Season Three

Episode Nine: The Great Gig In The Sky

By Sojourner

Part Two

It was never easy.

Those words were laced through Dean’s adrenaline jumbled thoughts, along with a plethora of other colorful choice words as he fisted his hands in Sam’s shirt, dragging them both to the ground and under one of the bar’s tables. Darkness, thick without the garish florescence of the bar lights, had enveloped them, adding to the disorienting nature of the deafening reverberation of relentless wind and glass against glass, glass ripping across metal, metal mauling wood.

Something dropped down onto the table above their heads, thudding loudly accompanied by the skittering and whine of more breaking glass, which he felt pinging off his leather jacket, pelting down on him.

Sam, beside him on the ground, hopefully with head tucked against his chest, hands over his face like Dean’s, was shouting something. But Dean lost all of Sam’s words in the white noise that had consumed everything, melting it together.

Reaching out in the dark, he found Sam’s shirt again and pulled him forward, fearing they were exposed after he’d felt something else, light but sharp, drop against his arched back.

Thrown into survival mode against temporary blindness and the loss of his ability to filter through the noise, Dean gave up hoping the table was sufficient protection. The roof would come crashing down on them, or any number of sharp objects flying through the air would fillet them from the sides. The leather of his jacket could take more damage than Sam’s clothing, or at least he depended on that to be true now as he covered Sam partially with his body.

The white noise took on a low groan, the building around them echoing the noise before everything went jarringly silent and still.

Dean unfolded from Sam, back onto his knees, eyes stinging as he strained them to see something in the dark, ears ringing, imprinted with the horrific sound still whooshing restlessly around him.

“Sam,” he ground out, fingers once again seeking out the material of his brother’s shirt.

“I’m okay.” The reply Dean had hoped to hear from Sam rasped back in tangible disbelief.

Dean registered a hand on his shoulder, and almost instantly felt his heart rate slow with reassurance and confirmation that they were both okay.

“That was…” Sam breathed.

“Friggin sweet,” Russ’ voice cut through Dean’s ears, drawing his attention to the storm chaser’s presence.

Flashlights were clicking to life throughout the bar, the strident beams dulling in the wake of dust. The bar tender had pulled a couple from behind the bar and had handed them out, but most were coming from key chains, like the one Russ was now shining first in Dean’s face, then Sam’s, causing them to squint and wince away.

“You mind there, Russ,” Dean asked, holding a hand in front of the beam.

“Just making sure everything’s copasetic, bros,” he turned the beam on Sam. “Was that you screaming like a girl?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, “No.”

“Everyone okay?” The bartender asked, visibly shaken as he passed the beam of light with unsteady hands over the floor of the bar.

Crawling out from under booths and around overturned tables, the patrons stumbled out of hiding, wearing shell-shocked expressions. Dean was confident the only one who had enjoyed the experience was Russ. In the light of surviving though, Dean did have to admit it was pretty friggin’ sweet.

“Anyone hurt?” The query of concern was repeated, answered only by the whispers of “Oh my God” and the occasional thin, dry cough as people’s lungs couldn’t take the abundance of debris in the air.

Windows blown in, broken glass scattered dangerously across every inch of floor, a few hanging lights now on the ground, created an odd, battle-ravaged feeling, completely transforming what had once been a lively pub. All of the destruction left Dean wondering how the hell the walls were still all in place, especially after his gaze fell along the car that had pierced one of the walls at the front of the building, front tires hooked through what had been a window.

No one appeared to be severely hurt, and many were already heading for the exit, helping others who were having trouble, all shuffling like the undead in stunned silence from the building. Extending his hand to Rachel, Dean helped her to her feet, receiving a weak smile as thanks. Perplexity, not fear, took up residence in the creases of her face. Her eyes were filled with questions he knew he couldn’t even begin to answer.

She rubbed her arms as she stepped around Dean, following Sam and Russ out through one of the side exits into the parking lot that had been turned into an auto wrecking yard. Dean’s heart kicked up into his throat as he looked for the Impala, eyes widening at the sight of cars folded into one another, flipped and smashed.

“Where’s my van?” Russ asked.

Rachel pointed to the street, “That it? Parked by the road?”

Russ squinted, only able to use the moonlight and what light there was down the street, where buildings stood miraculously unscathed. All the parking lot lamps had been twisted over into cars or each other.

“Yeah…that’s it…but I—I, uh, I parked it over there,” Russ said, indicating with a nod toward the opposite side of the parking lot.

“Dammit,” Dean growled, unable to see the Impala from his current vantage point, sprinting to where he was certain he’d left her.

Swinging around a pick-up truck with a lamppost through the windshield, and sliding across the hood of a sedan, Dean found the Impala, boxed in on all sides by wreckage, but untouched. It was sitting there like nothing had happened. A P.T. Cruiser had taken the brunt of a street lamp that would have gone right through the middle of her roof.

