Snow was slowly falling over that man's body as he stared aimlessly like a cold statue, and only his weak breath could prove that he was alive. He stood still and silent. Then, he closed his eyes, perhaps to contain his growing impatience, perhaps he just had nothing to pay attention to. The latter was more likely, though the man had been waiting for the bus for hours, which might not come at all, according to Dean's personal experience. It was midnight, and so damn cold. Dean would have cut the driver some slack if not for that weirdo.
Dean's heart skipped a beat when weirdo looked at him, or to be exact, to Bobby's store. Creepy though it might be, Dean had been observing weirdo through the glass window, with his chin on his hand.
I'm bored, okay? It sucks watching over the store.
He could have been having some thoroughly disgusting dreams, or doing something more exciting to spend the night. Still, he'd rather it be him than Bobby to stay up. Old man was sick.
So here he was. Dean argued with himself that whether weirdo would come in—and eventually, he did not. Weirdo just tightened his treachcoat to attain some more warmth. His attire wasted those blue eyes. His hair was too messy. That awkward philosopher didn't care about his appearance in the least, or the bus, to be frank, since he was beginning to convince Dean that he wanted to stay, right there, instead of going to his original destination.
The fluorescent lamp overhead was humming pleasantly when a weary sigh melted into the darkness in a blink of an eye.
Dean could find peace even amidst the loudest honking of cars. It was a nasty neighbourhood, people were loud and impolite, and some lived and thrived on the wallets of innocent tourists who had probably come for the memorial chapel on the outskirts of town—the only attraction Dean could think of. It still provided services, and money, after all these years. Days were more or less the same. They elapsed, consuming everyone's life like chronic posion as you drifted into your peaceful sleep after a repetition of yesterday without any guilt.
This was the place where dreams came to die.
The man's phone rang. He took it out clumsily and answered the call with a frown flashing acorss his face upon the whatever message, to Dean's surprise. Dean had reasonably expected his phone to be broken, and almost wanted to go out to lend him his, which sounded rather weird and exposed the fact that Dean'd been practically stalking him. So the thought had been immediately dismissed. And it turned out to be a wise move. He'd have come if he needed me, anyway, Dean told himself, as he took another sip of his beer, mild bitterness lingering in his mouth, then throat, then his whole body.