They can never love! (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _peapod) wrote,@ 2007-10-09 11:27:00 |
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hee hee crack fic
This is totally dumb. But maybe kind of amusing? Supernatural crack, based on the premise devised by, I think, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett that all tapes, if left in a car long enough, will turn into ABBA compilations.
They’re on their way to Nebraska – nothing too weird, a couple of dead cows and a gas station explosion that could be the work of a demon but is probably just the result of some idiot dropping a cigarette butt on the forecourt. Sam’s in a bad mood, tiny frown creasing his forehead as he stares out the window at the nothing landscape while Dean drums on the steering wheel in time to Metallica, or almost in time.
“Dean.”
“What?”
“How many times do we have to listen to this song? Because if I’m counting right, this is the seventh time today, and it’s driving me crazy.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Dude, you have no taste.”
“Just because it’s not to my taste, doesn’t mean I have no taste,” says Sam, a little pedantically, crossing his arms over his chest like one of those grave carvings of dead dudes Dean’s seen in really old churches.
“Whatever. Listen to this song and tell me it’s not awesome.”
Dean turns the cassette over, eyes on the horizon where the dirty ribbon of the highway shades into sky. The tape deck swallows the cassette with a satisfied whirr, and Dean leans back against his seat, all ready to rock out. But instead of a barrage of drum beats and snarling guitars, the opening chords of Dancing Queen come blaring out of the speakers at 90 decibels. Dean’s head whips round and he stares at the tape deck in accusatory disbelief. Sam shouts with laughter, bad mood forgotten.
“Whoa, since when were you an ABBA fan? That’s hilarious!”
“Wait, what? Have you been sneaking tapes into my car again? What did I tell you about that, man?”
Dean reaches out and turns the volume down, the electronic plunk of the keyboards jarring against the engine’s low hum.
“It’s your tape, Dean. You just turned it over, remember?”
“This is not my tape. It was bad enough when you taped The Editors over Deep Purple but this? Is seriously not on.”
Sam protests, grinning ear to ear, “Hey, don’t blame me for your heinous lapse in judgement; I mean, we’ve all been there, though I have to say ABBA is taking it to a whole new level.”
Dean scowls. “Shut up and gimme another tape.”
Sam grabs one at random from the glove box and ejects the offending cassette. The tape deck expels it with a clunk and Sam slings it into the back seat, where it lands in a greasy fast food carton. Dean glances at Sam.
“You ever touch my tapes again, I’m gonna break your legs.”
“I swear it wasn’t me,” says Sam, his voice thick with amusement. “Look, I’m putting another one in, okay?”
“Finally,” says Dean, “some real music.”
But it’s ABBA again, asking if he hears the drums, Fernando, and Sam cracks up, hunched forward in his seat with his face screwed up in glee. “Oh my God, Dean, what is this?!”
Dean scowls, pissy, and jabs at the off-button, saying “these are NOT my tapes, Sam, and this had better not be your idea of a joke.”
Sam snickers, and then stops himself because Dean’s hands are clenched tight on the wheel and it’s obvious he’s getting mad. “Honestly, Dean, I did not switch your tapes. Maybe it was, like, a music demon or something.”
“Oh, don’t give me that. There’s no such thing and also? Shut up.”
So Sam throws that tape into the back seat too and roots around in the glove for another one.
“Let me see that.” Sam hands it over, not meeting Dean’s eye because he knows for sure he’ll start laughing again if he does. Dean scrutinizes the tape, bringing it up to his face and inspecting it minutely until the car swerves into the oncoming lane and Sam yells, “Dude! Eyes on the road!” ‘Led Zeppelin’ is scrawled on the tape’s peeling white sticker in Sharpie, so Dean gives it back to Sam and says, “Right, put it on.”
But it’s Waterloo, and by this point Sam’s quietly having hysterics in the passenger seat, fraying cuffs jammed into his mouth as Dean fast forwards through the tape, getting more and more agitated as ABBA follows ABBA follows ABBA, his shoulders vibrating with perplexed frustration, and his head is full of Swedish women in cat suits, which really isn’t helping his concentration.
