You'd think that, for a hunter, getting out of a bed would be no trouble at all. Of course, for most hunters, it would be. For Nim, who had woken up completely entangled with a heavily sleeping Dean, getting up without waking him had proved to be nearly tiring enough to warrant getting back into the bed again. Still, once she was out, there was no going back. She dressed in fresh clothes, pausing a moment to brush a soft kiss to Dean's temple, tucking the covers over him once again, and slipped from the guest room, making her quiet way back down the stairs toward the main rooms. Her stomach was growling, and a glance at the clock on the wall suggested that making a meal for everyone in the house might be a good idea. Stepping into the kitchen, she turned her attention to the refridgerator, wondering whether Bobby had anything that could possibly be classed as food.
Bobby's kitchen was generally not all that well stocked up on food, unless you counted a decent supply of beer and Doritos. But he was about to have a houseful of guests and once Bill had arrived, he'd taken control of the situation and had insisted on going shopping for groceries. Hence, the once empty cupboards had been changed into a well-stocked kitchen. As for himself, Bill liked to putter around the kitchen and thought of himself as a bit of an aspiring gourmet when he wasn't busy hunting or running the Roadhouse.
Opening up the fridge, Nim blinked in surprise, one hand resting on the top of the door as she scanned the well-stocked receptacle with a quietly pleased smile. "Well, Bobby, you didn't strike me as the good food type," she murmured to herself in amusement, bending to rummage curiously. "Soup and sandwiches, maybe?"
The house was quiet for the most part with Dean sleeping upstairs and Bobby missing, most likely hiding in the library doing research or handling calls to and from hunters. A voice was heard coming from behind her as another man stepped in through the back door. "You must be Nimue," Bill Harvelle said, stating the obvious as he shut the door behind him and stepped into the kitchen. He was nearly as tall as Dean, with brown hair just starting to gray at the temples, and brown eyes. He was a handsome man, roughly in his late 40s or early 50s, with an easy smile, but that slightly weary look on his face that seemed to come with hunting.
Nim reacted predictably enough to the unexpected, unrecognized voice, spinning from her bend to draw her gun from her pants. Her thumb was halfway through flicking the safety off before she made the logical connection, offering up a sheepish half-smile of apology. "I guess that makes you Bill, then," she answered, tucking the gun into the back of her pants once again. Her eyes lingered on his face, unconsciously looking for any similarity to the face she saw in the mirror most days.
"Guilty as charged," he replied, nodding his head and pointing at the fridge. "Mind grabbing me a beer while you're in there?" He seemed completely at ease, though there was no way of telling how much Bobby had already told him. "So, Bobby tells me you're the one who graffitied his walls."
It took a moment to realize he'd asked for something, dragging her eyes from their fascinated study of his face to turn and snag a bottle from the fridge, passing it over. "Graffiti" That's one way of putting it," she smiled faintly, nodding to herself as she started peeling onions. "You'll know why once Brian gets here. It's a long story, and not one I personally want to hear three times." Once had been bad enough, after all. She paused, looking Bill over thoughtfully. "You wanna make yourself useful here, or are you a stand, watch, and eat person?"
"Fair enough," Bill replied, regarding the sigils and the story, though he had a few ideas of his own about what might be going on, and Bobby had told him a little. He cracked the beer open and tossed the cap in the trash before taking a long swallow and answering her question. "I can work my way around a kitchen pretty well," he offered. "What are you planning on cooking up" I thought I heard you mumble something about soup and sandwiches." He took another swallow of his beer as he took a lean on the counter.
"Well, I was thinking French onion soup," Nim mused thoughtfully, flicking her peelings into the bin. "Have to toast the bread rather than bake it, but that won't change the taste much. Should be a shock to the system for the fast food junkies in the house." She grinned, the expression ever so slightly evil; if she had the run of the kitchen, Bobby and Dean were going to find out exactly why Brian constantly moaned about her cooking. She wasn't a bad cook, not at all, but even her cheeseburgers were healthier than most.
