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Chapter Text

     Apocalyptic clouds stretch out over yellow wheat fields, the farm lands illuminated by the setting sun that shines its rays from the clear skies in the west. The brightly lit crops are soon to be harvested, but it will have to wait until Mother Nature is done causing havoc on the earth below. 

     It’s May 2006, and tornado season is well on its way in the state of Oklahoma. So far, it has been relatively quiet, which is never a good sign when it comes to the weather. Now, the air is thick with moist, warm temperatures a perfect fuel for the firework show that is about to ignite. 'The calm before the storm' is a saying for good reason.A lightning strike hits in the distance, splitting the pitch black scene in half for a fraction of a second. A deep, crackling thunder follows moments later, as if a monster is warning those who disturb it with a low and frightening growl. The wind begins to pick up, the fields of golden crop swaying and rippling like small waves on the ocean. The enormous storm-system drifts in at what seems to be a slow pace, but in fact, the front is moving at about forty-five miles an hour. Above the low-hanging threat, cauliflower-shaped clouds climb fifty thousand feet into the atmosphere, accentuated with pink and orange as if the skies have been painted by an artist. A masterpiece that one would watch and appreciate, if it wasn’t for the looming danger it is creating. Because inside the belly of the beast, the motions are spiraling, tighter and tighter, until a finger reaches down towards the soil.

     “Tornado on the ground!”

     Dean Winchester is the first to notice the rotating dust clouds in the field, a couple of hundred yards from the road he’s driving on. With one hand on the wheel he speeds down Highway 9, going east. The live broadcast from the weather radio mixed with static echoes through the car, the monotone voice naming the areas at risk. While keeping the old GMC Sierra Grande on the road, he catches another glance at the twirling gusts that pick up wheat and sand.
     “Where?” John asks from the passenger seat, his dark voice laced with anticipation.
     “Eight O’clock,” his oldest son elaborates.
     He can tell his father has spotted the circulation on the flat lands to their left. “Sammy, are you getting this?”
     “Yes, Sir!”
     On the back seat, Dean’s younger brother Sam has rolled down the window and is recording the birth of the twister with his camcorder. His hair flaunts in the wind that is gushing into the twenty-year-old truck, keeping the brown strands from his eyes. He has an excited smile on his face as he holds the camera steady, capturing how the twisting wallcloud descents further.
     “Almost fully condensed now!” he shouts, thrilled.

     John glances back at the road map in his lap while pulling his phone from his pocket. With one finger lingering on their current location, he dials 9-1-1 and holds the Nokia to his ear.
     “Yeah, hello? This is John Winchester, I’m a weather spotter. There’s a tornado on the ground in Kiowa County, Oklahoma, just outside of Lone Wolf. Going west,”  the seasoned stormchaser reports, “Yes, I have my eyes on it right now. Cone-shaped tornado, high velocities...”

     While his father continues to give the exact coordinates to the 9-1-1 operator, the driver peers out his side window again. The rotating storm has evolved from a dusty whirlwind to a profound twister, violently picking up everything in its path. Thankfully, all that’s circulating around the tall cone is earth and grass, but he knows from experience that this freak of nature will do much more damage if it reaches the civilized world. For now he can appreciate this phenomenon, though, because out here in the middle of nowhere, it’s not doing any harm.

     “Son of a bitch, what a beauty!” he exclaims when John has hung up.
     “It doesn’t get any better than this, boys,” their old man states.
     “Do we have time to stop?”
     Dean glances in his rear view mirror at his younger brother, twenty-three years old, but seemingly a little kid right now. Then his gaze shifts at the storm over his left shoulder. The rear flank downdraft will not take long to reach them, but he figures he can steal a minute. Before he pulls over, he checks with his Dad, their eyes connecting and the silent question answered with a nod of the head.
     “Stay close, though, Sam,” John warns as the car slows down.

     Before the car comes to a full stop, Sam has opened the door and almost trips over his long legs as he gets out, still armed with his camcorder. Dean chuckles at the clumsiness of his sibling, gathers his Nikon camera from the backpack behind the seat and gets out himself, the moist air instantly hitting him. His father follows suit, watching the gorgeous display over the hood of the truck. It’s a magnificent sight, probably one of the most photogenic tornadoes they have ever witnessed. From a relatively safe distance, the Winchester brothers use the short time they have to record one of nature’s most intriguing weather events. The swirling twister moves through the open fields, highlighted by the last rays of light, standing out significantly against the dark rain curtains wrapped around its backside. It’s hypnotizing, marveling, a privilege to watch. Dean holds his camera in front of his face, adjusting the lens slightly as he focuses on the display in front of him. He snaps a couple of photos, zooms out and shoots a few more from a different angle, using the golden wheat as a foreground to show the huge contrast between light and darkness. Satisfied with the result, he lowers the Nikon again, his narrowed stare lingering on the grey curtain, closing in on them from northwest. He uses the power poles that are situated next to the highway - two hundred feet between each - to determine the distance to the rear flank downdraft. The wall of wind, rain and hail approaches fast, rushing in like a tsunami. 

     “C’mon, Sammy. We gotta go,” he says. “RFD is comin’ in fast.”
     The breeze begins to tussle his short blonde hair, the warm air moving past him into the storm. Holding the Nikon by the grip, he opens the car door with his free hand, unable to take his eyes off the dark rotating clouds. While Sam stops recording and returns to the GMC truck, Dean exchanges another look with his only living parent. Something happens in that wordless connection between father and son. A small smile, a glint in their eyes. These are the days they will remember.
     With the rear flank downdraft fast approaching in his rearview mirror, Dean puts the car in ‘drive’ and hits the gas. Marbles skid from under the big truck’s offroad wheels before they catch a grip on the asphalt. Relieved to be able to put some distance between them and the front, he speeds up towards the small settlement of Lone Wolf.

     “Where’s it heading?” John asks his youngest son, glancing over his shoulder.
     Sam, a second-year meteorology student, glances at the sky, reading the motions and the signs. Before he answers, he checks their navigational system and the latest radar image on his Blackberry, which was just sent to him by their chaserfriend Ash through email.
     “Still westbound, slightly north now, about fifteen degrees,” he says.
     “Towards town?” Dean assumes, which Sam confirms.
     John’s eyes turn worrisome. “You boys better pray it lifts before it hits.”
     The weather Gods have heard their prayers, because about a mile and a half before Lone Wolf, the tornado starts to change shape. The cone becomes slimmer, taking a turn towards the north as the supercell above begins to show characteristics of weakening. The tight rotation seems less organized, shifting into a rope. 
     “Holy shit! Look at her go!” Dean says, grinning at the sight.
     “It’s incredible!” Sam exclaims, holding his camera up to record the stunning scene.

     The twister gives them an encore as the watertower of Lone Wolf comes into view. A long, white shake of condensed air and dust twirls on the surface, bending and curling as if it’s alive. Laughter fills the truck, both of joy and disbelief, because in all their years of chasing storms, none of the Winchesters have ever seen anything like it. Like an ice skater doing pirouettes, the small tornado lifts, then drops down and rises up again. 
     “Should we take a northern route?” Dean asks his father, having trouble concentrating on the road.
     “No, go through town in case it regenerates,” John decides, ducking his head to watch the beautiful sight through the driver side window.
     The black 1986 Sierra Grande races towards Lone Wolf, houses and farms coming into view on both sides of the road. Tornado sirens can be heard through Sam’s open window, the ominous sound growing louder as they get closer. The dying funnel begins to dissipate, lifting entirely before causing harm. Unable to comprehend what just happened, Dean lets out a loud ‘Yahoo!’ which pulls a deep laughter from John. 
     “That was insane!” Sam shouts, running his hands through his hair in disbelief.
     “Good job, boys,” their father praises, throwing them both a proud smile. 

     A warm feeling begins to grow inside Dean’s chest, checking in the mirror if Sam is experiencing the same. Compliments from their old man come rare. John has taught them the ropes of stormchasing with a combination of passion, determination and discipline. The two young boys tagging along in the back seat grew up and have become two important pillars of their mission, each of the Winchester brothers with their own talents. Sam’s excellent weather forecasts and ability to read radar and weather, Dean’s skill behind the wheel and with a camera, not to mention his smart and fast decision making. It hasn’t always been easy, but they wouldn’t want it any other way. The three of them, on the road, chasing extreme weather.

     Grain silos and American Elm guard the road towards an intersection right before entering town. A short, glistening light pulls Dean’s attention away from the tornado that has almost roped out completely. The sun reflects on the chrome bullbar of a car, a pickup truck coming from the right at high speed. The feeling of euphoria that had the oldest Winchester brother high a second ago is instantly gone, replaced by pure terror that has his heart drop to his stomach. In an instant reflex, he pumps the brakes hard, but it’s too late. With a crash louder than any thunder they have ever heard, the large RAM charges into the side of their car like a freight train, the impact so immense that it bends the metal frame of their seemingly invincible vehicle like it has been made out of clay. 

     Screeching tires, glass shattering, a frightened cry from his little brother in the back seat; Dean is eerily aware of the sounds of destruction, even after he hits his head hard against the steering wheel. Pain rips through his skull and down his spine like he has been struck by lightning. It takes merely seconds before the two collided cars come to a stop, but to Dean, it seems agonizingly long. The driver of John’s GMC is barely conscious when a heavy silence falls over the intersection, the dust settling on the dramatic scene. The absence of his family’s voices ignites a fear that has him screaming of agony internally, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Unable to move or open his eyes, he hopes to detect any sign of life from the only two people that are dear to him, but the quietude is deafening. All he can hear are the tornado sirens of the town of Lone Wolf wailing for the fallen and the broken, before he blacks out completely.


~~~

Chapter Text

     Drumming her delicate fingers on the wooden steering wheel, Y/N takes her Raybans from the top of her head and puts the pair of shades on, shielding her narrowed eyes from the sun. Florence + the Machine’s ‘Heartlines’ is blasting from the radio, the speakers not doing the music justice, but she doesn’t mind. A playful smile pulls at the corner of her mouth as she sings along a few words of the song every now and then. Her ‘79 VW camper has a few quirks, but that’s why she loves it so much. 

     The old van loses speed as it climbs the steep cable-stayed bridge, a few cars overtaking her in the left lane. The young woman is in no rush. The window is cracked and the early spring breeze feels refreshing on her skin, strands of her hair dancing in the air. As the babyblue Volkswagen reaches the highest point of the overpass, the driver takes in the view. Below, the Neches River snakes through the landscape, water gathering in Sabine Lake before reaching the Gulf. The surface sparkles, the sun catching the ripples and highlighting the gorgeous landscape. Everglades beneath are home to a variation of birds, a flock taking off and flying towards the ocean, the romantic sky clear and holding a beautiful shade of blue, fading to a warm yellow at the horizon. 

     Y/N has left Houston earlier this morning, spending a couple of days in Bayou City. She visited the NASA Space Center, enjoyed Cajun crawfish and Texas BBQ and took the time to find a laundromat in Midtown. Her VW is equipped with quite a lot of utilities, such as a small kitchen, a toilet and an outdoor shower, but a washing machine is something she has to do without. After her clothes were clean  and dry, the young nomad continued her trip down Highway 73, passing through Winnie and Port Arthur. She is about to leave the Lone Star State behind, crossing the border between Texas and Louisiana tomorrow.

     The journey of a lifetime started about five months ago, when bought the Volkswagen with her savings and left her hometown. Her life in Santa Cruz, California, might have seemed ideal to the outside, but her house felt more like a pressure-cooker than a safe haven. She had to get out, away from the strangled upbringing and the high expectations. Life is too short to live it for anyone else but yourself. And Y/N wants nothing more than to travel, see the world and not be tied down by an education, a job, toxic relationships and a tainted past. 

     The driver of the cute blue van checks if the GoPro on her dashboard is still recording the stunning view when the VW rolls down the bridge. After California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas, Louisiana will be the fifth state of America that she is going to explore and she couldn’t be more excited. New Orleans has been on her bucket list for a long time. The Jazz and Brazz music, the French Quarters, the steamboats on the Mississippi River; Y/N has heard it is a city like no other. Tonight however, she will set up camp in Orange, a town at the state line. She has picked out a campground just off the highway, offering a swift departure tomorrow morning.

     It doesn’t take long before Y/N turns her van onto the driveway of Cypress Lake RV Park. It’s a small resort, the green grass neatly mowed on the parking spots near the water, giving visitors a picturesque view. They even rent out airboats, and Y/N makes a mental note that she should consider taking one out and explore the river in the morning before she hits the road again. The little camper stops by the front desk, and after killing the engine, the traveler gets out. Her body feels somewhat stiff from the ride, the original seats of the Volkswagen not the most comfortable, but after she stretches her back while taking in her surroundings, she feels better. 

