Take Me Home -Part 16
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: 1,588 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 15
More outsider POV, just because I can! Muahahahaaa! *cough* Okay, sorry. We're getting to Dean in two chapters, including this one, if memory serves. For now, though you get to hear more about Sammy's adventures in trying to get home. This was originally just one chapter, but the OC kind of lodged in my brain and it got too unwieldy for just one chapter.
EXTRA WARNING: This chapter and the next refer to an established lesbian relationship. If you have problems with that... then this LJ is probably not where you belong anyway. Homophobes need not apply here. Thanks for your understanding. :)
NEW EPISODE TONIGHT! WHEE!
*****
The first snow of the year is falling when Dr. Mallory Yates, B. V. Sc. & A.H., kisses her girlfriend goodbye and pulls out onto the road in her second-hand blue Ford Escape that she just managed to scrape enough money together to purchase last year. Starting out as a country vet isn't exactly the most lucrative proposition in the world, but she wouldn't trade this life for anything. Of course, being the only vet for a forty-mile radius also means that she gets a lot of 2am phone calls to go out and help with lambing, with sick cows in their byres, with colicky horses. It's never exactly comforting to have to go out when it's pitch black, when the only light is provided by the SUV's headlights, when she has to scrape the frost off the windshield and hold the steering wheel with one hand while she blows on the fingers of the other to keep them warm. Still, it has its perks, too: she mostly makes her own hours, runs her practice from the extension she built on her house, so she never has to go far to go to the office and can take naps whenever she wants, and has an unlimited supply of coffee. After two years, the locals have even mostly stopped gossiping about her and her girlfriend, have stopped even being scandalized by having 'one of them queers' taking care of their animals: her work speaks for itself, and she figures she's made a difference in her own small way.
These are the things Mallory tells herself when she gets called out at o'dark thirty, squinting sleepily as she navigates the twisting dirt roads that lead to the various farmsteads in the area. Then again, Bill Jeffreys isn't a man to call her out without a valid reason, and if he says that a dog needs urgent care, then she believes him. She was half-asleep when she answered the call, and she's a bit confused about what exactly is going on, because it sounded to her as though he wasn't talking about Tiberius, his australian shepherd/alaskan husky mixed breed. Tiberius isn't exactly the type to go wandering off in the woods, either, in order to step in a trap. Trapping is illegal in these parts, but it doesn't prevent some of the locals and the occasional poacher from trying their hand at it anyway.
She pulls into the driveway to find Bill waiting for her, holding a flashlight. “Dr. Mallory,” he nods, voice gruff. He's a taciturn man, and although she doesn't know his age she's pegged him at about sixty or sixty-five. He's dressed in his customary grey flannel shirt and blue overalls, thick woolen coat hanging open over his shoulders. He's the kind of man who lives alone with his dog and his small herd of goats, and apart from all the terrible jokes that occurred to her when she first started out, she's come to like him. The local gossips have already taken great pleasure in explaining that he used to run a very profitable dairy farm, then sold it for more money than he could possibly spend before he died, and retired to his small hobby farm to live out the rest of his days without having to deal too much with other humans. “Dog's this way, in the barn,” he leads the way, lighting the path with the flashlight.
“It's not Tiberius?”
“Nah, he's inside, too lazy to leave the fireplace,” Bill's mouth quirks in amusement. “Found this one in the woods, lying on the ground, too weak to get up. Been there for at least a day, maybe two. Probably lost. Got a collar, a name, nothing else, though. Probably valuable, by the looks of him. Think he was cutting through the woods, was trying to keep going even with his leg in that trap.”
Definitely valuable, she thinks, kneeling next to the pathetic creature stretched out on a horse blanket in the straw. He's a beautiful dog, or should be: a full-grown male Groenendael, and not neutered. He might even have been a show dog before he got himself into this state. Without being told Bill kneels just behind the dog's head, ready to restrain it if it snaps at her. She has a muzzle in the car, but she'd rather not use it, especially since the dog's breathing is laboured.
