ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-20 05:40 am
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-20 05:40 am
Entry tags:
Take Me Home —Part 8
Title: Take Me Home
Summary: The Trickster decides to have some fun with Sam. Wackiness ensues, with a healthy helping of whump, because it's me and I can't leave the boys intact.
Spoilers: All aired episodes up to 5.10
Word Count: 1,634 for this chapter
Disclaimer: Luckily for them, I own nothing. Otherwise they'd be in for a world of hurt.
Warning: Utter crack. Language that is definitely not workplace-appropriate.
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer: No beta, written in such a hurry I'm amazed my fingers managed to connect with the keyboard.
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer #2:I take NO responsibility for this, because it's cracktastic and weird and I can't believe it came out of of my brain. If you are scarred for life after reading it, it's NOT my fault!
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer #3: It's basically "Lassie Come-Home," Winchester-style. I dunno. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!
Master Post
Part 7
Do you think it's weird of me to be reluctant to change Sam back into a human? He's so much happier as a dog! :P
*****
Castiel's hand-written note takes them a lot further out of their way than Dean would like. He gets the impression, not for the first time, that Castiel's notions of time and distance are so far removed from ordinary human perception that it's totally useless to ever depend on him for a useful estimate.
“Seriously, how is Michigan even remotely 'on the way' to South Dakota?” he grouses to Sam, who's riding shotgun, chewing on a tennis ball. Dean has never given any thought to what constitutes a tennis ball —they're fuzzy and green and bouncy, and really, who needs to know what's inside them?— but he's now got a really good working knowledge of how they work, because Sam has eviscerated the hell out of that sucker. The squeaky toy has already died a sad death and had to be thrown out, so they're totally sticking to tennis balls from now on: they're cheaper and sturdier.
“Next time I see Cas, I'm totally going to... oh, who am I kidding? I can shake my fist impotently in his direction, and that's about it,” he scowls at the steering wheel. “This whole apocalypse thing is jacked. Hey, Sam, do you remember anything about the apocalypse, or does the whole being-a-dog thing give you a free pass?”
The dog quirks an ear at him, drops the tennis ball into the footwell where it lies, disembowelled and full of drool. He stretches out, rests his head on Dean's knee, looking up at him soulfully, and Dean lets his right hand drop to pat him.
“I guess that answers that question. That really sucks, dude. Here I thought that being a dog might get you a break for a while. God knows, we could use one. I was thinking, you know, maybe we could just ride it out for a little while, hit the road, you and me. Littlest Hobo-style, you know?”
Sam huffs out what sounds like a disapproving breath.
“Yeah, okay. Not the best plan I ever came up with, but it's not the worst, either. Remember that prison job back in 2006?” Sam huffs again. “Yeah, I thought you might. In retrospect, it was pretty freaking stupid. Kind of awesome, though. Remember Tiny? Poor freak got himself shish-kebabed by that spirit. Gruesome. Hey, did you see what mile marker we just passed? Uh, stupid question, never mind. I think we're still in West Virginia, barely.”
He doesn't remember if he talked to Sam this much when he wasn't a dog, but it's actually pretty easy to do, now. He keeps up an aimless stream of chatter, reminisces about old cases, complains about Castiel and Zachariah and any other angel that springs to mind. He pats Sam's head, and because they're still in West Virginia, he starts singing John Denver at the top of his lungs, not caring if he's off-key.
“Country roooooads, take me hoooome, to the plaaaaaace I belooooooong!”
Sam scrambles out of his lap, nearly hitting his muzzle on the steering wheel, and howls. Dean throws back his head, lets out a whoop of laughter, and keeps singing.
“I hear her voice in the mornin' hour she calls me. The radio reminds me of my home far awaaaay! And drivin' down the road I get the feelin' that I should have been home yesterday, yesterdaaaaaaaaay!”
