Fic: The Kindness of Strangers (PG)

[unamaga]

Title: The Kindness of Strangers
Pairing: Gen, no pairing
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1,423 words
Notes: For the first spn_hols prompt, "Hot Chocolate".

“The car’s busted,” Dean says, irritated. “There’s something wrong with the alternator. Three days until the mechanic can get the right part.”

They’re stuck just outside the border of Vermont in Massachusetts. Sam can tell that his brother is sulking even before Dean shucks off his snow-damp jacket and flops down on the bed next to him.

“It’s only a few days,” Sam says reasonably. “Probably better we can’t go anywhere. There are power outages all over the place from the snow.”

Dean huffs, getting up and pacing between the beds. He looks more agitated than the situation really calls for, raking a hand through his hair so it sticks up in all directions. “I really hate snow,” he grumbles. “Like, a lot.”

“I know,” Sam says, even though he doesn’t. Dean hasn’t ever reacted like this before. He's stomping around so hard his boots are leaving wet puddles all over the ragged carpeting, and Sam just knows he’s going to step in every single one of them with his socks on when he gets up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

His brother makes a frustrated sound and shrugs back into his jacket, startling Sam out of his thoughts. “I’m going for a walk,” he announces, and then the door is slamming behind him.

Sam stares at the stupid wreath on the window for a minute after Dean walks by it, bemused.

:::

Fucking snow, Dean thinks, kicking at one of the huge lumps in the middle of the parking lot. It showers down impressively, sparkling white and purple, and Dean really, really hates New England weather.

He walks away from the motel, down the street to that convenience store he’d seen on the way in—Bob’s or something. By the time he sees the open for business sign through the gale, he’s taking stock of all the parts of his body he can’t feel for sheer entertainment value. Nose, ears, fingers, eyebrows, and, oh, there goes his entire lower half.

Bob-or-something opens the door for him when he gets close, a red scarf around his hands to keep them warm and two different kinds of hats on his head. He’s smiling hugely, though, obviously pleased to see he has a customer.

“Hello there, young man,” he says jovially as he presses his entire body against the door to slam it behind Dean. “You look like you are thoroughly enjoying our wonderful state.” That startles a smile out of Dean, even though he can’t really feel his lips or cheeks.

“Well, come on over towards the heater, boy,” Bob-or-something continues, ushering Dean over to a dubious looking radiator. It’s warm, even though it looks like it hasn’t seen a tool since Dean was born, so he puts his hands out and tries not to wince when the pins and needles start in.

“What’re you doing out in the cold this time o’ day?” The man fiddles happily with a few honest-to-God glass bottles of soda, stacking them into a pyramid.

“Needed to get out,” Dean explains and starts to actually look around. The shop is like something out of the 1950’s: the shelves are lined with old-looking packages and tube tooth paste, every label is carefully aimed at where the customer might stand, and the floor is well-polished tile. “Nice place.”

“It’s my favorite thing in all the world.” Bob smiles wide and proud. “Now what was it you were here for, Mr.—“

“Dean. Dean Winchester.”

“Ah, I see,” Bob says, and for a minute, his eyes are all too knowing. “What can I get for you, Mr. Winchester?”

“Dean’s fine,” Dean says, rocking back on his heels uncomfortably. “And I’m not really looking for anything in particular. Like I said, just needed to get out for a while, y’know?”

Bob nods, coming out from behind the counter and putting a paternal hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“I think what you need is some hot cocoa,” he says, conspiratorially. “My wife always tells me there ain’t nothing hot cocoa can’t fix.” Smiling, he ducks into the second aisle and comes out holding an old-fashioned tin of cocoa powder, which he hands off to Dean.

“Take it, son, no charge. You look like you need all the help you can get.”

Dean starts to protest, “No, sir, I can’t take this for free. At least let me give you some—“

But Bob cuts him off, blue eyes glinting with secret pleasure, wagging a finger. “I’ll have none of that. Think of it as a gift—an early Christmas gift, from me to you, if you’d like,” he says. His bright smile stretches even wider, and Dean can feel an answering twitch in his mouth. “You’re the first person who’s come in here in a while. It was nice to have a little company.”

Dean can feel something low in his chest warming, and not because of the shop’s radiator. “Thank you, sir,” he says softly, meeting Bob’s eyes.

“Think nothing of it, my boy.” Bob ushers him over to the door, broad palm comfortable against Dean’s shoulder. He has his other hand on the door handle when he looks over, wrinkled, worn face filled with warmth. “You ever feel lost again, Dean Winchester, you come find me, you hear? I have plenty of cocoa and a pot in the back to make it in.”

His eyes are so shockingly blue for a minute that all Dean can do is nod while Bob opens the door. The blast of cool air hits his skin all at once, and Bob has to tap him on the back to get him moving. Every drop of heat is immediately leeched from his body, and he feels like he’s about to turn into an icicle. He wants that hot cocoa with Bob so badly right then it almost hurts.

He turns around once his feet hit the icy path to say thank you, to tell Bob everything about his father and Sam and how he can’t do this, to beg him for guidance, but the whole shop is empty. The windows are shattered, dirt and snow along the panes. The door is busted in, the wooden frame splintering with the force of however many snow storms just like this one it’s seen.

Dean stares for what seems like hours, even though, in hindsight, he knows he shouldn’t be all that surprised. By the time he’s back at the motel, kicking his boots against the outside of the doorway to get the excess snow off the bottoms, he thinks his nose might be falling off, but he feels much lighter than he did two hours ago.

He closes the door behind him softly. Sam’s laying on his side on top of the covers, a book in one hand and two mugs on the nightstand next to him. He murmurs sleepily to himself, curling his toes, and sits up a little to face where Dean is just taking his boots off.

“What’re those for?” Dean asks, pitching his voice low. The room is all muted lighting and hushed wind; even his footsteps seem to echo as he makes his way across the carpeting. Sam sits up a little more, leaning back against the headboard and rubbing his cheeks. He looks twelve again, small and just woken up.

Sam’s eyes flit towards the nightstand for a minute, like he’s not sure what Dean means. “Oh,” he says. “I thought you’d want some hot chocolate when you got back from your walk. It’s pretty cold out there.”

Dean’s heart quietly skips a beat.

“I didn’t know where the mix was, though. It wasn’t in your duffle where you normally keep it,” Sam continues, fiddling with the edge of a sheet. Dean sits down next to him and pulls the cocoa tin from Bob out of his jacket. It’s small and perfect, a sweet picture of a couple being pulled in a horse-drawn carriage on the top.

“We ran out last week,” Dean says, thumbing the edge of the tin. “But I’ve got it covered.”

Sam smiles at him. “You know, Jess used to love hot chocolate,” he says, and Dean’s ears perk. Sam never talks about Jess unless he has to. “She would always say there wasn’t anything hot chocolate couldn’t fix.”

Clearing his throat, Dean pulls off the tin’s lid. The smooth aroma of good, pure cocoa hits him all at once.

“Jess was a bright girl,” he says and thinks of kind blue eyes.