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apocalypsosYeah, this is why I shouldn't post a monthly fic roundup until after the month's over. Heh. ;)
Title: They Don’t Play Me On The Radio
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,200 words
Spoilers: “Simon Said”
Pairing: Some Sam/Jess
Warnings: Bad language
Disclaimer: God, I only wish I owned the boys.
Summary: Sometimes Sam thinks that he is dreaming of his mother singing over his crib.
***
They Don’t Play Me On The Radio
***
They lose “No Sleep ‘Til Hammersmith” outside of Duluth, of all places, an entire tape’s worth spewing forth from the Impala like it’s vomiting up something precious and vile all at once.
It’s not the first time. “T.N.T.” died a hero’s death in Utah at the hands of a Satanist who obviously didn’t appreciate “Can I Sit Next To You Girl” played at top volume. Dean could have throttled the son of a bitch for that alone, grumbling under his breath for a week about how he never would have lost his virginity to Sunday Bakersfield in ninth grade without Bon Scott to back him up. Sam had politely refrained from reminding Dean that Sunday Bakersfield had screwed any guy who walked past her at a slow enough pace and probably would have claimed his virginity in a few years, too, if they hadn’t packed up their stuff and moved to West Virginia one night.
This time -- thank God -- Dean stops from proposing an actual funeral like he did the last time. Sam talked him into tossing the well-worn remains of “T.N.T.” into an empty garbage can at a rest stop on the way to Vegas, although he still had to listen to Dean bitch about some fat loser driving across the country possibly throwing the remains of his Big Gulp onto his favorite copy of “It’s A Long Way To The Top”.
Instead Dean waits until they stop at this mini-mart in the middle of nowhere and hands the remains to this ten-year-old kid sitting in front of the trendy music store two units down. He passes it off like he’s passing off some secret of the universe, dumping it into the kid’s lap in between the faded Nickelback tour shirt he’s wearing and a copy of Guiter Player magazine that hasn’t even lost its newly printed stiffness.
Dean considers it charity because even if the kid’s got to go out and make an effort to discover Motorhead, at least he won’t be listening to fucking Nickelback anymore.
Sam doesn’t have a hell of a lot of faith in that, but instead of bringing it up he lets himself ride the amusement of watching Dean sweet-talk a geek rock chick in a vintage album store to tape him another copy straight from the vinyl.
***
That rule about drivers and cakeholes probably never should have been made in the first place, because Sam wakes him up not far from Kansas City singing along to a Placebo song.
Sam sings better than Dean ever will, but getting either one of them to admit it would be a feat. It’s totally unfair the way Dean says, like just being lucky at pool instead of damn good or having perfect aim even though you don’t like guns.
It’s the words, though. Sam sings along and it rings true, something about breaking and being rescued and …
Well, hell, maybe it’s the emo.
***
Dean puts on the top 40 station in Pennsylvania as revenge, and while the first three songs are what frighteningly sound like the same crappy rap music with slightly different lyrics about tits and ass, the fourth is a rush hour request for “Ice, Ice Baby.”
Dean grumbles about the whole thing but he smiles the whole time because it might be shit but it’s funny shit. It takes a few seconds of Sam dying laughing in the passenger seat, two Slushies down and flying on a sugar rush, before Dean loosens up.
Sam tells him that Jess giggled hysterically when he did the Vanilla Ice dance. He slides around in the front seat in this awkward imitation of it that would work better if he weren‘t five thousand feet tall.
It turns out that Dean‘s just shocked enough by the smile on Sam‘s face to laugh along.
***
Dad’s thing was the good old stuff, anything that sounded like it’d been recorded in someone’s bathroom on wax molded by the fingers of some country crooner with wishful thinking. The newer stuff passed muster as long as there was a twang in there somewhere, but he always liked the classics.
Johnny, Hank, Patsy. Maybe even a few of the early rock pioneers, anybody who’d started off in country or blues because they hadn’t yet discovered what a guitar and pair of hips could do.
