Title: R.O.C. K. in the USA
Author: Kits
Rating: T, for language and senseless destruction of innocent band T-shirts.
Disclaimer: I heard a nasty rumor that Eric Kripke owns these characters, but it could just be gossip.
Also, he ate my soul. Damn season finale.
Summary: Why doesn't Dean wear band shirts on the show?
Montana
"Dad, look out!"
Branches and leaves brushed aside, some low snarling, and a bullet shot rang out in the crisp air. The thing whirled around, using its momentum to land on Dean's chest, monstrous paws pushing into his skin and claws ripping through his Van Halen T-shirt. He groaned, ducking his head and bracing himself for fangs when another shot ripped through tissue and bone, and the thing collapsed on him.
"Dammit," he muttered, shoving the werewolf off and trying to brush off the drool and blood all over the front of his shirt.
"I think it's a lost cause, Dean," his dad said with something close to amusement in his voice.
Sam snickered, and Dean sighed tragically. "One of my best ones, too," he said, stripping it off and shoving it in the back of the truck.
Arizona
"Man, I hate these things," Dean whined, driving slowly down the deserted highway. Sam shrugged in the passenger seat beside him.
"They're not so bad."
Dean turned to look at him. "Kids. With all black eyes. Asking to come into our car. What part of this isn't bad?"
"BEKs are--" Sam cut off abruptly and pointed ahead to two figures holding their thumbs out in the typical hitchhiker signal. "Right there."
"No shit, Sherlock," Dean grumbled, pulling over to the side of the road and rolling the window down. He pasted a charming look on his face and focused on a cactus slightly to the right of one of the boys.
"Hey, kids, what are y'all doing out here?"
"Our mom's car broke down on the side of the road, and she went to get help. We haven't seen her since. Give us a ride into town?"
Sam studied the floor, sliding his hand under the seat for the guns Dean stashed there.
"Uh, where'd the car break down?"
A look of irritation flickered over the taller one's face, but he smiled and shrugged. "A while back. You must've passed it."
"I didn't see anything..." Dean said while Sam hid the gun behind his thigh. "Along this road?"
"Yeah. You must've just missed it or something."
Dean felt himself being lulled into a sense of security, but shook it off quickly. "Now, Sam!"
Sam brought the gun up and shot the first in the face and hit the other in the arm before it disappeared. "Shit."
"Yeah," Dean said, grabbing the .45 Sam offered him and opening the door. He gazed out into the desert, scanning the endless sand for something, but all he saw was a heat shimmer where the kid was. "He must have gotten away--"
"Dean, look out!"
He whirled around just as the kid took a step forward and bit his shoulder. Hissing in pain, he brought the gun up and unloaded a clip into it just for good measure.
"Fuck," he said eloquently, holding onto his shoulder. "I hate it when they're kids."
"And that was your favorite Led Zeppelin shirt," Sam said, pointing to the gash near the neckline.
Dean did a double-take, then kicked the dead body in front of him for good measure. "Mean little fuckers."
California
Dean sat in the car while Sam said his good-byes to Jessica, tapping on the steering wheel and turning down the music in respect for the dead. No need to annoy them until they decided to haunt him or anything.
The door slammed, and he turned to see Sam folding himself into the passenger seat, red-rimmed eyes and salty tear tracks on his cheeks.
"You all right?" he asked, then immediately kicked himself for asking a stupid question. His girlfriend just died, you asshole, of course he's not all right.
To his credit, Sam just gave him a bland look and turned to gaze out the window. "Just drive."
Dean was happy to oblige, roaring down the highways and enjoying the rush of wind whipping around the seat from the open window. It would have been perfect, if he didn't keep glancing over to make sure Sam was doing okay.
"You hungry?" he asked when the silence was too much. "We can stop--"
"No."
"Just... drive?" Dean guessed. Sam nodded, and Dean was struck by how he had completely skipped the metaphorical running away of problems and jumped straight to the physical. Still, far be it for him to question his brother's mourning rituals.
When it was too dark to see without headlights, and the road started blurring in front of his eyes, Dean yawned and pulled over.
Sam started, shooting him a surprised look.
"What are we doing?"
"We're stopping. You all right with sleeping in the car? Because I didn't see any signs for a motel. I'll even let you have the back seat," Dean said with a grin, knowing full well that if he let Sam sleep in the front, his brother would be one big muscle cramp in the morning.