Dean laughed, mostly from elation, but also from release from the fear that had torn through him in those painful few moments of not knowing if she was okay. Running his hand along her side, from hood to trunk, he couldn’t find a scratch on her beautiful black exterior. Another laugh bubbled up from within Dean as Sam joined him, Sam’s own amazement huffed out in a breath of surprise.

“Nine friggin’ lives,” Dean beamed. “Can you believe this?”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t believe any of this. Dean, it didn’t touch anything else but this bar.” Sam tilted his head down the street. “You’ve got to see this.”

Dean stood from where he was crouched, and looked down toward the main street which was still intact and a severely stark contrast to the “scrap yard” they were standing in now.

“How the—?” Dean tilted his head back toward the clear sky, and saw only a few wisps of cloud pass over the haloed moon. Ambulance sirens echoed through the night and Dean dropped his head, running a hand through his hair, trying to sort through how impossible this all seemed.

“I wish I knew what was going on, man” Sam responded.

Nodding and dropping his shoulders, Dean turned to go back and check on the team, chest tightening as he wondered if they’d gotten in over their heads on this one. From the look on Sam’s face, his brother was wondering the same thing.

The Sunny Days Motel, Late Morning

Sighing wearily, exhausted and unfocused, Sam started to close the open search windows on his computer. He couldn’t focus long enough on the meteorology sites he’d pulled up to study, let alone devise a way to determine what was causing the storms from the information. After exhausting the lore on weather demons and demigods, he’d started to look into GEOS and the NSSL. He had had about enough of terms like “wind velocity,” “flow,” “asymmetries,” and “back building,” especially when it meant jack squat to him.

From what the team had said, he knew there was nothing natural about what had happened the night before. Wes had been the one to report, when he’d finally been able to get to the equipment in the trailer at the motel, that there was nothing recorded on radar. Not at least until right before the storm struck. The screen had lit up and flared out like a struck match over the span of just a few short minutes.

Minutes had seemed like hours to him while they were ducked under the table waiting for something to crash through the building and sweep them all away. “Terrifying” didn’t exactly do the whole ordeal justice. How Dean was thrilled by the encounter was beyond Sam…somewhat. It was Dean after all.

They’d spent the night making sure everyone inside the bar was all right and had helped others where they could to turn over vehicles and look for the injured. Dean couldn’t move the “impervious Impala” until the other cars were towed and removed. The Impala had been scrapped by a Peterbilt and survived a tornado. Amazing. Sam smirked at that thought.

It had been well into the morning before either of them had been able to crash into bed, neither sleeping very well with the thought of a repeat of what had happened at the bar happening to their motel room.

Thank God for coffee.

Speaking of which, Sam eyed his empty coffee cup wearily, tipping it over to look at the bottom just to make sure “the elixir of life,” as Dean would call it, was really gone. Not even a stain circled the bottom and Sam tipped it back up, leaning back in his chair until he could see out the front window.

Dean wasn’t back yet, and he’d gone in search of sustenance over an hour ago. Sustenance Sam needed if he was going to get anywhere in his research, regain any semblance of an attention span.

Setting the legs of his chair down, Sam stared at the empty coffee cup and tilted his head, studying it.

For months now, when Sam had a moment he wasn’t engrossed in the hunt, he’d think about Leicester. The Devil had taunted him about his abilities, and they’d manifested in a time when Dean was in trouble. It hadn’t been the first occurrence either. There’d been other times in the past, where Dean was hurt, in trouble, and Sam could do things he’d never even dreamed possible to save him.

But the kinesis always changed. His abilities were as unpredictable and undefined as to what exactly they entailed. Death visions, telekinesis, and mind manipulation, just to name a few, weren’t exactly synonymous, and rarely did they come together. With Max Miller, the death visions seemed to fuel the telekinesis, but that wasn’t always the case.

There were times when Dean was in trouble, times when Sam would have loved for the abilities to kick in, and nothing happened. How they worked and when they worked seemed to have no real answer or explanation, at least none that stuck with a pattern.

The only common thread was Dean. For a while Sam had figured it was being around those like him, but that didn’t explain Leicester.

Exhaling loudly, Sam pushed aside his laptop and positioned the cardboard cup at the center of the table. He could hear Dean in his head as he remembered Saginaw and the request to “bend this,” his brother holding out a spoon. Like it was that easy…

Every time his abilities showed up, Sam felt more connected to them, more able to bend them toward a purpose. It was always short lived, however, but if he could learn to control them…

He’d start with telekinesis.

Sam stared down the coffee cup, brows pinched in concentration, mind going back through the previous times it had worked. He was rolling over all the memories where he’d almost lost Dean in his head. Images whirled through his mind like a movie reel. Things he wished he could forget. Almost fatal close calls. Dean bleeding, wounded, fighting for life. Dean’s hands wrapped desperately around Sam’s wrist, both hanging over Hell…

Nothing.

Sam took in a long, slow breath, rolling his head on his shoulders before shaking them out. Come on. What good is being a freakin’ Jedi if you can’t use the Force?

