Take Me Home -Part 21
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: 1,701 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 20
For those of you who were wondering about Jerry, Zevon and Sam, here is the answer to your questions. Back to Dean tomorrow.
Hey, we're past the 2/3 mark, folks! Isn't that exciting?
*****
Jerry has never understood the appeal of winter camping. It's cold out, there's snow everywhere, and there's no way to keep warm and dry at all. In fact, Jerry doesn't much like camping, has never met a hunter who did. It must come from knowing all the other creatures that lurk in the shadows in the forest, he thinks. Who would want to spend the night alone in the woods when there are wendigos and shapeshifters and Black Dogs and will-o'-the-wisps and werewolves and dozens of other nasties with fucking huge teeth that are just waiting to tear you apart?
It's not surprising to him, therefore, when he finds the campsite of the latest people to go missing looking as though a whole herd of grizzly bears has rampaged through. He also thinks that grizzlies don't travel in herds, but that's not exactly important now, is it? He kneels amidst the wreckage, the two tents torn into shreds, the remains of the campfire strewn about in the snow, the embers long cold. The packs have exploded all over the place, bloody clothes draped over everything else.
“Looks like a wendigo to me,” he tells the dogs. Zevon has his little yellow felt coat on, because terriers aren't made for this weather, but Dean-o is looking just fine, his thick coat protecting him from the cold, lucky bastard. “Too bad all the tracks are trampled. I never was much good at that part, though. Good thing for me I can compensate in all other areas of life,” he quips, and not for the first time wishes that he either had a human partner, or else that the dogs could better appreciate his sense of humour.
“Well, I've got drag marks leading this way. I think we might actually have enough daylight to catch this thing. What do you say, boys?”
Zevon doesn't say anything, as usual, but Dean-o utters a low, whining growl that smacks of disapproval. Jerry looks over at him, sees him crouched on the ground, ears back, tail low, sniffing at a bloodstained pair of pants.
“What, you don't like my plan? I kind of do, you know. Go in, torch the flesh-eating fucker with my handy flare gun, get out in time to grab a late-night snack at the local diner. How about it? Cheeseburgers all around! My treat. Not that we have a choice, I don't think kibble is legal tender.”
The dogs don't look impressed, but neither one of them puts up an argument. A thin layer of ice has formed over the snow, and his boots crunch loudly through the crust as he walks. Zevon skids and slides over the surface, and their newest buddy doesn't appear to have too much trouble forging his way ahead. So much for a stealthy approach. Then again, it's not as though he was really counting on the element of surprise, given how wendigos are pretty much perfect hunters. So the best he can do now is rely on speed, and on being smarter than the son of a bitch, which is easier said than done.
At least the drag marks are easy to follow: a thick line through the drifts where the bodies dug furrows in the newly-fallen snow. He follows the trail through the wood, further than he thought it would lead, until finally he stops in his tracks, staring. There's a corpse on the ground, obviously one of the campers, its face gone, flesh shredded, limbs dislocated like a puppet's. He goes down on one knee, checks it automatically for a pulse even though he knows it's useless. This isn't right, and just in case his gut instinct wasn't enough to go on, both dogs are losing their shit right at this moment. Zevon is barking furiously, and Dean-o's hackles are raised, lips drawn back from his teeth in a fearsome snarl, and man that dog is fucking huge. Jerry takes a step back involuntarily, until he sees that even though the dog is facing him, it's not growling at him.
He whirls in time to see a huge black shadow launch itself at him from the tree line. There's a blur of pain and his vision explodes with stars, and the next thing he knows he's rolling on the ground, the sound of snarling and growling loud in his ears. He scrambles, trying to get to his feet, but his limbs aren't working the way they're supposed to, his ears are ringing, and he can't see. There's something in his eyes, sticky and warm, gluing the lids together. All around him all he can hear is roaring and barking and snarling, the ugly collision of warm bodies, the crunch of paws in the snow, the clash of fangs. It's not a wendigo: it's obvious now that the Black Dog has exploded into their midst like the supernatural equivalent of a surgical strike. He hears Zevon barking madly, all rage and defiance hears a shrill yelp, and then it's just the sound of the Black Dog and Dean-o going at it, tooth and claw.
