And My Flame Made A Pinnacle To Heaven (3/3)

© 2007 gekizetsu

Part III of III. Again, thanks to innie_darling for the inspiration. See part I for disclaimers, rating, and the poem the main title and chapter titles are from. Notes follow the story.


III. There Came a Gust


Now he was pissed.

Dean sat in the Impala and stared straight out the windshield. He was worse for wear by then, that was for sure, no matter how he tried to play it off. In front of his dad he'd become accustomed to brushing off damn near anything, from injuries to disappointments. He was good at it. The show had to go on. It'd become second nature, so that even if there was no one looking, he was simply going to keep telling himself he was fine.

He was exhausted. And singed. And bruised. And disappointed, and hungry, and beginning to doubt himself.

"Aw," he said aloud. "Poor baby, has it had a bad day? Jesus, next I'll be sucking my thumb."

He'd been that close and still fucked it up. He told himself that he should have known something like that would happen. He hadn't stopped long enough to realize that he couldn't just find it, just track it back to one spot and attack it. It was never that easy.

Wait. Sometimes it was. They hunted lots of stupid things.

He was getting soft, that's what it was. His dad had thrown him into the middle of the ocean to teach him to swim because he'd obviously needed some toughening up. He'd been depending on his dad too much, to watch his back, to save the day, to tell him what to do.

He checked his messages again. Nothing.

He told himself he was just getting a little worried, that his father should have checked in by then. It wasn't like he needed to talk to him, or anything.

He listened to his dad's terse voicemail greeting yet again, then left one of his own. Date and time in military figures, latitude and longitude. Their undercover 'code', in case of cops or who knew what else smart enough to snag their phones.

He tucked his phone away again and took stock. He was parked a block down, out of sight but not out of the smoke. The blast had knocked him down, thrown him right back down the driveway. Luckily he'd regained consciousness quickly enough to get the hell out before the fire department and the cops showed up. There wasn't much left of the house, and his ears were still ringing. No significant injuries except to his pride.

Fucking bitch disguised itself as an old lady , cane and all, and then got away from him again . He had no idea where it would go, or if it would bother to keep hunting at all, since now it knew it was being chased. He'd played his hand too fast and let someone else die, and yet another person would die before he could figure out if it was still around. He was too tired to think.

He had to regroup. He knew enough that when he was as tired as he was, nothing was going to get done.

He started the car and left Conerly behind, because he was done with it. He wanted the hell out of Mississippi altogether, but not until he could sleep for awhile and get the ash out of his hair.

He found a motel in McComb and he salted the door but didn't even bother taking his shoes off before he crashed across his bed and let everything go for awhile.

Just before he fell asleep, he wondered if anyone else had been in the house.


There was nothing wrong with Taco Bell for breakfast. Nothing.

He shoved half a chalupa in his mouth and tapped away on the laptop some more. Putting fireballs and old women and a Caribbean population together in one place gave him a chance to put a very specific search together. None of it rang any bells with him, not in memory or written word, not from conversations in wayside places with people his dad knew. He was trying not to be excited by the idea that his first truly solo hunt was turning out to be something they'd never run into before. It was kidstuff to be excited about it, though. He was merely interested in a professional capacity.

There was nothing wrong with Mountain Dew for breakfast either. Man, he was starving .

He was trying to decide whether the span of godlike monsters, creatures and spirits that belonged to the peoples of the Caribbean islands could be considered its own pantheon. He sifted through everything he could find, not wanting to pass anything up. West African beliefs and fears had filtered down through those who came willingly - and not so willingly - to South America and the Caribbean. People were motivated by the same things the world over: greed, love, hate, revenge. The only difference was in how they handled it.

A compound of dirt from a human grave and the blood of a black cat mixed with a paste and kept in a goat's horn .

The Dai-Dais and Bacoos of Guyana; the Churails they'd borrowed or at least shared with East Indian lore; a wide range of Haitian Loas , including their gods of fire and thunder. He was giving himself a crash course, but he always knew when he was close to making a final connection.He was right about this. It would all come together if he kept at it.

Legend after legend unrolled in front of him.

*The Ole Higue waits until the early hours of the morning and when everyone is asleep; then the Ole Higue sheds its human skin; then the Ole Higue travels in a ball of fire searching for victims; then the Ole Higue slips through the keyhole of the house of its chosen victim....

