Take Me Home -Part 29
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: 1,978 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 28
I had another fight to the death with this chapter. I think I won. Maybe. Sort of a pyrrhic victory. It's sort of cliff-hangery, but not really. Only the epilogue left after this!
*****
Things are still confusing, even after Sam figures out that he's human again. At first everything comes back in a huge indistinct blur of memories and impressions and scents and sounds and muted colours. Dimly he remembers the sound of screeching brakes and a blaring car horn, the smell of burnt rubber, and there's a sharp pain in his side when he tries to breathe. There was a car -he knows there must have been one- but he can't quite conjure the image in his mind. Someone is shaking him, calling his name, and he forces his eyes open and Dean is there, and joy and relief flood through him, the same way they did yesterday. He remembers being in the snow, the smell of ozone sharp and clear, and Dean yelling for him; remembers trying to run in spite of the pain in his side and his leg, and now he just wants to tell Dean just how much he missed him and wanted him and looked for him, but all that comes out of his mouth is a painful stutter.
It's impossible to make his mind work the way it should, and if he had the breath for it he would scream in frustration. He feels as though he's wrapped in layers of fog that are only just starting to lift. Dean is talking to him, the weight of his hand reassuring, and he can only catch a few words at first. Gradually he starts making more sense of it all, but he's spent so long being the Other-Sam, of taking a back seat and letting the dog dictate what actions to take, that it's all he can do to find a scattering of words to reply to Dean's anxious queries. It doesn't help that his head is throbbing in time with his pulse, that his whole body hurts to some degree, that he's too hot and too cold by turns. Everything seems to be conspiring against him, his body turned traitor. Eventually he simply gives up trying to harness the runaway team of horses in his head, and simply clings to Dean the way a drowning man reaches for driftwood. He takes comfort in the knowledge that, whatever else might be happening, he's home, and that's all that's really important.
He drifts for what seems like a long time. Thoughts and images come and go, and sometimes he's not sure if what he's seeing is really happening or is simply one of the dog's memories intruding on reality. Things like the passage of time didn't mean a lot to him when he was still the dog, and it's difficult to sort through the jumble of memories, to put them back in an order that makes sense to him. Mostly he remembers smells and impressions rather than what he saw, which is confusing at first, but gradually names and faces and even places come into focus, and it stops hurting so much when he tries to form complete sentences in his head. Words come back, and knowledge, and gradually the thoughts of the dog fade away entirely, reabsorb themselves into his consciousness.
Eventually he works out that he's probably ill, and that's why everything hurts and he's constantly alternating between being hot and cold and can't quite pull himself together the way he should. His chest aches, and at times the pain worsens and he folds in on himself, coughing so hard he thinks he might be sick. He's aware of hands against his skin, pressed against his back, rubbing his arm, soothing, reassuring. Voices come and go, murmur around him, and he's sure he knows them. One of the voices belongs to Dean, and he's able for the most part to rouse himself enough to talk a bit, when Dean wants to. It's still hard to sort out which words to use, it gets easier as time goes by, although even as his words come back to him, it gets increasingly difficult to pull himself out of the darkness that tugs at him almost constantly, and after a while it's all he can do to just lie very still and try to breathe, listening to the rise and fall of voices all around.
“Sam, you still with us?”
He tries to answer, wants desperately to reassure Dean that yes, yes he is still there, but he can't make the words come. He feels weighted down by lead. There's pressure on his hand, so he curls his fingers and squeezes back, feels Dean pat his shoulder.
“Hang in there, Sammy. No dying on me now, you hear? After everything, you're not allowed to die because of some stupid bacteria. I won't let you.”
He shakes his head, or tries to, hears another voice chime in.
“You should sleep, Dean.”
“Kind of busy, here.”
“You will do Samuel no good if you make yourself ill again. Go sleep, and I will watch him for you.”
“I don't-”
“Dean, I will put you to sleep if you will not go willingly.”
“Cheater.”
Darkness closes in again, and when it recedes Sam is aware of something cool and damp against his face. It feels wonderful, and instinctively he leans into the touch, is surprised to feel the brush of fingers against his cheek. It's not Dean's hand, callused from years of hunting and keeping the Impala running, but another, soft and delicate, and the voice that speaks to him is equally soft.
“Samuel, are you awake?”
He forces open his eyes, waits until they've adjusted to the dim light. “C-Cas?” His lungs protest at even that small effort, and he struggles to smother a fit of coughing that feels as though it might rip him apart from the inside out.
“Lie still,” comes the gentle admonishment. The angel is looking at him intently, blue eyes bright and serious, a wet washcloth in one hand. He folds it carefully, then reaches over to gently wipe Sam's face. “How are you feeling?”
