This was inspired by something I'm currently working on.

Dean hates thunderstorms. It's a fact he's never shared with anyone, least of which his brother, and he'd sooner chop off his own hand than let it show how much they affect him. He represses a flinch every time thunder cracks, masking it with a stretch, a yawn, a random ass drumming number on the steering wheel. He likes having someone around when it's storming even though he'd never admit it, so he clings to Sam in the least obvious way possible, putting on his bravest face and powering through.

Of course, the worst storm of the year rages through town the one goddamn night that Sam's out getting himself laid. The motel room is too open, too quiet, too eerie, too vacant. He doesn't want to be alone, wishes there was someone there with him that he could talk to, joke around with, help get his mind off the storm. Maybe it's stupid and childish, but it helps.

Dean's propped himself up in a little protective fort of pillows on the bed, flipping through channel after channel on the TV, trying to distract himself from the thunder, the lightning. He's thought about calling Cas down more times than he cares to admit, but each time he dismisses the idea before it fully forms; the angel doesn't know the meaning of discretion, and he'd definitely offhandedly mention his fear to Sam, and then he'd never hear the end of it.

Braving it out on his own seems like the best course of action, until lightning fills the entire room brighter than day, and thunder barrels through immediately after, so powerful that he can feel it in his chest. He was still as stone for a moment before burying himself under at least four pillows.

This is not okay.

He faced monsters too horrifying for words without blinking. He ganked demons, vampires, werewolves, shapeshifters, you name it, he'd killed it, but a thunderstorm?

God damn.