A Very Supernatural Sing Along 2/? [pg13] Sam/Dean
Title: A Very Supernatural Sing Along 2/?
Author: queenklu
Beta by:
shri_amato
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating : pg13 (this part) eventually there will be musical smex.
Disclaimer: Okay, 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.
Part One
REALLY REALLY IMPORTANT A/N: This takes place in a theoretical Fourth Season, where Dean never got off the rack (hence the lack of apocalypse), and Sam never sucked demon blood (hence the lack of douchebaggery). Everything else monster-wise that they faced still happened.
“So. Any brilliant insights on what we’re dealing with?” Sam asked after the last chorus of Food, Glorious Food, (and if he hadn’t hated Oliver Twist before, he did now, thanks so much) that he, Dean, and the rest of the Hearty Fork’s Diner had just performed. The only thing that was even remotely keeping his temper in check was the color pink Dean was turning, and even that wasn’t going to hold back the hysteria for long. “Because if I have to sing that fucking song every single time we sit down to eat, I will kill you. And it’ll be justifiable homicide, Dean.”
The Hearty Fork was the very model of an average diner, with average service and average food, and if their waitress was more than average looking it wasn’t like Sam could (or Dean would) complain. She had long ashy-blond hair and carried herself like a woman for all that she was in her late teens, with slightly rabbity teeth that just fit somehow with the rest of her face, and Sam was exceedingly grateful Dean was too distracted by their latest performance to hit on her, because he really didn’t feel like listening to Dean…serenade anyone.
“You think I like pulling cheesy musical numbers out of my ass?” Dean demanded in a low but definitely life-threatening voice. “Plus, dude! Can you actually think and dance at the same time? Give me a freaking minute to finish my pig-in-a-poke.”
Sam hadn’t been able to voice an opinion on what Dean ordered during the song, but now he looked at Dean’s plate and swallowed back a surge of nausea. Dean saw his expression and stopped mid-swallow, which did absolutely nothing for Sam’s digestion. Then, before either of them could do more than blink-
“Don’t look at me that way,” Dean sang reproachfully, guitar chords and techno beats springing up from the vicinity of their salt-shaker, “It was an honest mistake.”
“Okay, okay!” Sam’s hand clapped over Dean’s mouth, effectively pissing him off enough to cut the song short.
And then he stopped and realized exactly what he’d done, cutting the song short. Which meant they could be avoided, or at the very least aborted. Which meant his palm stayed pressed against Dean’s mouth a second too long.
“Laaaaaaa-"
“Dean, gross!” Sam snatched his slobber-covered hand back and dragged it against his jeans. The side of his jeans, not the-shut up.
Dean was grinning, but there was still a pinch between his eyebrows that Sam was trained to look for by now. Before hell it meant, I’m in pain but not too much don’t worry about me fuck it hurts. After hell it still meant that, only now it doubled with the times Dean simply remembered being in the pit, without any physical pain to show for it. Without any way for Sam to make it better.
Only they were in a diner in the middle of Washington and Dean had just licked his hand, so unless he and Alistair…whined and dined… Sam shuddered, inwardly, mentally blocking himself from going there.
Whatever it was, Dean coughed and smoothed it out of his expression.
“You know,” he added before Sam could ask, “I always thought if I was cursed into singing something it’d be Bohemian Rhapsody. You know, ‘I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me-he’s just a poor boy, from a poor family…’ What?”
“You always thought?” Sam deadpanned. “As in, you’ve thought about it?”
“Contingency plans.” Dean’s grin went lopsided in a way that made Sam’s stomach flop as he absently rubbed his sternum, wincing a little. Heartburn or heart attack? groundhog Sam asked, before he killed it and shoved it back in its drawer. “You should hear the one I have if we switch bodies.”
He wasn’t leering, probably had no idea why Sam couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, but Sam had other things to worry about. Like his salad getting cold.
At least Dean could sing; Jess had once told Sam he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket with the lid nailed on, but she loved him anyway. Sam was in a near-constant state of nervous queasiness, and it’d barely been half an hour since they’d arrived in town.
It had nothing to do with the concussion he didn’t have, either, by the way.
“I don’t understand why no one else remembers singing but us,” Sam continued, forcing himself to look away while Dean ate. “I mean, Bobby said there were reports, but no one in the diner noticed anything strange until the song was-"
“-done and I was standing on the counter singing to the pie? Yeah, thanks Sam, I’ve blocked it out.” Dean’s face said their tip was going to be awesome.
“Just… Any ideas at all?” he tried again, maybe just a little bit desperate to keep Dean talking so he wouldn’t-they wouldn’t-pull a High School Musical. Also because the more Dean talked the less he ate, and Sam was going digest his own stomach lining watching every bite of that sausage disappear.
Dean took extra care chewing to give himself time to think before he answered off-handedly, “I saw a Buffy like this once.”
Sam groaned and nearly face-planted in his salad while Dean continued like it was an actual suggestion/lead, “Except they made up their own songs. I guess this is better.”
“How?” Sam asked the Formica tabletop. “How is this better?”
“People were blurting out their deep dark secrets right and left,” his brother said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’d much rather stick to blurting someone else’s, if that’s alright, Emo McEmopants.”
Sam let out a little noise than only Dean would know meant more than a clearing of his sinuses.
“What?”
“That’s kind of naïve, don’t you think?”
Dean put down his fork, dragged a napkin across his mouth and rested both wrists on the table-en guard. “You got something you wanna say, college boy?”
Two degrading nicknames in less than a minute. “What’s up with you?” Especially since not too long ago he’d been making bodyswitching jokes.
“Oh, nothing.” A slow sarcastic drawl. “Tell me, Sam, why am I being naïve.”
“There’s how many billions of songs in the world, Dean? Don’t you think one or two might talk about your deep dark secrets?”
“No. And I’ll tell you another thing-I don’t know billions of songs, Sam. So unless they’re issues talked about in classic rock-”
“You think I know the words to Mama Mia?” Sam asked, slightly stunned, mostly aggravated.
“What?”
“It’s not-I don’t.” Know the words, feel that way, pick one because if Dean didn’t remember, Sam sure as hell wasn’t going to remind him. In hindsight, he had no clue at all why he’d brought it up in the first place when he had a perfect counter-argument with the Oliver fiasco, or how Sam even knew the damn street song was from Mama Mia when he hadn’t ever had the slightest inclination to see the movie.
“Whatever, Sam. I always knew you were hiding an Abba fetish.”
“Dean,” he warned, low and slow. “Are you honestly trying to tell me you knew the words to Oliver before we came to town?”
Dean shifted back in his seat, nose twitching endearingly obnoxiously while he tried to think of a good defense. “…Maybe.”
Sam glared.
