A Very Supernatural Sing Along 1/? Sam/Dean
Title: A Very Supernatural Sing Along
Author: queenklu
Beta by:
shri_amato
Pairing: first time Sam/Dean
Rating (this chapter): PG13? Eventually there will be smex.
Disclaimer: *snerk* If this happened? I will let Sam and Dean out of their jar.
Summary: On a long and lonesome highway, East of Omaha...(really East. Like, so East, it's West) Sam and Dean start working a case neither one of them will be able to live down. Ever.
A/N: This is a WIP which sucks. But i can promise you, this isn't one of those WIPs that rambles on with no plotline or end in sight--this is one of those WIPs you'll find later and wish you were in on the ground floor for. ;) However, if WIPs just aint your style, go here, leave a comment, and i'll notify you when the fic is done!
Every chapter comes with a soundtrack! (You'll see why...) Chapter One Soundtrack Here!
The end of their world started with a slammed whammy bar, a shrill trilling police whistle, and two claps of the hand.
“Redhead or brunette!” Dean crowed, rocking forward into Cleo the barmaid and grinding back into Sam as the taller Winchester gasped out, “It don’t matter,” with the rest of the late-night customers, his hands falling almost automatically to grasp Dean’s hips and pull him closer. Without missing a beat (“Breakdance, slamdance, it don’t matter”) Dean spun and dropped, splayed hand slapping the floor as he growled, “Do the jerk until it hurts, I’m tellin’ you-"
“Aint nothing wrong with that,” Sam’s voice rumbled with the crowd, but it felt deeper than his chest. A glance at the mirror behind the bar made his eyes-previously bright but heavy lidded and absolutely fixed on Dean-widen in surprise, nearly choking on the heat swelling up in his throat. He was writhing against the writhing bodies writhing against his brother, who just tossed his head back and danced like every brush of air was exquisite, sliding effortlessly through the throng with more than feline grace, stroked and petted and not completely indifferent but not singling anyone out either.
The want burning in Sam’s throat suddenly shifted into a different, much more dangerous kind of burn-possessive, unthinking need. Words wouldn’t even string together in his head as he fought his way to Dean, striking in time with the music, disguising blows as dance moves. At the last second he caught an opening, sliding between two elegantly arched feet on his stomach to rest at Dean’s steel-toed boots, shirt riding up along his ribs, the overheated skin of his collarbone slick against the surprisingly cool floor. It was just startling enough to reign in his temper, but not enough to keep his back from arching as he glided up Dean’s body to the plaintive whine of the guitar.
And through everything-through the pawing and suffocating press of bodies, male and female alike-Dean kept singing, that deep, whiskey rough voice heating blood in the veins even as it raised goosebumps over sweat-prickling skin. When he saw the way Sam’s body bent for him (head falling back as he gasped in air for the next chorus line, eyes always locked on Dean) Sam saw the way Dean’s own eyes went dark and wide, just a flicker of something that wasn’t magic, but hella enjoying himself.
The crowd grunted-"hoo”-as Sam’s arm came up over Dean’s head to stroke the tips of his fingers against his brother’s cheek, tanned skin a golden halo as he crooned, “Don’t wanna let it go…” And the music finally faded out.
Sam blinked. Dean blinked.
A couple bikers playing pool called them fags.
The brothers Winchester leapt away from each other like they’d been goosed by a shtriga. Cleo the barmaid gave them a funny look and asked if something was wrong with their table, because they were kind of blocking foot traffic standing in the middle of the bar like that.
Dean swallowed and looked (a little embarrassed, a little annoyed, a lot nauseated) at Sam, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kinda missing those conversations that start with, ‘So this killer truck.’”
~~~SUPERNATURAL~~~
4 Hours Earlier
“C’mon, Sammy, sing along!” Dean was already calling out the lyrics as he cranked up Metallica’s Turn the Page so loud the whole Impala thrummed with the rolling anticipation of the guitar. “On a long and lonesome highway east of Omaha-Hey, we’re kinda east of Omaha, aren’t we?”
“Really, really east,” Sam muttered, forcing a tired smile so he wouldn’t rub his temples raw. “Look-"
“Here I am,” Dean bellowed pointedly, “on the road again…”
“Dude, I’m not singing.”
“Up on the stage-Hey. What? I gotta be on my way to hell for you to put out?”
“Yeah, Dean.” Sam steadfastly ignored the lurch of something that wasn’t hunger (but kinda was) in his stomach and let his head thunk gently against the cold glass of his window. “You really, really do.”
Like either of them could listen to Dead or Alive without their intestines tying into knots.
“Staaay awaaaaake Sammmaaay,” Dean drawled, then cracked his knuckles across his little brother’s kneecap. “Tell me about the job.”
“Already told you about the job,” Sam grumbled, then winced at how infantile he sounded.
“Tell me about the job again.”
“I don’t have a concussion.” He knew that was what this really was about-Dean worried Sam would slip off into a coma if he fell asleep too soon-but honestly, it’d been a good six hours since the demon they’d exorcised had dropped a TV on his head, and it wasn’t even a wide screen.
“Didn’t say you did. Teeeell me about the jooooob.”
