A Pan of Scouse - a quick fic
Sep. 21st, 2011 10:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amberdreamsAmidst the chaos of my RL the last couple of days I squeezed out a (slightly late) fic for ![[info]](../../img/community.gif?v=3)
silverbullets , and it isn't even strictly schmoop either... Oh well!
The challenge was #15. Write a Sam/Dean casefile for your own hometown. A bit of silliness, really!
A Pan of Scouse.
The child was insistent. And almost totally incomprehensible to Sam.
“Issa ghost see, mista. Cums out a’ night an’ chases m’upstairs. Evry night, like. You gorra help, see?”
Trying to get his attention, she tugged at Sam’s jeans as high as she could reach, which wasn’t very much past his knee, what with him being the size of a tree and her being less than a shrub. Sam looked round a little desperately for some assistance in translation, only to find Dean doubled up in paroxysms of laughter.
“Don’t look at me, dude,” Dean gasped after a few long minutes attempting to get himself back under control. “You’re the one who dragged me three thousand miles over here just to see the Beatles Experience. Man, I suffered through a gut-wrenching, twelve hour freaking flight to pander to your 30th birthday wish – you can deal with the mini-midget speaking a foreign language.”
Before Sam could form a riposte that would be fitting given his brother’s less than helpful attitude, he was distracted by a sharp pain in his shin. The charming little girl, who apart from her obvious speech impediment had seemed a sweet little thing, had just kicked him, hard, with what felt like size 10 hobnailed boots. With steel toe caps.
“Argh, ow!” Sam yelled, hopping on his good leg and clutching the injured limb, while Dean promptly doubled up again, gasping and wheezing like an asthmatic who smokes 60 cigarettes a day. People in what looked like World War II period costume walking by were staring with puzzled looks at the two strangers. Sam wondered whether they had stumbled into an open air museum or some sort of war time commemorative event. He didn’t remember reading anything in the tourist information “What’s on in Liverpool” brochure, but it was pretty cool with the shops done out in 1940s styles and all the folk in their flat caps and floaty cotton dresses.
The child stood watching the Winchesters’ antics with a look of scorn on her otherwise innocent young face.
“Youse divvies or what?” She asked, frowning.
When Dean could breathe again, he patted Sam on the shoulder, in an annoyingly consoling manner.
“I think she’s got you pegged, Sammy,” he said. Sam put his sore leg down gingerly and glared at his brother.
“I think she was referring to both of us, Dean.”
The urchin’s next words might have confirmed this fact, or would have, if either Winchester had been able to speak Scouse.
“Bet youse are woollybacks. Or mebbe youse tallymen, like.”
Both of hunters were somewhat bewildered by the look of horror on the kid’s face at the thought that either of those epithets could be true, as they had absolutely no idea a) what either a woollyback (someone from St Helens) or a tallyman (debt collector) was, or b) why the former (at least) was a Bad Thing to be.
But Sam was pretty sure, like 80% sure, the kid had been saying something about a ghost when this whole nightmare conversation had begun. So he felt obliged to investigate further, in spite of the whole communication issue which had been dogging their footsteps since arriving in Liverpool yesterday. It was all a lot more difficult than Sam had ever anticipated, only having seen A Hard Day’s Night and Help a few times. He really hadn’t thought the accent would be more of a different language when he’d suggested this trip as a big three-zero birthday treat. If he had realised he’d have done some mugging up on lern yerself scouse, maybe watched a few episodes of Brookside, or Boys From the Blackstuff, experimented with the effects of excess phlegm, that sort of thing. Too late now; now it was all about muddling through, maybe with a bit of shouting-louder and sign language.
So Sam crouched down, attempting to bring himself a little closer to eye level with the little girl, who was now anxiously biting her lip. He tried one of his best “I’m a harmless puppy” smiles (she didn’t look too impressed but he persevered).
“Erm, so. We’re not – er – whatever it was you said. We’re from America, and we hunt bad things. Did you say something about a ghost problem?”
He was saved from another abortive effort at interpreting the child by the arrival of an older girl, mid teens, who, thank everything powerful that exists and hadn’t already killed them, could speak English.
“Come on Queenie, stop bothering these fellas.” The older girl grabbed Queenie by one skinny arm and began dragging her away. Dean put out a hand to stop her.
“Hold up, honey, your little sister said something about being chased by a ghost. Maybe we can help?”
Clearly Queenie had learned her look of scorn from her older sister. This look raked Dean up and down with such devastating effectiveness, it was Sam’s turn to giggle at the chagrined expression that came over his brother’s face.
“You’re American, aren’t you? Mmm thought so. You see, this is Bold Street. Why don’t you ask someone in your century what happens on Bold Street, then you’ll see why you can’t help us. We don’t need helping. This is how we are, what we do.”
With that, the two girls walked away, Queenie looking over her shoulder to wave at the bemused Winchesters as they turned into a shop doorway and vanished. The really weird thing was that the shop itself promptly vanished too.
“What the…?” Dean looked around a little wildly. “What just happened?” He demanded.
Sam shrugged. “I have no idea, Dean. What do you say we go find a pub and have a pint of that lovely warm beer and catch that Beatles tribute band to celebrate my birthday and your complete failure to charm the Liverbirds.”
“Screw you, Sammy,” Dean grumbled.
“Maybe later, Dean,” Sam said with a smile.
So this was based on the following snippet of an urban legend from my old hometown of Liverpool....
