SPN FIC: "The Long Hall" (PG, Dean Winchester)
TITLE: The Long Hall
SUMMARY: While Sam tidies up some unfinished business, Dean enjoys some R&R in a pretty part of the country, and visits some very pleasant establishments. Nevertheless, a
ll is not as it seems.
MAIN CHARACTER: Dean Winchester
OTHER CHARACTERS: Yes, surprise appearances.
PAIRING: There's a hint of a threesome, FMM. Not explicit.
RATING: G- PG.
SPOILERY? No. Assumes vague familiarity with events of s4.
LENGTH: approx 4000 words.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural and this story is written with no intent for profit.
WARNING: Please be aware that the warning contains spoilers. This is a gentle G - PG story with no violence onscreen. Highlight between the asterisks to see warning: * Mention of major character death, but it all works out in the end *
THANKS to roguebitch and
davincis_girl for the awesome beta work, and especially for helping me with my warning! BIG HUGS! plus, check out the cool banner davincis_girl made!
~~o~~
Artist: Davincis_girl’s post is here
The sun bathed the parking lot of the Stay-a-While Inn in a hazy golden glow as Dean pulled the Impala to a gentle halt under a shade tree near the end of the row. He gave the Impala a fond pat. That last wax job was a good one, he noted; her black flanks gleamed like mirrors.
The bell over the office door rang merrily as he walked in. An old man sat behind the counter, reading a book about fly fishing.
“Afternoon,” the old man said.
“Hey,” Dean replied. “I’d like a room.”
“King or two queens?”
“Two queens. I’m waiting for my brother.”
“Ah huh,” was the half grunted reply. “Room 9, end of the row.”
“Thanks.” Dean handed over his card. A new card with a platinum limit. Good times.
“You a hunter?” the old man asked, running the card.
“What?” Dean said, startled.
Dean noticed that the old man had one clouded eye, but the good eye regarded him appraisingly. “We get a lot of hunters come through here. They favor these parts. You look the sort.”
“Well, yeah,” Dean responded, breathing out.
“Thought so,” the old man said with a satisfied nod. “Well, room 9 it is for you, and you might want to try the coffee house down the road a ways, the Wired Cafe. Pie there you wouldn’t want to miss.”
Dean had the sense he was missing something, but the old man’s gaze was simple and direct. Dean nodded, with a smile.
“I do love a good piece of pie, and that’s a fact.”
The old man handed back Dean’s card with the key, a real brass key on a worn leather tag, “Stay-a-While” embossed in worn gold letters around a large “9.” “Have a good’un,” he said, and turned back to his book.
The Impala looked so beautiful and comfortable in her spot on the asphalt under the shade tree that Dean embarrassed even himself. He knew he loved the old girl more than was reasonable for a hunk of metal - but it didn’t make his affection any less real. To him, she was home, a trusted helper, a friend, and a work of art, all rolled into one.
He pulled his duffel out of the trunk, and with his usual curiosity, opened up room Nine.
The key turned easily in the lock and the door swung open. Instead of the musty smell usually associated with the kind of motel rooms he could afford, Dean smelled a pleasant hint of the fabric softener Sammy favored on the sheets, and the simple wood furniture gleamed, giving off a hint of lemon furniture polish.
The decor didn’t disappoint - it was in fact the hunter’s room, with deer standing alert all over the wallpaper. Capping the scheme was an enormous rack of antlers over the headboard - elk, Dean thought-- and crossed beneath the rack were two long spears, like the kind Dean pictured people spear fishing with.
Against the far wall was a little kitchenette with a coffeemaker, microwave, and double hotplate. Two comfy chairs and a little table sat in front of the window.
On the wall next to the bathroom door there was another painting. The spears had put Dean in mind of the lurid adventure comics he’d enjoyed as a kid, with half naked barbarians spearing dinosaurs to death. But no, it was a somewhat naive portrait of a raven, staring out at Dean with a glittering eye.
“What are you laughing at,” Dean asked the raven on his way in to relieve himself. He washed his hands and face and thought about that pie the old guy had mentioned.
The Wired Cafe wasn’t what Dean expected. It had a cheerful chrome counter and a long line of red leather upholstered booths, and the waitress who gave him the menu wore a blue dress and a red and white checked apron.
