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dixiehellcatHello, lj. Long time no see. :-)
I haven't written in ages, but my cousin tetiny & I went to Nashcon earlier in June and got mugged by a fic idea while there. That just seemed to open the flood gates, and boy, am I happy. I didn't realize how much I missed writing.
Anyway, I was thinking this weekend, wondering how Dean Winchester, lover of classic rock, would react to the death of the legendary Clarence Clemons of Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band, and wishing somebody would write it. Apparently, the boys decided that somebody was going to be me. They told me all about it on the way to work this morning, and I wrote it on my lunch hour. After a bit of research to fill in a couple of gaps in detailing, here it is.
ETA--a kind commenter pointed out that on the Human Touch tour in 1992, in OUR world, Bruce was not traveling with the E Street Band. However, in SPN's world, he did. Fair enough? lol
Beneath the City Two Hearts Beat
Pairing/Characters: Gen; Sam, Dean
Rating: PG for some language
Words: 1500
Summary: A tribute to Clarence Clemons, by way of the Winchester brothers. Takes place now, as in, this past week; ergo, spoilers up thru the end of S6, plus a couple of my wild ideas about S7. Also a reference to a fic my cousin & I are working on, so if you see something puzzling toward the end, that’s probably it. Feel free to ask, but I’ll just say Stay Tuned. hehe
On a Monday afternoon in June, the Winchesters sat in a small-town library in Kentucky. Sam was surfing the net for cases, while Dean flipped through a Playboy he’d smuggled in, stuck inside a ragged old issue of Southern Living he’d snagged from the giveaway pile in the foyer.
“Aw, damn,” Sam said staring at the computer screen, sounding upset. “Clarence Clemons had a stroke.”
“Clarance? Springsteen’s Big Man? When?”
“Yesterday. Says here he was in Florida at his house. Must be pretty bad, it says they called Bruce and the band to come down.”
Dean made a face. “That sucks. He’s the best damn sax man who ever lived.”
Sam nodded in agreement. “Hope he gets better soon. I’d love to see the E Streeters live again. Remember the time dad took us in Chicago?”
Dean regarded his little brother with some surprise. “Yeah, but I’m surprised you do. You were nine, and classic rock wasn’t exactly your thing.”
“You are kidding, right? Springsteen’s timeless. The guy transcends genre. In the Middle Ages he’d have been an epic poet. Besides, that was one of the best times we ever had as a family. How’d dad sneak all three of us in there, anyway?”
“He didn’t.” Dean grinned as the warmth of the memory unfurled in his chest. “I asked him that too. He spent nearly all of his stash to buy us legit tickets. Said he wasn’t gonna risk gettin’ thrown out with us there, but every red-blooded American boy needed to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band live at least once.”
“No kidding? He bought those tickets? Man, did he score. Those were some great seats, remember? Even as short as I was, I could still see the whole stage. And the show ran like three hours. I kept looking at that tacky old robot watch of mine, and wondering how they could keep that up! Bruce running around the stage like a lunatic, soaked with sweat, and Clarence standing blowing that saxophone.” Sam shook his head in frank admiration.
Dean, on the other hand, shook his head in near-confusion. “I don’t remember half of that. How do you?”
Sam chuckled. “It’s funny, but since—“ He tapped his temple. “Since the wall came down in here—my memories of Hell are there, sure, but all these old, good memories came back too. Stuff I hadn’t thought about in years. It’s like my brain is trying to balance things out.”
Both were quiet for a long time, thinking of the way that wall had come down; the way Castiel had pulled it down, to keep Dean and Sam out of his end game to stop the angelic civil war. He had won, but they still didn’t know at what cost. Dean suppressed a small shudder as he recalled the last time he’d seen Cas, how absorbing the souls of Purgatory had given him the power he needed to stop Raphael and his faction from taking over Heaven, but seemingly driven him over the edge of sanity. As clearly as though it had happened moments instead of weeks before, Dean could hear Cas proclaim himself god, demand they worship him, then start to shake and fall to the floor. Heedless of Sam and Bobby’s cries of alarm, Dean had gone to his friend. He could still se Cas’ blue eyes huge with fear, and hear him gasp Dean’s name before letting out an anguished wail and vanishing.
