Natalie was twenty-one when the storm of the century hit Sioux Falls. And if she could remember correctly, it was more than just the storm that she was worried about.

While Bobby and Sam had ducked out to make sure the garage doors were chained shut and Dean busy shoving old dish cloths into the crack under the doors inside the house, Natalie smiled to herself as stood elbow deep in dirty sink water. There she was, cleaning the dishes calmly while so much business happened behind her back. It was quiet and domestic, the kind of normal she'd been craving for a long time.

"Hurry up and finish at the sink, kiddo," Dean loudly rattled the empty buckets in his hands impatiently. "You know we gotta save as much water as we can for when the electricity goes out."

After draining the dirty water and scrubbing the grime from off of her arms, Natalie stepped away from the sink and watched as her father took up her spot.

"So," he began, pausing after the word like he was just about to take all day to finish what was on his mind, "you got an answer for me yet?"

Taking a filled bucket from his hands and setting it in an empty corner of the kitchen, Natalie shook her head. "Nope."

Dean looked over his shoulder at her. "When are you going to give me an answer?"

She shrugged indifferently. "When I figure it out, I guess."

"Natalie, you said you'd tell me tonight." Dean had turned just far enough to square his shoulders with his daughter.

The first blue flash of lightening brightened the kitchen momentarily. Natalie glanced out the window to see the trees in the distance swaying against the wind, rain starting to clink against the glass, already as loud and sharp as gunfire.

"I think this is the least of our worries, dad. I'll give you an answer. I just can't this very second."

"It's important that you can make these tough decisions while you're under pressure." He handed off another bucket of water to be set away.

Nat scoffed. "Give me a break!"

"Give you a break? I am your father." Dean had his face turned to the sink but the bubbling smirk that lined his mouth was easy to detect on his words.

"The whole thing is ridiculous," she barked out a laugh. "Absolutely ridiculous."

Dean grinned. "Look at you: all grown up and trying to avoid conflict. If only your grandpa was here, he'd sit you down and show you firsthand how good we Winchester's are at provocation."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Natalie quickly objected, heaving down the last bucket, "you know how much I enjoy our mindless arguments but you are so wrong about this that it's not much of an argument anymore, dad."

He pointed at himself, eyebrows raised skeptically. "I'm wrong? Really?"

Natalie nodded.

Crossing his arms tight across his chest, Dean kicked out one leg in a confident stance. "Please explain, my child. Light of my life," he added over-enthusiastically.

"Fine," she threw up her hands in defeat, consenting to give him the answer he had long-awaited to hear since that morning. "Like I'm sure you know, daddy dearest, the Monkees were originally created in a television studio petri dish, and only after assembling the actors did they become, as you so sweetly put it, a real band. They were meant to be successful but, as you also so sweetly put it, they were never successful."

"I don't think you remember what side you were on this morning, Nat." Dean leaned against the counter, using a spare dish rag to dry his hands. "What you're saying right now doesn't line up with how viciously you wanted to prove me wrong."

"It's not that the Monkees are a better band than the Beatles, or that you're was wrong for preferring the extra-manufactured version of pop music of the time. Taste is arbitrary. What matters is the emotional lift we feel while hearing those songs." She jumped slightly at the sound of the cracks of thunder which seemed to rattle the entire house, quickly returning to the debate. "How's that for a damned good answer, huh?"

Dean put up one finger to stop her. "Honey, the Monkees didn't even write their own songs or create anything new to change music of their era like the Beatles did. You trying to compare them both is like trying to compare a go-cart to a Ferrari. Or that kid Dustin Beaver to Zeppelin."

"No!" The back door slammed open and Bobby stood with a displeased scowl pointed at Dean and Natalie. "You two idjits are not having this stupid argument again! I'm gonna let you two idiots in a little secret. A secret I know because I was actually alive when it was all happening! Dean, the Beatles' live performances were ass and Lennon was an arrogant prick who abused his wife and kid. Natalie, the Monkees were all about the fame and the money. That's why Nesmith split the damn band and still lives with a royal stick in his ass. So, both of you shut up about Yellow Submarine, and Monkeemania, and the 'unique California sounds.' I'm so sick of it! We got the storm of the century trying to get up into our asses and you two are fighting like little girls!"

"Uncle Bobby," Natalie quickly started, pointing at her father as she spoke, "he totally provoked me. I was trying to avoid that discussion all along."

Bobby snorted and rolled his eyes. "Of course he provoked you. That's what you Winchester's are good at. Now if I hear you two ever mention those long-haired hippies again, I'm going to put my foot so far up your asses that you two will taste colors. Got it?!"

Dean and Natalie nodded their heads innocently, expressions identical. Rolling his eyes once more, with the look of a long-suffering parent, Bobby grabbed a padlock from one of the crowded kitchen drawers and began back outside into the rain toward where Sam was standing with the heavy chain secured around the garage door handle.

Thinking that the chance of Bobby telling them to stop arguing was fool-proof, Natalie resolutely pulled a chair up to the bay window, momentarily bumping into the kitchen table, to watch the storm pick up. Dean noticed how uneven the table legs were when Natalie bumped into it and quickly ducked into the living room to rifle for the solution. He came back a moment later, loudly moving chairs and dropping books from the table top to get his daughter's attention.

"What are you doing?" Natalie gave him a strange look after seeing Dean squatting at one leg with two Monkees vinyls in his hands.

"Oh, you know," he shrugged with a wicked smile, "just putting their music to good use."

It's been so long since I've written fanfiction that my mind is just one big blank! Anyone got any suggestions?