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They bust two belts on their way through a small-ass town that only has one church. For all Dean loves the Impala, even he can't replace a belt with a pool cue and a beer. They walk less than a mile to the garage on the other side of town where an old guy with a beer belly and a pompadour wipes his hands on a greasy rag and stares at them, an unlit cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
"Should you be smoking that around the cars?" asks Sam, gesturing to the two cars that are racked behind the guy. The name embroidered on his shirt says Danny.
Dean hits Sam in the stomach, and while Sam is "Ooof"ing, Dean sticks out his hand. "Dean. Nice to meet ya, Danny. I got two busted belts in a '67 Impala about a mile back. You think you can do anything with that?"
Danny grins, and the cigarette doesn't even fall out of the corner of his mouth. Dean is pretty sure this is what he's going to look like when he's sixty. "If it was made before the 90s, I can make it go," says Danny, shaking Dean's hand. "And I quit smoking when I graduated high school. Girlfriend didn't like it, and I'm a pussy."
Dean grins back at the guy while Sam scowls. He's gonna like this town. Maybe they even have a poltergeist or something so they can earn their keep.
**
On their way back from a stupid boring fucking seminar all the goddamn way across the country, the GTO pops both right side tires. They're in a small town, it's only got one fucking bar and one fucking motel, and the rims are bent. Ray glares at Fraser every time he opens his mouth--it was Fraser's stupid idea to drive the fucking GTO to the seminar in the first place ("I want to absorb middle American life, Ray.") and Ray knew it was a bad idea, but could he ever deny Fraser anything?
No. Of course not.
So they drove the GTO and Fraser insisted on stopping at every single tourist spot, including some totally empty spots that he saw on the Discovery Channel when he pretended Dief was watching and he was reading. Therefore, henceforth, and forthwith, a trip that should have taken them 72 hours round trip tops (if they had flown on a cushy aircraft with leather seats and hot stewardesses and little bottles of Jack for $5 each) was gonna take them three weeks.
Ray just used Vecchio's vacation time. He was owed it.
The guy at the machine shop called himself Kenickie, had an unlit cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, and was wearing a stained wifebeater. Ray had an uncomfortable glimpse at his future for just one second, and he almost wasn't going to shake Kenickie's hand, but then Kenickie wiped one hand on a greasy rag and ran it lovingly over the GTO's front hood, and Ray was sold.
"My name is Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first went to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father and for reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture, I remained, attached as liaison to the Canadian Consulate. This is my partner, Detective Ray Kowalski," Fraser said. Ray sighed, loudly, and when Fraser ignored him, Ray sighed again. Fraser kept ignoring him. Ray kept sighing. Kenickie's grin got bigger and bigger.
"The pleasure is all mine," said Kenickie in a voice Ray had used himself on Fraser. "You want I should bang out those rims or you wanna buy new?"
"Whaddya got?" asked Ray.
Kenickie ticked them off on his fingers: "For this car, I got red and white, I got stock chrome, and I got black with silver lightning."
Ray fell in love. The look of horror on Fraser's face made the whole trip worth it.
**
Jim picked the town, Blair picked the car. A nice red one that rode close to the ground that they could barely fit all Jim's camping equipment into. Jim wanted to take the truck, but Blair insisted: if he was going to have to sleep on the ground and listen to crickets chirping (he didn't have the ability to dial down his senses), he was at least going to get to drive a cool car. With a convertible roof.
"Chief," said Jim, "do you know how many drop-tops roll over and kill their occupants every year?"
"I want it," said Blair stubbornly. Jim was going to stick to his guns, but Blair gave him a long blowjob with the game on in the background, and totally won that argument.
The night they arrived, it started raining. A torrential fucking downpour. Blair put his foot down: "I will fuck you all night and let you come on my face as long as we can do it in a hotel room."
Jim wasn't an idiot, so he didn't turn that offer down. They fucked for a couple of hours, until they were just too exhausted to keep going, except then Blair said, "Yeah, I guess you're an old man who can't keep up the pace, huh, Jim?" and Jim pushed Blair's legs up over his head and fucked him until his legs cramped and they were sweaty. Then Jim jerked off all over Blair's face, and Blair jerked off on Jim's stomach, and they flopped onto the bed to cool off and watch TV, but nothing good was on the crappy motel stations. There wasn't even an ESPN channel.
