ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-21 08:33 am
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-21 08:33 am
Entry tags:
Take Me Home —Part 9
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: 1,692 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 8
Please, PLEASE don't hate me after this chapter! I know I'm going to be turning a bunch of expectations upside-down. SORRY!
Oh, and this is where the whump starts. Have fun!
*****
Up until now, Dean has always been the morning person in their relationship. Sure, recently Sam has been in the habit of getting up long before he does, but that was first because of the nightmares and then because he was sneaking off to... okay, not thinking about that. Be that as it may, Sam is usually pretty grouchy in the morning until he's had time to wake up, shower, and have some coffee. Dean, on the other hand, loves mornings, moreso even than the night time, which has all its own perks (booze and women high on that list), and he enjoys them all the more because it means he gets to torture Sam before he's fully awake. As it turns out, though, dogs are even more morning creatures than Dean, and it's the ass-crack of dawn when he gets a cold, wet nose shoved unceremoniously in his ear, followed by some very indiscriminate licking.
“Ugh, Sam! Get off! Dude, you and I have to have a serious talk about boundaries. There are places where you just do not lick people and... oh, God, that sounded really wrong even to me, and do me a favour and we'll never speak of this again. Get off me!”
The dog lands on the floor with a thump, then stands there wagging his tail, giving him a very obvious look of 'open the door, already!' So he does just that, and this time shuts the door to go take a shower, figuring Sam can wait for ten minutes without it being a huge deal. He's right, and finds the dog waiting patiently by the door, looking as though he doesn't have a care in the world. Maybe he doesn't. It's a depressing thought. Dean picks up the rawhide bone from the middle of the floor, shoves it into Sam's mouth to keep him busy and to save the last of their new tennis balls from an untimely demise, and packs up his gear while listening to happy chomping noises coming from outside. There isn't really time for breakfast for him, but he makes sure Sam has enough kibble to keep him happy for a while, and grabs a doughnut and a coffee on his way out of town to see George.
Sam is more than happy to go for a walk once they get to the end of the dirt road, which is a small mercy. If he were still human, he'd probably be bitching about have to tramp through the woods again. Not that Dean isn't bitching about it now, but he totally wouldn't be if Sam were here to do the bitching for him. Well, he is here, only not exactly, and God, how can this possibly get any more complicated? Wait, don't answer that. He shoves all thoughts of apocalypse, angels, curses, and brothers-turned-into-dogs firmly to the back of his mind, and tries to just enjoy the moment of walking in the quiet forest with Sam bounding through the trees, circling back, tail wagging, tongue lolling. He's almost disappointed when he catches sight of the ramshackle cabin perched with its back to a steep ravine, a river rushing far at the bottom. Well, no rest for the wicked, right? He leaves Sam to frolic outside, dashing away at top speed along the path by the ravine, since he's pretty sure that whoever 'George' is, he won't appreciate having some stranger and a huge dog barging in unannounced. He knocks politely at the cabin door, and nudges it open when there's no answer.
“Hello? Uh, George? Anyone home?”
“Hello, Dean. I thought you might be along soon.”
A chill runs down his spine at the familiar voice. Nick's body is looking even worse than the last time in Carthage, the skin sloughing off his hands in patches, bubbling near his hairline, but the expression is the same: that terrible look masquerading as sadness and compassion, the one that pierces right through him.
“Lucifer.”
“I'm afraid you're too late,” Lucifer gestures to the floor, where his foot is resting on the neck of an old man, the corpse frail and weak-looking. Dean's stomach roils at the sight, Lucifer's pose echoing the precise one he had when he (Sam, oh God) had broken his neck in that future that never happened. Bile rises in his throat, burning. “George and I had some unfinished business, and it just couldn't wait for you to come and question him. Sorry.”
“Yeah, I'll bet you are,” Dean almost chokes on the words.
“Little brother Castiel will doubtless be disappointed that you weren't able to speak to the wyrm-slayer, but then, he must be getting used to disappointment by now, when he spends so much time with you, Dean. You've always been a disappointment to the ones who love you most, haven't you?”