Dean sat straight up. The fuck . It was her, it was his old lady.

The Ole Higue was a Guyanese version of vampire lore. In every legend, there was at least a grain of truth, and sometimes it was the whole enchilada. He did a search just for that particular subject and each thing he found came back the same: he was dealing with a creature that walked around in the daylight as an old woman, then took her skin off, placed it somewhere safe, then rose out of her chimney and traveled as a ball of fire, looking for victims.

That was where his experience and the legend diverged. In the folklore, she took the blood of children. His version of the damn thing was flash-frying her food.

He chugged pop and rubbed his eyes. Come on, what was the point? What was she getting out of it, if she wasn't feeding?

He froze.

Not once had he found a bit of splatter from the blast. He'd assumed it was blowing back toward the impact and going up in smoke. But that was how she was feeding - she was taking everything at once .

Either she'd lost patience with the quieter, easier way of sucking someone dry, or she was a different version of the myth. Either way, she wasn't likely to change her style any time soon, and she'd give herself away again when she had to feed.

If he postulated that she was going to stick to what seemed like home to her - places where there were populations of Caribbean peoples - then he could at least narrow his options down. She was done in Mississippi, or at least this part of it. She'd come all the way up there from southern Florida, for Christ's sake. She wasn't dumb enough to hit the same place twice. Did she have hiding places in several states, prearranged, or was she hiding in victim's homes? Did she have relatives, or more likely descendants that she stayed with? Had the guys who'd tried to warn him off just been hoping to take care of their own family's curse?

He got up to pace. Where was the biggest West African/Caribbean population in the surrounding states?

New Orleans. Would she go somewhere that big? Hell yeah; there she could probably do damn near anything she wanted. Maybe that was her point of origin. She could get lost in the crowds and lore and superstition. But, the chances of someone knowing what she was were much higher there, too. An Ole Higue might be noticed and hunted down.

Still, he liked it there a hell of a lot. He and dad had been there once to look into a possible Vodoun solution to what had happened to their family, so Dean had a basic framework to start from when thinking of where to look. Damn, he'd have been happy to live in that place.

It seemed as good a place as any; the most likely place. If he had to make an educated guess or go with a gut feeling, or hell, combine the two, then 'Nola was the winner.

All he had to do, then, was get that skin. Find out where she was hiding it, and get it, and destroy it.

There were apparently a couple of ways to do that - fill the skin with hot peppers or salt. Salt. Yeah, that he could do. He could salt her until she was jerky.

He hit the road again with a little more confidence.


A lot of New Orleans had been laid out before the car had been invented, and the Impala didn't like it any more than it had the last time he'd been there. There were too many one-way streets, and some of the back roads were so narrow that it freaked him out, although he'd never let on to that even if he was alone in the car. There were just some things a man didn't admit to being worried about, in his mind, and that was one. There was always just enough room. Some of the potholes threatened to screw up the suspension, and that? That he was allowed to worry about, except it wasn't worrying, it was more a concern .

One of his favorite spots from the last time he'd been there had been Metairie cemetery.

A converted racetrack sitting on Metairie road on a long since filled-in bayou, it was 150 acres of homage to the lost. The track itself was still visible in the way the roads were laid out. Huge and historic and full of more elaborate marble tombs and statuary than any other cemetery in the city, it was also one of the highest places in the area.

The ridge it sat on was considered high ground for a place like New Orleans, and if there was something about to pop out of a chimney somewhere in the city, he was in a pretty good place to see it from. She'd been airborne before, he'd chased that damn fireball, so he'd see her coming or going from there, if anywhere. There were plenty of old houses in the area, so she could be in any of them...assuming she was there at all. All he could do was wait for her to give herself away, and where he was seemed like the best shot he could take. He sure as hell wasn't going to start bugging every little old lady he saw.

Oh, man. No way would he be able to deal with her, when her skin was on . He knew what she was, but if anybody happened to witness him using extreme prejudice on what looked like somebody's grandma, it would start a whole other thing he didn't feel like dealing with.

Wasn't like he could walk around and ask anybody if they'd seen any suspected Ole Higue's around. Suuuure. He wasn't the fuckin' Orkin man. Nobody was going to point anything out for him. It would have been good to have someone to split the legwork with, or bounce ideas off of; someone to think up a way to measure patterns in ways he wasn't thinking of.

