I'm gonna be honest given the choice between spending my winter break in some strange frozen dreamscape with no visible means of leaving and sacramento........... i'd pick this place every time.

are we SURE there's no way to communicate with our home worlds though? Because i don't mind staying for a bit IT COULD NE INTERESTING!! but if I do't at least leave a message with my editor she will literally kill me and I'd at least like to finish my Masters before i die I think. i worked so hard onit.

Oh! and what's the Supernatural Community like around here?? i figure if I'm around I might as well see if I can collect research for another book, right? maybe then May will only MOSTLY kill me instead of completely.

[ patrick isn't exactly built for cold weather. not this cold, anyway. between ireland and california, his knowledge of snow was mostly academic. he doesn't even own a good winter coat, and had to resort to layering 3 deep before he even contemplated stepping outside.

it helped, for a little while, but his hand circulation is complete garbage and he lost complete feeling in his fingers about five minutes ago. that cannot be good. not that he's an expert on any of this stuff. in fact, just to be safe, he quickly crosses the distance between himself and the first person he comes across and shoves his ungloved hands into their face. ]

H-h-h-hey is it b-b-bad if m-my fing-gert-t-tip-ps are t-t-turn-ning b-blue?

[ he's not sure if it's thanks to the societal implications of the season or something especially strange about this curious little dream town, but patrick swears he keeps catching glimpses of his mother and stepsister around town, little flickers of motion and color out of the corner of his eye that has him spinning on his heels anxiously every couple of blocks until he's honestly dizzy from it.

he stops to lean against a brickfaced storefront until his equilibrium settles, then stays leaning a little longer, eyes cast down because he can't glimpse them if he's too busy staring at his feet, right? except that's when their voice drift in, ghost like and carried along by the frigid wind, cutting through him sharper than the chill ever could.

patrick shivers and contemplated buying a pair of earmuffs.

he doesn't want to see them, he's been very clear with his therapist on that matter before, yet for some reason his subconscious appears to firmly disagree with him now and he has no idea why. his mother says she's worried. imee says she misses him. patrick firmly covers his ears and all but flings himself around the corner of the building, determined to find some sort of distraction.

only to collide firmly with another person and get sent sprawling to the icy ground. ] You know, with the number of times this has happened to me in my life, I really should have had a meet cute by now. I feel like corporate Hollywood has been lying to me my entire life.

[ how would you even know if you had a meet cute, totoy, when you refuse to open your eyes?

imee's voice sounds like it's being spoken directly into his ear now, and patrick makes an abortive gesture to cover his ears again with his hands again, before grounding his hands into the asphalt below him instead and using that cold prickling pain as a distraction to drown her out as he turns his attention to his new company instead, smiling wide. ]

Hey so is there something strange going on in town right now, or do I need to schedule an emergency session with a therapist-does this place even have licensed practitioners? I can't remember when America started pretending to care about people's mental health.