The Tuesday night show pulled a larger crowd than usual. Maybe it was due to the end of the semester, maybe because The Roadhouse had finally started stapling posters advertising their performance nights to all of the telephone poles in town. Nevertheless, the room was packed, and more ears were hearing Dean's voice than ever before.
The bass guitar's deep tones hummed through the room, under the soles of the leather boots and high heels, through the blood of the lonely, the celebratory, the hopeless and the hopeful. The red and blue neon lights seem to flicker in time to the drumbeat, so the entire bar seems to pulse together in the same rhythm. Some nights, the cymbal clashes would make the glasses on the oak tables tremble, causing the intoxicating liquids inside them to roll in gentle concentric circles, punctuating each beat all around the room.
The lead guitar rings out clearly, picking out notes and riffs, guided by the strong painted fingers of the woman who plays it. Her thick black hair flies wildly around her face, whipping across her solid jaw. An occasional strand finds itself caught in her cherry red lipstick, but she's too absorbed in her craft to swipe it away. Her eyes are closed behind thick round sunglasses, despite the dark surroundings. Her flying fingers find the strings with minds of their own, forming chords through pure memory. It's been years since she could see the frets on her beloved instrument, or the enraptured faces of the people she performed for, but what she's lost in vision, she's gained in instinct.
Between the cries of the steel strings and the pounding of the drums, a voice weaves its words- barely audible above the music, but at the same time impossible not to hear. The voice sounds like whisky and secrets, leather and chrome, teardrops and anger. The voice is both the first thing anyone entering the Roadhouse will hear, and the one thing that will stay with them the next day, even when their clouded minds won't recall anything else.
The voice belonged to a man who both commandeered the small stage and melted into the shadows. The words came from his heart, working their way up his throat, pouring from his mouth and tumbling over his full, dry lips. A four-day stubble defined his sharp jawline. His short brown hair was combed tidily before the show, but now stuck out in all directions from all the times he reached up with his free hand and pushed it up from where it fell on his damp brow. The most noticeable feature on the singer, however, was his eyes. They were a clear, dark green, and they flashed brightly when they caught the light from the signs in the window or the fluorescents over the pool table. Occasionally they glanced cheekily through the audience, lingering on some faces, before winking and moving on. Other times they were held half closed as the man tipped his chin to the ceiling and let his body sway to the instruments behind him. From the dry leather boots on his feet, to the unbuttoned flannel shirt on his back, he looked like part of the bar.
This was what you would see on any given Tuesday or Saturday night at the Roadhouse. These were the nights that Dean Winchester and his band Daeva always rocked the stage. Their classic rock covers were always a hit with the tougher crowds that the bar pulled, though any stranger, from a lonely trucker to a couple on their first date would instantly feel at home in the comfortable atmosphere.
Dean ran his hand over his face as he left the stage, taking the three stairs in one step. His left hand still smelled metallic from the microphone that he held like a bible in his sweaty palms.
"Good show tonight Dean!" Ash held both of his drumsticks in one hand as he clapped the singer strongly between his shoulder blades. "And man, was the house packed or what? I told you, once the word got 'round town that Daeva's got the best looking drummer since Keith Moon, we'd be fighting them off the stage!"
"Don't flatter yourself too much, Ash. Everyone's coming home for the Holidays." Dean said the word like someone might say genital herpes. "Everyone's doing the turkey and pumpkin pie thing. This is just where they come to get away from the functional family crap."
In the back room, Dean shucked his blue plaid shirt, patting down his neck with a clean, white towel.
"You doing anything for Christmas?" Ash inquired from the threadbare red couch that he had thrown himself down on. "I mean, are you going to see Sam or…" He silenced when Dean's eyes pierced him from across the room.
"I'm done trying to relate to Sam, Ash. You know that. I was done dealing with that douchebag the minute he sold his soul to Los Angeles."
Ash picked nervously at some lint on the arm of the couch. Dean felt a little sorry for the guy, he shouldn't have grumbled at him, but he hated when people brought up his broken family.
Ash was lucky, he had his mom and sister practically within arm's reach all the time. His father had died when he was too young to remember, too young for it to hurt. His mother, Ellen, owned the Roadhouse. "Owned" didn't do her justice. She breathed life back into it after it fell neglected when her husband had his accident. Washing the grime from the windows washed the bad memories from her heart. Restocking the shelves with whiskey and brandy refilled her life with a purpose. The night she flipped the neon signs on for the first time in three years, she started a new life. She raised her children well, making sure their hearts were true and they were strong. Ash didn't understand families who left each other, but he had no right to mention Sam to Dean.
Truth was, Dean was planning on spending the holidays on his own, probably hungover. He'd watch It's a Wonderful Life, or Frosty the Snowman or something, but God knows he wouldn't mention that bit to anyone. He'd nurse his pounding headache with cold turkey sandwiches and store-bought pie and avoid his problems. Hell, that was a pretty good summary of his life so far.