The words still won't come, so he settles for reaching up and clasping Castiel's wrist before letting his eyes close again, and the angel pauses a moment before resuming what he was doing. Sam doesn't quite sleep, but can't quite rouse himself either, not even when a new, strange voice adds itself to the mix.
“I never figured you for the caretaking type, little brother.” He knows the voice even before Castiel identifies its owner.
“Gabriel,” Castiel's voice is sharp. “Why are you here?”
“Morbid curiosity. I wanted to talk to Sam now that he's got working vocal chords again. I've already had my little heart-to-heart with you and Dean, and it appeals to my sense of order and symmetry.”
“I thought you thrived on chaos.”
“Well, maybe I just want to see what he has to say for himself.”
“You will not have much luck.”
“I can see that. He looks like he went a few too many rounds with a semi.”
“You could remedy that, even if I cannot.”
“You know as well as I do that I have rules to abide by too.”
Sam forces his eyes open, waits for Gabriel's face to swim into focus. The archangel is leaning against the wall by the head of his bed, arms folded over his chest, and he smirks when he catches Sam looking at him.
“I'll be damned. It lives!” He glances over at Castiel, who is glaring at him. Sam's a little surprised: he's never seen the angel express an emotion this intense before, not unless he's staring at Dean, anyway. “You mind giving us some space, little brother?” Gabriel snaps his fingers, and suddenly Castiel is simply gone. Sam struggles to sit up, and fails miserably.
“What'd you do?” The best he can manage is a strangled rasp. Not especially effective at conveying how serious he is.
“Don't worry, he's fine. He's a tough little guy. Takes a lickin', keeps on tickin', as they say. Between the three of you, you've cheated death more times than Wile. E. Coyote.”
Sam flinches at that. It's the same comparison Dean made after the Mystery Spot. That was all Gabriel's doing, too. “You keep... taking him away from me.”
“Who, Dean? Hardly.” Gabriel scoffs. “I'm just helping the process along.”
“Why?” Instantly he wishes the question hadn't come out sounding like a pathetic whimper. He's never exactly in a position of strength when it comes to dealing with Gabriel, but he's never felt quite this exposed and helpless before. It's not exactly reassuring.
“I've already explained this to you, you ass. You just don't get it. Your brother is your weakness, and it'll be the death of you. I mean, case in point,” he gestures with one hand as Sam succumbs to another coughing fit. “Look at the state you're in, and for what? You can live without Dean, you know.”
“I know,” Sam sucks in a painful breath. “Did it before. But I don't want to.”
Gabriel whistles. “Wow. You are way more broken than I thought. You think this is good for you or Dean? You're so wrapped up in each other you can't see straight. There's only so much brotherly love can do for you, you know. You don't need each other the way you think you do.”
Sam manages to turn his head toward him. Every breath feels as though someone is stabbing him in the chest. Gabriel is still staring at him, mouth pressed into a thin line, and it occurs to Sam that he looks angry, of all things. He coughs again, makes an effort to stay focussed.
“No one came.”
Gabriel is taken aback. “What?”
He reaches up unconsciously to press a hand to his sternum. “When you left... no one came after you. Your brothers.”
Gabriel snorts. “Don't try to psychoanalyse me. You're one step away from swinging from the trees, and I existed for thousands of years before psychoanalysis was even a gleam in Freud's eye. You can't fathom this.”
“You wanted them to, though,” Sam presses the point, trying to ignore how out of breath he feels. “Isn't that what families are supposed to do?” His eyes close in spite of himself. “Dean always comes for me... and I'll always come for him. 's how it works. 's why you... keep coming back. You don't... understand why we do it.” He starts to cough again, harder, and this time he feels something tear loose in his chest, tastes copper in his mouth, and he curls in on himself to ward off the pain. If Gabriel says anything else, he doesn't hear it, but a familiar voice does break through the veil that's settled over him.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get away from him!” Sam doesn't have the strength to open his eyes, but when he feels a hand on his forehead he leans into the touch, and Dean rubs his shoulder with his free hand. “Sammy? You okay? Did he hurt you? What'd he do?”
“Don't be so melodramatic. I didn't touch a hair on the precious puppy's head. We were just having a chat.”
“Well, conversation's over. Leave us the hell alone!”
Sam guesses that Gabriel must leave shortly after, because he can't hear his voice anymore, and Dean is clasping his hand, talking soothingly to him. “It's okay, Sammy. He's gone. You just take it easy, okay? Deep breaths. Just... hang on for me, okay? You hear me?”
He manages to nod, squeezes Dean's fingers, and hangs on as hard as he can.
