ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-25 08:54 am
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-25 08:54 am
Entry tags:
Take Me Home —Part 13
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: 1,513 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 12
*****
Sam has learned his lesson: stay away from humans. Humans have guns —rifle-bullets-pain—, don't take kindly to stray dogs, and Sam quickly realizes that that's what he is, a stray dog. He keeps to the back roads, some part of him thinking that it might be more dangerous to try to cut through fields and forests, at least until he's learned how to fend for himself better. Bits and pieces of memory keep coming back to him, snatches of lore, names, knowledge, and it's confusing and throws him off-balance, because he forgets how to be a dog in those moments, forgets how to just be. All his instincts disappear, and he makes mistakes. The fact that he knows they're mistakes tells him that something, everything is wrong. Wrong-bad-confusing.
By the end of the second day he's still limping badly, his head all swimmy with thoughts that don't belong. He's hungry, unable to so much as knock over a garbage can for food, but he keeps driving forward, heading toward the setting sun. Sometimes he stops to read sign posts, but it makes his head hurt in a way that he doesn't think is exactly normal, and the words kind of move, as though they're trying to get away from him. He wedges himself under some bushes to sleep, but things keep turning over and over in his head: Dean and demons and —Lucifer— and blood and demons and he's lost and Dean is gone, and everything is a confusing jumble of images and words and things that don't belong in his mind. The world lurches from side to side, and it gets worse when he tries to put it into complete sentences, to make thoughts come out of all the images and scents and feelings. There's a tug-of-war happening inside him, between the part of his mind that thinks, that remembers words, that wants him to be able to remember how to read signs, and the part of his mind that smells and feels and just is. He buries his muzzle in his paws, wishes really really hard that things weren't so mixed up, lets out a strangled whine.
Then he takes all the terrible, confusing, horrible thoughts, and crushes them, forces them back into that part of his mind that was sleeping and that's been trying to wake up, understanding finally that if he's going to make it through all this, then he can't let the Other-Sam take control. Right now he's just Sam, he belongs to Dean, and he has to go home to Dean, and he won't be able to get home if that Other-Sam wakes up and starts up with the confusing thoughts again. He closes his eyes, sighs, and goes to sleep, knowing that he's going to wake up with everything back the way it's supposed to be.
He has no memory of Other-Sam when he awakens. The sun is creeping over the horizon, and there's dew on his coat, sharp and tangy and cold. He gets to his feet, stretches, shakes out his coat, sneezes. Dean. The feeling comes back, sharp and almost tangible, and so he sets out along the road again at a trot, favouring his right side where the bullet creased him, but with renewed purpose and vigour. Home is to the west, and so all he has to do is go the same way as the sun is going, and he'll get there. It isn't as though he has a choice in the matter. Home-Dean-home-Dean-home-Dean is driving him forward, and when he allows other thoughts to drift into his mind, he can hear Dean's voice, clear as a bell:
“Country roooooads, take me hooooome, to the place I beloooooong!”
He wags his tail unconsciously at the thought, his heart already lighter than it was. He's still hungry, is getting hungrier with every passing mile, and when the sun is shining directly above his head he finds it impossible to ignore the pangs in his stomach anymore. Going to another farm is too risky: there are dogs and guns and his paws are sore, and he doesn't think he can outrun any danger that presents itself. He risks sneaking into the next town rather than circling around it the way he has been for two days, follows the scent of decomposing food until he finds a neighbourhood full of small houses, their garbage cans unsecured and easy to tip over. He manages to get into the first one without being detected, finds the remains of ground meat and sausages and a bunch of soggy vegetables and pasta. The second can falls over with a deafening clatter, and the next thing he knows there's more shouting, and he takes to his heels without waiting to see what might be coming after him.
Sam lopes along the streets, ducks into alleyways whenever it seems that people are paying too much attention to him. He can recognize the signs: they stop and point, sometimes they try calling to him, their voices pitched high: “Here doggy! Here puppy!” He's learned his lesson, though: go near enough to humans, he gets caught. Other humans are not-Dean-danger-bad. If he gets caught, then he can't get back home to Dean.
He makes an effort to avoid all the places where he can smell other dogs. These aren't farms, and sometimes the dogs are puny little things that he could easily take in a fight, but he doesn't want to risk bringing more humans down on his head, and that's exactly what will happen if they start barking. He avoids the places where he can smell cats, too, on general principle. He hates cats. Possibly more than squirrels.