She smiled at him pleasantly. Something about her smile reminded him of his mom.
“What can I get you, sweetheart?” she said.
“Cup of coffee, and a piece of pie,” Dean answered, feeling contented.
“You look like a cherry man,” the waitress said with a grin.
Dean blushed, unaccountably embarrassed again, but just nodded.
In no time he was digging in to the best piece of cherry pie he could remember - the cherries firm and tart in a thick syrup, the crust brown and buttery, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side, all speckled with real flecks of vanilla. His coffee was strong and came in a kind of huge cup.
Dean savored every bite.
“You enjoyed that pie!” the waitress teased Dean.
“I sure did. Listen, where can a man get a beer and a good steak around here?”
“Try the Long Hall. Live music sometimes. You’ll like it.”
“Well, thank you.”
Dean enjoyed a restful afternoon nap back at the Stay-a-While. The sheets not only smelled good, they were smooth and crisp against his skin. It was pretty quiet without Sam, but his brother was finishing up some things and would be along soon. Dean knew enough to seize the moment to rest up when he had the opportunity.
The sun had gone down and the summer sky was darkening when Dean emerged to go looking for supper. The night was full of crickets and the miscellaneous calls of insects and frogs Dean couldn’t identify. The Impala carried him smoothly down the road a few miles to the Long Hall, a big, cavernous roadhouse pretty much a ways from nowhere.
Dean enjoyed the breeze through his open window as he drove, with Zep’s third album playing low on the stereo. He rolled up the windows and locked her up before he went in.
The habit of a lifetime, he sized up the place from the door.
It was a standard roadhouse, but big, with pool tables and several targets for darts. No tv. There was a stage for the live music the kind-eyed waitress had mentioned, as well as a jukebox, currently playing the Doors.
The place was not crowded, but neither was it empty. Groups of guys mostly, a few women too here and there, played at the tables, drank at the bar, or sat eating plates of hearty food.
Dean’s mouth watered at the tantalizing odors of grilled meat and fries.
He sidled up to the bar and ordered a bottle of his favorite ale. The bartender gave him a little salute with the bottle before setting it down.
“What do I owe you?” Dean said. He didn’t feel like starting a tab. He was plenty relaxed already, and his days of drowning his sorrows were over.
“I’ll catch you later,” the bartender said. Her black hair and eyes reminded Dean of someone, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Dean placed an order for a ribeye, rare, and drifted over to a table with his beer.
He enjoyed watching the men and women mill around the pool tables. The sounds of classic rock from the juke box were interrupted now and then by the greats of country, songs Dean remembered from childhood, his dad behind the wheel of the Impala, driving through the endless stretches of heartland AM radio.
“Down every road there’s always one more city,” Dean sang happily to himself, with no fear of someone overhearing.
Dean finished up the steak and chased the last bit of steak sauce around the plate with a fry.
He grabbed another beer from the bartender, who gave him a pleasant grin, and sauntered over to the pool tables. Nothing serious - he had a nice thick wad of twenties in his wallet for cash purposes - but he gave a good round of pool to a shapely older woman with a messy dark blonde shag who took her game seriously, and shook his hand afterward.
He went back to the Stay-a-While contented and pleased with the evening, and slept the sleep of the just.
Dean woke fresh. He laced his boots tight and went out for a run. He found a nice trail running out behind the motel and followed it through the woods, the early morning air still cool and the sunlight beaming down green through the summer leaves. It was a good run. The loamy earth was spongy beneath his boots; his legs were rested and strong; his wind carried him easily along at a good clip through the forest. Dean had always been a stickler about his dad’s training regimen; whatever else the old man had taught him, the value of his own body in prime condition was one thing he believed in, and he’d always kept it up - except for a while there when times were darkest.... still, he’d whipped himself back into shape. Running was Dean’s meditation, that, and cleaning his guns. Well, driving too. And singing when no one was listening. And long, hot showers. Dean liked the simple things and they calmed him. Thoughts spun through his mind without attaching. He turned back toward the motel after a long run, winding his way, the stray thoughts drifting away like fine strands of spider silk on the breeze.
