The Song That Never Ends, PG13, Sam, Dean, John
Trying to post before I'm away for a few...
Title: The Song That Never Ends
Rating: PG13
Gen fic.
Pairings: None
Warnings only for swearing. Spoilers for S3 finale.
Summary: Five Times the Winchesters have sung in the car...
Thanks to legoline and embroiderama for their beta help.
NB This story contains spoilers for/ref to S3 finale.
1.
Dean traced the route with his finger, snaking along until he found their destination. Twelve hours, maybe thirteen. Dean was never far off. He reversed his finger along the route, backpedalled the mental journey he'd just taken, and paused.
Dad clicked the radio off and spoke loudly into its absence. “Found the exit?”
Dean slid his eyes across to the next exit on his chosen route, and nodded. “Sure. Another hour.” He eyed the radio, hoping Dad would turn it back on. It would be a long journey without any music.
Dad was gazing intently into the mirror, with the same expression he got when he was figuring out a case. Then he gave a sigh audible only to Dean. “Sam quit it, sit up.”
Dean twisted around. Sam was slumped far down, most of him hiding in the well behind Dean’s seat, all of him sulking. “Okay Sammy?”
“Fine,” Sam said, pulling himself up only an inch and letting his scowling face betray the lie. Sam kicked the back of Dean’s seat; whether annoyed ‘cause Dean wasn’t sulking too or just not having enough room for his legs, Dean couldn’t tell.
Dean counted into the silence. Sam could keep up a sulk a pretty long time. Thirteen hours would be no problem for him if he wanted to sulk that long. Dean could tell from the loud huffy breaths Sam was taking that his brother wanted to draw attention, wanted the fact he was pissed off to fill the car until they couldn’t move for sitting on it. Five, Four, Three, Two...
“I don’t see why we have to move. Again.” The again was ground out between tightly gritted teeth. Sam sat up this time, pushed his face between the seats. “What’s in Nevada anyway?”
“Werewolf.” Dad said the word as if it were a door closing, subject over.
“There’re ghosts and werewolves everywhere aren’t there? Couldn’t we stay in one place and keep that area safe?”
Dad didn’t say anything. His hands tensed a little more on the wheel.
A standoff. Sam’s eyes narrowed and he gazed expectantly at a mirror Dad suddenly didn’t need to look in.
“Werewolf, Sam. It’ll be cool.” Dean didn’t understand it when the freakin’ kid rolled his eyes. Why was Sam never excited about the hunts?
Sam disappeared back into the seat. “I liked that school. I got to be in a play. I had friends. Nevada’s a long way.” Sam’s feet drummed loudly on the floor. “Too far.”
“We could sing a song,” Dad said abruptly. “That’ll make the time to Nevada go faster.”
Dad was deliberately being obtuse and Sam and Dean both knew it. Sam didn’t care about how long this journey took, he cared that there was any journey at all. Dean didn’t get that: the world was only the car, and the two other people in it, but he understood that Sam didn’t see it that way; he wanted his world to be static.
“Not a baby, Dad.” Sam’s scorn dripped from every syllable.
Dean grinned. “I know a song you’ll enjoy.”
Dad looked relieved and gave an approving nod.
Dean cleared his throat. “This is the song that never ends...”
A laugh from Sam, dragged unwillingly from him, like most kids to homework. He sat up. Dean knew Sam was most likely on the verge of reminding Dean of his age, again, as if Dean didn’t know it better than his own, when he darted his eyes toward Dad. Dean saw Sam’s face crease into an approximation of a smile. “It goes on and on my friends...”
“Someone started singing it not knowing what it was,” they both sang loudly, “and they'll continue singing it forever just because...”
They got through just the one round before Dad shouted, “quit it,” accompanying his demand with a rough bash on the wheel. It’s more than they got through last time.
“You said sing a song,” Sam said.
“You know that song always drives me crazy,” Dad grumbled. “Damn Bobby. Not that one.”
Sam crossed his eyes and poked his tongue out just as Dad checked the mirror. Mercifully, he pretended not to see. “C’mon, a different song. Pass the time. Ten Green Bottles Hanging on The Wall, Ten...c’mon...”
Dean joined in singing it. They paused before nine, both of them waiting for Sam to join in, to react. Nothing happened for a long time. Dad gave a tiny nod of his head, a nod that broke the silence, that said I tried, I give up.
Dean wasn’t ready to give up. Something had to cheer Sam up, to make the journey go quicker, to close the gap that suddenly existed between the front and back seats. “Nine shiny Impalas, driving down the road...”
Sam and Dad gave identical snorts of laughter. “Trust you,” Sam mumbled, over Dean’s singing, but he joined in by the end of the repeat, “and if one shiny Impala should accidentally crash” -Please never, Dean added in a hurry - “there’d be eight shiny Impalas driving down the road.”
“Your turn,” Dean said, turning to Sam.
Sam gave a sly grin. “Eight new books, sitting in my bag...”
It seemed as if it would just be the two of them, then Dad shrugged his shoulders and joined in. When they got to “And if one new book should accidentally,” it was Dad who supplied, “tear,” to finish the sentence off.
Sam’s mood melted away with the ensuing laughter. Dad loudly started to sing “Seven hairy Bigfoots stomping all around” and Sam and Dean joined in so loudly, Dean swore the Jeep they overtook heard them.
“You do know Bigfoot doesn’t exist, so far as we’re aware,” Dad said in the pause at the end of that round.
“Oh man, I wanted to be the one to kill him,” Dean said. He stalled the lecture about big footed monsters that was sure to follow, by starting off, “Six scratchy werewolves, biting all around.” Sam followed it quickly with, “Five new teachers, setting lots of work.”
They raced through Dad’s “Four naughty poltergeists, throwing stuff about,” and were laughing so hard it was two exits before Dean realized he should carry it on.
“Three hunting Winchesters, driving in their car,” was his suggestion, and all three joined in, by mutual consent changing the last line to, “And no hunting Winchesters shall accidentally fall.”
It was the last line of the song, but its echoes lasted the rest of the journey -all twelve hours fifty minutes of it.
**
2.
Sam clearly wanted something. He was yammering on about how he’d walk home if Dean had something to do, when obviously the main job Dean had to do was pick Sam up. He was digging his nails into his knee. He was fine-tuning his puppy dog eyes, upping the please factor until it poured out of him, like Superman and his laser vision. Direct to Dean’s heart.
Dean turned Metallica down a notch. Two notches. That should be enough of an invite for Sam to speak. Dean wasn’t going to ask him what was wrong. Could be anything. Sam might want to talk about his feelings, and then Dean would wish he’d turned the radio up instead. Still, if Sam needed help, the lowering of volume should tell him it was there. If there was ever any doubt.
