Fic - If These Walls Could Speak
Title: If These Walls Could Speak
Summary: It's nearly Christmas; there's snow on the ground, a frozen lake, and a hunt to do. Told through the eyes of a series of outsider POVs.
Rating: PG13
Genre/Spoilers: Outsider POV gen. None.
Warnings: Minor language
Word Count: 4600+
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all the standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This was written for the 2017 spn_j2_xmas challenge for jalu2. I've based this fic on one of your prompts and then threw in a handul of your likes too, and I really hope you enjoy it - happy holidays! A huge thank you to my awesome beta harrigan who is simply the best in every way! I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine. Thank you also to the mods for running this wonderful challenge.
If These Walls Could Speak
Gertie
Gertie wouldn't say she's a stalker. Mitch might, but never to her face-he's too weak-willed for that kind of confrontation. But this is her motel, and she needs to know what's going on in it; just like her father did before her.
Her father had been a strong man who'd worked hard to keep this place running, so that one day he could pass it onto his only daughter. Gertie was born here, her mother and father both died here; she knows every inch of every room, and she takes pride in that fact.
So those men in room 9? Well, let's just say she's keeping an eye on them.
Mitch said they paid for a week in advance in cash, and slid him an extra fifty for no maid service or interruptions. Gertie would never have accepted that, because she knows you don't do that unless you've got something to hide.
But of course her son-in-law Mitch is a greedy little weasel who accepted the money without even lifting a suspecting eyebrow. What her Anna sees in the man, she'll never know.
There's two of them in room 9. They'd shown up in the middle of the night, their car some huge black thing that practically growled as it pulled in. Naturally, she'd gotten out of bed and pulled back the curtains to have a look.
They looked like trouble. Two tall guys, must be over 6 foot the both of them, wearing jeans and flannel shirts, and big boots that ate up the few inches of snow that had fallen the day before. She's seen the type before: drifters, who drink too much, sleep all day, and disappear during the night to do God knows what, but Gertie doubts it's legal.
Mitch and Anna run this place like they've already inherited it; like Gertie is already dead. But she's not, and just because over the years they've reduced her responsibilities to next to nothing, doesn't mean that she's going to let ruffians into her home; throwing cash around like they're paying for silence and some sort of waiver that they can do whatever the hell they want.
So yes, she's watching them, keeping an eye on exactly what they're up to; when they leave and when they come back; you name it, Gertie knows about it.
She already knows about the library books they stole. Stole, yes, because they're from out of state and Gertie knows you have to be a local to check out library books. She saw the taller one coming down the library steps with a stack of four or five tucked under his arm.
Who knows what else they might steal? Good thing the motel breakfast room has plastic cutlery; they'd probably walk off with her silver!
She sits down in her chair, which is right in front of the window, and watches the closed door to number 9, and waits.
If only walls could speak, she thinks.
Al
Al's just dropped the minivan and keys off at Bob's Garage. It's early, just after 6:45 a.m. Still dark; the air is crisp and the snow under his boots has frozen over, making a satisfying crunch and crackle with every step he takes. It's not a long walk to his job as handyman at the motel, so there's no reason to hurry.
The town is still pretty quiet, so he hears the car before he sees it slide past him, tires struggling to find a grip on the icy road, headlights on full beam, but still driving too fast, like its driver is in a hurry to get wherever it's going.
Al crosses the street, eyes still on the black muscle car as it tears into the parking lot of the motel, fish-tailing a little as it swings to the unit at the far left. He pauses before approaching the motel office. The headlights of the car are still on, illuminating that corner of the parking lot, and he sees that the door to room 9 is wide open. Room 9... A/C broken, he recalls-but no rush to fix that in December. He'd meant to get to the dripping faucet and... whatever else was on the list? But Gertie always rented rooms closest to the office first, and this time of year, more rooms were vacant than booked. He'd figured no-one would be in that end unit till spring. Someone must've asked for the farthest room; and why would anyone do that?
Al looks back at the car. It's a real beauty; an old Chevy by the look of it. The kind of car Al used to dream about as a kid; the kind of car he still dreams about owning, one day, when the kids are all grown, and he can rid of that goddamn minivan.
Something catches Al's eye though. He takes a step closer, and sees that the rear driver side window has been punched out; a hole in the corner, the rest spider-webbed with cracks, and it's shimmering with something dark. Blood? No, that can't be right.