Sam howls even louder, and Dean laughs, gives him an affectionate thump on the back. “Okay, Sammy, I'll stop, promise. We're probably near enough to Ohio now that it's not appropriate to be singing this stuff anymore anyway.”
They take a couple of rest breaks during the day, so that Sam can eat, have some water, go and mark some trees, do what dogs do, but apart from that Dean keeps his foot on the accelerator the whole way through the state, pushing for Michigan so he can just get this stupid errand over with and get to Bobby's post-haste. Not that having Sam as a dog doesn't have its perks —no talking, no sulking, no emo moping behind his bangs— but on the whole he likes having Sam human better. He pulls out the scrap of paper Castiel gave him, frowns at the hasty scribble; apparently calligraphy isn't an essential angelic skill. It gives the name of a town in what looks like the middle of a freaking forest, and a single name: George.
“I tell you, Sammy, I'm not sure I like this. I mean, George? As in the curious monkey or the Beatle? Neither one of those options is reassuring. Why the hell am I supposed to be looking for this guy, anyway? I freaking hate this angelic bullshit, man. Why can't I just get a straight answer for once? Is it really too much to ask?”
Of course Sam doesn't have a satisfactory answer. He's picked up his tennis ball again and is giving it a thorough working-over, slobbering happily all over the blanket Dean spread over the seat, which is also covered in dog hair. Another reason to want Sam back to normal: the Impala's going to smell of dog forever at this rate.
Night is falling by the time he gets to the small town called Rainbow Bend somewhere west of a state forest area. He leaves Sam in the motel room again, but this time it's so he can go and as around about this so-called George, who seems to be a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a taco shell or something. The first few queries don't get him very far: the folks in the local diner close ranks on him, almost as though he's intruding on some sort of private... thing. It's weird, and not a little unsettling. He finally finds himself in a hole-in-the-ground bar talking with three old guys in overalls and flannels shirts and tobacco stains in their beards, and once he's bought a few rounds they come around to his way of seeing things.
“Old George, he doesn't really like it when people drop in on him unexpected,” one of them says to him, scratching under his red ball cap with one finger. “He's a real private guy.”
“What do you want with him, anyhow?” the one immediately to his left asks. He's got blue eyes that sort of remind Dean of Castiel, only this guy is definitely human, and his gaze isn't nearly as disconcerting as having Cas staring at him from across the room.
“A friend of mine gave me his name. Said he could help me out with something.” It's not exactly a lie, and Dean is an expert at not-exactly-lying.
“Huh,” the third man snorts. He looks to be the oldest of the three, his thinning hair completely white rather than grey, and thinning to the point of baldness on top. “That's a half-truth if ever I heard one.”
Okay, maybe not as good as he thought. “Yeah, well, I'm sort of working halfway in the dark, here. I'm hoping George can help me out. It's important, otherwise I wouldn't be asking, okay?”
“Yuh. Sure. It's easy enough to find George, supposing he wants to talk to you. He ain't much of one for talking. Just take the road out of town, drive five miles, take the dirt road on your left, drive until there's no more road.”
Dean doesn't like the sound of that. “And his house is there?”
“Nope. Then you gotta walk. Strappin' young man like you, shouldn't take more'n twenty minutes, tops.”
It's like trying to pry open a clam with his bare fingers. He buys them another round, just on general principle (antagonizing the locals seems like a really bad plan), and heads back to the motel, feeling no further ahead than when they first got into town. Sam is on his bed, again. Next motel, Dean figures he'll just give into the inevitable and get them a room with a single king-sized bed, since the dog has developed such a serious fetish for sleeping in his brother's bed.
Oh, that sounds so very very wrong. He shakes his head to clear away the thought, gives the dog a pat instead. “So it looks like George is some sort of weird hermit who lives out in the middle of the forest,” he informs him, just as if they were working a regular case, and Sam wasn't a dog. “We're going to have a bit of a hike tomorrow. Hope you're in the mood for a walk.”
Sam's tail thumps and he gets up, looking hopeful.
