Who: Peter Vincent and Castiel Where: Back lot, near Peter’s trailer When: Early evening, Saturday, August 31st What: Fighting irritation and looking for some answers Warnings: Peter’s foul mouth Status: Closed, ongoing
Everywhere he looked, everything he saw, it was all coated with dust or mud. Outside, on the tents and trailers and trucks, on all the people, inside the trailer he’d been shown to... It hadn’t taken long at all for it to get all over Peter as well, his boots and favourite leather pants now splattered with mud at the ankles. The state of his clothes was the last thing on his mind, though - right now, he was caught between incredulous anger and outright panic.
Earlier, before Art had even finished explaining everything, Peter had lost patience, and it had taken a good while for the carnie to talk him down from his demands to speak to the people in charge. He was still angry, and he definitely wasn’t about to trust any of what he’d been told. He wasn’t certain how much was true at all, but regardless, he was completely out of his depth this time. He’d been through a lot of scrapes and close calls and had had times he was certain he wouldn’t make it out alive, but an abduction like this? Time travel? That was a new one.
Art had left him to get settled hours ago, and Peter had promptly shut himself in the trailer and pulled out his journal, poring through it even though he bloody well knew there wasn’t anything in there that could help him this time. He didn’t even have a way of reaching Charley, or Amy or Jane. Would they even be able to figure out what happened to him, much less reach him? Nervously, he pulled out his flask of Midori and took a draught before stashing it back out of sight again. Peter wanted to think that Charley wouldn’t just write him off once he’d realized Peter was missing. But if this time travel business was the real deal... he was the expert on strange and supernatural occurrences, not Charley, and Peter didn’t have any idea of how to get home. Charley coming to the rescue wasn’t likely to happen this time.
Which meant that, at least until he could find out more, Peter was stuck here, playing this stupid fucking game this mysterious Management was forcing him into. He glanced over at the slightly worn tuxedo hanging on a hook on the wall of the trailer and grimaced - a fucking carnival magician? Really? He had left such small time work behind over a decade ago. He had toured worldwide, had been headlining in Vegas at the fucking Hard Rock... and now he was to be reduced to performing pathetic parlour tricks in a burnt out carnival? It was bad enough he was basically being held captive, but to quite literally make him into a fucking sideshow attraction… that was just downright insulting.
He shook his head, fighting back the wave of frustration. It wouldn’t be forever, and he’d been far worse off than this before. It was just until he could figure out a way home… if he even could, the cynical part of him whispered. He shook his head, snapping shut the journal and tucking it into his jacket. No way was he letting that book out of his sight, even for a moment. He didn’t even glance at the old-fashioned clothing he’d been handed - he wasn’t going to wear them unless he absolutely had to. Moving to the door, Peter took a deep breath, wishing his nerves would settle, and then stepped outside the trailer.
The rain had all but stopped, petrichor lingering over the whole area as Peter hesitated not too far from the trailer. He was not quite certain where to go or who to speak to. The few people he could even see nearby seemed occupied with putting finishing touches on tents, or sidestepping mud puddles as they hurried past. He bit back an annoyed sigh and, gritting his teeth, started walking. At the very least, he could get a feel for his surroundings. Possibly even find something to drink, if luck was with him.