Take Me Home -Part 15
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: 1,734 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 14
Another outsider POV. In a couple of chapters, we'll be finding out what happened to Dean. Cross my heart!
*****
“The next time we go fishing, I vote we either pack more coffee, or else we pick a day when it's not raining,” Luther Briggs says, although whether he expects an answer or is just talking to hear the sound of his own voice is more than Charlie Ross can say. Luther may be his best friend, but there are times when he thinks a good ass-kicking might make him quit his perennial bitching. That's the problem with retirement, he thinks: too much time to get worked up over inconsequential things.
“The fish like it when it rains, Luther. Gets them all riled up, you know it.”
“Well, it's cold out and my socks are soaked through. Do we have any coffee left?”
“Thermos is at your feet.”
“Why are we fishing when it's this damned cold, anyway? It's November. Who in their right minds goes fishing in November?” Luther pours the coffee out into the lid of the thermos, blows on it a bit to cool it enough to drink.
“I don't recall twisting your arm. In fact, this was your idea, if memory serves.” Luther is never at his best early in the morning, and this appears to be no exception. At least he's not complaining about how Obama is fucking up the country anymore. Arguing politics at five o'clock in the morning out in the middle of Lake Michigan is not Charlie's idea of fun.
“Well, you're my friend, aren't you? It's your job to talk me out of all the stupid ideas I come up with,” Luther grouses, but he's smiling now, and that means the rest of the day is looking up.
“Yeah, 'cause look how well that's worked out for me in the past,” Charlie jokes, and they share a quiet laugh.
They sit for a while in silence, watching their bobbers on the rippling surface of the water. Charlie gazes out at the water, idly scanning the horizon. There are lots of other boats out, there always are. It's lake Michigan, not some pond in the middle of nowhere. Still, it's peaceful out here, with only the sound of the water lapping at the boat and the distant drone of motors. The sound of quiet splashing attracts his attention: it doesn't sound right, not like any kind of boat he's accustomed to.
“You hear that?” he asks, looking around, his rod forgotten. He spots it a moment later, before Luther even has time to asks him what he's talking about. “There! In the water,” he points. “Is that a dog?”
He shields his eyes with his hands, wishes he'd brought his binoculars, but it's definitely a dog, swimming with its head just above the water. He can't see its paws, but he bets they're pumping steadily. Its nose is pointed west, heading directly toward the middle of the lake.
Luther peers over his shoulder. “Sure looks like it. What the hell is it doing in the lake?”
“Maybe it fell off a boat?”
“It's going the wrong way, if it wants to get to shore,” Luther says quietly. “The way it's going, it's going to exhaust itself and drown.”
“Not if we do something about it,” Charlie answers decisively. He pulls both rods out of the water, reels in the lines, and guns the motor. Luther sighs melodramatically.
“You always did have a soft heart, Charlie Ross. Just how do you propose getting that soggy mutt out of the water, anyhow?”
“I'll tell you when we get there.”
The dog isn't all that far, but it ignores them as the boat pulls alongside, still paddling determinedly, its tail streaming out behind it in the water. It takes some doing, but Charlie hands over the helm to Luther and has him maneuver the boat in front of the dog. He leans out over the stern, and although the dog tries to duck past him he grabs it by the collar and hauls it on board amidst failing limbs and waterlogged fur. The boat rocks drunkenly for a few moments, but it's big enough to hold them all comfortably, even with a giant struggling dog. The dog kicks him in the stomach by accident, winding him, and the two of them topple in an ungainly heap in the bottom of the boat, to the sound of Luther practically busting a gut at their expense.
“Oh, hilarious, Luther.”
“Oh, come on! It's hysterical!” Luther is holding his sides, shaking with laughter. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
“Quit laughing and help me up, asshole.”
The dog manages to get to its feet first and shakes itself, ears popping and water flying everywhere. Luther sputters indignantly, his face covered in water droplets, and this time it's Charlie's turn to laugh as Luther hauls him to his feet.
“Serves you right.”
“All right, all right,” Luther rolls his eyes. “So now we've got the thing, what do you want to do with it?”