After a shower Dean rummaged around in the trunk and emerged with Sam’s bag of emergency books. Thrift stores runs for scrap silver, t shirts, wool and flannel layers nearly always saw Sam shove a book or two onto the belt at totalling time. Sam abandoned his books after reading, but nearly always had five or ten stowed in the bag for when internets were far between and hunts were scarce. Louise Erdrich, Edward Abbey, Earl Mac Rauch, Anthony Bourdain, Mary Oliver... aha. Kerouac. Dean had read it before, of course, but it gave him a kick: a guy with his own name, his jail problem, his devotion to sex-- ha ha, again.
Three hundred pages later (some of them skimmed, he’d admit), Dean emerged, head swimming a bit.
“Fishing good around here?” he asked the old man at the motel office.
“Now and again,” the old man said, and gave him directions, and lent him a pole.
Dean didn’t care for casting flies; he didn’t care for gutting and cleaning either. He liked to catch a trout, lure it out with a bit of popcorn shrimp, outsmart it, and let it go. He teased two wily rainbows and one even wilier brown out of their pools along a shaded, clear-running stream. He let them all go with a grin, thinking about the thick bacon cheeseburgers he’d seen other patrons enjoying back at the Long Hall.
Evening found him there again. Darts this time. His aim was true, his hand unwavering. Dean and a guy who reminded Dean a bit of John had a long tournament, and Dean lost by a hair, with much easy-going laughter and claps on the back.
Dean wended his way slowly back to the Stay-a-While, the Impala gliding smoothly along the road, the night overhead very dark and full of stars.
The next day the old guy gave Dean a map detailing the trails thereabouts. Dean bought a huge bag of peanut m&ms, several packets of jerky, and a can of baked beans. He crammed the food into a pack with a canteen of water, some iodine pills, and an old wool blanket he got out of the trunk. His ivory-handled 1911 and a couple of spare magazines just in case.
According to the map he’d gone about ten miles. He’d surprised one black bear coming around a bend in the trail, which had whuffed in surprise and vanished up hill at a truly alarming speed. That one clear moment of mutual surprise, as the bear stared at him, and he stared at its tall, alert ears and graying muzzle, stuck out very clearly in his mind.
He never went for his gun. His heart was pounding but not with fear. Just a bear, an old black bear. Not a werewolf, not a wendigo. Dean hiked along till he came to the crest of a ridge, a smile still creeping across his face as he thought of the bear’s whuff of shock and the speed of its quick getaway.
Dean set up camp at the top of the hill; that is, he found a spot of level ground, leaned back against the tree, and ate the tin of baked beans cold. He hung the pack from a nearby limb and bedded down for the night. Normally, Dean hated camping, but this section of country was just so pretty and peaceful he couldn’t seem to keep himself indoors. It would be a shame, he thought, not to sleep out under such a clear sky. He sang himself to sleep on Stairway, and never even made it to the hedgerow.
Dean fell into a pattern of lunches at the Wired Cafe, suppers at the Long Hall, interspersed with nights in at the Stay-a-While watching old movies he’d catch on cable, or hiking out in the wilderness. For such a beautiful area, Dean found it rather deserted. He saw plenty of wildlife - squirrels, deer, the bear, even a fox one morning on his run - but he never saw another soul on the trail.
It was the best vacation Dean could ever remember, and even the fact Sam hadn’t joined him yet couldn’t spoil his contentment. Let the kid finish up a few details; he’d be along in good time without Dean calling to nag him.
Dean read through all the books in Sam’s bag (though he’d never admit it to Sam that he liked the book of poems, no, not in a million lifetimes), and he ended up unpacking the bag into the nightstand at the Stay-a-While. He turned to the Gideons’ Bible he found in the drawer, and made his way skeptically through the book of Acts. The new disciples were supposed to avoid whatever had been strangled? Well, that pretty much left Sam off limits, Dean guessed. Dean had largely avoided the Bible, and his adventures with Chuck, not to mention the Angels, hadn’t given Dean a strong feeling that he’d get very much out of reading it.
With all this free time on his hands, he thought he might as well go back and start at the beginning. But it made Dean laugh, because every time an Angel of the Lord would appear, he’d imagined Jimmy Novack’s startling blue eyes, and Castiel’s unblinking stare looking out of them. He imagined Jacob (the tricky bitch), wrestling a tousel-haired dude in a trenchcoat. He imagined a gruff voice arguing with Lot about leaving Sodom, and Uriel silently readying his smiting hand.
