ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-02-09 06:58 am
ratherastory) wrote2010-02-09 06:58 am
Entry tags:
Take Me Home —Part 28
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: 2,264 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 27
This is the first of the two chapters with which I've been having trouble. If there are broken sentences and paragraphs that don't make sense, that's why. Feel free to let me know if stuff is broken: I've gutted and re-written these bits so often that I can't see straight anymore. :P
Also, there is shameless, shameless schmoop in this part. SHAMELESS. I regret nothing.
*****
Angelic favours come with lots of caveats and fine print and more strings attached than a kite-flying competition. Not that this comes as a surprise to Dean, but he finds that he'd still been holding out hope that when (if) he got Sam back, he was going to get him back healthy and in one piece. Instead, Sam is in exactly the same condition as he was yesterday: starving, injured and sick. Fucking douchebag angels. He braces himself against the sink, fighting to get his breathing back to normal, eyes squeezed shut. Once he's ducked his head under the cold water faucet for as long as it takes to get himself together, he shakes his head to get rid of the water, and swallows more Tylenol than any sane doctor would ever recommend, wishing he had a shot of whisky to wash it down, just for the hell of it. He heads back to Sam's side with a glass of water and the bottle of pills. He can totally do this. No sweat. Sam's eyes have slipped shut again, but they open almost immediately when he feels the bed shift under Dean's weight.
“Dean?” he asks again, a little uncertainly, as though he thinks he might just be imagining everything. His voice is hoarse, more from disuse than illness, Dean thinks. “'s it you?”
“Yeah, it's me. I'm right here, don't worry. I brought water. Think you can manage some?”
Sam nods, looking dazed. He struggles up to rest on his elbows, then closes his eyes as though even that took a colossal effort, and leans back against the headboard. He's so damned thin, Dean keeps thinking. Emaciated, even. He holds the glass for Sam when he makes no move to take it, presses a couple of the small pills against his lips.
“Okay, small sips. Easy does it.” Sam manages the pills and about half the glass before he chokes on it, coughing. He slumps down again, exhausted, a sheen of sweat covering his face and chest. “You with me, Sammy?”
“Dean.”
Dean chews on his lip, doesn't know what to make of that. “Do you remember anything?”
His brother shakes his head, as though the question is confusing. His throat works for a moment, lips parted. “Black Dog.” He coughs, twists his head away when Dean tries to get him to drink more water.
“Do you remember being a dog?”
Sam gives him a puzzled look, as though he can't quite make sense of what he's just said. “Car.”
“What?”
Sam gets a frustrated look on his face, closes his eyes, looking as though he's trying to concentrate on something. He opens his eyes again, stares at Dean in a way that's thoroughly unnerving. “Hard to think,” he says finally, and Dean fees his stomach twist. He pats Sam's arm, puts a reassuring smile on his face, even while there's a shrill voice shrieking inside his head that this is bad-bad-bad.
“Okay, don't worry about it, Sammy. It'll get better. We'll fix this.” He reaches out, hesitates, his hand hovering inches away from Sam. He's not sure if he should touch him anymore, whether this Sam wants to have anything to do with him, although the more rational part of his mind tells him that he's probably safe, that Sammy nearly killed himself trying to come back to him, after all. Still, he's nervous, can't quite bring himself to believe that things might suddenly be different, might suddenly be better after everything that's happened. When he tries to pull back, though, Sam reaches out and closes his large fingers around Dean's hand, keeps staring at him as though he's worried he'll somehow disappear. Dean can feel the rough edges of scars and half-healed cuts on the palm of Sam's hand. His fingernails are shredded at the tips, his fingers scraped bloody and scabbed over.
“Don't go.”
He chews on his lip, thinks he might burst from all the words that are trying to pour out of him all once. He squeezes Sam's hand carefully. “Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. You look like crap, dude. How you feeling?”
A confused blink. “Hurts.” Sam draws a painful-sounding breath. “Dying?”
He reaches out with his free hand, doesn't care about what it might look like anymore, smooths Sam's damp hair away from his forehead. “No,” he says fiercely. “Don't you believe that for a second. No one's dying, you hear me? We're going to fix this, okay?”