“Lie back down, you idiot. We're going tomorrow, not now.”
The dog sighs mournfully, flops back onto the pillow. They haven't done much by way of exercise today, so Dean can't exactly blame him. Tomorrow ought to make up for it, anyway. From the sound of it, they're going to have a hike out into the woods and back, all to meet this mysterious guy that Castiel wants him to talk to for some reason known only to Castiel, which of course he hasn't bothered to share. That's the good thing about Sam: he usually explains his reasons six ways from Sunday, which is probably why Dean finds Cas so damned frustrating. Of course, Sam isn't really in a really talkative place right now, but that's not exactly his fault.
He forgoes the TV, even though there's pay per view and it's actually a pretty nice colour flat-screen job. Somehow it just doesn't hold all that much appeal these days. He switches off the light, goes to sleep with the reassuring heavy warmth of his brother nestled up against his back.
*****
Part 9
Summary: The Trickster decides to have some fun with Sam. Wackiness ensues, with a healthy helping of whump, because it's me and I can't leave the boys intact.
Spoilers: All aired episodes up to 5.10
Word Count: 1,634 for this chapter
Disclaimer: Luckily for them, I own nothing. Otherwise they'd be in for a world of hurt.
Warning: Utter crack. Language that is definitely not workplace-appropriate.
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer: No beta, written in such a hurry I'm amazed my fingers managed to connect with the keyboard.
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer #2:I take NO responsibility for this, because it's cracktastic and weird and I can't believe it came out of of my brain. If you are scarred for life after reading it, it's NOT my fault!
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer #3: It's basically "Lassie Come-Home," Winchester-style. I dunno. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!
Master Post
Part 7
Do you think it's weird of me to be reluctant to change Sam back into a human? He's so much happier as a dog! :P
Castiel's hand-written note takes them a lot further out of their way than Dean would like. He gets the impression, not for the first time, that Castiel's notions of time and distance are so far removed from ordinary human perception that it's totally useless to ever depend on him for a useful estimate.
“Seriously, how is Michigan even remotely 'on the way' to South Dakota?” he grouses to Sam, who's riding shotgun, chewing on a tennis ball. Dean has never given any thought to what constitutes a tennis ball —they're fuzzy and green and bouncy, and really, who needs to know what's inside them?— but he's now got a really good working knowledge of how they work, because Sam has eviscerated the hell out of that sucker. The squeaky toy has already died a sad death and had to be thrown out, so they're totally sticking to tennis balls from now on: they're cheaper and sturdier.
“Next time I see Cas, I'm totally going to... oh, who am I kidding? I can shake my fist impotently in his direction, and that's about it,” he scowls at the steering wheel. “This whole apocalypse thing is jacked. Hey, Sam, do you remember anything about the apocalypse, or does the whole being-a-dog thing give you a free pass?”
The dog quirks an ear at him, drops the tennis ball into the footwell where it lies, disembowelled and full of drool. He stretches out, rests his head on Dean's knee, looking up at him soulfully, and Dean lets his right hand drop to pat him.
“I guess that answers that question. That really sucks, dude. Here I thought that being a dog might get you a break for a while. God knows, we could use one. I was thinking, you know, maybe we could just ride it out for a little while, hit the road, you and me. Littlest Hobo-style, you know?”
Sam huffs out what sounds like a disapproving breath.
“Yeah, okay. Not the best plan I ever came up with, but it's not the worst, either. Remember that prison job back in 2006?” Sam huffs again. “Yeah, I thought you might. In retrospect, it was pretty freaking stupid. Kind of awesome, though. Remember Tiny? Poor freak got himself shish-kebabed by that spirit. Gruesome. Hey, did you see what mile marker we just passed? Uh, stupid question, never mind. I think we're still in West Virginia, barely.”
