SPN FIC - A Room at the Inn
A bit of Hope Verse, for those of you who requested it!
Sam's communing with nature, out in the woods; Dean's off to Thompson Lake for some quiet time. Or so he thinks.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Morgan, Lizzie
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1780 words
A ROOM AT THE INN
By Carol Davis
"Are there life jackets?" the old lady demands.
Nobody's paying attention to her. There's too much noise, for one thing. Too many people talking at once - and more than likely, most of them are deaf. They can't hear themselves, or each other. All of 'em white-haired and fussy.
Lobby's full of 'em.
And the parking lot's full of their friggin' cars.
Dean cruised into town figuring he was a few minutes away from peace and relaxation. A good meal, a chair down by the water. Maybe a nap. Some quality time with Princess Ladybug. But she's nowhere in sight. He had to park the Impala up in the turnaround - and that takes some serious maneuvering; whoever cleared out the brush for that thing must have intended it for Smart Cars and Yugos, for God's sake - and now he's jammed into a roomful of twitchy old people armed with cameras and binoculars.
What they think they're gonna see out there on the lake, he's got no clue.
Water. And trees.
The life jacket lady turns on him, plucking at his sleeve, fingers like the snapping beak of an angry bird.
"Well?" she insists. "Are you going to answer me?"
He does his best to produce a smile. It's not much of one, he's pretty sure; his head's been pounding since he got out of bed this morning, he's hungry and thirsty and in serious need of a bathroom. Pleasant interpersonal communication is kind of a stretch. "Ma'am," he says, and from the way she reacts, it's a sure bet she can't hear him - and that that's his fault, of course. "YOU'RE FINE," he bellows. "NOBODY'S GONNA LET YOU DROWN."
One of the other old folks spins around, eyes blown wide in horror. "Drown?" she shrills. "Who drowned?"
He'd run. He would. But the old Jane's got a clutch on his arm.
"Dean?"
Through the sea of white hair and bright-colored Windbreakers, he catches a glimpse of Morgan, over near the check-in desk. If you didn't know her, she'd seem calm. But there's a wrinkle between her eyebrows, a tightness around her mouth. He'd like to think the sight of him would smooth that tension right out, like a warm, sweet breeze, but it doesn't. If anything, by the time she's fought her way through the crowd to reach him, to be close enough to talk to him without screaming, her face is contorted like it's made of Silly Putty and some little kid's stretched it every which-ways.
"I -" she says. "We weren't expecting you."
"Spur of the moment," he explains, and takes a moment to pry the old lady's fingers away from his arm.
"Where's Sam?"
That right there? Sore subject. "Camping."
"Camping?"
"Tent. Bunch of books. He's getting in touch with his inner self or some damn thing."
"That's -"
"The hell's going on here?"
Morgan shakes her head, and a lock of hair falls out of her ponytail. She reacts to that the same way she would if somebody'd slapped her. "Festival. The Festival's this weekend. Didn't you see the signs?"
"Where?"
"God, Dean. Everywhere."
Yeah. This is so not what he came here for.
Though come to think of it, there were banners in town. And about eighty billion cars.
"I -" he starts.
She shakes that off. "You can put your stuff in my room. And - I don't know. I think there are leftovers in the kitchen. I've got to take these people out in the boat and give them a sightseeing cruise. We'll be back in an hour."
The lake's only four miles long. What she's going to show them for an hour, he can't imagine.
Then he rewinds to another thought.
"Your room?"
She's checking people's feet, for some reason. For the appropriate shoes, he realizes. Head down, tallying sneakers and deck shoes, she says, "You know where it is. The Bug's taking a nap. Don't wake her up, okay? If she realizes you're here, she'll be off and running, and it took me like forty-five minutes to get her to settle down. I don't want her to be up all night."
When Morgan's head comes back up, Dean frowns. "I kinda figured - you know. A room."
"What?"
"Regular room. Not… yours."
"Dean. We're full. There are no regular rooms." Without taking a breath, she shifts gears and addresses the crowd. "All right, everyone! Off we go. It's the big Chris-Craft on the right-hand side of the dock. If you need help getting into the boat, wait for me."
"There's no rooms?" Dean says.
Right now, Sam would be pulling Bitchface #759.
Morgan hits that bull's-eye without even breaking a sweat.
Of course there aren't any rooms. There are a million old people in the lobby, and the Lodge only has half a dozen guest rooms. They've probably got these old folks stacked up like cordwood. What the hell for, Dean can't imagine. They don't need the money; Jake's aunt was a pretty savvy little investor, back in her day. She bought this place. Left behind a bank account hearty enough to keep the Donahues safe from the wolves at the door for a good long time.
