Take Me Home -Part 4
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: 1,637 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 3
*****
Dean is awakened the next morning by something cold and wet being thrust right under his chin. He snorts and flails, can't quite get his bearings for a moment, and suddenly finds himself face to face with a black muzzle. It all comes back to him in a rush, and he groans.
“Still not back to normal, I see?”
The dog gives a desperate-sounding whine, then trots over to the door and scratches at it with one paw. Dean glances at the clock, realizes that it's stupidly early.
“I guess when you gotta go, you gotta go,” he mutters, and staggers to the door. He feels like he went on a bender the night before, complete with a nasty taste on his tongue, but alas it looks like he was completely sober and didn't imagine his little brother getting turned into Rin-Tin-Tin. He opens the door. “Out you go. And no, I'm not coming with you. Our relationship is plenty weird and awkward enough without my accompanying you while you... go do your thing,” he flaps a hand vaguely in the direction of the outdoors. “I'll leave the door open. Find some trees or someone's lawn, or something. I'll wait here. And don't you dare piss on my baby!” he yells at the last minute at Sam's retreating hindquarters.
He waits until Sam gets back, trotting slowly, tail held high, shuts the door and draws the chain again. Sam jumps on the bed turns around a few times before letting himself fall with a whump and a contented sigh.
“I'm hitting the shower, and then we're out of here. We're going to Bobby's, and it's not like it's next door from here. Why couldn't you wait until we were close to South Dakota before pissing off an archangel?”
He doesn't wait for an answer, shuts the door to the bathroom behind him and runs the shower as hot as he can stand it, his stomach twisting strangely. It's hard to muster the same levels of panic as when Sam is missing or injured: he's here, and he's fine, or as fine as he can be under the circumstances, but it's still all sorts of wrong. Dean is out of his depth here, and he knows it. This isn't something he can shoot or stab or salt and burn. It's just Sam, and some serious angelic mojo. He's pulling on his clothes, thankful for small mercies that the dog isn't watching him -'cause that would be way too weird- when his cell phone rings.
“Dean?”
“Cas, this isn't a good time,” he struggles for balance, trying to pull on his jeans while holding the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear.
“It is important.”
“It's always important -it's the damned apocalypse. When is anything you call about not important?”
“Never.”
He smacks the wall with his fist, forces himself to clamp down on his frustration. “What is it?”
“Where are you?”
“West Virginia,” he reads off the name and address of the motel from the pad of paper on the bedside table, and before he's even had time to shut off his phone, Castiel is standing next to him, disconcertingly close. He jumps. “Cas! How many times do we need to have the 'personal space' discussion?”
“I apologize,” Castiel takes two steps back. “I am not always able to gauge small distances accurately while you are hidden from my sight.”
Dean stares at him. “You better not ever land on top of me.”
“I assure you that will not be the case,” Cas is looking around the room curiously. “Where is Samuel?”
Dean heaves a sigh, motions to the bed. “Right there.”
Castiel tilts his head to the side in that vaguely constipated-looking way he has when the ways of humans have flummoxed him. “I don't understand. Why is Samuel a dog?”
At least he didn't have to explain the dog part. Must be some form of angelic x-ray vision. Or maybe it's just that Cas never seems to question anything Dean tells him, which is disturbing in its own right. “I don't know. The best I can figure is that Gabriel's using us for his own twisted amusement again.”
“Gabriel was here?”
“Well, not here-here, but yeah,” Dean flaps a hand vaguely. “Made cryptic remarks about dogs, and the next thing I know Sam here is the star for a Puppy Chow commercial. I'm taking him to Bobby's, see if we can fix it. I don't suppose there's anything you can do?” he looks up, allowing himself to hope for a split-second that even fallen angel mojo might be able to work on this, bring Sammy back to his old self, but Castiel shakes his head.
“I am sorry. This is well beyond what little I am able to do.”