Sam stared at him and Dean had to resist the urge to grab his gun at the blank look there.
"Shit, Sammy," he said quietly, and was not entirely unprepared when Sam folded in on himself and started sobbing quietly. Dean put a tentative hand on his shoulder, urging his face to his chest and letting him get who-knows-what all over his shirt. Tears, snot, drool, whatever--he never voiced a complaint, though, just softly stroking his fingers through Sammy's hair and rocking him gently, muttering assurances in a low voice until it really would be all right.
The next day, he tossed the shirt, even though it was one of his Lynard Skynard pride and joys, because if Dean couldn't stand to look at it, then he knew Sam wouldn't be.
Louisiana
"Voodoo?"
"Who do?"
Sam shot a sharp look at Dean, not appreciating his brother's humor. His loss.
"Dude, if you do this every time I say voodoo, I'm going to get out of this car," Sam warned in a menacing voice. When Dean looked over though, his brother's eyes were sparkling and Dean didn't believe him for a second.
"You just don't have an appreciation for the classics, Sammy," he said, waving his hands in a broad gesture that nearly clipped their dad in the ear. He looked over to his son, irritation written over his face, but before he could open his mouth, Dean grinned at him and blinked his eyes in that way that made his dad forget that he was a pest.
Sam had long since learned to steel himself against his big brother's tactics, however, and reached forward from the back seat to whap him on the back of his head.
"Dad!" Dean cried mockingly. "Sam just hit me!"
John Winchester hid a smile, playing along. "Don't make me turn this car around, boys."
"Could we?" Dean said seriously. John glanced over at his oldest son with confusion. Dean continued, "Because that chick at the gas station was really hot."
He rolled his eyes to the roof of the car and muttered in a stage whisper, "Heaven help me."
"Amen," Sam said solemnly from the back.
Dean grinned at them both, then suddenly straightened and pointed to the sign on the side of the road. "We're here."
His dad parked the Impala and they piled out, making their way down the trail and into the swamp.
"So, according to this book--"
"On what?" Dean prompted innocently. Sam glared at him and continued, not rising to the bait.
"The creature probably came from around here," he finished. They all glanced around, John keeping one hand on his gun and Sam glancing around for alligators. It would be a shame to get all the way here to fight an ancient voodoo creature-thing just to be eaten by a normal one. Messy, too.
"Uh, Sam?" Dean said, stepping forward and tossing his hands out. "I don't think it's here."
He walked forward some more, and Sam put a foot out to warn him when John held him back with a gentle arm and a wink.
"Dean, I don't think--"
Dean ignored him. "I mean, really, it's just trees, and swamp, and mosquitoes. Oh, look, more green. How exciting. I bet--"
Whatever he was going to say was cut off by an indignant squawk when the ground collapsed beneath him and he found himself treading some decidedly dark and scary water. "Hey!" he said, managing to pull himself onto the bank. "Some help?"
John reached out a hand, pulling him onto dry land and not bothering to hide the twinkle in his eyes.
"That was so not cool. Do you know what this was?" Dean said, pulling the sopping wet cloth away from his body. "This was my favorite--"
"Metallica shirt," Sam and John finished in identical tones.
Dean looked a little hurt. "It was a classic."
"It's still good," Sam said doubtfully, noting the green streaks that marred the front. Dean glared at him, muttering dark things and hopping around on one foot while he poured out the water in his boots. John lost it at the look on his son's face, collapsing onto the ground and shaking his head with laughter. Even Sam suppressed a grin at the image of his brother looking like a drowned rat.
"Oh, sure, laugh it up," Dean said, stomping past them to the car. "You'll get yours."
It took entirely too long for the two of them to stop laughing.
Washington
Sam glanced up at his brother, surprised at the attire. It was a black shirt, nothing on the front, nothing on the back. "Dean, your shirt's inside out," he commented casually.
Dean made a face. "Funny guy."
"Well, why else isn't there some obscure, outdated band name or logo on it?" Sam pointed out reasonably.
Dean sighed, holding up another T-shirt made of more holes than cloth and tossing it into the wastebasket. "Hunting is too dangerous for band T-shirts."
Reviews buy me new AC/DC shirts. Well, not really, but I like 'em almost as much.