Closing his eyes, measuring his breaths into deep, concentrated lungfuls, Sam leaned forward, picturing the cup in his mind. He broke all seriousness for a brief moment as “there is no spoon” ran sideways through his brain, teasing him, making him feel ridiculous. He ignored it, trying to lose himself in the memories of earlier, pushing down all other thought and sound…

Don’t let go, Sammy! Dean’s voice, along with the nauseating smell of hot sulfur, the overwhelming heat of the pit, the grasping fingers of the damned, returned him to that moment. Heart racing once more, Sam tried to feel out some kind of power within.

Come on, Sam! Come on! This is your power! Yours! What the hell kind of good is it, huh?

More blood, fire, desperation.

Sam.

More Dean hurt, bleeding, dying…

Sammy!

Fear for their lives, for Dean’s life. Fear of loss. All of it filled him up as he tried to create something tangible, tried to move the cup.

“Sam!”

Sam’s eyes shot open, and he twisted in his chair to see Dean standing at the door. His brother’s face was caught somewhere between perplexed amusement and worry. Sam coughed, straightening up and squaring his shoulders.

“You’re a…you’re back.”

Dean raised a brow, keeping his eyes on his brother as he went to the counter and set down the bags of food and coffee.

“So, uh, what were you doing with your face all scrunched up like Hiro Nakamura?” Dean asked, leaning against the counter. “Might want to be careful, might pop your anus, straining like that.”

Sam sighed and listlessly knocked over the cup with a swat of his hand. “Yatta…” He mocked Dean’s reference.

Dean smirked, and grabbed up a coffee, crossing the room and handing it to Sam. “So, you were trying to feel the Force.”

“N-no, just…” Sam stopped when he saw Dean wasn’t buying it, sighing. “Yeah…” Dean’s laugh in response grated on him a little. “So what? I was trying to be a friggin’ Jedi. I have no idea how these powers work, Dean.”

His brother had taken out the usual provisions of a burger and onion rings, plopping down, thankfully not on Sam’s bed, to eat them. Sam wondered if Dean was stuffing his face to avoid further commentary on the issue Sam was more than ready to blow wide open.

It had been too long. There was too much that they didn’t speak about. Any time this topic arose it ended with speeches about Dean not being scared, about how he was looking out for Sam. Any time they even drew close to this subject, it ended in jokes, always some kind of levity to make Sam somehow feel less…small. And it worked. It always worked, coming with steady, unwavering reassurance from Dean’s mouth, but Sam wanted more than what felt like half truths and another fortification of their walls.

“They only seem to work when absolutely necessary, and honestly, I’m having trouble defining necessary, considering there were a lot of times they would have come in handy.”

He watched Dean masticate dead meat with more attention than his dear stoic brother was giving the conversation at that moment.

Undaunted, Sam kept going. “All I’ve managed to do, as you know, is narrow the pattern down to you.”

Dean lowered his burger, working his lips like he was cleaning his teeth, brows raised. “Me?” he eventually said. Then their conversation in Leicester seemed to dawn on him quickly. “Oh, right. Damsel in distress syndrome.”

“Look, they only seem to manifest or whatever, when I think you’re gonna die.”

“Shweet,” Dean said, taking another bite and continuing with his mouth full. “Want me to go lay down on some train tracks?”

Sam dropped his shoulders, dipping his chin in a nod. “Could you? I’ll just go get Lucifer to don a thick black mustache, and…come on! Dean, you have to stop joking and start being honest with me. This scares you.”

Dean’s eyes stayed steady, guarded, denying Sam any access past their steeled exterior. The silence, however, was telling enough, and Sam wished Dean would just come out and say it.

“No more joking about Super Sam or psychic boy,” Sam pleaded. “I already know you don’t think I’ll go…darkside…but just once I want to hear more truth than you’re completely fine kicking it with your freak brother who hasn’t a single clue when or where or how this stuff will work!”

Dean balled up the oily paper that had surrounded the burger he’d inhaled and tossed it into the trashcan with an effortless flick of his wrist before pushing to his feet.

“What can I say, I like hanging with freaks,” Dean tried, smile flashing, but it wasn’t going to work this time. As if Dean sensed that, he sobered, shrugging. “What do you want to hear, Sam? ’Cause...” Dean grabbed another burger and tossed it to Sam, “I’m fine with it…you…the powers.”

“Dean…” Sam knew in that moment, that they’d never get further than this.

“I’m done, Sam.” Dean warned.

“What if I’m not?”

“Tough.” Dean snapped. “I don’t care if you don’t believe me, Sammy. Right now, I need that head of yours thinking over what the hell dropped down on that bar last night, not trying to flatten—”

“Move.”

“—paper cups. Whatever.”

Setting his jaw, staring down at the burger he wasn’t hungry for anymore, Sam understood Dean’s resolve was final. For now. “Fine.”

“Good. I’m gonna grab a shower.”

The shutting of the bathroom door ended any hope Sam had at getting Dean to open up, and he tried to forget that he cared so much as he choked down the grease-bathed burger Dean had tossed him. By the time Sam was halfway through his coffee, computer back up and search engines running, Dean had emerged again, grin reattached, signifying his own amazing ability to dodge conversational bullets.