Charlie shrugs, then grabs one of the emergency woolen blankets and uses it rub down the dog, which has started to shiver in the cold morning air. “What were you doing all the way out here, buddy?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. “You're an awful long way from shore. D'you fall off a boat?”
“You know the dog can't answer, right?”
“Yes, Luther, I know that. I figure we ought to bring it to shore. No use trying to find which boat it came from, there are dozens of them. Be a waste of time. Someone on shore will be looking, for sure.”
“So we're cutting short the fishing trip?”
“You just said you were cold and wet. Seems like the dog's doing you a favour.”
“Whatever. I'll get us turned around, maybe we'll be able to get back in time for a few nibbles, at least. Just keep that mutt away from my coffee.”
The moment the boat begins heading toward the shore, though, the dog goes ballistic. It shucks off the blanket, squirms out of Charlie's grasp, and makes a determined dive back into the water, where it starts swimming again in the opposite direction.
“Holy Jesus -what the hell? Luther! Turn back!”
“What the... what's wrong with that animal?”
“I don't know. Come on, we have to get it back on board.”
“What? Why? It just jumped ship -literally.”
“I'm not leaving it to die out here, Luther!” Charlie snaps. “Turn the boat around!”
There's a repeat performance of the previous circus act, except this time the dog manages to shove a paw in his face, almost in his mouth, and Luther just about ruptures something laughing at him again. See if he ever lets Luther come fishing in his boat again, the asshole. There's no persuading the dog to stay put, though: every time they make for shore, the dog makes a break for it, and eventually Charlie gives up. The boat sits, idle, while he stares morosely at the dog, which grins happily at him, its tongue hanging out.
“You are a strange dog, Sam,” he says mildly.
“How'd you know its name?”
“Says so on its tag.”
“There any other information?”
“Nope, just the name.”
“So what now? I'm not staying out here forever just so your new foundling doesn't try to become the newest resident of Davy Jones' locker.”
“That's the ocean. This is Lake Michigan.”
“Whatever. I'm still not staying out here.”
Charlie gazes thoughtfully at the dog. “You know, I think it was trying to get across, crazy mutt.”
“Across? That's insane. It would never make it. No animal in its right mind would try that!”
“A dog might, if it was determined enough. Maybe a horse, if its rider told it to.”
“I don't follow.”
“It's a domesticated animal thing. Going past the point of endurance for a master.”
Luther grunts noncommittally, and Charlie can tell he's wearing his Charlie-has-come-up-with-yet-another-harebrained-notion expression. Which, to be fair, is accurate in this case.
“Let's take it across.”
“What?”
“Let's take it across.”
“Charlie, that's even more insane. Do you know how far that is? Do you even have enough gas?”
“Filled up the tank before we set out, and I have a couple of spare gas cans. More than enough. Come on, where's your sense of adventure?”
“Left it at home in bed, sleeping. I should have followed its example.”
Charlie snorts, takes control of the helm, and leaves Luther to sit with the dog, smiling to himself as his friend surreptitiously scratches behind the dog's ears. It's a fine-looking animal, in spite of being bedraggled and wet, its ribs showing through its coat. Looks pure-bred, and very friendly. It licks at Luther's face with a large pink tongue until he shoves it aside with an indignant splutter, then contents itself with licking his hands. Charlie doesn't bother to hide his grin, keeps his eye on the horizon. The dog settles in the bow of the boat, nose to the wind, tongue lolling, and for a moment he wishes that it wasn't so intent on getting to wherever it wanted to go, that it would just come home with him. Of course, his wife would kill him, or at least make him sleep on the sofa for the next four months. They've already got three cats and a terrier, and she's made him swear up and down that he's done taking in strays.
So instead he finds himself crossing Lake Michigan with his best friend on a rainy November morning, and hours later he watches as the dog leaps from the bow of the boat with a tremendous splash and wades the rest of the way to shore, before he can even think of trying to find a place to dock. It struggles onto the bank, shakes itself again, and looks back at the boat for a moment before heading westward once more. Wordlessly, Charlie raises a hand in farewell, and Luther snorts.
“I am dying to hear how you're going to explain this to your wife.”