He sighed and found a wider shoulder near the cemetery that had a lot of overhanging magnolias to leave the car under. It was far enough in shadow that it would have been hard to notice.

He needed a base of operations if it was going to be more than a day, but he didn't want to check in anywhere. He didn't want to wait for the media to let him know who else had gone up in flames. He had to be ready to go at a moment's notice, so sleeping in the car was going to have to do. To give him a chance to do her in, she'd have to be out feeding; otherwise, there was no way to get access to her skin. Somebody else would have to die and give him that chance. He hated it, but it was one or two more in the face of a potentially endless string if he didn't let her go when he found her.

He really wanted the part of the legend about 'rising from the chimney as a ball of fire' to be true, because then he could say once and for all that luck existed. He'd just see her take off, run in and salt her crazy ass, and then she'd fizzle out somewhere.

Assuming he found her at all, he had to be able to find the damn skin. It would be somewhere she considered safe, maybe in a particular container made for just that purpose. It wouldn't be thrown over the back of a chair or sealed in Tupperware on top of the fridge next to the sugar.

The cemetery had closed at 5:30 the evening before, so at 2:30 in the morning it was closer to opening again at 7 anyway. He had no problem scaling the outside walls. Nobody really expected anybody to want to get into an old cemetery in the middle of the night. The only reason to do it was to be an asshole and vandalize the place with a bunch of similar minded assholes, which didn't happen often enough to worry about. Sadly, cities and towns often considered a little necessary exhumation followed by salt and lighter fluid to be desecration and vandalism. Their ignorance wasn't his cross to bear.

It was a good place for a cemetery. The water table in most of the area was so high that the original settlers had tried to weight coffins down with huge rocks, but had ended up chasing their dearly departed around anyway after a good rainstorm; airtight coffins would literally pop right out of the ground. It was why the majority of burials were aboveground. Sometimes even the higher spots, like the ridge he was on, would still pop a below-ground burial after a good storm. When he and his dad had been there, it was just after a bad storm, and they'd paused to watch a crew repair the damage in a couple of places. His dad had wanted to make sure it was only because of the rain, and not because somebody was getting up on their own and wandering around.

Dean was still kind of hoping for zombies. Sooner or later he'd visit New Orleans just in time for a freakin' zombie jamboree, and that would be the kind of thing he'd go break Sam out of school for. Sam would roll his eyes at first, like always, but then he'd grab a machete and start lopping heads off.

If his dad had been around, or at least been in contact, Dean wondered if he would have still been relating every damn thing back to Sam.

He was still wondering about who the unlucky guy in Holmesville had been, but the knowledge wouldn't have helped him by then. It felt to him like the research was done and the getting dirty -- his favorite part - was all there was left of this one.

He kept to the shadows, knowing there'd be some sort of random patrol throughout the night. He could still choose a crypt to climb and hang out on, to get a better view. Stuff like that didn't bother him - the dead didn't hang around their burial spot (or spots) unless they didn't want to be there. There weren't going to be any death omen-based apparitions in a cemetery that old. Everybody was tucked in all comfy as long as the water table allowed it or someone hadn't been sealed into the wrong family tomb.

Later on, he amended the story in his own head to a memory of ducking down instinctively. In reality, he startled so badly in reaction that he stumbled over his own feet and fell down.

The top of the mausoleum about thirty yards to his right seemed to explode into flames, and it was basically the last damn thing he'd expected to happen. He stayed where he was, tucked into the shadow of an angel statue. The flames weren't as large as he'd initially thought. It was the surprise of it and the close darkness that had made it seem like an explosion. A faintly spherical whirl of orange-red flame spun straight up from the marble structure with enough force to make a low, crackling whump of sound before it receded in an arc, becoming a soft and distant glow.

Luck did exist. It existed, and it loved him long time.

He almost gave in to the urge to chase her. She wasn't going out to sightsee or to get a Purple Haze from the closest bar. But he knew he wouldn't be getting any other chances - his own best guess had just handed the Higue to him, and he couldn't waste it.

She had emerged from a single family, pitched-roof tomb with a wide, truncated facade that served as the base for a small angel ornament. The inscription told him the Tolsons were interred there, beginning with Abijah in 1879. When he got close enough to pull himself up for a look, he could smell something old and burnt, and he found a gap between the base of the angel and the facade. She hadn't needed much room to get out. Hell, if the legend was true, she would get in and out of keyholes as a spark.

