Because Anita and broken boys usually work better than we expect...
She'll wander over, not sure at first whether this is an elf (let's face it, this guy is huge) or what. But mostly? Hey, she's sensing some emo, and apparently, that attracts her like jam attracts bees. Or something.
"Hey," she offers in a fairly leisurely fashion. She's still at a polite, respectful distance.
It's fascinating how many people can be unhappy at the Mansion these days, she muses. Must be something in the air.
Hope that's alright? Let me know if you'd like someone in particular. ♥
"Same way that you'll find non-rogue humans," Anita replies. "You know, that whole thing about stereotypes and race? Well, you can also apply it to species, buddy. That's the way it works."
"No," Sam says, a little flatly, "It's not, actually. At least, not in my realm of experience, which when it comes to this? Is pretty wide. Not like I blame werewolves - most of them, get attacked, might not even know what they're up to three nights a month. That doesn't change that they're going to kill people. Been there, tried that. It doesn't work."
His eyes have intensified, are boring into her now.
"And what was that about a - professional animator?"
Anita looks unimpressed - mostly at the boast, because pretentious gits come in all shapes and sizes in her (pretty wide) experience.
"Yeah, I run a puppet show," she replies dryly. And because it looks like she's wasting her time, she stands, dusts herself.
"You clearly know more than everyone, so I'm going to leave you to your vast knowledge for now. But one thing. Just one."
She turns, and looks at him with eyes that are clearly menacing.
"Being human won't protect you from me if you hurt a vampire or a werewolf who was minding his own business, Van Helsing. If your speciesist shit ideology turns to action, you'd better be prepared. Because you'll be in deep, very deep trouble, whoever you are."
---shit. Sam lets out a harsh breath and rubs his nose, and says, "Hold on, wait." He takes a second to regather himself, using the bottle as an excuse. "--sorry. I'm having a bad day in a remarkably shitty couple of months. I shouldn't..."
He doesn't like your menacing look, Anita, but, he reminds himself, information is information, and he did just piss her off. Was being rude, he knows that. (Way to go, kid.)
Sam rubs the back of his neck. "Look. This - what you're saying, it sounds incredibly whacked to me. I've spent my entire life hunting things that kill people. A lot of people. You telling me all of a sudden that's not the way it works- it just doesn't make sense."
He grimaces, glances out at the lake. "I'm kind of sick of things that don't make sense."
Anita doesn't move, and she's still positively seething.
"I told you. I hunt things that kill people too. My point is that your narrow little worldview is going to turn you into a thing that kills people if you don't watch it. And it'll get you killed."
In short, she was trying to be helpful. Anita takes a deep, long, stabilizing breath.
"Alright. For the sake of it, let's pretend this didn't happen."
Pause.
"Let's start over. Name's Blake, Anita Blake. I used to work in St-Louis, Missouri, before I woke up here in my underwear 3 years or so ago. You?"
Don't bristle. Don't. Bristle. And don't say 'been there, done that.' This is not a situation in which it is appropriate to act like Dean. Finally, Sam takes the handshake, his grip firm and palm callused and warm. Big hands.
"Sam Winchester," he says, after a second. It's still weird to give out his real name. "I've been a hunter pretty much wherever it takes us long as I can remember. Got here a month or so ago."
They should just start making club membership cards. Anita would hand him one if those existed, because she's also in that club. Her, and all of her rag tag pack. Rat pack. Whatever. All snowflakes are special.
Her hands are smaller but strong and callused as well, a sign that when she says she means business, she certainly does.
As long as he can remember sounds a touch hyperbolic. Anita decides to ignore it. Don't rise to the bait and all that jazz.
"Ah, right. Fresh off the boat. Well. You want a piece of advice? Probably not. I don't care, giving it to you anyway. Everything that you know about preternatural phenomena is useless here."
Sam says he has had enough of special snowflakedom with the demons wanting him to be their king and Lucifer just plain wanting him. But yes. Club membership cards would undoubtedly be spiffy.
The sad thing is that it isn't. Sam has been hunting since he can remember, though he didn't always know that's what it was. Oh, John Winchester, you know how to raise a kid.
No, I don't want a piece of advice, he almost says, but just lets his expression remain neutral and slides his hands into his pockets. "That so," he says, after a second, mildly. "Mind explaining that?"
Anita shrugs, like she's got no stake in it at all, which is pretty much the case: he'll take her word, or not, it won't change anything to how she falls asleep next time she does.
"Mostly because this place is completely erratic," she replies. "Secondly, unless you know everything about Craft, witches, the four different brand of vampires we have floating around, the several types of lycanthropes who live here, not to mention friggin' elves, historical figures and aliens, you're bound to bump into something you don't know the first thing about sooner rather than later."
Her lips twitch a little, and she adds, "And you might lose a chance at a friend, or an ally, or what not. And those are pretty damn important in these parts. Keeps you sane." She looks away. "I know it did for me."
Sam puts his elbows on his knees, then, and actually leans forward. He doesn't expect allies, so that part is pretty much out for him, but on the other hand...collecting new information, research, that's what Sam thrives on. Working out puzzles.
