ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-15 07:23 am
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-15 07:23 am
Entry tags:
Take Me Home —Part 3
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: 1,419 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 2
*****
“Come again?” Bobby's tone is incredulous, and Dean can't blame him. This one is weird, even by Winchester standards.
“It's the only thing that makes sense, Bobby,” he says, watching the dog as it sniffs its way around the edges of the room, taking in everything as though for the first time. Well, it sort of is the first time, he supposes. “It —he— even answers to his name. Hey, Sam!” he snaps his fingers.
The dog perks up its ears, comes trotting over, and he gives it a friendly scritch behind the ears as a reward, earning himself a tail-wagging.
“Are you sure you didn't fall on that fool head of yours, boy?”
“I'm sure, Bobby. One minute I'm fighting off the horde from Dawn of the Dead while Sam is dealing with Night at the Museum in reverse, or whatever, and the next thing I know he's gone and that damned trickster is back in the game. Or angel, or whatever he is.”
“It don't make a lick of sense. Why would he turn your brother into a dog?”
“Beats me. He did go on for a while about my keeping Sam on too short a leash, so maybe he decided to make it literal? Anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is turning him back. This is seriously too weird for me. My brother is a sheepdog, Bobby.” He pauses. “Are you laughing?”
It sounds suspiciously like Bobby is sniggering. “'Course not. It ain't a laughing matter, is it?”
“Dammit, Bobby, this isn't funny!”
Okay, Bobby is definitely laughing. It sounds as though he's got his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone, but a few seconds later he gives up all pretense, and Dean can hear him guffawing on the other end, hand over the receiver to muffle the sound.
“Bobby!”
The dog —Sam, he reminds himself— puts its front paws up on his knees, shoves its head into his face. On the other end of the line, Bobby pulls himself together, still giggling.
“Okay, I'm sorry. You gotta admit, it's pretty funny.”
“Hilarious.”
“You're sure it's Sam?”
Dean shrugs, even though Bobby can't see him. “As sure as I can be. It's not like he can answer me in any way that I can understand. He's a dog.”
“Does he know what's happened?”
He shoves the dog back onto the floor, fondles its ears, and it leans into the touch, tail thumping. “I don't think so. I mean, I think he knows he's Sam, but I think he's really a dog, too. I mean, he's all happy and tail-waggy and shit. Sam hasn't been this cheerful in, well, ever.” The realization depresses him. He addresses the dog. “You know you're Sam, right?”
The dog barks once.
“I think that's about as much of an answer as I'm ever going to get directly from the horse's mouth. Or the dog's mouth, or whatever.”
Bobby snorts and sounds like he's perilously close to another fit of hysterical laughter. “Okay. Why don't you haul your asses down here, and we'll figure it out. Although I don't need to tell you, boy, that if this is an angel's doing, even if it's just Gabriel, it's going to be damn near impossible to fix unless he wants you to do it.”
“I know,” he rubs his hand over his face. It smells doggy. “I just... God. How does this kind of stuff even happen to us? What am I supposed to do with him in the meantime?”
“He's your brother. Figure something out. At least dogs like to ride in cars.”
Dean lets himself flop backward on the bed with a groan, tosses the cell phone next to his watch and his wallet on the night stand. The dog —Sam, he tells himself again, still can't quite wrap his mind around it— prowls along the walls, determined to explore every inch of baseboard, it seems. It shoves its nose in the salt line over the threshold, sneezes, shakes its head, looks up with that endearing doggy grin, and he finds himself grinning back at it.
“At least you're a happy dog. Are you sure you're my emo little brother? There's no way he'd ever let himself be that content. He's all broody and angsty, usually. I figure if he were to turn into a dog he's be one of those dogs with droopy ears and sad eyes. Maybe you're not Sam, maybe you're just some dog named Sam that that freaking trickster left behind just to mess with my head.”
The dog cocks its head to the side, sits on its haunches and watches him.
“Do you understand me when I talk? Bark once for 'yes,' twice for 'no.'”
It's possible that that's the stupidest thing he's ever said, he realizes as soon as the words have left his mouth. The dog barks twice, and he has to restrain himself from hitting his head against the wall as hard as he can.
“You're doing it on purpose to screw with me now, aren't you?”
The dog barks once.
“Fuck you, Sparky.”
The dog barks twice, and then someone hammers furiously on the wall from the room next door. “Shut the fuck up in there!”