Jerry scrapes the blood out of his eyes with fingers frozen by the snow, gropes for his rifle which has gone skidding just out of reach. He pulls it up to his shoulder, prays that it won't jam after being dropped in the snow and generally abused, thanks every god in the sky that he loaded it with silver rounds (not deadly to wendigo, but more effective than regular rounds), and looks for an opening. The Black Dog outweighs Dean-o by a good sixty pounds, but he'll be damned if the sorry-looking stray isn't putting up a hell of a fight. He's a smart fighter, too, taking advantage of his smaller size and speed to keep the Black Dog off-balance, circling, darting in to slash at it with his fangs as he rushes past it, wheels and comes at it from a different direction, blindingly fast. For a few seconds it almost seems like there are two or three dogs attacking.
“Get out of the way!” he yells, sighting down the rifle barrel, and damned if the dog doesn't listen to him, peeling away and giving him plenty of room to put three bullets in the ugly bastard's skull. He staggers to his feet, lurches over to the body, nudges it with the toe of his boot. “Looks like it's salt 'n' burn time, boys. You did a good job. Good dogs.”
He hears Dean-o whine, turns, and that's when he sees the small yellow bundle lying at the foot of a tree, terribly still. His vision blurs with sudden tears, and he drops to his knees in the snow, his rifle forgotten. He reaches out, brushes the tips of his fingers against Zevon's muzzle, over the yellow felt of his ludicrous winter coat. There's a pool of blood congealing in the snow, turning it into a morass of reddish sludge. He can't see any injuries, and somewhere at the back of his mind it registers that the wound must be on Zevon's other side, the one on which he's lying.
“Aw, Zev,” he mutters, his voice thick. “Buddy.”
There's a soft whine, and Dean nudges his elbow, as though trying to comfort him. Automatically he drops his hand, pats the dog's head.
“You're a good dog,” he manages, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist. “Not as good as Zevon, but you're a good dog, Dean-o. I won't do you the disservice of wishing it was you lying there instead of him.”
He swallows hard, pulls salt and a small container of gasoline out of his pack, lights up the corpse of the Black Dog, and wishes that there was a more violent way of dealing with its sorry carcass, because the fucker just killed his best friend, and salting and burning it feels so fucking inadequate. Dean follows at his heels as he heads back, Zevon's broken body cradled in his arms. He wraps the little dog in a blanket, figures he'll see if one of the nearby towns has a proper pet cemetery (and not one on an old Indian burial ground, or any fucked-up shit like that: Zevon's earned his place in doggy heaven, no sense bringing him back as an abomination), lays him gently at the back of the Winnebago.
They drive west for a while longer, Dean-o settled morosely on the back seat. The van is quiet: Jerry can't even bring himself to play music. He thinks that maybe he'll stick around the town where he buries Zevon, get a proper job. Hunting isn't worth it, not anymore. He's done. Time to settle down do something else.
“What do you think, Dean-o? Think I'm cut out for civilian life? It's nearly Christmas, you know. Maybe it's a sign. Time for a change. Turn over a new leaf, just in time for the new decade.”
In Fairmont he gets a lead on a possible haunting in Fort Dodge -two deaths already- and he knows he can't give it up. Not really. When he turns south, though, he meets with unexpected resistance from Dean-o, who pitches a wild, squalling fit at the back of the van, barking and scratching and making such a fuss that he's forced to pull to the side of the road and let him out.
“What the hell, buddy? Something you ate?” But he knows that's not what this is about. “I suppose you don't want to come with me, do you, Dean-o?” The dog barks, nudges his hand in a gesture that he could almost swear is apologetic. “I should have known. I'm sorry, for what it's worth, but I don't really want another dog after Zevon, either. You don't think I'm an asshole, do you? Leaving you by the side of the road?”
The dog barks again, then turns and takes off down the road without so much as looking back. He waves, can't help but feel that, this time, he's the one being left by the side of the road.
