Take Me Home -Part 25
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: 1,868 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 24
Sticking with Castiel's POV for the moment. I'm sorry to everyone for not getting Sammy home for Christmas. I'll make it up to you, promise. :)
*****
Castiel surprises himself by staying at Bobby's even longer than a day, barely needing the encouragement from Dean. “You've been looking non-stop since October, Cas. I know you know I'm grateful, but you look like a goddamned ghost, and I refuse to salt and burn the guy who rescued me from hell,” he says, rolling his eyes. “At this point, a couple of days off isn't going to make a difference. I'm almost back to normal: we'll look for Sam together after this, okay?”
He nods stiffly. “Very well.”
Underneath the stoic mask, he can feel Dean seething with impatience, burning with the desire to be out, moving, doing something, anything at all, and because he understands it all too well he forces himself to be calm as well. They set an example for each other as the days stretch toward the New Year. Another artificial ritual, but this one Castiel understands better, the symbolic chance at starting over, the chance at redemption. Outside the snow continues to fall as it has been doing steadily since early in the month: a record snowfall, Dean tells him the weather reports are saying. Another sign of the End Times, he replies, or global warming. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, Dean tells him.
Dean drinks too much on New Year's Eve, while Bobby manages to stay mostly sober, and Castiel ends up dragging his wayward charge up the stairs and putting him to bed, even submitting with a very unangelic eyeroll (another habit he's picked up from the Winchesters, he realizes belatedly, and likely not a good one) when Dean keeps a death grip on his shirt and tugs insistently. He lies next to Dean and watches him until he all but passes out, sinking into sleep like a stone; Castiel allows himself a moment of wonder before he too falls asleep, one hand resting protectively on Dean's chest.
They're awakened by the sound of barking. Or, rather, by the sound of Bobby's dog Rumsfeld “losing his shit,” as Dean so eloquently puts it. Dean is alert and out of bed in seconds, snatching the clothes Castiel stripped from him the night before off the chair and pulling them on as he hurries down the stairs as fast as his injured leg will allow, shoves his feet into his boots and grabs the shotgun Bobby keeps by the door. Out of pure habit he motions to Castiel -who has followed close on his heels- to stay back, as though somehow it's his responsibility to keep the angel safe instead of the other way around. Castiel can hear the quiet squeak of Bobby's wheelchair a few paces behind him as Dean throws open the front door, shotgun at the ready.
“Dean, let me-” he starts, but Dean ignores him, his boots crunching in the icy snow as he goes out in search of the commotion.
It's not difficult to spot Rumsfeld: he's a large, sturdy Rottweiler, all huge slavering jaws and giant paws. He's currently at the far end of the salvage yard, barking wildly, his whole attitude one of aggression directed at whoever or whatever is attempting to trespass on his territory. Dean advances cautiously, his customary grace somewhat lacking in part due to the snow, in part because of the limp that accompanies his every move these days. He's about halfway across the yard when Castiel sees him put down the shotgun with a yell that can't be mistaken for anything other than joy.
“Sam!”
The 'intruder' needs no further invitation. There's a blur of movement, and a huge black shadow hurtles past the bewildered Rumsfeld and barrels across the remaining distance while Dean struggles through the snow. A great dog launches itself at Dean's chest, knocks him over, and the two of them roll over several times in a tangle of limbs.
Castiel doesn't bother trying to navigate the snow, simply allows himself to be next to them in the blink of an eye, signalling to Rumsfeld with one hand to 'sit.' Dean is clinging to Sam, laughing, incoherent with joy, petting the dog and running both hands down his whole body, as though he can't touch him enough to prove to himself that he's real. Castiel isn't surprised to see tears streaming down his face.
“Oh, God, you came back. You came back! God, Sam... I thought... God. Sam, Sam, Sam,” he buries his face in the dog's fur. “Sammy. Jesus, Sam, I can't believe it. I can't. God. Sammy.”
It's a mantra, a prayer, an exultation, and in the meantime both Dean and the dog are getting soaked through. The dog doesn't seem to care, whining happily and wriggling in Dean's arms; licking his hands, his face, any part of him that he leaves exposed too long. Dean doesn't seem to have noticed the fact that his clothing is wet through. He's too busy failing not to have hysterics. There's no point in trying to interrupt, and to do so almost seems like an intrusion, so Castiel waits just long enough for the initial shock to wear off, then bends down and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezes gently.
“We should bring Samuel inside.”
Dean nods, scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve, makes a visible effort to pull himself together. “Yeah, okay. Okay, Cas.” He struggles upright in the snow. “Come on, Sammy. Let's go see Bobby.”