“Okay, no. Dammit.” Dean stabbed at his pig-in-a-poke, but Sam thought it kind of deserved it. “You realize that means this thing is putting thoughts in our heads, right?”
“Are you thinking anything you normally wouldn’t?” Sam asked, a little gratingly. It wasn’t what Dean said, but how he said it-like Sam was four and going on his first hunt with a toy gun.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The thump of a drum and soft ting of a tambourine was the only warning either of them got before Sam’s mouth dropped open. “I wanna ask you-do you ever sit and wonder, ‘It's so strange that we could be together for so long, and never know, never care what goes on in the other one's-"
“Head?’” he and Dean chorused, Dean’s mouth falling open just a little bit wider, like his syrup had just turned sour in the pit of his stomach. Sam knew he wasn’t doing much better. Yet another song he didn’t fucking know, that could be saying anything. A car-salesman-type voice in his head announced, You Don’t Know Me, Ben Folds and Regina Spektor, but he’d never once in his life heard of either of those people, let alone this weird-ass song tumbling past his lips.
“Things I’ve felt but I’ve never-"
“Said.”
“You said things that I never said, so I’ll say something that I should have said long ago…”
“You don’t know me,” Dean sang, annoyance and confusion turning the words harsher than the song warranted. And that-for no real reason-pissed Sam off so instantly that any rational thought was left clinging by its fingernails.
“You don’t know me at all!” he snapped, leaping to his feet, thighs slamming against the table hard enough to bruise instantly. “You could have just propped me up on the table like a mannequin, or a cardboard stand-up and paint me-”
“Paint me-”
“-any face that you wanted me to be seen in…”
Somewhere deep in the pachinko machine of Sam’s mind was a voice demanding to take notes on the situation, but it was being systematically smothered by embarrassment and the sheer onslaught of raw emotion brought on by the damn music. It wasn’t like he could just get the song over and done with, he had to feel every little thing, like the song was amplifying every suppressed emotion or aborted thought-
“If I’m the person that you think I am-" Sam grit his teeth and ignored the hell out of Dean singing Ah ah ahh as he stayed rigid in his chair, clinging to the table in a failing attempt from joining the backup dancers doing jazz-hands around the restaurant. “Clueless chump you seem to think I am. So easily led astray, an errant dog who occasionally escapes and needs a shorter leash, then-why the fuck would you want me back?”
There was a jolt right then, a flutter in the small of Sam’s back where the knife went it and it was almost, almost enough to break free, panic threatening to overwhelm the music even as his mouth kept moving. “Maybe it’s because…”
He’d never asked Dean if he was sorry for bringing Sam back from the dead. Not after hell. Not ever.
“You don’t know me at all,” Dean sang in a quiet growl. There was something mirrored in his gaze, getting stronger and stronger until the music shifted, and this wasn’t Sam’s song anymore. And even weirder, the overwhelming feelings-the raw need that made singing absolutely necessary-drained away, leaving Sam gasping for air as his vision took a twirl around the room, images as blurred and out of focus as holding onto a demonic carousel.
“Oh, I love this one!” Katie the waitress laughed, turning up the volume on the radio as she danced on by. Sam had just enough time to shoot her a surprised glance and then-
“You used to talk to me like I was the only one around.” Something in Sam’s head clicked-Used To by Daughtry-but not in time to cut Dean off. He wasn’t actually sure he wanted to. “You used to lean on me. The only other choice was falling down. You used to walk with me like we had nowhere we needed to go, nice and slow, to no place in particular!”
Before he could blink Dean shoved away from their table smack dab in Sam’s face, shoving him back one step, then two, until his back was against the wall, head making fast friends with a stuffed bass, with Dean crowding into his personal space like there wasn’t enough air anywhere else.
“We used to have this figured out! We used to breathe without a doubt. When nights were clear, you were the first star that I'd see. We used to have this under control. We never thought, we used to know. At least there's you, and at least there's me. Can we get this back? Can we get this back to how it used to be?”
It didn’t matter if the words were something Dean would rather die before saying (First star that he’d see? The fuck?), because...he meant it. Sam knew he meant it. Not with those words but the feeling-if it was anything like the way Sam experienced it-was real. And damn, Dean would win American Idol hands down because Sam was at least two feet too tall to be a fan girl and his knees were going weak.
Sam grit his teeth and held as still as he possibly could, biting down on every urge he’d felt since the day he found himself grappling with Dean on the dark floor of his Stanford apartment. Hello, crazy burglar breaking into my house, you sure smell good, and then-“I was lookin’ for a beer.” And for the longest, dumbest moment the only thought running through Sam’s head had been, Thank god he’s not looking any lower.
But now, with Dean singing his heart out (despite the almost pained look of ‘God Kill Me Now And Save Me From The Chickflick’) it took every ounce of self-control not to just lean over and-
Sam dumped a pitcher of ice water on Dean’s head.
Dean spluttered and cursed the day Sam was born, but the expletives didn’t rhyme and the rock guitar cut off, so Sam figured they were in the clear.
Katie’s radio hissed out a fragment of Ice, Ice Baby before turning into a mush of static. She muttered and smacked it around, but the radio refused to work, twin speakers staring at the Winchesters like a pair of fly eyes.
“Boys?” Katie choked out when she turned and caught sight of their table (or what was left of their table) and the two patrons staring in her direction, one of them, in particular, sopping wet. “Can I, uh, get you a towel?”
“Did you hear that?” Sam asked her, his voice maaaybe ranging on the desperate side of conversational.
“Hear…what?” she drawled, rocking on her heels like she wasn't sure whether to inch towards them or run away. Sam caught a glimpse of his brother’s near murderous face pointed his direction and hissed out his name in an attempt to snap him out of it. Dean’s skull rotated a fraction of an inch to fix Katie with the glare instead.
“Could you do me a really weird favor?” Sam asked turning back to Katie with the best Bambi eyes he could muster under duress. Another waitress with a name tag that might as well have said Tough Bitch was looking their way, not-so-subtly cracking her knuckles over her order pad and looking incredibly intimidating for being all of four feet tall. “Did you notice what my brother and I were doing two minutes ago?”
“Uh…not particularly,” she said very, very slowly, and more of the customers stopped in mid-bite to turn their attention to their end of the diner.
“Do you remember what you were doing two minutes ago?”
“Listening to the radio?” she said even slower.
“Okay,” Dean cut in finally removing the drops of water still clinging to his hair with a flick of his fingers that was so out-of-the-blue sensual that Sam white-knuckled the back of his chair as Dean eased himself between his brother and the skittish waitress. “I’m really very sorry about all this. Sammy-my brother-he has a…condition.”
Katie’s big blue eyes widened slightly, but Dean had dredged up a tinge of something that made it sound so honestly believable… Sam fixed his eyes on the floor.
