here who can handle themselves in a fight and whoever can't can stick with the ones who don't." He glanced back at Dean. "So I figure if this gets turned into a dick measuring contest, we at least know there's something bigger at stake than our egos." He jerked his thumb, again, indicating the rest of their team.
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Des so openly admitting that it was probably out of his league was reassuring -- he wasn't gonna have too many problems with Dean taking the lead on this one, and that was helpful in its own right. Hunters and their pissing contests were never something he took any joy in, and right now, he really didn't have the mentality to deal with it. He'd rather focus on the collaborative than take all the responsibility of leadership on himself, anyway. He had enough of that, and it seemed like Des felt the same.
"Good chance whatever grabbed us took us for a reason. Maybe we'll get lucky and some of 'em will be hunters too. It'll make keeping their heads on straight easier," even if it meant putting up with more dick measuring. The thought of having to address that made Dean scrub a tired hand over his face. "I'll go see who I can round up. We keep together a big group, we'll limit casualties if these sons of bitches come back."
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