*****
Part 22
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: 1,701 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 20
For those of you who were wondering about Jerry, Zevon and Sam, here is the answer to your questions. Back to Dean tomorrow.
Hey, we're past the 2/3 mark, folks! Isn't that exciting?
*****
Jerry has never understood the appeal of winter camping. It's cold out, there's snow everywhere, and there's no way to keep warm and dry at all. In fact, Jerry doesn't much like camping, has never met a hunter who did. It must come from knowing all the other creatures that lurk in the shadows in the forest, he thinks. Who would want to spend the night alone in the woods when there are wendigos and shapeshifters and Black Dogs and will-o'-the-wisps and werewolves and dozens of other nasties with fucking huge teeth that are just waiting to tear you apart?
It's not surprising to him, therefore, when he finds the campsite of the latest people to go missing looking as though a whole herd of grizzly bears has rampaged through. He also thinks that grizzlies don't travel in herds, but that's not exactly important now, is it? He kneels amidst the wreckage, the two tents torn into shreds, the remains of the campfire strewn about in the snow, the embers long cold. The packs have exploded all over the place, bloody clothes draped over everything else.
“Looks like a wendigo to me,” he tells the dogs. Zevon has his little yellow felt coat on, because terriers aren't made for this weather, but Dean-o is looking just fine, his thick coat protecting him from the cold, lucky bastard. “Too bad all the tracks are trampled. I never was much good at that part, though. Good thing for me I can compensate in all other areas of life,” he quips, and not for the first time wishes that he either had a human partner, or else that the dogs could better appreciate his sense of humour.
“Well, I've got drag marks leading this way. I think we might actually have enough daylight to catch this thing. What do you say, boys?”
Zevon doesn't say anything, as usual, but Dean-o utters a low, whining growl that smacks of disapproval. Jerry looks over at him, sees him crouched on the ground, ears back, tail low, sniffing at a bloodstained pair of pants.
“What, you don't like my plan? I kind of do, you know. Go in, torch the flesh-eating fucker with my handy flare gun, get out in time to grab a late-night snack at the local diner. How about it? Cheeseburgers all around! My treat. Not that we have a choice, I don't think kibble is legal tender.”
The dogs don't look impressed, but neither one of them puts up an argument. A thin layer of ice has formed over the snow, and his boots crunch loudly through the crust as he walks. Zevon skids and slides over the surface, and their newest buddy doesn't appear to have too much trouble forging his way ahead. So much for a stealthy approach. Then again, it's not as though he was really counting on the element of surprise, given how wendigos are pretty much perfect hunters. So the best he can do now is rely on speed, and on being smarter than the son of a bitch, which is easier said than done.
At least the drag marks are easy to follow: a thick line through the drifts where the bodies dug furrows in the newly-fallen snow. He follows the trail through the wood, further than he thought it would lead, until finally he stops in his tracks, staring. There's a corpse on the ground, obviously one of the campers, its face gone, flesh shredded, limbs dislocated like a puppet's. He goes down on one knee, checks it automatically for a pulse even though he knows it's useless. This isn't right, and just in case his gut instinct wasn't enough to go on, both dogs are losing their shit right at this moment. Zevon is barking furiously, and Dean-o's hackles are raised, lips drawn back from his teeth in a fearsome snarl, and man that dog is fucking huge. Jerry takes a step back involuntarily, until he sees that even though the dog is facing him, it's not growling at him.
He whirls in time to see a huge black shadow launch itself at him from the tree line. There's a blur of pain and his vision explodes with stars, and the next thing he knows he's rolling on the ground, the sound of snarling and growling loud in his ears. He scrambles, trying to get to his feet, but his limbs aren't working the way they're supposed to, his ears are ringing, and he can't see. There's something in his eyes, sticky and warm, gluing the lids together. All around him all he can hear is roaring and barking and snarling, the ugly collision of warm bodies, the crunch of paws in the snow, the clash of fangs. It's not a wendigo: it's obvious now that the Black Dog has exploded into their midst like the supernatural equivalent of a surgical strike. He hears Zevon barking madly, all rage and defiance hears a shrill yelp, and then it's just the sound of the Black Dog and Dean-o going at it, tooth and claw.