He circled the tomb, unsure of how much time he really had but not wanting to do any more destruction than he had to. There was a single entry, a recessed door that was framed by additional marble. It was barred. He had to wonder how long she'd been using it - she would have had to wait for someone to be interred in order to get her skin in there. Without her skin, she was able to get in anywhere, but her physical form couldn't do the same. Someone would have opened it and turned their back in preparation of a burial, and something looking like a little old lady would have stepped in and hidden while the newest corpse was loaded. Maybe she'd been behind the door, maybe she'd pried her way into an older coffin inside and shoved the rightful occupant over. Real sweetheart, this one.

He ran his fingers over the edges of the entrance, looking for anything that seemed loose or would otherwise give him an easy way in. The chains on the bars weren't rusted; the padlock was pretty solid, but picking it was a better bet than shattering anything to get in. He wasn't hot on the idea of ruining the burial site of someone who wasn't involved. Having to dig someone up because they were gnawing on the living in spirit form was perfectly reasonable. Desecrating an innocent, if dead, bystander was a little over the line.

The lock was a bitch, but it popped after a couple of minutes of picking, and he was able to pry the door open with an application of world-renowned Winchester muscle. It was damn heavy and meant to be a two man job, but he was good for it.

It smelled burnt inside, and he waited to one side for a moment to see if anything else was hanging around in there. Watching one thing come out didn't automatically mean that nothing else was going to happen. Plenty of decent hunters lost their heads that way. Nothing came screaming or lurching or flaming out at him, so he ducked low to the ground and aimed his penlight inside.

There were four coffins on the shelves, dusted and scorched. One of the lower, oldest ones had been tilted halfway off its shelf, and the lid was propped open. The others were untouched.

He never enjoyed this part. He was going to have to feel around in the damn coffin.

From the looks of it, it was Abijah himself. Maybe she'd picked the oldest coffin because there was a lesser chance of anybody poking around in there as other relatives were added or moved. Pretty smart of her to do that rather than take a chance on an abandoned house or even moving into a community under the guise of being the nice retiree. Maybe she'd tried those ploys before and had found it to be too much trouble. She wasn't dumb and she'd been at it a good long time, so he had to respect that and be careful.

Good old Abijah was mostly dust and rotted cloth with a handful of white hair and a grinning skull. He'd been rearranged, shoved to one side. There was nothing that looked like a cast off skin in Dean's immediate sight, but he pulled the lining up and rolled Abijah a little further to the left.

"'Scuse me, dude," he mumbled. "Gotta evict your squatter."

Spread out beneath was what looked, God help him, like a carefully flattened inflatable doll. It was a flat and boneless person , a female with a twist of gray hair. There were even wrinkles in her coffee-and-cream skin. It seemed like a costume, a too-realistic jumpsuit complete with eyelashes and fingernails. It was clothed in a shapeless, dark dress, and when he looked, he found shoes by the door.

That was what finally made him laugh. He tried hard to keep it quiet, but shit, shoes . Little sensible old lady orthopedic shoes with low heels. He stood there for a moment and snickered, trying to decide if he should leave her there or drag her out to salt her. None of it was any concern of the Tolson's, so he lifted the skin out of the coffin with a barely suppressed groan. It was heavier than he'd thought, but it was the fact that it was still warm and floppily supple and kind of moist that was causing him to grimace.

He checked outside carefully before slipping back out. He dropped the skin in the shadow of the tomb, then went back inside and tried to rearrange Abijah back in his rightful place. Jesus, did this all have to be happening in the middle of summer? He was roasting even without the crazy bitch there to help him do it. He closed the coffin's lid and heaved it back onto its shelf the rest of the way. He didn't mind that she'd know something was wrong the moment she got back. She deserved a freakout.

He closed the tomb back up all the way, chains and padlock given their due. Then he dragged his prize away, knowing there'd been no reason to bring salt in with him beyond the bit he kept in his wallet for emergency situations. He needed all the salt he had, pounds of it, and for that he had to go back to the car. So he folded her into thirds while trying not to feel like too much of a pervert, hid her in the shadow of the angel statue that had hidden him earlier, and scaled the wall back out.

