Fic: Supernatural
This week I totally lost three pounds and gave myself bleeding ulcers. (Don't ask me how I know.) I woke up this morning at six thirty and drank half a bottle of pepto--small consolation being that I can no longer think pepto without thinking of Sam and Dean for various fanfiction reasons--and then I lay around groaning like an unhappy, speared elephant until I fell asleep again on the bathroom floor.
Good times!
Last night, however, sevenfists forced me to write this short little genfic in which Sam likes Andrew Lloyd Webber, Dean reveals his vast knowledge of the great Broadway musical, and there's some down time. I'm always fascinated by what the boys do when there isn't anything but time to kill, so here goes nothing but midnight madness.
Tone Deaf
gen. ~1600 words. blame sevenfists.
The only musical Sam knows anything about is Cats. “Dude,” Dean says, “Andrew Lloyd Webber is a fucking hack. Are you kidding me?”
“Thanks, Mr. Knows Everything About The Great Broadway Musical,” Sam says, throwing popcorn at Dean’s head; Dean swerves and ducks. It’s been a long ride, a lot of swerving and ducking, but it’s going to be a longer ride before it’s through. “I took a class on that, you jerk.”
“Yeah, well, everyone knows you’re tone deaf, Sammy.”
“Just because I don’t think ‘Enter Sandman’ is the ‘rockingest song ever’-”
“Which it is-”
“Which it is not-doesn't mean I’m tone deaf.”
“Whatever. Andrew Fucking Lloyd Webber,” Dean says, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Who the hell are you. Jesus Christ.”
*
In Cape Cod they stop at the Christmas Tree Shop to buy some towels with Harry Potter characters on them because the last spares they had kinda got set on fire.
“Harry Potter,” Sam says.
“They’re two freakin’ dollars,” Dean says. “You want to pay for ones that have flowers on them or come in pastels, then we can talk. Otherwise? Just shut up and get the wax.”
While Sam’s getting the wax-it’s a long story-Dean fishes through the cassette bin and picks up a few things, since after all one of the perks of being an older brother is getting to be an educator. He hides them in the Harry Potter towels.
His life is pretty freaking amazing, he’ll give it that.
*
“I don’t know,” Sam says, somewhere between Cape Cod and Rhode Island. “I think playing ‘Guys and Dolls’ kind of goes against the whole ‘rockingest’ thing you’ve got going.”
“Sky Masterson is a fucking gangster,” Dean says. “Now shut up and take some notes.”
*
In Greenwich, Connecticut-in the middle of this stretch of land where all the houses are trying to outdo one another in terms of how ridiculous they can possibly get-Dean plays ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ eighteen and a half times, when the EMF reader suddenly goes off.
Dean slams on the breaks and they pull over next to this giant Rolls-Royce of a gateway.
“I think it doesn’t like your music,” Sam says.
“Tone deaf,” Dean says.
He gets out of the car, tunes the thing, hums a couple of lines of ‘When You’re a Jet’-just to make sure he and the EMF are on the same wavelength here-and heads back to where it first went off a couple of feet behind them.
“So?” Sam asks.
“Something’s happening in that house,” Dean says, jerking his thumb towards the monstrosity. It’s got columns. Dean isn’t too surprised.
“Yeah, I bet,” Sam says. “What do we do?”
“Wait until night, I guess. Climb the fence. See what’s up.”
Sam gives him a cocky, one-eyebrow-raised kind of look. “What, no whipping out the priest suits?”
“Nah,” Dean says. “I’ve got Les Miz.”
“Les Miz isn’t that bad,” Sam says. “I wrote a paper on it.”
“Les Miz is a piece of crap,” Dean says. “Except for that song about angry men.”
“Oh my God,” Sam says. “Now you’re just doing it to piss me off.”
“Doing what?”
“Doing-disagreeing with me all the time.”
Dean fishes through the Harry Potter towels, getting tangled for a moment in Hermione Granger’s face, before he finds what he’s looking for. “Oh yeah,” he says.
“Oh my God,” Sam says again.
