ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-30 10:14 am
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-30 10:14 am
Entry tags:
Take Me Home —Part 18
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: 1,958 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 17
A Dean chapter, finally! I was really mean to him, and I'm sorry (a little sorry, anyway). I blame![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roque_clasique: I never entertained such terrible notions of doing bad things to Dean's legs before her.
*****
The first thing Dean is aware of when he awakens is that there's something shoved into his throat and he can't breathe. His hands clench around something soft and he chokes and coughs, gasps, feels himself arch up from where he's lying —and oh Christ that hurts— and suddenly there are hands on him, shoving against his shoulders.
“Easy, easy now! It's okay, you're okay. Relax, let us take out the ventilator tube. Just relax, honey, I got you.”
Then whatever it is is gone, and he coughs until he thinks he might puke before collapsing back onto a soft surface, eyes closed, chest heaving with the effort of breathing on his own —and since when has that ever been hard? When he opens his eyes again, there's pain. Lots of pain. The voice is back, and this time it's attached to a nurse that he thinks might be hot under different circumstances, dressed in dark blue scrubs, black hair pulled back into a neat braid.
“Take it easy, Mr. Cochran. We're just going to set you up with some of the good stuff here, and you'll feel good as new, cross my heart.”
She's as good as her word, too. A few moments later the pain recedes, and he starts feeling pretty fucking good. He opens his mouth, but it feels like someone's jammed cotton wool into his throat, and all he can do is work his mouth like a stranded fish. She notices, hushes him, spoons an ice chip into his mouth.
“Don't try to talk just yet, okay? You're a little out of practice, honey. I'm glad you're trying, though: you had us all worried for a while. I thought I might never hear the voice to go with that handsome face of yours.”
He's sucking on an ice chip like it's the most delicious beer he's ever had, but he manages a half-hearted leer and winks at her, and she laughs. She has a nice laugh. Her name tag reads 'Alison.' Good to know. He lets her feed him ice chips until it doesn't feel as though his throat is swollen shut, tries to talk again, and manages a weak “Wh—?”
“You're in the hospital. You had an accident, do you remember? Some people found you in the woods.”
“Ravine,” he manages. It's coming back in bits and snatches. At least she told him what name he's using. “Sam?”
“Who's Sam?”
But it's too hard to keep his eyes open.
The next time he awakens, he's feeling better and worse. His head isn't as fuzzy, and he's got a pretty good idea or where he is and why, but on the other hand his whole body is racked with pain, and he has no idea of the day or time. At least they've replaced the ventilator tube with one of those nasal canulas so he doesn't feel as though he's choking anymore. The room is empty, so he takes a moment to take stock, figure out what's actually hurting and what just feels like it should be hurting. Lifting his head turns out to be a mistake, but he can do it, and that's a relief. He's pretty sure he cracked or broke a bunch of ribs, and he's more than a little warm. Okay, really really hot might be closer to the truth. His right leg is screaming with pain, and while it sucks it also means that he didn't paralyse himself by getting tossed down a ravine by fucking Lucifer. He doesn't know how he got away, and that's downright unsettling.
Okay, enough with the mind-numbing pain. He rouses himself a bit more, looks around, finds a call button tied to the bed railing, and now seems like a really good time to use it. He needs to find out where Sam is, if he's okay.
It's a different nurse this time, a bit older, black, wearing a wedding ring. “Well, look who's back with us,” she says, her face crinkling into a smile. She checks his IV, fiddles with some of the machines still hooked up and beeping. “I'm guessing you're about ready for some more morphine?”
“Please God,” he rasps, feeling like his tongue has swollen to about three times its size.
Morphine is fantastic. He's forgotten since the last time he was in this much pain. The new nurse —Vanessa, according to her name tag— allows him small sips of water through a straw.
“Now that you're awake, the doctor's going to want to talk to you. You had a pretty close call, there, Mr. Cochran.”
He gives her his most winning smile, which might be a little fuzzy because of the drugs. “Mr. Cochran is my father,” and he gets a smile back.
