Weekend Words II

1) Fridays in the summer I get off early.

2) I have a deep want/need to get back into the swing of writing.

2b) But in order for this to actually happen, I need help remembering how much I truly do enjoy writing. On an individual sentence, tweak-each-word-until-it's-perfect scale.

3) THEREFORE: Leave me three (3) words in the comments and before Monday morning I will write at least one hundred (100) words somehow related to your prompt. You may request a fandom, but no guarantees. I do promise I won't include a fandom that/if you didn't ask for [it].

IN SUM: 3 words gets you at least 100 in return: that's a pretty good ROI.
Um, I know I said I wouldn't make something fanfic unless the prompter asked for it, but would you mind if I made this Supernatural? Because as soon as I saw your prompt, an entire little scene popped into my head.

Edited at 2015-07-03 04:34 pm (UTC)
Most of the motels they stay in are as nondescript as an old shoebox--just finger-smudged white drywall, with a couple faded floral prints in cheap frames that are probably intended to break up the blank monotony but instead just highlight how dingy everything's become; obnoxious geometric patterns on the bedspreads and dubious stains on carpet last cleaned about the same time Sam started thinking of this kind of dump as 'home'. The TV's supposedly got cable, but it either doesn't work properly or offers twelve channels, three of which are infomercials. If they're lucky, there'll be one that's 'classics' from the 50's and 60's, and the local PBS offering won't have too much static.

In this particular case, the only channel Dean decided wouldn't give him a migraine within 10 minutes is the local news, featuring the deep southern accent Sam's friends at Stanford always assured him was exaggerated whenever it appeared on something they were watching together. It sounds like molasses, and the one sweet, sticky summer their father left him in the care of a 17-year-old Dean in a tiny town beside the Mississippi.

Though they'd been squatting then, and even the local news would have seemed a luxury. At one point Dean had resorted to reading the dictionary aloud, making up fake meanings for the words he wasn't sure how to pronounce--and sometimes fooling Sam with the ones that were real. (And once, giving Sam nightmares: he's just glad all the hopping, blood-sucking corpses seem to be staying in Asia, where they belong.)

He's fallen into a haze of remembrance over his spread of obits, which is probably why it takes him so long to realize that here-and-now Dean is muttering the same word over and over again, experimenting a little with the sound of it.

"That can't be right," he says, to himself, and then, leaning over to shove a piece of paper in front of Sam's face, "Hey, read this for me, would you?"

Sam blinks a couple of times, trying to get his eyes focused on it properly, before grabbing it from his brother's hand so he can get it at the right distance.

Eyjafjallajökull, he reads; if it were typed, he'd suspect Dean of doing a key-smash.

"Eyjafjallajökull," he tries, and then "Eyjafjallajökull? Wait, are the J's hard or soft?" He squints at it, trying to guess at the language it's from--if it's from any. "Did you just make this up to mess with me? If you're that bored, dig out the laptop. I know you've got some porn stashed on there somewhere."

"Okay, so it's not just me," Dean says, apparently satisfied. "I knew they had to be saying it wrong."

"Saying what wrong, Dean? And why do you even care? You mispronounce things half the time, so it's not like you're in a position to judge!" Which is a little mean, but his brother's already been distracted from whatever the issue is by highlights from last night's American Legion baseball game, so Sam sighs, long used to his brother being inexplicable, and goes back to reading about this week's-worth of dead people.
My original-fic muse seems to have gone on vacation, so I can offer you either Supernatural or Stargate: Atlantis, as you'd prefer. (Or possibly both, if I don't get any further prompts.)
warning: ignores 'outcast'
Atlantis culture was not representative of Earth culture, Elizabeth had told Teyla more than once. "Well, really, there is not such thing as 'Earth culture'," she added the week before Teyla's visit there. "Perhaps the best way to think of it is like a couple hundred planets all coexisting together." Which Teyla hadn't been able to make sense of, but she was used to that, after several years of living with the expedition.

"No, Elizabeth's right," John said when Teyla expressed her doubts while they waited at Midway station for the Milkyway gate sequence to dial. "And she gave me a carefully-phrased lecture about giving you an adequate introduction to some of the more prominent ones, but I figured we'd just go stay with my cousin and do some day trips, if that's okay with you. Maybe take a weekend to the city for some museums."