He mussed a hand through his dampened hair to “dry off” and then turned around a chair next to Sam, leaning on the back as he looked at the multiple windows up on the computer.

“So, Sam ‘Bill Nye’ Winchester, can science explain our party crasher?”

Sam huffed at the name, knowing it was going to be close to impossible to wrangle in Dean’s enthusiasm for these storms. He lifted a shoulder, unsure how to answer that.

“Meteorology isn’t my strength, nor was it even a point of focus anywhere in my education.”

“Too bad, you would have made a great weatherman,” Dean teased.

“Well, I can tell you there’s a lot of hot air coming out of the west,” Sam returned, sliding his eyes to the left, and Dean’s momentarily incensed features. “The best I got is some butterfly probably beat its wings in the wrong place, some Ian Malcolm chaos theory. Basically I’ve got nothing.” Sam cracked his neck, pulling up some of the video Wes had given him.

It was clear to him Dean wasn’t following, and Sam tried to make more sense. “The Sound of Thunder? Jurassic Park?”

“And I watch too many movies.”

“Those are books, Dean.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“All I’m saying is that I don’t think science can touch this one. That’s all.”

Sam took a moment to show Dean the radar feed that Wes was able to get his hands on, pointing to the timeline. The screen’s activity flashed in and out above Butte County with uncanny speed. Something seemingly appearing out of nothing, which Sam was sure had to break a few scientific laws. “Now I know why they call them Wraiths.”

“At least those we know how to deal with. So what do we have besides some radar and bupkis?”

Sam paused the video, tapping the screen. “I just need more time. We’ve been kind of distracted…” Sam said pointedly, getting a shrug from Dean. “If I can figure out through history, or testimony, what demon is behind this…”

“We can send it packing.” Dean finished. “Just so long as another twister doesn’t sweep us away.”

Sam grinned. “Easy stuff.”

Cole Residence, Afternoon

Nathan wasn’t proud of the condition Jay found him in. He could feel his friend’s eyes on him from the front door, knew that he probably smelled more rank than the fifth of vodka in his hands. He leaned against the table listlessly, one elbow dug into the table top as he cradled his head, stringy bangs hiding his unfocused eyes.

“Nate…what the hell? Where’s Chels?”

He’d lifted a shoulder in response, taking a few minutes to digest the question before his brain could calculate an answer. “Went to see a friend.”

Jay left the front door open, sliding into a chair beside him, but Nathan didn’t once raise his eyes from the grain of the kitchen table.

“Last night wasn’t enough?”

Nathan scoffed at his friend’s reference to their time last night. They’d left Chelsea with a friend after Jay’s prodding that Nathan needed something to loosen up, leading them to the only real bar in town. The same bar that had been dropped on by a tornado right after they’d left. There wasn’t enough alcohol in his system by morning to miss that one on the news.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Jay continued, like some inspirational speaker. It wasn’t the first time Nathan had heard this one. “You can’t keep thinking your life is—”

“Is what?” Nate asked, finally bringing himself to take in his friend’s sympathetic eyes, and concerned expression. Screw sympathy. He didn’t want it. What he wanted was to finish the bottle in his hands and go to sleep, to drown out the proverbial demons wreaking havoc on his mind. “Is pretty much reduced to…well, this…” Nathan said, waving a hand toward the innards of the house.

It was already falling apart, and the plastic wrap over the kitchen window where the tree had decided to invite itself in was a really nice touch as well.

“Nate, seriously, man…”

“I think I’m responsible,” he finally confided in his friend. He blamed the alcohol, and the guilt crushing in on him from every side, making it impossible to draw in a breath, to think, to live.

Jay blinked slow, thinking through what exactly that meant, and when he came up empty, he shook his head. “You mean for what happened to your mom? For having to leave school? What?”

“The storms…I’m responsible for the storms,” Nathan continued with lazy speech giving him something of a drawl.

Jay blinked a beat. His hand moved slowly toward the vodka bottle, unsure, as if he feared Nathan would lash out, then drew the bottle back cautiously.

“That’s enough of that,” Jay sighed. “You’re a lot of things, Nate, but you’re not God. Sorry to disappoint there, man.”

“You were there. Last night. At the bar,” Nathan said, quickly losing his temper. He wasn’t appreciating the look he was getting from Jay. He wasn’t crazy. There was too much happening within the realm of coincidence and if anyone knew better, it was Jay.

“Yeah, I was. Jim was mouthing off like the stupid ass he always is, and the place was packed with too many freaking reporters and researchers. It was a waste of our time. I’m glad you took a swing at the guy.”