“Shut up.” Dean feels his teeth grind. “Worm-slayer?” It's like he can't help himself. Luckily, bad guys like to monologue, and Lucifer is no exception, so maybe that'll buy him some time to get out of here. It's a hell of a bad week (a hell of a bad year, possibly a hell of a bad life), and it's the second time he's been caught out without an escape plan. This time, he refuses to take full blame for it. How was he supposed to know that Cas' information would lead him right into an ambush?
“Wyrm, not worm. As in, George the dragon-slayer. You should talk to your brother about the mythology behind that. It's more his cup of tea than yours, as I understand it. He's always been the smarter —sorry, the more educated of the two of you. Tell me, are you still trying to patch things up? Or have you finally worked out that you slow him down?”
“Shut up.”
“Always with the witty comeback,” Lucifer nudges the corpse with a toe. “You know, you could always just give up, let me take Sam. My way isn't the terrible thing that the propaganda says it is. Think about it: peace on earth, no demons, no angels. Just... peace.”
“Yeah, 'cause destroying humanity is such a great goal.”
Lucifer doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he just looks at Dean with those big, sad eyes. “Where is your brother, Dean?”
Dean blinks. It hasn't occurred to him until now that there are only a handful of people who know what Gabriel has done, and that the enochian sigils are still probably etched into Sam's ribcage, dog or no. He almost laughs. Sam is right there, right under Lucifer's nose, and the evil son of a bitch doesn't even know it.
“Wouldn't you like to know?”
Lucifer raises his hand in a gesture Dean recognizes as being one of imminent smiting. He swallows, hard, looks around for an escape hatch. “It's of no consequence. Eventually, he will come to me. It's inevitable, really. In the meantime, I think I'll kill two birds with one stone. I wasn't expecting you today, but when opportunity knocks...”
Dean dives back out the door to the cabin, hits the ground rolling, scrambles to his feet and takes off at a sprint. There's a frenzy of barking behind him, the sound of crashing in the underbrush, and he feels his feet leave the ground. It's becoming a depressingly familiar feeling. He lands hard, winded, scrabbles for purchase, feels the earth give way underneath him, and suddenly he's falling, bouncing hard off the rocky surface of the ravine. His heart leaps into his throat, adrenaline surging through his veins, and he claws frantically at the few roots and outcroppings he can find, but there's no purchase and his hands come away empty and torn. There's a jolt, blinding pain radiating through his side, his vision greys out as he plummets, and by the time he hits the water he's almost grateful to lose consciousness.
He's not in the water when he awakens, although he's soaked to the skin and freezing cold. Something wet and cold nudges at his cheek, and he blinks painfully, even the pale light filtering through the canopy of trees too bright. Moving is bad, he discovers. Pain lances through him, and he can't quite bite back a groan as he tries to turn his head. There's another nudge, and a whine.
“Sam?” his voice is hoarse. “That you?”
Stupid question. Who else would it be? He's freezing, though, and everything hurts, and he doesn't think he can really move. He's not drowning in the river, though, and that's already something. He hears the dog shuffling around him, the unmistakeable sound of it shaking water out of its coat, ears popping. He almost laughs.
“Good dog, Lassie,” he mutters, then coughs, tasting copper on his tongue. Not good. “Now go get help.” The dog barks once, then takes off, and suddenly the pain is laced with panic. “No! Sam! I didn't —come back!” Don't leave me, he almost shouts, swallows the words before he they can leave his lips. Then it's back to waiting, to not-quite-panicking, because he can't move, and everything hurts, and he doesn't know what happened to Lucifer or to Sam, and the canopy is swimming drunkenly above his head. He can hear frantic barking in the distance, so at least he knows Sam is okay. The sound fades, stops, starts up again, but the edges of his vision are going dark, and it's hard to concentrate. He thinks maybe there was a good reason to stay awake, but he can't remember what it was, lets his eyes close. The barking gets louder again, and suddenly there's movement around him, voices.
“Oh my God! Are you okay? Hold on, we're going to get help, okay? Hang on!”
He tries to ask where Sam is, if Lucifer is gone, but his mouth won't move. He can't even force his eyes open. Finally he has no choice but to give up, let the darkness close in.
*****
Part 10
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: 1,692 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 8
Please, PLEASE don't hate me after this chapter! I know I'm going to be turning a bunch of expectations upside-down. SORRY!
Oh, and this is where the whump starts. Have fun!