"French onion soup that doesn't come out of a can?" he asked, arching a brow, looking duly impressed. He took another swallow of his beer and set the bottle aside, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I'm pretty good in the kitchen. What do you need me to do?" He'd had Bobby's cooking, which wasn't really cooking at all, and was looking forward to seeing the look on the man's face when he was faced with a real meal for a change.
Her eyes strayed back to Bill curiously once again. "I'm sorry, I have to ask ....you don't know anyone called Ellen, by any chance, do you?" Never mind that Apollo had said Ellen Harvelle was unique to the reality she had died in, Nim really wanted to know if there was anything familiar about her to the man who wasn't her father in this reality.
Bill reached for an onion and started peeling without being told what to do, shrugging when she mentioned the name, not thinking much of it. "Not intimately. Someone you know?" he asked, having no idea that in an alternate universe, he'd been married to a woman named Ellen and had a daughter named Joanna.
"My mom, apparently. I don't remember her." She didn't see any point in lying; he was going to find out the truth eventually. "Peel and slice the onions, cook them in butter." Which she placed on the chopping board beside him before turning to investigate the cupboards for the rest of what she would need. "I don't remember my dad, either. Most of what I know about my parents, Dean told me." Did he know Dean Winchester was back from the dead and currently dead to the world upstairs"
"You're Brian's Jane Doe. The girl he found wounded in the alley a few years ago," Bill said, remembering hearing the story from Bobby at one point. He'd heard about Dean, too. Word had spread like wildfire throughout the hunter community. "Are they still alive" Your folks, I mean. If they are, maybe you can track them down. Even if you don't remember them, they might remember you." He made no other comment regarding Dean for now, focusing his attention on her and her questions regarding her family as he peeled and sliced.
Nim paused, biting her lip as she considered just how to try and explain this part. "You see, that's where it gets interesting," she admitted ruefully. "I'm not from around here, exactly. I'm more, sort of, from a different reality that kinda runs parallel to this one?" She wasn't sure why it came out as a question; perhaps her subconscious wanted to know if he was going to accept this much before she dropped the really weird on him.
"A different reality?" he repeated, glancing up from the onion to look at her. He'd seen some weird things in his day, but that just about took the cake. Then again, it explained a few things. "You don't sound too sure. You either are or you aren't. There's no sort of." He returned his attention to the onion slicing, ears open to whatever it was she seemed to want to say.
Bobby's kitchen was generally not all that well stocked up on food, unless you counted a decent supply of beer and Doritos. But he was about to have a houseful of guests and once Bill had arrived, he'd taken control of the situation and had insisted on going shopping for groceries. Hence, the once empty cupboards had been changed into a well-stocked kitchen. As for himself, Bill liked to putter around the kitchen and thought of himself as a bit of an aspiring gourmet when he wasn't busy hunting or running the Roadhouse.
Opening up the fridge, Nim blinked in surprise, one hand resting on the top of the door as she scanned the well-stocked receptacle with a quietly pleased smile. "Well, Bobby, you didn't strike me as the good food type," she murmured to herself in amusement, bending to rummage curiously. "Soup and sandwiches, maybe?"
The house was quiet for the most part with Dean sleeping upstairs and Bobby missing, most likely hiding in the library doing research or handling calls to and from hunters. A voice was heard coming from behind her as another man stepped in through the back door. "You must be Nimue," Bill Harvelle said, stating the obvious as he shut the door behind him and stepped into the kitchen. He was nearly as tall as Dean, with brown hair just starting to gray at the temples, and brown eyes. He was a handsome man, roughly in his late 40s or early 50s, with an easy smile, but that slightly weary look on his face that seemed to come with hunting.
Nim reacted predictably enough to the unexpected, unrecognized voice, spinning from her bend to draw her gun from her pants. Her thumb was halfway through flicking the safety off before she made the logical connection, offering up a sheepish half-smile of apology. "I guess that makes you Bill, then," she answered, tucking the gun into the back of her pants once again. Her eyes lingered on his face, unconsciously looking for any similarity to the face she saw in the mirror most days.
