SPN Fic: Play It Once, For Old Times' Sake
Title: Play It Once, For Old Times' Sake
Author: deirdre_c
Rating/Pairing: PG-13, Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Author's Note: A story in ten drabbles written for random prompts given by my fabulous flist. Many, many thanks go to krisomniac for her always extraordinarily wonderful beta work. Title taken from a line in Casablanca.
Word Count: Exactly 1000 words.
Summary: They share so many things; this is just one more.
***
He can’t remember the first time he heard the song. He hopes it was Mom singing it to him, but he can't lie to himself, he has no memories from that time.
He does remember standing on Dean’s feet. They were pressed together tightly, Dean’s hands on his elbows, his hands clutching at Dean’s soft sleeves. Dad was in the background, laughing and singing at the same time and turning the music up louder while they hobbled around the motel room.
He looked up, up, up into Dean’s grin. “We’re dancing, Sammy!”
Step after step. Dean never lets him fall.
***
“He’s too young, Dad.”
“He’ll be fine. We need someone to lure out the spirit and I’m not using any of those other kids as bait.”
“But you’ll use Sam?”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Dean.”
“Sir.”
“Take a position behind that row of seats.”
“Yessir.”
Sam is the first contestant, just like Dad arranged. If the ghost’s going to attack again, it’ll be now, right at the start of the talent show. Sam shuffles out, tiny up on the stage, white fingers gripping the mike.
Of course Sam chooses that song. He sings along under his breath, an incantation against harm.
***
Stupid Dad and his stupid fucking drills. Five mile run and-- hey! just for kicks!- at the farthest point out is a pile of weapon parts to assemble and haul back. Not home in twenty minutes? It’s pushups ‘til dusk.
His hands are shaking and the goddamn parts won’t fit and it feels like he’s in that I Love Lucy episode with every shitty thing in the universe flying down the conveyor belt.
He’s about to take this magazine clip and heave it into the woods, when he hears Dean humming softly. He catches the rhythm and suddenly they’re finished.
***
Sammy sprints down the walk and dives into the passenger seat. Hair that probably saw an hour of girlish primping is already a wild mess. He wants to pet it down like Sam’s still little, not off on a hot date.
Red-cheeked, all sorry, sorry, let’s go, Sam points urgently for him to crank the ignition.
Instead he dangles the keys. “Why not take her yourself?”
In the stunned silence he pops in a special mix tape. “Can’t let you play any of your ‘Echo and the Dead Milkmen-Kennedys’ shit neither.”
He watches the Impala pull away, the sound of their song fading.
***
Nine o’clock. His homework’s done and Dean’s out hunting with Dad until Friday.
He wanders into Dean’s room, fingertips brushing lightly everywhere. That mix tape Dean made him last year's in the tapedeck, so he hits play and settles onto the unmade bed, reaching under the mattress where Dean unimaginatively stashes his porn.
It’s not Playboy or Swank though, but some weird shit with guys, guys getting each other off, and he can’t stop looking. Heart jackrabbiting, he unzips and thrusts furiously into his fist. His groans mingle with the song as he comes with Dean’s scent all around him.
***
Another trip through Palo Alto and he’s slouched in the darkest corner of a punk-ass club, watching as someone slips something into Sam’s drink.
He should probably rush over and stop this, but Sam doesn’t know he’s here, doesn’t want him here. He tells himself he’ll intervene if things go south.
Sam’s flying high on the crowded, black-lit dance floor, loose limbs and hips, skin purple, teeth bright-white. The song’s remixed and synthed-out almost beyond recognition, but he’d know it anywhere.
Sam pulls some guy flush against him, grinding their hips together. Dean licks his lips and watches Sam glow.
***
Two months back and it’s like Stanford and Jess, god Jess, never existed.
He’s listening to his iPod, one earbud in while Dean works under the hood.
“Told you I could fix the alternator belt!”
He stays put, because he knows nothing about alternators. And because, he thinks, watching the long muscles in Dean’s thighs tighten and push as he jerry-rigs the car, maybe they need some… distance.
“What the hell are you doing with pantyhose anyway?”
Dean’s smirk is audible. “Hey! Gotta be prepared for something to ‘blow’…”
His gut burns and that song comes on. He punches skip.
***
“I feel like an idiot.”
Sam slips him carefully out of his jeans. “Because you are an idiot.”
“Dude! My rock meter was maxed!”
