One Way or Another
Title: One Way or Another
Fandom: Supernatural, Transformers (the general premise)
Characters: Sam, Dean, Impala (Metallicar)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 822
Spoilers: None.
Warning: Humour, crack, AU, The Rule, Minor swearing.
Disclaimer: I own neither Transformers or Supernatural.
Summary: If the driver chooses the music, and the shotgun shuts his mouth, when does the car get to pick?
One Way or Another
The last song on the cassette finished. Dean took his eyes off the road long enough to eject the cassette. He had been half tempted to listen to it again, for the third time that particular road trip, but his mood for Metallica had bit the dust two songs ago.
“Oi, Sam,” Dean tossed the cassette on top of the dash and within reach, “Hand me Zeppelin.”
“Just a minute, Dean.” Sam said distractedly, head bowed over a leather bound book that had a title in Latin. Dean, in one of his moments of pure big brother, briefly mused flicking one of his brother’s ears.
Instead he said, “Put your porn down and hand me Led Zeppelin.”
Sam sighed, the pause was probably him counting to ten, before marking his page and reaching for the shoebox of tapes under his seat. He grabbed one and tossed it to his brother before opening his book again.
With a haphazard push the cassette was in and, after several moments, silence reigned. It was a stunned silence of disbelief. For a moment Dean was concerned he’d have to hit the dash, again, when the Impala spoke, “Dean.” It began, Joan Jett’s sounding voice almost strained, “Why do you still have a Blondie tape?”
Dean’s expression flickered between confusion, anger and finally settled on emotionless, “That was a Blondie tape?”
“Yeah.” Joan Jett’s tone was almost accusing, but not quite because the Impala never took that tone with Dean (except for that one time when Dean accidentally hit the curb on a get-away but they don’t talk about it), “You said you were over that phase.”
“I am.” Dean defended, “Samantha apparently isn’t.” Dean- who probably would have been happier with no one knowing he ever even owned a Blondie tape- turned to his brother, whose head was back in his book, “Hey bitch.”
“What jerk?” Sam said, but didn’t glance up. As it turned out, this would be a mistake.
Dean was getting ready to reach over to deliver some sense through a good natured smack when, to the surprise of both brothers, the back of Sam’s seat dropped. Before Sam could flail at the sudden lack of a back rest the seat slammed forward hard enough for there to be a loud ‘smack.’ “Hey! What was that for?”
Sam wasn’t actually hurt, only surprised, and Dean loved his car just a little bit more than he did before. If that was even possible. “Pay attention Sammy.” The Impala warned, “You broke the rule.”
Sam, still rubbing the back of his neck, appeared to be confused. “The rule?”
Dean glared, because there was no way Mr-I-Went-To-Stanford-On-A-Free-Ride didn’t remember the rule, “Yeah. The rule, dumbass. Driver chooses the music; shotgun shuts his cake hole. I asked for Zeppelin and you gave me Blondie.”
Completely ignoring Dean’s righteous tirade, more than likely because it would annoy his brother, Sam raised an eyebrow, “You have a Blondie tape?”
The Impala laughed, “He had more at one point. It seemed every time I ate one he had another. I was spiting tape for weeks.”
Dean growled and clenched the steering wheel while pretending his ears weren’t red, “Can we get off what tapes I owned and back to the fact Sam broke the rule?”
“Dean.” Sam began when Dean really, really didn’t want him to, “Does that rule even work when the car can pick its own music?”
There was a stunned silence for a moment in the car. Only the radio’s static filled the void because, damnit, Sam had a point. “You know, I never thought of it that way.” The Impala said finally, but it didn’t say anything else. So the silence came back. It was the kind of silence only Winchesters could make: the kind of silence that accompanied the fall of a stone monument after dynamite had gone off at its base.
A mile disappeared under the Impala’s tires. Finally the car said, “I like Dean’s music.”
“Sure,” Sam said, “but isn’t there some music you want to listen to?”
“Sammy, did I stutter when I said I liked Dean’s music?”
“No, but you still should have some say in what’s played.”
Joan Jett scoffed, “Who says I don’t? Haven’t you noticed? Your choices always get eaten.”
“Alright!” Dean cut in with a glare before Sam could say anything further- that lawyer business was nearly as far behind as Dean had hoped it was, “Sam, stop harassing my car because she likes the classics.”
“Yeah Sammy! Zeppelin forever!”
Dean smiled faintly at the declaration, “Thatta girl.”
“So what?” Sam said, book completely forgotten on the dash by this point, “The driver chooses the music, shotgun shuts his mouth and the car has veto power?”
Dean gave the thought the three seconds it deserved, “Sounds about right.
The radio piped up, “Works for me.”
“Two to one, Sam. The rule stands. Now hand me Zeppelin.”