“I was afraid you'd say that. Look, whatever it is you need me to do, can it wait? The Winchester shop is running a little short-handed until I can get Sam back to normal, or whatever.”
“It cannot wait, I am sorry. But it is not very far from South Dakota, so you will not be taken far out of your way.” He hands Dean a slip of paper. “There is a person at this location with whom you should speak.”
“Oh yeah? About what?” Dean bends over to pick up the clothes he left on the floor last night and toss them into his bag, and when he straightens, the angel is gone. “Terrific. I think angels are physically incapable of giving straight answers. Okay, Sammy boy, let's hit the road. We have a long drive ahead of us.”
Sam bounces to his feet, hits the floor with a thump, wags his tail enthusiastically, then shoves his nose against Dean's thigh, leaving a wet smear on the denim.
“Oh, dude, gross. Why the hell do dogs have to have wet noses, anyway? Nasty. Hey!” Sam is nudging him insistently. “What? I already let you out. What? Oh,” he feels suddenly stupid as his own stomach growls. “Breakfast. Right. When's the last time we ate, anyway?” He thinks it may have been lunch yesterday, or maybe even breakfast. Either way, he's starving, and if he remembers anything about dogs it's that they're basically stomachs on legs. He packs up the car, spreads a blanket on the passenger seat, turns to see Sam sitting in the doorway, watching him.
“Okay, let's see how much of a dog you really are,” he says quietly, then bends over, hands on his knees, raises his voice an octave, almost falsetto, keeps his tone light, happy. “C'mon Sammy! C'mere boy! Come to Dean!”
It's like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. The dog leaps to its feet in a frenzy of overjoyed barking, throws itself at him and shoulder-blocks him so hard he nearly falls. He laughs, thumps Sam's ribcage. “What a good boy you are, Sammy! What a good dog! C'mere you big old goofball!” He flips the dog onto its back, rubs its belly as it squirms, tail lashing, grinning all the while. “Let's go get some breakfast, buddy. C'mon, in!”
Sam bounces into the front seat, immediately sticks his head out of the window when Dean rolls it down, lets his tongue hang out, squinting happily into the wind. He whines when Dean leaves him in the car, scratches at the door.
“Hey, hey! Watch it with those claws of yours on my baby! Look, buddy, I can't take you into the diner with me, and it's too cold to leave you outside, even if it is only October, so you're staying in the car. I'll stop after and get you food. I think I saw a pet supply place in town.”
Sam whines again, then settles down with a resigned air, nose on his front paws, hazel eyes staring reproachfully at Dean.
“That settles it. You're definitely Sam. Only Sam can pull off a bitchface like that. God, and I thought the puppy dog eyes were bad when you were human. Now they're actual puppy dog eyes,” he grumbles. “Look, I promise, there will be food soon. But I'm the big brother here, you're the bitch who got turned into a dog -and how funny would it have been if you were an actual bitch? Okay, maybe too ironic there- and anyway, I'm getting food first. Opposable thumbs totally trumps cute dog. Got it?”
There's an insulted huff of air, but Dean is the one with the car keys, and so he gets to have breakfast first. He tucks into his bacon and eggs, watches the car through the window of the diner, keeping an eye on Sam. Sure, he left the window cracked open, but don't people's dogs suffocate to death all the time in cars? Maybe that's just in the summer, when it's hot. Still, he doesn't want to take any chances. He leaves an overly-generous tip, sneaks half his bacon into a napkin, and heads back to the car.
Sam is as overjoyed at getting bacon as any dog usually is, and then Dean gets treated to some very enthusiastic bacon-flavoured doggy kisses.
“Sam! Bad dog! Eww!” he shoves him aside, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Ugh. That's seriously nasty. Okay, new rule. No licking me on the lips, got it?”
All he gets is another of those shit-eating grins. He's not even sure he got his point across. Rolling his eyes, he switches on the ignition, heads into town.