Sam sighed the sigh of beleaguered little brothers and dragged himself straighter in his seat, arching backward to grab his computer bag without turning around. Dean shot him a glance and Sam shivered when cold air hit the exposed skin of his belly, but he’d returned attention to the road by the time Sam grumbled and tugged his shirt back down, cursing 100% shrinkable cotton.
The laptop whirred to life just as the song ended, host abusively over-enunciating and cheerful in the slight hush of the car, “That was Metallica’s own Turn the Page, for all you late night listeners out there- You’re listening to Double-Yoo Dee Ee Dee, sixty-six point six FM…”
“Bobby thinks something’s going down in the town of…Lyric, Washington,” Sam said, snapping down the volume as he did. “Says he’s been hearing accounts of demonic possession, but…” He sighed, flipping through the tabs he’d saved. “I dunno, it’s weird. No cattle mutilations, no freak storms…”
“Well, not every demon’s gonna be as hardcore as Yellow Eyes.”
“Yeah but demons usually leave some sign. All we’ve got is a couple missing persons reports, a grid-wide power fluctuation, and Bobby’s gut to go on.”
“Bobby’s gut,” Dean repeated, chuckling like he had every other time Sam had described the case. Sam tried to hide his flinch and failed-even months after their latest run-in with the Trickster, with Dean very much not dead in the car beside him, déjà vu was something that was always gonna rub Sam wrong. “Sorry, Sammy, that’s just funny to me.”
Sam sent his brother a brief and startled look, but Dean’s eyes were glued on the road, remnants of a smile still tugging at his lips. So the apology didn’t mean as much as Sam (hoped?) thought it had.
“Dude, listen to your radio and let me sleep.” Sam reached over and cranked it back up, because thanks to hundreds of hours listening to crap diner music, he recognized the poetic irony in this particular song.
“Goes from zero to sixty in 3.5-baby, you’ve got the keys. Shut up and drive.”
Sam settled back against the window thinking, if ever the Winchesters had a family motto…
“This is a crap song,” Dean growled, punching the cassette button as he flipped in Metallica. “There we goooo, turn the page…”
~*~
“Hey.” The car jerked to a stop, sending Sam tumbling into his seatbelt as the radio clicked off. “We’re here, princess. Get your stuff.”
Sam groaned, blinking fuzzily at the neon motel sign advertising the Danschonne Inn (‘Stay all night, stay a little longer!’). The just as fuzzy clock-radio told him he’d only been asleep half an hour, tops. If Dean didn’t cut it out soon, Sam was gonna force feed him the sleeping pills just to get some peace and quiet.
He wedged his door open just in time to hear Dean singing, “Hotel California,” to himself as he strutted his way into the lobby. Sam stifled a snort as he moved to the trunk, quickly sorting the most bloody of their clothes into a garbage bag he could take to the Laundromat across the street in the morning. Or tonight, while they were waiting for pizza, if Dean didn’t feel like diner chow. It was only eight o'clock, no matter how exhausted Sam felt, and they hadn’t stopped for what passed as food since ten that morning.
The beefy man behind the counter looked up and said something loud enough to catch Sam’s attention and he frowned, trying to decide between laundry and weapons before shrugging it off-Dean could handle himself. Beefy must have had the radio cranked because Sam could hear the low beat of the bass and hum of guitar strings struggling through the cracked seals in the windows like there was an actual band set up behind the counter; no wonder Dean had been humming Hotel California with it cranked so loud.
In their Dad’s mix cassettes, Hotel California fit right between Don’t Fear the Reaper and Bad Company, played so many times over their brains had been programmed to expect the world to order them that way. It was almost a sense-memory experience-One hint of that guitar lick and Sam was flooded with the smell of backseat leather, flannel blankets bunched around his nose, old spice and sweat and Dad and Dean. He was eight years old again, still small enough to tuck against Dean’s side, his brother’s arm curled loosely around his neck. Three weeks after That Christmas, the one where Dean had told him about their superhero father and swore him not to tell. A careless sleepy murmur about salting and burning the monsters, and Dad’s slow, calculated pull to one side of the road, Dean going absolutely rigid beneath him. Bring your alibis…
When it had started playing on the bus to Stanford, Sam had white-knuckled his bag for a full hour, telling himself over and over that the speakers were old and that was what was causing the static hiss, while he missed Dean like a hole in his side.
Suddenly Dean’s harsh yell jerked him back to the real world with a snap of his neck that felt like whiplash. Dean was shouting something back at Beefy, fists balled at his sides and every muscle in his body rigid. Bloody laundry spilled on the concrete as Sam hit the door at a dead run, hand clenched around the knife handle at his belt.
Running into the lobby was like running into a room full of melting jello, the music cascading over him like an actual entity, sliding between his fingers and down his throat. And then-
Dean was giving him the weirdest look, eyes wide and face twisted like he’d been caught strung out in a playboy bunny outfit. Which was absolutely not the case.
“Last thing I remember,” Sam heard himself sing, his voice a cautious croak as he struggled to keep it inside his mouth, “I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before.”
