DONT THINK

starsinursa:

never-forget-viva-la-pluto:

about dean not being able to listen to Zepplin now, no matter how much he loves it

They’re somewhere past York, Nebraska, heading south on US 81, when Sam stumbles across the classic rock station. It’s not really his thing – never really been his thing – but Dean is asleep in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window and swaying slightly with every movement of the car, and even though he should be relaxed, his forehead is still creased, mouth turned down in a slight frown. So Sam leaves it. Maybe the familiar music will filter into his brother’s dreams and help loosen the tight clench of jaw. Sam hopes so.

In my time of dying, want nobody to mourn
All I want for you to do is take my body home

Well, well, well, so I can die easy 
Well, well, well, so I can die easy 

It’s weird that Dean agreed to let Sam drive without a fight, but it’s only one more thing on a long list of ‘weird’. Dean’s been off for weeks, ever since they burned Cas’ body on the shore next to the lake. He isn’t grieving, as far as Sam can tell, which would probably be easier to deal with. Instead, Dean is just…checked out. He eats, he sleeps, he lets Sam drag him on hunts, but any excitement or passion for…well, anything…seems to have evaporated.

Jesus, gonna make up my dyin’ bed.
Meet me, Jesus, meet me. 
Meet me in the middle of the air
If my wings should fail me, Lord.
Please meet me with another pair…

Sam’s not sure what to do for him. He’s tried getting Dean to open up and talk about it – Dean just stares at him flatly until Sam runs out of things to say and putters into an awkward silence. He’s tried keeping him busy and dragging him on hunts – Dean goes along as if it’s a chore, going through the motions.

Oh, I did somebody some good, somebody some good…
Oh, did somebody some good.
I must have did somebody some good…
Oh, I believe I did…

“Turn it off.”

The radio is turned up, playing over the rumble of the Impala, and Sam doesn’t hear him.

Hear the angels marchin’, hear the’ marchin’,
hear them marchin’, hear them marchin’, the’ marchin’ …

“I said TURN IT OFF!”

When Dean sits up and slams his hand against the radio, hard, Sam jerks the wheel and swears. The Impala jumpes over onto the shoulder of the road, vibrating hard on the rumble strips, and Sam flips on the hazard lights and pushes down on the brake. They slowly coast to a stop. The radio is silent.

He slams the car in park and swivels in his seat. “What the hell, Dean! You could’ve gotten us killed!”

Dean is glaring at him. Even in the dark, he can see it. It’s the first emotion Sam has seen in days.

“I told you to turn it off,” he snaps.

“Well, obviously I couldn’t hear you, asshole!” Sam snaps back. “What’s your problem anyways? You love Zepp.”

Dean’s face darkens like a thundercloud and he twists away, staring out the window. For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Sam’s already accepted he’s not going to, until:

“I put that song on the tape.”

Sam doesn’t need clarification. He knows what Dean is talking about, and the anger leaks out of him like a balloon.

“…oh.”

Dean glares out at the dark highway. “I thought he’d like the references to the angels, and Jesus Christ, and the gates of Heaven, and all that shit. Probably get all literal and tell me how inaccurate it is.” His lips twitch up faintly at the thought, and Sam’s heart breaks. “I never got his opinion though, we didn’t get a chance to talk about the songs before – uh -” He stops and clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“…we’ll get him back, Dean. We’ll find a way.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s face is resigned, and Sam can tell he doesn’t believe it. “Okay.”

“Dean -”

But apparently Dean is done talking about it, because he unbuckles his seat belt in one smooth motion and pops open the passenger door. “Scoot, Sammy. I’m wide awake now, I’ll drive. You can catch some shut-eye.” He’s out the door without waiting for an answer. 

Sam sighs but doesn’t argue, reluctantly unbuckling his own belt. 

It’s a long drive back to the Bunker, but the radio stays quiet.