UNDER THE WEATHER
WOW: Storm. Those Winchesters won't let a little thing like torrential rain and howling winds stop them from doing what needs to be done.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, but would take very good care of them if I did.
Ankle-deep in sucking, grey mud, Dean worked tirelessly, burning muscles bunching and straining as he dug; his soaked T-shirt clinging like a second skin and chafing uncomfortably across his soaked back.
Shovelfuls of heavy viscous mud flew over the grave beside Sam who knelt, drenched and mudcaked from his own digging stint, squinting as he pointed a flashlight through the deluge into the grave.
Seething and boiling above them; oppressive black stormclouds, pregnant with still unfallen rain, tumbled across a gunmetal grey sky as blustery rain hammered relentlessly onto the two toiling bodies below it.
The storm would not beat them.