*****
Epilogue
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: 1,978 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 28
I had another fight to the death with this chapter. I think I won. Maybe. Sort of a pyrrhic victory. It's sort of cliff-hangery, but not really. Only the epilogue left after this!
*****
Things are still confusing, even after Sam figures out that he's human again. At first everything comes back in a huge indistinct blur of memories and impressions and scents and sounds and muted colours. Dimly he remembers the sound of screeching brakes and a blaring car horn, the smell of burnt rubber, and there's a sharp pain in his side when he tries to breathe. There was a car -he knows there must have been one- but he can't quite conjure the image in his mind. Someone is shaking him, calling his name, and he forces his eyes open and Dean is there, and joy and relief flood through him, the same way they did yesterday. He remembers being in the snow, the smell of ozone sharp and clear, and Dean yelling for him; remembers trying to run in spite of the pain in his side and his leg, and now he just wants to tell Dean just how much he missed him and wanted him and looked for him, but all that comes out of his mouth is a painful stutter.
It's impossible to make his mind work the way it should, and if he had the breath for it he would scream in frustration. He feels as though he's wrapped in layers of fog that are only just starting to lift. Dean is talking to him, the weight of his hand reassuring, and he can only catch a few words at first. Gradually he starts making more sense of it all, but he's spent so long being the Other-Sam, of taking a back seat and letting the dog dictate what actions to take, that it's all he can do to find a scattering of words to reply to Dean's anxious queries. It doesn't help that his head is throbbing in time with his pulse, that his whole body hurts to some degree, that he's too hot and too cold by turns. Everything seems to be conspiring against him, his body turned traitor. Eventually he simply gives up trying to harness the runaway team of horses in his head, and simply clings to Dean the way a drowning man reaches for driftwood. He takes comfort in the knowledge that, whatever else might be happening, he's home, and that's all that's really important.
He drifts for what seems like a long time. Thoughts and images come and go, and sometimes he's not sure if what he's seeing is really happening or is simply one of the dog's memories intruding on reality. Things like the passage of time didn't mean a lot to him when he was still the dog, and it's difficult to sort through the jumble of memories, to put them back in an order that makes sense to him. Mostly he remembers smells and impressions rather than what he saw, which is confusing at first, but gradually names and faces and even places come into focus, and it stops hurting so much when he tries to form complete sentences in his head. Words come back, and knowledge, and gradually the thoughts of the dog fade away entirely, reabsorb themselves into his consciousness.
Eventually he works out that he's probably ill, and that's why everything hurts and he's constantly alternating between being hot and cold and can't quite pull himself together the way he should. His chest aches, and at times the pain worsens and he folds in on himself, coughing so hard he thinks he might be sick. He's aware of hands against his skin, pressed against his back, rubbing his arm, soothing, reassuring. Voices come and go, murmur around him, and he's sure he knows them. One of the voices belongs to Dean, and he's able for the most part to rouse himself enough to talk a bit, when Dean wants to. It's still hard to sort out which words to use, it gets easier as time goes by, although even as his words come back to him, it gets increasingly difficult to pull himself out of the darkness that tugs at him almost constantly, and after a while it's all he can do to just lie very still and try to breathe, listening to the rise and fall of voices all around.
“Sam, you still with us?”
He tries to answer, wants desperately to reassure Dean that yes, yes he is still there, but he can't make the words come. He feels weighted down by lead. There's pressure on his hand, so he curls his fingers and squeezes back, feels Dean pat his shoulder.
“Hang in there, Sammy. No dying on me now, you hear? After everything, you're not allowed to die because of some stupid bacteria. I won't let you.”
He shakes his head, or tries to, hears another voice chime in.
“You should sleep, Dean.”
“Kind of busy, here.”
“You will do Samuel no good if you make yourself ill again. Go sleep, and I will watch him for you.”
“I don't-”
“Dean, I will put you to sleep if you will not go willingly.”
“Cheater.”
Darkness closes in again, and when it recedes Sam is aware of something cool and damp against his face. It feels wonderful, and instinctively he leans into the touch, is surprised to feel the brush of fingers against his cheek. It's not Dean's hand, callused from years of hunting and keeping the Impala running, but another, soft and delicate, and the voice that speaks to him is equally soft.
“Samuel, are you awake?”
He forces open his eyes, waits until they've adjusted to the dim light. “C-Cas?” His lungs protest at even that small effort, and he struggles to smother a fit of coughing that feels as though it might rip him apart from the inside out.
“Lie still,” comes the gentle admonishment. The angel is looking at him intently, blue eyes bright and serious, a wet washcloth in one hand. He folds it carefully, then reaches over to gently wipe Sam's face. “How are you feeling?”
