Supernatural fanfic, PG, 'ware the crack
Tuesday, January 1st, 2008 07:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tsaikoI've been threatening to write this fic ever since ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shoiryu started showing me this series. I had forgotten I'd even started it. Slapped the punch line ending on it and am calling it done.
Sometimes, Sam hated the car.
He would never, ever say anything, but there were times when Sam hated the Impala. It handled like a garbage scow, taking the turns slowly and at its own leisure and with the turning radius of a plow. It was just too big. Sure you could fit a body in the trunk, but it was also impossible to park in a parking spot. If it had been white, Sam would have referred to it as "Moby." Because it was black, he privately thought of the car as "Shamu."
It also went through gas like it was water. Dean didn't have a problem with that because he could just hustle up some money playing pool or use one of the numerous fake credit cards he had. Sam was cleaning out under one of the seats and found a card for Freddy Mercury. Freddy Mercury. That was just pathetic even for Dean.
Currenly, he was twenty-three miles outside of a town called Borger on Highway 136 heading towards Amarillo and, hopefully, a cheap motel with a bed. That was assuming that the land boat didn't run out of gas before then. Sam knew he should have stopped and gotten gas.
Up above, the sky was turning from vibrant reds and oranges to more muted tones of purple and blue. The landscape could be described as scrub with a bit of dirt thrown in, not that Sam could see much in the fading light. Only what the headlights picked out.
The trip was beginning to wear on his nerves. Sam couldn't remember when he'd last slept. Sometime before he'd investigated what had sounded like chupacabra attacks in Prattville, Alabama. He still wasn't sure what exactly had been attacking the town, but Dean's method of setting stuff on fire seemed to have worked.
Dean...
Too much thinking. He needed to distract himself.
"I have got to invest in an MP3 player." Sam grabbed a tape at random and shoved it into the tape player. Even mullet rock was preferable to the over whelming silence. The click and hum of the tape player was unnaturally loud.
Something was wrong. Sam could tell as much as soon as the tape started playing. It sounded almost warped: the notes and vocals pulled and pushed together until it was no longer music. That didn't stop him from realizing that the tape just hadn't been lying for too long in the sun. He was too good to be fooled.
For all that he bitched and moaned about how the car handled, the Impala could be amazingly responsive when you turned the wheel sharply. The shocks did little to cushion him as Sam steered the car off the road. In the back seat was his laptop, the third he'd gone through in less than two years.
Minutes later he was using the microphone to record the sounds coming off the tape onto his computer. The laptop was open in his lap and his knees were banging into the steering wheel. Sam didn't care. He knew an EVP when he heard that.
He ran the standard filters on it to weed out the background. Then Sam cranked up the volume. The voice was unmistakable.
"Saaaaam. Wash the car. And would it kill you wax it once in a while?"
It took a few second before it dawned on Sam what that voice meant.
Dean was haunting the Impala.
shoiryu started showing me this series. I had forgotten I'd even started it. Slapped the Sometimes, Sam hated the car.
He would never, ever say anything, but there were times when Sam hated the Impala. It handled like a garbage scow, taking the turns slowly and at its own leisure and with the turning radius of a plow. It was just too big. Sure you could fit a body in the trunk, but it was also impossible to park in a parking spot. If it had been white, Sam would have referred to it as "Moby." Because it was black, he privately thought of the car as "Shamu."
It also went through gas like it was water. Dean didn't have a problem with that because he could just hustle up some money playing pool or use one of the numerous fake credit cards he had. Sam was cleaning out under one of the seats and found a card for Freddy Mercury. Freddy Mercury. That was just pathetic even for Dean.
Currenly, he was twenty-three miles outside of a town called Borger on Highway 136 heading towards Amarillo and, hopefully, a cheap motel with a bed. That was assuming that the land boat didn't run out of gas before then. Sam knew he should have stopped and gotten gas.
Up above, the sky was turning from vibrant reds and oranges to more muted tones of purple and blue. The landscape could be described as scrub with a bit of dirt thrown in, not that Sam could see much in the fading light. Only what the headlights picked out.
The trip was beginning to wear on his nerves. Sam couldn't remember when he'd last slept. Sometime before he'd investigated what had sounded like chupacabra attacks in Prattville, Alabama. He still wasn't sure what exactly had been attacking the town, but Dean's method of setting stuff on fire seemed to have worked.
Dean...
Too much thinking. He needed to distract himself.
"I have got to invest in an MP3 player." Sam grabbed a tape at random and shoved it into the tape player. Even mullet rock was preferable to the over whelming silence. The click and hum of the tape player was unnaturally loud.
Something was wrong. Sam could tell as much as soon as the tape started playing. It sounded almost warped: the notes and vocals pulled and pushed together until it was no longer music. That didn't stop him from realizing that the tape just hadn't been lying for too long in the sun. He was too good to be fooled.
For all that he bitched and moaned about how the car handled, the Impala could be amazingly responsive when you turned the wheel sharply. The shocks did little to cushion him as Sam steered the car off the road. In the back seat was his laptop, the third he'd gone through in less than two years.
Minutes later he was using the microphone to record the sounds coming off the tape onto his computer. The laptop was open in his lap and his knees were banging into the steering wheel. Sam didn't care. He knew an EVP when he heard that.
He ran the standard filters on it to weed out the background. Then Sam cranked up the volume. The voice was unmistakable.
"Saaaaam. Wash the car. And would it kill you wax it once in a while?"
It took a few second before it dawned on Sam what that voice meant.
Dean was haunting the Impala.
(no subject)
Date: 1/2/08 12:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/2/08 12:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/2/08 12:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/2/08 12:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/2/08 01:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 1/2/08 04:13 pm (UTC)You know, I should totally make it so the Impala doesn't run out of gas ever EXCEPT at the worse possible time for Sam. Even if he just filled up the tank. Thanks Dean!
(no subject)
Date: 1/2/08 06:17 am (UTC)