They didn’t know where he was, or if they would ever see him again. On earth, things hadn’t changed much. There were still things out there in the dark that needed to be fought, and the brothers continued to fight them. At the moment, though, they were between jobs, hence Sam’s compulsive scanning of the internet. Dean suggested they take a run to Orlando to stand outside Clarence Clemons’ hospital, just for moral support in his recovery, but Sam convinced him that was far too stalkerish. When Sam ran across some new Mothman reports, they took off for Jersey. While they were there, they had a beer at the Stone Pony, and signed the names they were born with to an enormous get-well card.
Sam also found countless get-well videos online, including one on youtube posted by, of all people, Lady Gaga. Dean was a bit squicked out that he might actually agree with her on something, but on second thought, it took all kinds.
On the following Saturday afternoon, they had just finished working a case in Nebraska, an Alien Big Cat report that turned out to be somebody’s lost Rottweiler. The Winchesters had actually caught and returned the dog, checked his tags and returned him to his grateful owners, scoring a small reward. After stopping at the motel long enough for Sam to wash the dog slobber off his hands (and the stinkface that that had brought on had almost made Dean want to keep the big lug. The dog, that is, not Sam. Although Sam could be considered a big lug too.) they grabbed their gear, checked out and hit a nearby Denny’s for some supper. The place had wifi, so after Sam ate he pulled out his laptop to catch up while Dean chowed down. “Oh shit!” Sam said sadly. “Clarence just died.”
Dean stopped chewing. “Aw, man,” he said after he swallowed. “Really? That’s hard to believe. I mean…it’s like a national monument is gone. Like the Alamo collapsed or something.”
Sam’s fingers tapped on the keyboard. “I just signed the condolence book online for us both.”
“Dude, you didn’t put—“
“No, ya dork. I signed us Nicole Polizzi and Michael Sorrentino.”
Despite his heavy heart, Dean cackled out loud. “Snooki and the Situation. Good one. Jersey Shore would represent. I got the abs, and you got the girly hair.”
Sam flipped him a good-natured bird. They paid and walked outside. Dean went to the trunk of the Impala and rooted around in a shoebox of cassettes. “Ah,” he said as he found the ones he sought. He laid it on the front seat as he maneuvered the big car out of town and toward the highway. They had several hours of road ahead of them; their next stop was a little town in New Mexico, courtesy of a lead sent to them by their ghost-chasing cousin in Nevada.
Sam picked up the tape and squinted at the label. “This is our show! Tinley Park, Illinois, September 2, 1992. How’d you get this?”
“You think you’re the only one who knows their way around the net?” Dean smirked, took the first tape and put it in. “I even added a few tracks, songs dad really liked that they didn’t play that night, pulled them from other show recordings.”
It surprised Sam how much of the lyrics he recalled. They sang together to song after song, as the dark hours and miles rolled past. Neither could sing worth a damn, but that didn’t matter. Every time the distinctive wail of Clarence Clemons’ saxophone cut through the speakers, they both just sat and listened in near-reverent quiet. “I just had a funny thought,” Sam admitted between tracks. “I never did ask Gabriel if he actually played the horn.”
Dean’s smile matched Sam’s, thinking of the wild archangel who had sacrificed himself to stop his mad brother Lucifer. “You think maybe there’s a bad jam session goin’ on right about now?” he said. “Man, that would almost be worth breakin’ into Heaven again for.”
The plaintive sax solo of Jungleland nearly brought tears to Sam’s eyes. “Rest in peace, Big Man,” Dean said softly. As the epic song approached its end, his voice and his brother’s rose again into the night air.
“Outside the street’s on fire in a real death waltz, between what’s flesh and what’s fantasy.
And man, the poets down here don’t write nothin’ at all, they just stand back and let it all be,
And in the quick of the night, they reach for their moment and try to make an honest stand.
But they wind up wounded, and not even dead.