“'kay.” Sam actually seems amused, and Dean scrubs at his face with one hand, trying to get his pulse to go back to normal. “Hurts.”
“Yeah, I'll bet. You got yourself pretty beat up there. Did you really walk all that way?”
Sam coughs, nods once. “Home.” Dean feels an incredulous smile spread over his face.
“Holy shit, Sammy,” he breathes. “And I thought you were stubborn when you were human. Hey, hey!” he shakes his brother as his eyes slip shut again. “Stay with me, okay?”
Another nod. “Home,” Sam repeats, but doesn't open his eyes. He's still sweating, shivering now, and Dean can practically see his fever rising.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “Let me check you out, okay Sammy? I want to see what's going on with you now you're back to being you again.” He pulls aside the blankets, ignoring Sam's muted whimper of protest at the cold air, and starts methodically checking him over for injuries. This is familiar territory, at least. He might not know what to do with an injured dog, but he's far too well-versed in fixing up his little brother when he gets hurt.
He finds nothing different than what the vet said of Sam while he was still a dog: broken ribs, a broken leg that looks like it was set and then didn't quite heal properly (they'll have matching limps for the rest of the apocalypse, he thinks wryly, and isn't that a peach?), more contusions and lacerations than he can count —his chest and stomach are mottled black and blue and purple. He's not exactly an expert on malnutrition, but the vet said Sam was starved, and he's inclined to believe her. He thinks he wouldn't have to try too hard to be able to see all of Sam's bones beneath the skin. He doesn't know how to diagnose pneumonia, but from the sound of Sam's laboured breathing he doesn't see any reason to disbelieve the vet on that score either. He wonders briefly if there's any real difference between the antibiotics she prescribed and the kind they give to humans. He's completely out of his depth, but it's not as though he can just check Sam into a hospital —not without running some serious risks, especially after his own little escapade in Chicago. He chews on his lip, watches Sam anxiously for a moment, then shakes him a bit by the shoulder.
“Sam... you're in pretty bad shape, dude. You want me to take you to a hospital? Get you checked out?”
“No,” Sam rasps, and shakes his head. “Wanna stay...”
“You sure? We can figure something out about the whole ID thing. We always do.”
“No,” the tone is insistent. “Home.” He curls up on his side, coughing in a way that makes Dean's chest constrict. “Stay here.” Dean isn't sure whether to be relieved or terrified, but he nods.
“Get some sleep, Sammy. I'll be back. I'm going to go find Bobby, let him know you're you again, otherwise he'll kick my ass, wheelchair or no,” he grins, aiming for a light-hearted tone, but Sam's eyes fly open at that, panic registering on his face.
“Don't leave,” he breathes, reaching out with one hand and trying to sit up again. “Please, Dean.”
“Okay, okay, no one's leaving,” he shifts closer on the edge of the bed, pulls the blankets up protectively, rubs Sam's arm soothingly. “It's okay. Take it easy. I'm not going anywhere.”
He blows out his cheeks, scrubs at his forehead with the back of his wrist, trying not to let Sam's panic infect him as well. After well over a year of having his brother push him away at every opportunity, he's almost forgotten how to deal with Sam wanting him near, which is strange because his brother was a clingy kid growing up, always hanging onto his hand or his arm or his hip. He can't quite remember when that started to change. Sam's eyes close again, although he's clearly fighting to stay awake in spite of the exhaustion, and Dean feels the mild flutter of panic start up again in his chest.
“Sam. Sam, talk to me. You're freaking me out a bit.” He grabs hold of Sam's knee, shakes it a bit.
“'s hard...” Sam turns aside to cough against the back of his wrist, and Dean winces, watching his ribs move under his skin.
“What's hard?”
Sam's face scrunches in concentration. “Talking. Can't... they're all mixed up.” He sounds out of breath.
“Mixed up?”
“Thoughts. Me and Other-Sam. All mixed up.”
