...with brief, passing tribute to 1shot, who graced us all for a while with the most poignant and vibrant of words


In the Rain

It's 3 am and the steady drone of the engine is layered with the drumming of rain on the windshield, the swish and thump of wipers, the muted strains of mullet rock.

They are muted because the drive is a little hairy what with the windshield a muddled wash of water and gleaming lights and the blur of the centerline, but mostly because it's 3 am and Sam won rock paper scissors enough times in a row. Dean focuses on navigating the flickering darkness while his brother half dozes, lulled.

It's kind of nice.

Until Sam startles awake, wide eyed, gasping, and clutching at the door. He does this when his pleasant haze is shattered by the sudden ring of a cell phone in the same instant that his spine vibrates weirdly with the buzz of the Impala crossing the rumble strip.

Dean snarls curses at both events, twisting to retrieve his phone from his jacket while navigating the curve in the highway with one hand.

"What?" he half spits, half growls into the phone. Sam, for his part, manages to keep the bitch face to a minimum, squinting blearily as he rearranges his lanky form in the passenger seat.

"No. You okay?" Dean's tone drops from pissed to gruff, and he shoots his brother a sidelong furrowed glance. Sam responds with raised eyebrows. The wipers continue to swish-thump, disinterested.

"Still in Washington. Driving, eastbound I90." He begins slowing the car, scanning the roadsides. "Coming up on the pass soon, I dunno, hold on... exit forty something? Hey listen, are yo-"

He darts a frantic look behind him because the Impala has just jerked in the manner of a vehicle into which 160 pounds of flesh have just been slammed. Then he darts a longer one once he's registered that he's driving a vehicle into the backseat of which 160 pounds of flesh have just slammed.

"Shit!" Dean yelps as the car swerves over the rumble strip again, and claps the phone shut. "What the hell, Cas?!"

Castiel is dripping on the leather. Hair slick with water, trench coat dark and muddied. He's also begun draping himself over the bench seat sideways, optimizing the mud-to-leather ratio, but that kind of for now distracts Dean from the presence of the mud anyways, because The Angel is not supposed to be draping. Or panting in those tight, hitching breaths.

"Cas?" Dean drops all pretense of righteous anger, instead flicking nervous glances at the rearview as he eases the car toward the shoulder. There's no response, just a careful huff of exhalation.

Sam is twisting through the seats to brace one sodden shoulder with a steadying arm, and Castiel claps a hand to it as if in greeting, except that he forgets to let go.

"Whoa... hey there" Sam murmurs, feeling the tremor there, and "Cas, hey, you okay?" because that seems to be the thing to ask someone who appears not to be.

Castiel twists his head from the leather just enough to peer steadily at Sam through one eye. He answers in a voice full of sawdust.

"...it's raining in Montana."