“Oh…” She blushed, still a little uncertain but melting under the full attention of a wet Dean Winchester. “Well, he’s just…a little disruptive, is all. Is there anything I can do…?”
“Oh, no,” Dean promised, sincerely, with half a glance in Sam’s direction. “Not unless you know a good radio station I could hook up for the car? Kid really loves singing along with his favorite tunes, calms him down a bit…”
Katie’s face (and heart (and quite possibly panties)) melted, You’re Such an Amazing Human Being flashing in brilliant neon lettering across her face. Thank god, she kept it to herself; Sam was eyeing their cutlery with a resigned sort of new light. “I’m real sorry,” she said instead, voice lowered to a more confidential tone. “All our electricity’s been on the fritz for weeks now. We take whatever manages to squeeze through on the local station, but…”
“Right,” he finished for her, arms swinging casually in front of him. Then, “Local station?”
“Yeah. It’s really eclectic-you know, country, rock, pop, hip hop, folk... I’d keep it tuned to that and hope your brother finds something he likes.”
“And no idea what’s causing the fritz?” he asked, hands open. Sam could practically hear the cogs turning in his brother’s mind-Not going for the cocky façade, lets see if I can work the desperate-for-some-company angle-and he slid back into their booth so he wouldn’t chuck croutons at the back of Dean’s head.
“Nope. City’s sending some more people up in a couple of days, if you’re sticking around that long?”
The ding in Dean’s head was practically audible. “Well,” he started, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck-
“What do you mean, more people?” Sam asked, and by the time Katie and Dean turned their synchronized attention to him, he’d filled his eyes with every hurt and scared feeling he’d had since he was twelve. Dean froze.
Katie cooed. “Don’t you worry, honey.”
“Did the others disappear?” he pressed, voice going breathless and trembling. Some part of him took definite satisfaction in the way Dean’s fists clenched, but he ignored savoring it for later. When he wasn’t still reeling from being called a freak.
“They were bad, bad men who took their company’s money and ran with it, sweetheart,” she promised, and it wasn’t until she was soothing a manicured hand over his hair that Sam even noticed she’d squeezed between him and Dean. He twitched without letting himself think too hard about why.
“Sorry,” Dean apologized, voice on autopilot as he cut back between them, “he’s just a little jumpy around people.”
Sam shot him a glare that Dean didn’t apparently see. But Katie did.
“Oh, no worries, hon. Hey.” She caught his gaze and tipped her head up. “How ‘bout some pie for the road? Do you like blueberry?”
Sam smiled weakly as she turned to the display case, calling over her shoulder, “Make sure to share with your brother, now!”
Like he had any illusions that Dean wouldn’t eat it all.
~*~
“Curse.”
“Not a curse.”
“Dude, so totally a curse.”
“Wrong.”
“Right.”
“Nein.”
“Look, Hitler, the Danny Kaye vibe’s only getting frisky with us. Curse.”
“How do you not know who Dick Van Dyke is but-you know what, never mind.” Sam sighed. He’d already talked Dean out of thinking the diner radio was possessed, and convinced him their good friend the Trickster wasn’t back in their lives; there really should be a limit on how many theories Dean got per night. “Not a curse, because a) there’s nobody we’ve pissed off in the last two months with the power, motivation, or resources to pull this kinda crap and b) it is affecting other people. We’re just the only ones who remember it. Oh, plus, c).”
“What?”
Sam rolled his eyes just far enough to fix Dean with a look. “You know what c) is.”
“Goddamn it, Sam-"
“Maybe.”
Dean looked like he really wanted to throw a fit, but stayed exactly where he was, perched on a washing machine with a forkful of pie. They didn’t have any leads to follow at 10:30 p.m. and, Sam noticed, neither were all that jazzed about heading back to ‘Hotel California,’ for all that he and Dean had crawled over the place with EMF meters, taped down salt lines around their room, and tacked a fold-up devils trap to the ceiling. That meant they were stuck with two options: bar or laundry. Sam had felt a too little sick to his stomach for alcohol, but he was surprised when Dean didn’t go without him. Maybe he was too bothered by not knowing what they were dealing with to do anything but stay close. More likely he just wanted to eat all the pie to Sam’s face.
“It’s not all the time, you know.”
“But it’s often enough to piss you off,” Sam needled, allowing a tired grin to pull at his lips for the first time in what felt like days. A few weeks ago Dean had snapped awake in the middle of the night with a revelation: Every time (well, not every time, but often enough (see above)) when Dean came up with an idea for whatever they were dealing with, and Sam said ‘Maybe,’ it was almost always invariably wrong.
Don’t ask Sam how something could be almost always invariably wrong, but those were the words Dean used to describe the phenomena, and they were the words that kept popping up in his head whenever they hit this particular roadblock. Sam thought Dean might've even made it one of The Rules.
“Oh, and d) missing power line guys,” Dean added to the list around a mouthful of what looked like some pretty amazing blueberry pie. “Assuming they weren’t really bad, bad men who took their company’s money and ran.” Sam shot a glance at his brother to see if he was actually making fun of Katie, but Dean was so focused on the pie he didn’t notice.
“Well, I’m pretty damn sure they didn’t.” Sam tried to use the sound his laptop made when he spun it around on the washer next to Dean to cover up how petulant his voice sounded. Not enough, because he caught the tell-tale flutter of Dean’s eyelashes as he tried to see what was wrong. “Here, look.” Distraction technique #2: the Job (#1 was pie, but Dean already had some). “Bert Wasowski and George Miller, both up for the position of senior partner at the end of the month-now, unless they killed each other shooting for the bonus without an interview, they wouldn’t just take up and leave. Besides, I don’t think that’s what really happened anyway.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean said through a mouth full of golden crust and sugary sweetness. “Wha maes oo fink oo so smaht?”
“Because, Dean.” Sam tried unclench his jaw, but it was kind of a nice change to just be mad at his brother, like brothers were supposed to be, and not want to jump him and lick the blueberries from his mouth. Right. “Wasowski wrote about this in his blog. Right here.” He pointed to a post under an amp-ed up blue-black banner with the words, “ItS ElEcTrIfYiNg!” scrawled across the top in neon lightning.
“What’s that say?” Dean muttered to give himself time to swallow and squint at the screen. “‘Dear Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club, I am a loser of the first order to think people other than my mom will want to hear about my suck-ass life.’”
“That’s not-” Sam stole his laptop back with a barely suppressed growl. “It says… Right here. ‘Remember when I said I wished my life was a musical? I take it back.’”
“That’s it?” Dean asked after a moment. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“It’s better than what you have which is…oh, yeah, nothing, I forgot,” Sam shot back.
Dean stopped chewing abruptly. “Okay, Sam, what?”