He's about to take a closer look, ask if there's anything he can do, when he sees a man charge out of the room and yank the passenger door open. He reaches inside, and Al hears voices, but he can’t make out the words. Then the driver is pulling another guy out of the car.
The guy from the passenger seat is wrapped in what looks like a dark green blanket, and his head is hanging forward, wet hair hanging in clumps down his face. He's leaning heavily on the other guy, limbs all loose, and he's barely stable on his feet.
The first guy is keeping his buddy upright though, hands wrapped tightly around his waist, shoulder firmly in place under the other guy's armpit, and it looks like they know exactly what they're doing, like it isn't their first time.
They shuffle into the room and disappear out of sight. A few seconds later the driver is back, switching off the headlights and pulling out a duffel bag from the trunk. He slams it shut, hard, and then scrubs a bloody hand over back of his head, and Al watches him take a couple of long and deep breaths.
Then the guy pauses and turns around, his brow furrowed.
Al takes a couple of steps back into the shadows so that he can't be seen; not wanting to be caught watching these guys. They give off a dangerous vibe. Any instinct Al had to offer help has faded away like smoke from a chimney.
The guy looks around the parking lot, his gaze shifting uneasily around, but then with a small shake of his head, he heads back into room number 9 and shuts the door behind him.
Al waits a moment more but all is quiet. Huh. If only walls could speak, he thinks, before heading to the office to start his shift.
Josh
Josh punches the numbers into the vending machine for the Animal Crackers, his belly grumbling at him. He tells himself that it's not really stealing the change from Mom. He took out the garbage and he cleaned his room before they left, so technically she owes him his allowance. Anyway, it's not like he can wake her and ask; she's been driving all day and night so that they can get to Grandpa's in time for Christmas.
He watches the box of cookies slip slowly forward when suddenly it stops-stuck!
Crap! Josh had decided it was worth Mom's inevitable lecture about leaving the room and wasting money on junk food, as long as he actually got something to eat. But to not even get that? It's just not fair! Josh kicks out, the toe of his sneaker hitting the machine with a dull thud. Nothing happens. Fisting his hands, he pounds on the glass, but the Animal Crackers don't move at all. Double crap! He hates talking to strangers, but he knows the motel has a handyman around somewhere. Maybe he can get him to open the machine up. If he can even find him.
“You need help with that, kid?”
Josh jumps, about to scream, but bites his lip. He's not a baby; he's been the man of the house ever since his Dad left. He looks up and sees a tall stranger in a leather jacket, standing in the doorway. The man looks weathered and tough, and a little scary, and Josh thinks This is exactly who Mom means when she says ‘Don’t talk to strangers’.
Josh takes a tiny step back and shakes his head mutely.
The man sets the empty bucket he was holding on the top of the ice machine and then walks over. He gives Josh a wink and says, “Happens all the time. There's a trick to this.” He proceeds to grab the vending machine by both sides and rock it away from the wall an inch or two. Then with the heels of his hands wedged under the top lid of the machine, he pushes up and back sharply. The big metal and glass cabinet bounces off the back wall and falls forward again to settle in place with a loud thunk. And Josh's crackers jerk free and drop with a clatter into the bin below.
The stranger leans down, extracts the cookies, and hands the box over. That's when Josh notices that one of the man's hands is all bruised up and swollen, covered in tiny cuts and dried blood.
“Thank you. You... umm... you want some?” Josh holds out the little box covered with circus animals.
The man looks at him with kind eyes. “I'm kinda a Snickers guy myself, and my brother only eats salad. Thanks anyway.”
Josh takes the box back and nods his thanks. “What happened to your hand?”
The man looks down at his hand like he forgot that it was hurt. Then he reaches for his bucket and starts filling it with ice from the machine. “I, er, had a little accident. Nothing a little ice won't fix.”
“My mom's a nurse. She could look at it for you. Y'know, if you want.” Even as he says it, Josh knows this is the kind of thing that gets him in trouble. Last week he brought home a bird with a broken wing and Mom flipped out. This dude is a lot bigger and scarier than that bird.
“I'll be OK. But thanks, bud.”
“Your brother-is he looking after you?”
The man looks sad, and there are dark circles under his eyes as if he hasn't slept. “Well, yeah, he tries. But he's not feeling so great, so I'm kinda taking care of him for a bit.”