Eventually he goes through every single tape in the box, even the ones he hasn't listened to in years and keeps meaning to throw out, but they're all the same. The back seat of the car's littered with cassettes, the black ribbon spooling out of them like intestines where he's pulled them apart in rage, but the only one that isn't an ABBA compilation seems to be The Eurythmics' Greatest Hits, which is almost as bad.
Finally he pulls over in an empty truck stop and slams his hands on the steering wheel like, what the fuck is going on here? Sam pulls himself together; wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his sweater, and says, “I know you're pissed but this? Is seriously hilarious.”
Dean glares at him. “Those are all my tapes, man. I've had some of those since high school, for fuck's sake. How did this happen?”
Sam shrugs. “Sorry, man, I’ve got no idea. But look, since those are clearly no good, I've got an Arcade Fire album we could listen to instead.”
Dean shoots his brother an angry stare, but there's nothing he can do, because it's either that or ABBA and he hates driving in silence, so he lets Sam put his goddamn album on and drives white-knuckled and furious all the way to Nebraska, where he stops off at an electronics superstore and finally buys a CD player and a bunch of CDs for the Impala, muttering “Whatever, Samuel, you win, okay?” under his breath.
Sam shrugs, still on the verge of laughter, and says “Hey, great, that’s cool. But, er, Dean? Seriously wasn’t me.”
“Fuck off,” says Dean, tightening the last screw on the new, chrome-effect CD player and pursing his lips in appraisal. He has to admit, the sound quality is better, but it’s not the same. They drive out of Lincoln to the suspect gas station, Dean silent and sulky, Sam resigned but still amused, and The Immigrant Song only half masks the dejected sound of the ruined cassettes slithering around on the back seat. They’re just pulling up to the charred station shell when the CD player starts to skip.
“Cheap piece a shit,” says Dean, “knew it was a bad idea.” He presses the skip-forward button a couple of times as Sam peers out the window at the gas station, looking for signs of supernatural activity. The CD player squeaks, and then starts up again. Dean sighs in relief.
Mamma mia, here I go again.
This is totally dumb. But maybe kind of amusing? Supernatural crack, based on the premise devised by, I think, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett that all tapes, if left in a car long enough, will turn into ABBA compilations.
They’re on their way to Nebraska – nothing too weird, a couple of dead cows and a gas station explosion that could be the work of a demon but is probably just the result of some idiot dropping a cigarette butt on the forecourt. Sam’s in a bad mood, tiny frown creasing his forehead as he stares out the window at the nothing landscape while Dean drums on the steering wheel in time to Metallica, or almost in time.
“Dean.”
“What?”
“How many times do we have to listen to this song? Because if I’m counting right, this is the seventh time today, and it’s driving me crazy.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Dude, you have no taste.”
“Just because it’s not to my taste, doesn’t mean I have no taste,” says Sam, a little pedantically, crossing his arms over his chest like one of those grave carvings of dead dudes Dean’s seen in really old churches.
“Whatever. Listen to this song and tell me it’s not awesome.”
Dean turns the cassette over, eyes on the horizon where the dirty ribbon of the highway shades into sky. The tape deck swallows the cassette with a satisfied whirr, and Dean leans back against his seat, all ready to rock out. But instead of a barrage of drum beats and snarling guitars, the opening chords of Dancing Queen come blaring out of the speakers at 90 decibels. Dean’s head whips round and he stares at the tape deck in accusatory disbelief. Sam shouts with laughter, bad mood forgotten.
“Whoa, since when were you an ABBA fan? That’s hilarious!”
“Wait, what? Have you been sneaking tapes into my car again? What did I tell you about that, man?”
Dean reaches out and turns the volume down, the electronic plunk of the keyboards jarring against the engine’s low hum.
“It’s your tape, Dean. You just turned it over, remember?”
“This is not my tape. It was bad enough when you taped The Editors over Deep Purple but this? Is seriously not on.”
Sam protests, grinning ear to ear, “Hey, don’t blame me for your heinous lapse in judgement; I mean, we’ve all been there, though I have to say ABBA is taking it to a whole new level.”