“So I have to try out today...” Sam whispered, then he reached out and turned Metallica way down himself, until it was just a hum, joining the thwack of the wheels along the road. “I’m auditioning today.”
“Yeah?” Dean couldn’t figure out where this was going. Was Sam nervous?
“Yeah. It’s...” Sam closed his eyes, then opened them again, a new resolve gleaming, as if he was about to go into battle. “It’s for the school musical.”
Dean couldn’t help it; he laughed. It wasn't like they sang all the time - they weren’t the frickin’ Partridge Family, or whoever else those cheesy families who sang on tv were - but he’d heard Sam sing. Quietly along with the radio, in the shower, while they were marching.
Sam wasn’t the worst singer in the world, but he was no Robert Plant.
“The what? I’m sorry Sam. I thought you said, musical.”
“I did.” Dean heard the defiance in Sam’s words. “I’m trying out for the musical.” The no matter what you say didn’t need to be added. Dean wished he could pinpoint the moment Sam had started making entirely his own decisions, no matter what Dean thought. There were moments when Dean told himself he must have imagined the mythical time Sam listened to him, much as he imagined more detailed memories of his mother than were possible.
“But...” But why? didn’t seem to cut it. “The musical. You.” Dean said instead.
“Yeah. I know you probably think it’s a real chick thing to do-“
“Musicals? A chick thing? No, never.” Dean turned Metallica off completely. This was too good for any kind of interruption. “Will you have to learn a dance routine? Wear a shiny outfit?”
“I might have to dance.” Sam said, and Dean nearly didn’t hear the rest, he was laughing too hard as he imagined Sam prancing around on stage. “The outfit won’t be too bad. It’s Grease.”
“It’s in Greece? Sam, I think a toga won’t do you any favours.” Dean’s deliberate comment hit the mark he hoped; Sam bristled and pouted.
“Grease. I’ll get a cool jacket. I'll probably only get a chorus part. I know you think it’s stupid. But I liked the play I was in.”
“Oh yeah. Our Town.” Dean didn’t admit that he’d enjoyed watching Sam in that. It wouldn’t go with his teasing, it’d be like asking a chick out only to mention her boyfriend. Besides, Dean sure as hell would enjoy watching Sam sing. The mileage he'd get out of it! He’d sell tickets himself.
“Yeah. So I figured.. .I may as well.” Something in the pause, in the gap before “may as well,” made Dean listen. “May as well,” was too tacked on, too easy an excuse. Sam didn’t do anything because he “may as well.” He thought about everything, weighed the odds, made his decision. He damn well said no if he didn’t want to, or made it clear. Much as Sam had enjoyed the play, Dean couldn’t believe he wanted to sing. In public.
Something was up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Sam bit his lip. His body eased. He accepted Dean’s acceptance; which was his first error.
If this were Dean, the only reason he’d make an ass of himself on stage was if he thought it’d guarantee him getting laid, and even then he wouldn’t go to that much trouble. Sam didn’t do things ‘cause he wanted to get laid.
Or maybe they weren’t so different. “Is about a chick? Is it to impress some chick?”
The hissed no that followed was too urgent.
Dean laughed. “Well now I get it.”
“It’s not...” Sam rifled in his bag and drew out a cassette tape. He ejected Dean’s Metallica. Dean didn’t stop him. “I don’t stand a chance or anything. I just want... never mind.”
“Want to show her you exist?” Sam didn’t answer and Dean already felt like he’d stepped over his own invisible line, verging too close to discussing feelings for Dean’s own comfort. He hit the emergency brakes on the conversation.
“Besides, it’s good to have extra-curriculars,” Sam said. “It’s good for...it’s good.” Dean was filling in lots of blanks during this journey, the unspoken college forcing its way to his ears. Sam was collecting credits for college. Knowing Sam, looking good for possible college applications was probably the main reason, and impressing the chick the bonus.
Dean pretended not to hear it. “You need me to help?”
“Listen and tell me if I make a complete ass of myself?”
Dean laughed. “That, I can do.”
Sam popped his tape in and hit play. Dean recognized the song though he wouldn’t admit it, it was too well known from countless diners and cheesy bars. It was familiar like passing scenery that he'd driven by lots of times, but was only now noticeable ‘cause he was lost and needed directions.
“Why this car is automatic,
It's systematic
It's hydromatic
Why it's grease lightning”
Sam sang “automatic” and “systematic” as if he was describing a toaster, not someone who was talking about their pride and joy. He said “we’ll get some overhead lifters and four barrel quads” as if he were attempting to sing a song in French, and wasn’t entirely sure where to put the emphasis.
Dean switched the tape off and waved his hand to stop Sam. “No no no, Sam.”
“It’s that bad?” Sam cleared his throat. “But I’ve practised.”
“When have you practised?”
“In the shower.”
“It’s not the singing, it’s the...” Dean would never admit he said this later, not even if he were held at gunpoint, “meaning behind it.”
It was official, even Sam being in a musical had turned Dean into a chick.
“The meaning?”
“Yeah. This is about some dude’s car right? He’s fixing it up?”
Sam nodded slowly.
“So when he says it’s hydromatic or systematic, he means that as a good thing. It’s like me saying the Impala’s a sweet ride, isn’t it baby?” Dean patted the dash. “When he says he’s getting four barrel quads and chrome plated rods...he needs those things. Sound interested. Sound like you’re saying, he’ll get a new book or a trip to the library or some new pens or whatever else yanks your chain.”
“Okay. Okay let me try again.”
Sam tried again and he wasn’t too bad but he wasn’t quite getting it. He wasn’t loosening up enough. There was only one way to make that happen. Dean had swallowed his pride for Sam before; he joined in. He bellowed out, “You know that ain’t no shit, we’ll be getting lots of tit,” so loud Sam looked faintly embarrassed. Perhaps the chick's tits were a bigger part of the reason than Dean thought.
Dean shouted out “go go go go” and slowly Sam joined in, the volume rising with every repeat and more feeling behind it. When they reached “she’s a real pussy wagon” Dean patted the dash again, and Sam was laughing so much that he didn’t sing the next verse. They both finished off “The chicks’ll cream for Grease Lightning... Lightning...” loudly, and in sync.
Sam deserved a spot on that chorus, Dean thought, and he’d be in the front row, memorising the dance moves to mock Sam for later.
**
3.
“We should look into this case, the suicide.” Sam pushed his newspaper toward Dean.
“We should check out this article, see what’s behind it.” Dean slammed his paper down. If it were flesh, it’d be torn. He squared his shoulders.