*
Apparently ‘Make ‘em Laugh’ doesn’t make Sam laugh.
*
“Hey,” Sam says, sometime between five and five thirty, while Dean’s eating salt and pepper potato chips.
Dean grunts. “Yeah?”
“Nothing,” Sam says, but he’s totally full of it. He turns to look out the window, pursing his lips and squinting into the distance: maybe up at the house, maybe out into the leaves, maybe at something Dean can’t see at all. Whatever, Dean thinks. Sam’s always looking at things.
Dean does nothing, licks the salt off his fingers.
Waits for it.
“I mean,” Sam says, and now they’re off, “where the hell do you know this stuff from?”
Dean’s in the middle of chewing when he answers. “I know everything,” he says, around his mouthful of half-eaten potato chips.
The problem with potato chips is that they always get stuck between your molars. Dean digs deep into the back, freeing a wad and swallowing it.
Yum.
“No, seriously,” Sam says, in prime Sam form.
“I watch a lot of TV,” Dean says. “Seriously, Sammy, cable has everything. I saw this doctor put breast implants into some chick once-”
“But musicals,” Sam says.
They stare at each other for a while.
Finally, Dean caves. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sam says, and sighs like the whole world’s ganging up on him. Which it isn’t. ‘Cause Dean’s around.
“OK,” Dean says. “I’m just saying, they don’t make ‘em like Cyd Charisse anymore. That’s all.”
Sam just stares.
“I’m not kidding,” Dean says. “Legs up to her fucking neck.”
“Uh, OK,” says Sam.
*
Security in Greenwich, Connecticut is pretty tight.
*
“Jesus Christ, Sammy, would you stop that shit,” Dean says. He’s bleeding all over Ron Weasley’s face this time while Sam works the tweezers in, flashlight in his mouth, rubbing alcohol in his free hand.
“No,” Sam says, relentless, digging away like the Comstock Lode is hidden somewhere in Dean’s bicep. “Don’t call me Sammy when I’ve got freaking tweezers jammed inside your freaking arm. I have to get the bullet out. Hold still.”
“I can’t believe that little bitch shot me,” Dean says.
“We were sort of trespassing,” Sam points out.
“Dude. We’re always trespassing,” Dean says.
“Well, then we sucked at it this time,” Sam says.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Man, I fucking hate rich people.”
*
Sam’s a heartless bastard, and he plays the Les Miz tape all. Night. Long.
“I actually hate you,” Dean says.
“This touches me,” Sam says. “Deep inside. You can take another two painkillers now.”
“Just knock me over the head with a two-by-four,” Dean says. “Seriously. Sammy. I’m serious.”
*
Whatever the EMF’s picking up on is coming from the basement. Once Dean’s had about half a bottle of percogesic they head on back to check it out, making sure not to trip the periphery alarm system this time, and Sam has a hell of a field day telling Dean as they get closer that the freaking Phantom of the Opera is nigh.
“Seriously, tone deaf,” Dean says. “You and falsetto, it’s not working out for me.”
“I wonder if the Phantom is down there right now,” Sam says.
“If you get shot this time,” Dean says, “I’m letting that bullet stay in there.”
“Chicken,” Sam says.
“Pussy.”
“Sky Masterson.”
“Grizabella.”
“How the hell do you even know that?” Sam asks. “Seriously, that’s insane. You need a hobby.”
“TV is a hobby,” Dean says. “Seriously, you need to shut up.”
*
When they don’t have anything real to do-when they’re just killing time and, apparently, picking up rogue wireless signals from the basement of some rich asshole’s house in the middle of Greenwich, Connecticut-they do crazy things and act like they’re both five years old and get on each other’s nerves and get under each other’s skin.
When Dean was ten and Sam was six they dealt with it by getting into fights and playing I Spy and the license plate game and flicking boogers at each other.
Not much has changed.
Sam changes the bandage on Dean’s arm with a look of tight concentration, his hair getting too long in the front, getting in the way. Dean doesn’t brush it back out of his eyes and Sam doesn’t seem to notice it, big hands moving real slow over the bandage.