Yeah, Dad liked the oldies.
When Johnny Cash carries over the airwaves, they never can pick up anything else.
Never bother to change the station, either.
***
Sometimes Sam thinks that he is dreaming of his mother singing over his crib.
Once when he does, he wakes up as they’re crossing the border into Kentucky to Dean, crooning softly and absently like he doesn’t even know his voice is working.
Singing along to the Carpenters, of all things. The fact he’s doing it is scary enough. That he knows the words, doubly so.
His fingers drum on the steering wheel like he’s not even thinking about it, a nervous habit, a twitch. Sam is tempted to call him on it and tease him into next week until he thinks maybe he does recognize the song, or Dean singing it to him, or worse yet Mom singing it to him.
He falls back asleep again, to the sound of something cheesy and flimsy and vital all at once.
***
In this sunny suburb in Virginia complete with the preppy moms and their little brats all dressed up in tiny L.L. Bean outfits like they’re training to be snobs, Sam hears some random song on the radio and shuts down like he’s closing up shop on his emotions.
Dean’s tempted to ask what the hell crawled up Sam’s ass and died this time, but the song on the radio …
Hell, Dean isn’t about to ask, but it’s a few years old and he could swear he’s heard it once or twice before. The sun in your eyes or something, some song with pianos and soft drums, the kind they play on radio stations so broke they can’t even afford to pick a genre and stick with it.
He pictures Jess and Sam dancing to it, slow and steady in a gentle sway with Jess tucked against him and Sam’s hand pressed against her back. Sam’s other hand trails over her curls and she lifts her face to try in vain to nuzzle at his neck. They move in tandem like intertwining curls of smoke, they follow the melody with vague concentration, and it’s like a sick sad ballet in his head.
So he keeps it quiet for once, holds his best poker face, and tries to ignore the lyrics.
Because really, he’s never asked Sam if he and Jess had a song.
It might have been easier to avoid if he had.
Title: They Don’t Play Me On The Radio
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,200 words
Spoilers: “Simon Said”
Pairing: Some Sam/Jess
Warnings: Bad language
Disclaimer: God, I only wish I owned the boys.
Summary: Sometimes Sam thinks that he is dreaming of his mother singing over his crib.
They Don’t Play Me On The Radio
***
They lose “No Sleep ‘Til Hammersmith” outside of Duluth, of all places, an entire tape’s worth spewing forth from the Impala like it’s vomiting up something precious and vile all at once.
It’s not the first time. “T.N.T.” died a hero’s death in Utah at the hands of a Satanist who obviously didn’t appreciate “Can I Sit Next To You Girl” played at top volume. Dean could have throttled the son of a bitch for that alone, grumbling under his breath for a week about how he never would have lost his virginity to Sunday Bakersfield in ninth grade without Bon Scott to back him up. Sam had politely refrained from reminding Dean that Sunday Bakersfield had screwed any guy who walked past her at a slow enough pace and probably would have claimed his virginity in a few years, too, if they hadn’t packed up their stuff and moved to West Virginia one night.
This time -- thank God -- Dean stops from proposing an actual funeral like he did the last time. Sam talked him into tossing the well-worn remains of “T.N.T.” into an empty garbage can at a rest stop on the way to Vegas, although he still had to listen to Dean bitch about some fat loser driving across the country possibly throwing the remains of his Big Gulp onto his favorite copy of “It’s A Long Way To The Top”.
Instead Dean waits until they stop at this mini-mart in the middle of nowhere and hands the remains to this ten-year-old kid sitting in front of the trendy music store two units down. He passes it off like he’s passing off some secret of the universe, dumping it into the kid’s lap in between the faded Nickelback tour shirt he’s wearing and a copy of Guiter Player magazine that hasn’t even lost its newly printed stiffness.
Dean considers it charity because even if the kid’s got to go out and make an effort to discover Motorhead, at least he won’t be listening to fucking Nickelback anymore.