He pounds the wall back. “Shut up yourself!” He turns to —Sam. His brain stutters over the name, can't match it to the body. “Okay, no more barking unless we want to get kicked out. I don't know if we're even allowed animals in here.” He stares at the dog, throws up his hands. “You know what? I'm not dealing with this tonight. Maybe we'll luck out and it's a twenty-four hour thing, and you'll be back to normal tomorrow. What kind of dog are you, anyway? I know Gabriel said shepherd, but that doesn't exactly narrow it down. You don't look like a German shepherd, and you're definitely not Lassie. Mind if I borrow your laptop?”
The dog makes a resigned whuffing noise, shuffles over and drops at his feet as he pulls the laptop onto his knees and starts searching. Eventually he finds a couple of images on Google that look about right.
“Looks like you're a Belgian Shepherd. It figures you'd be some sort of froofy European breed.” The dog just gives him a reproachful look. “Nice-looking dog, though. Says here you're supposed to be good with kids but that you need lots of exercise. Not that I'm anticipating taking you for long walks, or whatever, so you can forget it.”
The dog's ears perk up at that, and he sighs. No saying the “w” word in front of the dog, copy that. He shuts the laptop, shucks his clothes and tosses them on a chair. There's nothing to do now except sleep it off and hope it's all some sort of really weird dream that he'll never, ever mention to Sam, except to tease him for being turned into a fluffy European dog. He crawls under the bedclothes, pulls them up to his chin, reaches over to switch off the light, when the whole bed lurches to the side, swaying alarmingly.
“Oh, no! I am not sharing the bed with a dog. You can either take the other bed, or sleep on the floor like a normal dog.”
A moment later he's got a face full of dog, its tongue working over him enthusiastically.
“Gah! Get off!” he shoves at it ineffectually, and is definitely beginning to sense a pattern here. “Fine, fine! You can sleep on the bed. Just not on top of me, got it? Jeez, give a guy some space here, mutt.”
The dog chuffs happily, flops down by his legs with an ominous creak of bedsprings. He switches off the light and lies there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of its tail against the bedspread. A few moments later it heaves a sigh of contentment, the tail stops wagging, and the only sound to be heard in the room is its soft breathing. He lets his eyes slip closed, unable to worry overmuch with the comforting weight of the dog leaning against his leg, drifts to sleep.
*****
Part 4
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: 1,419 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 2
“Come again?” Bobby's tone is incredulous, and Dean can't blame him. This one is weird, even by Winchester standards.
“It's the only thing that makes sense, Bobby,” he says, watching the dog as it sniffs its way around the edges of the room, taking in everything as though for the first time. Well, it sort of is the first time, he supposes. “It —he— even answers to his name. Hey, Sam!” he snaps his fingers.
The dog perks up its ears, comes trotting over, and he gives it a friendly scritch behind the ears as a reward, earning himself a tail-wagging.
“Are you sure you didn't fall on that fool head of yours, boy?”
“I'm sure, Bobby. One minute I'm fighting off the horde from Dawn of the Dead while Sam is dealing with Night at the Museum in reverse, or whatever, and the next thing I know he's gone and that damned trickster is back in the game. Or angel, or whatever he is.”
“It don't make a lick of sense. Why would he turn your brother into a dog?”
“Beats me. He did go on for a while about my keeping Sam on too short a leash, so maybe he decided to make it literal? Anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is turning him back. This is seriously too weird for me. My brother is a sheepdog, Bobby.” He pauses. “Are you laughing?”
It sounds suspiciously like Bobby is sniggering. “'Course not. It ain't a laughing matter, is it?”
“Dammit, Bobby, this isn't funny!”
Okay, Bobby is definitely laughing. It sounds as though he's got his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone, but a few seconds later he gives up all pretense, and Dean can hear him guffawing on the other end, hand over the receiver to muffle the sound.
“Bobby!”
The dog —Sam, he reminds himself— puts its front paws up on his knees, shoves its head into his face. On the other end of the line, Bobby pulls himself together, still giggling.
“Okay, I'm sorry. You gotta admit, it's pretty funny.”
“Hilarious.”
“You're sure it's Sam?”
Dean shrugs, even though Bobby can't see him. “As sure as I can be. It's not like he can answer me in any way that I can understand. He's a dog.”
“Does he know what's happened?”
He shoves the dog back onto the floor, fondles its ears, and it leans into the touch, tail thumping. “I don't think so. I mean, I think he knows he's Sam, but I think he's really a dog, too. I mean, he's all happy and tail-waggy and shit. Sam hasn't been this cheerful in, well, ever.” The realization depresses him. He addresses the dog. “You know you're Sam, right?”