Up until now, Dean has always been the morning person in their relationship. Sure, recently Sam has been in the habit of getting up long before he does, but that was first because of the nightmares and then because he was sneaking off to... okay, not thinking about that. Be that as it may, Sam is usually pretty grouchy in the morning until he's had time to wake up, shower, and have some coffee. Dean, on the other hand, loves mornings, moreso even than the night time, which has all its own perks (booze and women high on that list), and he enjoys them all the more because it means he gets to torture Sam before he's fully awake. As it turns out, though, dogs are even more morning creatures than Dean, and it's the ass-crack of dawn when he gets a cold, wet nose shoved unceremoniously in his ear, followed by some very indiscriminate licking.
“Ugh, Sam! Get off! Dude, you and I have to have a serious talk about boundaries. There are places where you just do not lick people and... oh, God, that sounded really wrong even to me, and do me a favour and we'll never speak of this again. Get off me!”
The dog lands on the floor with a thump, then stands there wagging his tail, giving him a very obvious look of 'open the door, already!' So he does just that, and this time shuts the door to go take a shower, figuring Sam can wait for ten minutes without it being a huge deal. He's right, and finds the dog waiting patiently by the door, looking as though he doesn't have a care in the world. Maybe he doesn't. It's a depressing thought. Dean picks up the rawhide bone from the middle of the floor, shoves it into Sam's mouth to keep him busy and to save the last of their new tennis balls from an untimely demise, and packs up his gear while listening to happy chomping noises coming from outside. There isn't really time for breakfast for him, but he makes sure Sam has enough kibble to keep him happy for a while, and grabs a doughnut and a coffee on his way out of town to see George.
Sam is more than happy to go for a walk once they get to the end of the dirt road, which is a small mercy. If he were still human, he'd probably be bitching about have to tramp through the woods again. Not that Dean isn't bitching about it now, but he totally wouldn't be if Sam were here to do the bitching for him. Well, he is here, only not exactly, and God, how can this possibly get any more complicated? Wait, don't answer that. He shoves all thoughts of apocalypse, angels, curses, and brothers-turned-into-dogs firmly to the back of his mind, and tries to just enjoy the moment of walking in the quiet forest with Sam bounding through the trees, circling back, tail wagging, tongue lolling. He's almost disappointed when he catches sight of the ramshackle cabin perched with its back to a steep ravine, a river rushing far at the bottom. Well, no rest for the wicked, right? He leaves Sam to frolic outside, dashing away at top speed along the path by the ravine, since he's pretty sure that whoever 'George' is, he won't appreciate having some stranger and a huge dog barging in unannounced. He knocks politely at the cabin door, and nudges it open when there's no answer.
“Hello? Uh, George? Anyone home?”
“Hello, Dean. I thought you might be along soon.”
A chill runs down his spine at the familiar voice. Nick's body is looking even worse than the last time in Carthage, the skin sloughing off his hands in patches, bubbling near his hairline, but the expression is the same: that terrible look masquerading as sadness and compassion, the one that pierces right through him.
“Lucifer.”
“I'm afraid you're too late,” Lucifer gestures to the floor, where his foot is resting on the neck of an old man, the corpse frail and weak-looking. Dean's stomach roils at the sight, Lucifer's pose echoing the precise one he had when he (Sam, oh God) had broken his neck in that future that never happened. Bile rises in his throat, burning. “George and I had some unfinished business, and it just couldn't wait for you to come and question him. Sorry.”
“Yeah, I'll bet you are,” Dean almost chokes on the words.
“Little brother Castiel will doubtless be disappointed that you weren't able to speak to the wyrm-slayer, but then, he must be getting used to disappointment by now, when he spends so much time with you, Dean. You've always been a disappointment to the ones who love you most, haven't you?”
“Shut up.” Dean feels his teeth grind. “Worm-slayer?” It's like he can't help himself. Luckily, bad guys like to monologue, and Lucifer is no exception, so maybe that'll buy him some time to get out of here. It's a hell of a bad week (a hell of a bad year, possibly a hell of a bad life), and it's the second time he's been caught out without an escape plan. This time, he refuses to take full blame for it. How was he supposed to know that Cas' information would lead him right into an ambush?