He repacked his duffel with salt, both fine and rock, some holy water, and his shotgun, making sure he had extra salt rounds. His sidearm was always loaded with silver just in case anyway, since that seemed to be a good staple in most cases where things went chomp in the night. On a whim, he took a couple of regular shotgun shells with him as a last resort. Not to shoot at her; part of the legend stated that any pile of tiny items placed in front of her had to be counted before she could pass. The shot inside would work as a last defense, if it was true and he had to get away.

He was very careful walking away from the car. One person seeing him get back into the cemetery could blow the whole thing, and it was when things were about to get interesting that he could least afford to get cocky. He listened for several minutes at the wall before pitching his duffel over it, then waited several more before dragging himself back over.

The skin was right where he'd left it. He used his knife to slit it from the end of the sternum to the top of the pubic bone and began pouring salt in. He didn't have enough to make a beanbag of her, to really fill her out with it, but he could coat every square inch of the inside. That was poor consolation for the fact that he had to stick his hand in there , in her creepy-damp old lady carcass, and smear the salt around. Son of a bitch . Maybe it wasn't the absolute worst thing he'd had to stick his hands in; hell, there had been several things he'd never wanted on him, plenty of times when he'd ended up with decomp in his eyes or hair and once right up his nose. It was an occupational hazard, he got that, he'd worn all kinds of guts and he'd had to dig bile and snot from butt-ugly creatures out of his ears with Q-tips. But this was really fucked up. He deserved a few days off for this one. It was wet and slimy-sticky like mucus and blood had to be, and yeah it made it easy to salt the thing but it took a toll on his gag reflex.

He really hoped she only had the one skin. He hadn't seen a change of outfits, but he really hoped she had one and only one and no other way to pass the daylight hours in safety.

He kept a little salt back, dumped the rest of it into the opening he'd made, then shook the whole thing like a rug to make sure he got a really good coating in there. If security showed up, he'd just pitch her onto their windshield and run. That would be a tale they could share in the locker room for ever and ever.

It wasn't until he'd carefully sat her up against a small vault across from the Tolson family tomb that he realized he'd forgotten to take the shoes out. That would be something the family could puzzle over the next time the tomb was opened.

He retreated back behind the angel statue to wait. He wasn't going to leave and just have faith that what he'd done would work. He didn't have much in the way of a backup plan except to try and keep her busy until dawn without dying. The light would come, and without her skin, she would likely be helpless. He had to see it, to finish the whole thing. The holy water he had wasn't enough to put her out if she saw him and decided to flambee him. He would make a stunningly attractive chunk of overdone roast between the aisles of stones, garnished with whatever would be left of his shotgun.

He retreated a little further, behind the broad, cool face of a flat monument with a scrolled top. It was after three thirty in the morning, so he only had about an hour or so before a midsummer dawn would kick up and most likely bring her home to roost.

He wondered how many people she'd killed overnight, and whether she had any idea that they'd be her last.

When he was done with that, there wasn't much left to think about except how he was going on a goddamn bender after this one and find a live chick or three to get inside.

He checked his phone, cupping his hand over it to keep any light from being visible. No messages. He was going to have to take a raincheck on painting 'Nola and go track his dad down. He left a low, brief message asking his dad to check in, then tucked the phone away again. There was something off about the whole thing; he knew there was. His dad didn't tell him everything but he wasn't secretive, and he didn't just take off for days without actually giving Dean some kind of itinerary.

He's ditched you and you know it. He doesn't need you and he never has.

Fuck, he didn't need all that while he was trying to stay focused on the task at hand. There was a reason for everything. He trusted his father with his life and a lot more. Everything would be fine.

The current eternal flame of Metairie cemetery came home early.

He saw a soft, washed-out tangerine light pass over and had to work hard at not peeking over the stone to get a look at the landing. If she'd been out blasting for the last couple of hours, she'd be tired and maybe wouldn't have enough left to do much with.

It was quiet for almost a full thirty seconds.

So when the tomb he'd been in earlier exploded for real, he was a little surprised.

He felt it shake the ground beneath him, and a chunk of something - marble, he hoped - slammed into the back of the stone he was crouched behind, tilting it forward by a couple of inches. A ragged slab of marble landed several feet to his right with a thud , and bits of bone and wood and rock spun out of the air all around him. He heard a high-pitched shrieking that sounded as if it might need a dog to fully decipher it, and he felt a little heat as the light grew behind him. She'd found her skin, then, and was really pissed.

He didn't really expect her to storm through the cemetery looking for the culprit, either, but who knew what went on in the mind of a Higue ? This was his first.