He tries to get up, and his bad leg buckles under him. Wordlessly Castiel bends again, grasps him firmly by the arm and pulls him to his feet, and Dean acknowledges the help with a nod that from anyone else would have been a heartfelt thanks. He looks back at the distance separating him from the house with a look bordering on despair, allows himself to lean on Castiel and limp back, all the adrenaline from before gone in the blink of an eye. The dog struggles to its feet too, and they notice the same thing simultaneously. Dean stops in his tracks.
“Shit, Cas, he's hurt!” He turns back, catches Sam around the neck with his arms. “Hey, Sammy-boy,” he says softly. “Why didn't you say something, huh?”
“I thought dogs were not capable of speech?”
“I didn't mean literally, Cas,” Dean says without any malice, entirely focused on Sam. He's running his hands over the dog again, this time checking for injuries. “We have to get him inside so I can check him out properly. Or maybe Bobby can check him out, he's got more experience.” There's a yelp as his hands probe a sensitive spot. “Sorry, buddy. Can you walk?” He lets Castiel pull him to his feet again. “Heel, Sammy.”
The dog follows slowly, limping so badly it seems barely able to walk. Whatever surge of adrenaline allowed Sam to get this far, it has clearly run its course. The dog struggles on gamely, his whole attention concentrated on Dean, hazel eyes filled with adoration. Castiel thinks he knows how he feels. He only caught a glimpse of Sam after his initial transformation, but the creature is a far cry from the beautiful animal he'd seen sprawled lazily on Dean's motel room bed: his coat is matted and torn, a nasty-looking cut on his muzzle, and he looks painfully thin, as though suffering from months of deprivation. Which is probably the case, he realizes. There is no explanation for how Sam was able to come this far, alone and seemingly on foot. Dean keeps twisting in his grip to look back over his shoulder, as though unable to believe his own eyes, as though if he turns away for too long Sam might vanish and never return.
Bobby is waiting at the front door, his wheelchair parked just inside the stood, bewilderment and joy warring for precedence on his features. He pulls back to let them in, hands Dean his crutches while Castiel turns to usher Sam into the house. The dog nudges him in a friendly fashion, then licks his hand with a quiet whine. He's surprised: Sam has never before shown any indication that he does anything more than tolerate Castiel's presence. He reaches out tentatively, strokes the dog's head, and receives another swipe of a warm, wet tongue on his fingers.
“Is -is that?” Bobby is staring at the dog, which is straining now to follow Dean past the wheelchair and into the house.
Dean's voice is thick, his words choked as though he's about to start crying again and trying not to. “Yeah. Yeah, it's Sam. I... Bobby, you know more about dogs than I do. Can you... can you see what's wrong with him?”
That seems to shake Bobby out of his stupor. “Of course, boy. Bring 'im in, we'll take a look. In the kitchen. Put a tarp over the table first, keep him from slidin' off.”
Castiel throws himself into the newest task with as much energy as he's put into anything lately. He finds a tarp thanks to Bobby's directions, all but forces Dean into a a chair next to the table, and lifts Sam in his arms to deposit him on the tarp. To his relief, no one including the dog argues or resists, and Bobby wheels himself up close to perform his examination.
“Looks like he's been through a hell of a lot,” the older man grunts, then shoves at Sam's muzzle as the dog tries to lick his face with a grateful whine. “Quit that, confounded mutt! I'm tryin' to work here. Yeah, yeah, I love ya too, ya big goof, now quit it!” He starts probing at the more obvious injuries, takes note of the lacerations and newly-healed scars on the pads of Sam's feet. “He musta walked here. All that way,” he marvels. “I don't know how that's even possible.”
“A miracle,” Castiel says, hoping it's true.
Dean snorts, but the sound lacks his usual derisive conviction. The dog -Sam, he reminds himself, but it's so difficult to reconcile his knowledge of Sam-the-human with this pathetic creature- lets his head drop onto the table, eyes closing with a contented sigh. It's then that he's able to see just how much the animal is suffering, his breathing laboured and shallow. Miracle or no, Sam may well have been pushed past the point of endurance. Dean digs his hands into Sam's fur.
“He'll be okay, right Bobby?”
Bobby clears his throat.
“Castiel, hand me a phone, wouldja? I got a friend in town who's a vet. She looks after Rumsfeld for me. Maybe she'll be able to help 'im.”
Castiel does as he's told, lets one hand drop to Dean's shoulder in a vain attempt to bring comfort, and unthinkingly Dean reaches up and squeezes his hand in wordless thanks.
“He'll be fine, Cas. You'll see.”
