Fic: The Wind Rarely Whistles Cheerfully (sam and dean, theme 01: elemental)
Title: The Wind Rarely Whistles Cheerfully
Author: thatauthor_chic
Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Theme: 01 - Elemental
Prompt: 12 - Wind
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I don't own the car, the boys or anything remotely to do with the Supernatural show. Just taking them for a little joyride through my imagination.
Summary: Sometimes the wind is a mourning wail...
There’s often a mourning wail high above chasing them through the darkness as they run. On a good day it’s miles behind, tracking their fresh footprints in the snow or dirt. On the bleak ones it’s breathing cold and frosty down past their collars across the backs of their necks. In their darkest hours it’s hot and moist across their faces like the breath of a beast before it lunges to bite. And sometimes, when they’re really unlucky, it jumps out in front of them leaving them to try and skid to a stop if they can before being overwhelmed by it.
On a good day it’s a comforting sound, the murmur of a rush across the sleek black metal of the Impala’s hood as she cruises down the interstate to their next destination. On their worst it’s the howling horror just outside the motel room door trying hard to force its way through the cracks along the window sill.
At its worst it is a deafening howl; the only thing left to fill all the voids that have left craters deep down inside their souls. It feeds a bone deep fear that sooner or later the haunting, eerie moan will become an echo rattling around in the dark. In the end the only thing left, a poor attempt to fill the emptiness.
Author: thatauthor_chic
Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Theme: 01 - Elemental
Prompt: 12 - Wind
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I don't own the car, the boys or anything remotely to do with the Supernatural show. Just taking them for a little joyride through my imagination.
Summary: Sometimes the wind is a mourning wail...
There’s often a mourning wail high above chasing them through the darkness as they run. On a good day it’s miles behind, tracking their fresh footprints in the snow or dirt. On the bleak ones it’s breathing cold and frosty down past their collars across the backs of their necks. In their darkest hours it’s hot and moist across their faces like the breath of a beast before it lunges to bite. And sometimes, when they’re really unlucky, it jumps out in front of them leaving them to try and skid to a stop if they can before being overwhelmed by it.
On a good day it’s a comforting sound, the murmur of a rush across the sleek black metal of the Impala’s hood as she cruises down the interstate to their next destination. On their worst it’s the howling horror just outside the motel room door trying hard to force its way through the cracks along the window sill.
At its worst it is a deafening howl; the only thing left to fill all the voids that have left craters deep down inside their souls. It feeds a bone deep fear that sooner or later the haunting, eerie moan will become an echo rattling around in the dark. In the end the only thing left, a poor attempt to fill the emptiness.