*****
Part 5
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: 1,637 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 3
*****
Dean is awakened the next morning by something cold and wet being thrust right under his chin. He snorts and flails, can't quite get his bearings for a moment, and suddenly finds himself face to face with a black muzzle. It all comes back to him in a rush, and he groans.
“Still not back to normal, I see?”
The dog gives a desperate-sounding whine, then trots over to the door and scratches at it with one paw. Dean glances at the clock, realizes that it's stupidly early.
“I guess when you gotta go, you gotta go,” he mutters, and staggers to the door. He feels like he went on a bender the night before, complete with a nasty taste on his tongue, but alas it looks like he was completely sober and didn't imagine his little brother getting turned into Rin-Tin-Tin. He opens the door. “Out you go. And no, I'm not coming with you. Our relationship is plenty weird and awkward enough without my accompanying you while you... go do your thing,” he flaps a hand vaguely in the direction of the outdoors. “I'll leave the door open. Find some trees or someone's lawn, or something. I'll wait here. And don't you dare piss on my baby!” he yells at the last minute at Sam's retreating hindquarters.
He waits until Sam gets back, trotting slowly, tail held high, shuts the door and draws the chain again. Sam jumps on the bed turns around a few times before letting himself fall with a whump and a contented sigh.
“I'm hitting the shower, and then we're out of here. We're going to Bobby's, and it's not like it's next door from here. Why couldn't you wait until we were close to South Dakota before pissing off an archangel?”
He doesn't wait for an answer, shuts the door to the bathroom behind him and runs the shower as hot as he can stand it, his stomach twisting strangely. It's hard to muster the same levels of panic as when Sam is missing or injured: he's here, and he's fine, or as fine as he can be under the circumstances, but it's still all sorts of wrong. Dean is out of his depth here, and he knows it. This isn't something he can shoot or stab or salt and burn. It's just Sam, and some serious angelic mojo. He's pulling on his clothes, thankful for small mercies that the dog isn't watching him -'cause that would be way too weird- when his cell phone rings.
“Dean?”
“Cas, this isn't a good time,” he struggles for balance, trying to pull on his jeans while holding the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear.
“It is important.”
“It's always important -it's the damned apocalypse. When is anything you call about not important?”
“Never.”
He smacks the wall with his fist, forces himself to clamp down on his frustration. “What is it?”
“Where are you?”
“West Virginia,” he reads off the name and address of the motel from the pad of paper on the bedside table, and before he's even had time to shut off his phone, Castiel is standing next to him, disconcertingly close. He jumps. “Cas! How many times do we need to have the 'personal space' discussion?”
“I apologize,” Castiel takes two steps back. “I am not always able to gauge small distances accurately while you are hidden from my sight.”
Dean stares at him. “You better not ever land on top of me.”
“I assure you that will not be the case,” Cas is looking around the room curiously. “Where is Samuel?”
Dean heaves a sigh, motions to the bed. “Right there.”
Castiel tilts his head to the side in that vaguely constipated-looking way he has when the ways of humans have flummoxed him. “I don't understand. Why is Samuel a dog?”
At least he didn't have to explain the dog part. Must be some form of angelic x-ray vision. Or maybe it's just that Cas never seems to question anything Dean tells him, which is disturbing in its own right. “I don't know. The best I can figure is that Gabriel's using us for his own twisted amusement again.”
“Gabriel was here?”
“Well, not here-here, but yeah,” Dean flaps a hand vaguely. “Made cryptic remarks about dogs, and the next thing I know Sam here is the star for a Puppy Chow commercial. I'm taking him to Bobby's, see if we can fix it. I don't suppose there's anything you can do?” he looks up, allowing himself to hope for a split-second that even fallen angel mojo might be able to work on this, bring Sammy back to his old self, but Castiel shakes his head.
“I am sorry. This is well beyond what little I am able to do.”