“What?”
“Seriously, what crawled up your ass and died? You haven’t even ribbed me about-”
Dean’s lips are blue. That was the only thought in Sam’s mind as they glided to a stop, pressed into a deceptively soft line. And then, before he could blink, the styrofoam take home box fell into his hands, not even half-empty.
“Is it bad?” The words were ridiculous and stupid and slipped out of his mouth as unfiltered as song lyrics, but it was really the only thing Sam could think to say. And then, “Are you feeling alright?”
“Dude, I’m fine.” Dean was staring almost casually at their dryer lurching its way through a spin cycle, but just the fact that he wasn’t looking at Sam was tantamount to scrawling ‘I’m Uncomfortable’ on his own forehead with a sharpie. “I’m just…I’m full.”
“Full.”
“Yup. Full. It’s a concept your delicate constitution wouldn’t understand. But you should try it some time.” He nodded once toward the pie, still not making eye contact.
“…Christo.”
“Dude,” he scoffed, mildly offended. And then trained his eyes back on the dryer.
Sam stared at his brother-really sat back and looked at him. There were matching lines under both eyes, skin on his cheeks paler to bring out the shadows lurking beneath those ridiculously dark lashes, and Sam…Sam’s hands nearly dropped the to-go box with the jelloid tremble that rocked through them. God he wanted-needed-
Dean had given him his pie.
“If-" Sam hiccupped and clapped a hand over his mouth. Oh, fuck, not now.
“Sam?” Dean demanded, green eyes locked on his face, inching closer in case he needed to catch or brace. His prepped-for-the-psychic-vision stance. And it was so outrageously annoying and safe that Sam hiccupped harder, thumb jammed under his chin as the words caught in a whimper in his throat. Which just made Dean clamp a hand down on his shoulder, and Sam had to get away-no way in or out of hell Dean could hear This Song of all the fucking songs-
“If-*hic*-Gotta, Dean-” Sam bolted for the bathroom, hand still jammed over his mouth and looking for all the world like he was gonna be sick to his stomach-and Dean, damn him, was at his heels every step of the way, demanding to know what was wrong.
What was wrong was that Sam was going to sing.
He barely got the door closed in Dean’s face, deadbolt jamming shut with one jerk of his thumb. Maybe then the older Winchester got (some of) the picture, because he didn’t kick the door down, didn’t even bang on it. Sam pressed his back against the cool and solid metal, and gave one last futile attempt to suppress this song by any means necessary.
No dice.
“If there’s a prize for rotten judgment,” he sang, hand dropping from his mouth to sweep outwards in an indication of his slightly fuzzy surroundings, “I guess I’ve already won that. No man is worth the aggravation-" Trumpets trilled from the closest urinal. “That’s ancient history; been there, done that!”
Dimly, Sam was kind of annoyed the song was really counting a hurried exchange of blowjobs in the stacks of the Stanford library as ‘been there, done that.’ Even when he couldn’t exactly remember the guy’s name. Especially when the guy had looked so much like Dean he could hardly walk straight the next day.
There was a loud blast of sound, and Sam froze.
“Who d’you think you’re kidding?” Katie and Tough Bitch and a redhead Sam didn’t recognize burst from the bathroom stalls, all synchronized hip shimmies and jazz hands that could put your eye out. “He’s the earth and heaven til you try to keep it hidden-Honey, we can see right through you-"
“Ohhh, nooo!” Sam wailed, curling in on himself before flinging himself from the door, marching over to the row of mirrors as the girls finished up their verse as he raked a hand through his hair. His reflection stared bleakly back at him, seeming to say You got yourself into this mess…
“No chance, no way,” he snarled, fist slamming into his reflection hard enough to shatter it, knuckles coming away bloody. “I won’t say it, no, no.”
“You swoon,” Katie purred, sliding around to frame him in time for Tough Chick to murmur, “You sigh,” against the shell of his ear. This was more than enough to distract him as the redhead slithered up between his legs to perch on the edge of the sink. She was tall and tied her hair in braided pigtails, and the only thing Sam really saw were her eyes as green as…someone else he knew.
“Why deny it?” she asked, then all three of their heads bobbed as they chorused, “Uh-oh!”
“It’s too cliché, I won’t say I’m in love!” he protested, shoving away from all of them and tangling his fist back in his hair. Only problem with hiding in the bathroom was the limited space, and he hit the far and heavily graffiti-ed back wall too soon, resting his head against the forearm he’d brought up to brace himself. But that meant he closed his eyes, and Jess’s face leapt to mind, so unbidden and shocking his eyes snapped back open. Something ugly coiled in his gut, bitter and angry and god damn fed up with these supernatural things that still thought they could throw Jess in his face like a weapon.
“I thought my heart had learned its lesson,” he choked out, somehow still in tune and on the beat. “It feels so good when you start out. My head is screaming get a grip, girl-"
Girl?! A part of him that sounded a lot like Dean pointed out it wasn’t not exactly the most masculine of things to spout your feelings with a Disney Song in the first place, so complaining about pronouns… “Unless you're dying to cry your heart out. Ohhhh…”
It was more of a groan than a wordless expression of emotion, but the go-go girls didn’t seem to notice. “You keep on denying who you are and how you're feeling-" They’d fashioned pom-poms out of toilet paper while he was busy, and now they were cheerleader spelling something while they were dancing: I-N-C-E… “Baby, we're not buying. Hon, we saw ya hit the ceiling!” Their pom-poms did just that, scattering in a shower of hillbilly confetti before the girls pinned him in place with a row of pointed fingers and cocked hips. “Face it like a grown-up. When ya gonna own up that ya got, got, got it bad?”
“You're way off base!” Sam spat, rounding on them, but all his reflections in the non-shattered glass weren’t too busy doing the Macarena to fix him with disbelieving stares. “I won't say it! Get off my case-I won’t say it!”
Before Sam could so much as blink all three girls were on him-and he meant, quite literally on him, because he was suddenly on the floor-their fists poised over strategic bits of his anatomy as Katie snarled very prettily, green eyes blazing, “Girl, don’t be proud. It’s okay you’re in love.”
Now that the song was almost over, Sam was starting to gain back enough of his vocal chords that he could, in all likelihood, have demanded to know how incest was okay, but he really did value his genitals. So instead he sang very, very quietly, “At least out loud…I won’t say I’m in love.”
The girls nodded, Shadoop Shalalalala-ed their way back into their respective stalls, and disappeared with synchronized flushes. Sam breathed out a sigh of relief as the last note of that dreadful song ended and the fuzzy glow was finally blinked from his eyes.
God, he was never going to be able to watch Hercules ever, ever again.
Not that that was such an inconvenience, but still.
It was the principle of the thing.
