SPN Fic: We Were Like Family Once 1/4 (Gen, PG13, Pre-Series)

[dodger_winslow]

Something I wrote for the Family Secrets: The Winchester Secrets Challenge. I've had this in my head for a while, but it took a while to figure out how to best articulate it.

Title: We Were Like Family Once (1/4)
Author: Dodger Winslow
Challenge: family_secret Family Secrets: The Winchester Secrets Challenge
Prompt: Confession is always weakness. The grave soul keeps its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence.
Word Count: 29,700
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Rating: PG13 for language
Spoilers: up to Born Under a Bad Sign
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.

Summary: The first time John showed up at the Roadhouse, he was hunting. He’d tracked his quarry here, knew it was inside. This was its home base, the place it holed up when it wasn’t running around, doing what things like it did.

We Were Like Family Once

Confession is always weakness. The grave soul keeps
its own secrets, and takes its own punishment in silence.

The first time John showed up at the Roadhouse, he was hunting. He’d tracked his quarry here, knew it was inside. This was its home base, the place it holed up when it wasn’t running around, doing what things like it did.

The place was loud and warm and cheerful. He took a seat in the corner, his back to the wall, his eyes cautious as they scanned everyone and everything. He was looking for danger, looking for allies, looking for indications of who might have to be dealt with to keep from getting killed once he did what he came here to do.

A pretty woman with an open face and one hell of a welcome smile was heading his direction. He’d watched her long enough to know she was the primary hub of activity here, a unifying catalyst who snaked through the boisterous clientele as effortlessly as air. She was the heart of the place, the center from which all activity spoked. Laughing at a joke someone told her, she laid hands on people - mostly men - as she passed: a shoulder here, a back there, a forearm near the door, someone’s ass by the pool table in the corner. Down to a man, they were contacts of acknowledgement, the small hellos of old friends, welcoming them home again, saying she was glad they were here and hoped they’d stay awhile.

In most bars, he’d take that as a smart waitress sowing her field of regulars for a bountiful night’s tips. In this place, it was something more, evidence of an almost family dynamic in which this woman served as a common bond: mother, friend, sister … even daughter.

But not lover, John noticed. Not even by the man whose ass she patted as she slipped by the game of eight ball over which he was bent. He glanced up, flashed her a wicked grin full of promise, but it wasn’t the kind of promise a man follows through on. It was a lewd comment made to a close friend, an acknowledgement she was one hell of a fine woman who’d put any sane man on her like a dog on meat; but even while acknowledging as much, it also said he respected her too much to try and tap her ass for the sake of casual gratification.

Her progress was slow as she worked the room. It was a relaxed confidence designed to give him time to settle in, time to get comfortable in the environment before she showed up to say, "Welcome to the Roadhouse. What can I get you, tonight?" The smile she offered him was as warm and welcoming as any she’d afforded those she knew, those she considered friends. He could see why this woman was popular, understand why the men here responded to her the way they did.

"Nothing," he said. "I’m fine."

She lifted an eyebrow, gave him a skeptical once-over. "Really? So you just came in for the free air then?"

He smiled a little. "I’ll leave a tip," he offered as compensation for whatever she might lose on him occupying a chair in her territory.

"Good to know. You’ll get much snappier service that way. So my math skills are a little rusty … what’s fifteen percent of ‘nothing, I’m fine,’ again?"

"Probably a twenty," John said. "If I like the way you leave me alone, maybe even a fifty."

She laughed. "Tempting, but I think I’d rather pester you. How ’bout a cup of coffee if you’re not in a drinking mood? Fifteen percent of a cup of coffee is about ten cents. Hell of a deal, if you ask me."

On another night, in a different place he might have enjoyed talking to her; but this wasn’t another night or a different place, and he wasn’t here to talk, he was here to hunt. Scanning the swarm of unfamiliar faces as she spoke, he spotted it in a dark corner, sharing a table with five other men John earmarked as trouble if things got ugly. It got up, left the table to move through the crowd, interacting with others like it was one of them, like it cared about the same things they did.

It was a regular here then. That could be one hell of an inconvenience if push came to shove. A serious problem even. A few cronies in an open bar brawl was one thing; every damn man in the place was something else entirely. They clearly didn’t know what it was, didn’t see the evil it wore under a skin of normalcy and lies; and he’d had a little too much experience telling people things they didn’t want to hear to think a stranger making accusations would be given the benefit of the doubt instead of handed his ass on a platter.