Laughter echoed through the door from down the hallway. The radio had been turned back on since their set was over and a slower Bob Dylan tune seeped through the paneled walls.
"Fuckin' eh man!" Garth squawked as he bounced through the door. The energy in the room skyrocketed immediately. It didn't get toned down at all when Gabe followed him in, twirling a baby-blue bra on his wrist.
Dean jumped a little when Gabe spanked his ass with his new prize.
"Cleared this off the stage after your big finale. You've got to learn to hang around for a minute, give the ladies some time to unsnap the goods after you do your Elvis move. I keep swiping the profits!"
Dean couldn't help but laugh when his vision was suddenly impaired by a set of 32Bs. He threw his arms out in front of him and feigned stumbling around the room blindly.
"Hey dude, you'd better knock that off before Pam catches you." Ash drawled from the couch.
"Too late," Pamela's smoky southern twang interrupted from the doorway. "Seriously boys, I make a two-minute trip to the ladies' and you knuckleheads manage to make me your punchline again." She stood just outside the room. With her crossed arms and studded leather jacket, she looked like a force to be reckoned with, and the four men shrank back just a little.
"Oh come off it, you dildos, I'm just messing with you. God help me if I ever took you guys seriously." She dropped her hands to her thighs and stepped inside and the tension in the room visibly disappeared.
Dean looked proudly around the room at his band as he took a seat in a worn leather armchair, cracking a beer and reclining. He looked at Garth, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, chewing his guitar pick and doodling his latest logo idea on a (used?) napkin. Dean had found him waiting tables at a café in Houston, well, Garth had found him. He had eagerly questioned Dean about the half-written song that was penned into the margins of the day's newspaper. Dean had tried to hide it, embarrassed. He was shit at writing. Garth hadn't been shy about telling Dean that either. After a few minutes discussing bands, they had found they had the same tastes, and there was no shaking him. Garth followed Dean back to Nebraska like a puppy who had found his person. He irritated the hell out of Dean, but his heart was in the right place and he was one hell of a bassist. Plus, they probably wouldn't be able to get rid of him if they tried, his puppy-dog eyes were just too good.
His eyes fell on Ash next. He lounged on the ancient couch, twirling his drumstick between the fingers of one hand, scrolling through the playlists on his iPod with the other. Ash had been Dean's best friend since college. They had met when Ash had used his quick wit and good reputation to get Dean out of some hot water with a professor. The flashback gave Dean his daily reminder not to try mixing energy drinks with Jack Daniels ever again, especially before an exam. He honestly had no idea what Ash was doing in the middle of nowheretown, Nebraska- he was the closest thing to a genius Dean had ever met. He could be president, or on the moon, or the founder of the next Microsoft, but no, he smashes away at his drums like a cutoff-wearing Hulk with a mullet in a band that didn't even have an original song and played in his mom's bar. What a guy
Dean's memories of Pamela were a little more bittersweet. Looking at her chatting enthusiastically with Gabe brought him back to another backroom at another concert. Back then, her hair had electric blue streaks and her eyes danced around the room, reading everyone like books, noticing more than anyone else ever did. Back then, she played for one of the most popular bands in the country and she dated his brother. Pamela and Sam's relationship burned short and hot. She introduced him to all the major players in the business and basically got the ball rolling with Sam's career as a producer. She lost her gig with the band a few years after that after losing the sight in both of her eyes. She never told Dean how, and Dean never asked. She could still play like the devil himself, and in a moment or reckless charity, she took the three young men under her wing and brought their music to a whole other level. There had been a few nights in the past years that Pam and Dean had spent together, usually brought on by a good show and a little too much booze, and always ended with Pam making fun of Dean's exuberant style. Dean had more respect for her than pretty much anyone else in his life.
Gabriel had come basically as a godsend. The group had been in desperate need of a keyboardist since its inception, and Gabriel Novak was the answer to their prayers. None of them knew much about him, except that he had criss-crossed the country doing various jobs from most of his life. From carpentry to teaching piano to acting. He apparently starred in a Pepsi commercial or something, and he'd never admit it, but Dean always swore that he'd seen him in an episode of Casa Erotica. He was the newest member of their little patchwork family, but his undeniable charm and uncanny ability to get along with everyone helped him fit in immediately.
The band currently had only one gig: The Roadhouse. Luckily it was twice a week, and the attendance was steadily increasing as they gained recognition. Dean had no illusions of grandeur, the band would never get anywhere if they just kept playing the same old rock songs, but they did sound damn good doing it, and Dean felt completely whole when he was performing. So they played their shows, he worked all week at the mechanic's downtown, and he tried in vain to find something inspiring enough to allow him to finally start writing his own music.
For now, well, he wasn't quitting his day job, but he had enough cash to pay for the basics- rent, food, beer, gas. Whenever he was lonely, he'd just choose one of the numbers left on the undersides of napkins left with Ellen after every show.