The End (of part two!) Comments are love! <33
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ON TO PART THREE!
Author: queenklu
Beta by:
shri_amato
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating : pg13 (this part) eventually there will be musical smex.
Disclaimer: Okay, 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.
Part One
REALLY REALLY IMPORTANT A/N: This takes place in a theoretical Fourth Season, where Dean never got off the rack (hence the lack of apocalypse), and Sam never sucked demon blood (hence the lack of douchebaggery). Everything else monster-wise that they faced still happened.
“So. Any brilliant insights on what we’re dealing with?” Sam asked after the last chorus of Food, Glorious Food, (and if he hadn’t hated Oliver Twist before, he did now, thanks so much) that he, Dean, and the rest of the Hearty Fork’s Diner had just performed. The only thing that was even remotely keeping his temper in check was the color pink Dean was turning, and even that wasn’t going to hold back the hysteria for long. “Because if I have to sing that fucking song every single time we sit down to eat, I will kill you. And it’ll be justifiable homicide, Dean.”
The Hearty Fork was the very model of an average diner, with average service and average food, and if their waitress was more than average looking it wasn’t like Sam could (or Dean would) complain. She had long ashy-blond hair and carried herself like a woman for all that she was in her late teens, with slightly rabbity teeth that just fit somehow with the rest of her face, and Sam was exceedingly grateful Dean was too distracted by their latest performance to hit on her, because he really didn’t feel like listening to Dean…serenade anyone.
“You think I like pulling cheesy musical numbers out of my ass?” Dean demanded in a low but definitely life-threatening voice. “Plus, dude! Can you actually think and dance at the same time? Give me a freaking minute to finish my pig-in-a-poke.”
Sam hadn’t been able to voice an opinion on what Dean ordered during the song, but now he looked at Dean’s plate and swallowed back a surge of nausea. Dean saw his expression and stopped mid-swallow, which did absolutely nothing for Sam’s digestion. Then, before either of them could do more than blink-
“Don’t look at me that way,” Dean sang reproachfully, guitar chords and techno beats springing up from the vicinity of their salt-shaker, “It was an honest mistake.”
“Okay, okay!” Sam’s hand clapped over Dean’s mouth, effectively pissing him off enough to cut the song short.
And then he stopped and realized exactly what he’d done, cutting the song short. Which meant they could be avoided, or at the very least aborted. Which meant his palm stayed pressed against Dean’s mouth a second too long.
“Laaaaaaa-"
“Dean, gross!” Sam snatched his slobber-covered hand back and dragged it against his jeans. The side of his jeans, not the-shut up.
Dean was grinning, but there was still a pinch between his eyebrows that Sam was trained to look for by now. Before hell it meant, I’m in pain but not too much don’t worry about me fuck it hurts. After hell it still meant that, only now it doubled with the times Dean simply remembered being in the pit, without any physical pain to show for it. Without any way for Sam to make it better.
Only they were in a diner in the middle of Washington and Dean had just licked his hand, so unless he and Alistair…whined and dined… Sam shuddered, inwardly, mentally blocking himself from going there.
Whatever it was, Dean coughed and smoothed it out of his expression.
“You know,” he added before Sam could ask, “I always thought if I was cursed into singing something it’d be Bohemian Rhapsody. You know, ‘I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me-he’s just a poor boy, from a poor family…’ What?”
“You always thought?” Sam deadpanned. “As in, you’ve thought about it?”
“Contingency plans.” Dean’s grin went lopsided in a way that made Sam’s stomach flop as he absently rubbed his sternum, wincing a little. Heartburn or heart attack? groundhog Sam asked, before he killed it and shoved it back in its drawer. “You should hear the one I have if we switch bodies.”
He wasn’t leering, probably had no idea why Sam couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, but Sam had other things to worry about. Like his salad getting cold.
At least Dean could sing; Jess had once told Sam he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket with the lid nailed on, but she loved him anyway. Sam was in a near-constant state of nervous queasiness, and it’d barely been half an hour since they’d arrived in town.
It had nothing to do with the concussion he didn’t have, either, by the way.
“I don’t understand why no one else remembers singing but us,” Sam continued, forcing himself to look away while Dean ate. “I mean, Bobby said there were reports, but no one in the diner noticed anything strange until the song was-"
“-done and I was standing on the counter singing to the pie? Yeah, thanks Sam, I’ve blocked it out.” Dean’s face said their tip was going to be awesome.
“Just… Any ideas at all?” he tried again, maybe just a little bit desperate to keep Dean talking so he wouldn’t-they wouldn’t-pull a High School Musical. Also because the more Dean talked the less he ate, and Sam was going digest his own stomach lining watching every bite of that sausage disappear.
Dean took extra care chewing to give himself time to think before he answered off-handedly, “I saw a Buffy like this once.”
Sam groaned and nearly face-planted in his salad while Dean continued like it was an actual suggestion/lead, “Except they made up their own songs. I guess this is better.”
“How?” Sam asked the Formica tabletop. “How is this better?”
“People were blurting out their deep dark secrets right and left,” his brother said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’d much rather stick to blurting someone else’s, if that’s alright, Emo McEmopants.”
Sam let out a little noise than only Dean would know meant more than a clearing of his sinuses.
“What?”
“That’s kind of naïve, don’t you think?”
Dean put down his fork, dragged a napkin across his mouth and rested both wrists on the table-en guard. “You got something you wanna say, college boy?”
Two degrading nicknames in less than a minute. “What’s up with you?” Especially since not too long ago he’d been making bodyswitching jokes.
“Oh, nothing.” A slow sarcastic drawl. “Tell me, Sam, why am I being naïve.”
“There’s how many billions of songs in the world, Dean? Don’t you think one or two might talk about your deep dark secrets?”
“No. And I’ll tell you another thing-I don’t know billions of songs, Sam. So unless they’re issues talked about in classic rock-”
“You think I know the words to Mama Mia?” Sam asked, slightly stunned, mostly aggravated.
“What?”
“It’s not-I don’t.” Know the words, feel that way, pick one because if Dean didn’t remember, Sam sure as hell wasn’t going to remind him. In hindsight, he had no clue at all why he’d brought it up in the first place when he had a perfect counter-argument with the Oliver fiasco, or how Sam even knew the damn street song was from Mama Mia when he hadn’t ever had the slightest inclination to see the movie.
“Whatever, Sam. I always knew you were hiding an Abba fetish.”
“Dean,” he warned, low and slow. “Are you honestly trying to tell me you knew the words to Oliver before we came to town?”
Dean shifted back in his seat, nose twitching endearingly obnoxiously while he tried to think of a good defense. “…Maybe.”
Sam glared.
“Okay, no. Dammit.” Dean stabbed at his pig-in-a-poke, but Sam thought it kind of deserved it. “You realize that means this thing is putting thoughts in our heads, right?”
