It was cold and it had only just stopped snowing (again). Ellen was hoping for a nice, steaming mug of hot chocolate by the fire and maybe some quality time with a good book. What she got was Bobby fucking Singer.
"Holy shit." She stopped short in the middle of the path and slid a bit on the snow, her hands flying untucked from the pockets of her coat and to catch herself. She huffed out a frozen breath, her eyes wide. Bobby. Bobby Singer. Her brain was still catching up. Gruff voice. Trucker hat. Gun in hand. She blinked.
She smiled fondly at him, glad he was there. Gosh, she felt safe for some reason. Like things were just a bit better. Which, to be honest, they really were. It was good to see him again.
She realized they were still standing in the middle of the snow, and her eyes widened at Bobby's thin jacket. She stepped forward, grabbing his arm (half for support; it was damn slippery out) and leading him toward the compound. "Jesus, Bobby, I've been jawing about this crazy island and you're here freezing your ass off. Let's go inside."
"Damn good idea, Ellen," Bobby replied with a relieved smile, automatically bending his arm at the elbow when she took it. It was a hell of a thing he'd found himself in, but he was glad it had been Ellen that found him first. Always a good thing to have familiar faces around.
She squeezed his elbow, heading toward the compound. "We have coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and hopefully a couple answers." She shrugged. "Though I hafta tell you-- this place gets weirder and weirder every day." She paused. "This is a tropical island, Bobby. It's usually 80 degrees and sunny. But for the past month, it's been a goddamn winter wonderland." She shook her head. "This place not only drags people from wherever and whenever, it messes with us while we're here." She chuckled. "And it has it's own sick sense of humor."
"Holy shit." She stopped short in the middle of the path and slid a bit on the snow, her hands flying untucked from the pockets of her coat and to catch herself. She huffed out a frozen breath, her eyes wide. Bobby. Bobby Singer. Her brain was still catching up. Gruff voice. Trucker hat. Gun in hand. She blinked.
"Bobby?"
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She realized they were still standing in the middle of the snow, and her eyes widened at Bobby's thin jacket. She stepped forward, grabbing his arm (half for support; it was damn slippery out) and leading him toward the compound. "Jesus, Bobby, I've been jawing about this crazy island and you're here freezing your ass off. Let's go inside."
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