“How do you even know what that means?”
“Pure genius.”
“Genius kills a blackdog unscathed, then slips playing Ash’s Guitar Hero.” Sam drapes the icepack over his cantaloupe knee. "Spaz."
“Y'know you love me.” Same old quip, but it catches in Dean's throat. Cool fingertips rest high on his thigh.
He shivers, flushes. Sam snatches his hand back and looks elsewhere.
“Know what I really love? That song you were playing.”
“Yeah," he mutters. "Me, too.”
***
He finally tracks Dean down. “The fuck?”
“Since this thing’s preying on local rentboys, I thought I’d do some reconnaissance.”
“Without backup?”
Dean’s shrug pulls his t-shirt tighter.
A car slides up. Dean smirks, turns to lean on the guy’s window, ass in the air. Stumbles back as the familiar song on the stereo registers.
He slings an arm around Dean to keep him from falling.
The john leers. “You two ever work together?”
Dean doesn’t move away, gazes up, mouth red and wet. “I dunno. Do we?”
He doesn’t think, just leans in, tastes mint and bitterness and yes.
***
Dean rattles the doorknob for the hundredth time, peers through the spyhole at the empty parking lot. “Try the office again.”
Sam’s surfing through channels and doesn’t look over. Hasn’t looked at him since… since.
Now they’re trapped. Lock’s jammed, no amount of precision tinkering or shoulder-force will crack it. That damn song comes on some show. Half a second later, Sam leaps up, clicks it off. Too late. The notes echo in the stillness.
Fuck it. Fuck it! Three strides and his hands are under Sam’s shirt, shoving him back onto the bed.
Step after step. Together they fall.
***
Author’s Notes:
Here are the prompts I was given for each drabble…
1) missyjack: feet
2) eloise_bright: singing competition
3) neeuqdrazil: I Love Lucy chocolate factory
4) cathybites: "Bitchin' Camaro"
5) lazy_daze: porn mags
6) stormcloude : glow in the dark
7) brynwulf: use of pantyhose for other than original purpose
8) tsuki_no_bara: Guitar Hero
9) balefully: hookers
10) katjad: getting locked in a hotel room without any lock-picking supplies. First-time, if you can wrangle it.
Thanks for playing, everyone!! ♥
Author: deirdre_c
Rating/Pairing: PG-13, Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Author's Note: A story in ten drabbles written for random prompts given by my fabulous flist. Many, many thanks go to krisomniac for her always extraordinarily wonderful beta work. Title taken from a line in Casablanca.
Word Count: Exactly 1000 words.
Summary: They share so many things; this is just one more.
***
He can’t remember the first time he heard the song. He hopes it was Mom singing it to him, but he can't lie to himself, he has no memories from that time.
He does remember standing on Dean’s feet. They were pressed together tightly, Dean’s hands on his elbows, his hands clutching at Dean’s soft sleeves. Dad was in the background, laughing and singing at the same time and turning the music up louder while they hobbled around the motel room.
He looked up, up, up into Dean’s grin. “We’re dancing, Sammy!”
Step after step. Dean never lets him fall.
***
“He’s too young, Dad.”
“He’ll be fine. We need someone to lure out the spirit and I’m not using any of those other kids as bait.”
“But you’ll use Sam?”
Dad’s eyes narrow. “Dean.”
“Sir.”
“Take a position behind that row of seats.”
“Yessir.”
Sam is the first contestant, just like Dad arranged. If the ghost’s going to attack again, it’ll be now, right at the start of the talent show. Sam shuffles out, tiny up on the stage, white fingers gripping the mike.
Of course Sam chooses that song. He sings along under his breath, an incantation against harm.
***
Stupid Dad and his stupid fucking drills. Five mile run and-- hey! just for kicks!- at the farthest point out is a pile of weapon parts to assemble and haul back. Not home in twenty minutes? It’s pushups ‘til dusk.
His hands are shaking and the goddamn parts won’t fit and it feels like he’s in that I Love Lucy episode with every shitty thing in the universe flying down the conveyor belt.
He’s about to take this magazine clip and heave it into the woods, when he hears Dean humming softly. He catches the rhythm and suddenly they’re finished.
***
Sammy sprints down the walk and dives into the passenger seat. Hair that probably saw an hour of girlish primping is already a wild mess. He wants to pet it down like Sam’s still little, not off on a hot date.
