SPN FIC - The Kindness of Strangers
A motel, out in the middle of nowhere. Two sick travelers, and someone who understands the value of "the benefit of the doubt."
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, OFC
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1284 words
"Welcome back!" she says with the lilt in her voice Annabeth taught her to use, the one that makes her sound like a toddler, or demented.
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
By Carol Davis
They've been guests here before.
This man, and the one who's sitting out in the car, parked just outside the door.
That's the explanation. She's checked them in before, chatted with them here at the desk, offered them coffee and a donut in the morning before they set out on their way.
"Welcome back!" she says with the lilt in her voice Annabeth taught her to use, the one that makes her sound like a toddler, or demented.
The man on the other side of the desk blinks at her. Frowns.
Not a return guest, then.
Joey, Annabeth's youngest son, said to her once: "Aunt Aud, your facial recognition software doesn't work for shit." And that's true. On line at the market, or walking around the mall, she'll often see someone who looks familiar - and then struggle for twenty minutes trying to figure out who they are. Once, it was her mailman, out of uniform, wearing jeans and a Yankees t-shirt. Another time, it was the girl who'd done her hair a few times while Jeanette was out on maternity leave.
A few months back, she was sure she'd spotted Matt Damon admiring a jacket in a store window. When she pointed him out to Joey, Joey gave her a hug and said gently, "Aunt Aud, we're in Nebraska."
She should ask, she thinks.
She should come right out and ask this young man how she knows him and his friend, the one out in the car.
He speaks first, though, in a raspy voice. "Cash okay?"
He's sick. Flu, she thinks. His nose is the same shade as the lipstick she bought faithfully until Cover Girl discontinued it, some five or six years ago. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and he's sniffled a dozen times since he came in the door.
"Would you like a tissue?" she asks.
There's a box underneath the counter; they keep it there because of Annabeth's allergies. Smiling, she pulls it out into the light and thrusts it at him.
"Cash?" he prods.
"What? Oh. Yes. Of course. That's fine. Cash is fine."
He takes some tissues then, three of them, and layers them together. When he's finished blowing his nose (which produces an alarming quantity of mucus), he wads the tissues up and shoves them into the pocket of his jacket. She offers the box again, but this time he shakes his head.
He's not Matt Damon, or her mailman. He's certainly not the girl who washed and set her hair while Jeanette was off caring for her new baby.
But he's terribly, terribly familiar.
"Help an old lady out," she says softly. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"No," he says. "Ma'am."
"Are you sure?"
TV, she thinks. She knows this young man from TV. From one of those reality shows. She watches them all: American Idol, Survivor, The Apprentice, The Amazing Race, The Biggest Loser, Dancing with the Stars, Real Housewives, even Jersey Shore. That adds up to a lot of people.
For that matter, he could be a supporting player on any one of the shows with actual stories. Or a soap.
He doesn't want to be recognized. Not when he's sick.
"You take this," she says, sliding the box of tissues across the desk. They're the good kind, the Ultra Soft with Lotion. Much easier on the nose than the bulk-grade Kleenex they stock the rooms with.
"I -" he starts.
She nods toward the door, toward the car parked outside. "Is he sick too?"
Her mystery man smiles a little, crookedly, and sighs. "Drove eighteen hundred miles with him sittin' eighteen inches away from me. Yeah, he's sick too."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
He snuffles again, reflexively begins to lift the back of his hand to his face, then thinks better of it and pulls another tissue out of the box. He's definitely got the flu; he's pale, and the starch is starting to bleed out of him - what little there was of it to begin with - and he plainly wants to be done with this, to find a bed and crawl in under the covers.
"Room fourteen," she tells him. "It's just there, to the left."
"Two beds?"
"They all have two beds."
On the registration form, he wrote the name JOHN SMITH, with an address in Pennsylvania. It's fake, she imagines, if he's from TV. If he doesn't want her calling the local paper, or Channel Four, or the National Enquirer, to tell them he's here.
They shouldn't allow that, Annabeth told her; they need credit card numbers and real names, in case there's trouble. That's nonsense, though. If there's trouble, a credit card number and something that looks like a real name won't get rid of it.
