🌪️. *. ⋆ ❝ i hate texas but the exits have more room to run away from you. ❞
cora winchester knew tornados better than people. she knew what they took, what they destroyed, and the damage they left. tyler owens was a tornado, in his own right, and...
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By the time Cora pulled into the motel parking lot, her truck looked like it'd been pulled out of hell. It had been, pieces of wood shrieking as they tore through layers of paint, leaving claw marks that danced like flames up the sides. The tornado hadn't done as much damage, it felt like it'd have sucked the abandoned farmhouse up into it, but all it left was shattered windows and busted doors. It looked haunted when Cora pulled off the drive. Guilt had panted at her as she turned back onto the highway, but one glance at Rye silenced them. Whoever they were, they'd left Rye to the wind, and she'd never forgive them. Not when he was so small, curled up in the remains of her sweater, sleeping. He hadn't woken, even with music, and Whiskey's barking at the sight of cows and hay bales. He twitched every so often but calmed down soon after. The truck's engine is like a lullaby.
There weren't many motels in this part of Oklahoma. So Cora pulled into the first place she saw. Then, tomorrow, she'd find a town and start the cycle again. And pick up Rye a collar. Storm season had started, and the motel parking lot was flooding with tourists, eager to see a real tornado. Cora slowed and weaved around campfires and beer kegs balanced in open trunks. The sky had darkened, the stars scattered in a blanket across the sky. Cora pulled into the first available parking space and turned off the engine. She sighed and leaned her head forward, forehead pressing against the top of the steering wheel. She could hear laughter, chatter, and three guitars playing in harmony. A cacophony of human life. Cora looked over at Rye, who had stirred. His little head turned to her instantly. He was on his feet and crawling into Cora's lap. He hadn't gone more than five feet from her since she'd scooped him into her arms. Whiskey didn't mind having the back seats to himself.
Cora looked in her rearview. She knew she looked windswept, her braid all but gone, most hair clinging to her face, and frizz covering the top of her head. She was a sight. A night of sleep would change that. She could shower and get farm mud and dried grass off her.
"Okay, boys, let's get a room," Cora stated as she swept Rye back up into her arms. She whistled for Whiskey, who pushed his head against the door handle and it swung open. Cora pulled her keys out and pushed out of her truck. She tried not to wince at the scratches. She'd need to get some new paint and try to fix the scars. But something told her that they'd never be fully healed. Like people.
Cora grabbed her backpack from the back seat and locked her truck until it beeped. She shrugged the bag on, pressed her face into Rye's soft fur and gave him a gentle kiss. He looked frightened, with so many sights and sounds and people. Overwhelming for anyone. Even she loved drinking in college and seeing new people. After you'd been dragged through hell by a tornado, you had an excuse not to be yourself.
They made their way across the parking lot, avoiding drunk wanderers. Whiskey stuck close to Cora's side and growled at anyone who came too close. He wasn't huge, but Whiskey had a presence that anyone with sense could notice. Even blackout drunk. Multiple sorry's filled the air as the crowd gave Cora a wide berth.
