twister (in a starfall redux)pairing.
, via spn_remix
. Original story here
The funnel cloud forms, stretches towards the ground and makes contact with the earth.
Sam's elbows dig into Dean's ribs and Dean laughs, this loud guffaw that lingers in the air. Sam looks over to the west and there's a twister on the horizon, this tiny, small, very small thing and it barely even looks like a kitten of a storm. Dean catches Sam's eye and they take the next exit, find the next motel, tell the clerk at the front desk about the cloud. The clerk throws a key at them before splitting for his car and Sam and Dean stumble into their room - not afraid of the storm, not really afraid of much of anything.
It's a twister now, small, gaining speed just a little. It follows over freeway bridges and down into ravines, fluttering against farm fields and twisting growing plants out of normal paths into new intertwined ones.
Sam knows he's not supposed to shower during a thunderstorm. Dean pushes him in anyways, barely stopping to strip off their muddy dirty clothes. Dean drops the soap on purpose, bends over and Sam twitches with the effort to not slap Dean's ass. The television tuned to the Weather Channel in the next room dies fizzing-sparking when power goes. Dean slaps off the water as if he could move faster than electricity.
Sam steps out first, grabs the towel and gets it completely sopping wet before passing it on to Dean; Dean retaliates by flipping hard it against Sam's shoulders. The sound is loud, cracking, and Sam flinches, says oww!
in the whiniest voice he can. Dean rolls his eyes, grabs the nearest slick he finds and shoves Sam back into the shower.
The twister edges against the river, almost as if it looks in before backing away. It knocks over power lines and the wires spark against the dark asphalt.
It's loud outside, as if the tornado is right on top of them. Sam hunkers down and Dean follows, presses his chest against Sam.
Sam arches against Dean's touch, settles in where he knows he can and lets Dean's hands push against the muscles of his back, the sore and tired and too-many-times-recoil muscles. Tendons, sinew, tissues snap back to where they belong. Dean's hands are warm, almost hot, and they move over and down Sam's sides, to the skin of his ribs where Dean's fingers curve.
The tornado siren finally sounds, about six miles too late for it to be of any use. Sam's growl is loud and unheard by anyone but Dean.
The twister picks up speed, skips over gullies without attention to what creatures it has killed or spared. It knocks over double-wides and aluminum-sided hurricane-proof deathtraps; relentless by its very nature.
Sam hits his knee on the edge of the tub, hisses, and Dean nods knowingly with an I told you so
, and then digs into the knotted muscles of Sam's back. He pauses at the angry, too-clean space at the base of Sam's spine, as if afraid, but Sam bumps against him.
"Keep going," Sam says, and Dean says "Okay."
The twister grows huge, started miniscule but now nearly a mile across. It's dark with the earth and metal it's picked up and thrown far; gets stronger without even trying. It's chased by meteorologists and Channel 10 news crews now, and even the people whose lives it's destroyed are in knee-deep, elbow-deep awe of it.
Dean leans forward a little, licks against the shell of Sam's ear and Sam moans low, a rumble-echo of the sounds outside.
The twister slows down near the coast, leaves nothing behind it but traces: trashed cars, houses in parts, broken parts. The sky is still green; the twister still sounds like a train, like a waterfall, like inevitability.
It quiets outside. Sam finally lets Dean out of the room and Dean walks to the Impala, checks her over for any damage and then leans against her side, watches the faint tiny speck of the twister in the very far distance. Sam moves and leans against the Impala, too.
"Do you think it was a bad one?" Sam asks like he's curious, like he'd never seen a tornado before.
"No." Dean's voice is a sure as he can manage.
It dissipates when it's finished, when it's gotten as far as it can go. The ocean beckons to it, and the twister goes up, up.