They rent out rooms because they enjoy it, is what they've told him.
That's about the most crazy-assed thing he's ever heard, but… whatever.
The old folks start moving out the door, headed for the dock. Morgan scuttles back and forth, herding them in the right direction like a sweatshirted border collie, and gets far enough past the door for Dean to figure the conversation's over for the time being. Then she tells the crowd, "Wait for me at the dock," and doubles back, joining Dean on the little porch and halting him from heading back to the Impala.
"What?" she asks.
"Can't," he says. "Not -"
"You can't what?"
"Stay in your room," he mutters.
They've known each other for four years now. Not well, really; they haven't spent all that much time together.
Apparently, it was enough for her to be able to tune in to his channel.
"They know," she says.
"Who? Knows what?"
"My family. They know about us. Did you think they - that they don't?"
Well, sure. He knew. He's gotten looks. He's gotten a variation of the If you hurt my sister, I'll kick your ass speech from Aidan. But spending a couple hours with Morgan in a motel room somewhere out on the road, and sharing a bedroom with her in her house, where her family lives, surrounded by a bunch of white-haired strangers who are going to make his business entirely their business - those are two entirely different things.
He offers her the best version of "nonchalant" he can muster. Shrugs.
"Dean," she says. "They're fine with it. Really."
And what about him, he wonders. Does it matter that he's not fine with it?
He never slept with Cassie in her family's house. Well, not until she summoned him to Cape Girardeaux to help figure out who, or what, killed her dad. And everybody else… There was no "family" in the equation. One night stands, the occasional three or four night stand - those were different.
There was no "fine with it."
Something shifts in Morgan's expression and she reaches out to grasp his arm. It's an affectionate thing, a light touch that turns into her massaging his elbow through his double layer of shirts. "You can bunk down in Aidan's room if you want," she offers, her voice a lot softer than it was a minute ago.
"I'll go find Sam," he says.
"I thought you said Sam's in the woods."
He snorts. Sighs. "With the ticks and the deer flies."
"Nice."
"I hate camping," he says. "I friggin' hate camping."
She glances past him, toward the dock. A look in that direction tells him the old folks are getting fidgety. One old guy in droopy jeans is wobbling pretty fiercely trying to take the big step into the boat. "I should go," Morgan says. "Somebody's gonna end up in the lake. Will you stay? Make yourself some lunch. We'll figure it out."
This isn't what he was planning on.
This isn't his quiet few days by the lake, playing with Liz, having some good meals, sleeping in a comfortable, clean bed. All this turmoil - nothing like this entered into the mental picture he put together on his way here.
Really, he hates turmoil more than he hates camping. There's enough of that going on while he's working a job.
He shifts back a little.
He could sleep in the car, if it comes to that.
"Go have some lunch," Morgan says. "Take a nap in the den. Watch some TV. Close the door if you want - everybody's running around somewhere. Lily's upstairs, but she's working on some project on the computer. She won't bother you."
Like that's likely.
"I don't -" he starts.
But she leans in. Kisses him gently, with a hand at the back of his neck to draw his head down closer to hers. "I know it's hard," she murmurs, softly enough that someone standing arm's reach away wouldn't be able to make out the words. "It's always hard. But you're welcome here. I hope you know that. You'll always be welcome here."
As if to put a button on that, a voice he hears sometimes in his dreams sings out from somewhere up above them.
"So much for nap time," Morgan sighs.
Voices sing out from another direction, as well: from out on the dock, where the old people are clamoring to go on their boat ride.
"You better go," Dean says.
"And you'll be here when I get back?"
Inside the house, small feet thunder down the stairs, accompanied by a high-pitched squeal of his name, and a moment later Liz comes flying out onto the porch, colliding with him, clutching and climbing and jabbering a mile a minute. When he surrenders to lifting her into his arms, snuggling her close to his chest, she delivers a wet, smacking kiss to his cheek.
It's like holding onto a sack of agitated cats.
In a good way.
"Sold?" Morgan asks.
He can't see her; Liz's head blocks his view, a small, bed-headed moon eclipsing her mother's light.
"I -" Dean says. "Yeah."
When Liz finally allows him to set her down, Morgan's gone. Off to the dock, with her gaggle of old folks.
She waves to him as she climbs into the boat.
"There's pie," Liz says from down near Dean's left hip.
There's a lot more than that, he thinks.
So much more than that.
"Awesome," he says, and he has to smile.