Nathan shook his head, frustrated that he couldn’t get the point across. Head pounding, he ground a finger into the table top. “I dreamed about the bar…I—I saw the damn thing in my head, the storm, and then…”

Jay thinned out his lips in thought, passing the bottle of vodka between his hands. “Both of us have known, since we were kids, that you’ve got some kind of pre-cog thing going on, Nate. You always used to call it. Severe storms here and there would come and go and you’d always dream about them beforehand…”

It was true. Since they were little he’d had dreams. Always about storms that would then happen. But they’d been so far and few between. Coincidence, Nathan had thought. Jay had always called him “storm god” as a joke, and when he’d finished his internship in Japan, the nickname had become “storm god” in Japanese: Arashi. Jay had always thought the “ability” was cool. Nathan never wanted to believe in anything more than luck as a correlation. But now…

“Or I dream about them and cause them,” Nathan interjected.

Jay huffed a weak laugh, shaking his head. “Nate, you’ve been through a lot. Having to drop out of school, losing your mom, having to take care of Chelsea. You need a break, man, that’s all.”

Nathan wished that was all. Oh, God, how he wished that getting away was the answer to all that had happened to him. But it wasn’t, he was trapped, and there was something not right about him…something he was only recently starting to understand.

Nathan knew Jay was trying to help, but he wasn’t. The more Jay talked, the more Nathan’s head started to pound. The thought that he was stuck, that Jay had given up a lot, dropped out of school as well, to come home and help him out, that Chelsea depended on him, culminated in painful spikes that came to rest at the base of his skull.

“What you need to do,” Jay continued, tipping the bottle toward him, brows lifting mischievously. “Is to stop asking Marissa to look after Chels, and actually take that woman on a date. Leave Chels with me and just enjoy some time away. Then you’ll see it’s all in your head, Arashi.”

That name. That damn nickname!

“Would you just shut the hell up?!” Nathan barked. “I’m serious!”

The door to the kitchen slammed shut, rattling the pictures on the wall as a gust of wind tore through the room. A few teetered then crashed to the floor, before leaving the two men in paralyzing quiet. Only the radio in the bedroom continued unbothered, keeping them from the awkwardness of complete silence.

Again, Jay blinked absently, then slid the vodka bottle back to Nathan. “Holy...” he breathed

“Yeah…”

“How long have you known?” Jay asked, deciding he wanted the bottle back, only to take a swig himself before returning it.

Nathan again ticked up his shoulder, wondering where to even start to explain this. He was somewhat relieved that Jay hadn’t gone screaming from the room, somewhat disappointed that he hadn’t. At least with the latter Nathan could confirm the feeling he was a freak.

“I’ve been…trying to get a hold of it. Understand it. Recently, I—I can do things that scare me. Small things,” he said, nodding toward the fallen pictures. He ran his thumb over his fingers, tracing a small line of electricity from one to the next. He didn’t miss the widening of Jay’s eyes, or the sudden lightening of the pallor of his skin. “Nothing on scale with the storms…but…”

“It’s impossible…”

“I wish it was,” Nathan lamented, probing the sides of his temples with his fingers. After the outburst at Jay, he was starting to feel lightheaded, tired.

“Okay, even it is possible, it’s a gift, right? You can…you can learn how to hone it, maybe even use it to help, or something,” he said.

Nathan found his optimism more annoying than helpful, but he was grateful someone saw it as a gift. It was a wonder that Jay hadn’t left yet, that he was staying calm. The first time Nathan had seen electricity crackle across his fingertips he’d practically fallen out of the chair he was sitting on. “Why aren’t you freaking out?”

“Dude, because I’ve known you since we were kids. I’ll, uh, admit, I just about soiled myself there with the whole…door thing…But I’ve always known you could predict the weather, man. Can’t believe that you’re the one causing it…not sure how to digest that one honestly. I’ve called you ‘storm god’ all these years and haven’t once been freaked out…” Jay sighed. “Just give me a few minutes. I’ll be freaking out, I’m sure.”

Nathan closed his eyes, unable to even manage a weak smile. People were dying, because he didn’t know what to do, or how to control this.

“I know you, Nate. You wouldn’t hurt anyone. I can’t believe that you’re…you know, behind all this. There has to be some other explanation.”

“Believe whatever you want,” Nathan said, voice saturated with the weight of everything he’d just confessed. “Hey, Jay…”

“Yeah,” Jay said, head bobbing toward Nathan as he snapped out of what Nathan could only imagine was a jumbled disarray of thoughts.

Nathan fumbled with the bottle in his hands, watching the liquid churn within as he turned it over repeatedly. “Think you could—Would you take care of Chels, if something happens to me?”

The shock on his friend’s face, mixed in with the palate of confusion that was already there, resembled something akin to anger. Nathan set his eyes, unwavering, on the one who’d stuck everything out with him, who understood him better than anyone, and begged in that moment for his friend’s understanding.

Nathan didn’t get it.

“What the—Are you saying that—What? No! Don’t you start talking like that, Nate. Dammit! You need help, man. Help I don’t think I can provide.” Jay was pushing up from the table, fisting hands in his hair, before dropping them to his side. “You’re not thinking…”

“Just go, Jay,” Nathan growled, shoving to his feet, swaying a little.

Jay had stepped in to steady him. “And leave you like this? Talking about…creating natural disasters and asking me t-to take care of Chels…”

Nathan shook off Jay’s hold. “Go! I’ll friggin’ sleep it off.”