     Y/N is immediately hit with the diverse choruses from birds, mixed with mating calls from frogs and other amphibians. A gentle wind rustles through the Spanish moss hanging from the Cypress trees along the riverbank, seemingly welcoming her. It’s a totally different world than what she’s so familiar with in California. Y/N’s eyes are sparkling as she approaches the little white building on the side of the driveway, an American flag hanging from a slanted pole. She swats a few mosquitoes away before she enters, a bell chiming when she pulls the door towards her and steps through the fly curtain.

     Inside, it’s quiet, except for the blues song that is softly playing on an old radio, the music coming from the speakers with a crackle. There’s a mini-market on the right side, the refrigerators holding refreshments buzzing. On the left, camping gear is displayed, but also fishing equipment, with a sign saying ‘for rent’ above. There’s no one behind the front desk, until a woman with dyed blonde hair strapped back in a braid steps out of the back room. She’s wearing a white tanktop with an eagle on it, with a pair of jeans. At first glance, she seems somewhat stern and intimidating, her brow furrowed as she sets two heavy cardboard boxes down behind the desk. It’s only when she straightens her back that she spots the visitor. Her demeanor instantly changes, a welcoming smile forming on her lips.

     “Well hi, sweet pea! Welcome! What can I do for ya?” she asks, a Southern drawl thick on her tongue.
     “Hi,” Y/N responds, approaching the desk. “I was wondering if you have a slot available. I’d like to spend the night.”
     The middle-aged woman pulls the calendar towards her. “Just one night, darlin’?”
     “Yes, please.” 
     “Just you?”
     “Just me.”
     She checks the bookings. “Do you need electricity? I have two spaces available on the back field, one with and one without hookup.” 
     “With, if that’s possible,” the young traveler answers. “Is that next to the water by any chance? I love the view.”
     “Oh no, sorry, honey. We’re under a flood watch, so we’re keeping those slots empty just in case,” the woman explains.
     Y/N frowns. “A flood watch?”
     “Nothin’ to worry about. They announce one whenever they expect a spec of rain down here. Happens all the time,” the kind lady says, shrugging it off. “That will be eighteen dollars. What’s your name, hon?”
     “Y/N L/N,” she states, handing her the money.
     “Well, I’m Mae. If you need anythin’, gimme a holler,” Mae takes a pamphlet out of the drawer, scribbling something on the top right corner. “Your spot is B-14. Showers and restrooms are around back. Don’t use the left one - it runs ice cold if anyone flushes the damn toilet.”
     Y/N chuckles, quickly scanning the flyer with information about the park, rental options and more. “Thanks for the heads up. I have one more question. Is it okay if I make a few videos for my vlog?”
     “Only if you film me on my good side,” Mae winks, stepping away from the counter and gesturing to her guest to follow. “Follow me, I’ll show ya the way.”

     Happy to have found a place for the night, Y/N does exactly that. The owner of the RV park waddles towards the door, her Crocs padding against the tiles. Once outside, the symphony of nature greets them, as Mae eyes the Volkswagen van with appreciation.
     “What a cute lil’ camper!” she comments, delighted, placing her hands on her broad hips. “A lil’ different from those big RV’s that usually roll in here. Don’t ya ever feel crammed?”
     Y/N opens the passenger door, grabbing her Parasonic camcorder from the seat. “No, not really. I actually enjoy how cozy it is. And it’s easy to maneuver within the city limits as well.”
     “I bet. Where’re ya from, darlin’?”
     “California,” the young nomad replies.
     “Long way from home,” Mae says, gesturing Y/N to follow her as she walks further onto the property. 
     She chuckles. “This is my home. My little house on wheels.” 
     “Well, ain’t that nice,” the nice lady responds, genuinely interested in her story. “And you have it all on film?”
     “Yeah, and I post the videos on my channel so people can follow my journey. It’s called Chasing Clouds.”
     “My son’s into that stuff, always watchin’ YouTube. I’ll tell him to go check out your videos,” Mae quips before she points up ahead. “Here we are.”

     Under a tall Cypress tree, one spot is left vacant. It’s situated on a small small slope, but the area next to the hookup is levelled. It’s an ideal place and still oversees the bayous. This will do just fine for tonight. 
     The kind-hearted woman steps back, giving her guest a smile. “I’ll letcha get settled. Enjoy your stay, sweety.” 
     “Thank you,” Y/N returns, giving her a little wave.
     With a deep breath, she takes in the warm air, allowing her senses to once again take in all the new sounds, smells and views. The further she has driven away from her home state, the more the world has changed around her. For someone who has never left the west coast of California, there is so much to experience. It’s the best part about this journey.
     Y/N glances at the camcorder in her hand and then holds it up, switching it on and flipping the LCD screen. Time to get some footage and park her minivan, before she runs out of light.

     Rain drums against the windows of the Volkswagen, tickling down the glass in random patterns. It’s almost dark outside, but not just because the sun is setting. Dark clouds have rolled in from the west. The precipitation that started only minutes ago, hasn’t done much for the temperature, though. It’s still humid and warm in the small camper. Y/N opens the window, tilting it upward and secures the leg-up, after which she pulls the fly screen down. The wind caresses her bare arms and she leans back against the bench. Much better.

     Earlier, she had shot some material for her vlog, showing her future viewers around on the property. Mae was kind enough to say a few words and she met a lovely elderly couple who are staying at the campsite as well. Y/N usually tries to involve locals whenever she’s making a video. The people she meets on the way are such an important part of the whole adventure. The traveler isn’t a loner by any means, as long as the company is good. Crossing paths with owners of shops and restaurants, artists, musicians and other adventure seekers; it has added such a value. Not only to the experience, but to her videos as well.

     Now she was going over the footage, comfortable in her PJ shorts and a loose shirt, with her bare feet propped up on the couch, her bare legs crossed at her ankles. As the fairy-lights spread a yellow gleam through the small cabin, she moves her eyes away from her laptop screen, which is situated before her on the table. The van might indeed be ‘mini’, but with a couple of neat storage tricks, she has all the space she needs. The tabletop can drop down for instance, the cushions she is using as a backrest right now fitting perfectly on top, making it into a small twin bed. Under one of the benches, she has food and drinks stored, under the other her clothes. Then there’s the kitchen next to the sliding door, which she can turn 270 degrees, allowing her to cook either indoors or outdoors, depending on the weather. The only thing she needs to go outside for, is the shower. Photos are taped to the walls, filling up every space that has no window. Pictures she took along the way, but also a few from her past. Y/N smiles when her gaze locks on an image of her and her sister. They must have been no older than fifteen and seventeen, two young girls with their arms wrapped around each other on the beach. Memories she will hold dear forever. 

     Her sister. Her beautiful, sweet baby sister. Y/N has wished many times that she could have gone on this road trip with Jade. She inspired her to go, to document it on film and share it with the world. Who would have thought that her blog in video form would reach so many people. In the beginning, only a few hundred people followed her travels on YouTube, the number of likes and subscriptions slowly growing. Then, out of nowhere, one video went viral. She remembers it well; it was a special about her Volkswagen, followed by shots of Y/N surfing in Malibu. An old-timer enthusiast offered to shoot footage with a drone. The bird's eye view shots against the Californian sunset turned out absolutely amazing. 

     Overnight, it was watched so many times that she gained over five thousand subscriptions by morning. She had no idea what had hit her; her phone had completely blown up. She went from uploading a video every now and then to a full blown vlogger, spending whenever she wasn’t traveling or sightseeing editing videos. Now, she gets paid for advertising and promoting products. She even receives a decent amount in donations from followers. The support is amazing, most of the time coming from people she has never even met. Who would have thought a YouTube channel would be able to pay for her travel expenses? It has been an interesting road so far, that’s a given. She has finally allowed herself to live her life, to prioritize herself. She has discovered talents she never knew she had. Everything came together at exactly the right time. The great video, the setting, the algorithm.

     The perfect storm.

     Thunder rumbling in the distance interrupts her trip down memory lane. Y/N peeks outside in the direction of where the bad  weather is coming from, but trees and bushes obstruct her vision. It doesn’t take long before the sound grows a little louder, flashes brightening the ominous sky whenever lightning strikes. Y/N had heard on the local news radio that there was a chance of severe thunderstorms. Apparently they are as common here as wildfires are in California. She’s glad she got a spot on higher grounds, since the region is prone to flooding. Enjoying the mixture of croaking frogs and the tapping of the rain on the steel roof of her van, backed with an almost continuous roll of thunder. It doesn’t scare her, in fact, she enjoys the drums of nature.

     Done with editing for the night, she closes her laptop. After sending out a quick tweet and dropping a post with the highlights of the day on Instagram and Facebook, she sets up her camcorder on a small tripod and switches on her ringlight. Time for a last message before she goes to bed. She will add the closing part of the video in the morning and will look for a restaurant with WiFi on her way to Louisiana to upload it, since the service isn’t great here. After flipping the screen and checking if she looks decent, Y/N hits record and looks in the lens.

     “Hey, guys. It’s March 8th, 2011 and already day ninety-nine on the road, so tomorrow will mark the hundredth day of my journey. I can’t believe it’s been this long, but it also feels like time is flying, know what I mean?”
     She chuckles at the thought, comfortably continuing her story as if she’s talking to a good friend. In a way, she is. She always pictures telling about her adventures to her sister.
     “Houston was amazing, I genuinely had so much fun in Texas. I’m at the state line now, in a town called Orange. The weather is a bit crazy, as you can see,” she pauses, blinking when the bright light of lightning strikes a bit closer by. Great timing. “I’m safe and dry in my little Volkswagen. Time for me to hunker down and get some sleep, because tomorrow, I’m going to Louisiana.”
Y/N smiles, looking up at the ceiling of her little mobile home.
     “Honestly, this would have never been possible without you. I wanna thank everyone who has supported me from the bottom of my heart. You have made this journey so much more than just a road trip, and I’m so glad that my quest to explore America and discover myself has inspired so many. Know, though, that you all inspire me. Thank you.”

     The young vlogger continues with a small request to like the video and subscribe to her channel like she always does. So genuinely invested in delivering her message, she hasn’t quite noticed that the wind outside has calmed, changing directions. She is about to close the recording, when suddenly, an eerie siren begins to blare outside. It startles her, her heart shooting up to her throat. She listens to the high-pitched sound, the steady wavering tone having the hair on the back of her neck stand up. For a moment she forgets the camera is rolling as she peers through the glass. It sounds much like the tsunami sirens she has heard once or twice in Santa Cruz. Would this be a flood-warning? 

     “I don’t know if you guys can hear that,” she wonders, remembering the Parasonic is still recording, continuing nervously. “There are sirens going off and it’s kinda freaking me out. I hope I’m okay here.”
     Lightning flashes more violently, the thundering boom shortly after indicating that the storm is coming closer. From the corner of her eye, she has noticed her phone lighting up, indicating that messages are incoming. Normally she never checks her notifications when she’s editing or filming, but then the screen brightens again.
     Y/N is stunned to notice the wave of replies and messages on Twitter and her other socials, all coming from followers. She quickly scrolls through them, scanning over words like ‘watch out’ and ‘be careful’. Careful for what? Then a new message comes in, a response to her tweet.

     There is a severe thunderstorm coming your way, high winds and possibly a tornado! Please be safe!

     Possibly a tornado? Y/N stares at her phone with big eyes, stammering before she can collect herself.
     “I’m, uh - I’m getting a lot of messages from you guys warning me about the weather. What should I do, though? I don’t think there’s a stormshelter on the premises.”
     Anxiously, Y/N runs her fingers through her hair, lightning breaking the heavens in half and outlining her profile. With haste, she closes the window, sealing it shut, all while keeping an eye on the dark incoming clouds. 

     Then her gaze stops.

     Her heart skips a beat, a frozen deer caught in the headlights of the storm. She barely caught it, but in the darkness one flash reveals the contours of a large, dark shaft, coming down from the low clouds. She imagined that, right? It has to be just heavy rainfall. Right? 
     Something changes in the atmosphere. The wind begins to move through the trees again, only this time coming from the east, the intensity growing within no more than ten seconds. Panic begins to creep through her veins, spreading through her body like a virus. What is she supposed to do?! Stay put? But she has heard that a mobile home is the worst place to be in when it comes to tornadoes.

     I’m in a Goddamn mini-van.

     “Oh, God… What - what do I do?” she stutters, backing away from the window as another flash shows the monster’s true form, seemingly growing larger. “Oh, God - Oh, God! There’s a tornado!”