“Dean, then.”
Oh, thank God, she took the bait. He couldn't remember what was on that particular fake I.D. He's kind of glad he doesn't have to remember a new first name. “How long have I been here?”
“A little over a week. You have some pretty extensive injuries, but the doctor thinks you'll be right as rain in no time, with a bit of therapy.”
“A week? Uh... what hospital is this?”
“Holy Cross, in Chicago. They had to airlift you for emergency surgery.”
“Chicago?” He struggles onto his elbows, ignoring the sudden stabs of pain as his body protests. “No, I can't—” but she's already pushing him back onto the bed.
“Easy, now. You're not going anywhere. Tell me what it is, and I'll see what we can do to help, all right? Is there anyone we can call? You had almost nothing with you except your driver's license and your insurance card.”
His mind is racing, barely registers her question. “Sam... did someone find him?”
“Who's Sam, sweetie?”
“My br— dog. Sam's my dog. He was with me.”
She shakes her head. “I'm sorry, honey, no one said anything about a dog.”
“He was with me,” he insists, and one of the monitors by the bed begins to beep annoyingly. “I have to know if he's okay, if someone found him.”
“I'll ask, see if anyone remembers, all right? Take some deep breaths for me, honey, you need to stay calm,” she says soothingly, rubbing his shoulder.
He's perilously close to crying, bites his lip, nods. Fucking morphine, it fucks with his head. “Thanks.”
“So is there someone we can call for you? Family? Friends?”
I just want Sam. “Uh, right.” There are depressingly few people left to call. “Uh, my uncle Bobby. I was supposed to go see him last week. He's gotta be worried.”
“Okay. I'll let the doctor fill you in, and then we'll see about getting you a phone. How does that sound?” her voice sounds faraway, as though he's underwater all of a sudden, and he nods again, feeling his eyes begin to close in spite of himself.
“'S'good. Fine. Gotta call him so he can find Sam.”
Everything is a bit of a blur after that. He remembers talking to the doctor, an older guy who kind of disapproves of him on general principle, and there's talk of fractures and surgical boots and therapy, and something about lacerations to his spleen and post-op infection and 'unexpected complications' and lots of repeating of 'extremely lucky,' which he guesses is a good thing. The doctor's words jumble together, skitter around like live insects, and he wants to tell him that, but it seems like a lot of effort to speak now. Somewhere in the middle of a lengthy explanation about long-term treatment in case of further complications he drifts back to sleep, and when he wakes up again he can see through the window that it's nearly night-time. Alison the nurse is back, and when she sees he's awake she grins and holds up the plastic beige receiver of a telephone.
“Surprise!”
“Alison, you and Vanessa deserve the biggest Christmas bonus ever.”
She rolls her eyes, amused. “I'll just give you some privacy. No calling 1-900 lines, now!”
“Am I that obvious?” he jests weakly. As if he's capable of anything more than sitting upright —even that's a challenge.
“Yes, you are.”
Three minutes later Bobby's gruff voice is on the other end of the line, and Dean is close to tears for the second fucking time that day. Fucking morphine.
“Dean! Where the hell have you been, boy? We've been worried sick!”
“We?” For a moment a wild hope that Sam is with Bobby makes his stomach lurch.
“Me 'n Cas. Where are you?”
His heart plummets. “Hospital. There was a —I dunno. An accident. Or something. A ravine... Bobby —I lost Sam. They tell me I've been here for a week, and no one knows what happened to him!”
He hears Bobby exhale loudly. “Okay, boy, calm down. First things first. How badly are you hurt?”
“I'm okay. A little banged up, but the doctor said I'll be okay. We have to find Sam, Bobby. He's all by himself and he can't take care of himself the way he is now. He was my responsibility and I don't even know where he is or if he's okay. Jesus, I've fucked this up so hard...” he puts a hand over his eyes, tries very hard not to freak out.
“For the last time, boy, calm the hell down!” Bobby's voice is stern. “Pull yourself together. Freakin' out ain't gonna help Sam. What hospital are you at?”
