look out, I been thinking things

Got to thinking about some Coco things that can be rustled up in the various wikis, compiled from creator quotes, or picked up from the books. Trufacks, headcanons, inferences. Some of the concepts may be used in fic, some may be handwaved for reasons, some are just there to think about.

So, um. Wall of text.

At the end of the film, Miguel's cousins Abel and Rosa are playing an accordion and a violin respectively.  In the novelization, they're playing tambourine and harmonica.  Now, the book's instruments are pretty simple to learn to play and use.  But the film's chosen instruments are both fairly complex and in most cases would require actual formal lessons, especially for pretty ordinary kids who (unlike Miguel) probably had little to no real music exposure prior. I'm not sure how I feel about these two being able to play party music with Miguel in less than a year's time (it took Miguel longer than that to be proficient with his guitar, and with no lessons he's amazing!).  Maybe they've all downloaded Papá Héctor levels of talent, but my gut tells me that unless the Riveras were already so okay with music that they sprung for lessons, the tambourine and harmonica are kind of more realistic at that point. Depends how you view the One Year Later timeline I guess?

Currency in the Land of the Dead: It runs on memories. Basically everything there is a memory (the "spirit copies"), not the real thing. Nothing living exists or grows there except for the cempasúchil marigolds. These flowers grow all over the Land of the Dead and I suspect anything else you might see is either temporary (Día de Muertos gifts) or artificial. There isn't much space for crops in that crazily stacked-up cityscape anyway. With this being the case, it's likely that the dead there don't have much resources such as renewable food (details not really touched on in the film). My mind is proposing that the primary way the Land of the Dead acquires such resources is through Día de Muertos. Not that eating is necessary to the deceased, but it's likely nice, and as they are sustained by memories, then the memories of food and goods lovingly crafted and given to them likely has a strengthening effect. In such a world there's probably little use for money, though it might exist as a kind of IOU currency. My mind proposes that most of the dead would trade in goods from their ofrendas and funerary offerings. Though they don't have nearly as many needs as the living, "wealth" would be measured in how much you got from your ofrenda(s).  Likely the very wealthiest skeletons are those who (like Ernesto) receive such a bounty from so many ofrendas that they can well afford to "hire" other skeletons to work for them and have plenty to pay in memory-goods.

The Forgotten live in shacks with nothing to their names. Firstly because they have no one to remember them and no offerings. Secondly, the skeletons nearer to them on the social ladder would have little to spare in terms of extra offerings (though some likely do, given the stuff found rolling around the shantytown and Chicharron's bungalow). Thirdly, the skeletons "wealthy" enough to hire them are those who would least want to, because they wouldn't want to be reminded of the Final Death that looms for everyone no matter how long—and because who wants to hire somebody they don't know if they'll just disappear and not show up for work? (Once the joints start sliding apart, you know that guy's no good for anything, you can't rely on them to show up and they haven't the strength to make it through a day's work...)

If everything in the Land of the Dead is memory, it's probably a good thing that Miguel didn't stay there for too long. They seem to have water there, at least (no guarantees for sanitation), in the depths surrounding the city and in the cenote seen on screen. However, if the foods available are nothing but memory, I suspect that eating them wouldn't do a living kid much good. They might taste good (or provoke the memory of taste), but likely would not fill him. Same reason Héctor could straight up drink a shot glass of tequila without playing a PotC skeleton joke—it's not "real" liquor. If Miguel doesn't go home, not only will he turn into a skeleton himself, he'd starve to death anyway in a matter of days. (Obviously one can take or leave this quasi-headcanon for purposes of fic, but it is an interesting underworld concept to consider.)

