Take Me Home -Part 19
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: 1,659 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 18
Back to an outsider POV just for this chapter. I'm experimenting now with a bit of switching back-and-forth. I have no idea if that will make things easier or harder to follow. Remember, folks, it's for SCIENCE!
*****
Jack Kerouac never mentioned how cold it gets when you're trying to live life on the road. Then again, Kerouac was a depressing son of a bitch even at his best, and Jerry Bonavista is surprised he didn't think of that before investing his meager savings in a beat up Winnebago and setting out in search of America. Whatever that is. He's beginning to think there's no such thing as the America he's been looking for, maybe there never has been, or maybe it's disappeared since Sal Paradise went off in the company of Carlo Marx, or whatever. He never actually finished reading the book, and maybe that should have tipped him off that this was a bad plan.
At least he's in good company. He's got Zevon riding shotgun -fifteen pounds of attitude wrapped in a Jack Russell terrier envelope- and Simon and Garfunkel playing on the iPod he managed to rig up with a jack a few months ago. He picks up the odd job here and there when the money runs low. There's also the hunting, which he enjoys, but it's not exactly a pro-ball career. He likes to think that it's not the main reason he's on the road, that he's really just a twenty-year-old in search of himself, and that's the line he feeds most people, but he's mostly figured out that, yeah, hunting is what he's going to be doing for the foreseeable future.
So that's how he finds himself just outside of Rochester, picking his way carefully along the icy roads, because God knows Winnebagos are shit at keeping the road even with winter tires, singing along to Simon & Garfunkel's Greatest Hits.
“Hang onto your hopes my friend,” he sings to Zevon, curled up on the seat beside him, “that's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away -simply pretend that you can build them again!”
Zevon has heard it all before. He's been Jerry's friend ever since he was a knock-kneed kid, tearing around the neighbourhood with him and chasing the neighbour's cat and digging up flowerbeds, and there's nothing Jerry hasn't said or done that he hasn't witnessed or had told to him in confession. So he keeps sleeping while Simon & Garfunkel inform them that seasons change with the scenery, and ask if they won't stop and remember, and that's when Jerry has to stomp as hard as he can on the brakes when a large shape appears out of nowhere in the middle of the road.
“Holy shit!”
The Winnebago skids, performs an almost perfect 180, goes sliding along the road until it comes to a stop about two inches shy of going in the ditch, leaving a zig-zag pattern of rubber marks on the asphalt. He switches off the ignition, tumbles out of the door, followed by Zevon, who's barking shrilly and basically losing his shit, grabbing the sawed-off shotgun he keeps under the seat while he's at it. He's been on the trail of what he thinks could be a wendigo, although the kills don't all quite track so it could be a skinwalker, but he wasn't expecting to run into anything until he actually got deeper into the thing's territory, let alone nearly hit it with his van. Which is why he's only armed with a damned shotgun when what he should be packing is something with silver or a flare gun, because if it does turn out to be the wendigo (why would it be on the road?), he's screwed six ways from Sunday.
His first thought when he gets a better look at the creature is that it has to be a Black Dog, but it's not. Well, it's a black dog, but in the lower-case letter sense of the word, and it's creeping along the side of the road, head and tail down, and he feels ridiculously relieved. It stops when it senses him coming -he can't tell if it heard him or smelled him or whatever- but it doesn't seem intimidated or even particularly concerned. Zevon charges at it, all bared fangs and defiance and shrill yapping, but the dog just backs up a pace and looks down at the terrier as though he's some weird apparition, a curiosity to be examined and nothing more. A moment later Zevon is circling the strange dog, stiff-legged, and they're doing the butt-sniffing thing that dogs do when they're sizing each other up, and the Zevon... God help him, Zevon is frolicking with the freaking dog. Now that's a first.
