| Title: Alabama Author: Jo Pairing: Christian Kane, Jensen Ackles, Steve Carlson Rating: PG Summary: A summer night, the Gulf Coast, and a couple of guitars Disclaimer: While the 3 of them are friends in real life, I sincerely doubt this ever happened. I made it all up, y'all. Notes: For unholyglee. Happy birthday, baby! Thanks to Dee for looking this over for me. All lyrics are from "Come Around More Alabama" by Steve Carlson.
The air is heavy, sticky, weighing Christian down with the heat that he's come to associate with summer in the South. It's on the tip of his tongue to say, hey, let's go down to the beach, cool off, but he swallows the words. Instead, he just stands there, in the door, and watches. Two heads -- blond and dark -- bend over the guitars, knees bumping because one set of legs is too long for the small space between the chairs. Two pairs of hands pick at strings as one demonstrates and the other tries to follow along. Then something clicks and they finally get it right, playing in time, in tune, and Jensen laughs as Steve grins. There's magic here tonight, and Christian is loath to disturb it. So he leans. And watches. Watches as the bottle of Jack -- half-empty -- is lifted and passed. Watches as another joint is lit, adding more sweet smoke to the blue haze that already hangs around them in the waning twilight. Watches as Jensen tries to balance the joint between two fingers of his strumming hand while picking out the melody line. Somehow he manages, fumbling only the first few notes before settling down. Then Steve picks up his guitar again, cradling the battered body against his, fine sheen of sweat glistening on his arms, and starts to pick out a counter-melody. There's a second or two when Jensen tries to follow, then stops when Steve looks up and shakes his head. No, don't, just keep…yeah, that's it. And Christian knows this tune, knows the ebb and flow of it, and knows the way it prickles along his skin like he's had too much sun. He's heard Steve working on it for the past few weeks, picking at it, worrying at it until his frustration is so thick that it's razor sharp. It sounds good to Christian, close to perfect, but Steve isn't happy, so they'd dragged out the guitars and headed for the back porch while Christian took his turn washing up the dinner dishes. It sounds even better now, the two guitars working against each other, melody lines drifting and floating in the air to wrap together before diverging once more to dance across his ears. Christian pushes his bangs off his forehead, lets his eyes slip half-closed, and listens. Damn, but Steve can make magic when the boy puts his mind to it. A car goes down the road, far enough from the house that it's just a quiet noise, much like the muted whine of mosquitoes outside the screens enclosing the porch. It's quiet enough that it doesn't break the spell being woven there on the old oak plank decking. Christian shifts a little, rests his head against the doorframe as his tank top and cutoffs stick to his skin, and closes his eyes so he can hear better. His eyes open again when one of the guitars stops, and it takes a second to focus. Too much Jack, and too much weed, but Steve and Jensen are right there with him, and Christian knows the music won't care. There's a tinkling and a plinking, and the old upright piano out here is out of tune. Too much weather, too much neglect, but Christian doesn't think that'll matter much either. It's got strings and keys and Steve can wring something beautiful out of it anyway. Jensen's got his eyes closed now, fingers still working over the strings as the joint slowly smolders away between his fingers. It'll burn him if he's not careful, so Christian moves, bare feet silently creeping across the rough wood until he can pluck away the joint. The ashes scatter as he lifts it to his mouth, and Jensen doesn't even open his eyes, just smiles as he keeps strumming. Then the piano joins in as Christian settles into the chair that Steve vacated. Legs stretched out in front of him, one foot propped on the other, he smokes and watches them. From this close, he can almost see the freckles scattered across Jensen's nose. Or maybe that's the pot talking, who knows. Christian doesn't know, doesn't care, because right now, Jensen is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. So is Steve. Then Steve does something with the piano, and…. That's it; that's the melody Steve's been seeking for days. Christian can tell by the way Steve looks over his shoulder and grins at them. Jensen still hasn't opened his eyes, but that's okay. He keeps smiling, keeps playing, and Christian just lets himself enjoy it all. Speak to me quietly and clear, then tell me why you're here, and tell me where you're coming from…. A smile and a nod, and Christian puts his head back when Steve starts to sing. His voice is soft, with long pauses between the words as he works for the right one. He fumbles around with it, sometimes humming along with the music, sometimes singing different snatches of words that Christian knows won't make it into the final version of the song. But the chorus…yeah, that'll stay. Christian knows it the second that Jensen joins in, eyes open and bright now, voice harmonizing so well with Steve's that Christian thinks it just might be better than him and Steve. And it's all good. Even better than, really, but they already know that. So Christian just lifts the Jack and takes a long swallow, letting the slow burn of it meld with the music and the heat and laziness of the night now that the sun's gone down and the stars are creeping out. They'll go down to the beach in a few minutes. Go down and strip off their clothes, jump in the water, let it wash the sweat off their bodies, too drunk and too stoned to do much more than float or splash around. And it'll be good, too, but nowhere near as good as this. This, man, this is fuckin' gold.
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