Factoid: The marigold bridges (or at least the magic that runs them) are aware in their own way and work with the ofrenda photo scanner system to prevent unauthorized skeletons crossing. I suppose the borders of the Land of the Dead are so jealously guarded to prevent the dead from escaping to create a profusion of ghosts and "evil spirits" rushing about the land of the living. Obviously not every skeleton is a nice person; Ernesto was there, and it seems everybody—or at least everybody Mexican—ends up there, as it's not a Heaven-or-Hell-Judgment sort of place. The rules would at least keep unsavory sorts from pestering the Land of the Living for selfish or evil reasons; but since rules have to be for everyone to be fair, nobody gets through without a pass, no matter how nice or desperate they are. Me, I'm wondering how things went before the scanner was implemented (it's "technology" and fairly modern). Heck, how did they run the place before photos were invented? That long ago, did you only get to cross over if you were wealthy enough someone painted your portrait? It's all based on ancient Aztec/Mayan magic (if that's what we should call it) going by the temples/pyramids that anchor the bridges. What did they used to do centuries ago in lieu of pictures? Obviously the old magic has adapted to the changes in culture and technology, but I'm curious how this place ran when it was first "built." (Anybody knowledgeable want to weigh in on this? Otherwise I'm gonna have to go drag my mythologies texts off the shelf.)

Héctor the Forgotten: he's barely hours behind Chicharron on the Final Death schedule and he still manages to bounce across half the city with this kid like it's nothing! It's worse once you've seen the film all the way through: you know Héctor's a (more) dead man walking, he's got literally hours left to live, he knows he's terminal, and yet he's still so full of energy and smiles and kindness. It's heartbreaking and it makes him one of the strongest people I've ever seen in fiction. I firmly headcanon (in multiple fandoms) that there is an ancient Power that sustains the wronged dead so they have a chance to see justice done. I suspect that above and beyond his sheer heart, that power was what helped keep Héctor upright and at full speed despite the condition of his bones and the memory-magic holding him together fraying at the seams. Chicharron seemed ill and infirm that close to his end, apparently rather bedridden. Héctor was up and dancing on a stage. Héctor also didn't start getting flashes until after his murder was revealed—to someone who could carry that knowledge to the living world to right those wrongs. The power sustaining him immediately started to ebb. There was probably some loophole for getting to the living world for wronged dead too; maybe to go haunt your murderer or such, to try to get justice.  Héctor might have availed himself of these bylaws, if he'd known he was murdered. But he didn't until it was too late, so he was stuck behind the photowall at the bridge gates for decades. I figured on a source for his marionette-movements as well, beyond the creators' stylistic decisions: If Héctor is pretty much running on heart, emergency power, and duct tape, it's sheer willpower keeping him animated. It's almost less that his body moves, and more that he moves his body. If he's falling apart that badly, just lifting his arm without the will to keep together might have his hand drop off! (Just look at how he sags and stretches whenever subjected to sudden or stressful movements! He almost lost his head the first time Miguel grabbed him—did lose an arm after that.) It's like he partially has to will his limbs to move, like a paralyzed telekinetic—so yes, Héctor's body is a marionette; his mind is the puppeteer tugging on the fraying strings of memory-magic keeping him together. And then he dances.

Héctor was, according to the wiki, creators, and books, 21 years old when he died in 1921. As it is canon his birthday is November 30, he would have had to have died in December of 1921, after having just barely turned 21. Inferring this date for his death gives me a headcanon that after months on the road with Ernesto,  Héctor was tired and homesick and it was almost Christmas and he didn't want to miss Christmas with his girls and that's why he was even more determined to go home. Ernesto probably had some holiday gig planned to play and was even more pissed off. It just makes the murder that much more horrible. (I mean, Christmas, Ernesto. It was Christmas season. And you had to kill the guy who just wanted to be home for the holidays.)  I will probably go cry and write fic now, because that's just the saddest thing ever. (I could be completely barking up a tree with this too—anyone know about Christmas celebration in early 1900's Mexico?  ...it's still a horribly sad thought.)

Anyone has something to say on these thoughts, please tell me if I’m wandering too far afield or if something needs further consideration! I never know if I’m letting my mind run too wild.

