Killing Floor Chapter 1

It wasn't the first time you had accidentally fallen asleep on Dean's bed. The mattress was softer than yours, the bunker noises weren't as loud on his end of the hallway, and his pillow smelled nice. You blink awake as you notice Dean sleeping sitting down on the floor in the corner of the room with headphones on and his arms loosely crossed, his head leaning into the wall as he breathes deeply. That cannot be comfortable. He's going to be grumpy when he wakes up with a crick in his neck. Carefully, as not to make the bed creak, you sit up and shift through his dresser. There's no way you're doing the walk of shame into the kitchen when nothing even happened between you two. You find a red shirt you've never seen him wear and throw it on over your tank top. You're still wearing the same jeans from yesterday, but... they're jeans. The outfit is convincing enough, so you tiptoe to the door.

"Hey," a gravelly voice behind you stops you mid-stride. You turn towards the corner where the voice comes from and offer an embarrassed smile. "Nice shirt."

You smooth it down and notice it's a Led Zeppelin shirt with the burning Hindenburg as the artwork on the front. It's very soft, obviously quite old. Not one of those things you pick up in the band tee section of any department store - you're pretty sure this thing was vintage.

"Oh, uh," you stammer, "sorry, I was just… Where did you get this?"

Still too tired to form complete sentences, Dean closed his eyes and shrugged with a close-mouthed "I don't know" sound in this throat. He rubbed his neck and grumbled, his eyes wandering to the bed as he recollected being kind enough to not interrupt your much-needed sleep after yesterday's vamp hunt and impromptu vinyl collection concert.

"Coffee?" you offered. For all the things you didn't tell him, you did let it slip that you could fall asleep to anything Motorhead after a tiring day. Last night in the bunker hallway he told you he had a few of their albums, which you were so excited about you embarrassed yourself, so with a smirk he gathered his favorite three and put one on the player. You sat on the bed, feet dangling excitedly, as Ace of Spades blared in room 11. You laid your head on his pillow as your body began to relax, and the last thing you remember is Dean plopping down onto the floor with a portable cassette player and headphones.

Dean woke up enough to rub the sleep out of his eyes at the word coffee. "Please," he replied, still rubbing his neck absentmindedly.

Sam was already in the kitchen by the time you came in. He turned when he heard the soft "pat, pat, pat" of your feet across the hard bunker floor. He was doing something strange with his own cup of coffee in a blender with what appeared to be butter and cinnamon. "Good morning Y/N," he greeted with a smile.

"Hey Sam," you said as you inhaled the smell of coffee and… whatever the hell he had going on with the rest of the ingredients. You weren't ready for another health food explanation, so you decided to not even ask.

"Where'd you get that shirt?" Sam asked after you poured two cups from the pot.

Ah, if he hadn't seen it before, that means Dean really had no idea he had it. "You know what, I'm not even sure," you half laughed.

"It looks…"

"Vintage, I know," you finished. "Weird, huh? You'd think I'd remember getting something like that." Well, you'd think Dean would, but the walk of shame cover up had worked and you were fairly certain you could speak for him at this point. "I'm pretty sure this is one of their promo tees from 1969."

"Woah," he raised his eyebrows. "You know how much that's worth?"

Well-versed in the realm of Led Zeppelin and its enthusiastic fan base, you nodded your head. "Roughly, yes." Before you could exit the kitchen, Dean shuffled in tiredly and leaned against the door frame. You handed him his mug silently and he grunted, which you assumed was a thank you. He blinked the sleep from his eyes in between gulps, staring into his cup aimlessly. Noticing Sam's laptop on the kitchen counter, you lean in and read the news article he had left open covering a couple mysteriously slaughtered in their own bed. "Found a case?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, it's a couple days drive but it's just a salt and burn," Sam replied as he drank his creamy looking coffee.

"Dude," Dean finally spoke up after a few sips of his un-Sammed brew, "what is that?" He stared at Sam's muddy looking cup.

Confidently he responded, "It's bulletproof coffee, and it's healthy."

"Of course it is." Dean rolled his eyes. "Just like your kale garnish and jogging obsession."

"Here we go," you sighed quietly, lifting your mug to your lips.