Time Slip
Location: Liverpool - Bold Street
Type: Other
Date / Time: 1999
Further Comments: On various dates, several people (including an off duty policeman) have reported slipping back in time along this road, finding them surrounded by people dressed in clothing of the 1940s, with a cobbled street and old style shops.
silverbullets , and it isn't even strictly schmoop either... Oh well!The challenge was #15. Write a Sam/Dean casefile for your own hometown. A bit of silliness, really!
A Pan of Scouse.
The child was insistent. And almost totally incomprehensible to Sam.
“Issa ghost see, mista. Cums out a’ night an’ chases m’upstairs. Evry night, like. You gorra help, see?”
Trying to get his attention, she tugged at Sam’s jeans as high as she could reach, which wasn’t very much past his knee, what with him being the size of a tree and her being less than a shrub. Sam looked round a little desperately for some assistance in translation, only to find Dean doubled up in paroxysms of laughter.
“Don’t look at me, dude,” Dean gasped after a few long minutes attempting to get himself back under control. “You’re the one who dragged me three thousand miles over here just to see the Beatles Experience. Man, I suffered through a gut-wrenching, twelve hour freaking flight to pander to your 30th birthday wish – you can deal with the mini-midget speaking a foreign language.”
Before Sam could form a riposte that would be fitting given his brother’s less than helpful attitude, he was distracted by a sharp pain in his shin. The charming little girl, who apart from her obvious speech impediment had seemed a sweet little thing, had just kicked him, hard, with what felt like size 10 hobnailed boots. With steel toe caps.
“Argh, ow!” Sam yelled, hopping on his good leg and clutching the injured limb, while Dean promptly doubled up again, gasping and wheezing like an asthmatic who smokes 60 cigarettes a day. People in what looked like World War II period costume walking by were staring with puzzled looks at the two strangers. Sam wondered whether they had stumbled into an open air museum or some sort of war time commemorative event. He didn’t remember reading anything in the tourist information “What’s on in Liverpool” brochure, but it was pretty cool with the shops done out in 1940s styles and all the folk in their flat caps and floaty cotton dresses.
The child stood watching the Winchesters’ antics with a look of scorn on her otherwise innocent young face.
“Youse divvies or what?” She asked, frowning.
When Dean could breathe again, he patted Sam on the shoulder, in an annoyingly consoling manner.
“I think she’s got you pegged, Sammy,” he said. Sam put his sore leg down gingerly and glared at his brother.
“I think she was referring to both of us, Dean.”
The urchin’s next words might have confirmed this fact, or would have, if either Winchester had been able to speak Scouse.
“Bet youse are woollybacks. Or mebbe youse tallymen, like.”
Both of hunters were somewhat bewildered by the look of horror on the kid’s face at the thought that either of those epithets could be true, as they had absolutely no idea a) what either a woollyback (someone from St Helens) or a tallyman (debt collector) was, or b) why the former (at least) was a Bad Thing to be.
But Sam was pretty sure, like 80% sure, the kid had been saying something about a ghost when this whole nightmare conversation had begun. So he felt obliged to investigate further, in spite of the whole communication issue which had been dogging their footsteps since arriving in Liverpool yesterday. It was all a lot more difficult than Sam had ever anticipated, only having seen A Hard Day’s Night and Help a few times. He really hadn’t thought the accent would be more of a different language when he’d suggested this trip as a big three-zero birthday treat. If he had realised he’d have done some mugging up on lern yerself scouse, maybe watched a few episodes of Brookside, or Boys From the Blackstuff, experimented with the effects of excess phlegm, that sort of thing. Too late now; now it was all about muddling through, maybe with a bit of shouting-louder and sign language.
So Sam crouched down, attempting to bring himself a little closer to eye level with the little girl, who was now anxiously biting her lip. He tried one of his best “I’m a harmless puppy” smiles (she didn’t look too impressed but he persevered).
“Erm, so. We’re not – er – whatever it was you said. We’re from America, and we hunt bad things. Did you say something about a ghost problem?”
He was saved from another abortive effort at interpreting the child by the arrival of an older girl, mid teens, who, thank everything powerful that exists and hadn’t already killed them, could speak English.
“Come on Queenie, stop bothering these fellas.” The older girl grabbed Queenie by one skinny arm and began dragging her away. Dean put out a hand to stop her.
“Hold up, honey, your little sister said something about being chased by a ghost. Maybe we can help?”
Clearly Queenie had learned her look of scorn from her older sister. This look raked Dean up and down with such devastating effectiveness, it was Sam’s turn to giggle at the chagrined expression that came over his brother’s face.
“You’re American, aren’t you? Mmm thought so. You see, this is Bold Street. Why don’t you ask someone in your century what happens on Bold Street, then you’ll see why you can’t help us. We don’t need helping. This is how we are, what we do.”
With that, the two girls walked away, Queenie looking over her shoulder to wave at the bemused Winchesters as they turned into a shop doorway and vanished. The really weird thing was that the shop itself promptly vanished too.
“What the…?” Dean looked around a little wildly. “What just happened?” He demanded.
Sam shrugged. “I have no idea, Dean. What do you say we go find a pub and have a pint of that lovely warm beer and catch that Beatles tribute band to celebrate my birthday and your complete failure to charm the Liverbirds.”
“Screw you, Sammy,” Dean grumbled.
“Maybe later, Dean,” Sam said with a smile.
So this was based on the following snippet of an urban legend from my old hometown of Liverpool....
Time Slip
Location: Liverpool - Bold Street
Type: Other
Date / Time: 1999
Further Comments: On various dates, several people (including an off duty policeman) have reported slipping back in time along this road, finding them surrounded by people dressed in clothing of the 1940s, with a cobbled street and old style shops.
