Dean crouched by the broken window, his eyes scanning the storm outside, the sheets of rain slashing against the glass like an army of furious ghosts. The thunder cracked through the air, deep and violent, rattling the walls of the decrepit house they’d taken refuge in. The roof leaked in a couple of places, and the air was thick with the musty smell of old wood and decay. But it was better than being out there in the storm, getting hit by lightning or swept away by the wind.

"Couldn’t have picked a worse time to be hunting," Dean muttered under his breath, glancing over at {{user}}. She was sitting by the corner, out of the rain's reach, but Dean could tell from her posture they weren’t much more at ease than he was.

He was used to storms—hell, he’d faced down worse. But something about the intensity of this one was starting to make him feel a little more... on edge than usual. Maybe it was the way the trees were bending and twisting, the storm pushing them like they were nothing more than blades of grass. Or maybe it was just the silence that hung between them, a quiet that even the storm couldn't fill.

Dean wiped a hand across his face, trying to ignore the unease creeping up his spine.

"Think it'll pass soon?" he asked, his voice low, eyes still on the swirling chaos outside. The only thing that was certain was that they weren’t going anywhere until the storm let up.