The storm starts with a hot wind that springs up suddenly, toying with the edges of Dean’s jacket and Castiel’s trenchcoat. Large, visible bolts of lighting dart against a sky growing progressively darker, turning a color Dean could only describe as some weird-ass purple. Purgatory has no normal weather patterns, far as he can tell. It rains for thirty seconds, it stops; the temperature is all over the place; the sun doesn’t shine much, and when it does it’s a pale, washed out circle that generates weak shadows. There’s no moon at night, only a whole lot of blackness and a few stars.
The lightning bolts grow more frequent.
Together they stare up at the sky from a shallow ravine in the forest, while the hair on the back of Dean’s neck stands on end and his skin itches. It’s almost hard to breathe, the air thick with electricity, a faint burning scent that’s familiar from many fierce midwestern storms he and Sam saw growing up, only moreso. Dean’s never been scared of thunderstorms, not really—Sam used to be, until he reached high school maybe. They used to sit under a blanket with a flashlight, taking turns reading aloud from whatever book Sam chose.
He hopes Sam knows, in his gut, that Dean’s alive.
The trees rustle fiercely, and it could be wind, or it could be something else. Dean glances over at Cas, at the flashes of light playing over his face, edging the familiar shape of his jawline, mouth, nose.