Josh looks up at the man, sensing that he's not telling the whole truth. He's good at spotting those now; his Mom tells him a lot of half truths, especially about Dad. “Well, we won't be leaving until tomorrow if you change your mind. Usually we stop here longer and get to go ice-skating on the lake down the road. But Mom said that the ice must be too thin this time, because she saw cracks and a big hole. She said it looks like something fell through it. So we can't go skating this year. She's sleeping in, instead.”
The man nods. “Your mom sounds like a smart woman. You come here every year?”
“Yeah, since I was little.” Josh opens the box of crackers and starts munching on one. “It's one of our new holiday traditions, Mom says.” She'd told Josh they needed to make some new ones after Dad left. “We go ice-skating, Mom and me, on the way to Grandpa's house,” he adds. “I'm really good at it now. I can even skate backwards, some. But really...” Josh pauses, glancing around as if about to divulge a secret. “I really don't mind that we can't go skating. Because sometimes it's weird.”
The man kneels down in front of Josh, and his eyes are really green, and they're squinting as if he's thinking really hard. “Weird how?
“I don't know.” Josh shrugs. “Sometimes I'd hear someone whispering my name even though there was no one around, and sometimes it was like someone was following me. That kinda stuff. So I didn't really mind that we couldn't this time. Except for how having traditions makes my Mom happy.”
The man pushes himself up his feet, and it must hurt his hand because he makes a small groan that he tries to hide with a cough. “Well, I bet you'll be able to take her skating next year, and there won't be any more creepy stuff out there, I promise.”
“Really?”
“Trust me. I know things.” The man nods and picks up his bucket of ice. “Take care of your Mom, and don't eat too much junk from that machine, OK?”
Josh nods, and then the man winks, and walks out, past the big black car, and heads into his room.
Josh can't help but wonder about his new friend and his secrets going back to his room, and thinks, If those walls could speak, what would they say?
Maria
Maria's sitting in front of the dryer, flicking mindlessly through the local newspaper, her thoughts stuck on her son as the sheets from his bed spin around in a blur of headache-inducing white. If she had to wash his soft wool “binkit” from home, and his footie pajamas, she'd figured she might as well toss the wet sheets in too.
She thought she'd done her last early morning wash of bed sheets, but, well... getting uprooted is hard on all of them. A little recurrence of bed-wetting from Tommy isn't a big deal. Jack had finally found a new job, even if it was the next state over. He's a good husband and father, Maria thinks, picturing him curled up in their own bed with Tommy while she does the impromptu dawn laundry run. She feels sorry for their neighbours at the motel: the stressed-out single mom and her shy son. At least her own family is still together, Maria muses. She'd been fretting over having no money for the holidays, but thinks now that Christmas with a broken family would be so much harder.
There's a ping as the door opens, a sea of fat snowflakes drifts in, and she huddles into her coat. The guy entering is tall. He needs a haircut, but it's his dimples that twist the knife in her chest; just like Tommy. He's wearing a navy blue jacket, but it looks a little small on him, the cuffs too far up his wrists, and his jeans don't look much better; she can see his socks! The clothes he's wearing are clearly not his, and immediately she's intrigued.
He nods, and she smiles back softly.
He's as pale as the snowdrift outside the door, and she watches as he fills the washer with a load of clothes he takes out of an old duffel bag that looks like it's seen better days. She tries not to stare, but the way he awkwardly angles his body, his back to her, makes it feel like he's hiding something, and she can't not look.
There's a lot of plaid; blues and reds, and plenty of denim and black T-shirts. She catches a glimpse of torn fabric, and dark stains, but then the door to the machine is slammed closed.
He turns around to glance her way, all casual, like maybe he can sense her eyes on his back, and she looks down guiltily at the newspaper in her hands.
He straightens, and her eyes are back on him as he grips the washer as if it's the only thing keeping him on his feet. Maybe it is. His skin is pasty, no colour there at all, and his hands are shaking a little as he slowly feeds the quarters into the machine.
He may be as old as she is, or even older, but something (maybe those dimples) brings out her maternal instincts. She worries about him being alone and sick. She wants to ask if he's OK, but he seems to sense his own limitations and takes a seat in the plastic chairs provided. Maria's dryer beeps and she stands up, dropping her newspaper on the empty seat that separates them. She sees his eyes glance down at the headline, a little frown creasing his forehead.
“Do you mind?” He points at the paper.
“Not at all.”