Sam squared his. “Dean, this guy had no reason to die. There was another suicide in the area a month before. We have to go talk to the son.” Sam had that i'm not letting this go face on. Thing was, Dean could see through Sam like the Impala's newly washed window. Sam wanted to use this to talk about Dad's death.
Dean didn't want to, and Dean could be stubborn too.
“I know.” Firm, brooking no argument. “And we can check that out after this.” Give Sam no way to argue back. “Exploding breasts kill woman, Sam -- what part of that isn't us?” Appeal to Sam's reason.
Sam pulled his newspaper back towards him, resting his fingers on the edge. “I think it's important we do this one.”
“Exploding breasts and a man with a disappearing cock Sam.”
“It has to be witchcraft. And you hate witches. Why are you so excited?”
Dean pasted on a grin. “Disappearing cock has to be our kind of thing. Suicide could just be suicide. We do that next.”
He'd played his best hand. He watched Sam waver on the edge of decision, then Sam picked his newspaper up with a sigh. “Witches it is.”
Witches. Never anything but trouble, with their messing around with dark magic, and killing poor rabbits, and stupid curses. Especially the curses. This town had been hit with a string of people losing their memory for a day, or being only able to speak in curse words, or losing all their hair.
Dean’s attention had been brought by the story of a man whose cock had vanished - poor fuck - and a girl whose breasts had exploded. She died from her injuries.
This was no longer a witch playing a prank. This had stepped so far over the line, Dean was pretty sure she - Rosalie, the probable witch - couldn’t see the line any more. She’d smudged it out with her foot long ago.
It hadn’t been hard to track her down, because the article mentioned the guy with the missing cock’s girlfriend, and her mystery herb shop. At least she was a stupid witch, not covering her tracks very well, and a couple careful questions to the guy with no cock had confirmed the exploding breasts woman was his mistress. Bingo. Sam was more pleased than usual that this case seemed quick to solve. “Just neuter this witch and we’re done,” Sam said. “Onto the suicide.”
Sam’s words echoed in Dean’s head when they stood in front of the witch and she merely smiled. This was too easy.
Then one second later, they were both standing there staring at each other, with no Rosalie the witch in sight.
Dean opened his mouth to ask Sam how he was but no words came out.
“You okay?” Sam...well, sang. There was no other word for it. It was a tune Dean recognized too. “You okay? Annie?”
“Annie?” Dean repeated, perplexed. He cast his eyes down quickly. He still had his cock, thank fuck for that.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. It made him appear constipated. He flipped them open again, and when he sang, it sounded like he was forcing it out. “You’ve been hit by... ” Sam pointed at Dean, then jabbed his own chest as he repeated, “You’ve been hit by... a smooth criminal!”
Dean laughed. What the hell was Sam doing? Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean and pointed at his throat. “You’ve been hit by... “ Sam tried again.
Dean opened his mouth and found himself, rather than saying, don’t worry, we’ll figure it out, instead singing, “There ain't no use in crying. Cause it will only, only drive you mad.”
Sam nodded grimly. “Burn the witch,” Sam sang, nodding toward the door, “Burn to ash and bone.”
Dean followed Sam out of the building. It was strange -- Dean could think normally, but when he tried to speak he got muddled, song lyrics would float into his brain and he'd end up singing those instead. Dean had a lot more lyrics rattling around in his head than he realized, but it still made discussing the case damn difficult. No one wrote a song about the witch who cursed you into singing and took off.
Which was a pity.
She was nowhere in sight. Dean checked his watch and showed it to Sam. Thirty minutes had passed. She could be anywhere by now. They’d have to figure out her next move.
“If you listen very hard,” Dean said, “The tune will come to you at last.” He nodded encouragingly.
Sam swallowed. “I will try to fix you,” he said.
“I will try to fix you,” Dean repeated. Dammit. He didn’t know any words for, we’ll fix it.
Sam smiled encouragingly. He seemed to get it.
“Sugar, we’re going down swinging,” Dean said, as he raced the car toward their motel room. He ignored Sam’s snort of laughter. Dean must have picked those lyrics up from one of Sam’s radio stations. Last time he let Sam drive.
She was nowhere to be found. They drove all over town, they knocked on cock free man’s door but he slammed it their face when Sam’s “Where is she?” segued into “Where is my baby girl?” much to Sam’s own anguish. They ended up in a diner, managed to order only Spam (the first thing that Sam said when the waitress came over) and slumped over their books.
“Nobody’s fault but mine,” Dean sang. He took out the original newspaper article again. A tiny rip in the corner grew bigger. He wished he’d never seen it. Damn witches.
Sam shook his head.
Dean idly thought to himself that speaking only in song was the equivalent of turning the radio up loud; it meant Sam couldn't insist on talking about their feelings so easily.
The words were still echoing in his head when Sam leaned over the table, pushed the newly arrived spam salad aside - seriously, people put that in salad? - and sang, “you helped me when I was down, I'll help when you're down.” Sam jabbed in the air, narrowly missing Dean's shoulder. “Why are you hitting yourself? C'mon hit me instead.” Sam screwed up his face and slumped back.
Dean nodded. He threw the paper toward Sam. “Back in business again,” he said.
Sam grabbed the newspaper from Dean and slammed it down angrily. “Fuck me if I say something you don't wanna hear. And fuck me if you only see the treble in your head. Please help me, to help you, help yourself.”
Dean gave a small nod. Sam wasn't gonna let this go. He had no suitable words for later, sometime, maybe, leave it. His thoughts were rattling around his brain, random lyrics jumping to the fore then being pushed away. He rubbed his temples. They needed to fix this. Finally some lyrics, heard on the radio sometime, or maybe it was from that chick who insisted on doing it to rap lyrics; either way, they pushed their way to the fore. “Right now I'm on the edge, so don't push me.”
Sam nodded, letting silence fall. Dean decided to eat the spam salad anyway, and Sam calmed down, picking up the paper. His eyes narrowed as they ran over the article. Dean was deciding that fried Spam would taste much better, when Sam poked him in the arm with the paper. He pointed out a sentence. A quote from a friend of Rosalie's, a friend they’d had no need to interview.
A friend who she was with when they turned up. Soon they had their witch, and their speaking voices.
The silence in the car on the drive out of town - toward the suicide - unsettled them both. Sam was still, no fidgeting in his seat, no re-reading the article out to Dean, no trying to get Dean to talk about his feelings. It was like he was arming himself for a full on assault.
Dean switched the radio on. The noise was comforting, but neither of them sang along.
**
4.