* * * * *
Sam's communing with nature, out in the woods; Dean's off to Thompson Lake for some quiet time. Or so he thinks.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Morgan, Lizzie
GENRE: Het
RATING: PG for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1780 words
A ROOM AT THE INN
By Carol Davis
"Are there life jackets?" the old lady demands.
Nobody's paying attention to her. There's too much noise, for one thing. Too many people talking at once - and more than likely, most of them are deaf. They can't hear themselves, or each other. All of 'em white-haired and fussy.
Lobby's full of 'em.
And the parking lot's full of their friggin' cars.
Dean cruised into town figuring he was a few minutes away from peace and relaxation. A good meal, a chair down by the water. Maybe a nap. Some quality time with Princess Ladybug. But she's nowhere in sight. He had to park the Impala up in the turnaround - and that takes some serious maneuvering; whoever cleared out the brush for that thing must have intended it for Smart Cars and Yugos, for God's sake - and now he's jammed into a roomful of twitchy old people armed with cameras and binoculars.
What they think they're gonna see out there on the lake, he's got no clue.
Water. And trees.
The life jacket lady turns on him, plucking at his sleeve, fingers like the snapping beak of an angry bird.
"Well?" she insists. "Are you going to answer me?"
He does his best to produce a smile. It's not much of one, he's pretty sure; his head's been pounding since he got out of bed this morning, he's hungry and thirsty and in serious need of a bathroom. Pleasant interpersonal communication is kind of a stretch. "Ma'am," he says, and from the way she reacts, it's a sure bet she can't hear him - and that that's his fault, of course. "YOU'RE FINE," he bellows. "NOBODY'S GONNA LET YOU DROWN."
One of the other old folks spins around, eyes blown wide in horror. "Drown?" she shrills. "Who drowned?"
He'd run. He would. But the old Jane's got a clutch on his arm.
"Dean?"
Through the sea of white hair and bright-colored Windbreakers, he catches a glimpse of Morgan, over near the check-in desk. If you didn't know her, she'd seem calm. But there's a wrinkle between her eyebrows, a tightness around her mouth. He'd like to think the sight of him would smooth that tension right out, like a warm, sweet breeze, but it doesn't. If anything, by the time she's fought her way through the crowd to reach him, to be close enough to talk to him without screaming, her face is contorted like it's made of Silly Putty and some little kid's stretched it every which-ways.
"I -" she says. "We weren't expecting you."
"Spur of the moment," he explains, and takes a moment to pry the old lady's fingers away from his arm.
"Where's Sam?"
That right there? Sore subject. "Camping."
"Camping?"
"Tent. Bunch of books. He's getting in touch with his inner self or some damn thing."
"That's -"
"The hell's going on here?"
Morgan shakes her head, and a lock of hair falls out of her ponytail. She reacts to that the same way she would if somebody'd slapped her. "Festival. The Festival's this weekend. Didn't you see the signs?"
"Where?"
"God, Dean. Everywhere."
Yeah. This is so not what he came here for.
Though come to think of it, there were banners in town. And about eighty billion cars.
"I -" he starts.
She shakes that off. "You can put your stuff in my room. And - I don't know. I think there are leftovers in the kitchen. I've got to take these people out in the boat and give them a sightseeing cruise. We'll be back in an hour."
The lake's only four miles long. What she's going to show them for an hour, he can't imagine.
Then he rewinds to another thought.
"Your room?"
She's checking people's feet, for some reason. For the appropriate shoes, he realizes. Head down, tallying sneakers and deck shoes, she says, "You know where it is. The Bug's taking a nap. Don't wake her up, okay? If she realizes you're here, she'll be off and running, and it took me like forty-five minutes to get her to settle down. I don't want her to be up all night."
When Morgan's head comes back up, Dean frowns. "I kinda figured - you know. A room."
"What?"
"Regular room. Not… yours."
"Dean. We're full. There are no regular rooms." Without taking a breath, she shifts gears and addresses the crowd. "All right, everyone! Off we go. It's the big Chris-Craft on the right-hand side of the dock. If you need help getting into the boat, wait for me."
"There's no rooms?" Dean says.
Right now, Sam would be pulling Bitchface #759.
Morgan hits that bull's-eye without even breaking a sweat.
Of course there aren't any rooms. There are a million old people in the lobby, and the Lodge only has half a dozen guest rooms. They've probably got these old folks stacked up like cordwood. What the hell for, Dean can't imagine. They don't need the money; Jake's aunt was a pretty savvy little investor, back in her day. She bought this place. Left behind a bank account hearty enough to keep the Donahues safe from the wolves at the door for a good long time.
