Rating: PG - Gen - Humor
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: "Repetition is the death of art you know."
Sam slid the seatbelt across his shoulder, pulled it up over his mouth and bit down.
From the corner of his eye, he tried not to watch Dean hit the rewind on the tape they had been listening to for almost an entire morning. He'd been able to tune it out for the first hour or so. The second hour he focused all his attention on every single thing that was passing by in the window while he diligently counted mile markers. By the third, the lyrics that had already been seared across his brain were now almost visible. Rolling past his eyes on a marquee, with one of those sing along bouncing balls…
He spit out the seatbelt in rabid frustration.
"Repetition is the death of art you know."
Sam couldn’t read the brief look his brother gave him from behind black sunglasses. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.
“Men profess to be lovers of music, but for the most part they give no evidence in their opinions and lives that they have heard it.” He slumped back to stare up at the ceiling. “Thoreau said that. Henry David.”
Dean checked both mirrors as he changed lanes to pass a Winnebago with a bumper sticker on the back that said: I ♥ The Heartland!
“The pause is as important as the note.” Sam said firmly. “T. Rex Fisher.”
“I gotta say,” His brother pointed at him. “A lot of people say T-Rex isn’t real rock, but I say She Was Born to Be My Unicorn totally gets a pass.”
“He’s a composer.”
“I’ll deny that to anyone you tell that to by the way. Now, Salamanda Palaganda on the other hand—“
“Silence…” Sam looked at him. “… is the fabric upon which the notes are woven. Duncan, Lawrence.”
“Like the town?” Dean asked.
“Like the town.”
“Wilde, Oscar.” Sam punctuated his words with a few well places open hand punches to the dash board. “If one hears bad music it is one's duty to drown it by one's conversation!!”
Dean brusquely jabbed at the cassette player and the car was suddenly plunged into a blissful quiet.
Sam breathed a deep sigh of relief. “In silence man can most readily preserve his integrity. Meister Eckhart.”
His brother resettled himself in the driver’s seat and regarded him again, this time with his sunglasses pulled off.
“There is something to this dream we're all involved in can I say it may exist…” Dean recited. “So why then doesn’t the night show really matter if we dwell in the fields of regret?”
Sam turned his attention back onto the blur of yellow grass and pine trees that were now pleasantly unaccompanied by the same three guitar riffs in the same three different orders. He considered his brother's words. Thoughtfully, he rolled his head on the back of the seat to look back at Dean.
“Who said that?”
Another tape slid into the player.
A brand new set of electric strings started blasting through the strained speakers along with even the louder thudding of drums. And if Sam wasn't mistaken, there was even a live crowd of thousands screaming in the background.
Sam had read once that Buddhist monks could disassociate themselves from their corporal existence and suspend all of their senses in a cosmic limbo. Shoving himself back into the seat, Sam yanked his hoodie down over his eyes and crossed his arms.
If he could just nail one of the five he’d be just fine.