Killing Floor Chapter 2

"Dammit, Y/N! Can you at least tell me what kind of clothes I need to bring?"

You were thoroughly entertained at the attempts Dean was making to guess what you had planned. So far the questions had been: So you're sure this isn't a date? Is Sam coming? Is Cas coming? So it's not a date or a hunt? Are you sure I shouldn't bring a few weapons, just in case? What do you mean, I can't bring my Bob Seger shirt? Is this some sort of trap? Do Sam and Cas know what this is about? Wait, I need to pack for multiple days? How much money should I bring? Where the hell are you taking me, Y/N? How am I supposed to pack if you won't tell me anything? And he hadn't gotten a single inch with you. This is what he knew: Pack enough clothes for four or five days, dress warmly, bring some cash and a camera. No, Dean, a real camera, not just your phone.

"Bring layers. It'll be cold," you replied. "No need for anything dressy. Dress comfortably."

"Great, you're taking me to the freakin' artic to murder me," he ran his hands over his face stressfully. "Any other day I'd be thankful you can kick my ass."

You burst out laughing. You swore seeing him like this was better than waiting to see his reaction when you'd finally get there. "Just finish packing. I'll be back soon." Dean had spent the past forty minutes haphazardly tossing articles of clothing into his bag and trying to figure out the surprise, so you didn't have much time to prepare yourself.

"Is there going to be a shower? With tiny shampoo bottles?" he asked as you started leaving. You knew the question was two-fold. He genuinely wanted to know what the living conditions would be, but he was also trying to get more information out of you.

"I'll take care of the bathroom stuff." You smiled and tilted your head curtly.

"So I don't need to bring my loofah?"

"You use a loofah?"

"Shut up."

- TWENTY MINUTES LATER -

You had changed into fleece leggings and a long sweater, plus a coat and boots. In your bag you packed four more outfits, extra shoes, toiletries, and cash. Cas said he could adjust the age of the money when he sends you back. Now if only there was something he could do about your out of place fashion. Oh well, if the 60s were as wild and free as the rumors say, maybe everyone would be too stoned to notice.

You passed Sam on your way to Dean's room and piped up, "Hey Sam, I feel bad that we aren't going to be there for the salt and burn."

"Oh, it's not even a three person job," he dismissed as he sent a text. "Cas and I have it covered. You guys have fun."

The way he said the last sentence sounded different than the rest. It was slightly unsettling. "Sam?" He looked up from his phone. "Why are you suddenly so supportive of spontaneous time travel?"

"I'm not, it's just," he struggled to argue, "this seems like something you and Dean will really enjoy. Together." He looked back down so he wouldn't have to look at your reaction to the last word.

"Dean doesn't think of me that way."

He huffed out of his nose and smiled. "Ok, but when are you going to tell him?" He ventured to look at you again. "This trip would be the perfect chance."

"That's never going to happen," you replied softly. For every time Dean internalized his feelings, you had two. For every step you took to be more open with your emotions, you took two steps back. You had gotten so good at it, you had shoved all tickly feelings for him into a dark corner and all but forgotten about them… at least, until Sam brought them up. You hadn't even entertained the thought of this being anything besides a trip between friends. "Believe it or not, I have zero ulterior motives here."

"I get that. I'm just saying, if it turns into something more, I'm ok with that too." Sam smiled and continued to his room, leaving you with your thoughts in the bunker hallway.

His kind words begged the question, why even do this anyway? This is a pretty big "just because" gift. But the more you thought about it, the more you knew it was a long time coming. Dean never got to enjoy nice things; he was always going on to the next thing. One minute he's carrying a nine year old out of a Djinn den, the next he's lighting a rugaru on fire. In between jobs he'll hit on some chicks at a bar until he gets a bite, he gets one night of something that resembles pleasure, and then it's back to ganking monsters. Dean doesn't get vacations, especially those so far away that he doesn't even have to worry about a salt circle. This: time away from duty that constantly calls, a break from things that want him dead, days to spend thinking about music and fun; this is something Dean doesn't get to have, but you're going to give it to him.

You tap on Dean's door and call out, "Hey! You ready?" You hear shuffling inside, then the floor creak as he makes his way to the door.

"I know what it is," he announces as he opens the door. "We're going skiing!"

You blink twice but don't budge. "Wow, not even close."

Dean's shoulders slump as the smug grin falls from his face. His disappointment is comical, but will soon be remedied. Both of you walk into the library where Cas is waiting patiently.

"Ok Cas, don't tell him," you remind him.

"Come on, buddy," Dean begged as he adjusted his duffle bag.

"I'm sorry Dean, I'm sworn to secrecy," Castiel apologized. "Are you ready?"

"Hells yeah, let's blow this popsicle stand!" you exclaim and hold onto Dean's forearm as Cas reaches for both of you. You can feel the angelic power radiating off of him right before the touch zaps you and Dean into the past.