He finds more unattended garbage cans on the outskirts of town, although he has to jump over a low-slung fence to get to them. Wary at first of attracting attention from the house, he creeps along the edge of a back yard, knocks over the two cans and rummages through them, tearing at the plastic bags. The scent of food fills his nostrils then, and he throws caution to the wind, strewing the contents over the freshly-mowed lawn in his haste to get to the food inside. Wrappers flap in the breeze, and small bits of debris roll through the grass, land among the flower beds. There's a large half-finished steak in one of the bags, and he gorges happily on it, gnawing on the t-bone until there's not so much as a scrap of gristle left on it, and the bone is stripped bare and dull from his teeth. He makes short work of the bread crusts, the mushy fruits and vegetables, and leftover milk and cereal, and by the time he's done his belly is distended to the point of discomfort.
“Hey! Get out of the garbage, filthy animal!”
A woman in a dress with a flower pattern on it comes rushing through the door of the nearest house, wielding a broom. Sam is on his feet a moment later, but the food has made him sluggish, and the bristles of the broom connect solidly with his backside, once, then twice. She's strong, for such a small-looking human. He yelps, scrambles away as the broom comes whistling at his head again, scampers down the street with the woman's curses ringing in his ears, tail between his legs. As he runs, he thinks he can hear the sound of a man guffawing, but he doesn't look back, just keeps his head down and runs as fast as he can.
After that Sam decides that towns are off-limits unless he's desperate. Farm humans might have guns, but town humans are just as untrustworthy. At least his belly is full, and it's easier to cover ground when he's not hungry. He keeps trotting, able to maintain the pace better than a full-out run, eventually comes to a fork in the road that doesn't take him anywhere he wants to go. He stops, whines, looks one way and then the other, but he wants to head west and none of the roads lead west. There's no two ways about it: he has to leave the roads.
Once the decision is made it's easy to go with it. There's no room in Sam's new world for hesitation, for second-guessing —it doesn't even occur to him. He heads straight forward across the T-junction, squeezes under the barrier fence and trots through a cornfield, the dried husks rustling around his ears and catching at his coat. Crows rise up above the dead and dying plants as he goes, cawing indignantly at the disturbance, wheeling in the grey sky above him, their wings outlined starkly against the clouds. It starts to rain as he reaches the end of the field and finds himself on the edge of a forest, the trees still young and spindly, spread out sparsely this close to civilization. He shakes his head to rid his ears of the water, head down, and ducks into the woods.
*****
Part 14
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: 1,513 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 12
Sam has learned his lesson: stay away from humans. Humans have guns —rifle-bullets-pain—, don't take kindly to stray dogs, and Sam quickly realizes that that's what he is, a stray dog. He keeps to the back roads, some part of him thinking that it might be more dangerous to try to cut through fields and forests, at least until he's learned how to fend for himself better. Bits and pieces of memory keep coming back to him, snatches of lore, names, knowledge, and it's confusing and throws him off-balance, because he forgets how to be a dog in those moments, forgets how to just be. All his instincts disappear, and he makes mistakes. The fact that he knows they're mistakes tells him that something, everything is wrong. Wrong-bad-confusing.
By the end of the second day he's still limping badly, his head all swimmy with thoughts that don't belong. He's hungry, unable to so much as knock over a garbage can for food, but he keeps driving forward, heading toward the setting sun. Sometimes he stops to read sign posts, but it makes his head hurt in a way that he doesn't think is exactly normal, and the words kind of move, as though they're trying to get away from him. He wedges himself under some bushes to sleep, but things keep turning over and over in his head: Dean and demons and —Lucifer— and blood and demons and he's lost and Dean is gone, and everything is a confusing jumble of images and words and things that don't belong in his mind. The world lurches from side to side, and it gets worse when he tries to put it into complete sentences, to make thoughts come out of all the images and scents and feelings. There's a tug-of-war happening inside him, between the part of his mind that thinks, that remembers words, that wants him to be able to remember how to read signs, and the part of his mind that smells and feels and just is. He buries his muzzle in his paws, wishes really really hard that things weren't so mixed up, lets out a strangled whine.
Then he takes all the terrible, confusing, horrible thoughts, and crushes them, forces them back into that part of his mind that was sleeping and that's been trying to wake up, understanding finally that if he's going to make it through all this, then he can't let the Other-Sam take control. Right now he's just Sam, he belongs to Dean, and he has to go home to Dean, and he won't be able to get home if that Other-Sam wakes up and starts up with the confusing thoughts again. He closes his eyes, sighs, and goes to sleep, knowing that he's going to wake up with everything back the way it's supposed to be.