Once Dean thought of Castiel, his thoughts began to dwell there. Dean didn’t know why. The time of the Apocalypse had come and gone. Lucifer had risen and been driven back. Somehow Dean and Sam had come through okay, and they’d stayed for a long time at Bobby’s afterwards, licking their wounds and getting over their battles.
Eventually they’d gone back on the road, saving people, hunting things - mostly spirits, since people still died all of a sudden, even after all the demons had been sent packing. And still, in out of the way places, there were monsters, violent, big, and fast, and it seemed like more of them than not had a taste for human flesh.
Dean frowned a bit. He didn’t like to think about it. This was his vacation. He and Sam were a team - a real, fully functioning team at last, and Dean didn’t need to worry about hunting again till Sam showed up - and maybe not for a while then, even, since Dean thought Sam could use a break like this himself.
So Dean laid back and took it easy for a while. It was nice. He felt strong, alert. He was sleeping like a rock. Without the incessant hunting, his aches and pains had faded away. He had tuned up his baby to first-rate condition. He was getting to know the countryside; the little farmsteads here and there; the summer pastures of cattle; the best streams for catching trout, and the deepest pools for a refreshing dip in the heat of the afternoon.
He began to wonder, though, if the live band would ever show up at the Long Hall. After a week or two, he’d accused the Wired waitress of pulling one on him; but she had just smiled.
“You just wait. I hear the Valkyrie are booked to show soon.”
But then she clammed up and wouldn’t say any more than that they’d blow Dean away. She didn’t want to build them up with descriptions; she’d let Dean decide for himself.
Dean had read into the early evening one night, before deciding to go out for a beer, so he ended up arriving later than usual at the Long Hall.
As he pulled into the parking lot he heard the pounding strains of a Zeppelin cover thudding out of the building. Promising.
He walked in, grabbed a beer, and headed over to a table a ways back from the stage. He didn’t like to get too hammered by the amplifiers.
There was a girl on bass, a beefy guy on drums. The person on guitar was lanky and shorthaired, long, skinny fingers deftly maneuvering through the virtuosic passages. The lead singer looked nothing like Plant. He was average height, with messy dark hair, and his voice was a bit more baritone than Plant’s had ever been.
They were working their way through “You Shook Me,” which was well up on Dean’s desert island list of Zeppelin tracks, and the dark-haired guy was doing a great job with the harmonica.
Dean had to frown though, the singer and the bass player seemed so familiar. Just something about them. He couldn’t get a handle on it.
They worked through several more Zep covers; a few of Dean’s more beloved Bad Company and AC/DC standards, then crooned out Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.” Dean was thoroughly enjoying them, just as predicted; and he thought they’d probably take a break soon. He’d have to go up to them; he just had to figure out why they seemed so familiar.
The guy at the mic said, “One more before our break,” and his gruff tone struck a chord in Dean’s chest. They broke into “Dazed and Confused.”
Dean sat transfixed as the girl began the descending bass line, then the singer opened up for the first line.
Instead of Plant’s explosive wail, the guy’s voice was strangely calm, almost matter of fact, as he intoned the words of betrayal and deceit with a deep, passionate sadness, that still somehow spoke of hope.
Dean realized into the second verse that tears were running down his face. The simple red and blue stage lights were casting halos around the musicians as his vision blurred. Rays of light seemed to shine out around them, glinting, like blades of purity. Then suddenly, plain as day, he saw them.
Their armor.
Their wings.
The Valkyrie.
Dean’s heart pounded with joy and terror. The girl and the singer, he knew them as well as he knew his own brother.
The spell of the music tore the scales from his eyes.
The hunters all around him were revealed to him now.
Dear god, that old guy at the motel was freakin’ Travis. His own Mom - his own Dad -- what the hell?
But Dean knew that hell had nothing to do with it.
He tried to breathe, to wait it out. He just had to talk to them. They’d explain. It would be okay. It would. Right?
Right?
The song finally ended. Dean was released.
He sprang up and fairly charged at the stage, as the girl calmly handed off her bass, shaking her straight red hair back from her eyes. She looked just about 22, but was oh so very much older, Dean knew.
He reached the stage and kind of slammed himself to a halt, the lead singer staring at him, with eyes so wide and so very, very blue.
