SPN Fanfic - Mesmerize 1/15
Title: Mesmerize
Author:
padavis
Rating: NC-17 Language, whump
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: 2nd Season, no deal, no Sam anti-christ
Disclaimers: Wish they were, aren’t. Nothing belongs to me. I would however give Dean a very very good home. Sam too. Kripke is King.
Beta: Merisha
Cheering Section: Merisha, Silver Ruffian
A/N: This story is complete in fifteen - already posted on ff.net. This is my first fic and my first attempt to post on LJ. Set in the second season. Supernaturally ringing payphones inspired by Tim Powers’ Last Call.
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Mesmerize Chapter 1 - Old fashioned cowbell phone ring
About half an hour after getting to the room, Dean was showered, under the sheets, dosed up to his ears with ibuprofen, and unbelievably tired. Up all night playing tag with a maniacal poltergeist at the Home Depot supernatural theme park, they’d finally toasted the sucker, and got back to the motel’s parking lot just before dawn. He’s got the bed by the door, as usual, which means he’s also got the window, through which, despite twitching the curtains a couple of times, the sun has managed to get through and hit him directly in the eye. To make things worse, the invasion was accompanied by the monotonous tapping of Sam at the laptop, and an array of Sammy sound effects - huffs, sighs, the glass hitting the table top, and paper shuffling.
Pulling a pillow over his head, he got a few minutes of quiet darkness and finally started to feel like he was melting into the bed, entering that weird daydreaming stream-of-consciousness place that’s just barely a step on the other side of the door to sleep. He’s feeding Nip-Chee crackers to a red squirrel at a picnic table and wondering again about the little tufts of fur on its ears, and thinking they are way cuter than those gray ones, except maybe for that black one he saw in Virginia years and years ago … when he was abruptly brought back to the waking world by a ringing telephone.
Not just any ring either - it’s a blaring, incessant, ear splitting, old fashioned cowbell phone ring. It sounds like a Chuck Jones cartoon rotary phone, with all over the top reactions - shaking and tossing the receiver right off the cradle and into the air with each ring. Groaning, he removed the pillow and rolled over, cracking his left eye open to survey the telecommunication devices. Okay, it wasn’t the room phone, not a cell, not the laptop, in fact he couldn’t see it at all, and why the fuck is it so goddamn loud if he can’t see it and he’s trying to sleep, and friggin’ insomnia boy over there was still tapping and tapping and tapping. He’s at the point of the slow climb to the top on the ‘I’m almost too tired to sleep’ ride that he found so quickly at the Home Depot earlier, so it took a second or two to finally realize the phone must be outside - a pay phone or something just as heinous.
“Hey - are you OK? Thought you’d be drooling into the pillow by now.” Sam was just way too damn chipper.
“I wish you were drooling onto your computer.” Oh, great - now he couldn’t get into the Sarcasm seat for the Sammy roller coaster ride. He’s not even sure he could find it. Clearing his throat, and sighing dramatically, he did the next best thing. He bitched. “When are you ever going to freaking sleep?”
“What? The laptop’s suddenly louder? Want me to make it sound like a chainsaw?”
Why did he ever tell Sam about Texas Chainsaw Massacre? He put an arm over his eyes. “It’s just that the damned phone won’t stop ringing.”
“Oh, uh, well I’m as done as I’m going to be tonight.” Sam powered down the laptop and winced a bit as he stood and stretched out his left arm. “I’m sure you won’t hear much of anything soon - I mean, you were pretty beat before we took out that spirit last night. I still think it’s seriously a miracle that you didn’t get a concussion. I swear you broke that toilet with your head.” He tried not to laugh, he really did, but he couldn’t help it.
“Bite me.” He frowned. “How’s your back?” He cut his eyes over to Sam and got a very good look at the back of Sam’s t-shirt. “And why the hell are you wearing my Pink Floyd tour shirt?”
“I keep telling you it’s nothing, Dean. It was just a couple of stitches.” Sam arranged himself in the bed. “I can even sleep on my right side. I’m fine. My shirt however was a goner and this was the only thing I could find between the two of us that didn’t smell.” Sam scrupulously did not remind Dean that it was in fact Sam’s turn to do the laundry.
“You mean that dog one?” When Sam sadly agreed, Dean breathed a very quiet sigh of relief. God, he hated that shirt. It was like Sam was wearing a twisted canine self portrait - all skinny giraffe legs, long jaw and puppy eyes. Except for the hair, he admitted, but still an eerie likeness. “You’re too tall for my shirt - unless you want to look even more like a teenage girl and do that whole bare midriff look.”
“I’ll be sure to stretch it out really well before I give it back.”
