Take Me Home -Part 12
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: 1,495 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 11
*****
Sam waits for a very, very long time. He lies down somewhere out of the way, and waits for Dean to come get him. Dean is his pack, and of course he's going to come and get him, because that's just how things work. Dean is home-shelter-love, and all Sam has to do is wait, and it'll all get better. Except that he doesn't come, and Sam is all alone. He rests his muzzle on his paws, heaves a sigh, tries sleeping. He even succeeds for a while, but not for long. He sits up, scents the air for Dean, but there's nothing there, and he sinks down again, his heart heavy. Eventually hunger overrides wait-for-Dean, and he goes to look for food, because Dean has left his bowl and all the kibble where Sam can't get to it. He finds food in a big metal box -garbage container, he remembers- all greasy meat and potatoes and sauce that he doesn't quite recognize. It's not the same as what Dean gives him, and it's not bacon, which is a pity, but it's food, and afterward his stomach doesn't hurt anymore, so that's okay.
“Hey! Get out of there, filthy mutt!”
Something clatters against the metal container just above his head, and Sam gives a yelp and scrambles to the ground, spilling everything in a big mess around him. He takes to his heels as more projectiles come at him. A rock skitters along the ground by his feet and he puts on a burst of speed, running through twisting alleys, avoiding crates and bins and the shouts of startled passers-by. He doesn't stop running until he's well out of the town limits, and he sinks to the ground in a ditch, panting, more from panic and adrenaline than from actual fatigue.
If Dean isn't going to come for him, then he has to go to Dean. It's pretty obvious, once he thinks of it. He sits, licking the remains of sauce from his chops, and tries to think about it. It seems like thinking things through is something he used to do, but it's all kind of fuzzy now. Dean isn't with the car, even though the car is home, so Dean has to be somewhere else. Somewhere else that's home. For a while he's not sure where that would be, but then he remembers another place that's home, that belongs to pack: Bobby. Bobby isn't quite the same as Dean, but Bobby's place is home, after Dean, after the car, and it's safe there. Dean will be there, because that's where the pack belongs.
It's just a question of getting there.
He strikes west. He's not exactly sure how to get there, but he remembers Dean saying something about Michigan, and he knows Bobby's is in South Dakota, in that same vague way he knows that his name is Sam, that he belongs with Dean, the same way he knows how to read the signs on the roads and remembers how things work, even if he can't make them do what they're supposed to. He keeps his head up, tail up, trots purposefully along the road, mile after mile, ducks into the ditch every time he hears a car coming. Something tells him that he should definitely not be exposing himself to other people, not until he finds Bobby and Dean.
The night stretches out, interminable, and his paws start to hurt after a while, and then he's hungry again. He's not in a town, though, and he's never been on his own, never not been without Dean to give him food in a bowl. Food comes from people, so he decides to find people, which is easier said than done in the middle of the road surrounded by fields. Fields. Fields belong to people, he remembers this, and those people are farmers, and farmers have food. He keeps going, looks for buildings, for the tall ones shaped like tubes -silos, he remembers- because that means that there'll be a farmhouse nearby, a barn, and that's where the food is.
He finally spots a roof peeking out just from the other side of a hill, makes a beeline for it. He squeezes under a fence, creeps past a placid-looking cow that just watches him go by, chewing her cud. Her tail swishes, flicks unconcernedly, and he keeps going. He keeps low to the ground, hunches under a big truck in the yard, the hard-packed earth cold against his belly. He can hear animals stirring in the barn, and the unmistakeable scent of other dog is in the air, one which has marked this place as his territory. He shouldn't be here, all his instincts are screaming at him to leave, to go now, because it's not his home, but he's hungry and he has too far to go without food. There's another scent on the air: chickens. Chickens are food. Eggs and meat, all in the same place.
He follows the scent to a wire coop, and there's a symphony of low, anxious clucking from inside, beady eyes watching him nervously. There are plenty of chickens in there, roosting on their perches, but he's not sure how to get at them through the wire. He circles the coop, nosing at the wire, trying to find a weak spot where he might be able to break through, but it seems impenetrable. Then he comes around to the door, spots a metal thing holding it in place. Bolt lock, his memory supplies. He stares at it, whines, paws at it for a moment. He should know this. Bolt locks are easy, right? Dean would be able to handle this, no problem. The chickens have all backed up against the far side of the coop, clustering together, clucking softly to themselves, and he can smell the fear coming off them and it makes him all the more anxious to just get one, sink his teeth into it and feel the bone and sinew crunch in his jaws. The bolt lock is between him and them, and he nudges it with his nose, finally remembers how it works, except that it's trickier than it looks. It takes a long time, pushing and nudging and trying to get at it with his teeth -his muzzle isn't the right shape for this, either- but finally it slides open, and he yanks the wire door almost off its fragile hinges.