Dean scowls. “Shut up and gimme another tape.”
Sam grabs one at random from the glove box and ejects the offending cassette. The tape deck expels it with a clunk and Sam slings it into the back seat, where it lands in a greasy fast food carton. Dean glances at Sam.
“You ever touch my tapes again, I’m gonna break your legs.”
“I swear it wasn’t me,” says Sam, his voice thick with amusement. “Look, I’m putting another one in, okay?”
“Finally,” says Dean, “some real music.”
But it’s ABBA again, asking if he hears the drums, Fernando, and Sam cracks up, hunched forward in his seat with his face screwed up in glee. “Oh my God, Dean, what is this?!”
Dean scowls, pissy, and jabs at the off-button, saying “these are NOT my tapes, Sam, and this had better not be your idea of a joke.”
Sam snickers, and then stops himself because Dean’s hands are clenched tight on the wheel and it’s obvious he’s getting mad. “Honestly, Dean, I did not switch your tapes. Maybe it was, like, a music demon or something.”
“Oh, don’t give me that. There’s no such thing and also? Shut up.”
So Sam throws that tape into the back seat too and roots around in the glove for another one.
“Let me see that.” Sam hands it over, not meeting Dean’s eye because he knows for sure he’ll start laughing again if he does. Dean scrutinizes the tape, bringing it up to his face and inspecting it minutely until the car swerves into the oncoming lane and Sam yells, “Dude! Eyes on the road!” ‘Led Zeppelin’ is scrawled on the tape’s peeling white sticker in Sharpie, so Dean gives it back to Sam and says, “Right, put it on.”
But it’s Waterloo, and by this point Sam’s quietly having hysterics in the passenger seat, fraying cuffs jammed into his mouth as Dean fast forwards through the tape, getting more and more agitated as ABBA follows ABBA follows ABBA, his shoulders vibrating with perplexed frustration, and his head is full of Swedish women in cat suits, which really isn’t helping his concentration.
Eventually he goes through every single tape in the box, even the ones he hasn't listened to in years and keeps meaning to throw out, but they're all the same. The back seat of the car's littered with cassettes, the black ribbon spooling out of them like intestines where he's pulled them apart in rage, but the only one that isn't an ABBA compilation seems to be The Eurythmics' Greatest Hits, which is almost as bad.
Finally he pulls over in an empty truck stop and slams his hands on the steering wheel like, what the fuck is going on here? Sam pulls himself together; wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his sweater, and says, “I know you're pissed but this? Is seriously hilarious.”
Dean glares at him. “Those are all my tapes, man. I've had some of those since high school, for fuck's sake. How did this happen?”
Sam shrugs. “Sorry, man, I’ve got no idea. But look, since those are clearly no good, I've got an Arcade Fire album we could listen to instead.”
Dean shoots his brother an angry stare, but there's nothing he can do, because it's either that or ABBA and he hates driving in silence, so he lets Sam put his goddamn album on and drives white-knuckled and furious all the way to Nebraska, where he stops off at an electronics superstore and finally buys a CD player and a bunch of CDs for the Impala, muttering “Whatever, Samuel, you win, okay?” under his breath.
Sam shrugs, still on the verge of laughter, and says “Hey, great, that’s cool. But, er, Dean? Seriously wasn’t me.”
“Fuck off,” says Dean, tightening the last screw on the new, chrome-effect CD player and pursing his lips in appraisal. He has to admit, the sound quality is better, but it’s not the same. They drive out of Lincoln to the suspect gas station, Dean silent and sulky, Sam resigned but still amused, and The Immigrant Song only half masks the dejected sound of the ruined cassettes slithering around on the back seat. They’re just pulling up to the charred station shell when the CD player starts to skip.
“Cheap piece a shit,” says Dean, “knew it was a bad idea.” He presses the skip-forward button a couple of times as Sam peers out the window at the gas station, looking for signs of supernatural activity. The CD player squeaks, and then starts up again. Dean sighs in relief.
Mamma mia, here I go again.