Jerry scrapes the blood out of his eyes with fingers frozen by the snow, gropes for his rifle which has gone skidding just out of reach. He pulls it up to his shoulder, prays that it won't jam after being dropped in the snow and generally abused, thanks every god in the sky that he loaded it with silver rounds (not deadly to wendigo, but more effective than regular rounds), and looks for an opening. The Black Dog outweighs Dean-o by a good sixty pounds, but he'll be damned if the sorry-looking stray isn't putting up a hell of a fight. He's a smart fighter, too, taking advantage of his smaller size and speed to keep the Black Dog off-balance, circling, darting in to slash at it with his fangs as he rushes past it, wheels and comes at it from a different direction, blindingly fast. For a few seconds it almost seems like there are two or three dogs attacking.
“Get out of the way!” he yells, sighting down the rifle barrel, and damned if the dog doesn't listen to him, peeling away and giving him plenty of room to put three bullets in the ugly bastard's skull. He staggers to his feet, lurches over to the body, nudges it with the toe of his boot. “Looks like it's salt 'n' burn time, boys. You did a good job. Good dogs.”
He hears Dean-o whine, turns, and that's when he sees the small yellow bundle lying at the foot of a tree, terribly still. His vision blurs with sudden tears, and he drops to his knees in the snow, his rifle forgotten. He reaches out, brushes the tips of his fingers against Zevon's muzzle, over the yellow felt of his ludicrous winter coat. There's a pool of blood congealing in the snow, turning it into a morass of reddish sludge. He can't see any injuries, and somewhere at the back of his mind it registers that the wound must be on Zevon's other side, the one on which he's lying.
“Aw, Zev,” he mutters, his voice thick. “Buddy.”
There's a soft whine, and Dean nudges his elbow, as though trying to comfort him. Automatically he drops his hand, pats the dog's head.
“You're a good dog,” he manages, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist. “Not as good as Zevon, but you're a good dog, Dean-o. I won't do you the disservice of wishing it was you lying there instead of him.”
He swallows hard, pulls salt and a small container of gasoline out of his pack, lights up the corpse of the Black Dog, and wishes that there was a more violent way of dealing with its sorry carcass, because the fucker just killed his best friend, and salting and burning it feels so fucking inadequate. Dean follows at his heels as he heads back, Zevon's broken body cradled in his arms. He wraps the little dog in a blanket, figures he'll see if one of the nearby towns has a proper pet cemetery (and not one on an old Indian burial ground, or any fucked-up shit like that: Zevon's earned his place in doggy heaven, no sense bringing him back as an abomination), lays him gently at the back of the Winnebago.
They drive west for a while longer, Dean-o settled morosely on the back seat. The van is quiet: Jerry can't even bring himself to play music. He thinks that maybe he'll stick around the town where he buries Zevon, get a proper job. Hunting isn't worth it, not anymore. He's done. Time to settle down do something else.
“What do you think, Dean-o? Think I'm cut out for civilian life? It's nearly Christmas, you know. Maybe it's a sign. Time for a change. Turn over a new leaf, just in time for the new decade.”
In Fairmont he gets a lead on a possible haunting in Fort Dodge -two deaths already- and he knows he can't give it up. Not really. When he turns south, though, he meets with unexpected resistance from Dean-o, who pitches a wild, squalling fit at the back of the van, barking and scratching and making such a fuss that he's forced to pull to the side of the road and let him out.
“What the hell, buddy? Something you ate?” But he knows that's not what this is about. “I suppose you don't want to come with me, do you, Dean-o?” The dog barks, nudges his hand in a gesture that he could almost swear is apologetic. “I should have known. I'm sorry, for what it's worth, but I don't really want another dog after Zevon, either. You don't think I'm an asshole, do you? Leaving you by the side of the road?”
The dog barks again, then turns and takes off down the road without so much as looking back. He waves, can't help but feel that, this time, he's the one being left by the side of the road.
*****
Part 22