Dean bites his lip, isn't sure what to make of that. “We'll have to give it time, maybe,” he offers, finally. “You spent a long time as a dog. D'you remember that?”
“Sort of. Gabriel... remember him.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah. What is it with us and archangels using us for kicks?”
“Douchebag,” Sam agrees tiredly, and Dean surprises himself by tossing his head back and laughing.
“You said it, Sammy... What?” Sam is staring at him again, fever-bright eyes boring through him as though he's trying to see right down into Dean's core. He smiles uncertainly, feeling himself flush much to his annoyance. “A little intense, there, dude. You're going to make me all self-conscious, and you know I hate that.”
It's an obvious effort for his brother to string words together, and it makes his stomach clench a little to see it. Words have always been Sam's tool, much more than Dean's. “You look... sick. You okay?” It's two complete sentences, though, and that's something.
“I'm fine, dude.”
Sam shakes his head again. “Not fine.”
He shrugs, embarrassed. “Yeah, okay, I'm not a hundred percent. Got kind of banged up last time we were together. Do you remember that?”
“I think... ravine?”
Dean nods, relieved. “Yeah, that's right. It was Lucifer, do you remember that?”
“No, I...” a look of understanding flits across Sam's features. “I smelled him. The Other-Sam did. The dog,” he clenches his hand around a fistful of the sheet, obviously frustrated at not being able to express himself more clearly. “Didn't know what it was. He hurt you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, he did. But you saved me. Do you remember? You pulled me out of the water. That's how we got into this whole mess —how I lost you.”
“Lost,” Sam says, and it sounds like a sigh. “I remember.” Guilt coils in Dean's stomach.
“I'm sorry, man. I didn't know what we were getting into, and I nearly got you killed. I'm sorry, I should have checked it out first, should have been more careful—” he starts, but Sam puts out a hand, wraps it carefully around his wrist.
“Found you,” he says, and smiles. It's the bright, sunny smile that Dean knows, that he remembers: the one reserved for the day Sam first rode a bike without training wheels, for when he got straight As on his report cards, for the first time he pulled Dean aside and sheepishly admitted that he had a crush on Molly Ballantine and needed advice on how to ask her out. It's a smile Dean hasn't seen in years, and he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry now. He settles for smiling back.
“Yeah, you did.”
Sam's grip tightens a bit on his wrist, and he gives an insistent tug, so Dean leans forward, trying to catch whatever it is Sam is trying to say to him.
“What? What is it?”
Sam doesn't answer, but brings up his other hand to lay it on Dean's chest, as though reassuring himself that he's real, that he's really there. He lets his hand travel up, over Dean's shoulders, then his face, tangles his fingers in his hair, and Dean laughs uncertainly and pulls back a bit.
“Okay, getting a bit handsy there, Francis. It's okay, I'm not going anywhere.”
Another tug, and as weak as Sam is he manages to catch him off-balance and topples him onto the bed, pulls him into his arms.
“Hey!” Dean twists a bit, then gives up and lets Sam hold onto him. He tells himself that Sam needs the reassurance, that he's been through a hell of a trauma, and if hanging onto his big brother like a stuffed toy will make him feel better, then that's fine. It's totally not because it feels nice to be wrapped up in Sam's arms —safe and warm, even if Sam is weak as a day-old kitten— totally not because he needs the reassurance just as much as Sam, because he hasn't felt this safe in over three years. That's ridiculous, and anyone who suggests it is going to get their ass kicked. Luckily, there's no one around. He shifts a bit until he's comfortable, shoots Sam a fond look. “You're such a girl.”
Sam keeps smiling, rests his forehead against Dean's shoulder. “Don't care. Missed you.”
His throat tightens unexpectedly. “Yeah. Me too.”
*****
Part 29
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: 2,264 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 27
This is the first of the two chapters with which I've been having trouble. If there are broken sentences and paragraphs that don't make sense, that's why. Feel free to let me know if stuff is broken: I've gutted and re-written these bits so often that I can't see straight anymore. :P
Also, there is shameless, shameless schmoop in this part. SHAMELESS. I regret nothing.