     The old Volkswagen moans as the velocities rise, beginning to rock on its small wheels. The hauling wind and loud thunder are deafening, drowning out the wail of the sirens. Power lines next to the road sway, the Stars and Stripes violently fluttering, completely horizontal. Loose lawn items topple over - folding chairs, flowerpots, a children's toy-slide. Branches and leaves fill the sky, getting picked up by the strong surge. Y/N should have known her response to a life-threatening situation isn’t fight or flight. After all, she has been in a traumatic situation that altered her future before, and the reaction was the exact same. Unable to move, tears pool on her lashes, shimmering eyes staring at nature’s fury. 

     She is going to die.

     Scared beyond reasoning, she slowly turns on the spot, witnessing how the idyllic world around her snaps and breaks as it is sucked into the vortex. The windscreen cracks as debris hits the glass, but that’s not what Y/N captures. It’s the pendant that hangs from the rearview mirror, swaying as the winds claw at the van. Noticing the golden object triggers something, snapping her out of the deep trance.

     Jade would want you to survive.

     Knowing it’s too late to run and try to find a ditch, Y/N drops to the floor and quickly crawls under the table. More glass breaks and shatters, the sharp particles raining down on her. In a desperate attempt to protect herself from the relentless storm, she grabs the bench cushions and pulls them on top of her. It’s the only barrier between the young woman and all that Mother Nature is throwing at her, because within moments, the side windows blow out, pulling a scream from Y/N’s chest. As a roar grows louder, like a freight train approaching fast. Water and hail plunges through the gaping holes in the VW, together with twigs and leaves.  The kitchen cabinets fly open as the campervan shakes strenuously, the curtains being ripped off the rails. Slowly, the blue car shifts, the frame moaning when the hurricane force winds get a grip on the vehicle. 

     With her eyes squeezed shut, Y/N makes herself as small as possible, lying on her side in a fetal position in the complete chaos. Wood splintering, loud bangs, car alarms, metal churning, and that growl like no other. She didn’t know a tornado could produce such a sound. Pressure builds on her ears until they pop, a buzz easing the assault to her hearing. Her brain registers a sudden, white flash even through closed eyelids, simultaneously with the head-splitting crash of thunder. The ground shakes and she can feel the vibrations in her chest, followed by the sound of a bark breaking and wood snapping. A deafening thud that has the earth trembling once again, announces the old Cypress tree that has landed on top of the baby blue van. The weight of the trunk is so heavy that the roof comes down, the frame of the iconic VW contorting under the pressure. 

     Pinned under the table, Y/N cries hysterically. Soaked in rain and suffocating in the tight space, she can barely pull in a breath. Fear has completely taken over, pitch black darkness interrupted by sudden bright flashes of the intense lightning storm only adding to the disorientation. Stuck and with nowhere to go, all she can do is await her fate as the tornado is about to pass over. There’s a downside to independence. A catch to being a lonely traveler. Because when all hell breaks loose, there’s no one there to rescue a woman who desperately wants to be held. Y/N has never felt this utterly alone in the world. 

     She is trapped in the eye of the storm, and nobody is there to save her.

Chapter Text

     “I can’t see shit!”
     Dean peers over the steering wheel of his 95’ Chevrolet Silverado, the window wipers that go back and forth over his windshield doing a poor job at giving him clarity. There’s so much water on the road that he has trouble staying in his lane, not only because he can’t see the markings; he is also experiencing aqua-planning as well. Spray coming from the tires of other cars only worsens the view.

     “I don’t like this storm at all, Dean.”
     The oldest Winchester brother glances over at Sam briefly, who has his eyes glued to the tablet on the dashboard mount. The driver catches a glimpse from the live radar, angry red markings passing over the map of East Texas.
     “Embedded supercell?” Dean checks.
     “Yeah. It’s gonna be completely rain-wrapped,” Sam confirms.
     Small hail pelts on the pickup truck, mixing with the sound of the V8 engine. The weather channel is calling out warnings and counties at risk in a monotone voice, interrupted by chatter of other stormchasers on the second radio.
     “Damnit,” Dean cusses. “So much for good footage.”
     Sam swipes down the menu, changing the setting of the chart. A big area of the Gulf coast is marked in yellow. 
     “Afraid so. Plus with these volumes of precipitation, we need to watch out for flash floods around here.”
     “Fan-fuckin’-tastic,” the driver mumbles, adjusting himself in his seat.

     The stormchase season has only just begun, but he’s already done with chasing shadows in the dark. When a cell is wrapped with rain, it’s basically impossible to see. No cloud structures, no nothing. It makes a possible twister much harder to chase, not to mention the danger of not having a visual until it’s too close for comfort. On top of that, the sun has set. He fully understands why his little brother does not like this storm. Nocturnal tornadoes are five times more deadly than daytime ones.

     “Winchesters, you there?”
     The mobile HAM radio beeps when the message ends, the voice of their good friend Ash coming from the device. Dean takes the handheld speaker-mic from the clip, stretching the springcable when he holds it closer to his mouth and presses the talk-button.
     “Yeah, we hear ya. What’s up?”
     “I have multiple traffic cams out on Highway 90 near exit 878. Also power outages on the north side of Orange.”
     “Alright, thanks for the heads up.” Dean responds, hooking the speaker in its holder again.
     
     Loss of power combined with malfunctioning traffic cameras are an indication for high winds in that area. Or worse, a tornado. The stormchaser is all for intercepting storms, but it becomes a lot less fun when they carve a scar through populated areas. 
     “What do you think, Sammy?” he asks.
     Dean isn’t just asking because he’s curious about his little brother’s opinion. Sam got his master degree in meteorology two years back and it’s safe to say that he is a weather wizard. Not that he will ever tell him that, of course.
     “I’m waiting on the latest velocity scan before I can tell what’s going on,” Sam says.
     The radar image refreshes just as he finishes his sentence, causing his jaw to drop and his eyes to grow larger.
     “Oh, whoa…”
     “What?”
     “Huge hook and a tight couplet on radar, northern part of Orange. It’s crossing the railroad now,” Sam elaborates. 

     The passenger turns the tablet towards his brother, who raises his eyebrows at the hook-echo of the supercell. It’s a clear sign of a strong storm. While Dean focuses on the road again, Sam checks the reflectivity scan, a bundle of pixels in his screen indicating his suspicion. 
     “There’s a debris signature.”
     “You sure?” Dean checks. 
     The silence is imminent; the driver doesn’t even have to look over at his sibling to know that he’s throwing him a glare. Letting him know that he’s messing around, Dean grins back. Of course Sam is sure. He is an absolute master in reading radar. 
     The black Silverado switches lanes towards exit 877, avoiding the traffic jam up ahead on the Highway. The stormchasers travel parallel to the main road, Dean doing the driving, Sam scanning the dark sky. 
     “How fast is she going?” Dean asks, crossing the intersection after checking it’s free.
     “Fast, about fifty miles an hour,” Sam returns.
     The oldest of the brothers makes a disapproving sound. “It’s gonna be hard to get in front with all this rain.”

     Dean speeds down E. Lutcher Drive, waves curling onto the shoulder when he runs the pickup through a puddle. Lightning gives an impressive show; the storm-system is intensifying. Tornado sirens begin to cry out a warning when they drive into the suburbs of Orange. 
     “About damn time,” Dean comments, breaking at a stop sign as first responders cross, racing north on State Highway 87.
     Their blue lights shimmer in the raindrops that blur the windshield. When the road is clear, Dean revs up, continuing west. Sam leans forward, watching the police and firetrucks disappear under the overpass. The observing Winchester notices the lack of light on either side of the street, the windows of the houses black and the roads dark.
     “Streetlights are out, just like Ash said.”
     “Powerflash!” Dean calls out of nowhere, pointing up ahead.

     Sam snaps his head forward, seeing the bright blue flash illuminating the low clouds above. A transformer has just exploded, causing the ball of electricity to ignite. Only extremely high wind speeds are capable of such damage. 
     With the interstate on their left, it’s difficult to get a visual of anything, but when the main road dips down, he notices the vague outline of the monster that is causing havoc.
     “I see it!” he shouts, instantly reaching for the speaker mic to call it in. “Tornado on the ground just north of Highway 90 in Orange, Texas, tracking east. I repeat: confirmed rain-wrapped tornado north of Orange, heading towards the Louisiana River. We have a visual.”

     Dean steps on the gas, keeping a sharp eye on the barely visible vortex as the powerful V8 engine roars. Debris is circling around the twister - trees, sheetmetal, garbage. Anything the invisible shadow can get a hold of. The car swerves around a large branch that has landed on the road, more rubble passing over them in the outer band of the tornado. 
     “How’s radar lookin’?” he asks Sam.
     “It’s on top of a gas station and - shit,” the younger Winchester pauses, zooming in on the tablet by using his thumb and index finger. “It’s heading straight for an RV park.”
     “Fuck,” the driver cusses through gritted teeth.

     Contemplating, he eyes the storm while lightning and strikes the ground, no further than half a mile out. Other commuters are using the parallel road to avoid traffic as well, the train of red taillights ahead a clear sign that the secondary routes are getting congested. Even without having to overtake all those vehicles, it’s going to be a long shot getting in front of the fast-moving supercell. Dean knows that the road-network across the state border is anything but ideal, not allowing them any emergency exit-route south, might they misjudge the dangerous tornado. When the driver comes to a stop at the back of a line of cars at the crossroads with Simmons Drive, he has made his decision.

     “Okay, I’m callin’ it,” he sighs. “This storm isn’t chasable.” 
     The passenger rubs his face, frustrated, but he knows his big brother is right. There’s chasing storms and chasing ghosts. This has become the latter.
     “What do you wanna do now?” he wonders.
     “Let’s see if we can help out. Emergency services are gonna be swamped,” Dean decides, flipping a switch on a panel next to his rearview mirror, activating the orange flashing lights on top of his car and in the front bumper.
     Having turned into search and rescue mode, he rotates the wheel and passes a line of vehicles, some of them making way. At the stop sign, he double checks the road before he turns left, maneuvering around people who have parked their cars under the overpass to seek shelter. 

     Dumbasses, he thinks to himself.

     Under an overpass is quite possibly the worst place to be in case of a tornado. Its funnel-like shape will only expose anyone underneath to even higher windspeeds, not to mention that blocking the road could lead to a pile up and slow down first responders. 

     It takes him a good couple of minutes to fight his way through the jam, but not without road rage and slamming the horn a couple of times. When the Silverado emerges on the other side, the rear flank downdraft in the wake of the storm hits them from the left. Through the curtains of rain, the damage path of the twister comes into view. Debris is littered everywhere, hanging from trees that seem to be dead, completely plucked bare and robbed of their leaves. Wooden power poles are down, cars flipped like they are children’s toys, their alarms blaring. The entire roof of the gas station across the road has been ripped off. A few people are coming out of their shelter, disorientated, shocked by the sudden natural disaster. Dean rolls down his window, checking on a small group that exits through the smashed sliding doors of the convenience store next to the fuel pumps.
     “You guys alright?!” he shouts to overrule the strong winds and heavy rainfall.
     They respond by nodding and giving him a thumbs-up, and so Dean turns to his brother.
     “Where’s that RV park?”
     “Take a right,” Sam instructs. “Less than a mile down the road.”

     Every yard further east, the damage to the area is more intense. They pass a small harbor, where airboats and boat trailers have been tossed around, crumbled as if they were made from paper. Commercial signs are blasted to pieces, framing-wood scattered across the road. Dean has to slow down significantly in order to avoid chunks of roofing, probably from the gas station they passed a minute ago. Large trees have fallen to the earth, snapped in half like matchsticks. Splintered, bare wood are the only remnants of the old souls that once guarded the street. 
     “This is EF2 damage, at least,” Sam says, the severity of the consequences heavy in the air. 
     “And it plowed right through a park full of mobile homes,” the oldest Winchester adds, gripping his steering wheel.

     Dean takes a deep breath without being obvious, not wanting his little brother to worry about him. But in situations like these, he always feels his chest tighten a little. The experienced stormchaser has seen the carnage in a storm’s wake many times before. Life-threatening injuries, hysterical cries calling out for family, the desperation when people have lost everything. Truth be told, he’s preparing to see death. The thing is, ever since he has been on the receiving end of such agony, he experiences an unsettling and anxious feeling whenever he’s driving into a disaster zone. Not just because what he is about to witness is violent, raw and heartbreaking. What gets to him are the memories that the aftermath surfaces. The driver rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck by tilting it to the side. 

     Time to get your gameface on, Dean. 