This young man - the one leaning hard against the desk, like he's burning his last ounce of energy - he's not going to cause any trouble. He just wants to sleep. He wants a bed, and some peace and quiet, and he's going to pay for it in cash, with bills that look far too well-used to be counterfeit.
"You go on, then," she says, after she's collected payment for the room and tucked it away in the cash drawer under the counter. "Get settled in. Room fourteen, right over there. It has two nice new mattresses. Very comfy. There are extra blankets in the closet, on the top shelf. And it's a good, warm room. Out of the wind."
He begins to murmur a thank you.
"I'll bring you some supper," she says.
He blinks at her, puzzled. There's no coffee shop here, no room service. There's a Denny's three-quarters of a mile down the road, and he might or might not be aware of all of that.
But she's not about to send him to Denny's to eat, or even suggest it, not when he can barely stand up. There's a well-stocked pantry in the apartment in the back, where she and Annabeth and Joey live; they can certainly spare a couple of cans of soup and some bread and butter. Maybe a chicken sandwich, meat sliced nice and thin.
Some tea.
"You don't have to do that," he says, but it's not much of a protest.
"Yes I do," she replies.
She knows him from somewhere: she's sure of that. It probably doesn't mean she owes him anything, other than simple courtesy. Someone else might offer him less than that - might make it plain to him that he's not going to get away with anything shady, not here, not now.
If Annabeth were standing here, instead of being down at the church hall, setting up for the spring tag sale, she might say, Make sure you know who this is, Audrey, before you let him in the door. I don't care if you think you saw him on The Amazing Race. If he won't tell you who he is, he could be trouble.
But she's only been here a few months.
And her David taught her to give people the benefit of the doubt.
"You go on, now," she says. "Get in where it's warm, and I'll bring you some soup."
Something crosses his face, a thing that makes her want to embrace this young man, offer the comfort it seems he hasn't experienced in a long time. "Doesn't say that on the sign," he murmurs, and coughs. "Says HBO, and Free Continental Breakfast. Doesn't say anything about soup."
He's silent for a moment, and she can hear the wind whistling up under the eaves.
Then he whispers, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," she says.
She feels like she's never meant anything more fully than that in her life.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, OFC
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1284 words
"Welcome back!" she says with the lilt in her voice Annabeth taught her to use, the one that makes her sound like a toddler, or demented.
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
By Carol Davis
They've been guests here before.
This man, and the one who's sitting out in the car, parked just outside the door.
That's the explanation. She's checked them in before, chatted with them here at the desk, offered them coffee and a donut in the morning before they set out on their way.
"Welcome back!" she says with the lilt in her voice Annabeth taught her to use, the one that makes her sound like a toddler, or demented.
The man on the other side of the desk blinks at her. Frowns.
Not a return guest, then.
Joey, Annabeth's youngest son, said to her once: "Aunt Aud, your facial recognition software doesn't work for shit." And that's true. On line at the market, or walking around the mall, she'll often see someone who looks familiar - and then struggle for twenty minutes trying to figure out who they are. Once, it was her mailman, out of uniform, wearing jeans and a Yankees t-shirt. Another time, it was the girl who'd done her hair a few times while Jeanette was out on maternity leave.
A few months back, she was sure she'd spotted Matt Damon admiring a jacket in a store window. When she pointed him out to Joey, Joey gave her a hug and said gently, "Aunt Aud, we're in Nebraska."
She should ask, she thinks.
She should come right out and ask this young man how she knows him and his friend, the one out in the car.
He speaks first, though, in a raspy voice. "Cash okay?"
He's sick. Flu, she thinks. His nose is the same shade as the lipstick she bought faithfully until Cover Girl discontinued it, some five or six years ago. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and he's sniffled a dozen times since he came in the door.
"Would you like a tissue?" she asks.
There's a box underneath the counter; they keep it there because of Annabeth's allergies. Smiling, she pulls it out into the light and thrusts it at him.
"Cash?" he prods.
"What? Oh. Yes. Of course. That's fine. Cash is fine."
He takes some tissues then, three of them, and layers them together. When he's finished blowing his nose (which produces an alarming quantity of mucus), he wads the tissues up and shoves them into the pocket of his jacket. She offers the box again, but this time he shakes his head.
