Thunder and Lightning
1/1
The first time Dean sees him, he's eleven and his father has left him and Sam alone in a run down motel just off the I-95 in Baltimore. It's the end of March and an early Spring has brought forth a slew of storms sweeping up the east coast, which just happens to be the direction in which the Winchesters are traveling. They left Florida in the rain, hit South Carolina in the midst of a minor storm, and now, here in Maryland, are greeted with gushing torrents and loud boisterous thunder. Sam, who's not yet turned seven, is surprisingly unperturbed by the earth shattering sounds of the angry storm, but Dean, despite his best efforts, finds himself more than a little shook.
It's just a little past ten, when Sam starts getting all riled up about something. Dean's not really paying attention at first, too busy trying to distract himself with some ridiculous sitcom on the TV, but eventually Sam's standing at his side of the bed, whining about being one toy soldier short of a full set.
"So what, Sammy?" Dean says, pulling the covers a little tighter around his shoulders. "We'll look for it tomorrow, okay? You're supposed to be asleep anyway."
"Dean!" Sam insists. "I gotta get it now."
Dean knows this is true. He can see the other tiny army men lined up against the windowsill and he can see the tiny little space where one's missing and he knows there's no way Sam's ever going to bed unless that stupid window is properly guarded. Still, he has to try. The last thing he wants to do is head out in the rain to search Dad's Impala.
"It'll be fine, Sam," he's doing a little whining of his own now. "Dad's got lines all around this place. There's nothing those soldiers can do that salt can't do better."
The way Sam looks at him, Dean knows he's ending this night soaked straight down to the bone.
Begrudgingly, and with Sam gazing thankfully up at him, Dean wraps himself in Dad's old leather jacket, throwing part of it over his head, and makes his way out to the car. He runs down the motel's rickety metal stairs and across the paved lot to the Impala, quickly shimmying the lock on the front door open and climbing in. In just the minute it's taken him to get there, his jeans are soaked from the hem straight up to his knees, and he can feel the uncomfortable, cold, squelching happening in his worn-out sneakers. He curses under his breath, just once, and starts to search.
It takes him five minutes to find it, wedged underneath the driver's side of the Impala's front bench seat, and in the short amount of time, the storm has gone from angry downpour to hysterical hurricane. Rain's falling down in sheets so heavy, it looks to Dean like the Impala is actually underwater. The wind's beating violently against the car, rocking it from side to side and howling mercilessly. And in the distance, Dean can see lightening.
He counts, the way Mom once taught him, a mile for every five seconds, and if he's right, the storm is just a few miles off but approaching fast. He tries to make a run for it before the worst part of the hurricane is really here, but when he opens the door, the wind slams it back shut.
He's scared. Maybe more scared than he has any right to be, knowing what he knows about the supernatural side of the world and this being just some rain, but still. He can't help it. At least Dad's not here, he tells himself, thanking God for small mercies, and at least Sammy stayed inside.
It's less than four seconds before the next stroke of lightening hits, setting the skies alight, and in it's wake, just as the thunder sounds, Dean swears he sees something or maybe a shadow of something pressed against the dark grey, threatening clouds. When lightening strikes again, he sees it in full, the shape of wolf. Where he was frightened before, fascination takes root. Nose pressed against the window's glass, Dean watches as lightening shines and reveals the sky wolf again and again. It's almost frolicking in the sky. He thinks it seems to be enjoying itself.
The storm is quick moving. In no time at all, it's calming itself, the rain and wind easing up. When he sees a chance, Dean dashes out of the car and makes a run for the motel room. He's halfway there when he catches the shape of a man out the corner of his eye. For a brief second, he thinks it might be Dad, returned home early from a night of drinking. He's wrong.
"Hello," the shape says, light glowing from behind or within him, Dean can't tell which.
"Um..." is Dean's brilliant response.
The man of light moves a step closer and Dean backs up, inching closer to the staircase.
As the storm quiets, the man's shape takes on a more corporeal form. He's old, Dean thinks, almost as old as Dad. His eyes are so blue, like the sky just before the storm rolled in. There's crinkles at the corners of his eyes and deep lines frame his mouth when he breaks into a friendly smile.
"You shouldn't be out in this weather," he says, head tilting curiously at Dean.
Dean climbs up the stairs, backwards, not pulling his eyes away. "Okay, sir."
The man's smile deepens. "I'm Castiel," he says. He whistles - it's the sound of wind howling - and a bolt of light comes sweeping around his feet. When it stops, the wolf appears. "This is Hannah."
Dean can only nod and then, not to be rude, he introduces himself.
"Okay, Dean," Castiel says, his voice a building rumbling.
Dean looks to the motel door and then back at Castiel. He notices then, how the sky seems to have darkened again and the wind is picking back up. "Is that you?" he asks, referring to the storm.
Castiel nods sagely, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It would seem so." He pauses, looks up at the sky, and nods once at Hannah. She takes off in Dean's direction, leaping into the air at the last second. Dean watches in amazement as she lights up the sky and her rough growl turns to thunder.
"Back inside, you go," Castiel says softly.
