Twister (tornado siren, team schmoop)
Title: Twister
Author:
aynslee
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Beta:
leighm
Spoilers: Post AHBL
Prompt: Tornado siren
Twister
Dean pulls over just outside Lake Providence and digs the calamine lotion out of the back seat. He’s sweaty and hot and covered in mosquito bites after one of the most tedious jobs they’ve ever worked-why the hell a poltergeist would haunt a trailer park in eastern Louisiana, god only knows. And now Sam’s telling him there’s a goddamn tornado on the horizon.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean says, craning his neck to stare at the mottled yellow-green line that dissects the sky.
“We need to find a motel,” Sam says, watching a plastic coke bottle bounce down the sidewalk as the wind whips harder. “Preferably underground.”
“What, don’t tell me you’re scared of a little twister?” Dean rubs the lotion all over the back of his neck, tosses it at Sam. “Don’t you know we’re from Kansas, boy?”
Sam rolls his eyes as he catches the bottle, nodding pointedly at the canvas tarp that’s flying toward the windshield. “Sure thing, Dean. Next you’ll have us out chasing funnel clouds with a video camera.”
Dean ducks instinctively as the tarp hits the top of the car with a loud whapping sound, scowling when his brother laughs. “Whatever, Sam. I’m just not scared of a storm, that’s all,” Dean says, trying to pretend he was leaning down to scratch a bite.
Sam laughs again, raising his eyebrows as he points at the corner of the map. “Looks like there’s a town just ahead.”
***
The motel shower is tiny, and they squeeze in together, not touching, just moving quickly, efficiently, soap sliding over damp skin, elbows and hips bumping as they wash.
Efficient or not, Dean’s already hard by the time he steps onto the dingy linoleum floor. He uses one of the thin gray bath towels on his hair, not bothering to dry the rest of his body, tugging on his brother instead. Dean stretches out across the bed, leaving damp blotches across the gray-blue covers, pulling Sam back onto the bed with him.
That’s when the siren starts.
The drone of the siren is loud and insistent, and Dean plans on turning up the television and ignoring it, but Sam unpeels himself from the comforter and crosses the room, yanking open the heavy curtains. “Squall line looks pretty bad,” he says, peering outside.
Dean follows, wrapping a towel around his waist and reaches for the doorknob. “Lemme see.”
Sam grabs Dean by the wrist, shaking his head. “No. You aren’t going outside to watch.”
“Jesus Christ, Sammy, we’re not gonna die in a freaking storm.”
“No, we’re not, because we’re getting in the bathtub.”
***
If Dean thought the shower earlier was uncomfortable, then sitting down in the bathtub with Sam is downright wretched.
“At least there aren’t any windows in here.” Sam twists around, elbowing Dean as he piles pillows all around them, smiling wickedly. “And at least we’re still naked.”
“Like we can do anything-“ Dean stops grumbling mid sentence, hit with an idea that might make the situation at least halfway bearable. “Don’t freak out-I’ll be right back,” he says as he slips out of the tub and rummages through his stuff, finally finding the small bottle he’s kept hidden in his bag.
“What’s that?” Sam asks as Dean crawls back into the tub.
Dean struggles to arrange himself behind Sam, cursing the person who decided that tubs were meant for people shorter than five feet tall. “Nothing.”
“What is it, Dean?”
“God, you’re persistent. It’s oil. For massages.”
“You’re going to give me a massage?”
“Not if you don’t shut it,” Dean says, and he gives Sam’s side a good pinch, right along the boniest spot on his ribs.
Sam groans, and Dean can just imagine the look on his face as he tries to wiggle away and smacks his knee into the side of the tub.
Dean takes pity on his brother, who’s even more cramped than Dean is, and starts with Sam’s head. He doesn’t open the oil yet, but he combs his fingers through the wet strands of Sam’s hair, inhaling the fresh scent of shampoo.
Sam makes another noise, similar to his earlier groan, but without the edge, and Dean moves his hands through Sam’s hair until he shivers. He uncaps the oil and rubs his hands together, warming it, massaging Sam’s shoulders until he whines and slouches under Dean’s hands, relaxing.
Dean works down Sam’s back, pressing his thumbs into the spots of knotted muscle. “Jeez, Sammy, you need-” Dean stops abruptly when he gets to the pale scar that stretches across Sam’s spine, pulling his hands away.
Sam’s shoulders slump, and his voice carries a note of apology. “I-”
“Shhh,” Dean whispers, and he touches it, softly, reverently.
The motel shakes and shudders as Sam sighs, and Dean wonders why people never mention how loud tornadoes are, how they rumble and creak, and Dean’s struck by how a fiberglass tub makes a shitty substitute for a basement.
He smoothes his hands over Sam’s back once more, places his hands on Sam’s cheeks, feeling the flushed skin under his fingers as he leans forward, kissing the nape of Sam’s neck.
Sam moans again, then mutters, “Don’t stop.”
Dean doesn’t speak yet, but he answers by pushing Sam’s head forward, slowly, gently, licking the still-damp skin until Sam shivers. “Love the way you taste,” Dean says, sliding his hands lower again, skimming across his brother’s shoulders and down his upper arms, circling his biceps. Dean rubs his palms against the firm push of muscle, feeling Sam’s arms flex as he grips one of the pillows in his fists.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, titling his head back, grinning at Dean. “Maybe we should get stuck in tornadoes more often.”