Angelic favours come with lots of caveats and fine print and more strings attached than a kite-flying competition. Not that this comes as a surprise to Dean, but he finds that he'd still been holding out hope that when (if) he got Sam back, he was going to get him back healthy and in one piece. Instead, Sam is in exactly the same condition as he was yesterday: starving, injured and sick. Fucking douchebag angels. He braces himself against the sink, fighting to get his breathing back to normal, eyes squeezed shut. Once he's ducked his head under the cold water faucet for as long as it takes to get himself together, he shakes his head to get rid of the water, and swallows more Tylenol than any sane doctor would ever recommend, wishing he had a shot of whisky to wash it down, just for the hell of it. He heads back to Sam's side with a glass of water and the bottle of pills. He can totally do this. No sweat. Sam's eyes have slipped shut again, but they open almost immediately when he feels the bed shift under Dean's weight.
“Dean?” he asks again, a little uncertainly, as though he thinks he might just be imagining everything. His voice is hoarse, more from disuse than illness, Dean thinks. “'s it you?”
“Yeah, it's me. I'm right here, don't worry. I brought water. Think you can manage some?”
Sam nods, looking dazed. He struggles up to rest on his elbows, then closes his eyes as though even that took a colossal effort, and leans back against the headboard. He's so damned thin, Dean keeps thinking. Emaciated, even. He holds the glass for Sam when he makes no move to take it, presses a couple of the small pills against his lips.
“Okay, small sips. Easy does it.” Sam manages the pills and about half the glass before he chokes on it, coughing. He slumps down again, exhausted, a sheen of sweat covering his face and chest. “You with me, Sammy?”
“Dean.”
Dean chews on his lip, doesn't know what to make of that. “Do you remember anything?”
His brother shakes his head, as though the question is confusing. His throat works for a moment, lips parted. “Black Dog.” He coughs, twists his head away when Dean tries to get him to drink more water.
“Do you remember being a dog?”
Sam gives him a puzzled look, as though he can't quite make sense of what he's just said. “Car.”
“What?”
Sam gets a frustrated look on his face, closes his eyes, looking as though he's trying to concentrate on something. He opens his eyes again, stares at Dean in a way that's thoroughly unnerving. “Hard to think,” he says finally, and Dean fees his stomach twist. He pats Sam's arm, puts a reassuring smile on his face, even while there's a shrill voice shrieking inside his head that this is bad-bad-bad.
“Okay, don't worry about it, Sammy. It'll get better. We'll fix this.” He reaches out, hesitates, his hand hovering inches away from Sam. He's not sure if he should touch him anymore, whether this Sam wants to have anything to do with him, although the more rational part of his mind tells him that he's probably safe, that Sammy nearly killed himself trying to come back to him, after all. Still, he's nervous, can't quite bring himself to believe that things might suddenly be different, might suddenly be better after everything that's happened. When he tries to pull back, though, Sam reaches out and closes his large fingers around Dean's hand, keeps staring at him as though he's worried he'll somehow disappear. Dean can feel the rough edges of scars and half-healed cuts on the palm of Sam's hand. His fingernails are shredded at the tips, his fingers scraped bloody and scabbed over.
“Don't go.”
He chews on his lip, thinks he might burst from all the words that are trying to pour out of him all once. He squeezes Sam's hand carefully. “Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. You look like crap, dude. How you feeling?”
A confused blink. “Hurts.” Sam draws a painful-sounding breath. “Dying?”
He reaches out with his free hand, doesn't care about what it might look like anymore, smooths Sam's damp hair away from his forehead. “No,” he says fiercely. “Don't you believe that for a second. No one's dying, you hear me? We're going to fix this, okay?”
“'kay.” Sam actually seems amused, and Dean scrubs at his face with one hand, trying to get his pulse to go back to normal. “Hurts.”
“Yeah, I'll bet. You got yourself pretty beat up there. Did you really walk all that way?”
Sam coughs, nods once. “Home.” Dean feels an incredulous smile spread over his face.