Which was probably exactly why it chose this place as a base of operations in the first place. It was smart … smart enough to know the Roadhouse wasn’t a simple drinking dive or a glorified meat market where players cruised the promenade floor, looking for a little tail. This was the working man’s version of a men’s club; a place where regular guys dropped by several times a week to toss back a couple and swap lies with friends. There weren’t more than a handful of women in the place, and the few who were here were either clearly attached or so clearly uninterested in being attached only a blind man would consider approaching them for anything more intimate than directions to the can.

The way it moved through the place seemed random, but it wasn’t. It had a destination in mind, a child sitting at the end of the bar. She was small, maybe seven or eight, blonde as Mary used to be and bent to the serious task of coloring. It kept glancing at her, moving closer with every table it visited. She was oblivious to its approach, her full attention riveted on what she was doing the same way Sammy could buckle himself into a book about God-knows-what because John sure never did.

Because he’d been looking past the waitress long enough to earn a small frown and a glance to see who or what had his attention, and because the girl resembled her enough to make it a good guess, John asked, "She yours?"

The waitress smiled. "She is. Seven going on thirty-five. You have kids?"

The way it stalked her was casual, practiced. Using a child’s capacity to ignore the world around her for the sake of whatever fun she was having against her to an end that would no doubt be fatal, if not something worse; it would be on her before she ever even knew it was there.

"Not the best place for a child, is it?" John asked rather than answering the waitress’s question.

She snorted. Her tone split the difference between surprise and disgust when she said, "Really. Good to know you feel that way. Any more parenting advice you’d like to share before you move along?"

John shifted in his chair, getting ready to move if it came to that. He didn’t like how close it was getting to the girl, how little attention anyone else in this family of acquaintances was paying to a child vulnerable not only because of her age and distractibility, but also because of her size.

It wouldn’t take much to fold her up and put her nowhere. He’d seen children disappear from under the noses of attentive parents too many times, seen them vanish in the blink of an eye or less. It only took a second for a skilled predator to secure silence, cooperation, occasionally even invisibility, depending on the kind of predator they were. And this child wasn’t being watched. Not by anyone other than the thing closing in on her with the singular attention of an animal with its eye on dinner. Basking in the indifference of every other adult in the room, she was easy prey for the picking.

John glanced at the waitress, said. "I’m not trying to be an ass here. I’m just pointing out that places like this draw all kinds. Letting your daughter sit at a bar while you work isn’t a good idea. You can’t keep an eye on her every second and still do your job, and that leaves her vulnerable to approach by people she might assume are your friends; people who’ll use that assumption to lure her into a … a less than ideal situation."

The woman’s eyes flickered with an emotion he couldn’t identify. Anger, perhaps? Defensiveness? Or maybe just a simple "kiss my ass" she was trying not to put to actual words.

"For not trying to be an ass, you do a real good job of it, Mister," she told him.

John snorted, returned his attention to the child with a small shake of his head. You just couldn’t help some people. The best you could do was try to help their defenseless charges, the ones who’d do the suffering for their arrogance, the ones who’d do the dying because they couldn’t get past their assumptions they knew everything there was to know about a world that wasn’t anything like the world they took it to be. Children tended to fall into that category. All to often, children defined that category.

"Tell you what," she said after a long beat. "How ’bout I give you that coffee to go? We’ll call the tip square, you telling me how to watch over my child the way you feel qualified to do."

"Yeah," he agreed, not bothering to look at her again. "Why don’t you do that. I take it strong and black, no sugar, no cream."

It was almost on the girl now, its eyes riveted to her with an intensity that told him whatever it was going to do, it was going to do it any second. Slipping one hand to the small of his back, he wrapped his fingers around the butt of his nine mil. It would take more than silver to kill this thing, but silver would slow it down enough to get the child clear of the kill zone, out of the line of fire, beyond the projected perimeter of predictable collateral damage.