Tonight—in—Jungle—land…”
(and just in case you've never heard it...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-PTJHhUeAfc)
I haven't written in ages, but my cousin tetiny & I went to Nashcon earlier in June and got mugged by a fic idea while there. That just seemed to open the flood gates, and boy, am I happy. I didn't realize how much I missed writing.
Anyway, I was thinking this weekend, wondering how Dean Winchester, lover of classic rock, would react to the death of the legendary Clarence Clemons of Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band, and wishing somebody would write it. Apparently, the boys decided that somebody was going to be me. They told me all about it on the way to work this morning, and I wrote it on my lunch hour. After a bit of research to fill in a couple of gaps in detailing, here it is.
ETA--a kind commenter pointed out that on the Human Touch tour in 1992, in OUR world, Bruce was not traveling with the E Street Band. However, in SPN's world, he did. Fair enough? lol
Beneath the City Two Hearts Beat
Pairing/Characters: Gen; Sam, Dean
Rating: PG for some language
Words: 1500
Summary: A tribute to Clarence Clemons, by way of the Winchester brothers. Takes place now, as in, this past week; ergo, spoilers up thru the end of S6, plus a couple of my wild ideas about S7. Also a reference to a fic my cousin & I are working on, so if you see something puzzling toward the end, that’s probably it. Feel free to ask, but I’ll just say Stay Tuned. hehe
On a Monday afternoon in June, the Winchesters sat in a small-town library in Kentucky. Sam was surfing the net for cases, while Dean flipped through a Playboy he’d smuggled in, stuck inside a ragged old issue of Southern Living he’d snagged from the giveaway pile in the foyer.
“Aw, damn,” Sam said staring at the computer screen, sounding upset. “Clarence Clemons had a stroke.”
“Clarance? Springsteen’s Big Man? When?”
“Yesterday. Says here he was in Florida at his house. Must be pretty bad, it says they called Bruce and the band to come down.”
Dean made a face. “That sucks. He’s the best damn sax man who ever lived.”
Sam nodded in agreement. “Hope he gets better soon. I’d love to see the E Streeters live again. Remember the time dad took us in Chicago?”
Dean regarded his little brother with some surprise. “Yeah, but I’m surprised you do. You were nine, and classic rock wasn’t exactly your thing.”
“You are kidding, right? Springsteen’s timeless. The guy transcends genre. In the Middle Ages he’d have been an epic poet. Besides, that was one of the best times we ever had as a family. How’d dad sneak all three of us in there, anyway?”
“He didn’t.” Dean grinned as the warmth of the memory unfurled in his chest. “I asked him that too. He spent nearly all of his stash to buy us legit tickets. Said he wasn’t gonna risk gettin’ thrown out with us there, but every red-blooded American boy needed to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band live at least once.”
“No kidding? He bought those tickets? Man, did he score. Those were some great seats, remember? Even as short as I was, I could still see the whole stage. And the show ran like three hours. I kept looking at that tacky old robot watch of mine, and wondering how they could keep that up! Bruce running around the stage like a lunatic, soaked with sweat, and Clarence standing blowing that saxophone.” Sam shook his head in frank admiration.
Dean, on the other hand, shook his head in near-confusion. “I don’t remember half of that. How do you?”
Sam chuckled. “It’s funny, but since—“ He tapped his temple. “Since the wall came down in here—my memories of Hell are there, sure, but all these old, good memories came back too. Stuff I hadn’t thought about in years. It’s like my brain is trying to balance things out.”
Both were quiet for a long time, thinking of the way that wall had come down; the way Castiel had pulled it down, to keep Dean and Sam out of his end game to stop the angelic civil war. He had won, but they still didn’t know at what cost. Dean suppressed a small shudder as he recalled the last time he’d seen Cas, how absorbing the souls of Purgatory had given him the power he needed to stop Raphael and his faction from taking over Heaven, but seemingly driven him over the edge of sanity. As clearly as though it had happened moments instead of weeks before, Dean could hear Cas proclaim himself god, demand they worship him, then start to shake and fall to the floor. Heedless of Sam and Bobby’s cries of alarm, Dean had gone to his friend. He could still se Cas’ blue eyes huge with fear, and hear him gasp Dean’s name before letting out an anguished wail and vanishing.