“Looks like the poor guy has been to hell and back,” she murmurs, pulling out her kit. It's a low-tech approach, but it's worked for her so far. The right front paw is visibly swollen near the joint. “That the paw caught in the trap?”
“Got it in one. Name's Sam.”
“What?”
Bill jerks his chin toward the dog. “Collar.”
She nods, taking in the name on the tag: it's a commercial, store-bought thing, no contact or vet information listed. “Right. So he belongs to someone, somewhere.”
“Probably need a good ass-kicking to teach 'em how to be responsible for their animals,” Bill grumbles, and she can't help but agree. Anyone who could let this beautiful dog get into this state ought to be taken out behind the shed and shot. She pats the dog gently.
“Hey, Sammy-boy. I'm Mallory. I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I have to check you out, so I need you to hold still, even if it hurts a bit. You're a good dog, yes you are. Bill, do you have him?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
The dog flinches a bit when she runs her hands over it, palpating to check for injuries other than the leg, then takes a swipe at her hand with a soft pink tongue.
“He's really friendly. He can't have been lost for long, if he's this comfortable around humans. He's not afraid at all.”
“Could just be good-natured.”
“Could be,” she agrees, but she's not inclined to think that's the case here.
The dog licks her hand again, and she fondles its ears, wondering just how it is that she's already so fond of it. It'll take x-rays to make sure there's no internal damage, but apart from being malnourished and dehydrated, not to mention exhausted by the looks of it, the dog seems in pretty good shape, which would tie in with her theory of its only being lost for a short while. Its breathing is laboured, which she's pretty sure means pneumonia, but again, that's going to take x-rays. The pads of its feet are scarred and lacerated with new cuts, and she wonders just how far it's come before getting caught in that trap.
“He may have lucked out. The joint is swollen, but I'm not feeling any breaks. Could be a bad sprain, at worst it's a hairline fracture. Hey, Sammy boy, how'd you get like this?” The dog lets its head sink back to the ground, exhausted, but its tail thumps weakly on the floor, and she gives it another gentle pat. “Good dog. Bill, can you help me carry him to the truck? I'll take him back to the clinic. Mostly he just needs some TLC, don't you Sam? We'll get you rehydrated, put some food in you, get you all fixed up, and then we'll see if anyone's looking for you. Good-looking dog like you, I bet they are.”
Sam is a heavy dog, even if he's malnourished. At full strength, she figures he'll probably weigh a good ninety to a hundred pounds, which is big for a Groenendael. It takes both her and Bill's combined strength to carry him out to her truck and load him in the back seat. Bill gives the roof of her truck a thump.
“He's all yours. You send the bill to me, Dr. Mallory.”
“You don't need to do that, Bill.”
He shrugs. “He's a good dog. Good-natured, anyhow. Most woulda tried to bite me. I'd hate to see him put down.”
“I won't. Thank you.”
It's a long drive back, the dog's breathing whistling harshly behind her, and she keeps up a steady stream of meaningless chatter as she steers along the slippery roads, windshield wipers working overtime to keep up with the snowfall. It's the first snow of the year, so it's probably not going to stay on the ground for long, but that doesn't prevent the roads from freezing and becoming treacherous, especially where they're not paved. She pulls out her cell phone, hits the speed dial for home.
“Jenny? It's me, babe. Yeah, I know what time it is and I'm sorry and I love you?” she cringes a bit, grinning. “Okay, I know, I'm sorry. It's just... I'm going to be home in about fifteen minutes and I need help bringing in a dog. He's too heavy for me to manage by myself. Thanks, you're the most awesome girlfriend ever and yes I totally owe you pancakes tomorrow. Gotta go, the roads are crap and I don't want to end up in a ditch. Love you.”
Her opinion that she does have the most awesome girlfriend in the universe is confirmed when Jenny is at the door, wrapped in her blue dressing gown, her hair pulled back into a really messy pony tail, eyes at half-mast.
“Blueberry pancakes,” she specifies before Mallory brushes her lips in a quick kiss.
“You got it.”