It pissed him off to be forced into showing his cards before he was ready to take this thing down. Beyond all the time and preparation he’d put into tracking it being shot to hell, it was damned dangerous to warn your quarry you’re on its tail, to give it a head’s up you’re coming up fast from behind before you’ve got your kill-stroke ready to actually throw. At best, a pre-emptive strike made a clean kill significantly harder to come by, skewing the odds from his favor to his detriment, increasing the level of risk exponentially. At worst, it could get him killed, or maimed seriously enough he might as well be dead.

And all in the name of keeping it from putting a child’s blood to the floor of a roadhouse where she had no business being in the first place. All in the name of something that could have been avoided if her mother had just done her damn job as a mother.

When John moved - leaning forward enough to slip his hand behind him, loosening the nine mil in his belt as he adjusted the distribution of his weight so he could move and move fast - the waitress tensed, stepped away and to one side as if she knew what he was doing, knew he had a gun and was getting ready to use it.

"Bill!" Her voice was hard, demanding. It caught the monster’s attention, stopped its approach dead its tracks as its head turned and it looked right at him.

John froze. His mind spun through a dozen possibilities that ran the gamut from being set up to pure, unadulterated stupidity; but every one of them became moot when the child at the end of the bar looked up, dropped her crayon and squealed, "Daddy!" She launched herself at the monster, wrapping it up in the kind of enthusiastic embrace only a child can offer, and only to someone or something they love without reservation.

It responded in kind, crowing "Jo-Jo!" as it swung her up in its arms, spun her around, laughed with her as she squealed in little-girl delight, arms wrapped around its neck, holding on tight.

"Fuck," John hissed.

Still frozen in place, one hand on the nine mil and his body suspended between standing and lunging, John struggled to re-assess, re-evaluate, re-consider his response. Every muscle in his body knotted up, trying to pull him limb from limb as his eyes jumped to the waitress, tried to figure out where she fit in, if he’d misjudged her, if he’d failed to see something he should have seen, recognize something he should have recognized.

She was examining him just as fiercely, the expression in her eyes a near duplicate to what he was feeling: a catchall mix of panic, rage, terror, sickness, surprise and confusion. "Bill," she said again, taking another step back as she called for the monster’s attention, demanding it give credence to what she wanted to say.

John’s gut dropped, and his skin went cold. He was screwed. He was so fucking screwed it wasn’t even funny.

His fingers were tightening on the nine mil again, re-committing to the idea of pulling it from his beltline if for no other reason than to go down swinging, when the thing turned to face him, met his eyes to smile a warm, welcoming grin as it told the waitress, "Hey, baby, wait your turn. There’s always enough Billy love to go around. You know that." Shifting the little girl to a natural balance against one hip, it strolled over to join them, slipped an arm around the waitress’s waist and kissed her on the cheek as if it didn’t even notice the tension in her spine, or the suspicious way she was glaring at John.

For a moment, John wasn’t sure how to respond. He was better than most at thinking on the fly, but this was so far outside the range of what he’d covered in his head as potential that it took a moment to re-configure the base protocols, to try and re-fit a whole new scenario to parameters designed for a different situation entirely.

His instincts told him to make a break for the door, that the whole thing was a cluster-fuck at best, a well-baited trap at worst. But as much as every nerve in his body was screaming at him to act, he couldn’t ignore the little girl wrapped around this monster, holding on to it, snuggling up to it like this thing represented safety to her, warmth, love.

Whatever role her mother might play here - whether she knew what she was into or not - this child had done nothing expect love the way a child always loves, trust the way a child always trusts. She was as vulnerable now as she had been sitting at the bar, coloring, completely oblivious to what was stalking her in plain view; and John couldn’t leave her to the fate he knew burned in this monster’s black heart now any more than he could have left her to it five minutes ago.

Because he didn’t feel he really had any other choice, John resumed his seat, left the gun in the small of his back as he pulled his hand back into view, laid it flat to the table to prove he wasn’t armed as his other hand, the one that had been on the table, slipped down to a rest on his thigh, closer to the silver throwing knives he kept inside his boot, one on the inside, one on the out.

"So who’s your new friend, Ellen?" it asked.

The waitress didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked with John’s, trying to read the frantic calculations going on behind his façade of utter calm.

"Ellen?" it prompted.

"I don’t know," the waitress said after a moment. "He never gave a name."