“Nate…”

“I’ll call you later,” Nathan dismissed him, moving into the living room.

Crumpling into a pile of weary flesh and bone on the sofa, Nathan listened to the front door slam. He realized he’d left the radio on in the bedroom. Too tired to turn it off, he allowed The Doors' Riders On The Storm to slip through his ears as he drifted, the alcohol and desire to escape once more taking him under.

Unknown Location

The dark churned and billowed out before him, moving with purpose, tearing away life and breath and any vestige of hope it could be outrun.

Sam watched from the hills of an unknown field, unaware of how he’d come to be there, and uncaring, rooted to the spot where he stood by fear and awe. Unable to comprehend what was real, if anything, from the surreal terror folding out in front of him, he was compelled to watch as the dark pillar of cloud and debris divided and multiplied, producing its twin.

They bounded off one another, weaved together in their destructive dance, then came at him, growing stronger and faster, filling his ears with a consuming, almost animalistic growl.

Bracing himself for their descent upon him, feeling the tug and pull at his clothes as the wind hammered without mercy or prejudice into him, Sam closed his eyes and waited to be taken away, to be thrown so hard and fast he knew he’d die on impact with whatever broke his flight.

But it never came.

Gradually opening his eyes, tilting his head back to the sky above, Sam found himself inexplicably and impossibly at the center of the storm. He was staring up at unblemished blue through the blurring chaos all around him, and he was unharmed, and bizarrely calm. Steady, despite the cyclone all around him that should have ripped him apart.

He could hear something within the wail of the winds, something that was familiar… Music? A song he knew…

It was then he realized he wasn’t alone, he could sense that, could feel a presence move behind him. Before he could react, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Sam was turned to confront a face obscured by darkness, blurred like the winds whipping about them both. Without warning, and before a startled gasp could leave his lips, Sam was violently shoved back into the black.

The Sunny Days Motel,
Late Afternoon, Early Evening

Sam startled awake, laying on his side, his research scattered across the ugly paisley comforter of his bed, one arm tucked underneath his pillow. He was confused for a brief moment as the images in his head lost their veracity, bleeding into the background of his mind as the dreams they were, letting him comprehend where he was.

The radio on his bed stand was live, the alarm he’d set earlier having kicked it on. The same song from his dreams was playing: Riders on the Storm. He knew he’d recognized it as The Doors. Shooting out an arm, he hit the snooze button, momentarily silencing Morrison’s crooning about killers.

Weird…Sam thought, pressing the base of his palms into his eye sockets, trying to clear the pressure, to stop what felt like a headache building or ebbing out.

It was then he could hear something else: the constant drumming of rain against the roof and sirens.

The room was darker than it should be at four in the afternoon. Sam eyed the clock warily, then looked around the room for Dean. He wasn’t there.

Before true panic could take hold, the front door swung open, banging against the wall loudly as Dean bounded inside. The scream of the tornado sirens flooded the room before Dean shut the door, going to his bag without saying anything or even acknowledging Sam’s presence.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked.

“Put two and two together, Sam. Meet me outside,” Dean ordered, while he shrugged on another layer of clothing, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.

“Air raid?” Sam asked.

Dean shot him a look. “Are you being difficult because I wouldn’t share my feelings with you earlier?”

“No,” Sam said, pulling on his boots and tying up the laces as fast as his fingers could go. “Just like to be difficult.”

“Good. ‘Cause if you want to share feelings now, I’ve got a few choice words to describe them.”

Sam shook his head, unable to hold down a laugh. “Go on jerk. I’ll meet you outside.”

“Better make it snappy, bitch.”

Sam took Dean’s example and pulled on a hoody before his jacket, then stepped outside under the awning and into torrential downpour. The rain cascaded off the edge in thick sheets of water, making Sam feel encased along the sidewalk.

Dean was a few doors down, talking with Rachel, who seemed excited. It was then that Sam saw Russ and the others at the vehicles, and he knew, regrettably, what was about to happen.

Sam jogged up to the two of them, just as Russ and Wes ducked back under the awning, carrying tarps over their heads.

“We’ve got us a location,” Wes announced. “Touchdown on the northwest side of Oroville. I’ve got the maps ready.”

“Then what are we waiting for, huh?” Rachel asked, slapping both their arms. She nodded to Sam. “You go with Russ.”

Sam blinked, startled. Russ? The guy whose idea of a good time was running right at tornadoes? That Russ? Where was Dean…

“Dean, you’re with me,” Rachel announced, pulling up the hood on her jacket, ducking back under the awning, and taking off for the Avalanche.

Figured.

Before Dean could follow her Sam grabbed Dean’s arm. “What are we doing?”

“Going to see one of these things in action,” Dean replied.

“Dean, this isn’t a good idea. Let them go after it. They can show us what they find when they get back.”

“No way I’m missing out on this,” Dean said, shrugging off Sam’s hold on his arm. “Just relax, Sam. They know what they’re doing. Ride the lightning,” he added, like tagging Russ’ catch phrase on the end of that statement somehow justified it.