Red-cheeked, all sorry, sorry, let’s go, Sam points urgently for him to crank the ignition.
Instead he dangles the keys. “Why not take her yourself?”
In the stunned silence he pops in a special mix tape. “Can’t let you play any of your ‘Echo and the Dead Milkmen-Kennedys’ shit neither.”
He watches the Impala pull away, the sound of their song fading.
***
Nine o’clock. His homework’s done and Dean’s out hunting with Dad until Friday.
He wanders into Dean’s room, fingertips brushing lightly everywhere. That mix tape Dean made him last year's in the tapedeck, so he hits play and settles onto the unmade bed, reaching under the mattress where Dean unimaginatively stashes his porn.
It’s not Playboy or Swank though, but some weird shit with guys, guys getting each other off, and he can’t stop looking. Heart jackrabbiting, he unzips and thrusts furiously into his fist. His groans mingle with the song as he comes with Dean’s scent all around him.
***
Another trip through Palo Alto and he’s slouched in the darkest corner of a punk-ass club, watching as someone slips something into Sam’s drink.
He should probably rush over and stop this, but Sam doesn’t know he’s here, doesn’t want him here. He tells himself he’ll intervene if things go south.
Sam’s flying high on the crowded, black-lit dance floor, loose limbs and hips, skin purple, teeth bright-white. The song’s remixed and synthed-out almost beyond recognition, but he’d know it anywhere.
Sam pulls some guy flush against him, grinding their hips together. Dean licks his lips and watches Sam glow.
***
Two months back and it’s like Stanford and Jess, god Jess, never existed.
He’s listening to his iPod, one earbud in while Dean works under the hood.
“Told you I could fix the alternator belt!”
He stays put, because he knows nothing about alternators. And because, he thinks, watching the long muscles in Dean’s thighs tighten and push as he jerry-rigs the car, maybe they need some… distance.
“What the hell are you doing with pantyhose anyway?”
Dean’s smirk is audible. “Hey! Gotta be prepared for something to ‘blow’…”
His gut burns and that song comes on. He punches skip.
***
“I feel like an idiot.”
Sam slips him carefully out of his jeans. “Because you are an idiot.”
“Dude! My rock meter was maxed!”
“How do you even know what that means?”
“Pure genius.”
“Genius kills a blackdog unscathed, then slips playing Ash’s Guitar Hero.” Sam drapes the icepack over his cantaloupe knee. "Spaz."
“Y'know you love me.” Same old quip, but it catches in Dean's throat. Cool fingertips rest high on his thigh.
He shivers, flushes. Sam snatches his hand back and looks elsewhere.
“Know what I really love? That song you were playing.”
“Yeah," he mutters. "Me, too.”
***
He finally tracks Dean down. “The fuck?”
“Since this thing’s preying on local rentboys, I thought I’d do some reconnaissance.”
“Without backup?”
Dean’s shrug pulls his t-shirt tighter.
A car slides up. Dean smirks, turns to lean on the guy’s window, ass in the air. Stumbles back as the familiar song on the stereo registers.
He slings an arm around Dean to keep him from falling.
The john leers. “You two ever work together?”
Dean doesn’t move away, gazes up, mouth red and wet. “I dunno. Do we?”
He doesn’t think, just leans in, tastes mint and bitterness and yes.
***
Dean rattles the doorknob for the hundredth time, peers through the spyhole at the empty parking lot. “Try the office again.”
Sam’s surfing through channels and doesn’t look over. Hasn’t looked at him since… since.
Now they’re trapped. Lock’s jammed, no amount of precision tinkering or shoulder-force will crack it. That damn song comes on some show. Half a second later, Sam leaps up, clicks it off. Too late. The notes echo in the stillness.
Fuck it. Fuck it! Three strides and his hands are under Sam’s shirt, shoving him back onto the bed.
Step after step. Together they fall.
***
Author’s Notes:
Here are the prompts I was given for each drabble…
1) missyjack: feet
2) eloise_bright: singing competition
3) neeuqdrazil: I Love Lucy chocolate factory
4) cathybites: "Bitchin' Camaro"
5) lazy_daze: porn mags
6) stormcloude : glow in the dark
7) brynwulf: use of pantyhose for other than original purpose
8) tsuki_no_bara: Guitar Hero
9) balefully: hookers
10) katjad: getting locked in a hotel room without any lock-picking supplies. First-time, if you can wrangle it.
Thanks for playing, everyone!! ♥