He knew perfectly well it was more than a couple of stitches. “OK. I’ll check the bandages in the morning after your shower.” He rolled to face Sam. “Man, I’ve got a killer headache and that phone is driving me nuts. Promise me you won’t wake me up for hours … I mean it Sammy … not until there’s coffee and donuts in this room. Maybe some of those Boston cream ones, or one of those chocolate ones, or a hot glazed...”
Sam laughed again. “And you complain when I don’t sleep enough - well you’ve got me beat this week. Tell you what, why don’t you just close your eyes and dream about donuts - don’t talk about them.”
Dean could only offer a single digit gesture in reply.
Then finally, the phone stopped ringing. All was right with the world. It was quiet at last, and while it was brighter, the sun’s angle has changed enough to get the light out of his face. He stretched, rolled back on his stomach, found his knife right where he left it, and imagined he was a stick of butter in the microwave. He’s just about to melt into a deliciously warm puddle, and in his mind’s eye squirrels and deer and little bitty birds are now eating out his hand, when that god damn phone started to ring again. Fucking ruining the Disney moment.
He tried the pillow over the head technique again. He can outwait it, they’ll eventually give up - he knew he could outwait it. He breathed deeply, consciously relaxed his shoulders and neck a bit, considered then discarded the idea of taking another ibuprofen, listened to the asthmatic air conditioning, and tried to will himself to sleep. He tried equally hard not to wince every time that possessed piece of plastic technology rang. How stupid does someone have to be to let a phone ring like that? After 100 rings you’ve got to figure that no one is going to answer! Morons!
After what seemed like an hour, but according to the clock was less than 17 minutes, he heaved himself out of bed and practically heard the snap crackle pop in his back and shoulders. He hurt in places that shouldn’t hurt. And there was Sam, asleep, mouth wide open, already snoring. God damn it - how could the Princess and the proverbial Pea sleep through that ruckus when a fucking pin dropping woke him up?
Pulling on his jeans from the wad of clothes next to the bed, he snagged a room key, unlocked the door, but before he stepped out into the brilliant new morning, he backed up carefully and put down the gun that he didn’t remember picking up. Huh.
He selected instead a particularly nasty switchblade from the weapons duffle, slipped it in his pocket, just in case, and went out barefoot, closing the door quietly behind him. Forgot to put on a shirt too he realized as a breeze raises a few goose bumps. He laughed a bit at himself when he found himself pushing his shoulders back and straightening, like there’s going to be an audience or something in the parking lot. Say, an audience like a sorority carwash posse, with charitable girls and suds. And sponges … Now that’s what he should be dreaming about, girls in little bikinis, lathered in soapy bubbles … yessiree … not cutsey-pie squirrels and fuckin’ Bambi.
Looking around him, he noted, categorized, and sorted by threat level: 7 parked cars, light traffic on the main road to his right towards the motel office, a couple of pigeons, someone walking through the store parking lot divided from the motel lot by a 6 foot hurricane fence, litter, and one demonically possessed ringing phone about 20 yards down from him on the left. Glancing up, he confirmed that the roof line was clear. Hadn’t forgotten to do that since Sam was in college, and Dad had left him with a car, coordinates, no cash, and a bad credit card to cover the room at that Spacey-something motel in Cocoa Beach. The time an enraged leftover from their ‘we finished that fugly sucker’ hunt dropped onto his goddamned head in the middle of the day. Too bad the sorority girls would notice that scar. He seriously hated Florida.
Once the early morning walker used a key to enter the store relegating him to “manager” and “not suspicious” status, Dean moved the phone to threat number one. He padded to the phone and did something he’d never done before. He didn’t take the receiver off the cradle and drop it, he didn’t shoot the phone since he regrettably left his gun in the room, he didn’t rip the phone entirely off the wall, crush it, and take the change - he answered it.
He roared into the receiver - “Who the hell are you and why are you calling this number?”
At first he heard nothing. Just as he decided that the next step on his agenda of destruction should be ripping the handset off the phone and using it to beat the rest of it to smithereens, he made out something just on the edge of his hearing. A familiar voice and - music? He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated to make out the words. But as the voice became clearer, the music got less distinct. It was still there, but he can’t quite recognize the tune even though he’s sure he would if it was just a little louder. The voice was speaking, low and intense.
He felt his brow start to smooth, and he couldn’t stop blinking. All he could do was stand and listen. Finally, his own lips moved, and he heard himself say, “Sorry, sir. Yes, sir. I will, sir.” And then all he could hear was the music, and it was louder, and oh that’s what it is, and with that, everything just stopped.
A/N 2: I began posting this story on March 8, 2008 at ff.net once it was completely written. Any similarities to Long Distance Caller are coincidental!