The next moment hits you with a gust of freezing cold air and musty city smog. You let go of Dean and take in the world around you. There's a hotel directly behind you, gorgeous cars at a standstill on the busy downtown road, people bundled up and hurrying across the crosswalk even though traffic is too heavy to worry over. A young boy walks by hand in hand with his mother, and you wonder how old he is back in "real time" and if he's doing well. You turn to face Dean, who is observing the cars, taking a stab at the era you landed him in.

"Sixties?" he guesses with a hesitant smile.

"Wow, you are good!" you compliment.

Dean takes a couple of steps, taking in 360 degrees of his surroundings with wide-eyed curiosity; he notices a newspaper vending machine in front of a metaphysical store on the corner and buys today's issue. After briefly reading the important clues he concludes, "Boston, January 23, 1969. What the hell." He looks up at you, bewildered, but the look quickly turns to wonder as his eyes wander behind you. You turn your head to see a pale, skinny man with frizzy dark brown hair carrying a guitar case nonchalantly down the street as people rushed by him unphased. You turn back to Dean with a smirk. "Was that…" he trailed off, watching him walk off and then turning back to you in disbelief. "Was that Jimmy fucking Page?"

"Ding ding! Give the man a prize!" you laugh, tickled pink at how perfectly timed fate had it. "Surprise, Dean. You're going to a Led Zeppelin concert."

Dean's mouth was in a temporary state of stunned slack. The few words he tried to form never came, getting stuck somewhere between his throat and lips. Finally he closed his mouth to swallow, remembering to breathe, and snatched you up into a rough embrace. He was going to see this history-making concert in person, all four days of it. He was going to hear Robert Plant's voice and Jimmy Page's riffs with his own ears. He would see the band perform with his own eyes, not the eyes of a camera or hear Bonzo and Jonesie work their magic behind the impersonal veil of a speaker. Why you were doing this for him he had no idea, but he was floored that you had thought of something this out of the box.

A million things to say to you ran through his mind as he held onto you. Thank you so much, Y/N. You're the best. This is going to be awesome. You know, for a "not-date" this is about nine kinds of hot. How the hell did you come up with this? There's no way Cas was 100% ok with this. I'm going to go chase down Page right now and get his autograph! No wait that's a bad idea; nobody here really knows who these guys are until after the concert. Oh my god oh my god oh my god it's Jimmy fucking Page, that means Plant can't be too far away, those guys stick together like glue. He can't be that hard to find; the hair, ya know. Shit, Y/N, I can't even -

"Why'd you do this for me?" Of all the things he could've said while breaking away from the hug, this is what he went with.

Your brows scrunched up as you pondered the strange question. "Cuz you're awesome," you replied shortly. No time for chick flick moments. You guys had a concert to get ready for. Besides, you couldn't look into those gorgeous green eyes for more than two seconds without starting to feel things, and you weren't letting that happen. This weekend was going to be whatever Dean wanted it to be, so if that involved him disappearing with groupies after the 2nd set every night, that was fine by you.

An hour later you were settled into the hotel room. You hadn't expected the hotel to have only one room left, but it was just your luck. At least it had two double beds. Too high strung on nervous energy to eat, you decide to hit the bar after tonight's set. The Boston Tea Party concert venue is across the street from your hotel, so it doesn't take long to get through the ticket line. The synagogue-turned concert hall was modest, able to hold about a thousand people. Walking in, you gawked at the mirror ball suspended from the tall ceiling, as well as the colored light projectors that would add a trippy ambiance to the wall next to the stage. The stage sat at the very back of the chairless room, except a few folding ones cast to the side. The balcony loomed directly above you, probably boasting bolted down seats but only necessary for those who couldn't fit on the ground floor.

The moments between stepping inside the modest venue and and the first strum of guitar is excruciating. The only thing that convinces you that time isn't at a complete standstill is the occasional brush of people pushing against you, inching you and Dean closer to the stage. He makes an occasional comment here and there about Bonham's drum set sitting on stage, the amps, and whether it would be safe to join along in Communication Breakdown, since it was already on the radio. You feel the eyes of some fellas gloss over you but quickly alleviate when they notice the man beside you. That's it, you think, you're losing Dean at the bar; your sexual frustration needs resolving. Amid the bustle of people his arm brushes yours and the tingle it sends into your stomach distracts you; yep, you definitely need a good lay. Your thoughts freeze as a man comes out and introduces the Raven as the opening act, after which everyone cheers contentedly, oblivious to the show they're about to get. You bite your lip nervously as the music manager announces, "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Led Zeppelin" with each syllable of "Zeppelin" separated.

Instead of appearing from behind the stage, the band members walked through the crowd to get to the stage. Gradually the masses parted, everyone's attention drawn to the four young men quietly parading to the back of the concert hall. By the time they had stepped onto the stage, the crowd had quieted to mostly whispering between themselves, curious and enamored by the showy flare. Bonham thumped his drums a few times and tested the foot pedal. Page plucked around on his guitar while Plant and Jones fiddled with the amps. You darted a glance at Dean, who was a bundle of nervous energy, looking from the stage to you and back with a giddy grin. You offered a small, controlled smile, knowing you had to keep your game face on to keep Dean grounded in remaining inconspicuous.