The words still won't come, so he settles for reaching up and clasping Castiel's wrist before letting his eyes close again, and the angel pauses a moment before resuming what he was doing. Sam doesn't quite sleep, but can't quite rouse himself either, not even when a new, strange voice adds itself to the mix.
“I never figured you for the caretaking type, little brother.” He knows the voice even before Castiel identifies its owner.
“Gabriel,” Castiel's voice is sharp. “Why are you here?”
“Morbid curiosity. I wanted to talk to Sam now that he's got working vocal chords again. I've already had my little heart-to-heart with you and Dean, and it appeals to my sense of order and symmetry.”
“I thought you thrived on chaos.”
“Well, maybe I just want to see what he has to say for himself.”
“You will not have much luck.”
“I can see that. He looks like he went a few too many rounds with a semi.”
“You could remedy that, even if I cannot.”
“You know as well as I do that I have rules to abide by too.”
Sam forces his eyes open, waits for Gabriel's face to swim into focus. The archangel is leaning against the wall by the head of his bed, arms folded over his chest, and he smirks when he catches Sam looking at him.
“I'll be damned. It lives!” He glances over at Castiel, who is glaring at him. Sam's a little surprised: he's never seen the angel express an emotion this intense before, not unless he's staring at Dean, anyway. “You mind giving us some space, little brother?” Gabriel snaps his fingers, and suddenly Castiel is simply gone. Sam struggles to sit up, and fails miserably.
“What'd you do?” The best he can manage is a strangled rasp. Not especially effective at conveying how serious he is.
“Don't worry, he's fine. He's a tough little guy. Takes a lickin', keeps on tickin', as they say. Between the three of you, you've cheated death more times than Wile. E. Coyote.”
Sam flinches at that. It's the same comparison Dean made after the Mystery Spot. That was all Gabriel's doing, too. “You keep... taking him away from me.”
“Who, Dean? Hardly.” Gabriel scoffs. “I'm just helping the process along.”
“Why?” Instantly he wishes the question hadn't come out sounding like a pathetic whimper. He's never exactly in a position of strength when it comes to dealing with Gabriel, but he's never felt quite this exposed and helpless before. It's not exactly reassuring.
“I've already explained this to you, you ass. You just don't get it. Your brother is your weakness, and it'll be the death of you. I mean, case in point,” he gestures with one hand as Sam succumbs to another coughing fit. “Look at the state you're in, and for what? You can live without Dean, you know.”
“I know,” Sam sucks in a painful breath. “Did it before. But I don't want to.”
Gabriel whistles. “Wow. You are way more broken than I thought. You think this is good for you or Dean? You're so wrapped up in each other you can't see straight. There's only so much brotherly love can do for you, you know. You don't need each other the way you think you do.”
Sam manages to turn his head toward him. Every breath feels as though someone is stabbing him in the chest. Gabriel is still staring at him, mouth pressed into a thin line, and it occurs to Sam that he looks angry, of all things. He coughs again, makes an effort to stay focussed.
“No one came.”
Gabriel is taken aback. “What?”
He reaches up unconsciously to press a hand to his sternum. “When you left... no one came after you. Your brothers.”
Gabriel snorts. “Don't try to psychoanalyse me. You're one step away from swinging from the trees, and I existed for thousands of years before psychoanalysis was even a gleam in Freud's eye. You can't fathom this.”
“You wanted them to, though,” Sam presses the point, trying to ignore how out of breath he feels. “Isn't that what families are supposed to do?” His eyes close in spite of himself. “Dean always comes for me... and I'll always come for him. 's how it works. 's why you... keep coming back. You don't... understand why we do it.” He starts to cough again, harder, and this time he feels something tear loose in his chest, tastes copper in his mouth, and he curls in on himself to ward off the pain. If Gabriel says anything else, he doesn't hear it, but a familiar voice does break through the veil that's settled over him.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get away from him!” Sam doesn't have the strength to open his eyes, but when he feels a hand on his forehead he leans into the touch, and Dean rubs his shoulder with his free hand. “Sammy? You okay? Did he hurt you? What'd he do?”
“Don't be so melodramatic. I didn't touch a hair on the precious puppy's head. We were just having a chat.”
“Well, conversation's over. Leave us the hell alone!”
Sam guesses that Gabriel must leave shortly after, because he can't hear his voice anymore, and Dean is clasping his hand, talking soothingly to him. “It's okay, Sammy. He's gone. You just take it easy, okay? Deep breaths. Just... hang on for me, okay? You hear me?”
He manages to nod, squeezes Dean's fingers, and hangs on as hard as he can.
*****
Epilogue