Disclaimer: I don't own Sam or Dean Winchester, or anything from Supernatural for that matter. Also, I don't own the following song lyrics, which were used in this fic: "Ace of Spades" by Motorhead, "Wake Me Up When September Ends" by Green Day, "Cold" by Crossfade, "Gasolina" by Daddy Yankee, "Easier to Run" by Linkin Park, "I Get Knocked Down" by Chumbawumba, "Welcome to My Life" by Simple Plan, and "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion. Dang… I used a lot of songs.
A/N: This is just a little one-shot that I thought up while wondering what kind of music Sam likes. It's sort of a little tag scene to the end of "Home."
The Ace of Spades
By Spectral Scribe
"Playing for the high one, dicing with the devil
Going with the flow, it's all a game to me
Seven or eleven, snake eyes watchin' you
Double up or quit, double stakes or split
The Ace of Spades
The Ace of…"
"Dean, I swear, if I have to listen to any more Motorhead, my head might actually explode," Sam complained, rolling his head around on the seat so that he was facing his brother. The elder Winchester brother's face gave the slightest hint of annoyance as he adjusted his hands on the wheel of the car.
"So pick something else," he replied shortly, his eyes never leaving the winding country road ahead. In his peripheral vision, he could see Sam disinterestedly perusing his small cardboard box of cassettes. Picking one up, he squinted at the sloppy label and sighed.
"Somehow I don't think Black Sabbath will be any better," he grumbled before dropping it back into the box.
A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched. He knew why Sam was so irritable, but damn it, now was not the time for an argument over the stupid music. Now was the time to get as much road between them and their old Kansas home as possible. So, in spite of his better judgment, Dean replied, "Fine. Choose your own music."
Sam's eyebrows skyrocketed. "Uh… it probably hasn't occurred to you, but I don't happen to have a cassette collection in my pocket."
Dean rolled his eyes and pursed his lips in a How-Did-You-Get-Into-College expression as he leaned forward and hit a button. The crunchy power chords of "Ace of Spades" cut to a radio announcer's voice crackling in and out of reception. Dean glanced over at his little brother and saw that Sam looked faintly discomfited at his naivety.
Leaning forward, Sam fiddled with the tuner, rolling from station to station. He paused for a moment, bemused at what sounded like a cross between techno and country. Upon hearing the peculiar sound, Dean smirked. "This is your idea of good music?"
"What? No." Sam continued flipping through stations.
"—get in the zone. Auto-Zone!—"
"—give me a long kiss goodnight, and everything will be all right—"
"—clear skies, but a storm front is moving in—"
"—never really wanted you to see the screwed-up side of me—"
"—score is tied, zero-zero, and it doesn't look like either team will pull ahead any time soon—"
The flipping stopped, and Dean couldn't help but frown at what they had come across. It sounded like… Spanish rap?
"Sam, what the hell?"
The two brothers glanced at one another for a moment before bursting out in laughter. Dean shook his head in amusement as Sam bent forward, one hand still on the radio tuner and the other clutching his stomach. At last, the laughter died down, and a very small part of Dean told him that they didn't have the right to be so happy, not when the image of Mary was still fresh in his mind, flames writhing like hungry orange snakes…
Attempting to divert his attention from such thoughts, Dean commented, "Who can even understand what they're saying?" He was, of course, referring to the speedy foreign lyrics of the current music.
Sam paused for a moment, his ears perked up like a dog listening for its prey. "They're saying, 'She looks so good that even her shadow fits her. She's a killer; she governs me, hangs out in cars, motorbikes, and limousines, fills up her tank with adrenaline—'"
"You speak Spanish?" Dean cut him off incredulously, pulling his eyes momentarily off the road to stare disbelievingly at his brother.
Sam raised an eyebrow and nodded. "I've been taking it for the past four years. Something was bound to rub off."