The sound that erupts from the amps and house speakers is deafening. Taken aback by the vibrations that are heavier and louder than anything they had experienced, the shocked crowd goes from curiously optimistic to wordlessly spellbound. "Train Kept a' Rollin" is the first piece of the night and everyone in the room is instantly hooked on the new sound. After the first verse you snap out of it long enough to glance up at Dean again, whose shoulder is up against your back in the tight space. If he was on a seat, he'd be at the edge of it, drinking in every chord like it's his first drink in days, but it's like drinking from a fire hydrant. His mouth is slack, eyes sparkling with wonder, like a kid in the biggest candy store ever. He doesn't even notice you staring, and it's a good thing too, because you're grinning like an idiot. He's so happy, and it makes you happy.

The complexity of every song stuck with the concert goers, and with every new piece, they grew more and more in love. You Shook Me was the last song of the night, and as Page and Plant played riffs off of each other, Plant's acrobatic, elastic voice vibrated with the same electrical qualities indistinguishable from Page's guitar. Everyone in attendance left a different person, expectations exceeded and wanting more, and you could tell they knew that something very special was happening this weekend.

At the bar, you were about to order your next beer when you saw someone slip beside you out of the corner of your eye, but you couldn't be bothered by it. So many people were coming and going from the bar since you sat down, you had long since stopped paying attention. Besides, you had bar food of questionable quality and cheap beer to keep you occupied until you felt like going on the prowl. You took a sip and looked toward the back of the bar, where Dean had taken off to play pool. You hadn't seen anyone else over there a moment ago, but you almost spit all over the counter when you saw a familiar face making his way over to play against Dean: Led Zeppelin's very own John Paul Jones. You swallowed and slowly turned in your bar stool to meet the person seated next to you. He was a pale mess of frizzy dark brown hair and mysterious eyes, leaning against the bar counter on his elbows.

He smiled and quietly said in his charming English accent, "Hello there. Enjoy the concert?"

Your eyes widened when he spoke. Oh my god, he was gorgeous. And he had an accent. And he was the guitarist you had just watched the hell out of minutes before.

"Sorry," he interjected before you could answer, "it's just that I saw you there tonight near the front. Were you with someone, or…"

"Oh," you finally found words in your mouth. "Uh, no. He's not… we're not…" You cleared your throat. "The concert was amazing. You are very talented." Did Jimmy Page really just recognize you in a bar after their concert?

"Thanks, love. Can I buy you a drink?"

Play hard to get, play hard to get, stop fangirling, don't let him think you're easy. "As long as you let me return the favor," is what you decided with.

He chuckled and nodded. "Alright then. It's a deal," he replied and ordered two beers.

God, you never wanted him to stop talking. "So," you were careful not to say his name, "how are you enjoying Boston?" Your drinks came and you gave him your full attention.

"It's great," he answered after a long sip. "We were just in Cleveland, and next we're off to…" he squinted in deep thought, then turned to his other side and shouted above the bar noise, "Hey, what cities next?"

The man next to him turned in his seat and your eyes widened. He was tall, thin, and had bushy, curly blond hair bouncing around as he spun. "Springfield and Philadelphia, Jimmy. Hi!" he interjected as he glanced over at you. "Who's this?"

"Y/N," you replied, certain your voice had given away your excitement.

"I'm Robert, and this is Jimmy."

"It's nice to meet you. I really enjoyed the concert," you said loud enough for both of them to hear you.

"Ooo Jimmy, isn't she the one you were talking about?"

"Yeah, yeah, would you bugger off? Find yourself a girl," Jimmy shooed his friend away and turned back to you, shaking his head. You chuckled to yourself at the camaraderie between those two. "America is so different from England," he said to continue the conversation between the two of you.

"What's it like over there?"

He hummed mid-drink and set his glass down. "Well the girls are quite different than back home."

"Oh yeah?" You paused to finish your glass. "How so?"

His eyes met yours shyly. "In my opinion, they're prettier here."

Oh my god, what a cheeseball. But it made you blush and you tried to control the smile creeping across your face, but with no luck. A puff of air left your nose as you looked down, hoping to get the redness out of your face if you broke eye contact. It wasn't working. That's when you decided, fuck it. He likes you. You like him. And you were dying to know what else he could do with his fingers besides make a guitar do things that were humanly impossible.

A wave of boldness overtook you. "You wanna get out of here?"

"I thought you'd never ask," the handsome stranger replied.

You smiled as you both stood up to pay and leave. You shot a glance at Dean, who was laughing at something Jones said and waited for his turn. Feeling your gaze, he looked up from the pool table, catching you mouthing "don't wait up." He raised his eyebrows and gave you a knowing smirk before returning to his game; you rolled your eyes and took off.