Dean could feel it coming before Sam said anything, could hear it in the air, like vibrations on the television before his cell rang.
“Hey Dean?” Sam broke the quiet, a too casual use of his name. Here it was. The obligatory awkward heart to heart.
Dean couldn’t stand it. That might be worse than anything else, worse than the hounds. He didn’t need to hear Sam say it.
“Yeah?”
“You know if this doesn’t...doesn’t go the way we want.”
“No no no no no.”
“No what?” Dean felt Sam’s eyes on him. Of course Dean knew where Sam was going with that.
“You’re not gonna bust out the misty goodbye speech okay?” Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. “If this is my last day on earth I do not want it to be socially awkward.”
Quiet. Sam wouldn’t want to argue with Dean - not on his last day. He’d be struggling with that, versus getting out what he wanted to say. Well fuck that. Dean had to stop this right here.
“I know what I do want.” Dean flipped the music on and waited for Sam’s reaction.
“Bon Jovi.”
“Bon Jovi rocks.” If Dean was going to admit that any time, it may as well be on his last day. Not a lot of time for Sam to rip the shit out of him for it. He waved his finger in the air, jabbing it like he was poking to make sure something was dead. “On occasion.”
Dean cleared his throat and started singing. “And I walk these streets.” A small look out the window, at another nameless road. Nothing memorable about it, even if it might be the last one he drove down. ”A loaded six-string on my back. I play for keeps.”
Sam was staying resolutely silent, lost in his own sorrow. That wasn’t how Dean wanted this last journey to go. If it had to be his last. It wasn’t what he wanted Sam to remember.
“C’mon on.” He hit Sam, tried to draw a reaction. “Cos I might not make it back.” Well that was the truth of it. “Been everywhere.”
“Oh yeah.” It was quiet and reluctant, like forcing the truth out of Sam when he was small and afraid he’d get into trouble with Dad.
Dean had covered for him then.
“Standing tall. I’ve seen a million faces.” A smile quirked at the corner of Sam’s mouth. “And I rocked them all,” cause he had hadn’t he, mostly, “cause I’m a cowboy. On a steel horse I ride. I’m wanted...”
“Wanteeeeeeed.” At last Sam let go, put his heart into it and sang. The weight of Dean’s death lifted for just a moment as Sam sang it, and that’s all Dean wanted. Just for Sam not to bear it for a minute. Sam grinned and Dean felt his eyes on him.
They sang together. “Dead or alive. Dead or...”
Dean couldn’t keep it up. He let Sam sing “Dead or alive” over and over, and the words rang in Dean’s ears. Probably more dead than alive. Sam would be alone, and Dean would be in hell. If he ever saw Sam again, it might not be as anything Sam wanted.
Dean couldn’t bear the thought of it. He gripped the wheel, and gunned the car as Sam’s singing fell away into the silence of what they both hoped would not be.
There was nothing either of them could say to change that.
**
5.
“How far?”
“Twelve hours to go, I’m sure.” Sam folded the map up and slid it under his arm.
Dean’s eyes found the mirror, even though they’d only been there a second before. “You okay back there?”
Mary folded her arms and pouted. She did that better than Sam, or at least it arrowed through to Dean’s heart in exactly the same way. Maybe Uncle Sam had been giving her lessons. Dean couldn't stand Mary sulking all the way to Bobby's; this was supposed to be a fun trip. Father-daughter bonding and a break for Mom. “I’m fine Dad, I told you I was fine.”
Out of the corner of his eye Dean caught Sam directing a smile out the window.
“I can manage without the training wheels Dad, please don’t put them back on.” A small pleading face was now at his elbow.
“I didn’t say I would. I said you needed more practice. I said we’d practice.” And I’ll try not to have heart failure every time you fall off, Dean finished silently for himself.
“You look like you scratched up your arm,” Sam said.
Mary held it out for inspection. There was a tiny graze, no bigger than a quarter, but to Dean it was a spot of black ink on a perfect white sheet of paper. It shouldn’t be there.
“You might get a scar out of that,” Sam said dramatically.
Mary grinned. “A scar? Really? That’d be cool!”
Sam chuckled. “There’s no doubt she’s yours is there Dean?” Sam rolled up his sleeve. “See this scar here? This is from when Dean and I found a skateboard, and I crashed it into a wire fence.”
Mary’s eyes went suitably big and round enough. “A fence?”
“He cried all night, too.”
“I didn’t cry!” Sam shook his head. “Definitely not.”
“Where’s the scar on your wrist from?” Mary poked it with a small (perfect, Dean thought) finger.
Sam bit his lip. “I think I caught it on something. I fell and scratched it.” Either it was a monster Sam didn’t want to have to tell Mary about, or he genuinely couldn’t remember. One of the many scars that faded away. Some of them would never fade.
“What about the big scar on your chest Daddy? What’s that from?”
Dean could have sworn he heard Sam holding his breath. Dammit. He grinned into the mirror.
“Never mind scars. It’s twelve hours to Uncle Bobby’s. Let’s play a game to pass the time.” A game that didn’t involve Dean explaining to his small daughter that hell hounds did that when they dragged Daddy away. A game that didn’t involve Dean explaining how he wouldn’t be here - she wouldn’t be here - if it wasn’t for Uncle Sam. The thought of no Mary was so frightening it threatened to blind his vision and stop his breath.
“Let’s sing!” Mary bounced up and down in the back. “Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall, ten green bottles, C’mon Uncle Sam, Dad!” Her small fists hit first Sam than Dean. She was surprisingly tough.
Then again, she was a Winchester.
Dean joined in, caught Sam’s eye and Sam joined in too. They sang it together, and when they got to the next verse, Sam started, “Nine shiny Impalas, driving down the road.”
Mary’s peals of laughter drowned them all out. She was more than pleased to suggest “Eight fairy princesses, waving their magic wands,” and Dean wished he had a recorder to record Sam singing that.
Dean suggested “Seven juicy burgers, waiting on a plate,” which made them all hungry. Sam started to look for a diner.
The song fell away, but that was fine ‘cause the rhythm of the road and the accompanying melody of the Winchesters kept on going.
**
Song lyrics quoted in section 3:
Smooth Criminal - Michael Jackson
Houses of the Holy - Led Zeppelin
Burn the Witch - Queens of the Stone Age
Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin
Fix You - Coldplay
Sugar, We’re Going Down - Fall Out Boy.
Where is she? - The Killers
Spam - Monty Python
Nobody’s Fault But Mine - Led Zeppelin
Save You - Pearl Jam
Back in business - AC/DC
Save You - Pearl Jam
Don’t Push Me - Eminem (also 50 Cent has same lyrics)
**
Feedback is always most welcome. Thank you for reading.
