Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Music Is My Radar ❯ Music Is My Radar ( Chapter 1 )

Title: Music Is My Radar

Author: roguebitch

Rating: PG-13, for cussin'.

Pairing: None. Sam, Dean

Length: 1,584

Disclaimer: The boys don't belong to me, a fact I lament every day of my miserable, celibate existence. They belong to Kripke and the CW.

Feedback: Makes the writing engine to go.

Archive: Yes, just let me know.

Betas: Fantabulously beta'd by the fantabulous lady_fox and piwacket.

Summary: When Dean's cassettes melt, Sam finds that he has to take desperate measures to give Dean back his music.

 

 

When the Impala ate Dean's favorite Led Zeppelin mix, he moaned, “Ah, shit.” and ejected the cassette from the player. It trailed magnetic tape like cybernetic viscera. Dean looked at it mournfully.

 

Sam tried to be sympathetic, but he didn't really like Led Zep all that much and he knew that this was like the fourth iteration of this particular mix.

 

“Oh, well.” Dean cranked down the window and tossed the tape out, magnetic guts flapping behind it like a comet's tail. “Sammy, get me that Ozzy tape, wouldya?”

 

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned into the backseat to rummage around in the shoebox that held Dean's prized treasures - his mixed tapes. Finding the right one, he turned back around and handed it to Dean.

 

“Cassette technology is pretty obsolete, dude,” Sam remarked. “Why not use 8-tracks?”

 

“Ah, Sam,” Dean said condescendingly. “You just have no sense of cultural history.” Then he cranked “Crazy Train” up so loud Sam couldn't hear himself think, much less reply.

 

The end came on what was probably the hottest day of the summer in Savannah. Sam and Dean were doing daylight reconnaissance on a report of will-o-the-wisps and had been interviewing people for what felt like hours. They opened the doors of the Impala to let the oven-like heat dissipate. Sam stood outside the car, flapping his t-shirt to create some movement in the still, humid air while Dean rooted around in the backseat.

 

Sam heard a sound from Dean he thought he'd never hear, and before he had time to think, he was around the driver's side, urgently asking, “Dean, what is it?”

 

Dean backed out of the car cradling something in his hands. “My tapes,” he whispered brokenly.

 

Sam gave him an incredulous look. “You screamed a girly scream over your stupid tapes?”

 

“Dude, I did not.” Dean insisted, cuddling the shoebox close to his chest. “And they are not stupid. They're classic. They're - “

 

“Melted.” Sam finished, looking over Dean's shoulder.

 

The tapes were spectacularly ruined. The cases themselves were fine, but the cassettes were warped beyond all hope of saving, and the magnetic tape unraveled and parted from itself like warm taffy.

 

“Oh, wow,” Sam breathed. “That really sucks. I'm sorry, Dean.”

 

Dean grimaced. “Some of these were irreplaceable.” he said softly. Sam squeezed his shoulder.

 

Dean wordlessly opened up the back driver's side door and gently put the shoebox back on the floor. Then he slung himself into the driver's seat, all business once again. “Come on, Sammy, let's go rest up. We hunt tonight.”

 

**

 

The will-o-the-wisp turned out to be some stupid teenage kids on the river in canoes with lanterns who were lucky enough not to be capsized by one of the enormous container ships that populated the waterway. Sam and Dean went on their way unharmed, for once, but victory seemed somehow less victorious without Metallica or Def Leppard or Skynyrd to play them off.

 

Without road music, Dean was twitchy and distracted. He would endlessly spin the radio dial, hit on a song he liked (or a song Sam liked that he could mock), and then spin the dial again.

 

Without road tunes, the endless Winchester roadtrip was just…endless.

 

They never stayed in place long enough for Dean to be able to recreate his mixes, nor did they have the equipment.

 

“Why don't we get a CD changer for the car?” Sam suggested at last, weary of Dean's musical fidgets.

 

Dean gave Sam a look so scandalized that you'd have thought Sam had kindly suggested that Dean get neutered to deal with those pesky sexual urges.

 

“You are not changing a thing about my baby.” Dean stated, stroking the Impala's dashboard affectionately.

 

“Okay, that's kind of unsettling,” Sam said. “Dean, the '67 Impala didn't come with a cassette deck! Someone had to have installed it.”

 

“Yeah. Dad.”

 

Sam huffed into his bangs and gave up.

 

Miles and days and hunts and still Dean seemed like half a person without his soundtrack. It was just pitiful and Sam couldn't stand it.