“I was afraid you'd say that. Look, whatever it is you need me to do, can it wait? The Winchester shop is running a little short-handed until I can get Sam back to normal, or whatever.”
“It cannot wait, I am sorry. But it is not very far from South Dakota, so you will not be taken far out of your way.” He hands Dean a slip of paper. “There is a person at this location with whom you should speak.”
“Oh yeah? About what?” Dean bends over to pick up the clothes he left on the floor last night and toss them into his bag, and when he straightens, the angel is gone. “Terrific. I think angels are physically incapable of giving straight answers. Okay, Sammy boy, let's hit the road. We have a long drive ahead of us.”
Sam bounces to his feet, hits the floor with a thump, wags his tail enthusiastically, then shoves his nose against Dean's thigh, leaving a wet smear on the denim.
“Oh, dude, gross. Why the hell do dogs have to have wet noses, anyway? Nasty. Hey!” Sam is nudging him insistently. “What? I already let you out. What? Oh,” he feels suddenly stupid as his own stomach growls. “Breakfast. Right. When's the last time we ate, anyway?” He thinks it may have been lunch yesterday, or maybe even breakfast. Either way, he's starving, and if he remembers anything about dogs it's that they're basically stomachs on legs. He packs up the car, spreads a blanket on the passenger seat, turns to see Sam sitting in the doorway, watching him.
“Okay, let's see how much of a dog you really are,” he says quietly, then bends over, hands on his knees, raises his voice an octave, almost falsetto, keeps his tone light, happy. “C'mon Sammy! C'mere boy! Come to Dean!”
It's like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. The dog leaps to its feet in a frenzy of overjoyed barking, throws itself at him and shoulder-blocks him so hard he nearly falls. He laughs, thumps Sam's ribcage. “What a good boy you are, Sammy! What a good dog! C'mere you big old goofball!” He flips the dog onto its back, rubs its belly as it squirms, tail lashing, grinning all the while. “Let's go get some breakfast, buddy. C'mon, in!”
Sam bounces into the front seat, immediately sticks his head out of the window when Dean rolls it down, lets his tongue hang out, squinting happily into the wind. He whines when Dean leaves him in the car, scratches at the door.
“Hey, hey! Watch it with those claws of yours on my baby! Look, buddy, I can't take you into the diner with me, and it's too cold to leave you outside, even if it is only October, so you're staying in the car. I'll stop after and get you food. I think I saw a pet supply place in town.”
Sam whines again, then settles down with a resigned air, nose on his front paws, hazel eyes staring reproachfully at Dean.
“That settles it. You're definitely Sam. Only Sam can pull off a bitchface like that. God, and I thought the puppy dog eyes were bad when you were human. Now they're actual puppy dog eyes,” he grumbles. “Look, I promise, there will be food soon. But I'm the big brother here, you're the bitch who got turned into a dog -and how funny would it have been if you were an actual bitch? Okay, maybe too ironic there- and anyway, I'm getting food first. Opposable thumbs totally trumps cute dog. Got it?”
There's an insulted huff of air, but Dean is the one with the car keys, and so he gets to have breakfast first. He tucks into his bacon and eggs, watches the car through the window of the diner, keeping an eye on Sam. Sure, he left the window cracked open, but don't people's dogs suffocate to death all the time in cars? Maybe that's just in the summer, when it's hot. Still, he doesn't want to take any chances. He leaves an overly-generous tip, sneaks half his bacon into a napkin, and heads back to the car.
Sam is as overjoyed at getting bacon as any dog usually is, and then Dean gets treated to some very enthusiastic bacon-flavoured doggy kisses.
“Sam! Bad dog! Eww!” he shoves him aside, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Ugh. That's seriously nasty. Okay, new rule. No licking me on the lips, got it?”
All he gets is another of those shit-eating grins. He's not even sure he got his point across. Rolling his eyes, he switches on the ignition, heads into town.
*****
Part 5