city under sea

Weekend Words IV

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.
Indexing:
Not fic (yet), but here's what went through my head when I read your prompt:

- Truly, Madly, Deeply
- Scathing
- Dean plays with words sometimes (“Sounds like a yoga pose or something”)

We'll see if any of that makes it into the actual story. :P
Awesome. Oh, I should have mentioned, of course I'm happy to see SPN if you want to do that, but it sounds like you knew that since you mentioned Dean. (and yeah... that's probably what he'd say about kumquats). :-D
Car Games
Dean could listen to the same 20 tapes on repeat for a month straight without thinking twice about it; Sam, on the other hand, had learned from experience that three days was enough to break him. And Dean was persnickety enough about his music that radio was very hit-or-miss—most stations couldn’t make it past the first commercial break before getting switched off. Hence Sam’s playbook of alternate tactics for preserving his sanity when stuck on the more meandering cross-country drives.

Reading with headphones on had saved him more than once, but always left him feeling vaguely guilty, like he was snubbing Dean (not that Dean usually seemed to care—or even notice, sometimes). Nostalgia about their childhood was a bit of a minefield, but often happened of its own accord if they found themselves driving through familiar territory. There was also the ever-popular game of making wild speculations about the case, based solely on the news reports—Dean, Sam could admit, had turned this into an art form and seemed to take equal glee in leaving Sam either breathless from laughter or struggling to keep his lunch down.

Getting Dean to riff on pop culture could go a long way and was at times truly fascinating—Sam would never have guessed that Dean had watched Truly, Madly, Deeply even once, let along often enough to memorize entire scenes. (“Research,” Dean claimed, completely straight-faced. “There’s ghosts in it, man—that totally counts. And Snape—though he’s kind of a wet nelly in the movies.” “Do you even know what that means?” Sam demanded, leaving aside the issue of Dean’s familiarity with Harry Potter, from which things progressed into a full-blown but cheerful squabble over slang.) Of course, if allowed to run on log enough, Dean usually wound up giving a scathing critique of the most recent remake/reboot/sequel. Sometimes Sam would play devil's advocate just to really get him going; sometimes Sam was left wondering how the heck his brother managed to collect and retain so much movie & television trivia; sometimes Sam couldn't help but join in (because really, what was up with all the shitty live-action remakes of kiddie cartoons?).

From time to time, when he was feeling really, really bored (or nostalgic), Sam would haul out the battered dictionary that still lived underneath the seat and read aloud the weirdest words just to hear what Dean could come up with in response. He was an apparently endless fount of invention and unexpected facts: on separate occasions, 'kumquat' had yielded both "I dunno--sounds like a yoga pose", and "Isn't that like a Asian lucky charm or something?"

But sometimes, on golden afternoons, when the roads were empty and the Impala's engine maybe almost really did sing, Sam would just sit and watch his brother in the shifting sunlight, the road and world spinning away beneath them like an endless ball of string, leading them on into the days to come.

It was (he sometimes let himself think) perhaps what 'home' meant.
Re: Car Games
Aww, this was great! Lovely little ficlet, and I can't believe you remembered to follow up months later! I'm pretty sure I have comment-prompt things I started and abandoned hanging out in threads all over LJ.

You should post this on your journal (if you haven't-- I'm behind on my flist). <3 Thanks for writing to my prompt!
Re: Car Games
It's queued up to post on Saturday--I've decided to make full use of my ability to schedule posts. I like having something new up each day.

And you're very welcome! I am somewhat obsessive about actually responding to every single prompt; there are a few that have been sitting for a couple of years, but I *will* get to them eventually. :P
There's a reason all the stories are about harps made of moonbeams or the golden hair of drowned princesses, or that compel those listening to honesty. Never mind that moonbeams are impossible to tune and murder on the fingers, ignore the ethical issues with turning a royal corpse into a musical instrument; and please don’t mention all the social awkwardness brought on by secrets being spilled en mass by a room full of aristocrats.

They’re dramatic, so of course every musician who can pluck two notes in a row wants one. A harp like that means you’re in business, that you might actually get remembered, that you’ve really made something of yourself.

Some folks would argue that it means you’ve really made an idiot of yourself, and proven you’re not actually a musician, because tuning is really important, and also it’s helpful to be able to get repeat jobs. Which the out-of-tune moonbeams, drowned princesses, and sudden civil wars can make rather difficult.
As a kid, Sam had hated the story of Persephone—probably, in retrospect, because he over-identified with her. After all, he too spent his life being shuttled between the “normal”, sunlit world and dank motel rooms or midnight runs (supposedly to improve his ability to navigate in the dark, but he suspected other motivations). He and Persephone had both been forced into this kind of half-existence, but she’d had her mother to argue on her behalf; Sam, on the other hand, had never so much as seen a pomegranate, let alone tasted one, and yet he was stuck with Dean playing Cerberus to their father’s Hades.

Or so it had seemed when he was a disgruntled teenager. Looking back, he suspects Dean fought for him in ways he never saw, and that their father filled the role of Zeus more than anything—forced by circumstance to grimly decree that Mary’s death sentenced her bereft family to exile.

Really, Sam’s come to nearly hate Greco-Roman mythology in general, especially given the run-ins he and Dean have had with the remnants of it. But if he had to rank the myths themselves, the Abduction of Persephone would rise fairly close to the top of the bunch: no one dies in some horribly ironic way. Persephone isn’t trapped without hope forever, and her kidnapper turns out to be just about the only god who respects his wife enough to keep it in his pants. Familial love actually achieves something mostly positive.

These days, Dean has taken on the role of Hades, but he’s also Sam’s Demeter, and things are as they are. Every now and then Sam gets his spring, but that’s a gift and more than his due. He ate the pomegranate whole a long time ago.