 

He'd been wracking his brains since Savannah, trying to come up with a solution, or even a stopgap measure, that wouldn't damage the Impala's structural or spiritual integrity, and would make Dean happy again.

 

The solution struck him one day while he was doing research on his laptop and listening to iTunes. Sam got Dean to drop him off at the local Target with the promise that he'd pick up road snacks, and headed straight for the electronics section.

 

Sam walked out of the store feeling slightly more optimistic about their future travel, thanks to their latest fraudulent credit card.

 

While Dean was out hustling pool, Sam took the shoebox of cassettes (Dean hadn't been able to bring himself to even look at them since Savannah) out of the backseat. He stacked them up on the table by his laptop and carefully examined the cases.

 

Sam spent a few hours online (and no small amount of virtual money) downloading music and making playlists. Then he transferred them over to the iPod he'd bought.

 

By the time Dean rolled in, Sam had put the shoebox back in the car, and was back to ostensibly doing research. Dean yawned hugely, tossing a wad of cash on the nightstand.

 

“Man, those guys were suckers. You ready for lights out, Sammy? We have a long drive tomorrow.”

 

“Don't we always?” Sam replied by way of agreement, closing down his laptop.

 

Sam had no illusions about the reception his idea was going to get from Dean. He didn't care. Dean without his music just wasn't Dean. Dean without his music on long drives was practically unendurable. He didn't like to talk. Road games only went so far. So did Sam's patience and interest in hearing anecdotes about Dean's sexual exploits. Sometimes Sam wanted to wash his mind out with soap, followed by a quick bleach rinse.

 

This was the only way to get Dean back to center and make the eternal Winchester roadtrip worth having.

 

**

 

Sam and Dean were so acculturated to motel checkout times that they automatically woke up an hour beforehand unless they were staying more than one night, or mortally wounded. They were on the road in record time after their usual breakfast of grease and caffeine. Almost instantly, Dean started twiddling the radio dial. Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the iPod and what looked like a handful of wire. He plugged one end into the dashboard lighter.

 

“Hey, stop for a second.” Sam said. Dean left the radio between stations and suddenly “Kashmir” blared through the speakers.

 

Dean looked poleaxed. “The fuck?” he said faintly.

 

Sam held up the iPod. “Your favorite Zeppelin mix.”

 

It seemed like Dean would stare blankly at Sam and the iPod forever, but Sam yelled, “Dude! You're driving!” and Dean yanked his eyes back to the road.

 

Dean pulled off at the first rest stop they came to and glared at Sam.

 

“What is that-that thing?”

 

“An iPod.”

 

“I know that. What the hell are you doing with it, in my car, on my stereo?”

 

“Giving you back your music?” Dean was reacting exactly the way Sam thought he would, but Sam soldiered on through his explanation anyway. “Look, it's transmitted through the radio. No messing around with the Impala. And I can put all your mixes in one place.”

 

Dean looked skeptical. Hell, he looked downright angry. He snatched the iPod from Sam's hand.

 

“Man, that's just not right. I mean, I slaved over those tapes. Queued them and wrote out the insert cards, made them exactly right. You think that somehow with a few clicks of modern technology you can replace them?”

 

“Dean, just try it, okay? If you don't like what's on it, you can go back to listening to the radio. I was just trying to help out.” Annoyed, Sam flopped back in the passenger seat and glared out the windshield.

 

Dean looked at the tiny screen. “So, what's on here, anyway?”

 

“Everything that was in the shoebox.” Sam said petulantly. “The same sequence, the same order, nothing's changed except the format.”

 

“Well, all right. As long as you didn't slip any of that emo shit on there.” Dean raised his voice in a trembly falsetto. “We'll do it all/Everything, all at once…”

 

Sam scowled at his brother. “Screw you. I have my own iPod. And you're welcome.”

 

Dean chuckled. He put the Impala back in gear and got them back on the highway. After ten miles, he started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. After twenty miles, he was singing along with some of the songs. Sam looked out the window and smiled where Dean couldn't see him.

 

“You know, music in digital format doesn't sound as good as it does on cassette or vinyl. It loses depth.” Dean stated.

 

“Yes, Dean.” Sam humored his brother.

 

“As soon as we get a chance, we're goin' up to Bobby's and I'm replacing those tapes.”

 

“Fine, Dean.” Sam turned in the passenger seat and closed his eyes. The familiar sound of Dean's mix filled the space between them, and the sound of Dean singing softly along with it wove itself into Sam's dreams.

 

Sam smiled in his sleep as he heard Dean say, “Thank you, Sammy.”