*****
Part 26
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: 1,868 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 24
Sticking with Castiel's POV for the moment. I'm sorry to everyone for not getting Sammy home for Christmas. I'll make it up to you, promise. :)
*****
Castiel surprises himself by staying at Bobby's even longer than a day, barely needing the encouragement from Dean. “You've been looking non-stop since October, Cas. I know you know I'm grateful, but you look like a goddamned ghost, and I refuse to salt and burn the guy who rescued me from hell,” he says, rolling his eyes. “At this point, a couple of days off isn't going to make a difference. I'm almost back to normal: we'll look for Sam together after this, okay?”
He nods stiffly. “Very well.”
Underneath the stoic mask, he can feel Dean seething with impatience, burning with the desire to be out, moving, doing something, anything at all, and because he understands it all too well he forces himself to be calm as well. They set an example for each other as the days stretch toward the New Year. Another artificial ritual, but this one Castiel understands better, the symbolic chance at starting over, the chance at redemption. Outside the snow continues to fall as it has been doing steadily since early in the month: a record snowfall, Dean tells him the weather reports are saying. Another sign of the End Times, he replies, or global warming. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, Dean tells him.
Dean drinks too much on New Year's Eve, while Bobby manages to stay mostly sober, and Castiel ends up dragging his wayward charge up the stairs and putting him to bed, even submitting with a very unangelic eyeroll (another habit he's picked up from the Winchesters, he realizes belatedly, and likely not a good one) when Dean keeps a death grip on his shirt and tugs insistently. He lies next to Dean and watches him until he all but passes out, sinking into sleep like a stone; Castiel allows himself a moment of wonder before he too falls asleep, one hand resting protectively on Dean's chest.
They're awakened by the sound of barking. Or, rather, by the sound of Bobby's dog Rumsfeld “losing his shit,” as Dean so eloquently puts it. Dean is alert and out of bed in seconds, snatching the clothes Castiel stripped from him the night before off the chair and pulling them on as he hurries down the stairs as fast as his injured leg will allow, shoves his feet into his boots and grabs the shotgun Bobby keeps by the door. Out of pure habit he motions to Castiel -who has followed close on his heels- to stay back, as though somehow it's his responsibility to keep the angel safe instead of the other way around. Castiel can hear the quiet squeak of Bobby's wheelchair a few paces behind him as Dean throws open the front door, shotgun at the ready.
“Dean, let me-” he starts, but Dean ignores him, his boots crunching in the icy snow as he goes out in search of the commotion.
It's not difficult to spot Rumsfeld: he's a large, sturdy Rottweiler, all huge slavering jaws and giant paws. He's currently at the far end of the salvage yard, barking wildly, his whole attitude one of aggression directed at whoever or whatever is attempting to trespass on his territory. Dean advances cautiously, his customary grace somewhat lacking in part due to the snow, in part because of the limp that accompanies his every move these days. He's about halfway across the yard when Castiel sees him put down the shotgun with a yell that can't be mistaken for anything other than joy.
“Sam!”
The 'intruder' needs no further invitation. There's a blur of movement, and a huge black shadow hurtles past the bewildered Rumsfeld and barrels across the remaining distance while Dean struggles through the snow. A great dog launches itself at Dean's chest, knocks him over, and the two of them roll over several times in a tangle of limbs.
Castiel doesn't bother trying to navigate the snow, simply allows himself to be next to them in the blink of an eye, signalling to Rumsfeld with one hand to 'sit.' Dean is clinging to Sam, laughing, incoherent with joy, petting the dog and running both hands down his whole body, as though he can't touch him enough to prove to himself that he's real. Castiel isn't surprised to see tears streaming down his face.
“Oh, God, you came back. You came back! God, Sam... I thought... God. Sam, Sam, Sam,” he buries his face in the dog's fur. “Sammy. Jesus, Sam, I can't believe it. I can't. God. Sammy.”
It's a mantra, a prayer, an exultation, and in the meantime both Dean and the dog are getting soaked through. The dog doesn't seem to care, whining happily and wriggling in Dean's arms; licking his hands, his face, any part of him that he leaves exposed too long. Dean doesn't seem to have noticed the fact that his clothing is wet through. He's too busy failing not to have hysterics. There's no point in trying to interrupt, and to do so almost seems like an intrusion, so Castiel waits just long enough for the initial shock to wear off, then bends down and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezes gently.
“We should bring Samuel inside.”
Dean nods, scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve, makes a visible effort to pull himself together. “Yeah, okay. Okay, Cas.” He struggles upright in the snow. “Come on, Sammy. Let's go see Bobby.”