Lazy Days and Dumb Bets

Title: Lazy Days and Dumb Bets

Pairing: Dean x black!reader

Other Characters: Sam, Jack, Castiel

Summary: Its just another lazy day at the bunker and Dean believes that one of the reader’s favorite movies can’t make him cry, so he agrees to a bet.

WC: 1,524

A/N: For all the black girls who love Supernatural, but don’t get a chance to see themselves in the show or in fanfic. 

Today was a rarity, surprisingly, there was nothing to hunt, no archiving to do, or any cleaning to be done around the bunker. So, everyone was having their lazy day in the bunker. Sam was rereading Game of Thrones, Cas was doing whatever he does in his free time, Jack was playing on the Xbox you gifted him for Christmas, and Dean was watching Dr. Sexy, M.D. 

And, you were in your room watching tv and doing your hair. You finally had the chance to take your raggedy ass box braids down. Like, it should be a crime for how long you kept those things in, but hey when did you have the time to take them down. You were a little over halfway done with taking down the monstrosity of your hair when Dean came in. He was wearing his signature lounging about outfit: long, grey robe with a pair of black sleeping shorts and shirt that fit just right, and house slippers, just looking every part of a DILF. 

Dean was leaning against the door with his legs crossed and pointed at your hair, “You know you could’ve done that in our room. I wouldn’t have mind.” Looking up at him you replied, “I know. I just didn’t want to get hair everywhere and I really didn’t feel like watching another boring episode of Dr. Sexy.” Feigning anger, Dean said, “Hey! You respect Dr. Sexy!” Chuckling to yourself, “Ok Whatever you say. What did you need anyway?” Dean made his way to your bed, pulled you closer to him and placed a sweet kiss on your cheek, “I just missed my favorite girl and I wanted to spend some time with her.” “Well, I guess I don’t mind, since you miss me so much, but you can only stay on two conditions,” you said as you held two fingers. “Ok, shoot,” Dean replied as he made himself comfortable. “One, you help me with my hair and two, we’re watching what I want to watch.”

“You got yourself a deal, sweetheart.” Dean was reaching for the scissors and extra comb when you grabbed his wrist and faced him menacingly, “Don’t fuck up my hair, Winchester! If you do, Baby will be sporting some new scratches.” Dean just moved your hand and turned your head straight, getting ready to start, “I don’t know why you always have to threaten Baby every time I help. I only messed up that one time and it wasn’t even noticeable!” “It was one time too many. Now hush- “you turned around to shush him, “I’m about to start the movie.”

“Yes ma’am,” he gave his best salute, “What are we watching?” Giddily rocking side to side, you answered, “Coco.” Dean stopped taking down the braid he was working on and turned you to face him, “A cartoon? Are you serious, Y/N?” Jumping up from your seat, you yelled, “Hell yeah!” “First of all, its such an amazing movie, that it’ll even make you cry, Dean Winchester! It even won Best Animated Feature at the Academy Awards. And, second of all, you’re one to talk!” “What the hell do you mean by that?” Doing your best Spongebob meme impression, you bent over and looked at Dean, “Oh. Mr., I watched every episode of Scooby-Doo and always wanted to be in the gang, and Daphne is settling for Fred. Headass!”

Dean actually blushed at the mention of his childhood cartoon crush, “Alright, alright, alright. I can see your point, but ain’t no damn cartoon is gonna make me cry.”

“Wanna bet,” you asked with a smirk and raising one eyebrow. “Yeah, what do I get when I win?” Scoffing and rolling your eyes, “If you win, which means you have no soul, I’ll bake you any three pies you want and won’t complain about how unhealthy it is. But, if I win, you’ll let me drive Baby whenever I want to for a week.” Dean didn’t even think about and quickly gave his answer, “Deal.” You went to shake his hand to seal the deal, but he shook his head no and pulled you into his lap, “Uh huh, sweetheart. We don’t seal deals with handshakes, we seal them with kisses.” Dean’s hands started to leisurely roam your body starting from your thighs to your ass, hips, stomach, breasts, and eventually caressing you around your neck, while he kissed you. Regrettably, you pulled away from the kiss, tugging Dean’s bottom lip with your teeth as an end to the kiss. Just above a whisper with your forehead leaning against Dean’s you replied, “Deal.”