It laughed, completely at ease, as congenial as she was tense. Stepping forward, if offered John a hand, saying, "Bill Harvelle. This is my wife, Ellen; my daughter, Jo; and my place, the Roadhouse. And you are?"

John stood to accept the handshake because, even though it put him farther away from easy reach of a knife, it was better footing to meet whatever was coming. It afforded half a dozen evasive options sitting didn’t, and played to the fundamental axiom that it was never a good idea to cede the high ground when there were civilians on the field of play.

Even without civilians involved, giving up the high ground was a risky proposition; but with them involved, you simply didn’t do it unless there was no other choice. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many ways a panicked (or simply stupid) non-combatant could, and would, cross you up to an end of driving you somewhere someone with the perspective to see the play in the developing would be able to predict to your detriment.

The offer of the handshake itself was an advantage, too. If John could get a strong enough grip on its hand, he could buy himself a window of opportunity. The monster’s other hand was already occupied with its grip on the child. The time it took to drop her could afford John the margin he needed to pull his gun and put three rounds of silver in its gut.

It would expect him to try for the child first, to go after it only when she was clear. Human sentiment dictated that course of action as such a strong default it was almost impossible to act counter to the instinct by virtue of intent alone. But John had spent years learning to overwrite his own instincts for exactly that reason: to use the kind of assumptions these things depended on against them. By striking first and defending second, he might be able to buy enough advantage to strip the child away before she became collateral damage to a war she had no business being part of. He might be able to get her clear, to save her if not her mother, before all hell broke loose and blood started flowing as a likely end for them all.

"John," John said, tightening his fingers around the monster’s hand. "John Winchester."

Recognition sparked in its eyes, and in Ellen’s, too. She relaxed. Its grin widened, and it laughed. "Well, I’ll be damned," it said. "Fancy that, Ellen. We’ve got ourselves a legend in the house." It looked pleased rather than nervous or concerned. John must have looked at least a little confused, if not as flat out stunned as he felt, because it clarified, "We’ve heard of you, Winchester. Lawrence, Kansas, right?"

John went cold to his bones. His heart actually skipped a couple of beats, it was so fucking unexpected for it to know not only who he was, but where he came from. And not only unexpected, but terrifying.

Terrifying in a way he wasn’t often terrified, even when looking death right in the face.

It laughed again. "Whoa, there, John. Don’t stroke out on me or anything. We’re not the secret police; just a few folk who share your … shall we say hobbies?" It gestured to the room in general. At least twenty people were watching them, their expressions guarded but not antagonistic. Speaking to the onlookers, it said, "Meet John Winchester, guys." Then in deference to the handful of women in its audience, it added, "And gals."

Quiet murmurs ruffled the room, skittering from table to table without ever actually getting loud enough, long enough for John to get a bead on who was saying what, to whom.

"Isn’t a Winchester a gun?" the girl in its arms asked.

"Indeed it is, Jo-Jo Beth," it verified, giving the girl a pleased look. "An extra cookie for you."

"And Colt, too," she added. "And … uh … lugies."

"Close enough," it verified, laughing. Then, turning back to John, it said, "My daughter, the walking encyclopedia of things every little girl should know." The girl in his arms beamed, as proud as Sammy telling John about soybeans and Brazil.

"The Roadhouse is a bit of a home base for our kind, you might say," it added, still speaking to John. "Like the Rick’s Café of northern Nebraska, all contiguous states included."

"Rick’s Café?" John repeated even though he full well knew the reference. He was stalling, his mind working a thousand miles a minute to assimilate too many changes of perspective offered in too short a time. It was the second time it had referred to the child as its daughter, but surely that couldn’t be true. Surely it was trying to paint a blood bond that didn’t exist, twisting a truth more along the lines of "I’m fucking her mother," into something John might buy as parental devotion rather than predatory intention.

"Sure. You know … Casablanca?"

John shook his head. "Sorry. Not much for movies."

"So … you’re just here by happenstance then?" Ellen asked. It was the first time she’d spoken to him since stepping back and away from his table. Her voice was cautious, wary, border-line suspicious. All indication of her earlier cordiality was gone. She looked at him like she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him … didn’t trust him as far as she could have thrown a grizzly. "Or are you hunting?"

