ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-02-11 07:37 am
ratherastory) wrote2010-02-11 07:37 am
Entry tags:
Take Me Home —Epilogue
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: 2,054 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 29
Additional A/N: This is it, folks, the very last chapter! It's been a heck of a ride, and you have all been absolutely fantastic. Thank you so much to everyone who commented and acted as cheerleaders for me. I couldn't have done it without you. :)
I am a little sad that this story is over, actually. It's been my constant companion for over a month now. I think I'll be writing a couple of little one-offs to tie up the stories of some of the original characters, since several people have requested that. So, uh, watch this space for further developments on that score.
Thanks again to everyone for making this a really memorable journey!
Further To Additional A/N: For those who are interested in the musical aspect of things, I had two songs in particular that I listened to while I was writing this. The first one, not surprisingly, is John Denver's “Take Me Home, Country Roads” (which gave me the title for the story). The other one is The Proclaimer's “I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles).” Mostly because of the chorus, which goes:
And I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles
To fall down at your door!
I thought it was pretty apt.
*****
“Hey, Sammy, look what I got!”
Sam looks up from where he's been lying on the sofa, engrossed in one of Bobby's dust-covered volumes, a blanket thrown over his legs, in time to see Dean chuck a tennis ball at his head. He ducks, and it goes flying over his head and bounces off the wall to go rolling along the floor. Dean throws back his head with a delighted cackle.
“Fetch!”
“Fuck you,” he says without any heat behind the words, ducking his head again before Dean can see him grinning.
“Would you two chuckleheads knock that off?” Bobby calls from his office. “Dean! Boy, you throw one more tennis ball in my house and I'll do some throwin' of my own, you hear me?”
“Sorry, Bobby!”
This time Sam doesn't bother hiding his grin. “Serves you right, jackass.”
“Laugh it up, dog-boy,” Dean scowls, limping after the tennis ball, which has inconveniently lodged itself under a cabinet. “Son of a bitch,” he swears under his breath, lowering himself stiffly to retrieve it, bad leg stretched out at an awkward angle. The tips of his fingers brush against the ball, and he coaxes it back into his hand, rolling it along the floor until he can pick it up. He tosses it gently into the air, catches it again with a look of triumph.
“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” Sam puts down the book and coughs painfully into the crook of his elbow, rolls his eyes when he catches Dean's worried glance. “Dude, stop it. I'm fine. Worry about yourself for a change.”
“I'm not the one who nearly died.” Dean settles in a chair, looks like he's about to start bouncing the tennis ball off the wall before remembering Bobby's admonition and tucking it away.
“Actually, you are. Let's not start that conversation again, okay? I'm out of breath enough as it is without having to tally up all your injuries and surgeries just to prove that I'm right. Just... quit worrying.”
Dean snorts. “Right. You need anything?”
“I need for you to quit worrying,” he repeats patiently. “But I guess that's about as likely as Gabriel coming and baking me a pie in order to apologize for being a douchebag.” Sam buries his nose back in his book, only to be interrupted a moment later by Dean's startled yell.
“Gah! Cas! How many times—”
“I apologize if I startled you,” comes the reply, delivered with Castiel's usual equanimity. He's still dressed in the same trench coat and suit he's worn since the day Dean first met him, and Sam wonders if he ever wants to change, if the thought even occurs to him. The angel tilts his head, affords Sam one of his rare, small smiles, the corners of his mouth barely upturned. “Samuel. You are improved.” It's not a question, but Sam treats it as one anyway.
“Yeah, thanks.”
He's almost pathetically grateful for the improvement, in fact. After the initial euphoria of being first reunited with Dean and then turned back into a human, there was a long period during which he felt as though he'd been run over by a steam roller. As if feeling like human roadkill wasn't enough, it had taken days before he was able to sort out his human thoughts from the old dog-thoughts, the ones he'd come to rely on for nearly three months to keep him alive. Every time he tried to open his mouth to talk to Dean, most of what came out was either nonsense or fragments of thoughts that looked as though they frightened his brother more than anything else, which was an exercise in frustration for everyone.