     The orange lights coming from the top of the Chevrolet bounce off their chaotic surroundings, alternated with bright, violet-colored lightning. Both chasers observe the scene. A driveway suggests that the park should be here, but without any commercial signs or street-signs left to show them the way, navigating has become a bit more challenging.
     “The fact that I’m not seeing any RV’s isn’t good, is it?” Dean comments, turning onto the driveway on a hunch.
     Sam gulps, scanning the premises as the car straightens out. “No it’s not.” 

     The head beams shine a light on the carnage, showing a small white building that is in ruins. The windows together with parts of the walls  are gone and so is the roof. Sodas, canned food and other products they must have sold in the small store are scattered everywhere, mixed with plywood, bricks and other debris. Dean switches on the floodlights on top of his car in order to get a better view.
     "See anything?” Sam checks, trying to pick up on any sign of human life in the rubble through the heavy rain.
     Dean shakes his head, undoes his seatbelt and swiftly grabs his leather coat from the backseat. His brother follows his example and exits the car, quickly shrugging on his rainjacket before he’s drenched. 
     “Hello! Anyone out there?!” Sam shouts, hoping for a response.
     The oldest of the two brothers has circled the car already, opening the top of the flatbed and taking out flashlights and walky-talkies. He throws one of each at Sam, who skillfully catches them.
     “Cell-service is down. We’ll use channel 14 if we need to split up,” he says, pulling a crowbar from the compartment as well.

     “Hello?!”  
     
     In sync, the boys turn their heads into the direction the voice is coming from. An older woman walks into the rays of the floodlights. Her clothes are dirty, her white tank top smudged and strands of blonde hair have escaped her braid, but she seems unharmed.
    “Oh, thank the Lord! I couldn’t reach 9-1-1 for the life of me!” she says with a sigh, placing her hands on her knees while taking a breath.
     “M’am, are you okay?” Sam asks, approaching her in case she needs support.
     “I am, me and my kids got to the shelter in the nick of time. But there are several people at the campsite. I wanted to warn them, but the sirens - the sirens went off only a minute before all hell broke loose. I - I had to think of my little boys, I -”
     She starts crying, grabbing on to Sam when he holds her arm. With a quivering lip and tearful eyes, the poor woman looks over at the area where the RVs were parked.
     “How many people were there on the campsite?” Dean asks.
     “Six at least. Some regulars come ‘n go. I don’t know for sure,” she replies. “Oh, Lord help us...”
     “Call it in,” Dean instructs his brother, signaling at the radio on the dashboard of the Chevrolet. “I’m gonna do a first sweep.”
     Sam carefully lets go of the distraught woman, throwing a glance at his older brother before he disappears into the shadows. “Dean, be careful!”

     The Winchesters exchange a look, silent communication between two siblings who grew up together and never went their separate ways. They give each other a nod as thunder rumbles and white bolts crash. Then Dean turns on his flashlight and walks on, out of reach from the floodlights. With hasty strides, he crosses the soggy field, the intense downpour too much for the ground beneath to absorb. In the wake of the tornado, the weather continues to be relentless. It’s difficult to make sense of his surroundings in the dark, the flashes above him and the noise of wind and rain disrupting his senses. A tent has been torn to pieces, items of clothing and camping essentials scattered. There’s no sign of the inhabitants, though.
     “Hello?! If you can hear me, call out!” Dean shouts, his eyes darting over the field. 
     He holds his flashlight at eyelevel, allowing it to illuminate the darkness. Straining his ears, the stormchaser tries to dissect the noise of the storm from any sign of life. When he can’t hear anything, hope fades, but then he detects the faint cry. 
     Instantly, he rushes to where the soft wailing came from, climbing a small hill with the crowbar still in hand. A bolt crawls across the ceiling of the earth, followed by crackling thunder moments later. When he reaches the top, he finds a large Cypress tree down, having taken a powerpole with it. Underneath, a vehicle he cannot even identify the make and model of has been crushed like a soda can by the weight of the trunk. 

     It couldn’t be that someone’s in there, right? Alive?

     “Help! Please, help me!”
     The voice instantly has Dean spring into action. He pulls the broken branches away, trying to get to the dented sliding door. When he has cleared it enough to be able to peek through the deformed windowsill, he shines his flashlight inside. There, in a small pocket under the caved-in roof of the van, he finds a young woman, hurdled up into a ball. Her bare arms and legs are covered in scratches, her drenched hair sticking to her face. Dirt, leaves and splinters of wood and glass stick to her trembling form, but she’s alive. Her begging eyes filled with tears ask him to save her. 
     “Please…” she pleads, her voice broken.

     For a fraction of a second, the sight of the helpless victim captivates him and has the stormchaser frozen on the spot. His heart races when they make eye-contact from something else other than just adrenaline. 
     “It’s okay, I’ll get you out,” Dean promises, snapping out of it. “Are you hurt bad?”
     “I - I don’t know…” she stammers, anxiety evident in her speech as she inhales and exhales hastily. 
     “Hey, hey - breathe, okay? It’s gonna be alright. I promise,” her rescuer tries to calm her. “What’s your name?” 
     “Y/N,” she answers.
     “I’m Dean. But you can also call me your Knight in shining armor,” he returns, making a poor attempt to lighten the mood. 
     The young woman faintly smiles through her tears. Good, Dean thinks to himself, glad his tactic to use a bit of humor to distract her from this ordeal is working. 
     “I’m gonna try to get this door to open, okay? Stay back.”

     Y/N watches the stranger step back and assess the situation through the broken window. The panic that had her under a spell for the past ten minutes is slowly oozing away, now that she isn’t alone anymore. 

     Help is here. I'm not going to die. Not today.

     Every now and then lightning highlights the man who is working hard to free her. Despite the poor visibility, she notices the defined lines of his jaw and nose. Rain runs down his face, his short hair dripping and droplets are bouncing off his leather jacket. He has managed to pull the door open by just a crack, but it gives him just enough room. With a powerful swing, the man hacks into the door, tilting the iron bar in order to manipulate the tough material. He’s working so hard to get her out of this nightmare, giving it his all, despite the treacherous conditions. Although Y/N has only just met the man, his presence alone already causes her heart to calm down and her breaths to even. 

     The gap between the frame and the door becomes bigger, slowly but steady. The space isn’t wide enough to squeeze through yet, but with the help of the crowbar, her savior is making progress. Using the tool as leverage, he puts all his might into opening the gap far enough for Y/N to escape, but then the steel groans and loud crackling sound from above. Both freeze as the victim inside gasps, staring up at the downed ceiling of the Volkswagen, holding her breath. The little camper might just collapse under the unbearable weight, especially if the enormous tree trunk would shift, which isn’t unlikely with the wind still blowing strong.

     “C’mon, let’s get you outta here,” Dean says. “Take my hand.”  
     He reaches out for her, his kind eyes asking her to trust him. Y/N wants to move, but the creaking above has her anxious to get out from under the table, afraid it all might come down on her.
     “It’s okay, it’ll hold. You can do it,” he encourages, trying to get a little closer to the frightened young woman. “Just take my hand.”
     Taking a deep breath, Y/N shifts her weight, carefully crawling towards him. Shards of glass slicing into her palms trigger her to wince, but she continues to move forward on her hands and knees.
     Wanting to get her out of the unstable vehicle that is barely holding it together, Dean outstretches his arm. When she’s finally in reach, she squeezes his hand tight with her delicate fingers, the strength in them surprising him. Pulling her towards him without harming the girl, he adjusts his grip to her forearm.
     “Watch your head,” he tells her, pulling her upper body through the small gap.

     Despite the pain from all the cuts and bruises, she uses her legs to wriggle through the hole, the sharp edges catching on her hip. She doesn’t let it stop her, grids her teeth and pushes through.   
     The guy who has just saved her life catches her before she tumbles out, gently holding Y/N by her shoulders. She turns over and sits up in the wet grass, trying to control her breathing as survival instinct loses terrain and realisation begins to set in. After the harrowing thirty minutes she just endured, the pure hysteria that she went through as the world came crashing down on her… now it all becomes too much.
     “Are you in pain?” Dean checks, mistaking her tears filled with emotion for something else.
     “No, n-not really,” she sniffles, wiping the hair from her face, glancing down at the scratches on her palm. 

     Dean watches her, setting his jaw. The poor girl just went through hell and he doesn’t want to rush her, but he would like to get her back to his car and wait for emergency personnel to check her out. She’s clearly in shock, shivering like a leaf. Instinctively, he reaches for her hand again, hoping that the connection helps her to collect herself. Her skin is soft, yet cold as ice.   
     “Here.” 
     The stormchaser lets go and shrugs off his leather jacket, wrapping it around her small form. Despite the fact that the man has been out in the downpour for a while now, the material is still dry on the inside, offering warmth and comfort.
     “Thank you,” Y/N says softly, truly grateful for his effort.
     “Do you think you can get up?” her rescuer asks, dipping his chin down in order to look her in the eye.
     The brave woman nods and with help of the man who has gotten her out of predicament, she gets on her feet. Still holding on to Dean, she straightens her back and tests her legs. Despite feeling unsteady, she turns around, glancing at what has been her comfy home for the past ninety-nine days. It hurts her to see her blue VW, bent and broken.

     So many memories.

     “Wait,” she says suddenly, remembering what she will leave behind. “I need to get something out of the car.”    
     But Dean shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that. It’s not safe.” 
     "You don’t understand. It’s really valuable to me. It’s in the front, I can just grab it then w–”
     Before she can finish her sentence, the Cypress tree that was hanging by a thread, cracks loudly. The large trunk breaks off the stump completely, crushing the top of the Volkswagen even further. Startled, Y/N moves closer to the man who got her out just in time, and he protectively moves his arm around her. He gives her a moment to settle as she tries to make peace with the fact that she has to leave all her belongings behind. 
     “You will be able to come back tomorrow, when the fire department has cleared it,” Dean says, trying to offer her some solace. 
     She nods silently, tucking her chin down while her bottom lip quivers, grieving the loss of her beloved blue campervan. Honestly, she’s glad to feel the man’s hand on her back, because the emotions, the exhaustion, it makes her knees feel weak.

     Sirens of emergency vehicles - which have been a constant background soundtrack ever since the tornado carved through the northern suburbs of Orange - grow louder. Dean turns his head, noticing the red and white lights flashing in the distance. 
     “C’mon,” the stormchaser ushers. “Let me carry you. You’ll hurt yourself without shoes, there’s debris everywhere.”
     “No, that’s fine,” Y/N says, stubborn.
     She curses at herself internally for dismissing his offer, because Y/N certainly doesn’t feel as tough as she wishes to be. Her muscles are aching, to the point that it’s difficult to move one foot in front of the other. The adrenaline is leaving her body, and even though the cuts and bruises seem superficial and the pain is tolerable, the magnitude of recent events is catching up on her.

     When she almost trips on the uneven grounds, hurting her foot on a piece of brick, Dean’s reflexes save her once again. Apparently he’s not going to ask another time, because he scoops her tender form into his strong arms and pulls her against his chest. Too exhausted to fight him - even though every neutron in her mind wants her to - Y/N gives in. Drained, she rests her head against his collarbone, not minding the soaked through fabric of his shirt, but finding the heat coming off his skin a welcome comfort. She closes her eyes and breathes out, for the first time feeling safe. She can smell a mixture of moist rain and leather, maybe a hint of spice. Then there’s the tender touches; one hand wrapped around her legs, fingertips pressing in her thigh, the other wrapped around her back and holding her tight under her arm. She can tell he’s trying to make his way down the hill as steady as possible.
     “Still with me?” he checks.
     Y/N sniffles. “Yeah.”
     When she feels his cheek softly pressing against the top of her head, she can’t stop the tears from rolling down her face again. This man who she has just met under extreme circumstances offers her a kindness she didn’t know she longed for. Over three months on the road might seem like a vacation to some, but for her it was something she had to do. It’s also unpredictable, scary, and lonely. In his sheltering arms, she finds the opposite. 
     
     As Dean reaches his car, the heavy downpour has shifted into a light rain now that the storm system is passing on. He carefully lowers her feet to the ground and when he’s sure she can hold her own, he opens the passenger side door of his Chevrolet. Timid, she sits down in the leather seat of the big truck, her legs still dangling over the edge. Worrisome, the stormchaser keeps an eye on her as he pulls the walkie talkie from his belt. Then he glances over the hood in the direction his brother disappeared before he presses the call-button.
     “Sam? You there?”
     It takes a few seconds before the younger Winchester responds.
     “Yeah, on my way back.”
     “Found anything?”