- Four hours later -

You were going to change shirts, honestly, but Dean's vintage Led Zeppelin tee was just too comfy. He didn't seem to mind, anyway. Come to think of it, he hadn't minded much of anything since he woke up, and it was starting to worry you. At first you thought it was from his strange sleeping position, but come on, Dean's had it worse. It usually takes him a couple of hours max to snap out of the morning funk following a vamp nest clear-out, but today he just wasn't acting right. You've been around the boys long enough to know their daily flow: what time Sam comes in from his morning jog; how many chugs of coffee it takes for Dean to say more than two words at a time; the number of hours Sam waits between finishing a hunt and looking for another; which floor squeak is Sam's versus Dean's when they're right outside your room. Things you're almost certain they don't even know about themselves, but you wouldn't trade for the world.

Living with the Winchesters was an absolute delight. What began as a shared hunt here and there became a permanent living arrangement after your roommate/"not"-boyfriend died on a job gone wrong. Sam offered you a spare room and after the next hunt, you stayed. Then after the next one, you stayed. Working through your grief and distracting yourself with saving people and hunting things, you stayed. You walked into your room one day to see Dean laying a blue pillow with your first initial on the bed, and you took that as your invitation to unpack all the way.

As emotionally constipated as Dean appeared to the casual observer, you saw how much he cared in little things he did along the way. He didn't understand Sam's health kicks, but he always made sure his running shoes were clean and there were at least two salad toppings in the fridge at all times. He would push you to your limit on hunts, because he knew you could handle it, but damn it felt like a mean old drill sergeant screaming down your throat sometimes, but he also lets you pass out on his bed sometimes because he knows you like it. He doesn't how how he feels in the traditional, "Hallmark movie" sense, but you wouldn't want him to anyway. That just wouldn't be Dean. You'll take his gruff exterior and occasional leaks of under the table sappiness any day.

Except, well, when he's like this. Absolutely unreadable. You knocked on his door softly and waited for a reply. You heard the bed springs relax and reluctant footsteps. The door opened, barely. Great, he doesn't want to talk. Like, at all.

"Hey," you stretched your neck, trying to see his face.

He peeked out. "What?" he asked flatly.

"What's the deal with you?"

A quick shrug. "Nothing. You need something?" He was trying to get you out of his hair.

"Yeah, I need you to tell me why you're acting weird."

"I'm not acting weird," he said defensively, his voice raised slightly from his tone before.

You raised an eyebrow. "Did something happen on the hunt?"

"No, Y/N, I just don't feel good. I've got a damn crick in my neck," he offered.

You smiled and shook your head. "No, that's not why."

Dean huffed and started to close the door. Stopping it with your hand, you poked your head inside. "Is it ok if I come in?"

"No."

"Dean, come on," you sighed as you lowered your hand from the door. Right before you bail, the door opens slightly, giving you silent permission to enter. "Playing hard to get, are we?" The question was exasperated, not at all the context in which people usually use the term. When the answer didn't come, you walked in and sat beside him on his bed. "Nice sheets. Egyptian cotton?"

Dean cracked a slight smile. Good, progress already. He started wiping down his 1911's slide, a task he must've started before you knocked, judging by the field strip progress on his nightstand. "It's not that something happened on the hunt, it's that something didn't happen," he began.

"Oh man." Making him smile was addicting, and you wanted to see if you could do it again. "Bella not give you her number? Or was it Alice this time?"

"Man, I just," he continued, and you're not sure if the pop culture reference just flew over his head or if he's just really focused on what he's trying to say. "I was off my game last night. I don't even know why it's bothering me so much."

"Well, we didn't die, so you weren't that far off your game."

He exhaled through his nose and nodded in agreement, gently setting down the shiny steel slide. "You remember the second room in the nest? It took me like four swings to take out one vamp. I mean seriously, what the hell? And that bitch who turned the vic right in front of me, she thought it was hilarious that you almost bit it - or, got bit - no pun intended," he finished quietly.

Poor fella. The dude was being hard on himself and there had to be something you could do to cheer him up. You put your hand on his shoulder and gave a short squeeze. "Yo, I'm still here. I appreciate the backup, seriously, but even if I had gotten bitten, there's a cure for vampires, so don't beat yourself up about it. Besides, everybody's got off days. Good times, bad times," you winked, alluding to the first song on Led Zeppelin's first album.