He doesn't remember if he talked to Sam this much when he wasn't a dog, but it's actually pretty easy to do, now. He keeps up an aimless stream of chatter, reminisces about old cases, complains about Castiel and Zachariah and any other angel that springs to mind. He pats Sam's head, and because they're still in West Virginia, he starts singing John Denver at the top of his lungs, not caring if he's off-key.
“Country roooooads, take me hoooome, to the plaaaaaace I belooooooong!”
Sam scrambles out of his lap, nearly hitting his muzzle on the steering wheel, and howls. Dean throws back his head, lets out a whoop of laughter, and keeps singing.
“I hear her voice in the mornin' hour she calls me. The radio reminds me of my home far awaaaay! And drivin' down the road I get the feelin' that I should have been home yesterday, yesterdaaaaaaaaay!”
Sam howls even louder, and Dean laughs, gives him an affectionate thump on the back. “Okay, Sammy, I'll stop, promise. We're probably near enough to Ohio now that it's not appropriate to be singing this stuff anymore anyway.”
They take a couple of rest breaks during the day, so that Sam can eat, have some water, go and mark some trees, do what dogs do, but apart from that Dean keeps his foot on the accelerator the whole way through the state, pushing for Michigan so he can just get this stupid errand over with and get to Bobby's post-haste. Not that having Sam as a dog doesn't have its perks —no talking, no sulking, no emo moping behind his bangs— but on the whole he likes having Sam human better. He pulls out the scrap of paper Castiel gave him, frowns at the hasty scribble; apparently calligraphy isn't an essential angelic skill. It gives the name of a town in what looks like the middle of a freaking forest, and a single name: George.
“I tell you, Sammy, I'm not sure I like this. I mean, George? As in the curious monkey or the Beatle? Neither one of those options is reassuring. Why the hell am I supposed to be looking for this guy, anyway? I freaking hate this angelic bullshit, man. Why can't I just get a straight answer for once? Is it really too much to ask?”
Of course Sam doesn't have a satisfactory answer. He's picked up his tennis ball again and is giving it a thorough working-over, slobbering happily all over the blanket Dean spread over the seat, which is also covered in dog hair. Another reason to want Sam back to normal: the Impala's going to smell of dog forever at this rate.
Night is falling by the time he gets to the small town called Rainbow Bend somewhere west of a state forest area. He leaves Sam in the motel room again, but this time it's so he can go and as around about this so-called George, who seems to be a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a taco shell or something. The first few queries don't get him very far: the folks in the local diner close ranks on him, almost as though he's intruding on some sort of private... thing. It's weird, and not a little unsettling. He finally finds himself in a hole-in-the-ground bar talking with three old guys in overalls and flannels shirts and tobacco stains in their beards, and once he's bought a few rounds they come around to his way of seeing things.
“Old George, he doesn't really like it when people drop in on him unexpected,” one of them says to him, scratching under his red ball cap with one finger. “He's a real private guy.”
“What do you want with him, anyhow?” the one immediately to his left asks. He's got blue eyes that sort of remind Dean of Castiel, only this guy is definitely human, and his gaze isn't nearly as disconcerting as having Cas staring at him from across the room.
“A friend of mine gave me his name. Said he could help me out with something.” It's not exactly a lie, and Dean is an expert at not-exactly-lying.
“Huh,” the third man snorts. He looks to be the oldest of the three, his thinning hair completely white rather than grey, and thinning to the point of baldness on top. “That's a half-truth if ever I heard one.”
Okay, maybe not as good as he thought. “Yeah, well, I'm sort of working halfway in the dark, here. I'm hoping George can help me out. It's important, otherwise I wouldn't be asking, okay?”
“Yuh. Sure. It's easy enough to find George, supposing he wants to talk to you. He ain't much of one for talking. Just take the road out of town, drive five miles, take the dirt road on your left, drive until there's no more road.”
Dean doesn't like the sound of that. “And his house is there?”
“Nope. Then you gotta walk. Strappin' young man like you, shouldn't take more'n twenty minutes, tops.”