“Are you thinking anything you normally wouldn’t?” Sam asked, a little gratingly. It wasn’t what Dean said, but how he said it-like Sam was four and going on his first hunt with a toy gun.
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The thump of a drum and soft ting of a tambourine was the only warning either of them got before Sam’s mouth dropped open. “I wanna ask you-do you ever sit and wonder, ‘It's so strange that we could be together for so long, and never know, never care what goes on in the other one's-"
“Head?’” he and Dean chorused, Dean’s mouth falling open just a little bit wider, like his syrup had just turned sour in the pit of his stomach. Sam knew he wasn’t doing much better. Yet another song he didn’t fucking know, that could be saying anything. A car-salesman-type voice in his head announced, You Don’t Know Me, Ben Folds and Regina Spektor, but he’d never once in his life heard of either of those people, let alone this weird-ass song tumbling past his lips.
“Things I’ve felt but I’ve never-"
“Said.”
“You said things that I never said, so I’ll say something that I should have said long ago…”
“You don’t know me,” Dean sang, annoyance and confusion turning the words harsher than the song warranted. And that-for no real reason-pissed Sam off so instantly that any rational thought was left clinging by its fingernails.
“You don’t know me at all!” he snapped, leaping to his feet, thighs slamming against the table hard enough to bruise instantly. “You could have just propped me up on the table like a mannequin, or a cardboard stand-up and paint me-”
“Paint me-”
“-any face that you wanted me to be seen in…”
Somewhere deep in the pachinko machine of Sam’s mind was a voice demanding to take notes on the situation, but it was being systematically smothered by embarrassment and the sheer onslaught of raw emotion brought on by the damn music. It wasn’t like he could just get the song over and done with, he had to feel every little thing, like the song was amplifying every suppressed emotion or aborted thought-
“If I’m the person that you think I am-" Sam grit his teeth and ignored the hell out of Dean singing Ah ah ahh as he stayed rigid in his chair, clinging to the table in a failing attempt from joining the backup dancers doing jazz-hands around the restaurant. “Clueless chump you seem to think I am. So easily led astray, an errant dog who occasionally escapes and needs a shorter leash, then-why the fuck would you want me back?”
There was a jolt right then, a flutter in the small of Sam’s back where the knife went it and it was almost, almost enough to break free, panic threatening to overwhelm the music even as his mouth kept moving. “Maybe it’s because…”
He’d never asked Dean if he was sorry for bringing Sam back from the dead. Not after hell. Not ever.
“You don’t know me at all,” Dean sang in a quiet growl. There was something mirrored in his gaze, getting stronger and stronger until the music shifted, and this wasn’t Sam’s song anymore. And even weirder, the overwhelming feelings-the raw need that made singing absolutely necessary-drained away, leaving Sam gasping for air as his vision took a twirl around the room, images as blurred and out of focus as holding onto a demonic carousel.
“Oh, I love this one!” Katie the waitress laughed, turning up the volume on the radio as she danced on by. Sam had just enough time to shoot her a surprised glance and then-
“You used to talk to me like I was the only one around.” Something in Sam’s head clicked-Used To by Daughtry-but not in time to cut Dean off. He wasn’t actually sure he wanted to. “You used to lean on me. The only other choice was falling down. You used to walk with me like we had nowhere we needed to go, nice and slow, to no place in particular!”
Before he could blink Dean shoved away from their table smack dab in Sam’s face, shoving him back one step, then two, until his back was against the wall, head making fast friends with a stuffed bass, with Dean crowding into his personal space like there wasn’t enough air anywhere else.
“We used to have this figured out! We used to breathe without a doubt. When nights were clear, you were the first star that I'd see. We used to have this under control. We never thought, we used to know. At least there's you, and at least there's me. Can we get this back? Can we get this back to how it used to be?”
It didn’t matter if the words were something Dean would rather die before saying (First star that he’d see? The fuck?), because...he meant it. Sam knew he meant it. Not with those words but the feeling-if it was anything like the way Sam experienced it-was real. And damn, Dean would win American Idol hands down because Sam was at least two feet too tall to be a fan girl and his knees were going weak.
Sam grit his teeth and held as still as he possibly could, biting down on every urge he’d felt since the day he found himself grappling with Dean on the dark floor of his Stanford apartment. Hello, crazy burglar breaking into my house, you sure smell good, and then-“I was lookin’ for a beer.” And for the longest, dumbest moment the only thought running through Sam’s head had been, Thank god he’s not looking any lower.
But now, with Dean singing his heart out (despite the almost pained look of ‘God Kill Me Now And Save Me From The Chickflick’) it took every ounce of self-control not to just lean over and-
Sam dumped a pitcher of ice water on Dean’s head.
Dean spluttered and cursed the day Sam was born, but the expletives didn’t rhyme and the rock guitar cut off, so Sam figured they were in the clear.
Katie’s radio hissed out a fragment of Ice, Ice Baby before turning into a mush of static. She muttered and smacked it around, but the radio refused to work, twin speakers staring at the Winchesters like a pair of fly eyes.
“Boys?” Katie choked out when she turned and caught sight of their table (or what was left of their table) and the two patrons staring in her direction, one of them, in particular, sopping wet. “Can I, uh, get you a towel?”
“Did you hear that?” Sam asked her, his voice maaaybe ranging on the desperate side of conversational.
“Hear…what?” she drawled, rocking on her heels like she wasn't sure whether to inch towards them or run away. Sam caught a glimpse of his brother’s near murderous face pointed his direction and hissed out his name in an attempt to snap him out of it. Dean’s skull rotated a fraction of an inch to fix Katie with the glare instead.
“Could you do me a really weird favor?” Sam asked turning back to Katie with the best Bambi eyes he could muster under duress. Another waitress with a name tag that might as well have said Tough Bitch was looking their way, not-so-subtly cracking her knuckles over her order pad and looking incredibly intimidating for being all of four feet tall. “Did you notice what my brother and I were doing two minutes ago?”
“Uh…not particularly,” she said very, very slowly, and more of the customers stopped in mid-bite to turn their attention to their end of the diner.
“Do you remember what you were doing two minutes ago?”
“Listening to the radio?” she said even slower.
“Okay,” Dean cut in finally removing the drops of water still clinging to his hair with a flick of his fingers that was so out-of-the-blue sensual that Sam white-knuckled the back of his chair as Dean eased himself between his brother and the skittish waitress. “I’m really very sorry about all this. Sammy-my brother-he has a…condition.”
Katie’s big blue eyes widened slightly, but Dean had dredged up a tinge of something that made it sound so honestly believable… Sam fixed his eyes on the floor.