"Yeah well," Dean stood up and walked toward his vinyl collection, "if I could go back I'd do it differently. I went in underestimating them. Vamps are getting smart and we went in cocky. It's not gonna happen like that again."

You squinted as a wild idea popped into your head. Without a word you ran out of the room, not sure if Dean even noticed, since his back was turned to you.

"Cas!" you called into the hallway. Was he even in the bunker today? You hadn't noticed him after the latest hunt and although he didn't eat, he often accompanied the Winchesters in the kitchen, but he wasn't there this morning either. You can't called his name again but instead of an answer, you rounded the corner and almost barrelled into Sam. Jumping back, you exclaimed, "Sam! Hey! Have you seen Cas?"

"No, sorry, is there something I can do to help?"

"Can you send me back in time?"

"Uh, no. Wait. What?"

You sighed through your nose and tried to figure out the best way to explain your plan to Sam without sounding like a crazy person. "Dean is having a really bad day, and I was wanting to cheer him up. Like, something epically amazing. And it requires time travel."

"Y/N, you know how dangerous time travel can be."

"Yeah I know, but trust me, we're going to be wallflowers the whole time. I want to," you pause to take a breath, the idea sounding more and more insane by the second, "I want to take him to a Led Zeppelin concert."

Sam's eyes get big and he swallows, looking away for a moment. A smile slowly cracks and he nods. "That's… that's crazy."

"Yeah I kn-"

"He'll love it."

"Aha, I'm - what?"

"Yeah, I think you should do it. Have you tried praying to Cas? He's on his own thing today."

You couldn't keep up with what was happening around you. Since when did Sam become so supportive of time travel just for kicks and giggles? And there was no way Cas would hear your prayer; you tried before, and what started as a sincere prayer somehow became a longing for a hot fudge sundae, and you're pretty sure it got lost in the airwaves somewhere along the way.

"I'm not super good at praying," you explained awkwardly. "Would you mind trying?"

"Oh sure," Sam responded before clearing his throat and slightly bowing his head. "Cas, it's Sam. Y/N is trying to plan something special for Dean, so if you could-"

You feel a wave of air, like the draft after someone slams a door, and hear the slight rustle of wings behind you.

"Hello, Sam," Cas greeted, "hello, Y/N. What are you planning for Dean?"

"Thanks, Sam," you said before turning your attention to Cas. "I want you to send us to 1969." Sam continued his trip to his room, leaving you and Cas alone.

You could physically feel the tension in the air. "That's… inadvisable," Cas warned.

"I know, Cas." You sighed in defeat. It was going to be way harder convincing someone who had seen first-hand the effects that changing history can have on the flow of the universe. "But Dean is feeling majorly bummed, and I know something we can go to that would make him happy again."

"What exactly do you have in mind?" he asked with both skepticism and curiosity.

You couldn't believe he was actually willing to listen. "January 23rd, 1969. Boston, Massachusetts. We would be there until the 26th or 27th. We would be going to a concert and just watching. Nothing crazy, I promise." Cas peered down at you with narrowing eyes and you could see the wheels in his head turning, and it was vaguely terrifying. "We're not even going to bring hunting stuff. This is just going to be for fun. I just want to cheer him up. Please, Cas?"

Cas weighed the matter in his mind before answering. "Alright."

Your face lit up and you grabbed his waist and clung onto him. "Cas! Yes, yes, yes! Thank you!" His shoulders tensed when you hugged him and you felt a stiff hand on your back. He exhaled and his muscles relaxed slightly. You pulled away, still smiling. "We need a plan for you to know when exactly to pick us back up. And I don't feel comfortable relying on prayer. Sorry, but with me it's unreliable, especially when you add a fifty year time lapse." You thought for a moment, then started walking toward the kitchen with Cas following. Opening a new tab on the laptop, you searched Google for the Boston Globe until you found papers that had been digitally scanned into the archives from 1969. "I'll put a personal ad in this exact paper when we're ready to come back," you pointed to the January 27th issue, to which Cas nodded. You bookmarked the page and asked Cas if he had any questions.

"When do you want to leave?" he asked.

You looked at your watch; it was 2pm. "In an hour. Thanks again, Cas." You couldn't stop smiling as you made your way back to room 11.