As rain gradually begins to fall heavier, Dean has no choice but to listen. Fat drops soaks his hair as he reaches their room. Before entering, he turns to take one last look at the man, still standing in the motel's parking lot. He looks less real now, his body less solid and somehow glowing.
Over the rush of the rain and the thunder, Dean can hear a soft whisper carried across the wind.
"Goodnight, Dean," it calls.
It's just a little past ten, when Sam starts getting all riled up about something. Dean's not really paying attention at first, too busy trying to distract himself with some ridiculous sitcom on the TV, but eventually Sam's standing at his side of the bed, whining about being one toy soldier short of a full set.
"So what, Sammy?" Dean says, pulling the covers a little tighter around his shoulders. "We'll look for it tomorrow, okay? You're supposed to be asleep anyway."
"Dean!" Sam insists. "I gotta get it now."
Dean knows this is true. He can see the other tiny army men lined up against the windowsill and he can see the tiny little space where one's missing and he knows there's no way Sam's ever going to bed unless that stupid window is properly guarded. Still, he has to try. The last thing he wants to do is head out in the rain to search Dad's Impala.
"It'll be fine, Sam," he's doing a little whining of his own now. "Dad's got lines all around this place. There's nothing those soldiers can do that salt can't do better."
The way Sam looks at him, Dean knows he's ending this night soaked straight down to the bone.
Begrudgingly, and with Sam gazing thankfully up at him, Dean wraps himself in Dad's old leather jacket, throwing part of it over his head, and makes his way out to the car. He runs down the motel's rickety metal stairs and across the paved lot to the Impala, quickly shimmying the lock on the front door open and climbing in. In just the minute it's taken him to get there, his jeans are soaked from the hem straight up to his knees, and he can feel the uncomfortable, cold, squelching happening in his worn-out sneakers. He curses under his breath, just once, and starts to search.
It takes him five minutes to find it, wedged underneath the driver's side of the Impala's front bench seat, and in the short amount of time, the storm has gone from angry downpour to hysterical hurricane. Rain's falling down in sheets so heavy, it looks to Dean like the Impala is actually underwater. The wind's beating violently against the car, rocking it from side to side and howling mercilessly. And in the distance, Dean can see lightening.
He counts, the way Mom once taught him, a mile for every five seconds, and if he's right, the storm is just a few miles off but approaching fast. He tries to make a run for it before the worst part of the hurricane is really here, but when he opens the door, the wind slams it back shut.
He's scared. Maybe more scared than he has any right to be, knowing what he knows about the supernatural side of the world and this being just some rain, but still. He can't help it. At least Dad's not here, he tells himself, thanking God for small mercies, and at least Sammy stayed inside.
It's less than four seconds before the next stroke of lightening hits, setting the skies alight, and in it's wake, just as the thunder sounds, Dean swears he sees something or maybe a shadow of something pressed against the dark grey, threatening clouds. When lightening strikes again, he sees it in full, the shape of wolf. Where he was frightened before, fascination takes root. Nose pressed against the window's glass, Dean watches as lightening shines and reveals the sky wolf again and again. It's almost frolicking in the sky. He thinks it seems to be enjoying itself.
The storm is quick moving. In no time at all, it's calming itself, the rain and wind easing up. When he sees a chance, Dean dashes out of the car and makes a run for the motel room. He's halfway there when he catches the shape of a man out the corner of his eye. For a brief second, he thinks it might be Dad, returned home early from a night of drinking. He's wrong.
"Hello," the shape says, light glowing from behind or within him, Dean can't tell which.
"Um..." is Dean's brilliant response.
The man of light moves a step closer and Dean backs up, inching closer to the staircase.
As the storm quiets, the man's shape takes on a more corporeal form. He's old, Dean thinks, almost as old as Dad. His eyes are so blue, like the sky just before the storm rolled in. There's crinkles at the corners of his eyes and deep lines frame his mouth when he breaks into a friendly smile.
"You shouldn't be out in this weather," he says, head tilting curiously at Dean.
Dean climbs up the stairs, backwards, not pulling his eyes away. "Okay, sir."
The man's smile deepens. "I'm Castiel," he says. He whistles - it's the sound of wind howling - and a bolt of light comes sweeping around his feet. When it stops, the wolf appears. "This is Hannah."
Dean can only nod and then, not to be rude, he introduces himself.
"Okay, Dean," Castiel says, his voice a building rumbling.
Dean looks to the motel door and then back at Castiel. He notices then, how the sky seems to have darkened again and the wind is picking back up. "Is that you?" he asks, referring to the storm.
Castiel nods sagely, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "It would seem so." He pauses, looks up at the sky, and nods once at Hannah. She takes off in Dean's direction, leaping into the air at the last second. Dean watches in amazement as she lights up the sky and her rough growl turns to thunder.
"Back inside, you go," Castiel says softly.
As rain gradually begins to fall heavier, Dean has no choice but to listen. Fat drops soaks his hair as he reaches their room. Before entering, he turns to take one last look at the man, still standing in the motel's parking lot. He looks less real now, his body less solid and somehow glowing.
Over the rush of the rain and the thunder, Dean can hear a soft whisper carried across the wind.
"Goodnight, Dean," it calls.