Jerry approaches carefully, but now that the strange dog has made friends with Zevon, it appears he's considered a friend too. Must be a dog thing. It's a really big dog, he realizes once he's up close: its head comes up to his hip, and he doesn't feel quite as stupid for thinking it was the fucking Hound of the Baskervilles now. A little phosphorescent paint and it would totally be the stuff of nightmares, except of course that there are plenty of supernatural dogs to go around already without making up new ones. He stretches out a hand carefully, but it doesn't try to bite him, actually leans against him and lets him pat it on the head a couple of times. It's skinny and kind of desperate-looking, its coat matted and full of brambles and burrs, but it's friendly, too. Probably some jackass kicked it out of a moving car and it's just trying to find its way home.
“Hey, boy. What're you doing out here all on your own?” It's a lucky thing he likes dogs. Common sense dictates that he should just call the local pound, but the odds are good that they're overcrowded just like everywhere else, and they'll just put it down. Shoot it full of poison or gas it or whatever humane fucking method they use, because no one wants to adopt adult dogs. Puppies are cute, but grown dogs are persona non fucking grata.
The dog wags its tail and head-butts him when he stops patting it, the message clear: “Why'd you stop, jackass?” So he grins and pats it some more, ignoring Zevon's jealous outburst.
“What am I supposed to do with you now? Can't leave you out here in the middle of winter, you'll freeze to death in a snow bank.” He kneels, checks for a collar, but although there's a slight indentation in the fur where a collar would normally be, it looks like it got ripped off. Or maybe just taken off when the asshole owners kicked their dog to the curb. “Wanna go for a ride in the car, boy?”
There's a pretty enthusiastic tail-wagging at that, although he notices that the dog hesitates when it comes to actually getting in the van.
“You're not sure about this, huh? Well, how about you just pretend you're hitching a ride? I'm Jerry, but I'm sort of trying to do the Jack Kerouac thing, so how about you be the Dean Moriarty to my Sal Paradise? You good with that name, Dean-o?”
To his surprise the dog erupts in a flurry of barking and starts jumping, romping in circles around him.
“Dean-o it is, then. Come on, boy, in you go!” He gets both dogs back into the Winnebago, settles 'Dean-o' in the back seat and Zevon in his customary place in the front, pulls out from the shoulder and back onto the road. “Go West, young man,” he says conversationally, “that's the plan, anyway. I hate to do this to you, Dean-o, but we're going to have to make a quick stop later on. Got some mysterious disappearances in the state park not far from here, and I'm pretty sure we're not dealing with a bear, the way the papers say. What do you say to a hunt? You game?”
Another short, sharp bark, and looking in the rearview mirror Jerry could swear the dog knows exactly what he's talking about. It's a little uncanny. He shrugs. It's a dog, no use reading all sorts of stuff into its motivations that isn't there. It's doing the dog and himself a disservice to treat it or think about it as though it was a human.
“You ever meet up with a wendigo, Dean-o? Nasty fuckers, let me tell you. I figure we'll head out, do some recon first during the day, try to keep ourselves from becoming its next snack. Then we go back the next day and torch the sucker. Best way to deal with 'em.”
The dog huffs what sounds like an agreement.
“Yeah, I know, it's weird. A few years ago, they were pretty rare. Hell, most of the stuff I hunt was practically extinct a few years ago, according to most of the hunters I've run into. Then all of a sudden last year everything starts up again, and there are monsters coming out of the woodwork. So I'm thinking to myself it's like the fuckin' apocalypse, am I right? Turns out, that's exactly right,” he says triumphantly, as though he's come up with it himself. “So after I get busy ganking some extra spirits, and start hearing rumours about demon signs all over the fucking map, I run into a group of hunters, and guess what they tell me? They tell me that it is the goddamned apocalypse, my hand to God. And that's why the whole supernatural world has its panties in a bunch. Two of my esteemed colleagues opened up the freaking hellmouth, or whatever, and now we're all screwed. How do you like them apples, Dean-o?”
The dog barks so sharply that Zevon sits up on the front seat and joins in on the action. Jerry nods, almost to himself.
“My sentiments exactly. All right, let's get this show on the road.”