Missing Girl, Found Safe and Well!
He reads the front page, a half-smile curling his lips, and she would swear that she sees a little colour return to his cheeks. She turns back to the bank of dryers and scoops out the now warm and dry sheets, Tommy's beloved “binkit”, and his flannel PJs with the bunnies.
Maria opens the door, a gust of snow-filled wind cooling her cheeks. She sees the tall tree outside, covered in bright twinkling lights, and thinks how lucky she is, to have family and security, when others don't.
She turns around to the man. “Merry Christmas.”
He smiles at her, those crater-like dimples on show again. “Thank you. And Merry Christmas.”
She starts to close the door behind her, and nearly bumps into another tall guy; his expression a mixture of anger and fear.
“What the hell, Sam? I told you I'd do this, you should be in bed!”
It's a relief that he's not alone, but there's a story there, she thinks, heading back to her room and her sleeping husband and son; if only those walls could speak.
Adeline
If you ask Adeline, Room 9 is cursed. Something always happens in there; a plumbing problem, issues with the lighting and thermostat, the hot water not being hot enough, and the fact that it always attracts the worst guests.
It's gotten to point where Adeline will give herself extra time to clean it when a guest leaves, and- surprise, surprise-this time is no different.
She saw them leave, those two guys; well that's a lie, she heard them leave in that black car, tearing out of the lot like they were being chased out of town, and then Gertie told her to clean room 9 first. Even though she didn't have upcoming reservations for any of the other units first. And even though kids had stayed in rooms 1 and 2, and in Adeline's experience, families with kids usually make the most mess. Usually. But Room 9... well, like Adeline always says, Room 9 is cursed.
She'd rolled her eyes at Gertie, said her 'Yes, Ma'am', and here she is. It's not as bad as some she's seen. But it's weird, and weird, unfortunately, is part of her job.
First of all, the bed by the door has been stripped of all its sheets, duvets and pillows, and they're all heaped into a pile on the other bed like someone had made a cosy nest to hibernate in.
When she gets into the bathroom, she finds all the towels have been used, and a few of them have been dumped in the tub; cold and sodden, along with a pair of jeans that been cut off someone; huge rips up the shins, all the way up and through the waistband. Adeline picks them up with her gloved hands, feeling the cold seep through to her fingers like they've been dumped in an ice-bath. She drops them straight in the trash, along with the huge flannel shirt that's also been cut and was hiding underneath the jeans.
There's bloody handprints all over the basin and taps; and it's definitely blood. It pains her that she knows that for a fact. And to think that her Mom always thought Adeline would be a ballerina.
The kitchenette is filled with coffee-stained cups, a couple of stale Danishes, empty Snickers wrappers, and half-full cups of soup from the vending machine. The ice bucket has been left in the sink and it's filled with pink-tinged water.
But really, the weirdest thing is the Christmas tree. Nestled among the baubles and lights that she had put up in every damn room, there are a handful of empty shotgun shells; neatly balanced and stuck on the end of the branches.
She steps back and tilts her head; they do look kinda shiny.
Adeline sighs. They don't pay her enough for this shit. And honestly, if these walls could talk, she wouldn't want to hear it.
Wally
You might say that Wally is just a wall, but it's sentient enough to choose a name for itself. And it has feelings, OK? It's not sure about the other walls in the room; they don't exactly speak, but one thing that's a fact, is that Wally has the best view.
It has a door and a window, and gets a good wide angle of the whole room and the parking lot; it can even see a little into the bathroom. So you know, it sees a lot, and Wally is proud to say that it's pretty sure it's seen everything.
It's like Wally's living in a soap opera: sordid affairs, births and deaths, all sorts of kinky stuff, that OK, it shouldn't watch, but it totally does. There was even a murder a few years back. So yeah, you name it, Wally has seen it!
It's even had its first ever hunters.
Yes, you heard that right. Hunters, and Wally's not talking deer either. It's talking ghosts and ghouls and things that goes bump in the night.
It was just before Christmas and two guys wearing plaid showed up. Sam and Dean. (Yes, it remembers their names, and yes, they really did use them a lot!) They poured salt around the windows and doors, tacked newspaper articles and maps of the lake onto it, and talked about missing kids, and water sprights.
It was thrilling! It really was. Like top five most exciting things to ever happen!
But after the first day or two the excitement started to dwindle - they were hardly ever in the room. It wasn't until the third or was it fourth night, when Dean dragged Sam into the room early one morning, after being out all night, that Wally got really interested.