John’s eyes narrowed. He studied her without answering, not sure what the right answer was here and not willing to commit to any possible wrong answer until he had some idea how much trouble he was in, and how many players were on the field getting ready to play dogpile on the dumb ass.

"Aaaaaah," it said, nodding in understanding. "On a hunt then. Well rest easy, John; we respect everyone’s personal space here at the Roadhouse. You want to share details of what you’re after and why, we’re all ears. But if you’re more the type who plays it close to the vest, that’s fine by us, too. I am, however, going to assume you’re hungry because years of experience and a keen entrepreneurial instinct have taught me hunters invariably are. So based on that assumption, why don’t I have May stir you up something to eat?"

When John didn’t answer, it asked, "What tickles your fancy? Her specialties are burgers and burgers. She could probably manage something along the lines of buffalo wings or a chicken sandwich if you catch her in an experimental mood, but I wouldn’t suggest rolling the dice too far afield of red meat put to a flat round. And it might bear pointing out, just out of neighborly concern for your continued well-being, that if you don’t love whatever she makes you without reservation, not always the best sentiment to share even in the sanctity of what you might consider well out of earshot. At least, not if your future plans involve making it back to the parking lot alive. May’s only five two-ish, but she’s got six foot seven worth of attitude and at least that much ego, and its all packed in there tight enough to have an unfortunate tendency to splatter a bit if you puncture the vacuum tube with the wrong ill-advised criticism."

"I’m hungry," the girl in its arms announced. "Mama made us a chicken, but we’ve been waiting for you to eat."

"Well if you’ve been waiting for me to eat," it returned, grinning at her the way a father grins when he’s teasing his child, "then who’s been waiting to eat you?" It tickled her into squeals of laughter and delight again as Ellen watched, her expression gentle with the same kind of emotion John remembered seeing in Mary’s face when he woke in the night to find her watching, amused by Dean’s presence between them in the bed, not at all put off by the fact that John’s son was wrapped up in his daddy’s arms rather than sleeping in his own bed where he belonged.

"No," John said. "Thanks anyway, but I’m … I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. I think I’ll just call it a night." He slid out from behind the table, headed for the door.

"Hey, Winchester!" it called after him. John stopped, turned. He almost expected to see the child already dead; the woman dead, too; but the little girl was still happy and content in it’s arms, her head was on it’s shoulder, her arms looped around its neck; and Ellen was standing tucked up beside it, still watching John like she wasn’t sure what to make of him, whether or not to trust a man who’d done nothing but try to protect her child from the mortal danger in which she’d put that child, unwittingly or otherwise.

"If you’re going to be in the area for a while," it offered, "drop in and have a drink on the house. This is a haven of sorts; a safe place to let your hair down among friends. And I’d be lying out my ass if I said I wasn’t just dying to hear some of your stories straight from the horse’s mouth. Not often we get someone with your kill record in here … not only in volume, but in diversity. I’ll bet you’ve got some stories to tell, and I’d love to hear any of them you’re willing to share."

"Lying out your butt, Daddy," the little girl corrected, her tone a huff of self-righteous indignation.

"Oops," it said. "I mean lying out my butt, John. Ass isn’t a word we’re supposed to use unless we’re talking about a horse, right, Jo-Jo?"

"A donkey," she informed it primly.

John studied it for a long beat, trying to see the lie, trying to see the misdirection. If there was any, he couldn’t spot it. This thing seemed genuine in wanting to be friends, wanting to welcome him into its lair as if they were allies rather than enemies. And it seemed equally genuine in its affection for the child wrapped around its neck, for the woman standing pressed close to its side, wedged up under one arm in the casual embrace of long-time intimates.

"I appreciate the offer," John said finally, leaving the rest of it open for interpretation. His eyes flicked to the little girl, then to Ellen. "Sorry about the tip," he said, more to judge her response than because he was actually sorry for saying something she should have been smart enough to know without having to be told as much by a stranger.

Her expression eased a little. "No harm, no foul," she said. "Easy to see shadows in the corners with what we do."

John hesitated, then asked, "What we do?"

It laughed. The grin it offered was as genuine an amusement as John had ever seen. Or at least as genuine a mimicry of genuine amusement as he’d ever seen. "There’s always one who thinks he’s The Lone Ranger, isn’t there?" it asked rhetorically. "But rest assured, you’re not, John. There’s a whole community of us out there. Think of us as The Hole in the Wall Gang part of that community. Only less mercurially inclined, for the most part."