If anything it made Sam all the more nervous that a Metallica song, one about an electric chair, was the inspiration for the team name. What exactly was he thinking when he agreed to do this?

Russ came out of his room, where he’d retreated for a second, and slammed a black camera bag into Sam’s chest. “Rock on, bros. Better catch up with Rache, she does not take kindly to tardiness on her hunts, my man.”

Dean feigned worry, and took that as his permission to leave. Sam stared down at the black bag. Apparently he’d be filming this suicidal mission from the van.

“Wait, doesn’t this belong to Jacks and Greg? They told us not to…”

“They’re not here. Were in town running some errands for our queen bee. Look, rules around here are you don’t show up to the dinner table, you don’t get to eat, bro. So you’re our man.”

“I’m not qualified…”Sam tried again while Russ shoved him toward the van.

“Point and shoot. How hard is that?” Russ came back as Sam stumbled up into the passenger seat beside Wes, who was looking over the maps.

We’re gonna die…Sam thought when Russ turned over the engine, Humans Being by Van Halen puncturing his ears. And my last moments are going to be with…Philip Seymour Hoffman.

They’d swung out onto one of the main roads, Rachel leading them. The cars passing by, heading in the opposite direction, were flashing their lights and honking, trying to warn them to turn around.

“Gee…wonder what they’re running from?” Sam commented cynically.

“What was that?” Russ shouted over the music.

“Nothing,” Sam returned, then muttered, “Not like common sense will save us now.”

Running toward, not away from the tornado was on Sam’s list of crazy situations he’d never pictured himself in. Right behind seeing a sinkhole to Hell, so he knew he’d have to update the list a little.

Sam started to pull the digital camcorder out of the bag that Russ had given him. In a last ditch effort, he tried to hand it off to Wes, who shook his head. Sighing, Sam hit record and turned the camera onto the road ahead.

****

“I was there for the F5 that hit Manitoba,” Rachel announced, flipping off the windshield wipers. The rain had let up not five minutes after they’d been on the road, and had ceased completely now. “Freak chance. Didn’t have a damn camera,” she continued with an air of sadness laced in her voice.

Dean pulled his attention away from the road and the sky roiling above, blackened like the smoke from fire. As the winds grew stronger, rocking the car, Dean was glad he’d left the Impala behind, especially after last night.

On top of that he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something Sam knew and wasn’t telling him. Out of the blue, after months of leaving what had happened in Leicester back in Massachusetts, his brother had dropped his abilities back on the table, demanding to know how Dean felt about them. It didn’t seem to matter how many times Dean told him it didn’t scare him, that answer never seemed to satiate Sam.

The more Dean rolled the sudden re-opening of old wounds over in his mind, the more he started to wonder if Sam had seen something, if something had happened to him, or if this had been rubbing Sam raw since their encounter with Hell. Neither way sat well with him, and he found Rachel’s voice a decent and welcome distraction as any from the direction his thoughts had started to go.

“F5,” Dean said, arching a brow. “That’s like the mother of all tornados, right?”

Rachel nodded, green eyes sparkling. “One way of putting it.”

“So, this one we’re after’s a…”

“Won’t know until we study the damage, radar, cycloidal marks,” Rachel said, then teased, “But you knew that about Fujita scales.”

“What respectable student wouldn’t, just…wanted to know your best guess,” Dean replied with his best attempt at recovery.

“They’ve been so…different. All of them definitely hitting at all points along the scale. Last night’s was…odd…” she said with a grimace.

“Define odd,” Dean asked.

“Well, you know, there’ve been no supercells, no cold fronts, no conditions for them. Especially last night’s. This is the first time since we got here that an actual storm preceded it. This one…kinda makes sense…”

“And the others?” Dean asked.

Rachel opened her mouth to answer, working her tongue as she appeared to be trying to give voice to what it was that had her bothered about them, but she never did. Dean knew that look, had seen it repeatedly in those they’d talked to on hunts. Things were happening that Rachel couldn’t explain, and he knew she didn’t like that. Probably downright hated it.

The CB radio on the dash crackled, bringing with it Russ’ voice and Metallica’s Ride the Lightning, the teams “theme song”, in the background. Dean smirked, thinking about Sam sitting there, enduring that.

“…Rache, we’re gonna turn, next right. Mile or so down, and you’ll be staring into the face of one of these mothers…”

Dean watched the corner of her mouth tick up, the thrill of that statement moving through her as she gripped the wheel tighter.

Reaching forward, Dean snapped up the radio. “Sam, you all right?”

There was nothing for a while, until Sam’s frustration oozed through in a wave of static and guitar.

“Peachy.”

“Think we’ll see anything weird?” Dean asked.

“You mean besides a tornado? Oh, I don’t know, Dean, maybe a house will drop out of the sky right in the road.”

“You think?” Dean continued to poke fun, glad they were in separate cars.

“No.”

“Pessimist. Whoa!”

“What?” Sam exclaimed, and Dean could see him looking around the van windows from the rearview mirrors.