"Wanna get a beer?" asked Jim, rolling onto his side. Blair wanted to smack his ass, but that would've gotten him a noogie. Or maybe a swirlie. Jim only stuck his head in the toilet once (for making tongue stew and telling Jim it was venison), and once was enough.
"Sure." Blair rolled (read: almost fell) out of the bed and hit the shower. Then it was Jim's turn, and then they dodged the rain to run across the road to the town's only bar. It was full of old guys, and the waitress had to have been older than Blair's mom, but she took one look at them and brought them towels for them to wipe their faces on, and knew exactly what kind of beers they wanted without them asking.
"Kid, Frenchy's been doing this longer than you've been alive," said one of the guys at the bar when Blair observed this to Jim. "Was that your Z06 outside Rizzo's motel?"
"Yeah," said Blair, and was about to start rhapsodizing about the glory of Corvettes when the guy turned to Jim and said, "You better watch out if you're planning to take it on any of the back roads. The pot holes'll fuck you up." Then Jim and the guy started talking about cars--Jim: I have two giant pickup trucks with giant wheels that I wanted to take, but this asshole gave me a blow job so I let him pick the car; Random Old Guy: Man, that sucks, but I wish I had such a hot young piece of ass. Okay, maybe not, but close enough. Blair sulked into his beer and must have looked pretty pathetic because Frenchy brought him a plate of fries with spicy dark gravy ladled over them.
**
All Clark wanted to do was find Lex and make up with him. He hadn't meant to call Lex a Machiavellian megalomaniac bent on world domination through his own destruction. He knew it would make Lex angry. But somehow it slipped out. And Lex, who was supposed to fly to his business meeting, decided to drive. From Kansas. That meant he was really pissed. Clark figured that if he could catch up with Lex somewhere, he could apologize, and maybe Lex would let him drive the Ferarri, and then they'd have really good make up sex.
But. Clark must have taken a wrong turn somewhere--although he has no idea where, he fucking used Google Maps and everything--because he ended up in some small town in nowheresville, accidentally hiding in a car up on a rack in a body shop, watching two old guys wearing stained coveralls make out.
So. Gross.
He was never going to forgive Lex for this. Even though it was really his fault. Everything was pretty much always Clark's fault.
**
One day John and Rodney accidentally turned on some device (who really cares what it is or looks like, but it was something Ancient/Wraith hybrid and defied seven laws of physics before lunch, and Rodney really didn't need to cope with that on an empty stomach) and ended up in Grease. Rodney looked around, squinting. The people around them were singing and dancing.
"Which part is this?" he asked John.
John looked at him scornfully. "Unlike you," he said with as much disdain as he could muster, "I am not a big Canadian homo, which means I don't have any musicals memorized."
"Please," scoffed Rodney. "Save the totally implausible lies for someone who cares. Besides, of course you're not Canadian, listen to that accent." John opened his mouth, but Rodney continued talking, and John just gave up and glared at him. "I don't see Sandy and Danny. Maybe we should skip wondering why we're here and hit that diner. I'd kill for a chocolate malted and one of those polar burgers."
**
Okay, here's the real last part:
Ronon really liked watching Grease. He liked their hair, and the songs they sang that sounded so different from Satedan music. He liked the warrior Kenickie, who fought for the honor of his friends and took care of his woman. He wasn't very fond of Danny and Sandy, who had ridiculous names and treated each other with disrespect.
Sometimes when he watched Grease (on his requisitioned laptop--it had a game called Jardinains, which was a game of skill and speed and cunning, and Grease, and his Atlantismail (which Atlantis kindly translated into Satedan for him--the Milky Way languages were so ridiculous-looking), and a movie John gave him called Top Gun which he's never watched) he ate some of the popped corn McKay gave him, and put his feet up, and thought he could pass for someone from the Milky Way. They did a lot of putting their feet up and watching movies on their laptops, especially when they thought no one was looking, and the Wraith hadn't tried to kill them for a while.
Their conveyances were weird, though. And Ronon wasn't quite sure he understood what it meant to be a "Sandra Dee" but it obviously wasn't a good thing or the ugly blonde woman wouldn't have tried to change herself and wouldn't have sang those sad songs about how her life was meaningless without a man. Satedan women would rip her apart.
Ronon liked her dresses, though.