*****
Part 16
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: 1,734 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 14
Another outsider POV. In a couple of chapters, we'll be finding out what happened to Dean. Cross my heart!
*****
“The next time we go fishing, I vote we either pack more coffee, or else we pick a day when it's not raining,” Luther Briggs says, although whether he expects an answer or is just talking to hear the sound of his own voice is more than Charlie Ross can say. Luther may be his best friend, but there are times when he thinks a good ass-kicking might make him quit his perennial bitching. That's the problem with retirement, he thinks: too much time to get worked up over inconsequential things.
“The fish like it when it rains, Luther. Gets them all riled up, you know it.”
“Well, it's cold out and my socks are soaked through. Do we have any coffee left?”
“Thermos is at your feet.”
“Why are we fishing when it's this damned cold, anyway? It's November. Who in their right minds goes fishing in November?” Luther pours the coffee out into the lid of the thermos, blows on it a bit to cool it enough to drink.
“I don't recall twisting your arm. In fact, this was your idea, if memory serves.” Luther is never at his best early in the morning, and this appears to be no exception. At least he's not complaining about how Obama is fucking up the country anymore. Arguing politics at five o'clock in the morning out in the middle of Lake Michigan is not Charlie's idea of fun.
“Well, you're my friend, aren't you? It's your job to talk me out of all the stupid ideas I come up with,” Luther grouses, but he's smiling now, and that means the rest of the day is looking up.
“Yeah, 'cause look how well that's worked out for me in the past,” Charlie jokes, and they share a quiet laugh.
They sit for a while in silence, watching their bobbers on the rippling surface of the water. Charlie gazes out at the water, idly scanning the horizon. There are lots of other boats out, there always are. It's lake Michigan, not some pond in the middle of nowhere. Still, it's peaceful out here, with only the sound of the water lapping at the boat and the distant drone of motors. The sound of quiet splashing attracts his attention: it doesn't sound right, not like any kind of boat he's accustomed to.
“You hear that?” he asks, looking around, his rod forgotten. He spots it a moment later, before Luther even has time to asks him what he's talking about. “There! In the water,” he points. “Is that a dog?”
He shields his eyes with his hands, wishes he'd brought his binoculars, but it's definitely a dog, swimming with its head just above the water. He can't see its paws, but he bets they're pumping steadily. Its nose is pointed west, heading directly toward the middle of the lake.
Luther peers over his shoulder. “Sure looks like it. What the hell is it doing in the lake?”
“Maybe it fell off a boat?”
“It's going the wrong way, if it wants to get to shore,” Luther says quietly. “The way it's going, it's going to exhaust itself and drown.”
“Not if we do something about it,” Charlie answers decisively. He pulls both rods out of the water, reels in the lines, and guns the motor. Luther sighs melodramatically.
“You always did have a soft heart, Charlie Ross. Just how do you propose getting that soggy mutt out of the water, anyhow?”
“I'll tell you when we get there.”
The dog isn't all that far, but it ignores them as the boat pulls alongside, still paddling determinedly, its tail streaming out behind it in the water. It takes some doing, but Charlie hands over the helm to Luther and has him maneuver the boat in front of the dog. He leans out over the stern, and although the dog tries to duck past him he grabs it by the collar and hauls it on board amidst failing limbs and waterlogged fur. The boat rocks drunkenly for a few moments, but it's big enough to hold them all comfortably, even with a giant struggling dog. The dog kicks him in the stomach by accident, winding him, and the two of them topple in an ungainly heap in the bottom of the boat, to the sound of Luther practically busting a gut at their expense.
“Oh, hilarious, Luther.”
“Oh, come on! It's hysterical!” Luther is holding his sides, shaking with laughter. “No good deed goes unpunished.”
“Quit laughing and help me up, asshole.”
The dog manages to get to its feet first and shakes itself, ears popping and water flying everywhere. Luther sputters indignantly, his face covered in water droplets, and this time it's Charlie's turn to laugh as Luther hauls him to his feet.
“Serves you right.”
“All right, all right,” Luther rolls his eyes. “So now we've got the thing, what do you want to do with it?”