*****
Part 20
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: 1,659 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 18
Back to an outsider POV just for this chapter. I'm experimenting now with a bit of switching back-and-forth. I have no idea if that will make things easier or harder to follow. Remember, folks, it's for SCIENCE!
*****
Jack Kerouac never mentioned how cold it gets when you're trying to live life on the road. Then again, Kerouac was a depressing son of a bitch even at his best, and Jerry Bonavista is surprised he didn't think of that before investing his meager savings in a beat up Winnebago and setting out in search of America. Whatever that is. He's beginning to think there's no such thing as the America he's been looking for, maybe there never has been, or maybe it's disappeared since Sal Paradise went off in the company of Carlo Marx, or whatever. He never actually finished reading the book, and maybe that should have tipped him off that this was a bad plan.
At least he's in good company. He's got Zevon riding shotgun -fifteen pounds of attitude wrapped in a Jack Russell terrier envelope- and Simon and Garfunkel playing on the iPod he managed to rig up with a jack a few months ago. He picks up the odd job here and there when the money runs low. There's also the hunting, which he enjoys, but it's not exactly a pro-ball career. He likes to think that it's not the main reason he's on the road, that he's really just a twenty-year-old in search of himself, and that's the line he feeds most people, but he's mostly figured out that, yeah, hunting is what he's going to be doing for the foreseeable future.
So that's how he finds himself just outside of Rochester, picking his way carefully along the icy roads, because God knows Winnebagos are shit at keeping the road even with winter tires, singing along to Simon & Garfunkel's Greatest Hits.
“Hang onto your hopes my friend,” he sings to Zevon, curled up on the seat beside him, “that's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away -simply pretend that you can build them again!”
Zevon has heard it all before. He's been Jerry's friend ever since he was a knock-kneed kid, tearing around the neighbourhood with him and chasing the neighbour's cat and digging up flowerbeds, and there's nothing Jerry hasn't said or done that he hasn't witnessed or had told to him in confession. So he keeps sleeping while Simon & Garfunkel inform them that seasons change with the scenery, and ask if they won't stop and remember, and that's when Jerry has to stomp as hard as he can on the brakes when a large shape appears out of nowhere in the middle of the road.
“Holy shit!”
The Winnebago skids, performs an almost perfect 180, goes sliding along the road until it comes to a stop about two inches shy of going in the ditch, leaving a zig-zag pattern of rubber marks on the asphalt. He switches off the ignition, tumbles out of the door, followed by Zevon, who's barking shrilly and basically losing his shit, grabbing the sawed-off shotgun he keeps under the seat while he's at it. He's been on the trail of what he thinks could be a wendigo, although the kills don't all quite track so it could be a skinwalker, but he wasn't expecting to run into anything until he actually got deeper into the thing's territory, let alone nearly hit it with his van. Which is why he's only armed with a damned shotgun when what he should be packing is something with silver or a flare gun, because if it does turn out to be the wendigo (why would it be on the road?), he's screwed six ways from Sunday.
His first thought when he gets a better look at the creature is that it has to be a Black Dog, but it's not. Well, it's a black dog, but in the lower-case letter sense of the word, and it's creeping along the side of the road, head and tail down, and he feels ridiculously relieved. It stops when it senses him coming -he can't tell if it heard him or smelled him or whatever- but it doesn't seem intimidated or even particularly concerned. Zevon charges at it, all bared fangs and defiance and shrill yapping, but the dog just backs up a pace and looks down at the terrier as though he's some weird apparition, a curiosity to be examined and nothing more. A moment later Zevon is circling the strange dog, stiff-legged, and they're doing the butt-sniffing thing that dogs do when they're sizing each other up, and the Zevon... God help him, Zevon is frolicking with the freaking dog. Now that's a first.