As his tears welled up again, he saw again their golden armor and the shadows of their wings.
“Cas... my god, it’s you!”
“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said. He didn’t look precisely like Jimmy Novack. Of course, since Dean remembered clearly the day Jimmy had been returned for good to his wife and daughter, the tears of joy and laughter as his body had been emptied of Angel for the last time.
Dean often awakened with a fading sense that Castiel had visited his dreams. He couldn’t quite hear Cas’s voice; and the look of him was shifting, wavering; not quite Jimmy, not quite more. Dean’s sleeping mind could experience the Angelic visitation, but his waking mind couldn’t fully accommodate it. Thus the mornings after Castiel had visited with Dean were bittersweet. Sam had wisely learned to leave it alone, and like the ratio of the diameter to the circumference, pie was always the answer.
Now Dean could not quite grasp the obvious. Cas and Anna, radiant before him, and he was awake. No, he goddamn was. Anna’s grin was blinding; Cas’s smile, small and serene.
But how?
Then Dean knew.
“Oh, dude. No way. That bartender chick has been Tessa this whole damned time! I’m freakin toast!”
“You’ve earned this, Dean. We’re here to welcome you. This is Valhalla, the hall of warriors.”
Castiel stepped forward and grabbed Dean, barbarian-style, by the forearm, clapping his shoulder roughly with the other hand. Dean staggered a bit, shock just starting to give way to cautious happiness.
Anna one-upped Cas, as usual, stepping behind Dean and throwing her arms around his middle, pressing close.
She wasn’t as tiny as Dean remembered. In fact, she seemed to somehow tower over him. Especially her wings. Which were awesome. As were Castiel’s.
“Dude, don’t I get wings?”
“No, man,” Anna laughed. “You’re a hero. You get a hammer or something. A lion skin. Eh, Cas?”
“That’s just about right, I think. Though perhaps Dean would enjoy kissing your axe.”
“It’s a bass right now, Cas.”
“Y’all are screwing with me,” Dean complained.
“Yes, we are,” Castiel agreed cheerfully.
“But you love us for it,” Anna said, squeezing the air out of Dean, just as Cas stepped forward to lay one on him.
“Two virgins and seventy sluts have nothing on us, Dean,” Castiel said, when they came up to breathe.
“Oh, please, Cas, I’m begging you. Don’t quote that ginormous dick here in my afterlife!”
Dean bought a round for everyone in Valhalla.
The shapely older woman turned out to be Ash, who just shook his hair back and laughed his ass off at Dean’s surprise.
The beer was fantastic. The steaks and fries couldn’t be beat. But something had been missing till Dean heard the rush of wings, saw the glint of armor.
Anna said, through a glimmer, “What'd you think, Dean--did you want to live forever?”
As Castiel's arms came around him again, Dean said, “Oh, definitely not.”
Dean died, sad and bloody,
saving people, hunting things,
but Sammy let him go,
urging Dean with all his heart,
“Believe, Dean. Believe.
You deserve a hero's reward.”
And that tiny ember of faith,
belief in a job well done,
fanned to a flame in Dean’s heart,
enough to carry him over,
in peace and trust, to the Long Hall.
~~o~~
thanks for reading; comments are SO appreciated.
I tried to work on a soundtrack for this but it is pretty much ALL ZEPPELIN. Anyways it is something like this:
i. Pulling in at the Stay-a-While: Miracles out of Nowhere (Kansas).
ii. The Wired Cafe: Into the Night (Julee Cruise); Blue Spanish Sky (Chris Isaak)
iii. the Drive to the Long Hall: The Immigrant Song (Led Zeppelin).
iv. the Jukebox at the Long Hall: People are Strange (the Doors); The Fugitive (Merle Haggard).
v. Dean goes hiking: Down by the Seaside; Stairway to Heaven. (Zep)
vi. Dean reads the Bible: Into my Arms (Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds)
vii. The Valkyrie’s Set List:
“You Shook Me” (Zep)
“How Many More Times” (Zep)
“Ready for Love” (Bad Company)
“Celebration Day”
“You Shook Me All Night Long” (AC/DC, but influenced by the funky version by Bing Ji Ling)
“Wish You Were Here” (Pink Floyd)
“Dazed and Confused” (Zep)