SPN FIC - I Can Hear Music
There's a song written back when I was a kid that became a favorite of mine in 1985. I thought of it this morning -- took a minute to pull the lyrics back into my head -- and this grew out of it. Thanks, Ellie and Jeff, for some good times, and for the inspiration.
I can hear music
Sweet, sweet music
Whenever you touch me, baby
Whenever you're near
-- Ellie Greenwich/Jeff Barry
CHARACTERS: John, Dean (age 5), Sam (age 1)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
I CAN HEAR MUSIC
By Carol Davis
"Son of a BITCH!"
The noise is all around him, and it's huge, tinny and distorted and freaking HUGE, nothing you could think of as music. All John can think of is that he wants it gone, because it's jolted him out of the first bit of restful sleep he's had in three days.
Now sitting bolt upright, eyes blown wide, he searches the room, shifting a head that's consumed by a monstrous, throbbing pain. TV, he thinks, because Sam's grown fond of seizing the remote, jamming his fat little hand against the buttons. It's fun to make the magic picture box turn on and off. Yeah, yeah, partly John's own fault. He likes hearing his child laugh. Likes seeing his child - both his children - look surprised and happy.
But the TV's off, dark and silent, and Sam's sitting goggle-eyed in the porta-crib.
Dean, then?
Yes. Dean.
Over there on the floor by the crib, fumbling with something.
"Dean."
Then, louder, to make himself heard over the din: "DEAN."
As abruptly as it started, the music stops. Whatever it is that Dean's holding, it was the source of the noise. Grimacing at the pain in his head, John hauls himself off the bed and stumbles across the room, reaching down to take custody of the thing. He can't imagine what it is, what could possibly create that much sound; the kids don't have many toys, and only a couple of them make any sound at all. There's a small truck with a motor, a rubber bath toy with a squeaker.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean murmurs.
The thing fits in the palm of John's hand. He's still rattled enough that for a moment it's not familiar at all.
Then it is.
"Where did you get this?" he grinds out.
"In the car."
"This was in the car?"
Dean's small, blondish head nods, but that can't be right. This could not have been in the car. They've pulled every last thing out of the car at least twice, every last toy soldier and soda can pull-tab and mummified French fry, so there'll be nothing Sam can seize and jam into his mouth, nothing that could choke or suffocate him.
"Under the seat?" Dean ventures.
Under the seat.
John sinks down onto the end of the bed, holding the thing in both hands, pain ricocheting between his temples, exhausted and hungry, limbs going rubbery as the adrenaline bleeds back out of them.
Yes.
She always stashed it under the seat.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean says again, and when John looks down at him, his small face is a mask of guilt and sorrow and the wish to undo these last few minutes, to make things right - but there's no way to do that, is there?
No way to undo this nest of shit they've found themselves in.
"Come here," John says.
Dean hesitates for a moment, then shifts up to his feet and walks the short distance to the bed. Clearly, he expects to be scolded, but John shakes his head and curls an arm, gestures for Dean to come and sit beside him. He does, but there's no snuggling involved; he sits ramrod-straight, fisted hands resting on his small thighs, his attention now locked on the thing in John's hands.
Blue and white.
Mary's transistor radio.
"Did I break it?" Dean asks.
"Doubtful."
The boy's voice is soft, hushed, and as he's done a thousand times in the past six months John wishes there were a little black wheel embedded alongside Dean's ear, something he could use to crank the volume, to boost Dean's voice back to what it was before, when his son would laugh and sing and shriek in simple glee. Yes, he should be grateful that Dean's talking at all (and he is); for a good couple of months Dean said nothing at all, would communicate only with gestures, most of them a nod or a shake of his head.
Most of them just an expression of terrible, endless woe.
"Do you know what this is?" John asks, wobbling the radio.
The small head turns, side to side. No.
He remembers her dropping into the shotgun seat, ponytail bobbing, left hand wrapped around this radio. It was a Christmas gift from her parents, something that was her constant companion one summer, stashed underneath the car seat for safekeeping because she seldom carried a purse and it wouldn't fit into the pockets of her jeans.
Jesus, she was so young then.
They both were.
Finding the volume control takes a little scrutiny. Dean watches, frowning, as John thumbs the wheel down to a reasonable level, then clicks the radio back on and rolls the dial in search of something good.
Must've been caught on something underneath the seat, John figures, caught under there deep enough that he didn't see it during those searches for broken bits of things and loose change and anything, anything that could harm the baby.
Ads for tires and Pepsi and a library fair.
Someone yapping about potholes.
Joni Mitchell. "What's the matter with that lady?" Dean whispers. "She's all screechy," and John smiles.
There's some Creedence, some Elton, Neil Diamond, Lionel Richie, Pat Benatar, Michael Jackson.
From the porta-crib, Sam is watching them, head cocked, tiny fingers threaded through the webbing.
Finally, there's some Zeppelin.
But that's wrong. Mary was never keen on the good stuff, would wrinkle her nose when he'd let go of the tuning knob on the car radio and settle back into the driver's seat, nodding at a good, rattling guitar riff.
He can see her there, in his mind's eye, wind ruffling the strands of blonde hair that escaped from her ponytail, riding shotgun with this blue-and-white radio in her hand.
Eyes half-closed, he thumbs the dial back to Neil Diamond.
