Floods
Gen, PG. Sam and Dean, set anywhere in the series.
Summary: A storm is what makes a man breathe. K+ for naughty language.
A/N: First fic in a very, very, very long time. Hopefully my writing skills have somewhat improved :] Slightly drunk and extremely exhausted when I wrote this – please excuse anything that doesn't make sense. Not beta'd (cause I have no idea how to find one, nevertheless how the whole system works), so I claim responsibility for all mistakes.
The sky was alive.
Not the alive that composed of fluffy white clouds and bright blue paint leaking from every crevice and fissure. Not the alive that rang with the sound of a bird's trill or the sound of the sunshine pouring out from the horizons.
It was the alive that was a swirling mass of thunderclouds and lightening bolts promising nothing but raindrops as fat and thick as marbles; the murky blend of purples and grays and blues that draped the atmosphere in a cloak of nightmares that beat with the sound of unavoidable roads to come.
Sam rolls his window down and breathes in the air around him, hot and heavy with the anticipation of rain. Dean glares at him, tells him roll the fucking window up, Sammy, you can't get my baby wet, but the glare is nothing but a joke and Sam deflects it with a smile.
The wind rushes past him and swoops in through the open window, pumping and pulsing with the beat of his heart. It feels right and empowering and just really fucking good and Sam can't help but let out a whoop of happiness. Its moments like this he regrets missing out on – riding through nothing but stretches of open roads and seas of grass and his big brother at the wheel.
He glances at Dean as the older hunter attempts to exchange the current tape for a Zeppelin one, fumbling with his one free hand while the other grips the wheel. He manages to insert the tape into the player without damaging anything too important and flashes Sam a grin that implies nothing but pure awesomeness.
Sam laughs and lolls his head against the headrest, the beginning drums of "When the Levee Breaks" filling his ears.
The rain starts, pounding against the roof of the car and accentuating the rolls of thunder. Fat droplets meander their way through the open windows of the car, coating the faces of the brothers who feel nothing but the embodiment of the meanings exhilarated and invincible.
They drive straight ahead in to the eye of the storm and know that they are not dead.
Nothing, nothing has ever felt as good.