The Day The Music Died

Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.

Rating: T, for the occasional swear words.

Summary: After retrieving a cursed pipe from their latest hunt, Dean is forced to forever speak in an old English accent.

© Scarlet-Child

"This is wonderful. This really is."

If he hadn't been so preoccupied with the three-inch long gash on his forearm, Sam Winchester might have cracked a smile at his older brother's sardonic statement. Instead, his lips performed a half-amused, half-pained smirk as he sank into the Impala's leather interior.

Dean shot him a look from the driver's seat.

"You okay?" he asked, dropping the sarcasm in his tone.

Sam nodded, despite the fact that his arm felt like it was about to drop off. It was rare that his brother showed concern on his brother's behalf, and it was even rarer that he allowed him to sit inside the impala while he dripped torrents of blood onto the floor.

"There's a box of Kleenex in the back," Dean told him, as he steered the car out of the woods.

"Yeah."

Gingerly, Sam removed his right hand from the wound. He regretted it instantly, when another rush of pain surged through his arm. He groaned, leaning his head back against the seat.

Dean took one hand from the wheel to inspect his younger brother's arm.

"It's not too deep," he muttered.

Sam wrenched his arm from his older brother's grip.

"Not too deep? Are you serious?! It almost ripped my arm off!"

Dean cast him a wary look, turning his attention back to the road.

"It'll be fine. Just throw some Savlon on it."

That was Dean's outlook on life: if it bleeds, throw some Savlon on it, and everything will be a-okay.

Sam groaned, and tossed his head back down to the wound. It was then that he noticed that he was clutching something in his left hand.

"Do you want me to …"

Dean noticed the hesitancy in his tone.

"What's wrong?" he asked automatically.

Sam placed the frayed sack onto his lap.

"It's nothing…" he muttered, "Just the bag we picked up from the demon."

Dean snorted.

"Oh great… a souvenir from our fantastic battle with the kleptomaniac demon."

"We could sell it on e-bay," Sam joked.

Dean shot him a side-glance of amusement.

"See, I told you it's not that bad. The Savlon's working."

"I didn't put any on, Dean," Sam replied, annoyed.

To take his mind off of the blood gushing from inside his arm, he began to rummage through the sack with his free hand. Surprisingly enough, Dean didn't stop him. In fact, he seemed rather interested in finding out the contents of the bag.

"What's in it, Sammy?"

"Junk," he replied sourly, releasing handfuls of rusted objects into his lap. "And it's Sa -"

"Is that a mouth organ?" Dean cut him off, plucking the instrument from his lap.

"Watch out," Sam warned him.

"Why?" Dean taunted him, "It's not like it could be curse me into playing the blues forever."

To prove his point, he blasted on the organ. Sam resisted the urge to cover his ears with his injured arm.

"Actually, I was referring to your continued use of my childhood nickname and the consequences that will follow if it doesn't end," he shot back.

Dean grinned.

"Whatever," he replied, and then winced.

"What?"

"Whoever used that thing last was deprived of modern day mouth wash… that's disgusting..."

Sam grinned and fiddled through the assorted objects of the sack, most of which seemed completely useless, like the shoehorn and rusted whistle. While inspecting a vial full of a bubbly substance, he accidentally knocked a trickle of it onto his arm.

"Argh..." he winced, as it burnt his wound.

His eyes fell upon the pile again, and that was when one of the objects caught his attention.

"Hey…" Sam said softly, picking up a wooden pipe from the mess. It was unusually small for a pipe, painted black and gold, with silver dots decorating the sides.

Dean snatched the object from his hand as they rolled to a stop.

"Hey! That's my pipe!" Sam protested, "And why did we stop?"

His question was answered by the glittering lights of the motel's carpark. Dean yanked the door open, and Sam soon followed suit, taking the sack with him. The brother entered the motel together, Dean fixated by the pipe.

"Dude, stop staring at it. It's just a pipe."

Dean didn't respond.

"Don't even think about smoking it. It looks ancient. You'll get lung cancer from one puff."

There was still no reply.

"Look," he said, after handing the woman at the counter a few rolled up bills from within his jeans. "Let's just get some rest, okay? Maybe we'll wake up tomorrow and my arm will be miraculously healed. And maybe you'll feel like answering me."

Rays of light peeked through the blinds of their motel room. Wondering what had disturbed his slumber, Sam sat up, rubbing his eyes.

Looking down at once-injured arm, his jaw dropped

"Dean!" he yelled, "Look! The gash's gone!"

A small grunt followed his statement. Sam, not sure whether to be shocked or amazed at his newfound discovery, looked up to find his brother sitting in a chair in the corner. The pipe they found was in his mouth, and he had a very dazed, and uncharacteristically cheery expression upon his handsome face.

"Dean…? Are you okay?"

Dean plucked the pipe from his lips, his face breaking into a grin.

"Of course I am, my dear brother! Say, do you fancy joining me for a smoke? You'll have to obtain your own pipe, I'm afraid; I seem to have just the one on me!"

What do you think? Should I continue?

And I should probably point out that I don't actually know any old English slang, so if you happen to be fluent in it, please don't criticize my pathetic attempt at it.