Rating: PG - Gen - ficlet
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: There's nothing ever good in the mail.
It was barely a whisper but Dean heard it loud and clear across the silent room of their latest crash.
The steady sound of the highway traffic thundered softly just outside the door, occasionally rising to carry along the passing bleak urgent blare of a truck horn. He'd been trying to focus on the television, listen to the weather, do anything but fall asleep like he really wanted to. They had to leave pretty soon and sometimes thirty minutes of something was worse than nothing at all.
Letting his eyes close he heard another envelope rip open. Then another and another.
Sam had a lot of mail.
Usually when they reached any of their P.O Boxes there were about as many pre-approved credit card applications as there were unadorned creditors mysterious Midwest addresses. They didn’t usually expect much else. But this time a flood of mail that that had been chasing them for almost four months finally caught up.
None of it was for Dean.
Crossing his ankles and fighting to keep the act of resting his eyes just that and nothing else, he heard Sam swear again. Concentrating on the woman’s voice predicting the next storm system, he imagined her wearing anything but that red pantsuit and big pearls. Looked like there was a low pressure system traveling slowly, gigantic and cold down from the north. Expect rain. Possible sleet. Man, he hated that in between shit. Give him wet or give him ice. The tires didn’t like it much either, but to their credit they hadn’t wrecked yet. That was saying something considering the weather they’d motored through over the years.
“Thought we’d take I-90 as far west as it goes.”
At least until they saw the Chicago skyline. Then it was the plunge back down south.
Opening his eyes when he didn’t get any timely response, he found his brother still sitting hunched over at the small table under the dull white rectangle of the window. Sam’s hand was restless on the back of his neck, rubbing up through his hair, the stack of ripped envelopes fallen into a neat slope at his elbow.
“Trouble from home?”
Dean knew the phraseology would bother his brother. He knew it was even a little cruel to have even have put it that way. But he was feeling a little bit mean.
“It’s- It’s nothing.” Sam mumbled, the noise of torn paper just as loud as the sound of it being crumpled in his fist.
The weather lady started talking about the opposite coast, the skies and sunny forecasts for the next week utterly useless as anything but interesting to anyone that didn’t live there. Although he supposed that kind of thing was for travelers. Not guys like them but the suited type that saw the country go by under a layer of clouds at 30,000 feet.
Dean listened to the lady start talking about the tides and sunrises out over across the span of the globe. 102 degrees Fahrenheit to -2 below. He rolled off the side of the bed, purposefully landing on his knees on the thin carpet.
Everything was already stuffed in his bag, all he had to do was zip it closed.
By the time he’d gotten his jacket on the door was already standing open, the cool air from the misty gray of the day blowing through the stale air the heater cranked out. He dropped the keys on the table that was now cleared of everything up a coffee ringed take out menu.
Pausing at the door, he looked down into the trash can. The remains of nondescript paper were filled with official letterhead and printed signatures meant to look as if someone sat down and done them by hand.
One somber yellow page’s upper half was neatly resting on top of the pile.
Student loan borrowers in default now have more options than ever before to repay their student loans! The U.S. Department of Education's (Department) Default Resolution Group is committed to assisting individuals in default by making debt repayment a simple process—
Dean hefted his duffel over his shoulder. The car was already in a low rumble of her idle, the exhaust fogging across the pavement. He glanced up at the low roiling clouds that the powers that be had warned about. A few stray frigid drops hit his cheeks as he blinked up into the white glare.
Everything came with a warning these days. From the temperature drop to the quality of your day’s horizon. He stowed his bag and slid onto the stiff cold vinyl of the passenger seat without moving the unfolded map out of his way. Resting his forehead against the icy glass of the window, he let his eyes close again as they swiftly went in reverse. He thought briefly about the hours that lay ahead and the feel of the uneven ground moving under him mile after mile under the worn treads.
He knew one thing for sure besides what the sound of that sleet would make when it started splattering against the windshield.
There really was no such thing as a free ride.