Title: Moo you bloody choir
Characters: Dean & Sam Winchester
Disclaimer: Belongs to Eric Kripke and all other associated people. Title shamefully stolen from Augie March’s new album cause it’s humourous and I couldn’t think of anything else.
Summary: Just a little Winchester car ride.
Word Count: 578
Another diner; another long day on the road. Sam followed Dean out to the parking lot, observing the slight spring in his step as he headed for the black Impala, the keys swinging around playfully on his fingers.
“Guess it’s another five hours til we get there,” Sam said, squinting as he looked up the road into the face of the sun.
“Yup,” Dean returned lightly.
He opened the car door, sliding into the driver’s seat as Sam climbed in on the other side. Closing the door, he started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, a fine spray of dust left in their wake.
They drove down the empty road passing an endless amount of trees and just… nothingness. It was often like this. The most exciting thing was to see a car pass in the opposite direction every half hour or so.
Dean drummed his fingers and thumb on the edge of the steering wheel, humming lightly to himself as Sam stared out the window.
“I wonder if dad’s journal had anything about this demon,” Sam said, glancing back to Dean.
“Mmm,” Dean mumbled in response.
“Mmm yes or mmm no?”
“I didn’t think that was a question,” Dean responded.
“Well I just wanted to look at something before we got there.”
“Well, Sammy, the day they invent laptop abilities into nineteen-sixties cars, I’ll let you know,” Dean gibed, knowing his brother would prefer to be googling something than sitting in the passenger seat doing nothing.
“Thanks Dean,” Sam returned sarcastically.
“If you’re bored you can turn on the stereo,” Dean said, waving his hand towards the device in the middle of the dashboard.
“And listen to your collection of the greatest hair-bands of all time? I think I’ll pass.”
Dean shrugged. “Okay. Your loss.”
He navigated the car around another bend, taking a turn off the road they were on and heading onto another highway. Glancing out the window, he started humming again, his fingers tapping away at the edge of the steering wheel.
“Well, my fiddle was my daddys till the day he died, and he took me by the hand and held me close to his side, said ‘Live a good life and play my fiddle with pride, and thank God you’re a country boy’,” Dean sang.
“Dean,” Sam said warningly.
“My daddy taught me young how to hunt and how to whittle, taught me how to work and play a tune on the fiddle, taught me how to love and how to give just a little,” Dean continued to sing, drawing the last word out. He tapped his hands with a little drumming action against the top edge of the steering wheel. “Thank God Im a country boy.”
“Dean!” Sam cried, slapping his hand down on the side of the steering wheel, grabbing the framework so he wouldn’t inadvertedly knock it and send the car off the road.
Dean grinned and looked over to his younger brother. “Yeah?”
“Stop it,” Sam said.
“Why? We’re country boys, and that song’s been stuck in my head since we left the roadhouse.”
“Dean, I don’t care. Just stop singing it,” Sam said. “I’d rather hear the greatest hits of mullet rock than that.”
“Your wish is my command,” Dean said, grinning mishevously as he reached down to the radio and switched it on. Loud music blasted through the car making Sam cringe back into his seat. “I knew I’d win you over eventually.”