17Gonna Sing You My Love Song
Tags: ABBA. 1000 words.
000
He doesn't like it when I mess with the Impala.
"What the fuck?" he yells, when he guns the engine, and the radio is playing a too familiar, despised tune; better than I could have hoped for, even.
"So when you're near me, darling can't you hear me? S.O.S. …"
I just laugh, sliding into the passenger seat, clutching my stomach, the scandalised look on his face as his baby is violated making my sides ache.
He's too easy.
000
The next time I do it he's falling asleep on Sam's shoulder in the back of the Impala, out of reach. He should know better by now, than to ever let me drive without him nearby, conscious, and vigilant. Wink at Sharika, slip the tape in I got at the latest gas station, wait with the volume down super-low and almost indistinguishable, until the chorus comes on in all it's loud, wonderful, disco glory. Then I turn it up full blast; sing along with a huge grin on my face, victorious.
"Mama mia, here I go again; my, my, how can I resist you? Mama mia, does it show again? My, my, just how much I've missed you. Yes, I've been broken hearted –"
He's shouting curses and reaching for the tape deck, I'm trying to shove his hands away, laughing again, trying to keep the car straight, trying to pretend that it's all just a joke, a prank to piss him off – yeah, that's all it is. It's not some weird subliminal message, the lyrics aren't meant to get stuck in his mind and relate back to me continuously, all day.
It's not my way of telling him – hello, asshole, you freak – I LOVE YOU.
Dean chucks the tape viciously out of Sharika's window; I watch it bounce on the tarmac and get crushed by the car behind us, listening to the new music he shoved in, still muttering to himself.
"…got you in a stranglehold baby, you best get out of the way…"
Oh, fuck him.
It's on.
000
The next time it comes up, it's not my fault.
We're in one of those skanky, rock-and-roll type, half-Elvis-Presley-shrine-half-diner, with the red vinyl seats, the electric guitar on the wall, and the banged up old jukebox. Someone was obviously a fan.
"Waterloo – couldn't escape if I wanted to; Waterloo – knowing my fate is to be with you…"
"Oh, come on," he grunts, shifts down further in his seat as some of the locals start dancing and singing and laughing, gyrating their hips, holding salt shakers to their mouths in lieu of microphones. I'm the only other one at our table; Sam's in the bathroom, Sharika's ordering, because she was too hungry to wait for the waitress to come over. I take it as a sign.
"Yeah, Dean, come on," I said, held out my hand, grinning, daring him with a look from under my eyelashes.
He takes a big bite out of his toast, shakes the newspaper open between us, and hides behind it, ignoring me. I drop my hand.
"I feel like I win when I lose –"
Yeah, fucking, right.
000
It's getting to be habit between us now; he even turns the volume of the Impala down before he turns the engine on – that's how worried he is someone will hear the deafening dance music coming out of his classic, manly-man, musclebound black car. I still try to slip it past him, my particular blue-faced monkey with a death wish.
So the next time I get past his defences is after a hunt; we're all piling into the car, racing and slipping because the security guard at the cemetery caught us, trying to get out of there as soon as we could – and when Dean turns the key the radio starts screaming, tunes flying out into the night, halting the guard with shock.
"…better not get too high. But I'm gonna stick to you, boy, you'll never get rid of me. There's no place in this world I'd rather be…"
Dean snaps the radio off viciously, peels out of the parking lot and leaves a skid mark on the pavement longer than his body, Sam and Sharika rolling around on the backseat, cracking up after a stunned pause, me sitting up the front trying to look innocent and failing. They know about the vendetta; they'd been waiting for Dean to fall for it again.
I just wondered when, how, if he'd be getting me back.
I hoped so.
000
"Love me or leave me, make your choice but believe me; I love you. I do, I do, I do, I do, I do. I can't conceal it, don't you see, can't you feel –"
Long, tanned, calloused fingers eject the tape, carefully slip it inside its cover and chuck it into the tape-box on the back seat.
"You know, I might actually think you mean something by it if you keep doing this." Trademark dirty grin with the crinkling hazel eyes, and yeah-right look smeared all across his face.
You think?!
"You know, if you keep saying things like that, I might think you have an ego the size of a small whale."
000
"Touch my lips, close your eyes and see with your fingertips; things that you do, and you know I'm crazy about you. Kiss of fire, burning, burning –"
"That's it!" Dean says, pulls the Impala off to the shoulder of the road, savagely cuts its purr off and breathes out sharply.
"What?" I ask, eyes wide, guileless, and then he grabbed me, pulled me over the seat and planted his mouth down on mine. I think they may have underestimated, when they said burning. It's beyond burning – it's consumed.
I kissed him back, desperate, needy, panting and wild, hands running up his shoulders to make sure I didn't keel over, leg swinging over to staddle him.
When we stopped for breath, I managed a, "What the hell, Dean?"
"Maybe I'm a closet ABBA fan." And he laughed.
000
AN: Reviews are love!
All the lyrics are ABBA songs, of course; the title is an ABBA song… and no, to the best of my knowledge, Dean is not an ABBA fan. We can continue to hope so, too.