"Guilty as charged," he replied, nodding his head and pointing at the fridge. "Mind grabbing me a beer while you're in there?" He seemed completely at ease, though there was no way of telling how much Bobby had already told him. "So, Bobby tells me you're the one who graffitied his walls."
It took a moment to realize he'd asked for something, dragging her eyes from their fascinated study of his face to turn and snag a bottle from the fridge, passing it over. "Graffiti" That's one way of putting it," she smiled faintly, nodding to herself as she started peeling onions. "You'll know why once Brian gets here. It's a long story, and not one I personally want to hear three times." Once had been bad enough, after all. She paused, looking Bill over thoughtfully. "You wanna make yourself useful here, or are you a stand, watch, and eat person?"
"Fair enough," Bill replied, regarding the sigils and the story, though he had a few ideas of his own about what might be going on, and Bobby had told him a little. He cracked the beer open and tossed the cap in the trash before taking a long swallow and answering her question. "I can work my way around a kitchen pretty well," he offered. "What are you planning on cooking up" I thought I heard you mumble something about soup and sandwiches." He took another swallow of his beer as he took a lean on the counter.
"Well, I was thinking French onion soup," Nim mused thoughtfully, flicking her peelings into the bin. "Have to toast the bread rather than bake it, but that won't change the taste much. Should be a shock to the system for the fast food junkies in the house." She grinned, the expression ever so slightly evil; if she had the run of the kitchen, Bobby and Dean were going to find out exactly why Brian constantly moaned about her cooking. She wasn't a bad cook, not at all, but even her cheeseburgers were healthier than most.
"French onion soup that doesn't come out of a can?" he asked, arching a brow, looking duly impressed. He took another swallow of his beer and set the bottle aside, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I'm pretty good in the kitchen. What do you need me to do?" He'd had Bobby's cooking, which wasn't really cooking at all, and was looking forward to seeing the look on the man's face when he was faced with a real meal for a change.
Her eyes strayed back to Bill curiously once again. "I'm sorry, I have to ask ....you don't know anyone called Ellen, by any chance, do you?" Never mind that Apollo had said Ellen Harvelle was unique to the reality she had died in, Nim really wanted to know if there was anything familiar about her to the man who wasn't her father in this reality.
Bill reached for an onion and started peeling without being told what to do, shrugging when she mentioned the name, not thinking much of it. "Not intimately. Someone you know?" he asked, having no idea that in an alternate universe, he'd been married to a woman named Ellen and had a daughter named Joanna.
"My mom, apparently. I don't remember her." She didn't see any point in lying; he was going to find out the truth eventually. "Peel and slice the onions, cook them in butter." Which she placed on the chopping board beside him before turning to investigate the cupboards for the rest of what she would need. "I don't remember my dad, either. Most of what I know about my parents, Dean told me." Did he know Dean Winchester was back from the dead and currently dead to the world upstairs"
"You're Brian's Jane Doe. The girl he found wounded in the alley a few years ago," Bill said, remembering hearing the story from Bobby at one point. He'd heard about Dean, too. Word had spread like wildfire throughout the hunter community. "Are they still alive" Your folks, I mean. If they are, maybe you can track them down. Even if you don't remember them, they might remember you." He made no other comment regarding Dean for now, focusing his attention on her and her questions regarding her family as he peeled and sliced.
Nim paused, biting her lip as she considered just how to try and explain this part. "You see, that's where it gets interesting," she admitted ruefully. "I'm not from around here, exactly. I'm more, sort of, from a different reality that kinda runs parallel to this one?" She wasn't sure why it came out as a question; perhaps her subconscious wanted to know if he was going to accept this much before she dropped the really weird on him.
"A different reality?" he repeated, glancing up from the onion to look at her. He'd seen some weird things in his day, but that just about took the cake. Then again, it explained a few things. "You don't sound too sure. You either are or you aren't. There's no sort of." He returned his attention to the onion slicing, ears open to whatever it was she seemed to want to say.