He tries to get up, and his bad leg buckles under him. Wordlessly Castiel bends again, grasps him firmly by the arm and pulls him to his feet, and Dean acknowledges the help with a nod that from anyone else would have been a heartfelt thanks. He looks back at the distance separating him from the house with a look bordering on despair, allows himself to lean on Castiel and limp back, all the adrenaline from before gone in the blink of an eye. The dog struggles to its feet too, and they notice the same thing simultaneously. Dean stops in his tracks.
“Shit, Cas, he's hurt!” He turns back, catches Sam around the neck with his arms. “Hey, Sammy-boy,” he says softly. “Why didn't you say something, huh?”
“I thought dogs were not capable of speech?”
“I didn't mean literally, Cas,” Dean says without any malice, entirely focused on Sam. He's running his hands over the dog again, this time checking for injuries. “We have to get him inside so I can check him out properly. Or maybe Bobby can check him out, he's got more experience.” There's a yelp as his hands probe a sensitive spot. “Sorry, buddy. Can you walk?” He lets Castiel pull him to his feet again. “Heel, Sammy.”
The dog follows slowly, limping so badly it seems barely able to walk. Whatever surge of adrenaline allowed Sam to get this far, it has clearly run its course. The dog struggles on gamely, his whole attention concentrated on Dean, hazel eyes filled with adoration. Castiel thinks he knows how he feels. He only caught a glimpse of Sam after his initial transformation, but the creature is a far cry from the beautiful animal he'd seen sprawled lazily on Dean's motel room bed: his coat is matted and torn, a nasty-looking cut on his muzzle, and he looks painfully thin, as though suffering from months of deprivation. Which is probably the case, he realizes. There is no explanation for how Sam was able to come this far, alone and seemingly on foot. Dean keeps twisting in his grip to look back over his shoulder, as though unable to believe his own eyes, as though if he turns away for too long Sam might vanish and never return.
Bobby is waiting at the front door, his wheelchair parked just inside the stood, bewilderment and joy warring for precedence on his features. He pulls back to let them in, hands Dean his crutches while Castiel turns to usher Sam into the house. The dog nudges him in a friendly fashion, then licks his hand with a quiet whine. He's surprised: Sam has never before shown any indication that he does anything more than tolerate Castiel's presence. He reaches out tentatively, strokes the dog's head, and receives another swipe of a warm, wet tongue on his fingers.
“Is -is that?” Bobby is staring at the dog, which is straining now to follow Dean past the wheelchair and into the house.
Dean's voice is thick, his words choked as though he's about to start crying again and trying not to. “Yeah. Yeah, it's Sam. I... Bobby, you know more about dogs than I do. Can you... can you see what's wrong with him?”
That seems to shake Bobby out of his stupor. “Of course, boy. Bring 'im in, we'll take a look. In the kitchen. Put a tarp over the table first, keep him from slidin' off.”
Castiel throws himself into the newest task with as much energy as he's put into anything lately. He finds a tarp thanks to Bobby's directions, all but forces Dean into a a chair next to the table, and lifts Sam in his arms to deposit him on the tarp. To his relief, no one including the dog argues or resists, and Bobby wheels himself up close to perform his examination.
“Looks like he's been through a hell of a lot,” the older man grunts, then shoves at Sam's muzzle as the dog tries to lick his face with a grateful whine. “Quit that, confounded mutt! I'm tryin' to work here. Yeah, yeah, I love ya too, ya big goof, now quit it!” He starts probing at the more obvious injuries, takes note of the lacerations and newly-healed scars on the pads of Sam's feet. “He musta walked here. All that way,” he marvels. “I don't know how that's even possible.”
“A miracle,” Castiel says, hoping it's true.
Dean snorts, but the sound lacks his usual derisive conviction. The dog -Sam, he reminds himself, but it's so difficult to reconcile his knowledge of Sam-the-human with this pathetic creature- lets his head drop onto the table, eyes closing with a contented sigh. It's then that he's able to see just how much the animal is suffering, his breathing laboured and shallow. Miracle or no, Sam may well have been pushed past the point of endurance. Dean digs his hands into Sam's fur.
“He'll be okay, right Bobby?”
Bobby clears his throat.
“Castiel, hand me a phone, wouldja? I got a friend in town who's a vet. She looks after Rumsfeld for me. Maybe she'll be able to help 'im.”
Castiel does as he's told, lets one hand drop to Dean's shoulder in a vain attempt to bring comfort, and unthinkingly Dean reaches up and squeezes his hand in wordless thanks.
“He'll be fine, Cas. You'll see.”
*****
Part 26