Sam doesn’t have a hell of a lot of faith in that, but instead of bringing it up he lets himself ride the amusement of watching Dean sweet-talk a geek rock chick in a vintage album store to tape him another copy straight from the vinyl.
That rule about drivers and cakeholes probably never should have been made in the first place, because Sam wakes him up not far from Kansas City singing along to a Placebo song.
Sam sings better than Dean ever will, but getting either one of them to admit it would be a feat. It’s totally unfair the way Dean says, like just being lucky at pool instead of damn good or having perfect aim even though you don’t like guns.
It’s the words, though. Sam sings along and it rings true, something about breaking and being rescued and …
Well, hell, maybe it’s the emo.
Dean puts on the top 40 station in Pennsylvania as revenge, and while the first three songs are what frighteningly sound like the same crappy rap music with slightly different lyrics about tits and ass, the fourth is a rush hour request for “Ice, Ice Baby.”
Dean grumbles about the whole thing but he smiles the whole time because it might be shit but it’s funny shit. It takes a few seconds of Sam dying laughing in the passenger seat, two Slushies down and flying on a sugar rush, before Dean loosens up.
Sam tells him that Jess giggled hysterically when he did the Vanilla Ice dance. He slides around in the front seat in this awkward imitation of it that would work better if he weren‘t five thousand feet tall.
It turns out that Dean‘s just shocked enough by the smile on Sam‘s face to laugh along.
Dad’s thing was the good old stuff, anything that sounded like it’d been recorded in someone’s bathroom on wax molded by the fingers of some country crooner with wishful thinking. The newer stuff passed muster as long as there was a twang in there somewhere, but he always liked the classics.
Johnny, Hank, Patsy. Maybe even a few of the early rock pioneers, anybody who’d started off in country or blues because they hadn’t yet discovered what a guitar and pair of hips could do.
Yeah, Dad liked the oldies.
When Johnny Cash carries over the airwaves, they never can pick up anything else.
Never bother to change the station, either.
Sometimes Sam thinks that he is dreaming of his mother singing over his crib.
Once when he does, he wakes up as they’re crossing the border into Kentucky to Dean, crooning softly and absently like he doesn’t even know his voice is working.
Singing along to the Carpenters, of all things. The fact he’s doing it is scary enough. That he knows the words, doubly so.
His fingers drum on the steering wheel like he’s not even thinking about it, a nervous habit, a twitch. Sam is tempted to call him on it and tease him into next week until he thinks maybe he does recognize the song, or Dean singing it to him, or worse yet Mom singing it to him.
He falls back asleep again, to the sound of something cheesy and flimsy and vital all at once.
In this sunny suburb in Virginia complete with the preppy moms and their little brats all dressed up in tiny L.L. Bean outfits like they’re training to be snobs, Sam hears some random song on the radio and shuts down like he’s closing up shop on his emotions.
Dean’s tempted to ask what the hell crawled up Sam’s ass and died this time, but the song on the radio …
Hell, Dean isn’t about to ask, but it’s a few years old and he could swear he’s heard it once or twice before. The sun in your eyes or something, some song with pianos and soft drums, the kind they play on radio stations so broke they can’t even afford to pick a genre and stick with it.
He pictures Jess and Sam dancing to it, slow and steady in a gentle sway with Jess tucked against him and Sam’s hand pressed against her back. Sam’s other hand trails over her curls and she lifts her face to try in vain to nuzzle at his neck. They move in tandem like intertwining curls of smoke, they follow the melody with vague concentration, and it’s like a sick sad ballet in his head.
So he keeps it quiet for once, holds his best poker face, and tries to ignore the lyrics.
Because really, he’s never asked Sam if he and Jess had a song.
It might have been easier to avoid if he had.
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Date: 2006-11-01 03:00 pm (UTC)YES...SO YES. I'd pay good money to hear Jpad sing. I've always harbored secret thoughts that Sam has an amazing hidden talent there.