He has no memory of Other-Sam when he awakens. The sun is creeping over the horizon, and there's dew on his coat, sharp and tangy and cold. He gets to his feet, stretches, shakes out his coat, sneezes. Dean. The feeling comes back, sharp and almost tangible, and so he sets out along the road again at a trot, favouring his right side where the bullet creased him, but with renewed purpose and vigour. Home is to the west, and so all he has to do is go the same way as the sun is going, and he'll get there. It isn't as though he has a choice in the matter. Home-Dean-home-Dean-home-Dean is driving him forward, and when he allows other thoughts to drift into his mind, he can hear Dean's voice, clear as a bell:
“Country roooooads, take me hooooome, to the place I beloooooong!”
He wags his tail unconsciously at the thought, his heart already lighter than it was. He's still hungry, is getting hungrier with every passing mile, and when the sun is shining directly above his head he finds it impossible to ignore the pangs in his stomach anymore. Going to another farm is too risky: there are dogs and guns and his paws are sore, and he doesn't think he can outrun any danger that presents itself. He risks sneaking into the next town rather than circling around it the way he has been for two days, follows the scent of decomposing food until he finds a neighbourhood full of small houses, their garbage cans unsecured and easy to tip over. He manages to get into the first one without being detected, finds the remains of ground meat and sausages and a bunch of soggy vegetables and pasta. The second can falls over with a deafening clatter, and the next thing he knows there's more shouting, and he takes to his heels without waiting to see what might be coming after him.
Sam lopes along the streets, ducks into alleyways whenever it seems that people are paying too much attention to him. He can recognize the signs: they stop and point, sometimes they try calling to him, their voices pitched high: “Here doggy! Here puppy!” He's learned his lesson, though: go near enough to humans, he gets caught. Other humans are not-Dean-danger-bad. If he gets caught, then he can't get back home to Dean.
He makes an effort to avoid all the places where he can smell other dogs. These aren't farms, and sometimes the dogs are puny little things that he could easily take in a fight, but he doesn't want to risk bringing more humans down on his head, and that's exactly what will happen if they start barking. He avoids the places where he can smell cats, too, on general principle. He hates cats. Possibly more than squirrels.
He finds more unattended garbage cans on the outskirts of town, although he has to jump over a low-slung fence to get to them. Wary at first of attracting attention from the house, he creeps along the edge of a back yard, knocks over the two cans and rummages through them, tearing at the plastic bags. The scent of food fills his nostrils then, and he throws caution to the wind, strewing the contents over the freshly-mowed lawn in his haste to get to the food inside. Wrappers flap in the breeze, and small bits of debris roll through the grass, land among the flower beds. There's a large half-finished steak in one of the bags, and he gorges happily on it, gnawing on the t-bone until there's not so much as a scrap of gristle left on it, and the bone is stripped bare and dull from his teeth. He makes short work of the bread crusts, the mushy fruits and vegetables, and leftover milk and cereal, and by the time he's done his belly is distended to the point of discomfort.
“Hey! Get out of the garbage, filthy animal!”
A woman in a dress with a flower pattern on it comes rushing through the door of the nearest house, wielding a broom. Sam is on his feet a moment later, but the food has made him sluggish, and the bristles of the broom connect solidly with his backside, once, then twice. She's strong, for such a small-looking human. He yelps, scrambles away as the broom comes whistling at his head again, scampers down the street with the woman's curses ringing in his ears, tail between his legs. As he runs, he thinks he can hear the sound of a man guffawing, but he doesn't look back, just keeps his head down and runs as fast as he can.
After that Sam decides that towns are off-limits unless he's desperate. Farm humans might have guns, but town humans are just as untrustworthy. At least his belly is full, and it's easier to cover ground when he's not hungry. He keeps trotting, able to maintain the pace better than a full-out run, eventually comes to a fork in the road that doesn't take him anywhere he wants to go. He stops, whines, looks one way and then the other, but he wants to head west and none of the roads lead west. There's no two ways about it: he has to leave the roads.
Once the decision is made it's easy to go with it. There's no room in Sam's new world for hesitation, for second-guessing —it doesn't even occur to him. He heads straight forward across the T-junction, squeezes under the barrier fence and trots through a cornfield, the dried husks rustling around his ears and catching at his coat. Crows rise up above the dead and dying plants as he goes, cawing indignantly at the disturbance, wheeling in the grey sky above him, their wings outlined starkly against the clouds. It starts to rain as he reaches the end of the field and finds himself on the edge of a forest, the trees still young and spindly, spread out sparsely this close to civilization. He shakes his head to rid his ears of the water, head down, and ducks into the woods.
Part 14
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You're makin' me all warm and fuzzy. :)
(Dean is just so easy to abuse. He hurts so purty. It's his own fault, really. ;) )
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Looking forward to it! :D
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"The APOCALYPSE!"
BWAH!
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Now I have to go look it up. :P
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You WANT to write this, you do, you do!
*wheedles and begs and pleads*