Title: The Song That Never Ends
Rating: PG13
Gen fic.
Pairings: None
Warnings only for swearing. Spoilers for S3 finale.
Summary: Five Times the Winchesters have sung in the car...
Thanks to legoline and embroiderama for their beta help.
NB This story contains spoilers for/ref to S3 finale.
1.
Dean traced the route with his finger, snaking along until he found their destination. Twelve hours, maybe thirteen. Dean was never far off. He reversed his finger along the route, backpedalled the mental journey he'd just taken, and paused.
Dad clicked the radio off and spoke loudly into its absence. “Found the exit?”
Dean slid his eyes across to the next exit on his chosen route, and nodded. “Sure. Another hour.” He eyed the radio, hoping Dad would turn it back on. It would be a long journey without any music.
Dad was gazing intently into the mirror, with the same expression he got when he was figuring out a case. Then he gave a sigh audible only to Dean. “Sam quit it, sit up.”
Dean twisted around. Sam was slumped far down, most of him hiding in the well behind Dean’s seat, all of him sulking. “Okay Sammy?”
“Fine,” Sam said, pulling himself up only an inch and letting his scowling face betray the lie. Sam kicked the back of Dean’s seat; whether annoyed ‘cause Dean wasn’t sulking too or just not having enough room for his legs, Dean couldn’t tell.
Dean counted into the silence. Sam could keep up a sulk a pretty long time. Thirteen hours would be no problem for him if he wanted to sulk that long. Dean could tell from the loud huffy breaths Sam was taking that his brother wanted to draw attention, wanted the fact he was pissed off to fill the car until they couldn’t move for sitting on it. Five, Four, Three, Two...
“I don’t see why we have to move. Again.” The again was ground out between tightly gritted teeth. Sam sat up this time, pushed his face between the seats. “What’s in Nevada anyway?”
“Werewolf.” Dad said the word as if it were a door closing, subject over.
“There’re ghosts and werewolves everywhere aren’t there? Couldn’t we stay in one place and keep that area safe?”
Dad didn’t say anything. His hands tensed a little more on the wheel.
A standoff. Sam’s eyes narrowed and he gazed expectantly at a mirror Dad suddenly didn’t need to look in.
“Werewolf, Sam. It’ll be cool.” Dean didn’t understand it when the freakin’ kid rolled his eyes. Why was Sam never excited about the hunts?
Sam disappeared back into the seat. “I liked that school. I got to be in a play. I had friends. Nevada’s a long way.” Sam’s feet drummed loudly on the floor. “Too far.”
“We could sing a song,” Dad said abruptly. “That’ll make the time to Nevada go faster.”
Dad was deliberately being obtuse and Sam and Dean both knew it. Sam didn’t care about how long this journey took, he cared that there was any journey at all. Dean didn’t get that: the world was only the car, and the two other people in it, but he understood that Sam didn’t see it that way; he wanted his world to be static.
“Not a baby, Dad.” Sam’s scorn dripped from every syllable.
Dean grinned. “I know a song you’ll enjoy.”
Dad looked relieved and gave an approving nod.
Dean cleared his throat. “This is the song that never ends...”
A laugh from Sam, dragged unwillingly from him, like most kids to homework. He sat up. Dean knew Sam was most likely on the verge of reminding Dean of his age, again, as if Dean didn’t know it better than his own, when he darted his eyes toward Dad. Dean saw Sam’s face crease into an approximation of a smile. “It goes on and on my friends...”
“Someone started singing it not knowing what it was,” they both sang loudly, “and they'll continue singing it forever just because...”
They got through just the one round before Dad shouted, “quit it,” accompanying his demand with a rough bash on the wheel. It’s more than they got through last time.
“You said sing a song,” Sam said.
“You know that song always drives me crazy,” Dad grumbled. “Damn Bobby. Not that one.”
Sam crossed his eyes and poked his tongue out just as Dad checked the mirror. Mercifully, he pretended not to see. “C’mon, a different song. Pass the time. Ten Green Bottles Hanging on The Wall, Ten...c’mon...”
Dean joined in singing it. They paused before nine, both of them waiting for Sam to join in, to react. Nothing happened for a long time. Dad gave a tiny nod of his head, a nod that broke the silence, that said I tried, I give up.
Dean wasn’t ready to give up. Something had to cheer Sam up, to make the journey go quicker, to close the gap that suddenly existed between the front and back seats. “Nine shiny Impalas, driving down the road...”
Sam and Dad gave identical snorts of laughter. “Trust you,” Sam mumbled, over Dean’s singing, but he joined in by the end of the repeat, “and if one shiny Impala should accidentally crash” -Please never, Dean added in a hurry - “there’d be eight shiny Impalas driving down the road.”
“Your turn,” Dean said, turning to Sam.
Sam gave a sly grin. “Eight new books, sitting in my bag...”
It seemed as if it would just be the two of them, then Dad shrugged his shoulders and joined in. When they got to “And if one new book should accidentally,” it was Dad who supplied, “tear,” to finish the sentence off.
Sam’s mood melted away with the ensuing laughter. Dad loudly started to sing “Seven hairy Bigfoots stomping all around” and Sam and Dean joined in so loudly, Dean swore the Jeep they overtook heard them.
“You do know Bigfoot doesn’t exist, so far as we’re aware,” Dad said in the pause at the end of that round.
“Oh man, I wanted to be the one to kill him,” Dean said. He stalled the lecture about big footed monsters that was sure to follow, by starting off, “Six scratchy werewolves, biting all around.” Sam followed it quickly with, “Five new teachers, setting lots of work.”
They raced through Dad’s “Four naughty poltergeists, throwing stuff about,” and were laughing so hard it was two exits before Dean realized he should carry it on.
“Three hunting Winchesters, driving in their car,” was his suggestion, and all three joined in, by mutual consent changing the last line to, “And no hunting Winchesters shall accidentally fall.”
It was the last line of the song, but its echoes lasted the rest of the journey -all twelve hours fifty minutes of it.
**
2.
Sam clearly wanted something. He was yammering on about how he’d walk home if Dean had something to do, when obviously the main job Dean had to do was pick Sam up. He was digging his nails into his knee. He was fine-tuning his puppy dog eyes, upping the please factor until it poured out of him, like Superman and his laser vision. Direct to Dean’s heart.
Dean turned Metallica down a notch. Two notches. That should be enough of an invite for Sam to speak. Dean wasn’t going to ask him what was wrong. Could be anything. Sam might want to talk about his feelings, and then Dean would wish he’d turned the radio up instead. Still, if Sam needed help, the lowering of volume should tell him it was there. If there was ever any doubt.