"I never knew that," Dean replied, a smirk overcoming his face as another thought popped into his head. "You know, I taught myself a little Spanish once in high school so I could go out with this exchange student from Mexico. Didn't speak a word of English… Maria, I think her name was. Anyway, I learned a few key phrases."
Dean could see, out of the corner of his eye, Sam rolling his eyes. "What key phrases would those be?"
Turning the wheel with the winding road, Dean frowned for a moment, in thought. "One of them was 'Is your father home?' And then there was 'Does he have a gun?'" Sam laughed. "Hey, that was a serious matter. And anyway, I never got to use them. I tried to tell her that she looked like a nice girl once and she ran off."
"What did you say?"
"Let's see…" Dean tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the Spanish rap. "Te parece a una salchicha."
Well, something must have been off; otherwise, Sam wouldn't be fighting to suppress a grin. "I think you meant 'Te parece a una chica simpática.'"
"Shit. What did I say?"
"Yeah, about that…" Sam shook his head, a grin still plastered on his face. "You told her that she looked like a sausage."
For a moment, Dean had no response. But then his own error hit, like a cow that had been tipped onto him, and he couldn't help but laugh. Sam leaned forward as the song ended and started flipping radio stations some more, chuckling himself. Clips of different songs crackled through the sound system.
"—it's easier to run, replacing this pain with something numb—"
"—double cheeseburger for only ninety-nine cents—"
"—I get knocked down, but I get up again. You're never gonna keep me down—"
At last, Sam let go of the tuner and sat back as a light guitar chord drifted through the car, accompanied by an unbearably whiney voice that Dean wasn't sure belonged to a male or female.
"Do you ever feel like breaking down?
Do you ever feel out of place?
Like somehow you just don't belong
And no one understands you…"
"What the hell is this, Sam? Even that techno-country crap you had on earlier was better than this." Well, he wasn't so sure about that, but at least it got the point across.
"What? This is good music," Sam replied, as though Dean had just asked him what color the sky was.
Dean shook his head. "No, this is some gender-confused, black-nail-polish, emo guy whimpering about his pathetic life. Don't tell me you actually like this?"
"Beats some middle-aged guy with a hoarse throat screaming at the top of his lungs about a poker game," Sam retaliated.
"Do you ever wanna run away?
Do you lock yourself in your room?
With the radio on turned up so loud
And no one hears you screaming…"
They sat there for a moment longer, listening to the bleating lyrics and wimpy guitar riffs and watching the green countryside roll past them in a wave of flat fields and gently sloping hills. Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye, observing his little brother's stony features. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy… But he didn't want to talk about it either. He was staving off the moment when they would have to discuss it, when Sam would probe him for more details on their mother's death. In fact, he was trying so hard not to think about it that he was attaining a mild headache. Or maybe it was the music.
"Sam, if you don't change the station soon I'm going to give these emo guys something to whine about by blowing my brains out," he threatened with eyebrows raised suggestively as he glanced from the radio tuner to the windshield of the car. Shrugging, Sam leaned forward and flipped to the next station.
"Love can touch us one time and last for a lifetime, and never let go 'til we're gone. Love was when I loved you, one true time I hold to; in my life we'll always go on. Near… far… wherever you are, I believe that the heart does—"
Upon hearing Celine Dion's unreservedly sappy, heartrending, sing-your-heart-out, chicks-on-a-couch-with-a-box-of-tissues voice, Sam and Dean both looked at one another with pained expressions on their faces. Almost at once, Sam picked up the small cardboard box of cassette tapes, grabbed the nearest one, and spoke up without hesitation.
"Black Sabbath okay?"
"Great," Dean responded, his voice a touch deeper and more manly than usual.
As chunky power chords once again crackled through the stereo – Dean humming along and tapping his fingers to the beat, Sam gazing pensively out the window – the countryside rolled past outside, silent but for the gentle whisperings of the wind and the faint mooing of cows.
And inside, the music blared on.