Between the starvation, the pneumonia, and getting hit by a car (he only has dim memories of his last few days as a dog, but he remembers the horn, the smell of burnt rubber, and the cold and damp and pain of lying in the ditch for what seemed like an eternity), the past few weeks have gone by in a blur. He remembers Dean fussing over him, and Castiel coming and going, and feeling like utter crap for the most part. He also remembers resisting every attempt to get him to a hospital, for reasons which aren't entirely clear to him anymore. The only thing that he recalls is that the idea of having Dean being further away than a couple of rooms filled him with a level of panic that's a little embarrassing now, in the clear light of day.
Up until recently he's had almost no strength to do anything except sleep and put up with whatever Dean tries to get him to swallow: pills, water, and some sort of disgusting protein drink which Dean insists he needs in order to get over weeks of malnutrition. The first time he tried to protest —the stuff is too gross for words— his brother pulled out an astounding amount of literature on the subject of starvation and something called 're-feeding syndrome' and glared at him until he gave in.
“What, you think you're the only person capable of research around here? Trust me on this.”
So at this point it's a relief to be able to get around under his own power, although he still gets tired embarrassingly quickly, and he's got a nagging cough which just won't seem to leave him alone no matter what sort of nasty meds Dean forces into him on a regular basis. He's stuck in Bobby's house, limping his way from his bed to the couch and back, and eventually even to the kitchen table. It's not exactly running a marathon, but still, progress is progress, and he's not about to complain, given the alternative.
“I am glad,” Castiel says, and Sam is surprised to see he means it. Then again, a lot about the angel has surprised him of late, not least of which the revelation that he put everything on hold to search for Sam —and not just because he wanted to keep him out of Lucifer's clutches. He kind of wishes that it didn't take getting turned into a dog and nearly dying several times over for him to figure out that Castiel doesn't actively loathe him.
This little adventure has given them all a break from the apocalypse, too; he considers it sort of a silver lining. It's not what he would have chosen, but the enforced rest appears to be doing wonders for Dean, at least, who's managed to get more than two consecutive hours of sleep a night for weeks now, and who hasn't been drinking quite as hard as he was before. It's not as though Sam wasn't aware of the problem —he just never quite figured out how to tackle it, and now he's more than a little relieved at the thought that he won't have to stage some sort of intervention, or watch as Dean drinks himself right onto a liver transplant list. He credits Castiel as much as anything else for this change: the angel has resorted to the all-too-human tactics of blackmailing Dean into taking care of himself, or else threatening to use what few powers he has left to simply force him to sleep. Sam is just grateful that someone else is looking out for his brother; his own efforts of late haven't done any good at all, which is a whole other source of frustration (as though there wasn't enough of that to go around already).
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Dean's asking Castiel, and the angel makes a small gesture that Sam isn't sure how to interpret. “I thought you'd be all about chasing after God, after your little hiatus.”
“I was merely checking to see that you were both well.”
Dean smiles up at him from where he's sitting. “Oh, we're good. I mean, it's not exactly the-hills-are-alive-with-the-sound-of-music around here, but I think we're good. No demons, no devil, no monsters to speak of, and you're the only angel for miles.”
Huh, Sam thinks to himself, watching his brother banter easily with Castiel. Now that's interesting. Castiel turns to him, as though aware of being watched.
“And what do you make of your brother's assessment?”
Sam half-shrugs, makes a face that suggests he's a little surprised at agreeing with Dean. “I think he's onto something there. All things considered, we're doing more than okay. You staying for dinner?” he surprises himself even more by asking, sees the surprise mirrored back at him from both men. Dean makes a face, obviously trying to cover up his surprise.
“You think you can get away with inviting people over just because I do all the cooking around here?”
“Do you really want me to cook? Because I will.” It's a bluff. They both know he can't stay standing up long enough to cook a whole meal, but Dean relaxes and laughs at the joke.
“God, no! You're the only person I know who can wreck pasta.”
Sam spreads his palms. “Well, then.”
“You're doing the dishes. Cas'll help.”
He grins. “Fair enough.”