“So, if it’s real bad,” Dean says, “we’re gonna listen to Meet Me In St. Louis on the road out, right?”
“Tough luck,” Sam says. “You’re healing up pretty nice.”
“If you make me listen to Les Miz one more time,” Dean warns.
“Whatever,” Sam says. “You have a thing for Judy Garland. I get it. It’s creepy, it’s weird, it’s totally not the strangest thing you’ve ever done.”
“Sam,” Dean says.
There’s a moment when this could go either way, when Dean could say ‘I accept the fact that you’re out of your mind and like Andrew Lloyd Webber and don’t grasp the musical genius that is Metallica. And that’s OK, because you’re my brother and you dig bullets out of my arm and I love you.’
Or Dean could flick a booger at him.
“Yeah?” Sam asks.
That moment is totally gone.
“Zing, zing, zing went my heart-strings,” Dean says. “Now get your ass packed.”
“I would be already if I weren’t changing your freaking bandages ‘cause you got shot by some fifteen year old trust-fund girl,” Sam says.
“Grizabella,” Dean says.
“Shut up,” says Sam.
*
“Hey,” Sam says, driving to give Dean’s arm a rest. “Does this mean we can listen to, I don’t know, some other music sometimes?”
“I’m not listening to lesbian rock,” Dean says.
“The Dixie Chicks,” Sam begins, “are lyrically and harmonically-”
“-lesbian rock,” Dean finishes. “Dykes with mics. Don’t make me pull this car over.”
Sam purses his lips. “Dude. I’m driving,” he says.
*
Sometime before Florida, Dean catches Sam humming along to Bali Hai. He regrets it afterwards when his arm feels like it’s on fire, but he does an air-drum solo of triumph.
“Judy Garland,” Sam says. “Man, it’s like I don’t even know you.”
“Whatever,” Dean says. “Apparently you have a fetish for chicks with whiskers.”
Sam throws popcorn at his head and Dean swerves and ducks. It’s gonna be a long ride.
“Sky Masterson,” Sam says under his breath.
Dean grins and merges lanes. “Dude,” he says. “Cosette.”
Now I need to go convince myself not to write Supernatural fic in which Alcibiades shows up.
Man it's weird being blocked.
Good times!
Last night, however, sevenfists forced me to write this short little genfic in which Sam likes Andrew Lloyd Webber, Dean reveals his vast knowledge of the great Broadway musical, and there's some down time. I'm always fascinated by what the boys do when there isn't anything but time to kill, so here goes nothing but midnight madness.
Tone Deaf
gen. ~1600 words. blame sevenfists.
The only musical Sam knows anything about is Cats. “Dude,” Dean says, “Andrew Lloyd Webber is a fucking hack. Are you kidding me?”
“Thanks, Mr. Knows Everything About The Great Broadway Musical,” Sam says, throwing popcorn at Dean’s head; Dean swerves and ducks. It’s been a long ride, a lot of swerving and ducking, but it’s going to be a longer ride before it’s through. “I took a class on that, you jerk.”
“Yeah, well, everyone knows you’re tone deaf, Sammy.”
“Just because I don’t think ‘Enter Sandman’ is the ‘rockingest song ever’-”
“Which it is-”
“Which it is not-doesn't mean I’m tone deaf.”
“Whatever. Andrew Fucking Lloyd Webber,” Dean says, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Who the hell are you. Jesus Christ.”
*
In Cape Cod they stop at the Christmas Tree Shop to buy some towels with Harry Potter characters on them because the last spares they had kinda got set on fire.
“Harry Potter,” Sam says.
“They’re two freakin’ dollars,” Dean says. “You want to pay for ones that have flowers on them or come in pastels, then we can talk. Otherwise? Just shut up and get the wax.”
While Sam’s getting the wax-it’s a long story-Dean fishes through the cassette bin and picks up a few things, since after all one of the perks of being an older brother is getting to be an educator. He hides them in the Harry Potter towels.
His life is pretty freaking amazing, he’ll give it that.
