The wolves Phaedra herself had protected other gypsies from had been actual wolves, but there was always a whisper of werewolves, of shapeshifters, of magic. She'd known the other kind existed. And she knew about Nicolai. She suspected that the bloodline for that went very far back, probably to her own time.
I'm a good listener. Seems like you need someone to talk to.
It had been quite some time since she had that. Jo tried, and Phaedra liked her very much for that. Dean really didn't, though she spent time with him. Phaedra felt that it was less the hunter attitude she'd once tried to slap out of him and more the turmoil with his family in their twisted situation, and she didn't blame him for it.
She'd talked to Harry. And before that, Lindsey. Phaedra did not trust easily.
Which is why this tired wolf saying what he'd just said was so very, very amusing to her, and very, very ironic. He had not had to work for her trust at all. He just felt like coming home.
"You're a tired good listener," she corrected. It was fairly obvious to her, though, that despite whatever exhaustion, Peter wasn't going to go rest. Another person, she'd have offered two reasonable options: coffee or sleep. At this point, she simply got up and put hot water on the small stove. There was no tea pot that would whistle, but there was everything you needed to make coffee.
Winchesters needed that, after all.
Phaedra sat back down without pushing the chair back into the table. She had a lot of questions for him, if he was going to sit here and wait for dawn with her--which she really suspected he was going to try to do.
He was a good listener. A good listener with an infatuation, or more than that. Phaedra wondered if the weird, at-home feeling was happening for him, too.
"Where were you before this? There's a lot of craziness to talk about."
She let that lay there. Any way you took that sentence, it was accurate.