Killing Floor

Killing Floor - chapter 7

Author's note: Well, this is it! The last chapter:') If you enjoyed this journey through being a groupie, hunting a shifter, and figuring out the feelings between you and Dean, comment at the end! I love feedback! <3

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A bit about the title: Killing Floor is a lyric in the Lemon Song, as well as its own song they did a medley of in their early tours. Later on, the Lemon Song would appear in Led Zeppelin II, their 2nd studio album. Lines such as "squeeze my lemon til the juice runs down my leg" and "I'm going to leave my children down on this killing floor" (referring to a man spilling his seed) gave the song an extremely sexual nature. I wanted to hint at the smuttiness of this story with the title, thus the name Killing Floor.

Killing Floor - Chapter 7

Led Zeppelin played over four hours that night. It wasn't on purpose; the crowd simply would not let them offstage. There was a lot of screaming, hands reaching, and a few especially devoted fans banging their heads against the stage in protest when they finished their second set. The boys on stage began throwing ideas around, the possibility of the group's longevity slowly sinking in. By the end of the night they had played everything from their first album, White Summer/Black Mountain, Killing Floor/the Lemon Song, a few Beatles songs, and parts of songs that all or most of them knew. The response to every bit they played was enough to coax out just a little bit more. When they were finally done, their music manager came up and squeezed them all in a bundle, lifting them off the ground.

You had been snapping photos all night, some with Dean in the background, some without, and had even been discreet enough to record a segment of Over Under Sideways Down with your phone, which you had kept charged all week just in case an opportunity like this arose. The occasional glance to your side caught a rarely carefree Dean, completely enamored by the deafening rock sounds and enchantment of a night he never wanted to end. You head was cloudy with sensory overload: the connection of hearing Plant's familiar, overpowering voice on a record or the radio and the sight of him in person, instead of in a photograph; the stale smell of the building that barely fit a thousand people, overpowered by sweaty fans and the occasional waft of alcohol; the faint taste of strawberry ice cream still in your mouth; the light touch of people brushing up against you as everyone gradually inched closer to the stage.

Dean made slow, sweet love to you that night. Each kiss was purposeful, intentional; every touch reverent; he looked directly into your eyes when he entered you. He whispered your name over and over, every thrust more meaningful than the last. You held his face in your hands, whispering his name back between passionate kisses, until both of you met your release in wordless bliss. He hooked his arms around you as you both laid on your sides in the moments that followed, but suddenly he fell too quiet, and you turned around to face him to see a single tear running down his cheek.

"Was I that bad?" you joked as you wiped it away.

"No, sweetheart," Dean shook his head and scoffed. He looked down for a moment, hating that he had created a chick flick moment. "I don't deserve... any of this." He gestured into the air with his hand, which you assumed to encompass the vacation from constantly looking over his shoulder, four signatures from four of his favorite people's first American tour, and finding you right under his nose.

You decided to speak for all the things to which he had gestured. "Does it make you happy?" you asked. After all, that was your goal in the first place. He nodded, to which you responded, "Then yes, you do deserve it." You wiggled closer to him in that tiny double bed and fell asleep in each other's arms.