“Chicago. Holy Cross.”
“Jesus, boy. Could you try for somewhere further?”
“Sure, Bobby. Next time Lucifer tries to kill me I'll ask him to do it somewhere more convenient for you,” he snaps, his patience worn thin.
“Lucifer? Hell, boy, why does everything with you have to be so goddamned complicated? Why didn't you say something to start with?”
“I thought I did, okay?” Dean's head is throbbing, and right now he's not a hundred percent sure he's not going to puke. He doesn't realize he's missed whatever Bobby's saying until he hears his name again.
“Dean?”
“What?”
“Thought I lost you for a minute. You sure you're okay?”
“I'm awesome.”
There's a grunt of annoyance. “Why don't you tell me what you mean by 'a little banged up' then?”
“I dunno exactly,” he lets himself lie back on the bed, eyes closed against the light. “It's kind of fuzzy. Leg's all fucked up, and they said something about surgery and complications and shit, but I was kind of out of it and I don't remember. I think I hit my head when I fell. I dunno. I think I fucked myself up pretty good, Bobby,” he adds, maybe unnecessarily.
“Jesus, boy,” Dean can almost hear Bobby rubbing his head under his baseball cap. “All right, you hang tight. We'll figure something out. Get you out of that hospital before they figure out your insurance is crap, and try and find out what happened to Sam.”
“Okay... okay Bobby,” he's too tired to think straight, can't pull his words together anymore. His hand is shaking from holding up the phone. Bobby's voice is suddenly gentle, soothing.
“You just stay put, son. We'll handle it. You get some sleep, hear me?”
“Yeah. 'kay. You'll find him, right?”
He doesn't remember hanging up the phone, just fades into darkness.
*****
Part 19
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: 1,958 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 17
A Dean chapter, finally! I was really mean to him, and I'm sorry (a little sorry, anyway). I blame
roque_clasique: I never entertained such terrible notions of doing bad things to Dean's legs before her. The first thing Dean is aware of when he awakens is that there's something shoved into his throat and he can't breathe. His hands clench around something soft and he chokes and coughs, gasps, feels himself arch up from where he's lying —and oh Christ that hurts— and suddenly there are hands on him, shoving against his shoulders.
“Easy, easy now! It's okay, you're okay. Relax, let us take out the ventilator tube. Just relax, honey, I got you.”
Then whatever it is is gone, and he coughs until he thinks he might puke before collapsing back onto a soft surface, eyes closed, chest heaving with the effort of breathing on his own —and since when has that ever been hard? When he opens his eyes again, there's pain. Lots of pain. The voice is back, and this time it's attached to a nurse that he thinks might be hot under different circumstances, dressed in dark blue scrubs, black hair pulled back into a neat braid.
“Take it easy, Mr. Cochran. We're just going to set you up with some of the good stuff here, and you'll feel good as new, cross my heart.”
She's as good as her word, too. A few moments later the pain recedes, and he starts feeling pretty fucking good. He opens his mouth, but it feels like someone's jammed cotton wool into his throat, and all he can do is work his mouth like a stranded fish. She notices, hushes him, spoons an ice chip into his mouth.
“Don't try to talk just yet, okay? You're a little out of practice, honey. I'm glad you're trying, though: you had us all worried for a while. I thought I might never hear the voice to go with that handsome face of yours.”
He's sucking on an ice chip like it's the most delicious beer he's ever had, but he manages a half-hearted leer and winks at her, and she laughs. She has a nice laugh. Her name tag reads 'Alison.' Good to know. He lets her feed him ice chips until it doesn't feel as though his throat is swollen shut, tries to talk again, and manages a weak “Wh—?”
“You're in the hospital. You had an accident, do you remember? Some people found you in the woods.”
“Ravine,” he manages. It's coming back in bits and snatches. At least she told him what name he's using. “Sam?”
“Who's Sam?”
But it's too hard to keep his eyes open.