*
“I don’t know,” Sam says, somewhere between Cape Cod and Rhode Island. “I think playing ‘Guys and Dolls’ kind of goes against the whole ‘rockingest’ thing you’ve got going.”
“Sky Masterson is a fucking gangster,” Dean says. “Now shut up and take some notes.”
*
In Greenwich, Connecticut-in the middle of this stretch of land where all the houses are trying to outdo one another in terms of how ridiculous they can possibly get-Dean plays ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ eighteen and a half times, when the EMF reader suddenly goes off.
Dean slams on the breaks and they pull over next to this giant Rolls-Royce of a gateway.
“I think it doesn’t like your music,” Sam says.
“Tone deaf,” Dean says.
He gets out of the car, tunes the thing, hums a couple of lines of ‘When You’re a Jet’-just to make sure he and the EMF are on the same wavelength here-and heads back to where it first went off a couple of feet behind them.
“So?” Sam asks.
“Something’s happening in that house,” Dean says, jerking his thumb towards the monstrosity. It’s got columns. Dean isn’t too surprised.
“Yeah, I bet,” Sam says. “What do we do?”
“Wait until night, I guess. Climb the fence. See what’s up.”
Sam gives him a cocky, one-eyebrow-raised kind of look. “What, no whipping out the priest suits?”
“Nah,” Dean says. “I’ve got Les Miz.”
“Les Miz isn’t that bad,” Sam says. “I wrote a paper on it.”
“Les Miz is a piece of crap,” Dean says. “Except for that song about angry men.”
“Oh my God,” Sam says. “Now you’re just doing it to piss me off.”
“Doing what?”
“Doing-disagreeing with me all the time.”
Dean fishes through the Harry Potter towels, getting tangled for a moment in Hermione Granger’s face, before he finds what he’s looking for. “Oh yeah,” he says.
“Oh my God,” Sam says again.
*
Apparently ‘Make ‘em Laugh’ doesn’t make Sam laugh.
*
“Hey,” Sam says, sometime between five and five thirty, while Dean’s eating salt and pepper potato chips.
Dean grunts. “Yeah?”
“Nothing,” Sam says, but he’s totally full of it. He turns to look out the window, pursing his lips and squinting into the distance: maybe up at the house, maybe out into the leaves, maybe at something Dean can’t see at all. Whatever, Dean thinks. Sam’s always looking at things.
Dean does nothing, licks the salt off his fingers.
Waits for it.
“I mean,” Sam says, and now they’re off, “where the hell do you know this stuff from?”
Dean’s in the middle of chewing when he answers. “I know everything,” he says, around his mouthful of half-eaten potato chips.
The problem with potato chips is that they always get stuck between your molars. Dean digs deep into the back, freeing a wad and swallowing it.
Yum.
“No, seriously,” Sam says, in prime Sam form.
“I watch a lot of TV,” Dean says. “Seriously, Sammy, cable has everything. I saw this doctor put breast implants into some chick once-”
“But musicals,” Sam says.
They stare at each other for a while.
Finally, Dean caves. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sam says, and sighs like the whole world’s ganging up on him. Which it isn’t. ‘Cause Dean’s around.
“OK,” Dean says. “I’m just saying, they don’t make ‘em like Cyd Charisse anymore. That’s all.”
Sam just stares.
“I’m not kidding,” Dean says. “Legs up to her fucking neck.”
“Uh, OK,” says Sam.
*
Security in Greenwich, Connecticut is pretty tight.
*
“Jesus Christ, Sammy, would you stop that shit,” Dean says. He’s bleeding all over Ron Weasley’s face this time while Sam works the tweezers in, flashlight in his mouth, rubbing alcohol in his free hand.
“No,” Sam says, relentless, digging away like the Comstock Lode is hidden somewhere in Dean’s bicep. “Don’t call me Sammy when I’ve got freaking tweezers jammed inside your freaking arm. I have to get the bullet out. Hold still.”
“I can’t believe that little bitch shot me,” Dean says.
“We were sort of trespassing,” Sam points out.
“Dude. We’re always trespassing,” Dean says.