"She did make it sound somewhat ... overwhelming," Teyla agreed. "And I would like to get to know your family."

"Well, that's pretty much Bill." The stargate burst into existence before them; it looked the same as the one that had brought them here, the same as they all did. Really, it ought to at least be a different color, to signify that a strange new world lay on the other end. "I hope you like the rural life," John said, his wry tone suggesting some hidden joke she couldn't guess at.


Apparently rural life involved packing more people than Teyla had ever seen at once along a road that divided apparently endless fields.

"What exactly is the occasion of this?" Teyla had asked several times already, but Bill and John kept getting sidetracked into reminiscing about the few pieces of childhood they'd shared. John had disappeared into the crowd, though (on a very special mission, he'd claimed), so perhaps this time Bill would be able to get through an explanation without being distracted.

"Independence day," Bill said, as though that should mean something to her. "Day we signed the Declaration, a couple hundred years ago. Told England we were free."

"Free from what?" But her question was drowned out by a sudden explosion of cheering, accompanied by craning of necks and jostling for position, and she found herself unexpectedly adrift among strangers. But even as panic began to clutch at her stomach and spine, she was pushed toward the front of the crowd and could suddenly see what the shouting was about--and realized that it was from exuberance, not fear.

There was music, and banners, and many people walking in formation down the road, in a line that stretched far enough away to curl out of sight behind a hill. And shining vehicles of many shapes and colors, some with flashing lights--all the most perfect target for a Wraith attack Teyla had ever seen.

But the Wraith couldn't come here, could they? They'd never been here. These people had no need to worry, nothing to guard against, no concerns except that everyone be involved in the celebration.

Perhaps that in an of itself was enough to celebrate.

"There you are," a familiar voice said in her ear, and John's hand presented her with an oblong object on a stick, colored in violent blue and white and red stripes. "Better start licking--I think half of it's dripped onto my hand already." So she did. The sweetness overpowered any flavor it might have been intended to have, but it was cold and wet and very welcome--as was John's steady stream of commentary for the remainder of the parade (and now she could put a picture to the word).

Bill rejoined them toward the end, and afterward they went to something called a 'church picnic', which involved blankets on the grass and fried chicken, and much later, there were fireworks.


"I think I do," Teyla said, as they waited in Midway station for the Pegasus gate sequence to dial.

"Do what?" John asked. Someone had handed him a pile of folders on their way down into the mountain toward the gate room, and he was sorting through them with an abstracted manner that meant they were going to get handed off to Lorne as soon as they arrived back in Atlantis.

"Like rural life."

"Oh, right," John said, and looked over at her properly with a smile. "That's good. Only don't tell Elizabeth that. She'll say I'm indoctrinating you."
Dean plans the day with all the precision and care usually dedicated to a large-scale military assault, scoping out not just the predicted weather conditions (muggy, overcast) and the parade route (four blocks over from the place he and Sam are squatting in; there's a stretch of five houses that'll be empty the day of, so they can set up there for decent seats), but also local church potlucks, which towns have the best firework displays and when, and whether or not Dean can get his hands on some pyrotechnics of his own (a milk-crate full, in lieu of a week's under-the-table payment at the local body shop; good thing peanut butter's cheap).

His father would probably have words about how he'd appreciate it if Dean would apply the same dedication to researching a hunt, but he's with Caleb two states over, trying to track down a wendigo in the middle of backwoods nowhere, and this is Dean's one chance to give Sammy a perfect Fourth.

The parade's not quite an hour long, but there's people throwing candy from the back of some very nice old convertibles, and the high school's cheerleading squad does flips in front of where he and Sam are eating very melty fudgesicles Dean nicked from the freezer in one of the empty houses, so it gets a decent score from him. Sam's transfixed, nearly incandescent with happiness. Someone handed him a stars-and-stripes pinwheel while they were walking over, and he doesn't put it down until they're sharing someone's blanket at the church potluck--not even he can manage a sloppy joe one-handed.

That night they'll sort of set a field on fire, but everything is damp still from the previous day's thunderstorm so it won't spread, and Sam's smile will shine so bright Dean would be willing to burn down an entire state just to get him to smile like that again.