The next time he awakens, he's feeling better and worse. His head isn't as fuzzy, and he's got a pretty good idea or where he is and why, but on the other hand his whole body is racked with pain, and he has no idea of the day or time. At least they've replaced the ventilator tube with one of those nasal canulas so he doesn't feel as though he's choking anymore. The room is empty, so he takes a moment to take stock, figure out what's actually hurting and what just feels like it should be hurting. Lifting his head turns out to be a mistake, but he can do it, and that's a relief. He's pretty sure he cracked or broke a bunch of ribs, and he's more than a little warm. Okay, really really hot might be closer to the truth. His right leg is screaming with pain, and while it sucks it also means that he didn't paralyse himself by getting tossed down a ravine by fucking Lucifer. He doesn't know how he got away, and that's downright unsettling.
Okay, enough with the mind-numbing pain. He rouses himself a bit more, looks around, finds a call button tied to the bed railing, and now seems like a really good time to use it. He needs to find out where Sam is, if he's okay.
It's a different nurse this time, a bit older, black, wearing a wedding ring. “Well, look who's back with us,” she says, her face crinkling into a smile. She checks his IV, fiddles with some of the machines still hooked up and beeping. “I'm guessing you're about ready for some more morphine?”
“Please God,” he rasps, feeling like his tongue has swollen to about three times its size.
Morphine is fantastic. He's forgotten since the last time he was in this much pain. The new nurse —Vanessa, according to her name tag— allows him small sips of water through a straw.
“Now that you're awake, the doctor's going to want to talk to you. You had a pretty close call, there, Mr. Cochran.”
He gives her his most winning smile, which might be a little fuzzy because of the drugs. “Mr. Cochran is my father,” and he gets a smile back.
“Dean, then.”
Oh, thank God, she took the bait. He couldn't remember what was on that particular fake I.D. He's kind of glad he doesn't have to remember a new first name. “How long have I been here?”
“A little over a week. You have some pretty extensive injuries, but the doctor thinks you'll be right as rain in no time, with a bit of therapy.”
“A week? Uh... what hospital is this?”
“Holy Cross, in Chicago. They had to airlift you for emergency surgery.”
“Chicago?” He struggles onto his elbows, ignoring the sudden stabs of pain as his body protests. “No, I can't—” but she's already pushing him back onto the bed.
“Easy, now. You're not going anywhere. Tell me what it is, and I'll see what we can do to help, all right? Is there anyone we can call? You had almost nothing with you except your driver's license and your insurance card.”
His mind is racing, barely registers her question. “Sam... did someone find him?”
“Who's Sam, sweetie?”
“My br— dog. Sam's my dog. He was with me.”
She shakes her head. “I'm sorry, honey, no one said anything about a dog.”
“He was with me,” he insists, and one of the monitors by the bed begins to beep annoyingly. “I have to know if he's okay, if someone found him.”
“I'll ask, see if anyone remembers, all right? Take some deep breaths for me, honey, you need to stay calm,” she says soothingly, rubbing his shoulder.
He's perilously close to crying, bites his lip, nods. Fucking morphine, it fucks with his head. “Thanks.”
“So is there someone we can call for you? Family? Friends?”
I just want Sam. “Uh, right.” There are depressingly few people left to call. “Uh, my uncle Bobby. I was supposed to go see him last week. He's gotta be worried.”
“Okay. I'll let the doctor fill you in, and then we'll see about getting you a phone. How does that sound?” her voice sounds faraway, as though he's underwater all of a sudden, and he nods again, feeling his eyes begin to close in spite of himself.
“'S'good. Fine. Gotta call him so he can find Sam.”
Everything is a bit of a blur after that. He remembers talking to the doctor, an older guy who kind of disapproves of him on general principle, and there's talk of fractures and surgical boots and therapy, and something about lacerations to his spleen and post-op infection and 'unexpected complications' and lots of repeating of 'extremely lucky,' which he guesses is a good thing. The doctor's words jumble together, skitter around like live insects, and he wants to tell him that, but it seems like a lot of effort to speak now. Somewhere in the middle of a lengthy explanation about long-term treatment in case of further complications he drifts back to sleep, and when he wakes up again he can see through the window that it's nearly night-time. Alison the nurse is back, and when she sees he's awake she grins and holds up the plastic beige receiver of a telephone.