“Well, then we sucked at it this time,” Sam says.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Man, I fucking hate rich people.”
*
Sam’s a heartless bastard, and he plays the Les Miz tape all. Night. Long.
“I actually hate you,” Dean says.
“This touches me,” Sam says. “Deep inside. You can take another two painkillers now.”
“Just knock me over the head with a two-by-four,” Dean says. “Seriously. Sammy. I’m serious.”
*
Whatever the EMF’s picking up on is coming from the basement. Once Dean’s had about half a bottle of percogesic they head on back to check it out, making sure not to trip the periphery alarm system this time, and Sam has a hell of a field day telling Dean as they get closer that the freaking Phantom of the Opera is nigh.
“Seriously, tone deaf,” Dean says. “You and falsetto, it’s not working out for me.”
“I wonder if the Phantom is down there right now,” Sam says.
“If you get shot this time,” Dean says, “I’m letting that bullet stay in there.”
“Chicken,” Sam says.
“Pussy.”
“Sky Masterson.”
“Grizabella.”
“How the hell do you even know that?” Sam asks. “Seriously, that’s insane. You need a hobby.”
“TV is a hobby,” Dean says. “Seriously, you need to shut up.”
*
When they don’t have anything real to do-when they’re just killing time and, apparently, picking up rogue wireless signals from the basement of some rich asshole’s house in the middle of Greenwich, Connecticut-they do crazy things and act like they’re both five years old and get on each other’s nerves and get under each other’s skin.
When Dean was ten and Sam was six they dealt with it by getting into fights and playing I Spy and the license plate game and flicking boogers at each other.
Not much has changed.
Sam changes the bandage on Dean’s arm with a look of tight concentration, his hair getting too long in the front, getting in the way. Dean doesn’t brush it back out of his eyes and Sam doesn’t seem to notice it, big hands moving real slow over the bandage.
“So, if it’s real bad,” Dean says, “we’re gonna listen to Meet Me In St. Louis on the road out, right?”
“Tough luck,” Sam says. “You’re healing up pretty nice.”
“If you make me listen to Les Miz one more time,” Dean warns.
“Whatever,” Sam says. “You have a thing for Judy Garland. I get it. It’s creepy, it’s weird, it’s totally not the strangest thing you’ve ever done.”
“Sam,” Dean says.
There’s a moment when this could go either way, when Dean could say ‘I accept the fact that you’re out of your mind and like Andrew Lloyd Webber and don’t grasp the musical genius that is Metallica. And that’s OK, because you’re my brother and you dig bullets out of my arm and I love you.’
Or Dean could flick a booger at him.
“Yeah?” Sam asks.
That moment is totally gone.
“Zing, zing, zing went my heart-strings,” Dean says. “Now get your ass packed.”
“I would be already if I weren’t changing your freaking bandages ‘cause you got shot by some fifteen year old trust-fund girl,” Sam says.
“Grizabella,” Dean says.
“Shut up,” says Sam.
*
“Hey,” Sam says, driving to give Dean’s arm a rest. “Does this mean we can listen to, I don’t know, some other music sometimes?”
“I’m not listening to lesbian rock,” Dean says.
“The Dixie Chicks,” Sam begins, “are lyrically and harmonically-”
“-lesbian rock,” Dean finishes. “Dykes with mics. Don’t make me pull this car over.”
Sam purses his lips. “Dude. I’m driving,” he says.
*
Sometime before Florida, Dean catches Sam humming along to Bali Hai. He regrets it afterwards when his arm feels like it’s on fire, but he does an air-drum solo of triumph.
“Judy Garland,” Sam says. “Man, it’s like I don’t even know you.”
“Whatever,” Dean says. “Apparently you have a fetish for chicks with whiskers.”
Sam throws popcorn at his head and Dean swerves and ducks. It’s gonna be a long ride.
“Sky Masterson,” Sam says under his breath.
Dean grins and merges lanes. “Dude,” he says. “Cosette.”
Now I need to go convince myself not to write Supernatural fic in which Alcibiades shows up.
Man it's weird being blocked.