"Fine. Tell me what I should know, then. It sounds like you've been here a while, so you've got some background on things, yeah?"
"I just told you the gist of it," Anita says. "You're better off finding out the particulars on your own anyway. Just remember that whatever preconceived idea you have, it could very well be wrong."
Sam's eyes narrow. "If you're that worried - about the-" Pause. "People here, up front is probably a better idea. Just a gist would help. I'm running blind right now and I don't like it very much either."
Deep breath through his nose. Don't - yell. Don't snap. Don't-
Sam's hands rub his face, and he reaches for the bottle, has a long pull of it. "Thanks," he says, just a little bit caustically. "Look, I wasn't the one who came over here and started talking. So if you're just going to be nasty, piss the fuck off. I don't need it. I don't need cryptic clues, I don't need baseless, random information. I need something I can use."
She'll wander over, not sure at first whether this is an elf (let's face it, this guy is huge) or what. But mostly? Hey, she's sensing some emo, and apparently, that attracts her like jam attracts bees. Or something.
"Hey," she offers in a fairly leisurely fashion. She's still at a polite, respectful distance.
It's fascinating how many people can be unhappy at the Mansion these days, she muses. Must be something in the air.
Hope that's alright? Let me know if you'd like someone in particular. ♥
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His eyes have intensified, are boring into her now.
"And what was that about a - professional animator?"
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"Yeah, I run a puppet show," she replies dryly. And because it looks like she's wasting her time, she stands, dusts herself.
"You clearly know more than everyone, so I'm going to leave you to your vast knowledge for now. But one thing. Just one."
She turns, and looks at him with eyes that are clearly menacing.
"Being human won't protect you from me if you hurt a vampire or a werewolf who was minding his own business, Van Helsing. If your speciesist shit ideology turns to action, you'd better be prepared. Because you'll be in deep, very deep trouble, whoever you are."
Sorry, Sam. She's gotta a temper.
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He doesn't like your menacing look, Anita, but, he reminds himself, information is information, and he did just piss her off. Was being rude, he knows that. (Way to go, kid.)
Sam rubs the back of his neck. "Look. This - what you're saying, it sounds incredibly whacked to me. I've spent my entire life hunting things that kill people. A lot of people. You telling me all of a sudden that's not the way it works- it just doesn't make sense."
He grimaces, glances out at the lake. "I'm kind of sick of things that don't make sense."
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"I told you. I hunt things that kill people too. My point is that your narrow little worldview is going to turn you into a thing that kills people if you don't watch it. And it'll get you killed."
In short, she was trying to be helpful. Anita takes a deep, long, stabilizing breath.
"Alright. For the sake of it, let's pretend this didn't happen."
Pause.
"Let's start over. Name's Blake, Anita Blake. I used to work in St-Louis, Missouri, before I woke up here in my underwear 3 years or so ago. You?"
Handshake?
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"Sam Winchester," he says, after a second. It's still weird to give out his real name. "I've been a hunter pretty much wherever it takes us long as I can remember. Got here a month or so ago."
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Her hands are smaller but strong and callused as well, a sign that when she says she means business, she certainly does.
As long as he can remember sounds a touch hyperbolic. Anita decides to ignore it. Don't rise to the bait and all that jazz.
"Ah, right. Fresh off the boat. Well. You want a piece of advice? Probably not. I don't care, giving it to you anyway. Everything that you know about preternatural phenomena is useless here."
Harsh, but probably true.
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The sad thing is that it isn't. Sam has been hunting since he can remember, though he didn't always know that's what it was. Oh, John Winchester, you know how to raise a kid.
No, I don't want a piece of advice, he almost says, but just lets his expression remain neutral and slides his hands into his pockets. "That so," he says, after a second, mildly. "Mind explaining that?"
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"Mostly because this place is completely erratic," she replies. "Secondly, unless you know everything about Craft, witches, the four different brand of vampires we have floating around, the several types of lycanthropes who live here, not to mention friggin' elves, historical figures and aliens, you're bound to bump into something you don't know the first thing about sooner rather than later."
Her lips twitch a little, and she adds, "And you might lose a chance at a friend, or an ally, or what not. And those are pretty damn important in these parts. Keeps you sane." She looks away. "I know it did for me."
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"Fine. Tell me what I should know, then. It sounds like you've been here a while, so you've got some background on things, yeah?"
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Like about necromancers, for example.
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But conversation is not my strong point.
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"Fine. If you meet a guy called Rudy, whatever he tells you, don't believe it."
That's one card she can give him.
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Sam's hands rub his face, and he reaches for the bottle, has a long pull of it. "Thanks," he says, just a little bit caustically. "Look, I wasn't the one who came over here and started talking. So if you're just going to be nasty, piss the fuck off. I don't need it. I don't need cryptic clues, I don't need baseless, random information. I need something I can use."
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"... really."
It's not even a question. It's not a statement either.
It's merely the expression of how disconcerting it is that he seems to think that being insulting will get him anywhere in his quest for information.
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