“Oh…” She blushed, still a little uncertain but melting under the full attention of a wet Dean Winchester. “Well, he’s just…a little disruptive, is all. Is there anything I can do…?”
“Oh, no,” Dean promised, sincerely, with half a glance in Sam’s direction. “Not unless you know a good radio station I could hook up for the car? Kid really loves singing along with his favorite tunes, calms him down a bit…”
Katie’s face (and heart (and quite possibly panties)) melted, You’re Such an Amazing Human Being flashing in brilliant neon lettering across her face. Thank god, she kept it to herself; Sam was eyeing their cutlery with a resigned sort of new light. “I’m real sorry,” she said instead, voice lowered to a more confidential tone. “All our electricity’s been on the fritz for weeks now. We take whatever manages to squeeze through on the local station, but…”
“Right,” he finished for her, arms swinging casually in front of him. Then, “Local station?”
“Yeah. It’s really eclectic-you know, country, rock, pop, hip hop, folk... I’d keep it tuned to that and hope your brother finds something he likes.”
“And no idea what’s causing the fritz?” he asked, hands open. Sam could practically hear the cogs turning in his brother’s mind-Not going for the cocky façade, lets see if I can work the desperate-for-some-company angle-and he slid back into their booth so he wouldn’t chuck croutons at the back of Dean’s head.
“Nope. City’s sending some more people up in a couple of days, if you’re sticking around that long?”
The ding in Dean’s head was practically audible. “Well,” he started, bashfully rubbing the back of his neck-
“What do you mean, more people?” Sam asked, and by the time Katie and Dean turned their synchronized attention to him, he’d filled his eyes with every hurt and scared feeling he’d had since he was twelve. Dean froze.
Katie cooed. “Don’t you worry, honey.”
“Did the others disappear?” he pressed, voice going breathless and trembling. Some part of him took definite satisfaction in the way Dean’s fists clenched, but he ignored savoring it for later. When he wasn’t still reeling from being called a freak.
“They were bad, bad men who took their company’s money and ran with it, sweetheart,” she promised, and it wasn’t until she was soothing a manicured hand over his hair that Sam even noticed she’d squeezed between him and Dean. He twitched without letting himself think too hard about why.
“Sorry,” Dean apologized, voice on autopilot as he cut back between them, “he’s just a little jumpy around people.”
Sam shot him a glare that Dean didn’t apparently see. But Katie did.
“Oh, no worries, hon. Hey.” She caught his gaze and tipped her head up. “How ‘bout some pie for the road? Do you like blueberry?”
Sam smiled weakly as she turned to the display case, calling over her shoulder, “Make sure to share with your brother, now!”
Like he had any illusions that Dean wouldn’t eat it all.
~*~
“Curse.”
“Not a curse.”
“Dude, so totally a curse.”
“Wrong.”
“Right.”
“Nein.”
“Look, Hitler, the Danny Kaye vibe’s only getting frisky with us. Curse.”
“How do you not know who Dick Van Dyke is but-you know what, never mind.” Sam sighed. He’d already talked Dean out of thinking the diner radio was possessed, and convinced him their good friend the Trickster wasn’t back in their lives; there really should be a limit on how many theories Dean got per night. “Not a curse, because a) there’s nobody we’ve pissed off in the last two months with the power, motivation, or resources to pull this kinda crap and b) it is affecting other people. We’re just the only ones who remember it. Oh, plus, c).”
“What?”
Sam rolled his eyes just far enough to fix Dean with a look. “You know what c) is.”
“Goddamn it, Sam-"
“Maybe.”
Dean looked like he really wanted to throw a fit, but stayed exactly where he was, perched on a washing machine with a forkful of pie. They didn’t have any leads to follow at 10:30 p.m. and, Sam noticed, neither were all that jazzed about heading back to ‘Hotel California,’ for all that he and Dean had crawled over the place with EMF meters, taped down salt lines around their room, and tacked a fold-up devils trap to the ceiling. That meant they were stuck with two options: bar or laundry. Sam had felt a too little sick to his stomach for alcohol, but he was surprised when Dean didn’t go without him. Maybe he was too bothered by not knowing what they were dealing with to do anything but stay close. More likely he just wanted to eat all the pie to Sam’s face.
“It’s not all the time, you know.”
“But it’s often enough to piss you off,” Sam needled, allowing a tired grin to pull at his lips for the first time in what felt like days. A few weeks ago Dean had snapped awake in the middle of the night with a revelation: Every time (well, not every time, but often enough (see above)) when Dean came up with an idea for whatever they were dealing with, and Sam said ‘Maybe,’ it was almost always invariably wrong.
Don’t ask Sam how something could be almost always invariably wrong, but those were the words Dean used to describe the phenomena, and they were the words that kept popping up in his head whenever they hit this particular roadblock. Sam thought Dean might've even made it one of The Rules.
“Oh, and d) missing power line guys,” Dean added to the list around a mouthful of what looked like some pretty amazing blueberry pie. “Assuming they weren’t really bad, bad men who took their company’s money and ran.” Sam shot a glance at his brother to see if he was actually making fun of Katie, but Dean was so focused on the pie he didn’t notice.
“Well, I’m pretty damn sure they didn’t.” Sam tried to use the sound his laptop made when he spun it around on the washer next to Dean to cover up how petulant his voice sounded. Not enough, because he caught the tell-tale flutter of Dean’s eyelashes as he tried to see what was wrong. “Here, look.” Distraction technique #2: the Job (#1 was pie, but Dean already had some). “Bert Wasowski and George Miller, both up for the position of senior partner at the end of the month-now, unless they killed each other shooting for the bonus without an interview, they wouldn’t just take up and leave. Besides, I don’t think that’s what really happened anyway.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean said through a mouth full of golden crust and sugary sweetness. “Wha maes oo fink oo so smaht?”
“Because, Dean.” Sam tried unclench his jaw, but it was kind of a nice change to just be mad at his brother, like brothers were supposed to be, and not want to jump him and lick the blueberries from his mouth. Right. “Wasowski wrote about this in his blog. Right here.” He pointed to a post under an amp-ed up blue-black banner with the words, “ItS ElEcTrIfYiNg!” scrawled across the top in neon lightning.
“What’s that say?” Dean muttered to give himself time to swallow and squint at the screen. “‘Dear Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club, I am a loser of the first order to think people other than my mom will want to hear about my suck-ass life.’”
“That’s not-” Sam stole his laptop back with a barely suppressed growl. “It says… Right here. ‘Remember when I said I wished my life was a musical? I take it back.’”
“That’s it?” Dean asked after a moment. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“It’s better than what you have which is…oh, yeah, nothing, I forgot,” Sam shot back.
Dean stopped chewing abruptly. “Okay, Sam, what?”
“What?”
