The street feels like a canvas backdrop in a play
It's mid-summer. The heat causes everything to slow down. Crickets are chirping in the high, yellow-pale, barren grass along the roadways.
Dean sighs and wipes the sweat from his brow and takes another swig from the cold water bottle. He's leaning against the Impala, the heat of the black exterior burning his already sweat-soaked back.
As far as the eye can see, there's only grass, its color faded by the sun and it spreads out before him.
The grass is longing for the rain to come.
Dean is too.
He lifts his face upwards, looking at the clear blue sky. Unconsciously, he's been doing that a lot lately. He's awaiting the rainclouds to slip for the blazing sun—darkening the ever-blue summer sky and for the rain to pour down on them, relieving them from this never-ending heat.
The bell of the little road-side store jingles, stirring him from his musings.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel pad, coming toward him. His brother settles himself next to him against the car and bumps his shoulder.
"Here," Sam says, holding out an ice cream popsicle.
Dean takes it from him and tears off the foil. The coldness of the ice helps somewhat to clear his fuzzy mind.
Then they stand there, leaning against the car, gazing over the large field.
Lately, the world seemed to be larger—expanded, Dean thinks sluggishly. It was like the world had unfolded itself.
They listen to the loud chirping of the crickets while eating their ice creams. Somehow, the noise is soothing.
"We should hit the road," Sam says.
They drive on until the sun sets in a brilliant glow, painting the evening sky a deep red that reminds Dean of blood. They don't pass many cars on the way.
Even the nights are warm. The muggy air leaves Dean waking up in sweat and gasping for breath. Night after night he's plagued by unsettling dreams he never can remember the next morning.
And always, Sam sleeps on, never waking up from Dean's ragged breathing.
Sam seems not to notice a lot anymore these days. But perhaps, Dean thinks, maybe it's the heat that's suffocating everything, that's hanging over them like a wool blanket.
Night makes a place for the day, and it goes on and on, repeating.
Every day, the world seems a little more stretched out. Or, Dean thinks, thinned out—the colors appear to stretch too, causing them to fade.
It's eerie, and sometimes, it sends a chill down his back. But the never-ending heat makes everything troublesome. It's often difficult to concentrate his hazy mind on anything.
The warmth doesn't want to let him go. It's like a fever clinging to him.
They don't encounter many people anymore. Often they're alone; alone on the highway, driving on through the sizzling sunlight.
One night, Dean is sitting on the doorstep of another nameless motel room. Sam's sleeping soundlessly behind him.
He's looking up at the night sky. Even the once piercing brightness of the stars are dulled out. It leaves behind an aching sadness in his chest. Like a hole, he can't fill.
Fireflies are swirling, their yellow, illuminating lights dancing in the air.
Suddenly nostalgia hits him. A deja vu so strong, he curls over, clutching his aching head with both hands.
Sammy.
He's seen this before; Sammy and him, watching the fireflies together in awe at the beautiful lights dancing around them.
Laughter fills his ears. An echo of the past fills his mind.
Then it's gone, it leaves him behind, exhausted.
The following days, the nostalgia overcomes him more and more, and it takes him back into the past.
Moments of happiness, tears, anger, fear, loneliness, and desperation, it all plays back before his eyes. Like a film.
He aches for it, needs it. It's only those moments that are bright and sharp in the otherwise dull world around him.
Because after a while, even the food seems to have lost its taste.
It tastes likes ashes.
He shrugs and shoves his still full plate aside. Sam looks up at him, "you not hungry?" Dean shrugs again. "Nah, you can have it."
A beat.
Then Sam reaches out for the plate and begins to eat.
Dean studies his kid brother; Sam looks pale. Weird. The always blazing sun should have burned them both by now. Maybe the kid should eat more, Dean thinks. Luckily, he can have his portion.
Dean picks up his coffee mug and turns his back to the otherwise deserted diner and gazes out of the window. Mind taking him far away.
You are running out of time, Dean.
Dean shoots up, damp sheets tangled around his legs. He looks sideways. Sam is sleeping soundlessly in the other bed.
He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. Was that a dream? He doesn't know. He never can remember his dreams. Not anymore. Not since—
Since when actually?
He doesn't remember.
It's too hot in the small room, and he gets up. He shuffles to the door and slowly, without making a sound, opens it.
A soft breeze hits him, ruffling his too long hair.
In the distance, a soft rumbling reverberates the air. Yellow and grey cover the early morning sky.
The breeze carries a salty scent; rain is coming. Finally.
The rain comes suddenly. It pours and pours and pours.
Dean stands outside in the downpour. The water is soaking him to the bone, chilling him until his teeth are chattering. But that's okay. Everything is better than the never-ending heat that had plagued him for so long.
The rain seems even to take the colors with it—causing them to blend with each other.
"Dean!" He looks up. Sam is standing in the door opening. With a frown, he gestures Dean to come inside. "You'll catch a cold like this," he says when Dean steps inside, clothes and hair dripping.
Sam throws him a towel. "Here, use this."
"Thanks," Dean mumbles, toweling his wet hair.
The following days, the sky stays dark, full of rain and stormy clouds.
Dean had thought that the rain would help to clear the world around him—washing away the dust that the heat seemed to have left behind.
But the colors stay bleak, and they keep fading and stretching. Every day the world seems more thinned out.
They never meet anyone when they're on the road anymore, and sometimes, unease washes over him like a wave. But it's always gone too quickly, it whispers a warning into his ear, but it's too faint to understand.
After that first day of rain, the nostalgia never befalls him again, and the aching hole in his chest grows bigger and bigger. He becomes more and more restless.
Sam seems not to notice a thing. When Dean once pointed out the bleak and vacant world around them, he's met with a puzzled look.
Dean doesn't mention it again.
It's on a Sunday that Dean falls asleep in the Impala. Sam is driving, squinting through the windshield while windscreen wipers wipe away the droplets.
Dean sinks into a deep sleep, lulled by the howling wind that seems never to cease blowing these days.
Stop running, Dean. You can't hide forever.
Dean startles awake with his brother's name on his lips. He's not in the car anymore, and Sam is nowhere in sight.
He's standing on a street. Soft sunlight shines over the buildings, bathing everything in dazzling orange.
Dean breathes out and closes his eyes.
It's time.
When he opens his eyes again, Sam is standing before him, smiling sorrowfully. "Hey, Dean," he says.
And Dean knows, suddenly he remembers: it's time. He can't hide anymore.
The scenery behind his brother ripples—like a droplet of water that disturbs the surface of a lake.
"You have not long anymore."
"I know," Dean says, throat tight.
"I'm sorry," Sam says, and tears fill his eyes.
"Me too," Dean breathes.
Sam's breath hitches.
"Take care of yourself, Sammy," Dean smiles.
Then the scenery collapses. The colors smear out like water paint. Everything fades away.
"You're ready to go Dean?" a voice asks.
"Yeah," Dean replies, and he smiles to himself.
"I'm ready."
Hello! Again, I wrote a story based on a prompt I found.
Also, the following beautiful stories were my inspiration: Time Turned Fragile by Mellaithwen and Crossing The Line by Gekizetsu.
Hope you enjoyed and tell me what you thought of it. At any rate, I'm really having fun, writing stories like these.