“Wyrm, not worm. As in, George the dragon-slayer. You should talk to your brother about the mythology behind that. It's more his cup of tea than yours, as I understand it. He's always been the smarter —sorry, the more educated of the two of you. Tell me, are you still trying to patch things up? Or have you finally worked out that you slow him down?”
“Shut up.”
“Always with the witty comeback,” Lucifer nudges the corpse with a toe. “You know, you could always just give up, let me take Sam. My way isn't the terrible thing that the propaganda says it is. Think about it: peace on earth, no demons, no angels. Just... peace.”
“Yeah, 'cause destroying humanity is such a great goal.”
Lucifer doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he just looks at Dean with those big, sad eyes. “Where is your brother, Dean?”
Dean blinks. It hasn't occurred to him until now that there are only a handful of people who know what Gabriel has done, and that the enochian sigils are still probably etched into Sam's ribcage, dog or no. He almost laughs. Sam is right there, right under Lucifer's nose, and the evil son of a bitch doesn't even know it.
“Wouldn't you like to know?”
Lucifer raises his hand in a gesture Dean recognizes as being one of imminent smiting. He swallows, hard, looks around for an escape hatch. “It's of no consequence. Eventually, he will come to me. It's inevitable, really. In the meantime, I think I'll kill two birds with one stone. I wasn't expecting you today, but when opportunity knocks...”
Dean dives back out the door to the cabin, hits the ground rolling, scrambles to his feet and takes off at a sprint. There's a frenzy of barking behind him, the sound of crashing in the underbrush, and he feels his feet leave the ground. It's becoming a depressingly familiar feeling. He lands hard, winded, scrabbles for purchase, feels the earth give way underneath him, and suddenly he's falling, bouncing hard off the rocky surface of the ravine. His heart leaps into his throat, adrenaline surging through his veins, and he claws frantically at the few roots and outcroppings he can find, but there's no purchase and his hands come away empty and torn. There's a jolt, blinding pain radiating through his side, his vision greys out as he plummets, and by the time he hits the water he's almost grateful to lose consciousness.
He's not in the water when he awakens, although he's soaked to the skin and freezing cold. Something wet and cold nudges at his cheek, and he blinks painfully, even the pale light filtering through the canopy of trees too bright. Moving is bad, he discovers. Pain lances through him, and he can't quite bite back a groan as he tries to turn his head. There's another nudge, and a whine.
“Sam?” his voice is hoarse. “That you?”
Stupid question. Who else would it be? He's freezing, though, and everything hurts, and he doesn't think he can really move. He's not drowning in the river, though, and that's already something. He hears the dog shuffling around him, the unmistakeable sound of it shaking water out of its coat, ears popping. He almost laughs.
“Good dog, Lassie,” he mutters, then coughs, tasting copper on his tongue. Not good. “Now go get help.” The dog barks once, then takes off, and suddenly the pain is laced with panic. “No! Sam! I didn't —come back!” Don't leave me, he almost shouts, swallows the words before he they can leave his lips. Then it's back to waiting, to not-quite-panicking, because he can't move, and everything hurts, and he doesn't know what happened to Lucifer or to Sam, and the canopy is swimming drunkenly above his head. He can hear frantic barking in the distance, so at least he knows Sam is okay. The sound fades, stops, starts up again, but the edges of his vision are going dark, and it's hard to concentrate. He thinks maybe there was a good reason to stay awake, but he can't remember what it was, lets his eyes close. The barking gets louder again, and suddenly there's movement around him, voices.
“Oh my God! Are you okay? Hold on, we're going to get help, okay? Hang on!”
He tries to ask where Sam is, if Lucifer is gone, but his mouth won't move. He can't even force his eyes open. Finally he has no choice but to give up, let the darkness close in.
Part 10
no subject
Lucifer and George are kind of incidental to the story, so I didn't want to spend too much time on either one of them.
Glad you still like it!
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I toyed with the idea of keeping him around and doing something UBER COOL, because, seriously? DRAGON SLAYER.
Then I realized that it would seriously f*ck up what I'm really trying to do with this story, which is about getting Sam back in more ways than one. George would have been a total distraction and would have derailed the plot.
I am putting him on the back burner, and will probably create another AU story with him in it, just because I love the George who took up residence at the back of my mind and is developing a fantastic personality.
no subject
no subject
*headdesk*