Jerry approaches carefully, but now that the strange dog has made friends with Zevon, it appears he's considered a friend too. Must be a dog thing. It's a really big dog, he realizes once he's up close: its head comes up to his hip, and he doesn't feel quite as stupid for thinking it was the fucking Hound of the Baskervilles now. A little phosphorescent paint and it would totally be the stuff of nightmares, except of course that there are plenty of supernatural dogs to go around already without making up new ones. He stretches out a hand carefully, but it doesn't try to bite him, actually leans against him and lets him pat it on the head a couple of times. It's skinny and kind of desperate-looking, its coat matted and full of brambles and burrs, but it's friendly, too. Probably some jackass kicked it out of a moving car and it's just trying to find its way home.
“Hey, boy. What're you doing out here all on your own?” It's a lucky thing he likes dogs. Common sense dictates that he should just call the local pound, but the odds are good that they're overcrowded just like everywhere else, and they'll just put it down. Shoot it full of poison or gas it or whatever humane fucking method they use, because no one wants to adopt adult dogs. Puppies are cute, but grown dogs are persona non fucking grata.
The dog wags its tail and head-butts him when he stops patting it, the message clear: “Why'd you stop, jackass?” So he grins and pats it some more, ignoring Zevon's jealous outburst.
“What am I supposed to do with you now? Can't leave you out here in the middle of winter, you'll freeze to death in a snow bank.” He kneels, checks for a collar, but although there's a slight indentation in the fur where a collar would normally be, it looks like it got ripped off. Or maybe just taken off when the asshole owners kicked their dog to the curb. “Wanna go for a ride in the car, boy?”
There's a pretty enthusiastic tail-wagging at that, although he notices that the dog hesitates when it comes to actually getting in the van.
“You're not sure about this, huh? Well, how about you just pretend you're hitching a ride? I'm Jerry, but I'm sort of trying to do the Jack Kerouac thing, so how about you be the Dean Moriarty to my Sal Paradise? You good with that name, Dean-o?”
To his surprise the dog erupts in a flurry of barking and starts jumping, romping in circles around him.
“Dean-o it is, then. Come on, boy, in you go!” He gets both dogs back into the Winnebago, settles 'Dean-o' in the back seat and Zevon in his customary place in the front, pulls out from the shoulder and back onto the road. “Go West, young man,” he says conversationally, “that's the plan, anyway. I hate to do this to you, Dean-o, but we're going to have to make a quick stop later on. Got some mysterious disappearances in the state park not far from here, and I'm pretty sure we're not dealing with a bear, the way the papers say. What do you say to a hunt? You game?”
Another short, sharp bark, and looking in the rearview mirror Jerry could swear the dog knows exactly what he's talking about. It's a little uncanny. He shrugs. It's a dog, no use reading all sorts of stuff into its motivations that isn't there. It's doing the dog and himself a disservice to treat it or think about it as though it was a human.
“You ever meet up with a wendigo, Dean-o? Nasty fuckers, let me tell you. I figure we'll head out, do some recon first during the day, try to keep ourselves from becoming its next snack. Then we go back the next day and torch the sucker. Best way to deal with 'em.”
The dog huffs what sounds like an agreement.
“Yeah, I know, it's weird. A few years ago, they were pretty rare. Hell, most of the stuff I hunt was practically extinct a few years ago, according to most of the hunters I've run into. Then all of a sudden last year everything starts up again, and there are monsters coming out of the woodwork. So I'm thinking to myself it's like the fuckin' apocalypse, am I right? Turns out, that's exactly right,” he says triumphantly, as though he's come up with it himself. “So after I get busy ganking some extra spirits, and start hearing rumours about demon signs all over the fucking map, I run into a group of hunters, and guess what they tell me? They tell me that it is the goddamned apocalypse, my hand to God. And that's why the whole supernatural world has its panties in a bunch. Two of my esteemed colleagues opened up the freaking hellmouth, or whatever, and now we're all screwed. How do you like them apples, Dean-o?”
The dog barks so sharply that Zevon sits up on the front seat and joins in on the action. Jerry nods, almost to himself.
“My sentiments exactly. All right, let's get this show on the road.”
*****
Part 20