Meg (meganmasters) wrote in carnaval_logs, @ 2013-09-02 18:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | ~dean winchester, ~meg masters, ~sam winchester |
Who: Meg, Sam, and Dean
Where: On the Bailey before the Cooch Show
When: Monday Evening
What: Meg is playing the part, like she always does
Warnings: Mild sexiness?
Status: Closed. Incomplete
A light, muggy breeze blew through her hair and rustled the grass of her ridiculous hula skirt as she stood on the bailey. The recent rain had at least beat down some of the dust but the resulting mud stank to high heaven and every where fat, slow flies buzzed. Night had brought little relief, merely a slight breeze and a brief respite from the baking sun. Meg liked this period in history, now that she'd had a chance to really taste it. The desperation in the air was almost tangible. She understood, now, why the old ones spoke of the Great Depression so fondly. Some of the best deals of the last century had been struck during this decade. By the end of the thirties they'd reached their quota for the whole century, and then some. Meg had been envious of their tales at the time, but she'd been needed in Hell. The word she'd been doing for Azazel had been far too important. By the time she'd mad it above ground, the 50's were in full swing. S he'd enjoyed the Civil Rights movement and the rise of the hippies a great deal, but she knew now that they had nothing on the sheer terror that lived in the hearts of every last one of these dirt farmers. It was like a fine wine, and she drank deep.
"Exotic beauties from far off lands..." the talker was saying. Further than you you, she thought with a wry little smile as she swirled her hips for the crowd of watching men. She could feel the guilt and desire rolling off of the in waves. They had families, some of them. Children without shoes, down to one meal a day. And yet, here they were, ready to throw their money away for a peak at her body. She winked at one man in particular as she bent at the waist to adjust the strap of her shoe. She let the grass skirt part around her bent knee and shot the crowd the smallest flash of thigh. They drew closer, en mass, as though they couldn't help themselves. Meg smiled and blew them a kiss, scanning the crowd and reveling in their collective misery.