Charlie shrugs, then grabs one of the emergency woolen blankets and uses it rub down the dog, which has started to shiver in the cold morning air. “What were you doing all the way out here, buddy?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. “You're an awful long way from shore. D'you fall off a boat?”
“You know the dog can't answer, right?”
“Yes, Luther, I know that. I figure we ought to bring it to shore. No use trying to find which boat it came from, there are dozens of them. Be a waste of time. Someone on shore will be looking, for sure.”
“So we're cutting short the fishing trip?”
“You just said you were cold and wet. Seems like the dog's doing you a favour.”
“Whatever. I'll get us turned around, maybe we'll be able to get back in time for a few nibbles, at least. Just keep that mutt away from my coffee.”
The moment the boat begins heading toward the shore, though, the dog goes ballistic. It shucks off the blanket, squirms out of Charlie's grasp, and makes a determined dive back into the water, where it starts swimming again in the opposite direction.
“Holy Jesus -what the hell? Luther! Turn back!”
“What the... what's wrong with that animal?”
“I don't know. Come on, we have to get it back on board.”
“What? Why? It just jumped ship -literally.”
“I'm not leaving it to die out here, Luther!” Charlie snaps. “Turn the boat around!”
There's a repeat performance of the previous circus act, except this time the dog manages to shove a paw in his face, almost in his mouth, and Luther just about ruptures something laughing at him again. See if he ever lets Luther come fishing in his boat again, the asshole. There's no persuading the dog to stay put, though: every time they make for shore, the dog makes a break for it, and eventually Charlie gives up. The boat sits, idle, while he stares morosely at the dog, which grins happily at him, its tongue hanging out.
“You are a strange dog, Sam,” he says mildly.
“How'd you know its name?”
“Says so on its tag.”
“There any other information?”
“Nope, just the name.”
“So what now? I'm not staying out here forever just so your new foundling doesn't try to become the newest resident of Davy Jones' locker.”
“That's the ocean. This is Lake Michigan.”
“Whatever. I'm still not staying out here.”
Charlie gazes thoughtfully at the dog. “You know, I think it was trying to get across, crazy mutt.”
“Across? That's insane. It would never make it. No animal in its right mind would try that!”
“A dog might, if it was determined enough. Maybe a horse, if its rider told it to.”
“I don't follow.”
“It's a domesticated animal thing. Going past the point of endurance for a master.”
Luther grunts noncommittally, and Charlie can tell he's wearing his Charlie-has-come-up-with-yet-another-harebrained-notion expression. Which, to be fair, is accurate in this case.
“Let's take it across.”
“What?”
“Let's take it across.”
“Charlie, that's even more insane. Do you know how far that is? Do you even have enough gas?”
“Filled up the tank before we set out, and I have a couple of spare gas cans. More than enough. Come on, where's your sense of adventure?”
“Left it at home in bed, sleeping. I should have followed its example.”
Charlie snorts, takes control of the helm, and leaves Luther to sit with the dog, smiling to himself as his friend surreptitiously scratches behind the dog's ears. It's a fine-looking animal, in spite of being bedraggled and wet, its ribs showing through its coat. Looks pure-bred, and very friendly. It licks at Luther's face with a large pink tongue until he shoves it aside with an indignant splutter, then contents itself with licking his hands. Charlie doesn't bother to hide his grin, keeps his eye on the horizon. The dog settles in the bow of the boat, nose to the wind, tongue lolling, and for a moment he wishes that it wasn't so intent on getting to wherever it wanted to go, that it would just come home with him. Of course, his wife would kill him, or at least make him sleep on the sofa for the next four months. They've already got three cats and a terrier, and she's made him swear up and down that he's done taking in strays.
So instead he finds himself crossing Lake Michigan with his best friend on a rainy November morning, and hours later he watches as the dog leaps from the bow of the boat with a tremendous splash and wades the rest of the way to shore, before he can even think of trying to find a place to dock. It struggles onto the bank, shakes itself again, and looks back at the boat for a moment before heading westward once more. Wordlessly, Charlie raises a hand in farewell, and Luther snorts.
“I am dying to hear how you're going to explain this to your wife.”
*****
Part 16