“So I have to try out today...” Sam whispered, then he reached out and turned Metallica way down himself, until it was just a hum, joining the thwack of the wheels along the road. “I’m auditioning today.”
“Yeah?” Dean couldn’t figure out where this was going. Was Sam nervous?
“Yeah. It’s...” Sam closed his eyes, then opened them again, a new resolve gleaming, as if he was about to go into battle. “It’s for the school musical.”
Dean couldn’t help it; he laughed. It wasn't like they sang all the time - they weren’t the frickin’ Partridge Family, or whoever else those cheesy families who sang on tv were - but he’d heard Sam sing. Quietly along with the radio, in the shower, while they were marching.
Sam wasn’t the worst singer in the world, but he was no Robert Plant.
“The what? I’m sorry Sam. I thought you said, musical.”
“I did.” Dean heard the defiance in Sam’s words. “I’m trying out for the musical.” The no matter what you say didn’t need to be added. Dean wished he could pinpoint the moment Sam had started making entirely his own decisions, no matter what Dean thought. There were moments when Dean told himself he must have imagined the mythical time Sam listened to him, much as he imagined more detailed memories of his mother than were possible.
“But...” But why? didn’t seem to cut it. “The musical. You.” Dean said instead.
“Yeah. I know you probably think it’s a real chick thing to do-“
“Musicals? A chick thing? No, never.” Dean turned Metallica off completely. This was too good for any kind of interruption. “Will you have to learn a dance routine? Wear a shiny outfit?”
“I might have to dance.” Sam said, and Dean nearly didn’t hear the rest, he was laughing too hard as he imagined Sam prancing around on stage. “The outfit won’t be too bad. It’s Grease.”
“It’s in Greece? Sam, I think a toga won’t do you any favours.” Dean’s deliberate comment hit the mark he hoped; Sam bristled and pouted.
“Grease. I’ll get a cool jacket. I'll probably only get a chorus part. I know you think it’s stupid. But I liked the play I was in.”
“Oh yeah. Our Town.” Dean didn’t admit that he’d enjoyed watching Sam in that. It wouldn’t go with his teasing, it’d be like asking a chick out only to mention her boyfriend. Besides, Dean sure as hell would enjoy watching Sam sing. The mileage he'd get out of it! He’d sell tickets himself.
“Yeah. So I figured.. .I may as well.” Something in the pause, in the gap before “may as well,” made Dean listen. “May as well,” was too tacked on, too easy an excuse. Sam didn’t do anything because he “may as well.” He thought about everything, weighed the odds, made his decision. He damn well said no if he didn’t want to, or made it clear. Much as Sam had enjoyed the play, Dean couldn’t believe he wanted to sing. In public.
Something was up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Sam bit his lip. His body eased. He accepted Dean’s acceptance; which was his first error.
If this were Dean, the only reason he’d make an ass of himself on stage was if he thought it’d guarantee him getting laid, and even then he wouldn’t go to that much trouble. Sam didn’t do things ‘cause he wanted to get laid.
Or maybe they weren’t so different. “Is about a chick? Is it to impress some chick?”
The hissed no that followed was too urgent.
Dean laughed. “Well now I get it.”
“It’s not...” Sam rifled in his bag and drew out a cassette tape. He ejected Dean’s Metallica. Dean didn’t stop him. “I don’t stand a chance or anything. I just want... never mind.”
“Want to show her you exist?” Sam didn’t answer and Dean already felt like he’d stepped over his own invisible line, verging too close to discussing feelings for Dean’s own comfort. He hit the emergency brakes on the conversation.
“Besides, it’s good to have extra-curriculars,” Sam said. “It’s good for...it’s good.” Dean was filling in lots of blanks during this journey, the unspoken college forcing its way to his ears. Sam was collecting credits for college. Knowing Sam, looking good for possible college applications was probably the main reason, and impressing the chick the bonus.
Dean pretended not to hear it. “You need me to help?”
“Listen and tell me if I make a complete ass of myself?”
Dean laughed. “That, I can do.”
Sam popped his tape in and hit play. Dean recognized the song though he wouldn’t admit it, it was too well known from countless diners and cheesy bars. It was familiar like passing scenery that he'd driven by lots of times, but was only now noticeable ‘cause he was lost and needed directions.
“Why this car is automatic,
It's systematic
It's hydromatic
Why it's grease lightning”
Sam sang “automatic” and “systematic” as if he was describing a toaster, not someone who was talking about their pride and joy. He said “we’ll get some overhead lifters and four barrel quads” as if he were attempting to sing a song in French, and wasn’t entirely sure where to put the emphasis.
Dean switched the tape off and waved his hand to stop Sam. “No no no, Sam.”
“It’s that bad?” Sam cleared his throat. “But I’ve practised.”
“When have you practised?”
“In the shower.”
“It’s not the singing, it’s the...” Dean would never admit he said this later, not even if he were held at gunpoint, “meaning behind it.”
It was official, even Sam being in a musical had turned Dean into a chick.
“The meaning?”
“Yeah. This is about some dude’s car right? He’s fixing it up?”
Sam nodded slowly.
“So when he says it’s hydromatic or systematic, he means that as a good thing. It’s like me saying the Impala’s a sweet ride, isn’t it baby?” Dean patted the dash. “When he says he’s getting four barrel quads and chrome plated rods...he needs those things. Sound interested. Sound like you’re saying, he’ll get a new book or a trip to the library or some new pens or whatever else yanks your chain.”
“Okay. Okay let me try again.”
Sam tried again and he wasn’t too bad but he wasn’t quite getting it. He wasn’t loosening up enough. There was only one way to make that happen. Dean had swallowed his pride for Sam before; he joined in. He bellowed out, “You know that ain’t no shit, we’ll be getting lots of tit,” so loud Sam looked faintly embarrassed. Perhaps the chick's tits were a bigger part of the reason than Dean thought.
Dean shouted out “go go go go” and slowly Sam joined in, the volume rising with every repeat and more feeling behind it. When they reached “she’s a real pussy wagon” Dean patted the dash again, and Sam was laughing so much that he didn’t sing the next verse. They both finished off “The chicks’ll cream for Grease Lightning... Lightning...” loudly, and in sync.
Sam deserved a spot on that chorus, Dean thought, and he’d be in the front row, memorising the dance moves to mock Sam for later.
**
3.
“We should look into this case, the suicide.” Sam pushed his newspaper toward Dean.
“We should check out this article, see what’s behind it.” Dean slammed his paper down. If it were flesh, it’d be torn. He squared his shoulders.