The chickens explode out of the coop in a flurry of squawking and feathers and terror, and it's so easy to just grab one, and the flesh yields beneath his teeth, blood spurting over his tongue, and it twitches and thrashes weakly in its death throes. Sam sinks to the ground, rips at it, savouring the taste of the raw meat as he swallows in greedy gulps -blood-flesh-food- the texture rough and pliant on his tongue. He's so engrossed in devouring the chicken that it takes a few seconds before he becomes aware of the barking behind him, the sound of shouting from the farmhouse, lights turning on and flooding the yard, chickens scattering in every direction.
A dog appears out of nowhere, snapping, barking, biting, snarling out a challenge at him, daring him to fight, interloper, and Sam leaps to his feet, the remains of the carcass dangling from his jaws. The dog is smaller than he is, and he's pretty sure he can win this challenge, even if he's trespassing on its territory, but from behind he hears a familiar sound, snick-snack, and his mind remembers rifle and bullets and pain, and he takes off as fast as he can, back through the field. The other dog pursues him for a short while, but a piercing whistle brings it up short, and suddenly there's a deafening roar and a stinging pain his flank. He yelps, drops what's left of the chicken, barely manages to squeeze back under the fence, feels the sharp edges of wire tearing at his coat as he rushes, ripping shallow gashes in his skull.
He runs until he can't anymore. His whole flank feels like it's burning, and he crawls under a bush and licks at the long cut there, tasting his own blood. It stings, but he keeps going doggedly -some part of his mind tells him that's kind of funny- following some long-ingrained instinct that overrides all the other messages his brain is trying to tell him about 'first aid.' It's a shallow enough cut, but it takes a long time for the bleeding to stop, and by the time it does he's exhausted, trembling and panting. The night has turned cold, and he curls into a ball, his back wedged against the roots of the bush, protecting his wounded flank as best he can, wraps his tail over his nose.
Ears twitching at every stray sound, he drifts into an uneasy sleep.
*****
Part 13
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: 1,495 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 11
*****
Sam waits for a very, very long time. He lies down somewhere out of the way, and waits for Dean to come get him. Dean is his pack, and of course he's going to come and get him, because that's just how things work. Dean is home-shelter-love, and all Sam has to do is wait, and it'll all get better. Except that he doesn't come, and Sam is all alone. He rests his muzzle on his paws, heaves a sigh, tries sleeping. He even succeeds for a while, but not for long. He sits up, scents the air for Dean, but there's nothing there, and he sinks down again, his heart heavy. Eventually hunger overrides wait-for-Dean, and he goes to look for food, because Dean has left his bowl and all the kibble where Sam can't get to it. He finds food in a big metal box -garbage container, he remembers- all greasy meat and potatoes and sauce that he doesn't quite recognize. It's not the same as what Dean gives him, and it's not bacon, which is a pity, but it's food, and afterward his stomach doesn't hurt anymore, so that's okay.
“Hey! Get out of there, filthy mutt!”
Something clatters against the metal container just above his head, and Sam gives a yelp and scrambles to the ground, spilling everything in a big mess around him. He takes to his heels as more projectiles come at him. A rock skitters along the ground by his feet and he puts on a burst of speed, running through twisting alleys, avoiding crates and bins and the shouts of startled passers-by. He doesn't stop running until he's well out of the town limits, and he sinks to the ground in a ditch, panting, more from panic and adrenaline than from actual fatigue.
If Dean isn't going to come for him, then he has to go to Dean. It's pretty obvious, once he thinks of it. He sits, licking the remains of sauce from his chops, and tries to think about it. It seems like thinking things through is something he used to do, but it's all kind of fuzzy now. Dean isn't with the car, even though the car is home, so Dean has to be somewhere else. Somewhere else that's home. For a while he's not sure where that would be, but then he remembers another place that's home, that belongs to pack: Bobby. Bobby isn't quite the same as Dean, but Bobby's place is home, after Dean, after the car, and it's safe there. Dean will be there, because that's where the pack belongs.
It's just a question of getting there.