Castiel watches them argue, and for once doesn't seem to be worried that he appears to be the direct cause of the argument. Sam thinks he may be getting used to them after all, especially after the angel pulls up a chair and sits in it without being prompted by Dean. Watching Castiel make himself at home, Sam isn't sure whether the sight makes him happy that he's finally becoming more comfortable around them, or sad because he's losing that indefinable something that made him who he was before. A little of both, maybe, because that's the best any of them can ever manage these days: everything good comes with a price, and they can count themselves lucky when the price isn't too steep.
He starts coughing again before his thoughts can turn too dark, almost as though his body is trying to save him from himself. He feels a hand at his back, and when he gets his breath back he finds a glass of water hovering in front of him, which he accepts with a grateful nod. Dean ruffles his hair as though he's a little kid again, and his hand lingers for perhaps a little longer than is strictly necessary, checking for fever. For once Sam doesn't really have the heart to tell him to knock it off.
“You okay, Sammy? Need another blanket?”
“No, I'm fine. It's just a residual cough, you know that.” They've had this conversation more times than Sam can count, too. If Sam needed any motivation to finish convalescing, it would be to get Dean to stop hovering like a solicitous stealth helicopter, appearing out of nowhere with glasses of water or a thermometer or whatever else. Sam is beginning to have a greater appreciation for why his brother bitches constantly about his mother-henning whenever Dean is sick: it's exhausting.
“Yeah, sure. How about you take a nap, and Cas and I'll start dinner? Cas, you with me?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Sure.” It was Sam's intention to help, but all of a sudden it's all he can do to keep his eyes open. Well, he did promise to do the dishes, so maybe he's not totally useless. He settles back against the sofa cushions, his book forgotten, and feels rather than sees Dean pull the blanket over his shoulders. He lets his thoughts drift for a while, smiles to himself as he hears Castiel's voice coming from the kitchen.
“I believe we should bake a pie. We have not had any since Christmas. Why is that?”
“It's a lot of work, that's why.”
“Should we not have any, in that case?”
“That's not what I said. It's just... you bake pies for special occasions.”
“Does this not count?”
There's a snort of amusement. “Sure, I suppose this counts.”
Sam falls asleep to the sound of clinking cutlery, mingled voices, and Dean's laughter.
The End
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: 2,054 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 29
Additional A/N: This is it, folks, the very last chapter! It's been a heck of a ride, and you have all been absolutely fantastic. Thank you so much to everyone who commented and acted as cheerleaders for me. I couldn't have done it without you. :)
I am a little sad that this story is over, actually. It's been my constant companion for over a month now. I think I'll be writing a couple of little one-offs to tie up the stories of some of the original characters, since several people have requested that. So, uh, watch this space for further developments on that score.
Thanks again to everyone for making this a really memorable journey!
Further To Additional A/N: For those who are interested in the musical aspect of things, I had two songs in particular that I listened to while I was writing this. The first one, not surprisingly, is John Denver's “Take Me Home, Country Roads” (which gave me the title for the story). The other one is The Proclaimer's “I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles).” Mostly because of the chorus, which goes:
And I would walk 500 miles
And I would walk 500 more
Just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles
To fall down at your door!
I thought it was pretty apt.
“Hey, Sammy, look what I got!”
Sam looks up from where he's been lying on the sofa, engrossed in one of Bobby's dust-covered volumes, a blanket thrown over his legs, in time to see Dean chuck a tennis ball at his head. He ducks, and it goes flying over his head and bounces off the wall to go rolling along the floor. Dean throws back his head with a delighted cackle.
“Fetch!”
“Fuck you,” he says without any heat behind the words, ducking his head again before Dean can see him grinning.
“Would you two chuckleheads knock that off?” Bobby calls from his office. “Dean! Boy, you throw one more tennis ball in my house and I'll do some throwin' of my own, you hear me?”
“Sorry, Bobby!”
This time Sam doesn't bother hiding his grin. “Serves you right, jackass.”
“Laugh it up, dog-boy,” Dean scowls, limping after the tennis ball, which has inconveniently lodged itself under a cabinet. “Son of a bitch,” he swears under his breath, lowering himself stiffly to retrieve it, bad leg stretched out at an awkward angle. The tips of his fingers brush against the ball, and he coaxes it back into his hand, rolling it along the floor until he can pick it up. He tosses it gently into the air, catches it again with a look of triumph.