The dog barks once.
“I think that's about as much of an answer as I'm ever going to get directly from the horse's mouth. Or the dog's mouth, or whatever.”
Bobby snorts and sounds like he's perilously close to another fit of hysterical laughter. “Okay. Why don't you haul your asses down here, and we'll figure it out. Although I don't need to tell you, boy, that if this is an angel's doing, even if it's just Gabriel, it's going to be damn near impossible to fix unless he wants you to do it.”
“I know,” he rubs his hand over his face. It smells doggy. “I just... God. How does this kind of stuff even happen to us? What am I supposed to do with him in the meantime?”
“He's your brother. Figure something out. At least dogs like to ride in cars.”
Dean lets himself flop backward on the bed with a groan, tosses the cell phone next to his watch and his wallet on the night stand. The dog —Sam, he tells himself again, still can't quite wrap his mind around it— prowls along the walls, determined to explore every inch of baseboard, it seems. It shoves its nose in the salt line over the threshold, sneezes, shakes its head, looks up with that endearing doggy grin, and he finds himself grinning back at it.
“At least you're a happy dog. Are you sure you're my emo little brother? There's no way he'd ever let himself be that content. He's all broody and angsty, usually. I figure if he were to turn into a dog he's be one of those dogs with droopy ears and sad eyes. Maybe you're not Sam, maybe you're just some dog named Sam that that freaking trickster left behind just to mess with my head.”
The dog cocks its head to the side, sits on its haunches and watches him.
“Do you understand me when I talk? Bark once for 'yes,' twice for 'no.'”
It's possible that that's the stupidest thing he's ever said, he realizes as soon as the words have left his mouth. The dog barks twice, and he has to restrain himself from hitting his head against the wall as hard as he can.
“You're doing it on purpose to screw with me now, aren't you?”
The dog barks once.
“Fuck you, Sparky.”
The dog barks twice, and then someone hammers furiously on the wall from the room next door. “Shut the fuck up in there!”
He pounds the wall back. “Shut up yourself!” He turns to —Sam. His brain stutters over the name, can't match it to the body. “Okay, no more barking unless we want to get kicked out. I don't know if we're even allowed animals in here.” He stares at the dog, throws up his hands. “You know what? I'm not dealing with this tonight. Maybe we'll luck out and it's a twenty-four hour thing, and you'll be back to normal tomorrow. What kind of dog are you, anyway? I know Gabriel said shepherd, but that doesn't exactly narrow it down. You don't look like a German shepherd, and you're definitely not Lassie. Mind if I borrow your laptop?”
The dog makes a resigned whuffing noise, shuffles over and drops at his feet as he pulls the laptop onto his knees and starts searching. Eventually he finds a couple of images on Google that look about right.
“Looks like you're a Belgian Shepherd. It figures you'd be some sort of froofy European breed.” The dog just gives him a reproachful look. “Nice-looking dog, though. Says here you're supposed to be good with kids but that you need lots of exercise. Not that I'm anticipating taking you for long walks, or whatever, so you can forget it.”
The dog's ears perk up at that, and he sighs. No saying the “w” word in front of the dog, copy that. He shuts the laptop, shucks his clothes and tosses them on a chair. There's nothing to do now except sleep it off and hope it's all some sort of really weird dream that he'll never, ever mention to Sam, except to tease him for being turned into a fluffy European dog. He crawls under the bedclothes, pulls them up to his chin, reaches over to switch off the light, when the whole bed lurches to the side, swaying alarmingly.
“Oh, no! I am not sharing the bed with a dog. You can either take the other bed, or sleep on the floor like a normal dog.”
A moment later he's got a face full of dog, its tongue working over him enthusiastically.
“Gah! Get off!” he shoves at it ineffectually, and is definitely beginning to sense a pattern here. “Fine, fine! You can sleep on the bed. Just not on top of me, got it? Jeez, give a guy some space here, mutt.”
The dog chuffs happily, flops down by his legs with an ominous creak of bedsprings. He switches off the light and lies there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of its tail against the bedspread. A few moments later it heaves a sigh of contentment, the tail stops wagging, and the only sound to be heard in the room is its soft breathing. He lets his eyes slip closed, unable to worry overmuch with the comforting weight of the dog leaning against his leg, drifts to sleep.
Part 4
no subject
Sam's POV starts in a few chapters, have no fear!