Sam squared his. “Dean, this guy had no reason to die. There was another suicide in the area a month before. We have to go talk to the son.” Sam had that i'm not letting this go face on. Thing was, Dean could see through Sam like the Impala's newly washed window. Sam wanted to use this to talk about Dad's death.
Dean didn't want to, and Dean could be stubborn too.
“I know.” Firm, brooking no argument. “And we can check that out after this.” Give Sam no way to argue back. “Exploding breasts kill woman, Sam -- what part of that isn't us?” Appeal to Sam's reason.
Sam pulled his newspaper back towards him, resting his fingers on the edge. “I think it's important we do this one.”
“Exploding breasts and a man with a disappearing cock Sam.”
“It has to be witchcraft. And you hate witches. Why are you so excited?”
Dean pasted on a grin. “Disappearing cock has to be our kind of thing. Suicide could just be suicide. We do that next.”
He'd played his best hand. He watched Sam waver on the edge of decision, then Sam picked his newspaper up with a sigh. “Witches it is.”
Witches. Never anything but trouble, with their messing around with dark magic, and killing poor rabbits, and stupid curses. Especially the curses. This town had been hit with a string of people losing their memory for a day, or being only able to speak in curse words, or losing all their hair.
Dean’s attention had been brought by the story of a man whose cock had vanished - poor fuck - and a girl whose breasts had exploded. She died from her injuries.
This was no longer a witch playing a prank. This had stepped so far over the line, Dean was pretty sure she - Rosalie, the probable witch - couldn’t see the line any more. She’d smudged it out with her foot long ago.
It hadn’t been hard to track her down, because the article mentioned the guy with the missing cock’s girlfriend, and her mystery herb shop. At least she was a stupid witch, not covering her tracks very well, and a couple careful questions to the guy with no cock had confirmed the exploding breasts woman was his mistress. Bingo. Sam was more pleased than usual that this case seemed quick to solve. “Just neuter this witch and we’re done,” Sam said. “Onto the suicide.”
Sam’s words echoed in Dean’s head when they stood in front of the witch and she merely smiled. This was too easy.
Then one second later, they were both standing there staring at each other, with no Rosalie the witch in sight.
Dean opened his mouth to ask Sam how he was but no words came out.
“You okay?” Sam...well, sang. There was no other word for it. It was a tune Dean recognized too. “You okay? Annie?”
“Annie?” Dean repeated, perplexed. He cast his eyes down quickly. He still had his cock, thank fuck for that.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. It made him appear constipated. He flipped them open again, and when he sang, it sounded like he was forcing it out. “You’ve been hit by... ” Sam pointed at Dean, then jabbed his own chest as he repeated, “You’ve been hit by... a smooth criminal!”
Dean laughed. What the hell was Sam doing? Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean and pointed at his throat. “You’ve been hit by... “ Sam tried again.
Dean opened his mouth and found himself, rather than saying, don’t worry, we’ll figure it out, instead singing, “There ain't no use in crying. Cause it will only, only drive you mad.”
Sam nodded grimly. “Burn the witch,” Sam sang, nodding toward the door, “Burn to ash and bone.”
Dean followed Sam out of the building. It was strange -- Dean could think normally, but when he tried to speak he got muddled, song lyrics would float into his brain and he'd end up singing those instead. Dean had a lot more lyrics rattling around in his head than he realized, but it still made discussing the case damn difficult. No one wrote a song about the witch who cursed you into singing and took off.
Which was a pity.
She was nowhere in sight. Dean checked his watch and showed it to Sam. Thirty minutes had passed. She could be anywhere by now. They’d have to figure out her next move.
“If you listen very hard,” Dean said, “The tune will come to you at last.” He nodded encouragingly.
Sam swallowed. “I will try to fix you,” he said.
“I will try to fix you,” Dean repeated. Dammit. He didn’t know any words for, we’ll fix it.
Sam smiled encouragingly. He seemed to get it.
“Sugar, we’re going down swinging,” Dean said, as he raced the car toward their motel room. He ignored Sam’s snort of laughter. Dean must have picked those lyrics up from one of Sam’s radio stations. Last time he let Sam drive.
She was nowhere to be found. They drove all over town, they knocked on cock free man’s door but he slammed it their face when Sam’s “Where is she?” segued into “Where is my baby girl?” much to Sam’s own anguish. They ended up in a diner, managed to order only Spam (the first thing that Sam said when the waitress came over) and slumped over their books.
“Nobody’s fault but mine,” Dean sang. He took out the original newspaper article again. A tiny rip in the corner grew bigger. He wished he’d never seen it. Damn witches.
Sam shook his head.
Dean idly thought to himself that speaking only in song was the equivalent of turning the radio up loud; it meant Sam couldn't insist on talking about their feelings so easily.
The words were still echoing in his head when Sam leaned over the table, pushed the newly arrived spam salad aside - seriously, people put that in salad? - and sang, “you helped me when I was down, I'll help when you're down.” Sam jabbed in the air, narrowly missing Dean's shoulder. “Why are you hitting yourself? C'mon hit me instead.” Sam screwed up his face and slumped back.
Dean nodded. He threw the paper toward Sam. “Back in business again,” he said.
Sam grabbed the newspaper from Dean and slammed it down angrily. “Fuck me if I say something you don't wanna hear. And fuck me if you only see the treble in your head. Please help me, to help you, help yourself.”
Dean gave a small nod. Sam wasn't gonna let this go. He had no suitable words for later, sometime, maybe, leave it. His thoughts were rattling around his brain, random lyrics jumping to the fore then being pushed away. He rubbed his temples. They needed to fix this. Finally some lyrics, heard on the radio sometime, or maybe it was from that chick who insisted on doing it to rap lyrics; either way, they pushed their way to the fore. “Right now I'm on the edge, so don't push me.”
Sam nodded, letting silence fall. Dean decided to eat the spam salad anyway, and Sam calmed down, picking up the paper. His eyes narrowed as they ran over the article. Dean was deciding that fried Spam would taste much better, when Sam poked him in the arm with the paper. He pointed out a sentence. A quote from a friend of Rosalie's, a friend they’d had no need to interview.
A friend who she was with when they turned up. Soon they had their witch, and their speaking voices.
The silence in the car on the drive out of town - toward the suicide - unsettled them both. Sam was still, no fidgeting in his seat, no re-reading the article out to Dean, no trying to get Dean to talk about his feelings. It was like he was arming himself for a full on assault.
Dean switched the radio on. The noise was comforting, but neither of them sang along.
**
4.
Dean could feel it coming before Sam said anything, could hear it in the air, like vibrations on the television before his cell rang.
