"This seriously is the dumbest idea you've had. And let's face it, Sam. You've had some dumb ideas." It was said as Dean fumbled with the key to the hotel room, trying to balance his bag, the Impala's keys, and dinner at the same time. "Seriously, dude, Disney? What ride did you say it was again? I swear to God if I end up with It's A Small World stuck in my head I'm gonna kill you."
Plus, the job was in Florida. And it was no secret how Dean felt about Florida. While chicks in bikinis bounded everywhere, most of them had some funky rash. Or some unidentifiable growth. Or were really men. The list went on about Florida. That, and the weirdest crap happened there, which was, true enough, right up their alley, but it was Florida.
Dean finally got the key in the hole and glanced back at Sam, giving a damn good imitation of Sam's own bitchface. "This better not have me dressing up in some dumb costume. We go in as FBI. I'm serious."
Sam could only sigh. He'd been listening to Dean bitch about this for the last three hundred miles and it was starting to get old. They went where the jobs took them and that was all there was to it. He really didn't care that the women were shallow and orange from fake tan, or that there was nothing but old people for fifty miles outside Miami.
He was more concerned with the nine missing people that had lead them here in the first place.
Now Disneyland was a tough place to try and work a case. Literally hundreds of thousands of people went in and out every day. Security was tighter than a prison, and the park went on for miles above as well as under ground. But a recent article in the paper had grabbed Sam's attention when one of the boats in a water ride suppository tipped and all four guests were swept under.
The problem with that, of course, was that it was Disneyland and it was almost impossible to get 'swept away' when the current ran at three miles per hour. After a little digging, he had found two more articles dating
( ... )
Dean dropped his bag on the bed he'd claimed for his own, rolling his eyes. He wasn't going to do this in some kind of stupid costume. He wasn't! If Sam wanted to do it, fine. Sam could. He could do it, and he could have Dean's blessing to do it. And a few secret snapshots sent off to Bobby and a few other people. But Dean was going to go about it in the professional way. Which meant a monkey suit and a badge. Besides, people tended to back off and let you work when they thought you worked for Uncle Sam
( ... )
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Plus, the job was in Florida. And it was no secret how Dean felt about Florida. While chicks in bikinis bounded everywhere, most of them had some funky rash. Or some unidentifiable growth. Or were really men. The list went on about Florida. That, and the weirdest crap happened there, which was, true enough, right up their alley, but it was Florida.
Dean finally got the key in the hole and glanced back at Sam, giving a damn good imitation of Sam's own bitchface. "This better not have me dressing up in some dumb costume. We go in as FBI. I'm serious."
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He was more concerned with the nine missing people that had lead them here in the first place.
Now Disneyland was a tough place to try and work a case. Literally hundreds of thousands of people went in and out every day. Security was tighter than a prison, and the park went on for miles above as well as under ground. But a recent article in the paper had grabbed Sam's attention when one of the boats in a water ride suppository tipped and all four guests were swept under.
The problem with that, of course, was that it was Disneyland and it was almost impossible to get 'swept away' when the current ran at three miles per hour. After a little digging, he had found two more articles dating ( ... )
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