“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” Sam puts down the book and coughs painfully into the crook of his elbow, rolls his eyes when he catches Dean's worried glance. “Dude, stop it. I'm fine. Worry about yourself for a change.”
“I'm not the one who nearly died.” Dean settles in a chair, looks like he's about to start bouncing the tennis ball off the wall before remembering Bobby's admonition and tucking it away.
“Actually, you are. Let's not start that conversation again, okay? I'm out of breath enough as it is without having to tally up all your injuries and surgeries just to prove that I'm right. Just... quit worrying.”
Dean snorts. “Right. You need anything?”
“I need for you to quit worrying,” he repeats patiently. “But I guess that's about as likely as Gabriel coming and baking me a pie in order to apologize for being a douchebag.” Sam buries his nose back in his book, only to be interrupted a moment later by Dean's startled yell.
“Gah! Cas! How many times—”
“I apologize if I startled you,” comes the reply, delivered with Castiel's usual equanimity. He's still dressed in the same trench coat and suit he's worn since the day Dean first met him, and Sam wonders if he ever wants to change, if the thought even occurs to him. The angel tilts his head, affords Sam one of his rare, small smiles, the corners of his mouth barely upturned. “Samuel. You are improved.” It's not a question, but Sam treats it as one anyway.
“Yeah, thanks.”
He's almost pathetically grateful for the improvement, in fact. After the initial euphoria of being first reunited with Dean and then turned back into a human, there was a long period during which he felt as though he'd been run over by a steam roller. As if feeling like human roadkill wasn't enough, it had taken days before he was able to sort out his human thoughts from the old dog-thoughts, the ones he'd come to rely on for nearly three months to keep him alive. Every time he tried to open his mouth to talk to Dean, most of what came out was either nonsense or fragments of thoughts that looked as though they frightened his brother more than anything else, which was an exercise in frustration for everyone.
Between the starvation, the pneumonia, and getting hit by a car (he only has dim memories of his last few days as a dog, but he remembers the horn, the smell of burnt rubber, and the cold and damp and pain of lying in the ditch for what seemed like an eternity), the past few weeks have gone by in a blur. He remembers Dean fussing over him, and Castiel coming and going, and feeling like utter crap for the most part. He also remembers resisting every attempt to get him to a hospital, for reasons which aren't entirely clear to him anymore. The only thing that he recalls is that the idea of having Dean being further away than a couple of rooms filled him with a level of panic that's a little embarrassing now, in the clear light of day.
Up until recently he's had almost no strength to do anything except sleep and put up with whatever Dean tries to get him to swallow: pills, water, and some sort of disgusting protein drink which Dean insists he needs in order to get over weeks of malnutrition. The first time he tried to protest —the stuff is too gross for words— his brother pulled out an astounding amount of literature on the subject of starvation and something called 're-feeding syndrome' and glared at him until he gave in.
“What, you think you're the only person capable of research around here? Trust me on this.”
So at this point it's a relief to be able to get around under his own power, although he still gets tired embarrassingly quickly, and he's got a nagging cough which just won't seem to leave him alone no matter what sort of nasty meds Dean forces into him on a regular basis. He's stuck in Bobby's house, limping his way from his bed to the couch and back, and eventually even to the kitchen table. It's not exactly running a marathon, but still, progress is progress, and he's not about to complain, given the alternative.
“I am glad,” Castiel says, and Sam is surprised to see he means it. Then again, a lot about the angel has surprised him of late, not least of which the revelation that he put everything on hold to search for Sam —and not just because he wanted to keep him out of Lucifer's clutches. He kind of wishes that it didn't take getting turned into a dog and nearly dying several times over for him to figure out that Castiel doesn't actively loathe him.