It was 90 minutes later, and the movie was almost over, which usually meant that you were in your bed bawling your eyes out, but this wasn’t the case today. You knew without having to look at Dean, that you won the bet and you were smiling from ear to ear. You heard him sniffling when Miguel tried to get Mamá Coco to remember her father, but by the time they were singing Remember Me, Dean was rocking more than a single man tear. You had enough decency not to poke fun at his vulnerable state, but you knew once the credits started rolling you would be getting on that ass.

Miguel and Natalia Lafourcade had just begun singing the pop version of Remember Me, when Dean just blurted out, “Fuck Ernesto De La Cruz!” You tried your hardest not to laugh, but some of your laughs did spill out. Mocking Dean, you replied, “Hey, what happen to, ‘Ain’t no damn cartoon gonna make me cry?’” Dean didn’t answer you and just walked out the room instead. For a tiny bit, you thought you really hurt his feelings, until he came back into your room and threw the car keys to you, “Here. You won. Be careful with her,” Dean mumbled. You caught the keys with one hand, tossed them on your bed, and then spider monkey jumped Dean, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, “Aw thanks babe. I promise I’ll take good care of her just like her owner. And since, you’re being such a good sport about this, I’ll still bake you those pies while I deep condition my hair” And just like that Dean Winchester turned from a sourpuss to a kid in the candy store. “Did I ever tell you, you’re the best girlfriend ever,” he asked with a low growl. Tilting your head up to think you answered, “I think so, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.” Dean gave you the kind of kiss that you felt all the way from your fingertips down to your tippy toes and answered against your lips, “You’re the best girlfriend ever.”

A couple of hours later, Dean was stabbing into his cherry pie like he wields an angel blade and was muttering ‘Fuck Ernesto De La Cruz.’ Sam was making his way through the kitchen when he stopped and asked, “Who the hell is Ernesto De La Cruz?” Before you could even laugh at Dean, he answered, “An evil motherfucker! He gives Lucifer a run for his money!” By this time, Castiel and Jack made their way into the kitchen to inspect all the commotion. Tilting his head in a Cas-like manner, Jack asked, “Who’s eviler than my father?”

Between chuckles you grabbed Jack’s shoulder and looked up at him, “A cartoon character.” Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, “Seriously, dude? A cartoon?” Even Cas decided to put is two cents in, “Come on, Dean. I seriously doubt a cartoon can evoke that kind of emotion.” Dean pointed his cherry covered forked at the taller Winchester and his angelic best friend, “Coco is a masterpiece! I bet you can’t watch it without getting attached.” Smugly smiling, Sam answered, “I betcha we can. And if we can, you have to eat my so called ‘rabbit food’ for a month and if we don’t, we’ll take over your chores for a month.” Not skipping a beat Dean replied, “Deal,” and he started walking towards to the Dean of Fortitude to begin an impromptu Winchester Movie Night. Watching all your favorite men walk away, you thought to yourself, this is gonna be awesome.

Another 90 minutes later and you had two badass hunters, one angel, and one nephilim all crying to Miguel and Mamá Coco singing together. All of them were so focused on the tv screen that they didn’t notice you holding your phone, recording them. As their tears dried up, you heard a choral of “Fuck Ernesto De La Cruz!” and ended the video. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to make fun of the boys, you went into your messages, looking for the group chat you had with Jody, Donna, Alex, and Claire to send them the video. With the video you captioned it, Look at these big ass babies lol! Not even 5 minutes after you sent the video, you saw the three little dots forming and you knew you were gonna have a hilarious night with the ladies. Thank Chuck for lazy days and dumb bets.