Over a Barrel (of Crude)
Title: Over a Barrel (of Crude)
Rating: PG-13, what with mild swearing and all.
Synopsis: Driving a 1967 Impala in a world of 2008 gas prices has its drawbacks.
Word count: 586
Spoilers: Not a one. Unless you don't know there are characters named Sam and Dean in this show. In that case, SPOILER ALERT!
Disclaimer: While I am the very model of a modern major general, I do not own the characters.
They had seen everything. Demons made of water, or manifested by thought alone. Shapeshifters. Apparitions and specters and poltergeists. Even the seven deadly sins, live and in living color. But this, this was ridiculous.
"Four fifty-nine," Dean spat. "Four fuckin’ fifty-nine a gallon. For regular!"
Driving a 1967 Impala in a world of 2008 gas prices had its drawbacks.
Sam sighed through the open passenger-side window, glancing down at his newspaper. "USA Today says it's going to top five dollars a gallon by the end of summer."
Dean gritted his teeth and shifted uncomfortably. His hand squeezed the pump handle as he watched the numbers continue their infuriating rise.
"A con job is what it is. A damn con job," Dean snarled. "We’re being cleaned out of every dime we have, and the oil companies are getting richer than ever."
Sam nodded in agreement. "What was it when you and I got started - a dollar fifty?"
"Something like that," Dean said. "It's just -- how the hell are we supposed to get from place to place if we can’t even keep gas in the car?"
Sam shrugged. "You could get a more fuel-efficient vehicle. They have some great hybrids these days."
Dean stopped pumping and glared at Sam, eyes blazing. "I don't ever want to hear that bullshit roll out of your mouth. Ever. Again."
Sam suspected the reaction that comment would garner, and he wasn't disappointed. He smiled and held up his hands. "Just a suggestion."
A few seconds passed.
"How about public transportation?" Sam said.
Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm not riding a bus full of homeless people and pervs. I don't care if it goes straight to Demon Central."
Sam had to admit the idea wasn't all that comforting to him, either. "Well," he said, "How about the train? They go just about everywhere, and they're affordable."
"Yeah, Sammy. New Orleans to Memphis in only sixteen days! See the sights!" Dean plastered on a fake smile. "Oh, what? People killed by a deadly apparition? Sorry, we're stuck in Bumfuck, Mississippi, waiting for cows to clear off the tracks! You'll just have to wait!"
"Yeah, okay. You made your point. I was joking, anyway."
"I know you were," Dean said. The numbers came to a stop, registering $63.75. Dean cringed. "But there’s nothing to joke about. This shit's killing me."
Dean returned the handle to the pump and reached for his wallet. "Be right back."
When he returned a few minutes later, Sam was still leafing through the paper.
"How much this time?" the younger Winchester queried.
"Nearly sixty-four."
"Damn."
"Yeah."
"If it gets up to five dollars, what are we gonna do?" Sam asked. "I mean, credit card scams can take us only so far, as much as we drive."
"I've got it covered. I sold your class ring a while back, and that could hold us over until August, maybe."
"You did what?!" Sam shouted.
"Calm down, Martha," Dean said, cranking the Impala. "It's not like you were using it anyway. You left it at home when you went to college."
"I thought I lost it."
"See? You’re breaking even. Works out just fine."
Dean eased out onto the largely-deserted highway and rolled down the windows.
"Just in case, though," he said, yelling above the motor and the wind, "Your kidneys are in pretty good shape? Because I know a guy who could get us a really good price--"
"DEAN!" Sam yelled.
Dean smiled and held up his hands. "Just a suggestion."
Author's note: Some cursory research indicates a 1967 Chevrolet Impala has a 24-gallon-capacity gas tank. At a price of $4.59 mentioned, a full tank would equal over $110 dollars. Dean thinks he has problems now...he should be glad they weren't running on fumes.
Rating: PG-13, what with mild swearing and all.
Synopsis: Driving a 1967 Impala in a world of 2008 gas prices has its drawbacks.
Word count: 586
Spoilers: Not a one. Unless you don't know there are characters named Sam and Dean in this show. In that case, SPOILER ALERT!
Disclaimer: While I am the very model of a modern major general, I do not own the characters.
They had seen everything. Demons made of water, or manifested by thought alone. Shapeshifters. Apparitions and specters and poltergeists. Even the seven deadly sins, live and in living color. But this, this was ridiculous.
"Four fifty-nine," Dean spat. "Four fuckin’ fifty-nine a gallon. For regular!"
Driving a 1967 Impala in a world of 2008 gas prices had its drawbacks.
Sam sighed through the open passenger-side window, glancing down at his newspaper. "USA Today says it's going to top five dollars a gallon by the end of summer."
Dean gritted his teeth and shifted uncomfortably. His hand squeezed the pump handle as he watched the numbers continue their infuriating rise.
"A con job is what it is. A damn con job," Dean snarled. "We’re being cleaned out of every dime we have, and the oil companies are getting richer than ever."
Sam nodded in agreement. "What was it when you and I got started - a dollar fifty?"
"Something like that," Dean said. "It's just -- how the hell are we supposed to get from place to place if we can’t even keep gas in the car?"
Sam shrugged. "You could get a more fuel-efficient vehicle. They have some great hybrids these days."
Dean stopped pumping and glared at Sam, eyes blazing. "I don't ever want to hear that bullshit roll out of your mouth. Ever. Again."
Sam suspected the reaction that comment would garner, and he wasn't disappointed. He smiled and held up his hands. "Just a suggestion."
A few seconds passed.
"How about public transportation?" Sam said.
Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm not riding a bus full of homeless people and pervs. I don't care if it goes straight to Demon Central."
Sam had to admit the idea wasn't all that comforting to him, either. "Well," he said, "How about the train? They go just about everywhere, and they're affordable."
"Yeah, Sammy. New Orleans to Memphis in only sixteen days! See the sights!" Dean plastered on a fake smile. "Oh, what? People killed by a deadly apparition? Sorry, we're stuck in Bumfuck, Mississippi, waiting for cows to clear off the tracks! You'll just have to wait!"
"Yeah, okay. You made your point. I was joking, anyway."
"I know you were," Dean said. The numbers came to a stop, registering $63.75. Dean cringed. "But there’s nothing to joke about. This shit's killing me."
Dean returned the handle to the pump and reached for his wallet. "Be right back."
When he returned a few minutes later, Sam was still leafing through the paper.
"How much this time?" the younger Winchester queried.
"Nearly sixty-four."
"Damn."
"Yeah."
"If it gets up to five dollars, what are we gonna do?" Sam asked. "I mean, credit card scams can take us only so far, as much as we drive."
"I've got it covered. I sold your class ring a while back, and that could hold us over until August, maybe."
"You did what?!" Sam shouted.
"Calm down, Martha," Dean said, cranking the Impala. "It's not like you were using it anyway. You left it at home when you went to college."
"I thought I lost it."
"See? You’re breaking even. Works out just fine."
Dean eased out onto the largely-deserted highway and rolled down the windows.
"Just in case, though," he said, yelling above the motor and the wind, "Your kidneys are in pretty good shape? Because I know a guy who could get us a really good price--"
"DEAN!" Sam yelled.
Dean smiled and held up his hands. "Just a suggestion."
Author's note: Some cursory research indicates a 1967 Chevrolet Impala has a 24-gallon-capacity gas tank. At a price of $4.59 mentioned, a full tank would equal over $110 dollars. Dean thinks he has problems now...he should be glad they weren't running on fumes.