     Another silence. Dean instantly has a gut feeling that his sibling has indeed found victims of the tornado, but judging from Sam’s tone, he doubts they are alive.
     “Two, both deceased.”

     Dean sighs, flexing his jaw as he grits his teeth, then he lowers his gaze to the ground as he rests his hand against the open door of his Silverado. When he looks up again, he meets Y/N’s eyes, who stare back at him in shock. She listened in on the exchange, and although finding death in the wake of a twister is nothing new to the Winchesters, it certainly is new to her.
     “Well, I’ve got some good news. Found one alive.” He throws her soft smile, even though his eyes remain weary. “We’re at the car. Fire and PD are about to pull in too.”
     “Okay, see you in a bit.”
     Dean leaves the device on the dashboard, his attention caught by the firetruck and two police cars that turn onto the driveway. He was hoping there would be an ambulance amongst the first responders, but isn’t surprised that the available emergency units are running thin. 

     He returns his gaze to the young woman, who has folded her arms in front of her chest, hurdled over and clearly still shaken up. The poor thing seems so small. Now that the interior lights are casting a soft glow over her skin, he notices the extent of her injuries. Y/N is covered in small cuts and abrasions, but he can’t detect any serious bleeding or broken bones. It’s nothing short of a miracle.
     “Who was that?” she asks, tipping her head at the walkie-talkie.
     “My brother Sam,” Dean returns.
     She holds eye-contact, the shimmer in them unraveling.
     “People died?”

     Dean nods, sadness in his green eyes, maybe even a bit of guilt. He drops his gaze as if he’s afraid she will notice. Y/N wonders why he would feel remorse for the casualties of a natural disaster. It’s not like he was in any way responsible for She doesn’t find it appropriate to ask and wipes her messy hair from her face. Apparently it has uncovered an injury, because Dean gently pushes her a strand away, his thumb brushing her hairline. It stings slightly, and when he pulls back his hand, there’s a trace of blood on his fingertips.
     “As soon as Sam is back, we’re gonna drive you to the ER and get you checked out,” he announces, his brow furrowed, concerned.
     “No, we can’t. I don’t have insurance,” Y/N objects. 
     “We can sort something out,” he presses, but she dismisses it with a firm shake of her head.
     “I can’t. Really, I’m okay. It’s just a few scratches and bruises,” she claims. “Besides, the emergency room is going to be swamped anyway. It might take hours.”
     A hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. She’s stubborn, alright, he can give her that. He has to admit, though, that she’s probably right about the ER being extremely busy.

     Before he can counter her, however, he hears footfalls behind him, undoubtedly belonging to his brother. The oldest of the two siblings shifts his stare to Sam, who slows down and takes in the woman who’s sitting in the passenger seat. His burdened expression instantly changes to a compassionate one when he notices the state she’s in.  
     “Hey,” the young woman greets him, forcing a faint smile.
     “Hi, I’m Sam,” the younger Winchester introduces himself. “How are you holding up?”
     “Y/N,” she returns. “I’m okay, considering I got run over by a tornado.”
     Dean grins at the remark, tipping his head down as he rests his elbow on the door of his Chevy. He doesn’t really know her yet, but something tells him that she’s got some spunk in her, if she’s already capable of a joke.
     “Yeah, well, it happens to the best of us,” Sam chuckles.

     The tall man with long, dripping wet hair which is covering his forehead turns towards his brother, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the firetruck and the first responders who are fanning out to look for survivors.  
     “I just briefed the sergeant, they are taking over the search. What do you wanna do?”
     Dean doesn’t answer him directly, but looks at the girl he saved, questioningly.
     “We can drive you home, if you want,” he offers.
     “Home?” Y/N scoffs. “That was my home. I lived in that camper.”
     The man who has been nothing but sweet to her ponders. “Is there anywhere we can take you? Family? Friends?” 
     She shakes her head, looking down at her bare feet. “No. There’s no one. I have nowhere to go.”

     It’s quiet for a moment while Sam and Dean exchange a look. Dean knows his empathetic brother is thinking the same thing; they can’t possibly leave her. He has heard the desperation in her voice, and whatever her story is, she doesn’t have many options to go forward with after everything she owns has been obliterated by the twister that destroyed the campsite. Before he can speak, though, the younger brother beats him to it in his usual oblivious fashion.  
     “You can stay the night at our motel,” he suggests.
     A little nervous, Y/N looks up at him, somewhat stunned by the proposal. “No offense, but we’ve just met. You realize how creepy that sounds, right?’
     “Oh - uh, no. That’s - that’s not what I meant,” Sam stammers, holding his hands up in defense.
     “Nice one, Sam,” Dean comments, throwing him a glare before he saves his ass and responds on his behalf. “But hey, who knows? We’ve just met. You could be a serial killer, for all we know.”
     For the first time, a wide smile decorates her face, her pearly white teeth standing out in contrast to the dirt on her cheeks. 
     “You’re funny,” she chuckles, triggering the man before her to mirror her expression.
     Sam raises an eyebrow. “Really? You think he’s funny?” 
     "Shut up,” Dean barks back at his sibling.

     The interaction lightens the mood significantly, the banter a much needed relief of tension. It’s almost comical how they are able to share a laugh so soon after such a life-threatening experience.    
     “What Mr. Smooth meant to say is -” Dean refrains. “- that, if you want, you can hitch a ride to the motel we’re staying at. We’ll get you a room and you can get some rest.”
     “I wouldn’t be able to pay for it, my wallet is still in the van. I hope,” Y/N says, somewhat uneasy.
     But her rescuer dismisses those inconveniences instantly. “We’ll sort that out later, don’t worry about it.”

     The young wanderer ponders. She’s not in a position to deny their offer, but the independent woman in her struggles to accept the act of kindness. She glances up at Dean, the eye-contact meant to be brief, but his soft stare that seems to look straight into her soul is so captivating, that she can’t look away. The moss green of his irises show a hint of gold in the faint dashboard light, his slightly dilated pupils having so much depth that she could get lost in them. And just like that, he has her convinced. Y/N sighs and nods her head, knowing that she will be safe.

     “Okay, I’ll come with you.”

Chapter Text

     The warm water that cascades down her battered body has a purifying effect on Y/N, despite the burning sensation when the droplets run through the cuts and abrasions that her skin is littered with. Faint traces of blood dissolve in the clear puddle on the gray tiles under her feet, circling down the drain. She wishes she could wash off the anxious feeling that takes a hold whenever she has a second to think about her future.

     One day at a time, Y/N. Just like you always do.

     It has become her motto ever since she began her journey. She had to make it her way of life, otherwise she would never have dared to jump into the deep like she did. After the traumatic setback today, it’s no different.

     Tomorrow the sun will rise and you will figure it out.

     Meeting the Winchester brothers certainly backs up the mantra she has been repeating to herself. Y/N believes she is a good judge of character and these people seem as good as they come. They went the extra mile to ensure she’s okay. Especially Dean. While washing her hair and softly massaging her scalp, she thinks about the man who has saved her life this very evening. It might be some form of Nightingale syndrome that she’s experiencing, but from the moment Dean was with her, she felt sheltered from the storm. 

     On the way over to the motel - which Sam had found online in record speed - she learned that the brothers are stormchasers. Sure, she had seen the film Twister with Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton, but somehow she never realized people actually hunt tornadoes for a living. It seems like a bizarre career, but then again, being a vlogger slash influencer isn’t exactly a conventional occupation either. Before her mind begins to overthink the fact that her job is very much on the line now that she lost her Volkswagen and can’t continue her quest, Y/N rinses her hair. Without conditioner, it’s going to be a complete mess, but she’s grateful there was at least a small bottle of shampoo waiting for her on the bathroom vanity. 

     After washing off the remaining soap, she turns the faucet closed and carefully steps out of the stall. Her muscles ache and her legs and arms still feel like pudding, so she’s careful not to move around without holding on to something, especially after a hot shower. The woman that stares back at her in the foggy mirror is so different from what she knows. There is a cut on her hairline and a graze on her cheekbone, her eyes holding a weariness that she hasn’t seen in a while. With a sigh, she bends down to grab a folded towel from under the sink. She neatly wraps the white fabric around her body, tucking the hem under the edge so it won’t slip off.

     A soft knock on the door startles her, snapping her head towards the main room. Holding the towel tight to her chest, she approaches the door. The voice on the other side calms her instantly.
     “Y/N? It’s Dean.”
     For a moment, she hesitates. Sure, Dean has seen her in a revealing shirt and pajama shorts, but wearing nothing but a cloth wrapped around her naked body is somewhat different. Don’t be ridiculous, she scolds herself while reaching for the handle. Besides, after that shower she looks a lot better than she did covered in dirt and blood. 

     The stormchaser patiently waits until he can hear the lock click, only looking up when the door creaks open. Instantly noticing she’s only covered by a towel, his eyes grow wider, blinking quickly before snapping out of it and averting his gaze. He saw enough, though. Her bare shoulders and chest, her slender neck, the way the terrycloth hugs her shape just right. Not to mention her cleavage.

     Jesus Christ, Dean. Get your shit together.

     “Sorry, I - uh… I got you some clothes,” he stammers, carefully glancing back and determined to look at nothing else but her eyes. “The desk clerk let me go through the lost-and-found.” 
     He swallows thickly, awkwardly offering her the folded clothing. 
     “It’s - it’s all washed,” he adds, rubbing his neck with his free hand. “I’m not sure what would fit, so…”
     Y/N fights a grin, taking in the man who she knows to be strong and brawny, but seems more like a fiddly school kid now. 
     “Thanks.” 

     She takes the stack of clothes with both hands, their fingers momentarily touching. Blood rushes to her face, but she’s not the only one. Behind the three-day-old stubble and the freckles, a blush has become evident. He takes another breath to collect himself, trying to seem nonchalant by leaning against the door frame.    
     “So, how are you feeling?” he asks, his emerald green eyes locked on hers.
     “Better. Tired, though,” she admits.
     “Yeah, I’ll bet,” he says, a sympathetic smile on his lips. “I’ll let you get some sleep. Oh, uh -  the flannel is mine. Figured you wanted something a little warmer to wear.”
     She runs her hand over the soft fabric of the red and black color block shirt, appreciating the gesture. “That’s sweet. Thank you.” 
     Dean steps back, creating a little distance. “Well, g’night.”
     “Night,” she returns kindly, before closing the barrier between them.

     Left dumbfounded on the exterior corridor of the motel, Dean needs a moment to process what just happened. He blows out a breath, running his fingers though his hair while his wide eyed stare shifts from the door to the concrete floor. His heart is beating fast, the tips of his fingers that connected with hers still tingling. Why the hell is his stomach doing flips? He shakes his head, annoyed with himself. Get a fuckin’ grip, man. What’s going on with you?

     Trying to block out his senses, he turns and crosses the short distance to the room next door that he and his brother are sharing. When he enters, he finds his Sam like he usually does; glued to his laptop screen. The younger stormchaser is sitting at the desk by the window, several tabs open in his internet browser, displaying satellite images and radar. He doesn’t even look up when his older sibling enters, fully focused on deciphering what’s in front of him.

     “What’re you working on?” Dean wonders, plopping down on one of the single beds.   
     “I’m trying to make sense of what the hell happened today,” he answers, his forehead puckered as he analyses the data. “That tornado spun down so fast.”
     Dean shrugs, pulling off his dirty boots. “It was rain-wrapped, Sam. Who knows how long we were driving alongside. We only saw when it hit the town and destroyed a few transformers.”
     “That’s the thing. I don’t think it was down on the ground for long. Earlier, I thought maybe the radar hadn’t updated, because it was just there. Out of nowhere.” 
     Sam turns the laptop for his older brother to see, who has gotten curious and leans forward, resting his elbows on his jeans clad knees. 
     “Check this out. This is the velocity scan of 8.58 PM. And this…” He taps the right arrow key. “Is 9.02.”

     Dean’s eyebrows hit his hairline when the next image appears on the screen. The two takes from the doppler radar in Lake Charles, Louisiana show a remarkable development. On the first scan, there was broad rotation over the northwest side of Orange, the velocities nothing close to impressive. But within four minutes, that poorly organized system had evolved into a deadly storm, the couplet much tighter, bright red and green colors indicating very high wind speeds.

     “Maybe it was a glitch?” he thinks outloud, trying to make sense of it.   
     “It wasn’t. I compared the data with the Houston radar. It matches. This thing formed in a few minutes,” Sam returns. “I’ve never seen anything like it before, especially not this early in March.”