“Seriously, what crawled up your ass and died? You haven’t even ribbed me about-”
Dean’s lips are blue. That was the only thought in Sam’s mind as they glided to a stop, pressed into a deceptively soft line. And then, before he could blink, the styrofoam take home box fell into his hands, not even half-empty.
“Is it bad?” The words were ridiculous and stupid and slipped out of his mouth as unfiltered as song lyrics, but it was really the only thing Sam could think to say. And then, “Are you feeling alright?”
“Dude, I’m fine.” Dean was staring almost casually at their dryer lurching its way through a spin cycle, but just the fact that he wasn’t looking at Sam was tantamount to scrawling ‘I’m Uncomfortable’ on his own forehead with a sharpie. “I’m just…I’m full.”
“Full.”
“Yup. Full. It’s a concept your delicate constitution wouldn’t understand. But you should try it some time.” He nodded once toward the pie, still not making eye contact.
“…Christo.”
“Dude,” he scoffed, mildly offended. And then trained his eyes back on the dryer.
Sam stared at his brother-really sat back and looked at him. There were matching lines under both eyes, skin on his cheeks paler to bring out the shadows lurking beneath those ridiculously dark lashes, and Sam…Sam’s hands nearly dropped the to-go box with the jelloid tremble that rocked through them. God he wanted-needed-
Dean had given him his pie.
“If-" Sam hiccupped and clapped a hand over his mouth. Oh, fuck, not now.
“Sam?” Dean demanded, green eyes locked on his face, inching closer in case he needed to catch or brace. His prepped-for-the-psychic-vision stance. And it was so outrageously annoying and safe that Sam hiccupped harder, thumb jammed under his chin as the words caught in a whimper in his throat. Which just made Dean clamp a hand down on his shoulder, and Sam had to get away-no way in or out of hell Dean could hear This Song of all the fucking songs-
“If-*hic*-Gotta, Dean-” Sam bolted for the bathroom, hand still jammed over his mouth and looking for all the world like he was gonna be sick to his stomach-and Dean, damn him, was at his heels every step of the way, demanding to know what was wrong.
What was wrong was that Sam was going to sing.
He barely got the door closed in Dean’s face, deadbolt jamming shut with one jerk of his thumb. Maybe then the older Winchester got (some of) the picture, because he didn’t kick the door down, didn’t even bang on it. Sam pressed his back against the cool and solid metal, and gave one last futile attempt to suppress this song by any means necessary.
No dice.
“If there’s a prize for rotten judgment,” he sang, hand dropping from his mouth to sweep outwards in an indication of his slightly fuzzy surroundings, “I guess I’ve already won that. No man is worth the aggravation-" Trumpets trilled from the closest urinal. “That’s ancient history; been there, done that!”
Dimly, Sam was kind of annoyed the song was really counting a hurried exchange of blowjobs in the stacks of the Stanford library as ‘been there, done that.’ Even when he couldn’t exactly remember the guy’s name. Especially when the guy had looked so much like Dean he could hardly walk straight the next day.
There was a loud blast of sound, and Sam froze.
“Who d’you think you’re kidding?” Katie and Tough Bitch and a redhead Sam didn’t recognize burst from the bathroom stalls, all synchronized hip shimmies and jazz hands that could put your eye out. “He’s the earth and heaven til you try to keep it hidden-Honey, we can see right through you-"
“Ohhh, nooo!” Sam wailed, curling in on himself before flinging himself from the door, marching over to the row of mirrors as the girls finished up their verse as he raked a hand through his hair. His reflection stared bleakly back at him, seeming to say You got yourself into this mess…
“No chance, no way,” he snarled, fist slamming into his reflection hard enough to shatter it, knuckles coming away bloody. “I won’t say it, no, no.”
“You swoon,” Katie purred, sliding around to frame him in time for Tough Chick to murmur, “You sigh,” against the shell of his ear. This was more than enough to distract him as the redhead slithered up between his legs to perch on the edge of the sink. She was tall and tied her hair in braided pigtails, and the only thing Sam really saw were her eyes as green as…someone else he knew.
“Why deny it?” she asked, then all three of their heads bobbed as they chorused, “Uh-oh!”
“It’s too cliché, I won’t say I’m in love!” he protested, shoving away from all of them and tangling his fist back in his hair. Only problem with hiding in the bathroom was the limited space, and he hit the far and heavily graffiti-ed back wall too soon, resting his head against the forearm he’d brought up to brace himself. But that meant he closed his eyes, and Jess’s face leapt to mind, so unbidden and shocking his eyes snapped back open. Something ugly coiled in his gut, bitter and angry and god damn fed up with these supernatural things that still thought they could throw Jess in his face like a weapon.
“I thought my heart had learned its lesson,” he choked out, somehow still in tune and on the beat. “It feels so good when you start out. My head is screaming get a grip, girl-"
Girl?! A part of him that sounded a lot like Dean pointed out it wasn’t not exactly the most masculine of things to spout your feelings with a Disney Song in the first place, so complaining about pronouns… “Unless you're dying to cry your heart out. Ohhhh…”
It was more of a groan than a wordless expression of emotion, but the go-go girls didn’t seem to notice. “You keep on denying who you are and how you're feeling-" They’d fashioned pom-poms out of toilet paper while he was busy, and now they were cheerleader spelling something while they were dancing: I-N-C-E… “Baby, we're not buying. Hon, we saw ya hit the ceiling!” Their pom-poms did just that, scattering in a shower of hillbilly confetti before the girls pinned him in place with a row of pointed fingers and cocked hips. “Face it like a grown-up. When ya gonna own up that ya got, got, got it bad?”
“You're way off base!” Sam spat, rounding on them, but all his reflections in the non-shattered glass weren’t too busy doing the Macarena to fix him with disbelieving stares. “I won't say it! Get off my case-I won’t say it!”
Before Sam could so much as blink all three girls were on him-and he meant, quite literally on him, because he was suddenly on the floor-their fists poised over strategic bits of his anatomy as Katie snarled very prettily, green eyes blazing, “Girl, don’t be proud. It’s okay you’re in love.”
Now that the song was almost over, Sam was starting to gain back enough of his vocal chords that he could, in all likelihood, have demanded to know how incest was okay, but he really did value his genitals. So instead he sang very, very quietly, “At least out loud…I won’t say I’m in love.”
The girls nodded, Shadoop Shalalalala-ed their way back into their respective stalls, and disappeared with synchronized flushes. Sam breathed out a sigh of relief as the last note of that dreadful song ended and the fuzzy glow was finally blinked from his eyes.
God, he was never going to be able to watch Hercules ever, ever again.
Not that that was such an inconvenience, but still.
It was the principle of the thing.
The End (of part two!) Comments are love! <33
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ON TO PART THREE!