c o n f o r m . o r . b e . c a s t . o u t

Conform or Be Cast Out
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG

Summary: If asked, she would say the number one thing that irritates her about Sam Winchester is his taste in music.

Spoilers: none.

Notes: This started out mostly because I was mocking (with affection) Sam's probable taste in music in the comments of "It's Only Rock and Roll (But I Like It)." It's completely gratuitous and probably amusing only to me. Title from Rush's "Subdivisions."

Date: August 30, 2006

There are a lot of things Jess loves about Sam: the way his hair falls into his eyes, which crinkle at the corners and go all bright and green when he laughs or is happy; the way he's always so genuine, so sweet and concerned about her safety--he used to walk her back to her dorm even before they started dating--and the way she always feels so safe when she's with him. She loves the soft sound of his breathing when he lies next to her in bed, the warmth of his body pressed up against her, and the way he kisses with his whole body, like it's the most important and exciting thing he's ever done, or could ever do. She loves him because he's Sam and he makes her happy. That thing he does with his tongue doesn't hurt, either.

That doesn't mean living with him is all sunshine and roses, of course. He leaves his hair in the drain after he showers, and his dirty coffee cups are always scattered around the apartment as if he expects maid service to clean them up or something. Sometimes, he gets so involved in studying that he forgets to meet her when he says he's going to, and he steals the covers on cold nights. He has secrets she hasn't managed to get out of him yet, though she's working slowly on chipping away at the wall he puts up whenever she asks about his family.

But if asked, she would say the number one thing that irritates her about Sam Winchester is his taste in music. Or no, not his taste, exactly, because she likes a lot of the things he likes, too. But the fact that she's not sure it really is his taste bothers her; he's so much himself in so many ways that this evidence of conformity stands out, and not in a good way.

She snaps off the stereo and he starts, rising from the depths of his studying to say, "Hey! I was listening to that."

"Do you even know what that was?"

"What?" He's adorable when he's confused.

"What you were listening to. Do you know what it was?"

"Um..." He taps his pen against his lip and brushes his hair out of his eyes. "Keane, I think." He shrugs. "I was studying. I didn't think that was going to be on the final."

She grabs a handful of CDs from the rack and drops down onto the other end of the couch and curls one leg beneath her. "Coldplay, Franz Ferdinand, Starsailor, The White Stripes, Evanescence--" With each band name she tosses the CD onto the cushion between them. "Oh, Sam."

"Hey, the Evanescence is yours."

She laughs. "Yeah, it is. I should probably be ashamed of that, right? They're overplayed and overhyped, goth rock for teenyboppers. But I don't care, because I like singing along when I'm driving." She taps a plastic case with her finger. "Do you like any of this stuff, Sam? I mean, really like it?"

He tenses, hunching in on himself, and she feels bad for a second, like she's just kicked a puppy or something.

"You sound like my brother," he says, and then looks like he wishes he hadn't said anything.

She doesn't let him get away with it, though. He never talks about his family, and it's a start. "Your brother doesn't like Coldplay?"

"My brother probably doesn't even know Coldplay exists. Unless it's cock rock or metal, he has no interest. And my dad listens to classic rock or country."

She laughs. "And you never got to pick the music on roadtrips."

"How did you--"

"My family's no different." She leans in, kisses him quickly, and leans back before he can deepen it. "So what kind of music do you like, Sam?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "It's all good. Whatever you want to listen to is fine, really. As long as it's not Ted Nugent. That guy's a freak." He won't meet her gaze, hides behind his bangs, which are in his eyes again.

She takes a shot in the dark. "'Conform or be cast out,' huh?"

That makes him look up; his eyes are surprised, guarded. "Did you just quote Rush at me?"

"You're not the only one with an older brother into classic rock. Just one more thing we have in common."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

He shrugs again, still hunched and defensive. "I don't see why this is such a big deal. So I like a lot of different kinds of music. Doesn't make me a freak."

She reaches up and cups his face gently. "No. But I'd like to know what kind of music you like, as opposed to what kind of music your past three roommates have told you is cool. You listen to some of this stuff because it makes you fit in, not because you actually like it."

"That's kind of insulting, Jess. There's nothing wrong with wanting to fit in."

She takes her hand away. "Yeah, it probably is, and no, there isn't, though you don't have to, not for me. Being you is enough for me." That wins her a small, quick smile. "I'm sorry. I just--I love you, Sam, but you're like this big mystery sometimes." It's her turn to shrug. "I want to figure you out. I want to know how to get inside your shell and make a place for myself. And this," she taps the CD case again, "seems like part of your shell."

He looks at her for a long moment, and she wonders if she's pushed too far. She can't help it sometimes--he's so self-contained, curled in on himself like a roly poly, and it makes her want to poke him until he opens up.

He exhales noisily and picks up the Franz Ferdinand CD. "This is cool." He cocks his head, scrunches up his mouth like he's thinking. "I like U2 and Nirvana. I like Radiohead and Death Cab for Cutie and the Decemberists. And, um, the Indigo Girls, but you have to swear you won't tell anybody that."

"It'll be our secret," she promises, willing to take as much of him as he's willing to give. She leans up and pushes him back against the arm of the couch, kissing him with her mouth open in delighted laughter. The CDs tumble to the floor, forgotten.

end

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