Hope this isn't pretentious...but I had to write it. Please review, then off to my website where I'll answer your review.
The low thrum of the tires on pavement had lulled Sam to sleep several hours ago. His head was pillowed on his arm, shoulder wedged into the space between the seat back and the door. His breathing was soft and deep, a rhythmic addition to the humming road.
Dean arched his back in the driver's seat, bracing the steering wheel with his knees and stretching his hands behind his head. Fatigue was heavy on his eyelids so he rolled down the window, allowing the cool autumn wind to bite at his cheeks.
The AM hiss of the radio buzzed in his ears and he reached to turn it up, just enough to hear the voices but not enough to wake Sam. The sky in front of Dean was spread out like a banquet of stars; the silver ribbon of road wound away into the darkness. His headlights picked out a path, sending shadows galloping into the trees.
Dean retrieved a cup of coffee from between his thighs and took a long, slow draw, swirling the hot bitterness around his back molars. The silky voice of Art Bell whispered in his ears and Dean couldn't stop a wry smile. "Uncle Art", who could be family if not by blood, was his secret pleasure during long nights on the road. Sam always rolled his eyes and chuffed with displeasure, as though it was beneath them, but Dean still couldn't stop a smile when he heard the piano theme rising through the spitting static.
Far off on the horizon a mammoth thunderhead pulsed with a flash of lightning, then another. Dean pressed the accelerator a little more heavily, feeling the car leap forward at his command. He raced toward the storm, feeling the grip of the tires on the road, the rush of the wind sliding over the car in a slipstream. He hung his arm out the window, allowing his hand to ride the wind like a bird.
The voices on the radio hissed in and out, fluttering into Dean's ears but not lodging there. The road was all, the throatiness of the engine, the rush of rubber on asphalt, the shriek of wind over metal. Ahead the lighting flashed again, and a low grumble of thunder vibrated in Dean's chest. He dropped his toe to the floor and watched the speedometer leap in response, felt the Impala lunge forward, speeding toward the strobing clouds.
Beside him, Sam stirred with a little grumble but did not wake. Dean eased his foot from the accelerator and popped the gearshift into neutral, and the Impala slowed, coasting silently along. As the car rolled to a stop, tires crunching on the asphalt, Dean's ears caught the soft and rhythmic symphony of crickets in the trees, accompanied by the rustle of leaves in the wind. A roll of thunder, almost gentle in its drawn-out call, shuddered through the air and Dean felt that it was calling him on, calling him to the storm.
Sam rolled his head against the headrest and blinked his eyes open sleepily. "Why're we stopped?" he mumbled, passing the back of one hand over his mouth.
Dean stared out the windshield, entranced by the lightning. "There's a storm coming."