Sam was barely conscious. Dean was clearly supporting most of his weight as he dumped him on the bed and with shaking hands cut off Sam's jeans and shirt in seconds, and then took him to the bathroom. Wally lost most of its view then, but it heard the shower turning on and saw the plume of steam billow out of the door.
The wall watched, fascinated, as Dean dropped his barely conscious brother onto the spare bed and then dumped all the bedding from his bed onto Sam's, shucking off his jacket and shoes and then climbing in bed with him, muttering something about conserving body heat.
“You tell anyone about this, Sam, and I'll kill you!”
Sam seemed out of it, totally unaware of what was going on, but Dean was talking constantly; about how they'd saved the kid, about losing his car keys and smashing the window, about how stupid Sam was to do 'that' (whatever 'that' was), how Sam was going to be just fine, and how when he was, Dean was going to kick his ass.
Naturally, Wally's curiosity began to grow. It was dying to see more and hear more about these hunter brothers. It watched Dean pace around the room like a caged animal, his gaze darting to a still unconscious Sam, checking his temperature every five minutes. It watched how he dunked a bloody hand into countless buckets of ice, and how much coffee he drank, and how he made Christmas decorations out of twist ties and bootlaces and shot gun shells from the bottom of the duffel bag.
Wally heard all the stories Dean told too; about childhood games of blood brothers, about hunts gone wrong and hunts gone right, about their parents, and how “wouldn't it be nice to have Christmas this year? Turkey, Die Hard, gifts, the whole shebang”.
It was official; Wally was attached. Invested, you might say.
So when it overheard Gertie talk to Mitch on the outside of it's wall about how she'd spoken to the Sheriff, and how he was coming to 'talk' to the guests in room 9, Wally freaked out. It didn't want them to get caught, it didn't want them to be in trouble, but it also didn't want them to leave.
Wally turned its attention back to its occupants.
“It made the front page of the paper, Dean. We've been here long enough already. We need to leave!” Sam collapsed heavily onto the chair and the wall knew, even then, that they should stay longer. Sam was clearly not ready to hit the road.
Wally could tell that Dean had doubts too, a deep frown on his forehead. “I don't know-”
“I'm fine! I really am.” Sam huffed, and looked up at his brother. “Look, if we leave now, we can make it back to the bunker in time for Christmas.”
Dean looked down at his feet. “You heard that, huh?”
Sam smiled. “When was the last time we did the whole shebang anyway? So, what d'ya say?”
“I say, Yippee ki-yay, mother fucker.”
Sam laughed, huge dimples in his cheeks, and Dean stuffed their shaving kits into the duffel, while the wall had what it thought might be symptoms of a plaster heart attack. They couldn't leave!
“I... er... don't suppose you really remember much about the last few days, right?” Dean said, not making eye contact with his brother.
“Definitely not.”
“So, no need to talk about it.”
“Definitely not.”
“Perfect!!”
“Perfect!”
The wall was pretty sure that's the first time Sam really looked at the tree, his eyes staring at the shotgun shells. He reached out and shoved one string into his pocket while Dean wasn't looking. The wall likes to think that they hang that on a tree every year.
Sam cleared his throat and then clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”
“Yeah, Merry Christmas, little brother.”
They nodded, and then Sam opened the door, and Dean hovered behind him like he was waiting for his brother to fall.
“I can walk to the car!”
“How do I know that? You did fall into a frozen lake, Sam. I'm just being practical.”
“I was pushed, and you're being a pain in my ass!”
“Oh, quit your bitching, you know you love-”
“Maybe I should drive. You’ve got a bum hand, remember?”
“Bitch!”
Sam's reply was drowned out by the doors of the car, slammed shut in unison, and the engine roared to life. They pulled out of the parking lot, and out of the wall's life forever. Not that it's bitter or anything.
Wally misses them. It thinks about them all the damn time. Running over its memories of them daily; picking apart the small details, filling in missing scenes, and wondering if they made it back to the ‘bunker?’ in time for Christmas.
But there'll be more guests. Maybe not as cool as hunters.... But who knows, maybe it's not goodbye forever. A wall can dream, right?
So for now Wally waits and hopes, and if this wall could talk, boy would it talk. But there's definitely a few things - two hunters, to be specific - that it'd keep all to itself.
The End