He could tell by the changing light that she was spinning among the stones, searching. Maybe she would light the whole place up in retribution before burning out. He gripped his gun in both hands, waiting, back pressed to the stone, ready to roll one way or the other and run for it.

He felt the heat before he saw the light get even stronger. The lurid saffron glow created a set of warning beacons out of the tombs and statues around him. The heat wrapped around the stone and caught him right up against it, taking the air out of his lungs and beginning to singe his clothes. She'd found him, and in a moment he'd be a puddle of grease on the stony ground between two cracked plastic floral holders. He tightened his grip on his gun, skin slippery with sweat. It got almost unbearable, he couldn't breathe and he was debating just getting to his feet and making a stand when the heat suddenly dropped off and the light began to veer away.

There was a stuttering sound, and the light flickered violently for several seconds, cycling between red-golds and flashes of white before he heard another crackle and the light faded to a low ember glow.

He stayed where he was, panting for cool morning air and not believing for an instant that she had been extinguished.

He heard a voice on the street below, alarmed and rising, and realized that the whole show had really been impossible to ignore for anyone within a mile. He had to get out, quick. He gave in and looked around the edge of the monument.

There was a smoking ruin where the Tolson tomb had been, nothing but jagged edges of marble showing the outline of where the walls had been. The remainder of a coffin was on fire and provided a little light ahead of the graying dawn. A few feet away from his own position was the skin, and from what he could tell without getting any closer, it was inside-out.

Something was still flickering two rows over from him.

He stood and moved for it, wanting one last glance before he cleared out.

The shrunken skeleton from the center of the fireball was still in flames, curled in a fetal position between two stones. Sharp-tipped, blackened claws at the ends of each finger dug at the grass. It had two rows of tiny, sharp, wickedly curved teeth, as if a shark had been mixed with a housecat.

The jaws snapped ineffectually in his direction.

He brought a bootheel down on the skull, hearing something crack. He grabbed a fair sized chunk of marble off the ground nearby and smashed the skull the rest of the way, avoiding a flailing, bony hand. When it was free of the rest of the skeleton, it steamed but the flames went out. They began to stutter and fail across the rest of the bones as well, but he was only interested in the largest chunk of skull. He stuck the end of his gun into it and picked it up that way, went back to retrieve his duffel, and threw it in there. He tucked everything away and took off for the wall furthest from the gathering voices on the street below. He didn't have time to do more.

He walked the long way back to the car. The skull didn't burn through his duffel, luckily, but he could smell the singed material. He tossed it in the back seat of the car and sat there with all four windows open, listening to the first of the sirens responding to an explosion and fire in the cemetery.

He'd left a bit of a mess behind. He'd have preferred things to be a little less visible. But, it would make a great urban legend for the area, and there wasn't anything that could be traced back to him.

He pulled away from the side of the road and kept his speed just under the limit, taking side roads until he wasn't quite sure where the hell he was, as long as he was further and further from the cemetery.

He pulled over for a moment just outside Luling in the early morning light to get a shovel out of the trunk and bury the skull in a salt-lined hole in a grove of cypress. He loaded the backfill with used coffee grounds that he kept for just such occasions to keep anybody's mutt or a local scavenger from smelling it and digging it up.

He crashed at a small inn later that morning in Morgan City, wiped out and tired of smelling like he'd been to a real downer of a barbecue.

For two weeks there was nothing from John Winchester. Dean began to actively look for him, began to check with their contacts, at least the ones he knew about. He began to get the word out.

One afternoon, when he checked his messages, there was one from his father. The moment of joy and relief at the sound of his voice was quickly and easily replaced with trepidation when he heard the words he'd been left with, though.

Be very careful. We're all in danger.

It was the word all more than the word danger that got his attention.

So why, under the growing anxiety, did he feel so relieved?

Then he got it.

It was time to get Sam.


Dean said, I can't do this alone.

Sam said, Yes you can.

Dean said, Yeah, well, I don't want to and for once the truth did him some real good, because Sam came along.

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Notes: *This part was taken straight from Caribbean Stories by Andrew Munroe and this site . See also this story . The date on it is correct, folks.

Mountain Dew and Taco Bell are © delicious but will kill you; Tupperware is © expensive but still just silly plastic containers, and Dean Winchester is © omg hot.

Supernatural: Silver and salt