“Surprise!”
“Alison, you and Vanessa deserve the biggest Christmas bonus ever.”
She rolls her eyes, amused. “I'll just give you some privacy. No calling 1-900 lines, now!”
“Am I that obvious?” he jests weakly. As if he's capable of anything more than sitting upright —even that's a challenge.
“Yes, you are.”
Three minutes later Bobby's gruff voice is on the other end of the line, and Dean is close to tears for the second fucking time that day. Fucking morphine.
“Dean! Where the hell have you been, boy? We've been worried sick!”
“We?” For a moment a wild hope that Sam is with Bobby makes his stomach lurch.
“Me 'n Cas. Where are you?”
His heart plummets. “Hospital. There was a —I dunno. An accident. Or something. A ravine... Bobby —I lost Sam. They tell me I've been here for a week, and no one knows what happened to him!”
He hears Bobby exhale loudly. “Okay, boy, calm down. First things first. How badly are you hurt?”
“I'm okay. A little banged up, but the doctor said I'll be okay. We have to find Sam, Bobby. He's all by himself and he can't take care of himself the way he is now. He was my responsibility and I don't even know where he is or if he's okay. Jesus, I've fucked this up so hard...” he puts a hand over his eyes, tries very hard not to freak out.
“For the last time, boy, calm the hell down!” Bobby's voice is stern. “Pull yourself together. Freakin' out ain't gonna help Sam. What hospital are you at?”
“Chicago. Holy Cross.”
“Jesus, boy. Could you try for somewhere further?”
“Sure, Bobby. Next time Lucifer tries to kill me I'll ask him to do it somewhere more convenient for you,” he snaps, his patience worn thin.
“Lucifer? Hell, boy, why does everything with you have to be so goddamned complicated? Why didn't you say something to start with?”
“I thought I did, okay?” Dean's head is throbbing, and right now he's not a hundred percent sure he's not going to puke. He doesn't realize he's missed whatever Bobby's saying until he hears his name again.
“Dean?”
“What?”
“Thought I lost you for a minute. You sure you're okay?”
“I'm awesome.”
There's a grunt of annoyance. “Why don't you tell me what you mean by 'a little banged up' then?”
“I dunno exactly,” he lets himself lie back on the bed, eyes closed against the light. “It's kind of fuzzy. Leg's all fucked up, and they said something about surgery and complications and shit, but I was kind of out of it and I don't remember. I think I hit my head when I fell. I dunno. I think I fucked myself up pretty good, Bobby,” he adds, maybe unnecessarily.
“Jesus, boy,” Dean can almost hear Bobby rubbing his head under his baseball cap. “All right, you hang tight. We'll figure something out. Get you out of that hospital before they figure out your insurance is crap, and try and find out what happened to Sam.”
“Okay... okay Bobby,” he's too tired to think straight, can't pull his words together anymore. His hand is shaking from holding up the phone. Bobby's voice is suddenly gentle, soothing.
“You just stay put, son. We'll handle it. You get some sleep, hear me?”
“Yeah. 'kay. You'll find him, right?”
He doesn't remember hanging up the phone, just fades into darkness.
Part 19
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I know what you mean, but really, how could I *not* torture Dean? He does hurt so well...
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I was really, really mean to Dean. I feel a bit bad. ;)
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Y'know, I completely forgot about that aspect of things. We'll just hand-wave that little difficulty aside, shall we? ;)
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I was pretty horrible to Dean, but he just hurts so purty, how could I not? ;)
I'm glad you enjoyed it.
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Oh Dean!!
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Sam is indeed not sitting somewhere waiting to be found. It's going to make finding him a tricky proposition indeed.
Re: забавапано
I am afraid I don't speak or read Russian (I'm assuming that's what that language is. Looks like Cyrillic, anyway).
The online translator thingie is next to useless, I'm sorry to say.
Thank you for commenting, though!