This little adventure has given them all a break from the apocalypse, too; he considers it sort of a silver lining. It's not what he would have chosen, but the enforced rest appears to be doing wonders for Dean, at least, who's managed to get more than two consecutive hours of sleep a night for weeks now, and who hasn't been drinking quite as hard as he was before. It's not as though Sam wasn't aware of the problem —he just never quite figured out how to tackle it, and now he's more than a little relieved at the thought that he won't have to stage some sort of intervention, or watch as Dean drinks himself right onto a liver transplant list. He credits Castiel as much as anything else for this change: the angel has resorted to the all-too-human tactics of blackmailing Dean into taking care of himself, or else threatening to use what few powers he has left to simply force him to sleep. Sam is just grateful that someone else is looking out for his brother; his own efforts of late haven't done any good at all, which is a whole other source of frustration (as though there wasn't enough of that to go around already).
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Dean's asking Castiel, and the angel makes a small gesture that Sam isn't sure how to interpret. “I thought you'd be all about chasing after God, after your little hiatus.”
“I was merely checking to see that you were both well.”
Dean smiles up at him from where he's sitting. “Oh, we're good. I mean, it's not exactly the-hills-are-alive-with-the-sound-of-music around here, but I think we're good. No demons, no devil, no monsters to speak of, and you're the only angel for miles.”
Huh, Sam thinks to himself, watching his brother banter easily with Castiel. Now that's interesting. Castiel turns to him, as though aware of being watched.
“And what do you make of your brother's assessment?”
Sam half-shrugs, makes a face that suggests he's a little surprised at agreeing with Dean. “I think he's onto something there. All things considered, we're doing more than okay. You staying for dinner?” he surprises himself even more by asking, sees the surprise mirrored back at him from both men. Dean makes a face, obviously trying to cover up his surprise.
“You think you can get away with inviting people over just because I do all the cooking around here?”
“Do you really want me to cook? Because I will.” It's a bluff. They both know he can't stay standing up long enough to cook a whole meal, but Dean relaxes and laughs at the joke.
“God, no! You're the only person I know who can wreck pasta.”
Sam spreads his palms. “Well, then.”
“You're doing the dishes. Cas'll help.”
He grins. “Fair enough.”
Castiel watches them argue, and for once doesn't seem to be worried that he appears to be the direct cause of the argument. Sam thinks he may be getting used to them after all, especially after the angel pulls up a chair and sits in it without being prompted by Dean. Watching Castiel make himself at home, Sam isn't sure whether the sight makes him happy that he's finally becoming more comfortable around them, or sad because he's losing that indefinable something that made him who he was before. A little of both, maybe, because that's the best any of them can ever manage these days: everything good comes with a price, and they can count themselves lucky when the price isn't too steep.
He starts coughing again before his thoughts can turn too dark, almost as though his body is trying to save him from himself. He feels a hand at his back, and when he gets his breath back he finds a glass of water hovering in front of him, which he accepts with a grateful nod. Dean ruffles his hair as though he's a little kid again, and his hand lingers for perhaps a little longer than is strictly necessary, checking for fever. For once Sam doesn't really have the heart to tell him to knock it off.
“You okay, Sammy? Need another blanket?”
“No, I'm fine. It's just a residual cough, you know that.” They've had this conversation more times than Sam can count, too. If Sam needed any motivation to finish convalescing, it would be to get Dean to stop hovering like a solicitous stealth helicopter, appearing out of nowhere with glasses of water or a thermometer or whatever else. Sam is beginning to have a greater appreciation for why his brother bitches constantly about his mother-henning whenever Dean is sick: it's exhausting.
“Yeah, sure. How about you take a nap, and Cas and I'll start dinner? Cas, you with me?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Sure.” It was Sam's intention to help, but all of a sudden it's all he can do to keep his eyes open. Well, he did promise to do the dishes, so maybe he's not totally useless. He settles back against the sofa cushions, his book forgotten, and feels rather than sees Dean pull the blanket over his shoulders. He lets his thoughts drift for a while, smiles to himself as he hears Castiel's voice coming from the kitchen.
“I believe we should bake a pie. We have not had any since Christmas. Why is that?”
“It's a lot of work, that's why.”
“Should we not have any, in that case?”
“That's not what I said. It's just... you bake pies for special occasions.”
“Does this not count?”
There's a snort of amusement. “Sure, I suppose this counts.”
Sam falls asleep to the sound of clinking cutlery, mingled voices, and Dean's laughter.
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