“Holy shit, Sammy,” he breathes. “And I thought you were stubborn when you were human. Hey, hey!” he shakes his brother as his eyes slip shut again. “Stay with me, okay?”
Another nod. “Home,” Sam repeats, but doesn't open his eyes. He's still sweating, shivering now, and Dean can practically see his fever rising.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “Let me check you out, okay Sammy? I want to see what's going on with you now you're back to being you again.” He pulls aside the blankets, ignoring Sam's muted whimper of protest at the cold air, and starts methodically checking him over for injuries. This is familiar territory, at least. He might not know what to do with an injured dog, but he's far too well-versed in fixing up his little brother when he gets hurt.
He finds nothing different than what the vet said of Sam while he was still a dog: broken ribs, a broken leg that looks like it was set and then didn't quite heal properly (they'll have matching limps for the rest of the apocalypse, he thinks wryly, and isn't that a peach?), more contusions and lacerations than he can count —his chest and stomach are mottled black and blue and purple. He's not exactly an expert on malnutrition, but the vet said Sam was starved, and he's inclined to believe her. He thinks he wouldn't have to try too hard to be able to see all of Sam's bones beneath the skin. He doesn't know how to diagnose pneumonia, but from the sound of Sam's laboured breathing he doesn't see any reason to disbelieve the vet on that score either. He wonders briefly if there's any real difference between the antibiotics she prescribed and the kind they give to humans. He's completely out of his depth, but it's not as though he can just check Sam into a hospital —not without running some serious risks, especially after his own little escapade in Chicago. He chews on his lip, watches Sam anxiously for a moment, then shakes him a bit by the shoulder.
“Sam... you're in pretty bad shape, dude. You want me to take you to a hospital? Get you checked out?”
“No,” Sam rasps, and shakes his head. “Wanna stay...”
“You sure? We can figure something out about the whole ID thing. We always do.”
“No,” the tone is insistent. “Home.” He curls up on his side, coughing in a way that makes Dean's chest constrict. “Stay here.” Dean isn't sure whether to be relieved or terrified, but he nods.
“Get some sleep, Sammy. I'll be back. I'm going to go find Bobby, let him know you're you again, otherwise he'll kick my ass, wheelchair or no,” he grins, aiming for a light-hearted tone, but Sam's eyes fly open at that, panic registering on his face.
“Don't leave,” he breathes, reaching out with one hand and trying to sit up again. “Please, Dean.”
“Okay, okay, no one's leaving,” he shifts closer on the edge of the bed, pulls the blankets up protectively, rubs Sam's arm soothingly. “It's okay. Take it easy. I'm not going anywhere.”
He blows out his cheeks, scrubs at his forehead with the back of his wrist, trying not to let Sam's panic infect him as well. After well over a year of having his brother push him away at every opportunity, he's almost forgotten how to deal with Sam wanting him near, which is strange because his brother was a clingy kid growing up, always hanging onto his hand or his arm or his hip. He can't quite remember when that started to change. Sam's eyes close again, although he's clearly fighting to stay awake in spite of the exhaustion, and Dean feels the mild flutter of panic start up again in his chest.
“Sam. Sam, talk to me. You're freaking me out a bit.” He grabs hold of Sam's knee, shakes it a bit.
“'s hard...” Sam turns aside to cough against the back of his wrist, and Dean winces, watching his ribs move under his skin.
“What's hard?”
Sam's face scrunches in concentration. “Talking. Can't... they're all mixed up.” He sounds out of breath.
“Mixed up?”
“Thoughts. Me and Other-Sam. All mixed up.”
Dean bites his lip, isn't sure what to make of that. “We'll have to give it time, maybe,” he offers, finally. “You spent a long time as a dog. D'you remember that?”
“Sort of. Gabriel... remember him.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah. What is it with us and archangels using us for kicks?”
“Douchebag,” Sam agrees tiredly, and Dean surprises himself by tossing his head back and laughing.
“You said it, Sammy... What?” Sam is staring at him again, fever-bright eyes boring through him as though he's trying to see right down into Dean's core. He smiles uncertainly, feeling himself flush much to his annoyance. “A little intense, there, dude. You're going to make me all self-conscious, and you know I hate that.”