Author:
aynslee
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Beta:
leighm
Spoilers: Post AHBL
Prompt: Tornado siren
Twister
Dean pulls over just outside Lake Providence and digs the calamine lotion out of the back seat. He’s sweaty and hot and covered in mosquito bites after one of the most tedious jobs they’ve ever worked-why the hell a poltergeist would haunt a trailer park in eastern Louisiana, god only knows. And now Sam’s telling him there’s a goddamn tornado on the horizon.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean says, craning his neck to stare at the mottled yellow-green line that dissects the sky.
“We need to find a motel,” Sam says, watching a plastic coke bottle bounce down the sidewalk as the wind whips harder. “Preferably underground.”
“What, don’t tell me you’re scared of a little twister?” Dean rubs the lotion all over the back of his neck, tosses it at Sam. “Don’t you know we’re from Kansas, boy?”
Sam rolls his eyes as he catches the bottle, nodding pointedly at the canvas tarp that’s flying toward the windshield. “Sure thing, Dean. Next you’ll have us out chasing funnel clouds with a video camera.”
Dean ducks instinctively as the tarp hits the top of the car with a loud whapping sound, scowling when his brother laughs. “Whatever, Sam. I’m just not scared of a storm, that’s all,” Dean says, trying to pretend he was leaning down to scratch a bite.
Sam laughs again, raising his eyebrows as he points at the corner of the map. “Looks like there’s a town just ahead.”
***
The motel shower is tiny, and they squeeze in together, not touching, just moving quickly, efficiently, soap sliding over damp skin, elbows and hips bumping as they wash.
Efficient or not, Dean’s already hard by the time he steps onto the dingy linoleum floor. He uses one of the thin gray bath towels on his hair, not bothering to dry the rest of his body, tugging on his brother instead. Dean stretches out across the bed, leaving damp blotches across the gray-blue covers, pulling Sam back onto the bed with him.
That’s when the siren starts.
The drone of the siren is loud and insistent, and Dean plans on turning up the television and ignoring it, but Sam unpeels himself from the comforter and crosses the room, yanking open the heavy curtains. “Squall line looks pretty bad,” he says, peering outside.
Dean follows, wrapping a towel around his waist and reaches for the doorknob. “Lemme see.”
Sam grabs Dean by the wrist, shaking his head. “No. You aren’t going outside to watch.”
“Jesus Christ, Sammy, we’re not gonna die in a freaking storm.”
“No, we’re not, because we’re getting in the bathtub.”
***
If Dean thought the shower earlier was uncomfortable, then sitting down in the bathtub with Sam is downright wretched.
“At least there aren’t any windows in here.” Sam twists around, elbowing Dean as he piles pillows all around them, smiling wickedly. “And at least we’re still naked.”
“Like we can do anything-“ Dean stops grumbling mid sentence, hit with an idea that might make the situation at least halfway bearable. “Don’t freak out-I’ll be right back,” he says as he slips out of the tub and rummages through his stuff, finally finding the small bottle he’s kept hidden in his bag.
“What’s that?” Sam asks as Dean crawls back into the tub.
Dean struggles to arrange himself behind Sam, cursing the person who decided that tubs were meant for people shorter than five feet tall. “Nothing.”
“What is it, Dean?”
“God, you’re persistent. It’s oil. For massages.”
“You’re going to give me a massage?”
“Not if you don’t shut it,” Dean says, and he gives Sam’s side a good pinch, right along the boniest spot on his ribs.
Sam groans, and Dean can just imagine the look on his face as he tries to wiggle away and smacks his knee into the side of the tub.
Dean takes pity on his brother, who’s even more cramped than Dean is, and starts with Sam’s head. He doesn’t open the oil yet, but he combs his fingers through the wet strands of Sam’s hair, inhaling the fresh scent of shampoo.
Sam makes another noise, similar to his earlier groan, but without the edge, and Dean moves his hands through Sam’s hair until he shivers. He uncaps the oil and rubs his hands together, warming it, massaging Sam’s shoulders until he whines and slouches under Dean’s hands, relaxing.
Dean works down Sam’s back, pressing his thumbs into the spots of knotted muscle. “Jeez, Sammy, you need-” Dean stops abruptly when he gets to the pale scar that stretches across Sam’s spine, pulling his hands away.
Sam’s shoulders slump, and his voice carries a note of apology. “I-”
“Shhh,” Dean whispers, and he touches it, softly, reverently.
The motel shakes and shudders as Sam sighs, and Dean wonders why people never mention how loud tornadoes are, how they rumble and creak, and Dean’s struck by how a fiberglass tub makes a shitty substitute for a basement.
He smoothes his hands over Sam’s back once more, places his hands on Sam’s cheeks, feeling the flushed skin under his fingers as he leans forward, kissing the nape of Sam’s neck.
Sam moans again, then mutters, “Don’t stop.”
Dean doesn’t speak yet, but he answers by pushing Sam’s head forward, slowly, gently, licking the still-damp skin until Sam shivers. “Love the way you taste,” Dean says, sliding his hands lower again, skimming across his brother’s shoulders and down his upper arms, circling his biceps. Dean rubs his palms against the firm push of muscle, feeling Sam’s arms flex as he grips one of the pillows in his fists.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, titling his head back, grinning at Dean. “Maybe we should get stuck in tornadoes more often.”