[SPN] "Radio Interference" (PG)
Author's Note: Written for Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, screwing with Dean's music
Tooling along an endless highway through the Dakotas, Cas in the back seat, Dean twiddling with the radio. For discarding the cassette tape collection, Sam deserved to spend the time in hell that he had spent. Now he was stuck tooling with the dial, looking for a classic rock station, hitting only gospel stations, talk radio and country western crud: choirs hand clapping and singing hallelujahs, or conservatives pontificating on marriage, or emo cowboys going on about how they found their girlfriends with their sisters and their dog had run off with a truck driver.
He twisted the dial again, growling through his teeth and nearly punched the console in frustration.
"Dean, does something trouble you?" Cas asked.
"No, just trying to find some decent music, that's all," Dean said. He glanced into the rear view mirror, tempted to ask the angel if he could do something about the radio range, but decided against it, looking back to the road. Who even knew what the angel would come up with, if he asked?
After another mile or two of numbing silence, Dean tried again with the radio: after a turn or two, he suddenly came upon some kind of chirpy orchestral music with really squeaky sounding strings. Growling in annoyance, he turned the dial some more, coming on a hip hop station with more profanity that even someone as gutter mouthed as he could stand, then some sort of jazz music with saxophones that sounded like cats with laryngitis yowling.
Another turn of the dial brought him to something like the weirdest experimental music ever, harmonies that just were not possible on any earthly instruments or voices, beautiful but at the same time enough to put a man's teeth on edge and make him scream.
He glanced into the rear view mirror again. "Cas, are you doing that?!" he demanded, yelling over the music, a migraine starting to pound in his head.
"I thought that you might wish to hear the music of the heavenly choir, if you cannot find music to your liking," Cas replied.
"Well, you can shut that off now: it's still not my type," Dean called out. He was sure that his brains were about to start leaking out through his ears from the pain in his head.
As suddenly as he said this, the music shut off. "There," Dean said, breathing easier. "Blissful silence."
"Would you wish me to try again, when we come closer to the city where there is more music?" Cas asked.
"No. I'll try it on my own," Dean replied, rubbing his temples. "Thanks but no thanks."
Tooling along an endless highway through the Dakotas, Cas in the back seat, Dean twiddling with the radio. For discarding the cassette tape collection, Sam deserved to spend the time in hell that he had spent. Now he was stuck tooling with the dial, looking for a classic rock station, hitting only gospel stations, talk radio and country western crud: choirs hand clapping and singing hallelujahs, or conservatives pontificating on marriage, or emo cowboys going on about how they found their girlfriends with their sisters and their dog had run off with a truck driver.
He twisted the dial again, growling through his teeth and nearly punched the console in frustration.
"Dean, does something trouble you?" Cas asked.
"No, just trying to find some decent music, that's all," Dean said. He glanced into the rear view mirror, tempted to ask the angel if he could do something about the radio range, but decided against it, looking back to the road. Who even knew what the angel would come up with, if he asked?
After another mile or two of numbing silence, Dean tried again with the radio: after a turn or two, he suddenly came upon some kind of chirpy orchestral music with really squeaky sounding strings. Growling in annoyance, he turned the dial some more, coming on a hip hop station with more profanity that even someone as gutter mouthed as he could stand, then some sort of jazz music with saxophones that sounded like cats with laryngitis yowling.
Another turn of the dial brought him to something like the weirdest experimental music ever, harmonies that just were not possible on any earthly instruments or voices, beautiful but at the same time enough to put a man's teeth on edge and make him scream.
He glanced into the rear view mirror again. "Cas, are you doing that?!" he demanded, yelling over the music, a migraine starting to pound in his head.
"I thought that you might wish to hear the music of the heavenly choir, if you cannot find music to your liking," Cas replied.
"Well, you can shut that off now: it's still not my type," Dean called out. He was sure that his brains were about to start leaking out through his ears from the pain in his head.
As suddenly as he said this, the music shut off. "There," Dean said, breathing easier. "Blissful silence."
"Would you wish me to try again, when we come closer to the city where there is more music?" Cas asked.
"No. I'll try it on my own," Dean replied, rubbing his temples. "Thanks but no thanks."