They rent out rooms because they enjoy it, is what they've told him.
That's about the most crazy-assed thing he's ever heard, but… whatever.
The old folks start moving out the door, headed for the dock. Morgan scuttles back and forth, herding them in the right direction like a sweatshirted border collie, and gets far enough past the door for Dean to figure the conversation's over for the time being. Then she tells the crowd, "Wait for me at the dock," and doubles back, joining Dean on the little porch and halting him from heading back to the Impala.
"What?" she asks.
"Can't," he says. "Not -"
"You can't what?"
"Stay in your room," he mutters.
They've known each other for four years now. Not well, really; they haven't spent all that much time together.
Apparently, it was enough for her to be able to tune in to his channel.
"They know," she says.
"Who? Knows what?"
"My family. They know about us. Did you think they - that they don't?"
Well, sure. He knew. He's gotten looks. He's gotten a variation of the If you hurt my sister, I'll kick your ass speech from Aidan. But spending a couple hours with Morgan in a motel room somewhere out on the road, and sharing a bedroom with her in her house, where her family lives, surrounded by a bunch of white-haired strangers who are going to make his business entirely their business - those are two entirely different things.
He offers her the best version of "nonchalant" he can muster. Shrugs.
"Dean," she says. "They're fine with it. Really."
And what about him, he wonders. Does it matter that he's not fine with it?
He never slept with Cassie in her family's house. Well, not until she summoned him to Cape Girardeaux to help figure out who, or what, killed her dad. And everybody else… There was no "family" in the equation. One night stands, the occasional three or four night stand - those were different.
There was no "fine with it."
Something shifts in Morgan's expression and she reaches out to grasp his arm. It's an affectionate thing, a light touch that turns into her massaging his elbow through his double layer of shirts. "You can bunk down in Aidan's room if you want," she offers, her voice a lot softer than it was a minute ago.
"I'll go find Sam," he says.
"I thought you said Sam's in the woods."
He snorts. Sighs. "With the ticks and the deer flies."
"Nice."
"I hate camping," he says. "I friggin' hate camping."
She glances past him, toward the dock. A look in that direction tells him the old folks are getting fidgety. One old guy in droopy jeans is wobbling pretty fiercely trying to take the big step into the boat. "I should go," Morgan says. "Somebody's gonna end up in the lake. Will you stay? Make yourself some lunch. We'll figure it out."
This isn't what he was planning on.
This isn't his quiet few days by the lake, playing with Liz, having some good meals, sleeping in a comfortable, clean bed. All this turmoil - nothing like this entered into the mental picture he put together on his way here.
Really, he hates turmoil more than he hates camping. There's enough of that going on while he's working a job.
He shifts back a little.
He could sleep in the car, if it comes to that.
"Go have some lunch," Morgan says. "Take a nap in the den. Watch some TV. Close the door if you want - everybody's running around somewhere. Lily's upstairs, but she's working on some project on the computer. She won't bother you."
Like that's likely.
"I don't -" he starts.
But she leans in. Kisses him gently, with a hand at the back of his neck to draw his head down closer to hers. "I know it's hard," she murmurs, softly enough that someone standing arm's reach away wouldn't be able to make out the words. "It's always hard. But you're welcome here. I hope you know that. You'll always be welcome here."
As if to put a button on that, a voice he hears sometimes in his dreams sings out from somewhere up above them.
"So much for nap time," Morgan sighs.
Voices sing out from another direction, as well: from out on the dock, where the old people are clamoring to go on their boat ride.
"You better go," Dean says.
"And you'll be here when I get back?"
Inside the house, small feet thunder down the stairs, accompanied by a high-pitched squeal of his name, and a moment later Liz comes flying out onto the porch, colliding with him, clutching and climbing and jabbering a mile a minute. When he surrenders to lifting her into his arms, snuggling her close to his chest, she delivers a wet, smacking kiss to his cheek.
It's like holding onto a sack of agitated cats.
In a good way.
"Sold?" Morgan asks.
He can't see her; Liz's head blocks his view, a small, bed-headed moon eclipsing her mother's light.
"I -" Dean says. "Yeah."
When Liz finally allows him to set her down, Morgan's gone. Off to the dock, with her gaggle of old folks.
She waves to him as she climbs into the boat.
"There's pie," Liz says from down near Dean's left hip.
There's a lot more than that, he thinks.
So much more than that.
"Awesome," he says, and he has to smile.
* * * * *