It's an obvious effort for his brother to string words together, and it makes his stomach clench a little to see it. Words have always been Sam's tool, much more than Dean's. “You look... sick. You okay?” It's two complete sentences, though, and that's something.
“I'm fine, dude.”
Sam shakes his head again. “Not fine.”
He shrugs, embarrassed. “Yeah, okay, I'm not a hundred percent. Got kind of banged up last time we were together. Do you remember that?”
“I think... ravine?”
Dean nods, relieved. “Yeah, that's right. It was Lucifer, do you remember that?”
“No, I...” a look of understanding flits across Sam's features. “I smelled him. The Other-Sam did. The dog,” he clenches his hand around a fistful of the sheet, obviously frustrated at not being able to express himself more clearly. “Didn't know what it was. He hurt you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, he did. But you saved me. Do you remember? You pulled me out of the water. That's how we got into this whole mess —how I lost you.”
“Lost,” Sam says, and it sounds like a sigh. “I remember.” Guilt coils in Dean's stomach.
“I'm sorry, man. I didn't know what we were getting into, and I nearly got you killed. I'm sorry, I should have checked it out first, should have been more careful—” he starts, but Sam puts out a hand, wraps it carefully around his wrist.
“Found you,” he says, and smiles. It's the bright, sunny smile that Dean knows, that he remembers: the one reserved for the day Sam first rode a bike without training wheels, for when he got straight As on his report cards, for the first time he pulled Dean aside and sheepishly admitted that he had a crush on Molly Ballantine and needed advice on how to ask her out. It's a smile Dean hasn't seen in years, and he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry now. He settles for smiling back.
“Yeah, you did.”
Sam's grip tightens a bit on his wrist, and he gives an insistent tug, so Dean leans forward, trying to catch whatever it is Sam is trying to say to him.
“What? What is it?”
Sam doesn't answer, but brings up his other hand to lay it on Dean's chest, as though reassuring himself that he's real, that he's really there. He lets his hand travel up, over Dean's shoulders, then his face, tangles his fingers in his hair, and Dean laughs uncertainly and pulls back a bit.
“Okay, getting a bit handsy there, Francis. It's okay, I'm not going anywhere.”
Another tug, and as weak as Sam is he manages to catch him off-balance and topples him onto the bed, pulls him into his arms.
“Hey!” Dean twists a bit, then gives up and lets Sam hold onto him. He tells himself that Sam needs the reassurance, that he's been through a hell of a trauma, and if hanging onto his big brother like a stuffed toy will make him feel better, then that's fine. It's totally not because it feels nice to be wrapped up in Sam's arms —safe and warm, even if Sam is weak as a day-old kitten— totally not because he needs the reassurance just as much as Sam, because he hasn't felt this safe in over three years. That's ridiculous, and anyone who suggests it is going to get their ass kicked. Luckily, there's no one around. He shifts a bit until he's comfortable, shoots Sam a fond look. “You're such a girl.”
Sam keeps smiling, rests his forehead against Dean's shoulder. “Don't care. Missed you.”
His throat tightens unexpectedly. “Yeah. Me too.”
Part 29
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*shrug*
I have learned that it's futile to argue with my Inner Editor. He's a stubborn ass.
I'm very glad you liked the chapter. I'm actually pretty pleased with the notion that, just as Doggy!Sam was plagued by Human!Sam's thoughts, the reverse is also true. It just made more sense that way —to me, at least.
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Thank you! I think most of my little corner of fandom enjoys the h/c part of fanfic the most. So you're in good company.
As for the stories you may have missed, I have a handy-dandy master fic list available at the top of my LJ. Because I'm OCD that way.
Most of them are shortish, around 3,000 words.
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I'm so glad! I fought very hard with this chapter. :P
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♥
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That worked.
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Glad you liked it. :)
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Thanks for coming back to comment! Have I mentioned lately how much I love your icon?
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I love bro snuggles! and poor sammy all confused with doggy sammy and human sam!
Oh! my heart!
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