*****
Part 17
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: 1,588 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 15
More outsider POV, just because I can! Muahahahaaa! *cough* Okay, sorry. We're getting to Dean in two chapters, including this one, if memory serves. For now, though you get to hear more about Sammy's adventures in trying to get home. This was originally just one chapter, but the OC kind of lodged in my brain and it got too unwieldy for just one chapter.
EXTRA WARNING: This chapter and the next refer to an established lesbian relationship. If you have problems with that... then this LJ is probably not where you belong anyway. Homophobes need not apply here. Thanks for your understanding. :)
NEW EPISODE TONIGHT! WHEE!
*****
The first snow of the year is falling when Dr. Mallory Yates, B. V. Sc. & A.H., kisses her girlfriend goodbye and pulls out onto the road in her second-hand blue Ford Escape that she just managed to scrape enough money together to purchase last year. Starting out as a country vet isn't exactly the most lucrative proposition in the world, but she wouldn't trade this life for anything. Of course, being the only vet for a forty-mile radius also means that she gets a lot of 2am phone calls to go out and help with lambing, with sick cows in their byres, with colicky horses. It's never exactly comforting to have to go out when it's pitch black, when the only light is provided by the SUV's headlights, when she has to scrape the frost off the windshield and hold the steering wheel with one hand while she blows on the fingers of the other to keep them warm. Still, it has its perks, too: she mostly makes her own hours, runs her practice from the extension she built on her house, so she never has to go far to go to the office and can take naps whenever she wants, and has an unlimited supply of coffee. After two years, the locals have even mostly stopped gossiping about her and her girlfriend, have stopped even being scandalized by having 'one of them queers' taking care of their animals: her work speaks for itself, and she figures she's made a difference in her own small way.
These are the things Mallory tells herself when she gets called out at o'dark thirty, squinting sleepily as she navigates the twisting dirt roads that lead to the various farmsteads in the area. Then again, Bill Jeffreys isn't a man to call her out without a valid reason, and if he says that a dog needs urgent care, then she believes him. She was half-asleep when she answered the call, and she's a bit confused about what exactly is going on, because it sounded to her as though he wasn't talking about Tiberius, his australian shepherd/alaskan husky mixed breed. Tiberius isn't exactly the type to go wandering off in the woods, either, in order to step in a trap. Trapping is illegal in these parts, but it doesn't prevent some of the locals and the occasional poacher from trying their hand at it anyway.
She pulls into the driveway to find Bill waiting for her, holding a flashlight. “Dr. Mallory,” he nods, voice gruff. He's a taciturn man, and although she doesn't know his age she's pegged him at about sixty or sixty-five. He's dressed in his customary grey flannel shirt and blue overalls, thick woolen coat hanging open over his shoulders. He's the kind of man who lives alone with his dog and his small herd of goats, and apart from all the terrible jokes that occurred to her when she first started out, she's come to like him. The local gossips have already taken great pleasure in explaining that he used to run a very profitable dairy farm, then sold it for more money than he could possibly spend before he died, and retired to his small hobby farm to live out the rest of his days without having to deal too much with other humans. “Dog's this way, in the barn,” he leads the way, lighting the path with the flashlight.
“It's not Tiberius?”
“Nah, he's inside, too lazy to leave the fireplace,” Bill's mouth quirks in amusement. “Found this one in the woods, lying on the ground, too weak to get up. Been there for at least a day, maybe two. Probably lost. Got a collar, a name, nothing else, though. Probably valuable, by the looks of him. Think he was cutting through the woods, was trying to keep going even with his leg in that trap.”
Definitely valuable, she thinks, kneeling next to the pathetic creature stretched out on a horse blanket in the straw. He's a beautiful dog, or should be: a full-grown male Groenendael, and not neutered. He might even have been a show dog before he got himself into this state. Without being told Bill kneels just behind the dog's head, ready to restrain it if it snaps at her. She has a muzzle in the car, but she'd rather not use it, especially since the dog's breathing is laboured.