He's not Matt Damon, or her mailman. He's certainly not the girl who washed and set her hair while Jeanette was off caring for her new baby.
But he's terribly, terribly familiar.
"Help an old lady out," she says softly. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"No," he says. "Ma'am."
"Are you sure?"
TV, she thinks. She knows this young man from TV. From one of those reality shows. She watches them all: American Idol, Survivor, The Apprentice, The Amazing Race, The Biggest Loser, Dancing with the Stars, Real Housewives, even Jersey Shore. That adds up to a lot of people.
For that matter, he could be a supporting player on any one of the shows with actual stories. Or a soap.
He doesn't want to be recognized. Not when he's sick.
"You take this," she says, sliding the box of tissues across the desk. They're the good kind, the Ultra Soft with Lotion. Much easier on the nose than the bulk-grade Kleenex they stock the rooms with.
"I -" he starts.
She nods toward the door, toward the car parked outside. "Is he sick too?"
Her mystery man smiles a little, crookedly, and sighs. "Drove eighteen hundred miles with him sittin' eighteen inches away from me. Yeah, he's sick too."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
He snuffles again, reflexively begins to lift the back of his hand to his face, then thinks better of it and pulls another tissue out of the box. He's definitely got the flu; he's pale, and the starch is starting to bleed out of him - what little there was of it to begin with - and he plainly wants to be done with this, to find a bed and crawl in under the covers.
"Room fourteen," she tells him. "It's just there, to the left."
"Two beds?"
"They all have two beds."
On the registration form, he wrote the name JOHN SMITH, with an address in Pennsylvania. It's fake, she imagines, if he's from TV. If he doesn't want her calling the local paper, or Channel Four, or the National Enquirer, to tell them he's here.
They shouldn't allow that, Annabeth told her; they need credit card numbers and real names, in case there's trouble. That's nonsense, though. If there's trouble, a credit card number and something that looks like a real name won't get rid of it.
This young man - the one leaning hard against the desk, like he's burning his last ounce of energy - he's not going to cause any trouble. He just wants to sleep. He wants a bed, and some peace and quiet, and he's going to pay for it in cash, with bills that look far too well-used to be counterfeit.
"You go on, then," she says, after she's collected payment for the room and tucked it away in the cash drawer under the counter. "Get settled in. Room fourteen, right over there. It has two nice new mattresses. Very comfy. There are extra blankets in the closet, on the top shelf. And it's a good, warm room. Out of the wind."
He begins to murmur a thank you.
"I'll bring you some supper," she says.
He blinks at her, puzzled. There's no coffee shop here, no room service. There's a Denny's three-quarters of a mile down the road, and he might or might not be aware of all of that.
But she's not about to send him to Denny's to eat, or even suggest it, not when he can barely stand up. There's a well-stocked pantry in the apartment in the back, where she and Annabeth and Joey live; they can certainly spare a couple of cans of soup and some bread and butter. Maybe a chicken sandwich, meat sliced nice and thin.
Some tea.
"You don't have to do that," he says, but it's not much of a protest.
"Yes I do," she replies.
She knows him from somewhere: she's sure of that. It probably doesn't mean she owes him anything, other than simple courtesy. Someone else might offer him less than that - might make it plain to him that he's not going to get away with anything shady, not here, not now.
If Annabeth were standing here, instead of being down at the church hall, setting up for the spring tag sale, she might say, Make sure you know who this is, Audrey, before you let him in the door. I don't care if you think you saw him on The Amazing Race. If he won't tell you who he is, he could be trouble.
But she's only been here a few months.
And her David taught her to give people the benefit of the doubt.
"You go on, now," she says. "Get in where it's warm, and I'll bring you some soup."
Something crosses his face, a thing that makes her want to embrace this young man, offer the comfort it seems he hasn't experienced in a long time. "Doesn't say that on the sign," he murmurs, and coughs. "Says HBO, and Free Continental Breakfast. Doesn't say anything about soup."
He's silent for a moment, and she can hear the wind whistling up under the eaves.
Then he whispers, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," she says.
She feels like she's never meant anything more fully than that in her life.
* * * * *