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 havetoo 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 Dean being inexplicable, and goes back to reading about this week's-worth of dead people.