He strikes west. He's not exactly sure how to get there, but he remembers Dean saying something about Michigan, and he knows Bobby's is in South Dakota, in that same vague way he knows that his name is Sam, that he belongs with Dean, the same way he knows how to read the signs on the roads and remembers how things work, even if he can't make them do what they're supposed to. He keeps his head up, tail up, trots purposefully along the road, mile after mile, ducks into the ditch every time he hears a car coming. Something tells him that he should definitely not be exposing himself to other people, not until he finds Bobby and Dean.
The night stretches out, interminable, and his paws start to hurt after a while, and then he's hungry again. He's not in a town, though, and he's never been on his own, never not been without Dean to give him food in a bowl. Food comes from people, so he decides to find people, which is easier said than done in the middle of the road surrounded by fields. Fields. Fields belong to people, he remembers this, and those people are farmers, and farmers have food. He keeps going, looks for buildings, for the tall ones shaped like tubes -silos, he remembers- because that means that there'll be a farmhouse nearby, a barn, and that's where the food is.
He finally spots a roof peeking out just from the other side of a hill, makes a beeline for it. He squeezes under a fence, creeps past a placid-looking cow that just watches him go by, chewing her cud. Her tail swishes, flicks unconcernedly, and he keeps going. He keeps low to the ground, hunches under a big truck in the yard, the hard-packed earth cold against his belly. He can hear animals stirring in the barn, and the unmistakeable scent of other dog is in the air, one which has marked this place as his territory. He shouldn't be here, all his instincts are screaming at him to leave, to go now, because it's not his home, but he's hungry and he has too far to go without food. There's another scent on the air: chickens. Chickens are food. Eggs and meat, all in the same place.
He follows the scent to a wire coop, and there's a symphony of low, anxious clucking from inside, beady eyes watching him nervously. There are plenty of chickens in there, roosting on their perches, but he's not sure how to get at them through the wire. He circles the coop, nosing at the wire, trying to find a weak spot where he might be able to break through, but it seems impenetrable. Then he comes around to the door, spots a metal thing holding it in place. Bolt lock, his memory supplies. He stares at it, whines, paws at it for a moment. He should know this. Bolt locks are easy, right? Dean would be able to handle this, no problem. The chickens have all backed up against the far side of the coop, clustering together, clucking softly to themselves, and he can smell the fear coming off them and it makes him all the more anxious to just get one, sink his teeth into it and feel the bone and sinew crunch in his jaws. The bolt lock is between him and them, and he nudges it with his nose, finally remembers how it works, except that it's trickier than it looks. It takes a long time, pushing and nudging and trying to get at it with his teeth -his muzzle isn't the right shape for this, either- but finally it slides open, and he yanks the wire door almost off its fragile hinges.
The chickens explode out of the coop in a flurry of squawking and feathers and terror, and it's so easy to just grab one, and the flesh yields beneath his teeth, blood spurting over his tongue, and it twitches and thrashes weakly in its death throes. Sam sinks to the ground, rips at it, savouring the taste of the raw meat as he swallows in greedy gulps -blood-flesh-food- the texture rough and pliant on his tongue. He's so engrossed in devouring the chicken that it takes a few seconds before he becomes aware of the barking behind him, the sound of shouting from the farmhouse, lights turning on and flooding the yard, chickens scattering in every direction.
A dog appears out of nowhere, snapping, barking, biting, snarling out a challenge at him, daring him to fight, interloper, and Sam leaps to his feet, the remains of the carcass dangling from his jaws. The dog is smaller than he is, and he's pretty sure he can win this challenge, even if he's trespassing on its territory, but from behind he hears a familiar sound, snick-snack, and his mind remembers rifle and bullets and pain, and he takes off as fast as he can, back through the field. The other dog pursues him for a short while, but a piercing whistle brings it up short, and suddenly there's a deafening roar and a stinging pain his flank. He yelps, drops what's left of the chicken, barely manages to squeeze back under the fence, feels the sharp edges of wire tearing at his coat as he rushes, ripping shallow gashes in his skull.
He runs until he can't anymore. His whole flank feels like it's burning, and he crawls under a bush and licks at the long cut there, tasting his own blood. It stings, but he keeps going doggedly -some part of his mind tells him that's kind of funny- following some long-ingrained instinct that overrides all the other messages his brain is trying to tell him about 'first aid.' It's a shallow enough cut, but it takes a long time for the bleeding to stop, and by the time it does he's exhausted, trembling and panting. The night has turned cold, and he curls into a ball, his back wedged against the roots of the bush, protecting his wounded flank as best he can, wraps his tail over his nose.
Ears twitching at every stray sound, he drifts into an uneasy sleep.
*****
Part 13