“Relax,” sang the night man, “We are programmed to receive. You can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave.”
A warm sort of chill rocked the room, and Sam switched between staring at Dean-who was staring right back-and gaping at Mr. Beefy, who was giving them both a very cold glare between pages of his Hot Rod Magazine.
“Alright, what the hell is this?” Beefy snarled, “You too tripped up on acid to pay for a room?”
Dean’s hand fisted in Sam’s jacket sleeve hard enough to pinch the skin beneath and dragged him out of the lobby, hazel eyes as wide as silver dollars. It wasn’t fast enough.
He’d barely managed to fling his little brother in the direction of the Impala before his arms flew up, words spilling out of his mouth as the introduction finished twirling through the air around them.
“What's this? What's this? There's something very wrong,” Dean demanded, an angry panicked note creeping up in his voice. “What's this? There’s people singing songs!”
At that precise moment, Sam lost the fight to maintain his balance on the edge of the curb and landed rump-first onto the Impala.
There was an audible screech as the music ground to a halt, and a pause so quiet Sam could hear them both breathing. Then-
“MY CAR!” Dean yelped, hand flying to his side like Sam had driven a knife through his ribs. And it wasn’t even melodramatic.
“Oh my god,” Sam groaned, sinking down onto his haunches as he held his head between his hands. “I really did get a concussion.”
Part of his mind was spinning, trying to put everything together with half the pieces from ten different puzzles-Sleep deprivation caused hallucinations. So did tumors-but a more pressing issue was the fact that Dean would, in all probability, kill him, because there was a Sam’s-ass-shaped dent in the hood of the Impala.
Sure enough, Dean’s mouth was flapping open and closed, struggling between the urge to shout and the fear it would come out as a show tune. Finally, when no more intro music was forthcoming, Dean cringed in a way that was supposed to look like he was unwinding the rigid tension in his muscles.
“Fuck me,” Dean let out in a rush of air, “Cause I did too. God damn it, Sam, I can’t believe-" He reached out for his baby just as the hood popped back into place, and flinched almost as hard as Sam at the sudden noise. Then Dean let out a long and extremely relieved breath, folding himself a little shakily to sit on the curb next to Sam’s gangly legs, one knee thumping solidly against his.
“What do you…” Sam gulped, dragging himself back from the brink of hyperventilating, “Wait. You heard-”
“Uh, yeah, Sammy. I was there for the start of the song. What-” He cut himself short in case Tim Burton decided to make another appearance, running a hand hard over his day-old stubble and the stubborn set of his jaw. Then, with a fierceness that made Sam stop breathing, Dean fixed his eyes on his little brother. “Are you hurt?”
“What? No. Uh,” he added with a low chuckle he really wanted to feel, “emotionally scarred for life, but- You?”
Those sharp eyes did a double take, like every time Sam asked anything pertaining to Dean’s wellbeing, like he wasn’t really sure why Sam cared. “No. I mean, your fat ass landing on my baby nearly gave me a heart attack but… Didn’t exactly feel malevolent.”
“I don’t know about that,” Sam murmured ominously, ignoring Dean’s quip about his rear to gesture at the squat, unassuming motel. “Hotel California’s starting to creep me out.” Dean didn’t laugh, which just made Sam more uncomfortable. “You sure we have to stay here?”
“One horse town, Sammy.” He glanced over his shoulder at Beefy. “That is assuming Cuddles is still willing to sell us a room.” He started to flash Beefy a grin when a pair of women strolled by, high heels clicking on the sidewalk. Dean’s smile turned a lot less innocent and he threw in a wave, ring glinting in the streetlight.
Just like that the jello feeling crashed over Sam, every window within eyesight snapped open, and people sporting the most ridiculous and varied examples of late night fashion leaned outside to shout in perfect harmony:
“Dooon’t go sharing your emooootion-laaaaay all your loooove on meee.”
Sam’s hands slammed so hard over his mouth he drew blood, the inside of his lip catching against his canines. Just like a switch had turned off, the windows yanked shut, and the words Sam was fighting against died on his tongue. Heat flooded his cheeks so fast his vision actually spun for a few seconds, but the ringing in his ears faded with the music even if his brother looked like he’d been hit in the face with a banana cream pie.
The girls didn’t even double-take, walking on with flattered but disinterested murmurs that boys who got too drunk to stand probably weren’t that great in the sack, but if they were still here tomorrow…
And then Dean was laughing. Really fucking hard. “I think,” he somehow managed to gasp through his guffaws, “think we got the right…place? Oh my god!” he crowed, clutching his shaking ribs with one hand and thumping his thigh with the other, “We gotta call Bobby!”
The only noise out of Sam’s mouth was a strangled cry of pure mortification as he curled in on himself so tight his knees were pressing his ears flat to his skull, still not hard enough to drown out Dean’s nearly hysterical giggles. He really didn’t want to hear Bobby sing, ever. (Especially when it was probably going to have the word ‘idjit’ in it. Or, god, what if it was Barbie Girl?)
Either way, this was going to be a case neither one of them was ever going to live down.
The End (of this part) ;P Comments are SO MUCH LOVE! <3
On to PART TWO!