“Looks like the poor guy has been to hell and back,” she murmurs, pulling out her kit. It's a low-tech approach, but it's worked for her so far. The right front paw is visibly swollen near the joint. “That the paw caught in the trap?”
“Got it in one. Name's Sam.”
“What?”
Bill jerks his chin toward the dog. “Collar.”
She nods, taking in the name on the tag: it's a commercial, store-bought thing, no contact or vet information listed. “Right. So he belongs to someone, somewhere.”
“Probably need a good ass-kicking to teach 'em how to be responsible for their animals,” Bill grumbles, and she can't help but agree. Anyone who could let this beautiful dog get into this state ought to be taken out behind the shed and shot. She pats the dog gently.
“Hey, Sammy-boy. I'm Mallory. I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I have to check you out, so I need you to hold still, even if it hurts a bit. You're a good dog, yes you are. Bill, do you have him?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
The dog flinches a bit when she runs her hands over it, palpating to check for injuries other than the leg, then takes a swipe at her hand with a soft pink tongue.
“He's really friendly. He can't have been lost for long, if he's this comfortable around humans. He's not afraid at all.”
“Could just be good-natured.”
“Could be,” she agrees, but she's not inclined to think that's the case here.
The dog licks her hand again, and she fondles its ears, wondering just how it is that she's already so fond of it. It'll take x-rays to make sure there's no internal damage, but apart from being malnourished and dehydrated, not to mention exhausted by the looks of it, the dog seems in pretty good shape, which would tie in with her theory of its only being lost for a short while. Its breathing is laboured, which she's pretty sure means pneumonia, but again, that's going to take x-rays. The pads of its feet are scarred and lacerated with new cuts, and she wonders just how far it's come before getting caught in that trap.
“He may have lucked out. The joint is swollen, but I'm not feeling any breaks. Could be a bad sprain, at worst it's a hairline fracture. Hey, Sammy boy, how'd you get like this?” The dog lets its head sink back to the ground, exhausted, but its tail thumps weakly on the floor, and she gives it another gentle pat. “Good dog. Bill, can you help me carry him to the truck? I'll take him back to the clinic. Mostly he just needs some TLC, don't you Sam? We'll get you rehydrated, put some food in you, get you all fixed up, and then we'll see if anyone's looking for you. Good-looking dog like you, I bet they are.”
Sam is a heavy dog, even if he's malnourished. At full strength, she figures he'll probably weigh a good ninety to a hundred pounds, which is big for a Groenendael. It takes both her and Bill's combined strength to carry him out to her truck and load him in the back seat. Bill gives the roof of her truck a thump.
“He's all yours. You send the bill to me, Dr. Mallory.”
“You don't need to do that, Bill.”
He shrugs. “He's a good dog. Good-natured, anyhow. Most woulda tried to bite me. I'd hate to see him put down.”
“I won't. Thank you.”
It's a long drive back, the dog's breathing whistling harshly behind her, and she keeps up a steady stream of meaningless chatter as she steers along the slippery roads, windshield wipers working overtime to keep up with the snowfall. It's the first snow of the year, so it's probably not going to stay on the ground for long, but that doesn't prevent the roads from freezing and becoming treacherous, especially where they're not paved. She pulls out her cell phone, hits the speed dial for home.
“Jenny? It's me, babe. Yeah, I know what time it is and I'm sorry and I love you?” she cringes a bit, grinning. “Okay, I know, I'm sorry. It's just... I'm going to be home in about fifteen minutes and I need help bringing in a dog. He's too heavy for me to manage by myself. Thanks, you're the most awesome girlfriend ever and yes I totally owe you pancakes tomorrow. Gotta go, the roads are crap and I don't want to end up in a ditch. Love you.”
Her opinion that she does have the most awesome girlfriend in the universe is confirmed when Jenny is at the door, wrapped in her blue dressing gown, her hair pulled back into a really messy pony tail, eyes at half-mast.
“Blueberry pancakes,” she specifies before Mallory brushes her lips in a quick kiss.
“You got it.”
*****
Part 17