     The oldest ponders, staring at the screen while chewing on the inside of his lip. The fact that major weather events are growing more extreme and occur more often is a trend stormchasers and weather specialists have noticed during the last decade. The world is changing. When sea temperatures rise and climates shift, the difference between warm and cold air becomes greater. Get all the ingredients right and mix them together…

     Boom. There’s your strong tornado. 

     But it’s only the third month of the year. The Golf hasn’t warmed up yet. So why are these storms already so explosive?    
     “If this is an omen of what’s to come, it’s going to be one hell of a season,” Dean comments.
     Sam leans back in his chair, clearly concerned. “Yeah, I have a bad feeling about this year.”
     “Well, there’s nothin’ we can do about it. All we can do is be on top of our game,” his brother comments.
     The younger Winchester scoffs. “And how are we gonna do that? We blew through our money updating the car, Dean.”

     Their savings ran dry faster than they anticipated. After the crash, The Winchesters had to buy a new car in order to chase, one that Dean works on during the off season to make sure it can withstand extreme weather conditions. But all those upgrades to make the Silverado able to withstand strong winds, not to mention the equipment the Chevrolet is decked with, has a price tag. With the cost of living going through the roof as well, it’s becoming more difficult to make ends meet.

     Sam continues. “We need to think of something to be able to cover gas, the motels, food--”  
     “You don’t have to sum up our list of expenses. I get it, okay?” Dean interrupts.  “Like I said; we need to be on top of it. Every storm, every tornado. As long as we keep delivering good footage to sell to the stations, we’ll stay afloat.”
     His sibling sets his jaw in frustration, shaking his head slightly.
     “It shouldn’t be about that, man. Hunting down tornadoes for a nice shot like we’re paparazzi.” Sam sighs. “What happened to gathering data and giving people more time to take shelter?”
     “We have to try and do both,” Dean says. “Now you can either keep throwing tantrums or you can think of a way to make more money. Suck it up, Sam, seriously. I ain’t happy about it either.”

     Raising his voice and shutting down his little brother isn’t something he often does, but they are a week into the new season and Sam has been bugging him about money ever since they left home in Lawrence, Kansas. Even though he is driving Dean up the wall, the fact that their priorities when it comes to chasing has shifted because of their financial situation is something that bothers him too.
 
     Three soft knocks prevents the discussion between the siblings from escalating. Both look up, but it’s Dean who rises from the edge of the bed and approaches the door. He glances through the peephole; it’s Y/N.
     “Hey,” he says after opening the barrier for her. “Everything okay?”
     The sight of her is endearing. She’s wearing sweatpants a couple of sizes too big, the waist cord holding it on her hips. A smile forms on Dean’s lips, because she’s wearing his flannel.
     “Yeah, I was just wondering,” she starts shyly. “I think I have some glass in my hand and I can’t get it out. Do you guys have tweezers or something?”
     “Uh, yeah. I think we do,” Dean replies, glancing over his shoulder at his brother. “Should be in the first aid kit, right?”
     Sam nods. “Want me to fetch it? It’s in the car.”
     “Would you, please?” Y/N asks him.
     The tall Winchester gets up from his chair. “Sure.”
     Dean holds the door open for her, gesturing to her with a tip of his head to step inside. “Come in.”

     The young woman enters their room after which his brother leaves, the lock shutting behind him and the stillness that follows making it very obvious that it’s just the two of them now. The awkward silence lasts a couple of seconds, until Y/N turns around and moves up the long sleeves of the oversized shirt she’s wearing. Feeling an urge to break the ice, Dean looks at her sheepishly.   
     “Well, would you look at that? Still ended up in our motelroom,” he comments.
     She giggles, the small laugh sweet and genuine. Relieved, the stormchaser chuckles as well. For a second there, he was about to kick himself  over the remark he just blurted out, but relaxes slightly when the woman he just met appreciates the joke.
     “Good thing I’m not a serial killer then,” she counters, hinting at their interaction back at the campsite. 
     He laughs, the smile on his face reaching his eyes, showing little crow’s feet. She watches the handsome man. How old would he be? Late twenties? Early thirties?  

     Dean gestures at the bed, inviting her to get comfortable. “Take a seat. Want something to drink?”   
     “What do you have?” she asks, sitting down on the mattress.
     “A Coke, a beer. Not much to choose from, sorry,” Dean says, apologetically. “Sam is really into these godawful healthy fruit-shakes, if that’s your thing.”
     Y/N scoffs. “No, thank you. I’ll have a beer. I could use a drink.”
     Dean pulls two Heineken bottles from the mini fridge. “My kinda girl.”

     The comment has the blood rush to her cheeks and she quickly glances at the worn carpet to hide it. She can feel a flutter in her stomach as her heart seems to have risen a little higher in her chest, leaving less room to breathe. Thankfully, Dean has his back turned to her as he flips the caps off the beers with an opener. She doesn’t want to let on that his words made her feel all kinds of things.

     He hands her the bottle, noticing how she takes it with her dominant hand and winces, switching the cold drink to the other. Concerned, he leaves his golden brew on the side table and sits down next to her on the bed.  
     “Let me have a look.”
     Y/N glances aside, meeting those sweet, caring eyes again. She turns her wrist and shows him the cut on her palm. The edges of the wound are red, blood still surfacing from the gash. 
     “I tried to squeeze it out, but I can’t get a hold of it,” she tells him.

     Dean takes her hand, examining the laceration without touching it directly. He tries to ignore the warm sensation that settles in his stomach and the wildfire that spreads through his nervous system.   
     “Looks pretty deep,” he comments, glancing up at her again. “Do you have any other injuries?”
     “Just superficial cuts and grazes,” Y/N replies, shrugging it off.
     But Dean reaches for her face, brushing her frizzy hair away from the gash on her hairline that he noticed earlier in the car. The pads of his fingertips are rough, but his touch feels tender.
     “You didn’t lose consciousness, did you?” he checks, worry knitting the lines between his eyebrows.
     “I wish,” she scoffs. “No, I was wide awake through the whole thing. I honestly thought I was going to die.”
     Dean gives her a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ll bet. Must have been a scary ride.”
     The sigh that flows off her lips is a burdened one, but when she locks eyes with the man who saved her, there’s gratitude shimmering in her gaze.
     “I’m just really glad you found me,” she says softly.

     A silence follows, the mood in the motel room shifting slightly. Neither of them are able to look away, her hand still in his, the connection undeniable. Dean has met a lot of women over the years, but never in his life has he felt an instant spark such as now. He can’t take his eyes off her, even if he would want to.

     The door rattles as Sam comes in, entirely oblivious to the moment he just interrupted. The tall stormchaser closes it behind him with his back towards the space, a second that Dean uses gladly to let go of her hand and compose himself. He clears his throat and straightens his back, only now realizes that he had leaned into her. Not sure what to do with his hands, he fiddles with the sleeve of his Henley. From the corner of his eye, he notices Y/N apparently doesn’t know how to handle herself either, taking a swig from her beer, her shaky hold causing a few drops to miss her mouth and fall down her chin. Pressing her lips together, she fights to hold back a giggle. 

     Flushed and nervous to the point that voice almost fails her when she speaks, she tries anyway. She has to say something.    
     “Did you, uh - did you find the first aid kit?” she asks as casually as possible, even though Sam has had the white briefcase in hand the entire time.
     “Yeah,” the tall Winchester responds while holding the kit up, not commenting on the silly question.
     Dean notices his hazel eyes do jump from Y/N to him for a second, his younger sibling biting down on his bottom lip to mask his smirk. Thankfully, the stern don’t-you-dare glare the oldest of the brothers throws at him apparently does the job; Sammy lets it go. For now, at least.

     He takes the small metal briefcase from his brother, sets it down on the bed and opens the lid. While the younger Winchester brother takes a seat in the chair again, facing his laptop, the older sibling pushes the elated sensation down and focuses on the task at hand.   
     “Let’s see…” Dean rummages through the contents, trying to find the tweezers. “Ah, here it is.”

     Y/N feels her heartbeat picking up again as she watches the man in front of her, who cleans the small instrument with a disinfectant wipe. Keeping quiet, she takes another sip of her beer and swallows thickly, not looking forward to the procedure ahead. When she tried to get the shards out herself, she couldn’t help but to cry, the razor-sharp pieces in her skin only digging deeper. But when Dean gently takes her hand in his and turns her palm up, the uneasiness fades. She has no clear memory of a touch ever having such a calming effect while at the same time it sends a current through her entire body. What is happening to her? Maybe she did hit her head? Sure, Dean is handsome and seems very kind and caring. He’s funny, too. But she doesn’t know anything about the guy. They only met a little over an hour ago.

     Oh, she saw Sam’s knowing look as his eyes watched the display of chemistry unfold. But if he noticed it, does that mean it’s not just her? Surely, she has noticed how he sometimes seems to be unable to pull away his gaze when he’s looking at her, and how he blushed when she met him at her door earlier and in the moment they had just now. Then there’s the occasional smile he has thrown at her.

     Who are you trying to fool, Y/N? It’s clear as day he’s interested.

     Her train of thought is interrupted when Dean - without much of a warning - daps a clean disinfectant wipe on the edges of the wound. Pulling in a sharp breath, Y/N flinches. The stormchaser’s concerned eyes shoot up to meet hers. 
     “Sorry,” he apologizes. “It hurts that bad?”
     “It’s okay,” she states, putting up a brave face.
     A small smile plays on his lips as he softly pulls her hand a little closer again. “Tetanus shots up to date?” 
     Y/N scoffs. “Yeah, they are. I shouldn’t have tried to dig it out myself. I only made it worse.”
     “Nothin’ I can’t fix,” he assures, shooting her a quick wink.

     She purses her lips when Dean returns his captivating gaze back down to her injury. Her attempt to fight the flustered feeling is destined to fail. She’s glad Sam has his back turned towards them, because she guesses the observant tall man who hasn’t said much so far is one to pick up on her behavior. 
     With the tweezers between his thumb and index finger, Dean adjusts his grip on her hand slightly. He glances up at her to make sure she’s alright, her tense body language an indication that she’s nervous about what is to come. 

     “So, where are you from?” he wonders, hoping that casual conversation will distract her somewhat.  
     “Santa Cruz, California,” Y/N replies.
     “The Sunny State. Haven’t been there much,” Dean admits, his eyes slightly narrowed and focused on her palm as he tries to find the shard of glass. “Not many tornadoes to chase.”
     “Plenty of wildfires, though. And earthquakes from time to time,” she returns, wincing slightly when the instrument moves through the laceration.
     “Not really our field of expertise. The weather might just be a little too nice over there.” He pauses, the stainless steel at his fingertips brushing over something solid, buried deep into Y/N’s skin. “It’s definitely on my list, though. Maybe we’ll go during the off-season, go to Disneyland or somethin’.”

     The woman opposite of him holds her breath and squeezes her eyes closed when he gets a grip on the sharp piece. When Dean has a hold on the glass, he slowly retreats his hand.   
     “Got it,” he says with triumph, dropping the fragment on the lid of the first aid kit.
     Y/N lets out a shuddering sigh, daring to look at the gash. Blood wells up, pooling in her palm. Quickly, she blinks the tears away, because she doesn’t want the man who is tending to her to see her cry again. 
     “Better?” he checks, carefully dapping the crimson away.
     “Yeah, I think you got it all,” she answers, glad that the worst of it is over. “Thank you.”
     He smiles, but shrugs it off. “No worries.”

     Dean lets go of her hand, leaving it to hover between them as he rips open the packet that contains butterfly stitches. It’s strange how the absence of touch leaves her hanging mentally as well, already missing the sensation of his calloused yet gentle skin. A more pleasant silence falls over them, only disturbed by the tapping of Sam’s fingers on the keyboard of his laptop. She peeks over the broad shoulders of the younger Winchester, who is looking at the map of the United States, different patterns and lines reaching across the Great Planes. It’s weather related - she knows that much - but what it exactly means is a mystery to her.

     “How’s it lookin’, Weatherman?” Dean wonders, having noticed his patient’s curious stare at the screen.   
     “Rain, hail, some flooding probably.” Sam sighs, leaning back in the wooden chair, causing it to moan. “Nothing worth chasing for the next week at least.”
     “Does that mean you guys are going home?” Y/N asks.

      The question comes out as if she would be disappointed if they were, and deep down, there might be a truth to that feeling. Being in good company is a pleasant alternative to being alone out on the road, and since she has absolutely no idea how she will handle tomorrow, there is a certain feel of abandonment there. Which is insane, of course. She barely knows the Winchesters.

     “No,” Dean responds, offering her some solace while he carefully applies the strips across the cut on her palm. “We’ll probably stick around here for a bit. Wouldn’t wanna waste all that fuel driving up to Kansas.”  