“Hey Dean?” Sam broke the quiet, a too casual use of his name. Here it was. The obligatory awkward heart to heart.
Dean couldn’t stand it. That might be worse than anything else, worse than the hounds. He didn’t need to hear Sam say it.
“Yeah?”
“You know if this doesn’t...doesn’t go the way we want.”
“No no no no no.”
“No what?” Dean felt Sam’s eyes on him. Of course Dean knew where Sam was going with that.
“You’re not gonna bust out the misty goodbye speech okay?” Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. “If this is my last day on earth I do not want it to be socially awkward.”
Quiet. Sam wouldn’t want to argue with Dean - not on his last day. He’d be struggling with that, versus getting out what he wanted to say. Well fuck that. Dean had to stop this right here.
“I know what I do want.” Dean flipped the music on and waited for Sam’s reaction.
“Bon Jovi.”
“Bon Jovi rocks.” If Dean was going to admit that any time, it may as well be on his last day. Not a lot of time for Sam to rip the shit out of him for it. He waved his finger in the air, jabbing it like he was poking to make sure something was dead. “On occasion.”
Dean cleared his throat and started singing. “And I walk these streets.” A small look out the window, at another nameless road. Nothing memorable about it, even if it might be the last one he drove down. ”A loaded six-string on my back. I play for keeps.”
Sam was staying resolutely silent, lost in his own sorrow. That wasn’t how Dean wanted this last journey to go. If it had to be his last. It wasn’t what he wanted Sam to remember.
“C’mon on.” He hit Sam, tried to draw a reaction. “Cos I might not make it back.” Well that was the truth of it. “Been everywhere.”
“Oh yeah.” It was quiet and reluctant, like forcing the truth out of Sam when he was small and afraid he’d get into trouble with Dad.
Dean had covered for him then.
“Standing tall. I’ve seen a million faces.” A smile quirked at the corner of Sam’s mouth. “And I rocked them all,” cause he had hadn’t he, mostly, “cause I’m a cowboy. On a steel horse I ride. I’m wanted...”
“Wanteeeeeeed.” At last Sam let go, put his heart into it and sang. The weight of Dean’s death lifted for just a moment as Sam sang it, and that’s all Dean wanted. Just for Sam not to bear it for a minute. Sam grinned and Dean felt his eyes on him.
They sang together. “Dead or alive. Dead or...”
Dean couldn’t keep it up. He let Sam sing “Dead or alive” over and over, and the words rang in Dean’s ears. Probably more dead than alive. Sam would be alone, and Dean would be in hell. If he ever saw Sam again, it might not be as anything Sam wanted.
Dean couldn’t bear the thought of it. He gripped the wheel, and gunned the car as Sam’s singing fell away into the silence of what they both hoped would not be.
There was nothing either of them could say to change that.
**
5.
“How far?”
“Twelve hours to go, I’m sure.” Sam folded the map up and slid it under his arm.
Dean’s eyes found the mirror, even though they’d only been there a second before. “You okay back there?”
Mary folded her arms and pouted. She did that better than Sam, or at least it arrowed through to Dean’s heart in exactly the same way. Maybe Uncle Sam had been giving her lessons. Dean couldn't stand Mary sulking all the way to Bobby's; this was supposed to be a fun trip. Father-daughter bonding and a break for Mom. “I’m fine Dad, I told you I was fine.”
Out of the corner of his eye Dean caught Sam directing a smile out the window.
“I can manage without the training wheels Dad, please don’t put them back on.” A small pleading face was now at his elbow.
“I didn’t say I would. I said you needed more practice. I said we’d practice.” And I’ll try not to have heart failure every time you fall off, Dean finished silently for himself.
“You look like you scratched up your arm,” Sam said.
Mary held it out for inspection. There was a tiny graze, no bigger than a quarter, but to Dean it was a spot of black ink on a perfect white sheet of paper. It shouldn’t be there.
“You might get a scar out of that,” Sam said dramatically.
Mary grinned. “A scar? Really? That’d be cool!”
Sam chuckled. “There’s no doubt she’s yours is there Dean?” Sam rolled up his sleeve. “See this scar here? This is from when Dean and I found a skateboard, and I crashed it into a wire fence.”
Mary’s eyes went suitably big and round enough. “A fence?”
“He cried all night, too.”
“I didn’t cry!” Sam shook his head. “Definitely not.”
“Where’s the scar on your wrist from?” Mary poked it with a small (perfect, Dean thought) finger.
Sam bit his lip. “I think I caught it on something. I fell and scratched it.” Either it was a monster Sam didn’t want to have to tell Mary about, or he genuinely couldn’t remember. One of the many scars that faded away. Some of them would never fade.
“What about the big scar on your chest Daddy? What’s that from?”
Dean could have sworn he heard Sam holding his breath. Dammit. He grinned into the mirror.
“Never mind scars. It’s twelve hours to Uncle Bobby’s. Let’s play a game to pass the time.” A game that didn’t involve Dean explaining to his small daughter that hell hounds did that when they dragged Daddy away. A game that didn’t involve Dean explaining how he wouldn’t be here - she wouldn’t be here - if it wasn’t for Uncle Sam. The thought of no Mary was so frightening it threatened to blind his vision and stop his breath.
“Let’s sing!” Mary bounced up and down in the back. “Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall, ten green bottles, C’mon Uncle Sam, Dad!” Her small fists hit first Sam than Dean. She was surprisingly tough.
Then again, she was a Winchester.
Dean joined in, caught Sam’s eye and Sam joined in too. They sang it together, and when they got to the next verse, Sam started, “Nine shiny Impalas, driving down the road.”
Mary’s peals of laughter drowned them all out. She was more than pleased to suggest “Eight fairy princesses, waving their magic wands,” and Dean wished he had a recorder to record Sam singing that.
Dean suggested “Seven juicy burgers, waiting on a plate,” which made them all hungry. Sam started to look for a diner.
The song fell away, but that was fine ‘cause the rhythm of the road and the accompanying melody of the Winchesters kept on going.
**
Song lyrics quoted in section 3:
Smooth Criminal - Michael Jackson
Houses of the Holy - Led Zeppelin
Burn the Witch - Queens of the Stone Age
Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin
Fix You - Coldplay
Sugar, We’re Going Down - Fall Out Boy.
Where is she? - The Killers
Spam - Monty Python
Nobody’s Fault But Mine - Led Zeppelin
Save You - Pearl Jam
Back in business - AC/DC
Save You - Pearl Jam
Don’t Push Me - Eminem (also 50 Cent has same lyrics)
**
Feedback is always most welcome. Thank you for reading.