"Mercurial means greedy," the little girl informed John. It made his gut jump with how much she sounded like Sam at that age. Then, lifting her head off its shoulder to study him like she was examining an unfamiliar bit of candy to decide if it was chocolate or broccoli-flavored, she asked, "Do you have any kids? Because if you do, they could come and play sometime if they wanted."

John didn’t answer, but he glanced at her just long enough to show her he’d heard, that he wasn’t answering because it wasn’t the right time to ask something like that not because he was ignoring her, or didn’t care she wanted to know something he wasn’t going to tell her. The way she looked back at him reminded John of Dean instead of Sam, resigned to the inevitability of not getting what she wanted and equally resigned to that just being the way things were rather than railing against the injustice of it or arguing it into the ground the way Sammy would have.

Mistaking his silence for indecisiveness, Ellen offered, "Coffee’s still on the table, if you’ve a mind to stick around for a while. I might even let you buy me a cup to make amends for being an ass."

"Butt, mama," the little girl said.

"Don’t you correct me, Joanna Beth," Ellen countered, her voice as strictly disciplinarian as its had been indulgently lenient. "I am an adult; I will use whatever words I want."

The little girl heaved an enormous, put-upon sigh as she laid her head back on its shoulder.

"And don’t you sigh at me either," Ellen added.

"Yes, mama," the girl said in the same tone Sammy was prone to using on John when he thought his dad was being an unmitigated ass.

It was grinning, watching the woman and her daughter’s back-and-forth in a way that made it clear it found their conflict hysterical rather than irritating, or frustrating. "Coffee hell," it said, directing the comment to John. "There’s some Jack and Jack for you, if that’s your poison. Or just a Bud and few good lies well told."

"Another time," John demurred.

It nodded, accepting the refusal gracefully. "Fair enough. Shady Rest over on 9 is a good roof, if you’ve not already settled in. Owners are pretty picky about who they let share the real estate, but if you tell them Bill sent you, they’ll waive the clean-cut, respectable criteria and let you bunk in for as long as you’re looking to stay. All I ask in return is that you don’t kite a bad check or a fake card on them. Be as much as my ass - butt - is worth if I sent them a nefarious sort looking to pay his bills with monopoly money."

"I’ll keep that in mind," John said.

"Good to meet you, Winchester." It held out its hand again, and John accepted this handshake the same way he’d accepted the first. "I’ll look forward to buying you that drink when you find whatever it is you’re looking for and put it to a good, salty toast."

"Be safe, John," Ellen added, her smile less sincere than the smile of the thing beside her; but also not as wary as it had been several minutes ago. "Gets dark this time of night on 9. Don’t stop for any pretty hitchhikers along the way. They don’t always turn out to be what they seem at first glance."

"Some of them are monsters even," the little girl informed him seriously.

"It’s about time for you to get ready for bed, Joanna Beth," her mother announced.

"But I’m hungry," she protested.

"Then you’d better hurry so you have time to eat dinner with Daddy before you say your prayers, and I tuck you in."

"You, too, Ellen," John said, pulling her gaze back to his.

"Me, too … don’t stop for pretty hitchhikers?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Be safe," he clarified. Then glancing at the girl, he added, "You and Joanna Beth, both."

"Don’t call me that, please," the girl said, making it clear the "please" was only something she tacked on because her mother was standing right there. "My name is Jo. Only mama calls me Joanna Beth, and usually only when I’m in trouble." Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "But you can call me Jo-Jo if you want. I don’t mind that name."

"I will keep that in mind, Miss Jo," John told her.

His formality pleased her, made her feel adult. She flashed him a blinding smile as a reward for his trouble. It was a tooth-for-tooth match to the one the monster holding her in its arms had given John from across the Roadhouse while his hand was wrapped around the grip of the nine mil, preparing to pull it to the end of loading the evil bastard down with enough silver to drop it where it stood, if not kill it.

"Bill," John said, meeting the monster’s eyes for a long moment, still unable to see the lie he knew was there. He left then, backing out the same way he’d come in, already cold to the bone well before he returned to the chill of the night air waiting for him, still and dark outside Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

*
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