      Y/N watches him work, glancing up into his kind, green eyes. “That’s where you guys are from?” 
     “Yeah. Born and raised in Lawrence,” he confirms. 
     She smiles at the twinkle in his pupils, the young man from America’s Heartland clearly proud of his roots. 
     “So, what do you guys do between storms?” 
     “Catch up on sleep, mostly.” Dean chuckles. “During the peak of the season it’s pretty chaotic. Sometimes we barely have time to fuel up. But when there’s nothing going on we usually stock up on supplies, hit the laundromat, pick up an odd job.”
     A little confused, she glances from one brother to the other. “Doesn’t stormchasing pay the bills?”
     Sam scoffs. “We wish.”
     “If we have good footage it covers some, but if we wanna last the entire season, we have to find ways to make some extra cash,” the handsome man opposite of her admits, somewhat shamefully.

     He has unpacked a roll of gauze and a wound patch, carefully running his fingers over the plaster edge to secure it to her hand. The soft swipe has the hair on her arms stand up. Good thing she’s wearing his flannel shirt to cover up the physical reaction her body has to his touch. She watches quietly how he dresses her injury. It’s so contradicting how his large, calloused hands that have seen plenty of work are able to handle her so delicately.   

     “What kind of jobs?” Y/N continues to ask.
     “It differs. Sometimes we work on the land or do some construction and maintenance. Bartending from time to time, fixin’ cars. That sorta thing.” Dean secures the end of the bandage and smiles warmly at the woman he just treated, hoping she’s satisfied with his work. “How does this feel?”
     She turns her hand over and looks at it, her wrapped up palm feeling secure as the pain fades, now that the foreign object has been removed. Gratefully, she nods, daring to establish eye-contact and swim in the green abyss that are his irises. “It feels good.”

     Pleased, the good-looking stormchaser reaches for his beer on the side table. He takes a swig, barely noticing that his drink has gone somewhat stale, because frankly, his brain is working overtime analyzing the words between them. There’s a double meaning to the exchange, an underlying message only for the two of them to read. Y/N seems well aware of what he was secretly asking. Her response - accompanied with a lingering look of her gorgeous eyes - tells him all he needs to know.

     “Since we’re not heading out to chase tomorrow,” Dean starts off. “How about I take you back to your camper? See if we can salvage some of your things?”  
     She smiles. “That would be great.”
     “Can you add a supply run to that?” Sam suggests, looking from one to the other. “We’re almost out of propane for the cooking stove.”
     “Sure thing.” Dean turns away, finishing his Heineken and setting it down on the desk. 

     Taking her cue, Y/N pushes herself from the bed, betrayed by her muscles which have gone stiff from the pretzel position she sat in. She gives Sam a little wave before she turns.
     “I’m gonna head to bed,” she announces, her gaze gliding from him to his older brother, who has stepped towards the door to hold it open for her.
     “Alright. Have a good night,” Sam returns kindly, watching her step outside.

     Dean holds the barrier, leaning against the wood and partially shielding them from his sibling’s view. He buries one fist in his pocket, looking down at his boot-covered feet for a second before glancing up again at the girl in front of him. He has seen her in various states of mind in a short amount of time. Distraught, scared, resilient. It’s clear she’s a little stubborn, with fire in her chest and with wit on her tongue. Straight forward, not afraid to show what she feels. It intrigues him in a way his attention hasn’t been captured before. Like right now, and the way she is studying him with curious desire.
     “Rest up,” Dean presses. “You’ve had one hell of a day.”
     “You can say that again,” Y/N scoffs.

     She tilts her head slightly, taking him in for a few seconds longer, figuring him out by peeling back the layers. Not wanting to drag out the moment until it becomes uncomfortable, the stormchaser averts his stare again, until he feels her delicate fingers on his forearm, burning him through the sleeve of his shirt. Before he can comprehend what is happening, she stands on her tiptoes and leans in, placing a kiss on his cheek. Frozen on the spot, he can feel her smooth skin against his stubble, her soft lips leaving a short peck next to his mouth. Then she retreats, leaving the tough guy he believes to be in ruins.

     Dumbfounded, he stares at her. “W - what was that for?” he stammers.  
     Y/N smiles, amused by the fact that her demonstration of gratitude has stolen the chaser from the ability to form a decent sentence. She shrugs, as if the kiss isn’t that big of a deal. “You know, for saving my life and all.” 
     Dean huffs softly, breathing out a breath he has been holding. To be honest, the bold move has left her affected as well. She can still feel his cheek against hers, the tightening in her coil, the way there wasn’t a thought on her mind for that short but delightful moment. 
     Y/N squeezes his arm before she lets go. “See you tomorrow.” 
     The man on the threshold smiles, the prospect of another day putting a smile on his face. “Yeah. See ya.”

     He watches her step towards her room, only pushing the door in lock when he’s sure she’s safely inside. Still in shock, he rubs the spot below his cheekbone where the sensation of the kiss lingers, turning around slowly with a dazed look in his eyes. Only now does he remember the existence of his sibling, who has leaned back in his chair, tipping the furniture on its hind legs to get a better view. The all-knowing grin on Sam’s face, his eyebrows raised and that familiar glint in his hazel eyes is enough to trigger a response. 

     “Shut up,” Dean mutters before his younger brother can taunt him.  
     Amused, Sam crosses his arms in front of his chest, his smirk growing even wider and putting dimples in his cheeks. “I didn’t say anything.”
     He doesn’t have to. Sam is the smart one, so it’s not a surprise he caught on fast. It’s at moments like this where Dean wishes he could have his own room, because he sure as hell knows that Sam will taunt him forever. In true brotherly fashion, of course.

Chapter Text

     Instinctively, Y/N reaches for her phone. With her eyes still closed, her hand feels for the device, but then realization sets in. Yesterday’s memories rush back - the tornado, the sirens, the utter chaos. The sounds of the wind roaring, and thunder crashing is replaced by the sounds of today. She can hear traffic rolling by on a nearby road, birds chirping outside. No wind, no storm. The sun greets her, peaking through the curtains in her motel room. A new day to conquer, yet the ache in her bones and the thought of having to start over has a sigh leaving her lips. She has no idea where to begin, but getting out of bed seems like the best start. Carefully, she pushes herself up from the mattress, a headache taunting her the moment she lifts her head from the pillow. She glances down at her battered body, unpleasantly surprised by the amount of bruising that has surfaced overnight. Her muscles complain when she swings her legs over the edge, and so she sits there for a minute, staring at the wall absently. 

     Coffee. She’s in desperate need of coffee.

     She sniffs, rubs her face, but then pushes through and gets up. Feeling like an old lady of at least eighty-five, she shuffles towards the bathroom. An image of a part zombie, part ghost looks back at her in the mirror, but she tries to ignore her reflection. Instead, she turns the faucet and splashes water onto her face with her hand that isn’t bandaged, the cold feeling is refreshing and triggers her brain to catch up. After raking her fingers through her hair, she steps into her flipflops, puts on Dean’s flannel and exits her room. If there is one upside to yesterday, it’s that she met the Winchesters. Hadn’t they come to her aid, she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t even be alive right now. Maybe with their help she will be able to find her way again. Not knowing where she’s going to be tomorrow isn’t new to her. Allowing life to improvise is something she usually appreciates. But now, with nothing to her name and left with no plan whatsoever, the world seems a lot more daunting.

     Trying to stop her mind from overthinking, she takes in her surroundings. No one would have guessed that this town was hit with extreme weather yesterday, besides from a few puddles on the pavement. A couple of cars are parked down below, the big Chevrolet of the stormchase brothers standing out with the rig on its roof, loaded with equipment. There’s no sign of the boys, though. Y/N doesn’t want to disturb them in their room, in case they are still sleeping. She has no idea what time it is anyway, but judging from the amount of vehicles on the road, it’s rush hour. With the sun still close to the horizon in the east, the traveler reckons it’s somewhere between eight and nine ‘O clock.

     There’s a Whataburger across the street that is open where they probably serve coffee, but without money, she can forget a cup of caffeine for now. And so she closes the door behind her, stuffs her key in the pocket of her oversized sweatpants and goes for a morning stroll. Maybe it will loosen up her painful limbs somewhat. A girl can dream, right? When Y/N turns the corner, she spots a grass-covered area with a couple of picnic tables. At one of them, the younger Winchester brother is situated, his long legs crossed under the table as he works on his laptop. 

     “Hi, Sam,” she greets him, glad to see a familiar face.
     “Hey,” he returns, seemingly surprised that she’s awake already. “How are you feeling today?”
     With a sigh she plops down on the bench opposite of the stormchaser. “Ugh, don’t ask.”
     The tall, young man with brown hair sniggers, pushing his computer to the side. “I’m gonna get some coffee,” he announces. “Want one?”
     “God, yes,” she says, as if he just asked if she wanted water after being deprived for days.
     “I think they only sell black across the road, so don’t expect anything fancy,” he warns after getting up.
     “Caffeine is caffeine,” Y/N returns with a shrug of the shoulders. “At this point I don’t really care in what form it comes.”
     Sam chuckles. “Alright, be right back.”

     As he steps away from the bench, she glances at the laptop left on the wooden table, hesitating for a moment. After yesterday’s disaster, she wonders if people have tried to reach out to her. She did tweet her location afterall, and she reckons the news of the tornado hitting the part of town where she was staying has spread rather quickly.
     “Sam?” 
     The Winchester sibling stops and looks back, waiting for a follow up.
     “Do you mind if I log into my socials on your computer? I wanna let my friends know I’m okay,” she asks.
     “Sure, go ahead,” he agrees. “The password is ‘Deansadumbass83'. Capital letter ‘D’.’”
     Y/N snorts, recovering quickly. “For ‘Dean’ or for ‘dumbass’?”
     Sam grins. “Both.”
     “Right. Thanks,” she says, shaking her head at the brotherly love.

     While Sam looks both ways before he crosses the road to the Whataburger restaurant on the other side of the busy street, she pulls the Dell laptop towards her, types in the code and enters the web browser. Apparently Sam hasn’t anything to hide, because he is automatically logged in to his Facebook. When she clicks on the dropdown menu, she notices a business account, named ‘WinEx Stormchasing’. She makes a mental note to check them out later. Thankful that she knows all her login information by heart, she inserts her username and password and enters her page. When her eye lands on the tiny red bubble by her notifications, her eyes widen.

     “Holy shit…” she whispers.
     She has 684 notifications. Six-hundred and eighty fucking four.

     Not really knowing where to start, she scrolls through the immense list. 158 messages, the rest are replies to her last post. Desperate words like ‘are you okay?!’ and ‘please be safe!’ Even a few calling out to anyone who lives in the area to go check on her, expressing their concerns. The amount of love that is reaching out to her from the screen has her throat close up. She knows she has passionate followers, but never really comprehended how much they truly care about her. It makes her heart full and pushes every ounce of loneliness that weighs her down off her shoulders. Whoever says the online connections aren’t real, has never experienced being in a community like this. Y/N scrolls through the responses, deciding that she needs to put out a video as soon as possible. So many have been fearing for her safety - relieving them from anxious worry is the least she can do. 

     A couple of minutes later Sam returns, carefully holding the three containers between his large hands. When he sets the drinks down, he digs up a couple of sugar and creamer packets and throws them on the table, before settling on the bench again. Judging by the third coffee, Y/N assumes Dean will join them soon. Unable to restrain herself, she grabs one of the carton cups and takes the lid off. She doesn’t care that the drink is almost hot enough to leave blisters on her tongue, she needs the kick desperately.

     “Thanks, Sam,” she says after a few careful sips. “What do I owe you?”
     “Nothing. Don’t worry about it,” the stormchaser dismisses. 
     The Dell pings, the familiar Facebook sound repeating a few times. Curious, he reaches for his laptop, but only turns it towards him after checking with the woman in his company. “Are you done with it?”
     “Actually, I was wondering if I could make a video real quick. I’ve got a lot of people worried sick, apparently,” she replies, a little bothered to ask him yet another favor.
     But Sam doesn’t mind at all. “Knock yourself out. I’ll go wake up my brother before his coffee gets cold.”

     He takes a swig from the dark brew, wincing at the bitter taste of the strong, filtered coffee, then sets it down on the wooden surface. When another notification comes in on the computer, he steals a quick glance at the screen. What he sees causes his eyebrows to shoot up.
     “Whoa… How many friends do you have?” he comments when he notices the numbers.
     She shrugs, trying to be casual about it. “A lot, apparently. I have a YouTube channel and a travel blog. I posted about my place for the night yesterday, so my online followers knew where I was when the tornado hit.”
