Sam Winchester opened his eyes to the faint light of the dawn streaming across his face. A little bearded man in square, horn-rimmed glasses was hovering over him. Bolting up, Sam twisted around, reacquainting himself with his surroundings. When had he gotten here? He could barely—
“Yeeeah, you had minor-ish, maybe loosely definable as major meltdown,” Chuck said, his hands in his robe’s pockets. He looked as if he’d been awake a week and was only surviving out of his coffee pot. But he was smiling. Sam had never seen the Prophet so happy and . . . “Calm,” Chuck said in answer to Sam’s unspoken thoughts. His voice and manner seemed to define the word. “Sorry, I squeaked out a couple of pages last night so this is all reruns to me. Wrote all the way up to brunch.”
Chuck pinched his features. “She does brunch. It’s weird. Doesn’t have to eat but she does brunch,” he shrugged.
( Read more... )
May. 19th, 2009