“We’ve got cows,” Dean said, biting down a laugh.

“Ha, friggin’ ha, Dean. Are you gonna quote that movie the whole time? ‘Cause I’m gonna shut this off…”

“In that field we passed. Cows. Didn’t you see them? Hey, why don’t we have one of these for the Impala?”

He could hear his brother’s eyes rolling. “And talk to who, Dean? I sit in the seat right next to you.”

“I could always make you travel in the trunk.”

“Yep,” Rachel was laughing lightly, clearly amused by them. “You two fit right in with us crazies.”

****

“… I could always make you travel in the trunk...”

Sam would find his brother’s lighthearted attempts at loosening him up helpful if it wasn’t for the feeling of dread that had taken up residence in his chest. The closer they came to their destination, the stronger the winds had become, rocking the van around the road. Their visibility was becoming more and more obscured. Sam was about to tell Dean he was going to ignore him now, when the van made it to the crest of the hills, giving them a view of the fields and valleys below…and the same swirling black from his dreams tearing through them.

“No way…” Sam breathed, familiarity flaring up and hitting him hard.

“Way, bro!” Russ chimed in, reaching over Wes to smack Sam in the arm. “Get the camera up, dude!”

As before, one twister broke off from another, splitting and creating its twin. Tearing up vegetation and dirt, farmland, equipment, anything that was in their path, and tossing it in every direction, the twins crisscrossed around one another, heading away from the team.

“We want to stay just southeast of it,” Rachel’s voice came over the radio. “What do our road options look like, Wes?”

Wes had taken the radio from Sam. “Let’s split up ahead. You stay on your current path, we’ll go west, ‘case it changes directions.”

“No,” Sam spoke up, knowing what he was about to say was going to sound nuts. “They’re going to double back. Both of them.”

Sam grabbed the radio back from Wes. “Dean? Dean, you have to listen to me, take the turn up ahead with us, they’ll come right back at us. If we stay on this road, they’ll come crashing right down on us.”

“How do you know that?” Dean’s voice came back.

Sam closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “How do I know anything like this, man?” He was well aware that by this point Wes and Russ were staring at him. “Call it…my storm intuition. Whatever. They’re gonna come back.”

Sam waited, re-gripping the radio, eyes darting between the twisters and the vehicle in front of them. Rachel wasn’t slowing down to make the turn. The Avalanche pressed forward, while Russ slowed the van down suddenly, almost taking out the street sign as he swung westbound.

“What are they doing? No, no, no. Where are they going? Where are we going?” Sam asked, turning to Wes and Russ.

“Rache has a mind of her own, bro. If she wants to go north…”

“Did you hear a word I just said?” Sam asked.

“Relax, man,” Russ reassured him. “She’s got a sense too.”

Sam looked back across the field to the Avalanche’s retreating form, hoping hers was better than his.

****

“What was that about?” Rachel asked.

Dean returned the receiver to the dash, wondering that very thing himself. “Sam’s just uh…like he said, got a real sense for these things.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a sense for these things too,” Rachel returned, sharply, and it became real obvious, fast, the reason she hadn’t listened was an issue of personal pride.

The way Sam had said intuition, Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to be heading in this direction. He knew his brother couldn’t have come right out and said it over the radio, but a part of Dean wished he had told him how he really knew. Had he had a death vision? Since Dean was the one in the vehicle still heading north, he sure as hell hoped not.

Dean watched the twisters, which seemed to be getting larger, the storm around them getting worse, denser and darker by the minute.

“I think it shifted this way,” Dean observed out loud when there wasn’t much left to see outside of a three foot radius on either side of the vehicle. The shaking of the Avalanche was unnerving as well.

“I know,” Rachel said, “but if we keep going this speed, we’ll make it to the other side of it.”

The woman was nuts. Not that Dean could really talk, but after what Sam had said before they’d parted ways…

Needing something to keep his mind calm, Dean reached for the CD player, turning it on to see what kind of music Rachel was into. Credence Clearwater Revival’s Lodi started to leak from the speakers.

“Figures…” Dean muttered. “Friggin’ CCR.”

“What?” Rachel asked. “Don’t like this song?” She punched the next button. “Or CCR?”

Dean knew it just wasn’t his day when Bad Moon Rising followed like a death omen. Christ…

“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked, when Dean didn’t answer her, just stared ahead like he’d been punched in the gut. “I’m gonna get us out of the storm, Dean. You’re the one making me nervous. Now what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dean responded. “Just hate this song…Bad shit always seems to happen when I hear this song.”

Rachel turned to look at him, her large green eyes confused, at the same instant Dean saw lights break the dark ahead. Rachel caught them in her periphery, head snapping back to the road as the strongest wind gust yet rolled an oncoming semi into the road. With a startled yelp, Rachel swerved to avoid the truck skidding toward them and the Avalanche lost the road. There was the earsplitting sound of metal clawing pavement, the scream of glass shattering into a million razor sharp shards and then nothing but the howl of the wind through the broken SUV’s frame.

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The Winchester Chronicles