Listens, just for a minute, to a singer he's never liked crooning the words Hello again, hello, as he wraps his arm around his son and holds him close.
* * * * *
I can hear music
Sweet, sweet music
Whenever you touch me, baby
Whenever you're near
-- Ellie Greenwich/Jeff Barry
CHARACTERS: John, Dean (age 5), Sam (age 1)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
I CAN HEAR MUSIC
By Carol Davis
"Son of a BITCH!"
The noise is all around him, and it's huge, tinny and distorted and freaking HUGE, nothing you could think of as music. All John can think of is that he wants it gone, because it's jolted him out of the first bit of restful sleep he's had in three days.
Now sitting bolt upright, eyes blown wide, he searches the room, shifting a head that's consumed by a monstrous, throbbing pain. TV, he thinks, because Sam's grown fond of seizing the remote, jamming his fat little hand against the buttons. It's fun to make the magic picture box turn on and off. Yeah, yeah, partly John's own fault. He likes hearing his child laugh. Likes seeing his child - both his children - look surprised and happy.
But the TV's off, dark and silent, and Sam's sitting goggle-eyed in the porta-crib.
Dean, then?
Yes. Dean.
Over there on the floor by the crib, fumbling with something.
"Dean."
Then, louder, to make himself heard over the din: "DEAN."
As abruptly as it started, the music stops. Whatever it is that Dean's holding, it was the source of the noise. Grimacing at the pain in his head, John hauls himself off the bed and stumbles across the room, reaching down to take custody of the thing. He can't imagine what it is, what could possibly create that much sound; the kids don't have many toys, and only a couple of them make any sound at all. There's a small truck with a motor, a rubber bath toy with a squeaker.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean murmurs.
The thing fits in the palm of John's hand. He's still rattled enough that for a moment it's not familiar at all.
Then it is.
"Where did you get this?" he grinds out.
"In the car."
"This was in the car?"
Dean's small, blondish head nods, but that can't be right. This could not have been in the car. They've pulled every last thing out of the car at least twice, every last toy soldier and soda can pull-tab and mummified French fry, so there'll be nothing Sam can seize and jam into his mouth, nothing that could choke or suffocate him.
"Under the seat?" Dean ventures.
Under the seat.
John sinks down onto the end of the bed, holding the thing in both hands, pain ricocheting between his temples, exhausted and hungry, limbs going rubbery as the adrenaline bleeds back out of them.
Yes.
She always stashed it under the seat.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean says again, and when John looks down at him, his small face is a mask of guilt and sorrow and the wish to undo these last few minutes, to make things right - but there's no way to do that, is there?
No way to undo this nest of shit they've found themselves in.
"Come here," John says.
Dean hesitates for a moment, then shifts up to his feet and walks the short distance to the bed. Clearly, he expects to be scolded, but John shakes his head and curls an arm, gestures for Dean to come and sit beside him. He does, but there's no snuggling involved; he sits ramrod-straight, fisted hands resting on his small thighs, his attention now locked on the thing in John's hands.
Blue and white.
Mary's transistor radio.
"Did I break it?" Dean asks.
"Doubtful."
The boy's voice is soft, hushed, and as he's done a thousand times in the past six months John wishes there were a little black wheel embedded alongside Dean's ear, something he could use to crank the volume, to boost Dean's voice back to what it was before, when his son would laugh and sing and shriek in simple glee. Yes, he should be grateful that Dean's talking at all (and he is); for a good couple of months Dean said nothing at all, would communicate only with gestures, most of them a nod or a shake of his head.
Most of them just an expression of terrible, endless woe.
"Do you know what this is?" John asks, wobbling the radio.
The small head turns, side to side. No.
He remembers her dropping into the shotgun seat, ponytail bobbing, left hand wrapped around this radio. It was a Christmas gift from her parents, something that was her constant companion one summer, stashed underneath the car seat for safekeeping because she seldom carried a purse and it wouldn't fit into the pockets of her jeans.
Jesus, she was so young then.
They both were.
Finding the volume control takes a little scrutiny. Dean watches, frowning, as John thumbs the wheel down to a reasonable level, then clicks the radio back on and rolls the dial in search of something good.
Must've been caught on something underneath the seat, John figures, caught under there deep enough that he didn't see it during those searches for broken bits of things and loose change and anything, anything that could harm the baby.
Ads for tires and Pepsi and a library fair.
Someone yapping about potholes.
Joni Mitchell. "What's the matter with that lady?" Dean whispers. "She's all screechy," and John smiles.
There's some Creedence, some Elton, Neil Diamond, Lionel Richie, Pat Benatar, Michael Jackson.
From the porta-crib, Sam is watching them, head cocked, tiny fingers threaded through the webbing.
Finally, there's some Zeppelin.
But that's wrong. Mary was never keen on the good stuff, would wrinkle her nose when he'd let go of the tuning knob on the car radio and settle back into the driver's seat, nodding at a good, rattling guitar riff.
He can see her there, in his mind's eye, wind ruffling the strands of blonde hair that escaped from her ponytail, riding shotgun with this blue-and-white radio in her hand.
Eyes half-closed, he thumbs the dial back to Neil Diamond.
Listens, just for a minute, to a singer he's never liked crooning the words Hello again, hello, as he wraps his arm around his son and holds him close.
* * * * *