     Sam’s eyes bounce from the screen to the traveler. “So, how many people are following you?”
     Y/N smiles at that, pride twinkling in her eyes. She’s been asked that plenty before, and every time, those numbers have grown larger and larger.
     “It differs on each platform. I have around 32,000 subscribers on Youtube, a little over 14,000 on Facebook--”
     “Wait, what?” the Winchester exclaims, stopping her waterfall of impressive numbers. “Thirty-two thousand?!”
     “Yep,” she quips. “And I reached 10K on Twitter a couple of days ago. From zero to this in three months.”
     Sam huffs out a breath, lost for words for a moment. The corners of his mouth draw down slightly and nods, impressed. “That’s pretty cool.”

     The young influencer grins over her cup of coffee as she takes another sip, watching the stormchaser walk away. Funnily, she never started her channel to gain followers. She has learned the hard way that living for others and trying to make everyone happy but herself, was a cancer to her soul. She only survived because she got out of that hamster wheel of expectations and high standards before it was too late. But the number of views on her videos has made it possible to be the wanderer she dreamed to be. It allowed her to be even more curious, to enjoy, to experience. Not having to worry about paying for gas or for food. It has become a business model that has given her even more freedom than what she started out with at the beginning of her journey. Now, she hopes that the community that she built can help her get back out on the road again.

     Firstly, she needs to let her followers know that she’s okay. And so she activates the webcam, fixes her hair somewhat, then takes a deep breath before she clicks on the red ‘record’ button.   
     “Hey, everyone. I’m okay… but you are not gonna believe what I’m about to tell you.”

     “Dean, wake up.” 
     A nudge against his sheet-covered ankle has him stirring. With his eyes closed, he still recognizes the heavy footfalls of his Bigfoot-brother. Now fully aware that he is not in fact living the delightful dream he just had, he grumbles, turns his head and buries it into his pillow again. He hasn’t slept enough to be dealing with the world just yet.
     “What time is it?” he wonders, hoping for an excuse to stay in bed a little bit longer.
     “Ten to nine,” Sam informs.
     The oldest of the two sibling grunts. “Why’d you wake me up, man?”
     “Because I figured you want to say ‘bye’ to Y/N before she gets on the bus.” 

     Dean is wide awake in an instant, sitting up hastily. Sam sets his jaw when his brother’s stunned stare meets him.  
     “What?!” Dean responds, confused, as he gets up and gathers his jeans. “She’s leaving already?”
     He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, a drawn out silence filling the dark room as he rummages through his duffle bag for a clean shirt. When he doesn’t receive an answer, he glances up at his sibling, noticing the hint of a smile that is fighting its way to his lips.
     “No. She isn’t. But at least you’re up,” Sam sniggers, dropping the act completely.

     The deadpan he receives only triggers him to laugh out loud. Amused by his own little prank, Dean’s sibling turns towards the door, making sure there’s enough distance between them in case  something gets thrown at him.
     The one who got played mutters, pulling his grey shirt over his head, the fabric muffling a string of curse words. “You’re a fuckin’ jackass, know that?” 
     “She’s outside and there’s coffee waiting for you. You’re welcome,” Sam counters smartly, not impressed. “Do I need to leave you two alone, or–”

     A pillow barely misses his head and hits the doorpost, pulling a high cackle from the back of his throat. With a wide smirk on his face, the younger Winchester brother exits the room, leaving Dean to stew in his own juices. Dean shakes his head, but chuckles as well as he puts on his socks and ties his boots. He knows he will never hear the end of it, but that’s alright - although he will never admit it,  of course. Hearing Sam laughing out loud like that is something that he missed. The two of them have had to deal with a lot over the past few years, so if teasing him brings his sibling some much needed joy, he can have it. 

     After washing his face and brushing his teeth, Dean runs his hands through his hair carelessly. He shrugs on a denim blue jacket and checks for the keys in his pocket before he pulls the door shut. There’s a slight spring in his step which he becomes aware of. Slowing his pace down, he collects himself before turning the corner, not wanting to fuel Sam’s mission to poke fun at him. Fact is, though - he’s right. From the moment he scooped Y/N up into his arms after pulling her out of the crushed camper, he’s experiencing an undenying pull towards the beautiful traveler. There’s a desire between them that filled the motel room last night, leaving the air so thick, he felt high. He’s curious where that mutual attraction is going to take them. One thing is for sure; he’s glad she isn’t about to hop on a bus like Sam claimed earlier. 

     Dean steps into the sun, casually approaching the bench. If there has ever been a moment in which he doubted the signals Y/N has been sending him, the smile combined with the intense eye contact vaporizes it instantly. Her beaming past the screen of the laptop alone tells Sam that his brother is about to join them and he grins at her response.

     “Mornin’,” the older Winchester greets. “I heard there is coffee.”
     Sam pushes the container towards Dean, who takes the lid off and has his first sip of caffeine. He allows his tongue to run across his upper lip, appreciating the warm drink as he sits down next to the woman he only met yesterday.
     “How’d you sleep?” he wonders, brushing his shoulder against hers.
     “Not great, but go figure,” she replies honestly.

     Dean lets his coffee be and leans on the wooden surface with his arms crossed in front of him, a sympathetic smile coming her way. She knows he’s checking in on her, taking in the bruises that have formed overnight. He means well, but now that the dust has settled, she would rather not be viewed as vulnerable. Trying to distract herself, Y/N continues to type on the Dell. The WiFi of the motel barely reaches the picnic table, but while her video uploads slowly in the background, she’s updating her Facebook and Twitter.

     “Whatcha doin’?” the stormchaser next to her wonders while watching her hands work the keyboard.  
     He has moved over ever so slightly, leaving a little less personal space. She doesn’t receive it as intrusive or uncomfortable - on the contrary. 
     Masking the nerves of excitement that have her stomach doing flips, Y/N answers. “Just updating my social media. Some people were a little freaked out after last night’s events.”
     “By ‘some people’, she means the thirty-thousand-something followers she has,” Sam adds.

     “You have thirty thousand followers? How did you manage that?” wonders, a mischievous grin on his face. “Are you a bikini-model or somethin’?”  
     “I’m not,” Y/N counters, eying at him sternly and a little shocked. “I make videos about my travels. Don’t assume people watch my stuff for my looks. I actually post pretty interesting content.”
     He holds up his hands innocently, realizing he hit a nerve. “I don’t doubt that. Just sayin’ you could pull it off.”

     She chuckles, shaking her head at the comment. While turning towards him, she calculatedly brushes her knee against his, only for a brief moment. With her elbow on the table, she rests her chin on her unharmed palm, raising her eyebrows as she stares into his moss green eyes. Dean isn’t the only one who can play this game well.   
     “You would like to see that, wouldn’t you?”
     “I–”
     Sam clears his throat loudly, letting the two flirting individuals across from him know that he’s still around. It stops Dean from saying something provocative, but his mischievous gaze holding hers says it enough - he’s intrigued.

     Has he just found his match? Because most women would have blushed - flattered by the compliment and the looming looks - but not Y/N. No, she had an answer ready, not just putting him in his place, but countering his amorous behavior with the same intensity. It feeds Dean’s confidence even more, but he decides to leave the rest for later since Sam is present.

     And so he glances at the restaurant across the street. “Is that burger joint open yet?” 
     “Where do you think we got the coffee?” his brother comments.
     Dean rises from his seat, digging up his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. “Who’s up for breakfast?”
     “I could eat,” Y/N responds, her mouth watering already. 
     “See if they have something that doesn’t have grease dripping from it?” Sam requests when Dean shifts his gaze at him.
     “It’s a Texas burger place, Sammy. I doubt they serve rabbit food”, the older brother teases, deserving a glare. 

     Y/N closes the laptop when the upload is finished and gets up from her seat, trying to be agile despite the stiffness of her limbs. Without waiting for an invitation, she joins the man which every fiber within her wants to be close to, but not before assuring Sam she’ll bring him something decent to eat. 
     “We’ll get you one of their breakfast sandwiches. Those are pretty good,” she promises. 

     With hurried steps - which she regrets when her body instantly screams soreness the moment she puts in a little bit of effort - she catches up with Dean. Not willing to risk their lives during rush hour, they use the crosswalk, but not before he holds his arm out to prevent her from walking into traffic, might she step onto the road before the last car passes. It’s not a gesture to swoon her off her feet or an attempt to act like a true gentleman, yet more of a reflex, like he used to do when his brother was little and John left him in charge of Sammy’s safety. 

     When it’s clear, they stroll to the other side of the street, heading to the Whataburger. Y/N steals a glance, taking in the storm chaser from the corner of her eye. She finds it endearing how the man who rescued her yesterday clearly has a strong instinct to protect.

     The pair enter the fast food restaurant, scanning the menu before they decide on their meal.
     “Ooh, pancakes!” Y/N notices, delighted.
     Dean chuckles, glad she’s not the type of girl who lives on salads and smoothies. “Want a stack of those?” he guesses.
     “I’ll pay you back, promise,” she states. 
     He shrugs it off. “You can take the next one. If we can find your belongings, that is.”
     The girl next to him in line scoffs. “Yeah, but what are the chances of that? I’m already looking forward to replacing my cards.”
“It’ll be alright,” Dean says, his calm voice chasing away the dread she feels thinking about what she will encounter at the RV park. “We’ll need to buy you some better clothes too before we head to your van. Walking through a debris field in flipflops isn’t safe. Unless you want to dig glass out of your feet too.”

     “No, thanks. I’ll pass.” Y/N shudders, absently running her fingers over her bandaged palm. She’s been tormented more than enough. “I saw a Goodwill on the other side of the parking lot. Maybe they’ll have something my size.”   
     “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you go buy some clothes while I order breakfast,” he suggests, handing her a fifty-dollar bill. “You want the pancakes?”
     Somewhat reluctant, she glances down at the money before peering up into his eyes again. She fidgets with the sleeve of the flannel shirt, pondering, but then takes his offer.
     “Yes, please. If that’s not too much.”
     “Nothin’s too much.” Dean winks at her. “Pancakes comin’ right up.”
     Y/N chuckles. “Don’t forget Sam’s sandwich.” 
     She turns on her heels and heads towards the sliding doors like a teenager who just received her weekly allowance. Dean smiles at the skip in her step when she turns the corner and disappears out of sight.

     While the stormchaser waits his turn to order, he becomes aware of the warm sensation in his chest. It’s pleasant, yet at the same time it seems to take up too much room, forcing his heart to beat a little faster. He’s not entirely sure what it is exactly, and why she leaves him so affected. The more he analyses it, the more it has the bachelor concerned. Has he ever had this experience before? There were a few women along the way, but this is different. He’s definitely attracted to her, that’s a given. 

     You met her twelve hours ago, for fuck’s sake.

     “Good morning. Can I take your order, Sir?”
     The friendly words of the cashier behind the counter forces Dean to park his thoughts. After snapping out of it, he chooses a couple of dishes from the menu, making sure they have plenty to eat and no one will leave the table hungry. It takes about ten minutes - plenty of time to mull over his feelings in silence - before a paper bag is placed on the desk by the server, together with the receipt. A delicious smell of sweet pancakes mixed with eggs and salty bacon reaches his senses as Dean picks up their breakfast.

     When he exits the Whataburger, he’s met by the sight of a woman he barely recognizes. Earlier, Y/N seemed so delicate, her small form dressed in baggy clothes, adding nuance to her fragile state. Now, her legs are clad in jeans, the fabric hugging her gorgeous shape. With black biker-style boots on her feet and a dark Rolling Stones shirt covering her upper body, her outfit screams rock n’ roll. No make up, her hair still a little messy, but none of that takes away from how incredibly sexy she looks.

     Holy fuck, she’s a pistol.

     And yet, the familiar chequered shirt she borrowed from the stormchaser covers her shoulders. The fact that she chose to keep the flannel as a part of her look, does something to him. As if that makes her his.   
     “Are you done gaping?” she teases, placing her hand on her hip while she casually swings the plastic bag with her old clothes back and forth. “Because I could eat.”
     A smirk broadens across Dean’s face as his eyes flick up at hers. She doesn’t feel judged or objectified, that’s what her cheeky expression tells him anyway. If anything, she seems eager to find out just how fascinated he is by her.
     “Oh, sweetheart. So could I,” he bounces back, barely missing a beat.

     Y/N laughs, amused by the cheeky return. She shakes her head while mumbling ‘you’re terrible’, yet gives him every opportunity to watch her walk away. Dean pulls at his bottom lip as he catches up with on the sidewalk, wondering how long he’s going to last without giving in to the undeniable chemistry that is burning between them.