The Impala fishtails, its tires aquaplaning on the flooding desert asphalt.
"Uh… Dean… pull over," Sam urges, his hand tightening on the door's arm rest.
"No time, Sammy. Relax. I can handle it. We just gotta outrun this sucker," Dean assures him. He's leaning forward, chest almost against the steering wheel. The windshield is almost opaque, the wipers struggling to keep up with the midnight downpour.
Lightning streaks all around them. A powerful blue bolt crackles down and smashs into that tempting chunk of black steel.
The noise is deafening. The light is blinding.
The night turns to noon and the desert into a suburban neighborhood.
They're still topping eighty miles an hour.
Sam registers two details of the scene as his vision clears:
They blow past a sign warning "30 mph." All the cars in the driveways are the age of the Impala.
A furry blur darts into the road.
Dean slams the brakes before Sam can yell a warning.
They get out and walk back several yards to where a big scruffy looking terrier mix lies sprawled in the street, tongue lolling, eyes glazing over.
Dean nudges it with his foot. The dog doesn't react.
"That dog is dead, dude," Sam groans.
"Guess we oughta get it out of the road," Dean mutters. He grabs forepaws, Sam takes the hinders.
Six kids burst out from the back yard of the house across the street. Three blonde girls, three dark haired boys. All yelling "Tiger! Tiger!" at the tops of their lungs.
Crisis-honed instinct kicks in. There is no need for words.
Sam and Dean drop the dead dog onto the sidewalk and run like hell back to the car.
They'll figure out where the heck the desert went later.
First priority is getting the heck gone from 4222 Clinton Way.