They didn’t know where he was, or if they would ever see him again. On earth, things hadn’t changed much. There were still things out there in the dark that needed to be fought, and the brothers continued to fight them. At the moment, though, they were between jobs, hence Sam’s compulsive scanning of the internet. Dean suggested they take a run to Orlando to stand outside Clarence Clemons’ hospital, just for moral support in his recovery, but Sam convinced him that was far too stalkerish. When Sam ran across some new Mothman reports, they took off for Jersey. While they were there, they had a beer at the Stone Pony, and signed the names they were born with to an enormous get-well card.
Sam also found countless get-well videos online, including one on youtube posted by, of all people, Lady Gaga. Dean was a bit squicked out that he might actually agree with her on something, but on second thought, it took all kinds.
On the following Saturday afternoon, they had just finished working a case in Nebraska, an Alien Big Cat report that turned out to be somebody’s lost Rottweiler. The Winchesters had actually caught and returned the dog, checked his tags and returned him to his grateful owners, scoring a small reward. After stopping at the motel long enough for Sam to wash the dog slobber off his hands (and the stinkface that that had brought on had almost made Dean want to keep the big lug. The dog, that is, not Sam. Although Sam could be considered a big lug too.) they grabbed their gear, checked out and hit a nearby Denny’s for some supper. The place had wifi, so after Sam ate he pulled out his laptop to catch up while Dean chowed down. “Oh shit!” Sam said sadly. “Clarence just died.”
Dean stopped chewing. “Aw, man,” he said after he swallowed. “Really? That’s hard to believe. I mean…it’s like a national monument is gone. Like the Alamo collapsed or something.”
Sam’s fingers tapped on the keyboard. “I just signed the condolence book online for us both.”
“Dude, you didn’t put—“
“No, ya dork. I signed us Nicole Polizzi and Michael Sorrentino.”
Despite his heavy heart, Dean cackled out loud. “Snooki and the Situation. Good one. Jersey Shore would represent. I got the abs, and you got the girly hair.”
Sam flipped him a good-natured bird. They paid and walked outside. Dean went to the trunk of the Impala and rooted around in a shoebox of cassettes. “Ah,” he said as he found the ones he sought. He laid it on the front seat as he maneuvered the big car out of town and toward the highway. They had several hours of road ahead of them; their next stop was a little town in New Mexico, courtesy of a lead sent to them by their ghost-chasing cousin in Nevada.
Sam picked up the tape and squinted at the label. “This is our show! Tinley Park, Illinois, September 2, 1992. How’d you get this?”
“You think you’re the only one who knows their way around the net?” Dean smirked, took the first tape and put it in. “I even added a few tracks, songs dad really liked that they didn’t play that night, pulled them from other show recordings.”
It surprised Sam how much of the lyrics he recalled. They sang together to song after song, as the dark hours and miles rolled past. Neither could sing worth a damn, but that didn’t matter. Every time the distinctive wail of Clarence Clemons’ saxophone cut through the speakers, they both just sat and listened in near-reverent quiet. “I just had a funny thought,” Sam admitted between tracks. “I never did ask Gabriel if he actually played the horn.”
Dean’s smile matched Sam’s, thinking of the wild archangel who had sacrificed himself to stop his mad brother Lucifer. “You think maybe there’s a bad jam session goin’ on right about now?” he said. “Man, that would almost be worth breakin’ into Heaven again for.”
The plaintive sax solo of Jungleland nearly brought tears to Sam’s eyes. “Rest in peace, Big Man,” Dean said softly. As the epic song approached its end, his voice and his brother’s rose again into the night air.
“Outside the street’s on fire in a real death waltz, between what’s flesh and what’s fantasy.
And man, the poets down here don’t write nothin’ at all, they just stand back and let it all be,
And in the quick of the night, they reach for their moment and try to make an honest stand.
But they wind up wounded, and not even dead.
Tonight—in—Jungle—land…”
(and just in case you've never heard it...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-PTJHhUeAfc)
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Date: 2011-06-21 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-21 02:49 am (UTC)