Fandom: Supernatural, Transformers (the general premise)
Characters: Sam, Dean, Impala (Metallicar)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 822
Spoilers: None.
Warning: Humour, crack, AU, The Rule, Minor swearing.
Disclaimer: I own neither Transformers or Supernatural.
Summary: If the driver chooses the music, and the shotgun shuts his mouth, when does the car get to pick?
One Way or Another
The last song on the cassette finished. Dean took his eyes off the road long enough to eject the cassette. He had been half tempted to listen to it again, for the third time that particular road trip, but his mood for Metallica had bit the dust two songs ago.
“Oi, Sam,” Dean tossed the cassette on top of the dash and within reach, “Hand me Zeppelin.”
“Just a minute, Dean.” Sam said distractedly, head bowed over a leather bound book that had a title in Latin. Dean, in one of his moments of pure big brother, briefly mused flicking one of his brother’s ears.
Instead he said, “Put your porn down and hand me Led Zeppelin.”
Sam sighed, the pause was probably him counting to ten, before marking his page and reaching for the shoebox of tapes under his seat. He grabbed one and tossed it to his brother before opening his book again.
With a haphazard push the cassette was in and, after several moments, silence reigned. It was a stunned silence of disbelief. For a moment Dean was concerned he’d have to hit the dash, again, when the Impala spoke, “Dean.” It began, Joan Jett’s sounding voice almost strained, “Why do you still have a Blondie tape?”
Dean’s expression flickered between confusion, anger and finally settled on emotionless, “That was a Blondie tape?”
“Yeah.” Joan Jett’s tone was almost accusing, but not quite because the Impala never took that tone with Dean (except for that one time when Dean accidentally hit the curb on a get-away but they don’t talk about it), “You said you were over that phase.”
“I am.” Dean defended, “Samantha apparently isn’t.” Dean- who probably would have been happier with no one knowing he ever even owned a Blondie tape- turned to his brother, whose head was back in his book, “Hey bitch.”
“What jerk?” Sam said, but didn’t glance up. As it turned out, this would be a mistake.
Dean was getting ready to reach over to deliver some sense through a good natured smack when, to the surprise of both brothers, the back of Sam’s seat dropped. Before Sam could flail at the sudden lack of a back rest the seat slammed forward hard enough for there to be a loud ‘smack.’ “Hey! What was that for?”
Sam wasn’t actually hurt, only surprised, and Dean loved his car just a little bit more than he did before. If that was even possible. “Pay attention Sammy.” The Impala warned, “You broke the rule.”
Sam, still rubbing the back of his neck, appeared to be confused. “The rule?”
Dean glared, because there was no way Mr-I-Went-To-Stanford-On-A-Free-Ride didn’t remember the rule, “Yeah. The rule, dumbass. Driver chooses the music; shotgun shuts his cake hole. I asked for Zeppelin and you gave me Blondie.”
Completely ignoring Dean’s righteous tirade, more than likely because it would annoy his brother, Sam raised an eyebrow, “You have a Blondie tape?”
The Impala laughed, “He had more at one point. It seemed every time I ate one he had another. I was spiting tape for weeks.”
Dean growled and clenched the steering wheel while pretending his ears weren’t red, “Can we get off what tapes I owned and back to the fact Sam broke the rule?”
“Dean.” Sam began when Dean really, really didn’t want him to, “Does that rule even work when the car can pick its own music?”
There was a stunned silence for a moment in the car. Only the radio’s static filled the void because, damnit, Sam had a point. “You know, I never thought of it that way.” The Impala said finally, but it didn’t say anything else. So the silence came back. It was the kind of silence only Winchesters could make: the kind of silence that accompanied the fall of a stone monument after dynamite had gone off at its base.
A mile disappeared under the Impala’s tires. Finally the car said, “I like Dean’s music.”
“Sure,” Sam said, “but isn’t there some music you want to listen to?”
“Sammy, did I stutter when I said I liked Dean’s music?”
“No, but you still should have some say in what’s played.”
Joan Jett scoffed, “Who says I don’t? Haven’t you noticed? Your choices always get eaten.”
“Alright!” Dean cut in with a glare before Sam could say anything further- that lawyer business was nearly as far behind as Dean had hoped it was, “Sam, stop harassing my car because she likes the classics.”
“Yeah Sammy! Zeppelin forever!”
Dean smiled faintly at the declaration, “Thatta girl.”
“So what?” Sam said, book completely forgotten on the dash by this point, “The driver chooses the music, shotgun shuts his mouth and the car has veto power?”
Dean gave the thought the three seconds it deserved, “Sounds about right.
The radio piped up, “Works for me.”
“Two to one, Sam. The rule stands. Now hand me Zeppelin.”