It's like trying to pry open a clam with his bare fingers. He buys them another round, just on general principle (antagonizing the locals seems like a really bad plan), and heads back to the motel, feeling no further ahead than when they first got into town. Sam is on his bed, again. Next motel, Dean figures he'll just give into the inevitable and get them a room with a single king-sized bed, since the dog has developed such a serious fetish for sleeping in his brother's bed.
Oh, that sounds so very very wrong. He shakes his head to clear away the thought, gives the dog a pat instead. “So it looks like George is some sort of weird hermit who lives out in the middle of the forest,” he informs him, just as if they were working a regular case, and Sam wasn't a dog. “We're going to have a bit of a hike tomorrow. Hope you're in the mood for a walk.”
Sam's tail thumps and he gets up, looking hopeful.
“Lie back down, you idiot. We're going tomorrow, not now.”
The dog sighs mournfully, flops back onto the pillow. They haven't done much by way of exercise today, so Dean can't exactly blame him. Tomorrow ought to make up for it, anyway. From the sound of it, they're going to have a hike out into the woods and back, all to meet this mysterious guy that Castiel wants him to talk to for some reason known only to Castiel, which of course he hasn't bothered to share. That's the good thing about Sam: he usually explains his reasons six ways from Sunday, which is probably why Dean finds Cas so damned frustrating. Of course, Sam isn't really in a really talkative place right now, but that's not exactly his fault.
He forgoes the TV, even though there's pay per view and it's actually a pretty nice colour flat-screen job. Somehow it just doesn't hold all that much appeal these days. He switches off the light, goes to sleep with the reassuring heavy warmth of his brother nestled up against his back.
Part 9
no subject
Do that too much and it becomes run-of-the-mill, and you get a boring episode instead of a wacky recurring semi-villain.
I get now what you meant about "soulfully." In fact, now that I think of it, in 'The Monster at the End of This Book,' don't Sam and Dean trade "soulful" glances as Chuck is writing them? ;)
I haven't yet got to the part where human!Sam gives any thought to what it was like to be a dog. I'm torn on the subject, actually, and am really struggling with how to get him back in a way that's both plausible, meaningful, and gives some kind of resolution to the characters.
Guh.
Chuck is right: writing is hard. ;)
no subject
They do indeed trade soulful glances in that very episode, yes. It's just one of those really nice words that gets put into awful situations. It's really not its fault at all. Worse things have happened. Just ask poor, old "orbs". Or, God in heaven, "hole". *twitch* I used to be a much more descriptive writer long, long ago. Which is no bad thing, mind you, but when you're not great at it (and I was average to poor), that's when descriptive words suffer needless abuse. LOL
You see, your indecision just makes me more eager to read more. Did I vote for this whole 'release it in small sections' thing? What WAS I thinking?
no subject
Hey, at least I have a good motivation to finish now, right?
Oh, God, "orbs." There are NO WORDS for how much I hate that term. Eyes are only orbs if they have been pried from their sockets and are being used as forensic evidence. *gnarr* *smash*
I'm okay at description, but I'd rather concentrate on actions and emotions: I've never been especially visual, and I find that inserting one or two specific visual details is far more effective in letting the reader build their own world.
no subject
I think everyone has their style that works best for them - both in what they're most comfortable with and most self-successful with and what's most satisfying to the reader. Just in terms of fanfic, I've read people who are descriptive geniuses. Others excel at emotion, action, or a combination. I think you do a great job of all of it, really. Your writing is a nice medium between lush and stark, depending on the story, and I, as a reader, can always "see" a nice clear picture because you provide enough clues and detail while keeping pace with the story.
You suck for being so awesome, damn you. Ha.
no subject
*shudder* Orbs. Ick. I have been able to use it in its proper context, but it still makes me twitch.
I've seen "hole" used in a way that's not cringe-worthy, but I gotta say it's rare. Ah, porn, why is it so difficult to write well? ;)