Take Me Home -Part 2
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: 2,581 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 1
*****
Zombies. Straight out of a Romero triple-feature. Slow and shambling and wearing really terrible 1970s clothes. There are only two of them, though, and after two spectacular head shots (he ought to get a prize, but since when is life ever fair that way?) Dean is by himself in an abandoned clothing outlet. Surrounded by jeans, halter tops, and two decomposing corpses that just literally tried to eat his flesh. It's actually kind of awesome. Except for the flesh-eating part: that was gross. He checks to make sure there aren't any more undead lurking behind the display racks, finds a corpse that looks like it's been snacked on, and he puts a bullet through its forehead just to be on the safe side. All things considered, he thinks that whatever is going on, it's not actually about the zombie apocalypse, and that's a good thing: they've already got one apocalypse to deal with, two just feels like overkill.
He conducts a sweep of the store, then just outside the door. “It feels like Half-Life 2,” he says to no one in particular. Speaking of which, he hasn't heard from Sam since he headed off into the electronics store. He glides down the deserted hallway, thankful at least that when the dying started in earnest someone had the good sense to evacuate the mall. The electronics store is dark, half the lights out for some reason. It's also deserted, except for one guy who looks like he belongs in a wax museum for the chronically lame and nerdy.
“Sam?” He pokes around in the aisles, finds Sam's pack, but no sign of Sam. “Sammy? You in here?” Nothing. He pulls out his cell, dials Sam's number, is rewarded by the sound of Sam's pack ringing shrilly, with the same ring tone he programmed into it a couple of months ago. Sam pretended to be annoyed that he programmed The Muppet Show theme as a ringtone, but Dean can't help but notice that he hasn't changed it yet. Which doesn't solve his more immediate problem of his baby brother being AWOL.
He picks up the bag, starts a more systematic sweep of the mall, getting a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Sam!”
Still nothing. The bookstore is empty (first place to check for Sam), although there's a woman who's become a permanent display case for Oprah's book club, which makes him shudder. He's never watching that show again. The food court is empty, and he helps himself to a still-warm burger (hey, a guy has needs) before moving onto the next place, but eventually he has to reconcile himself to the idea that there's no one here. There are only two floors to this building, it's not that big: a small joint in a podunk town. So the next logical step is to try outside. Sam can't be far, that much is obvious. Sam wanted back into hunting, he's been acting like Dean's freaking shadow ever since Dean got back from the future (and wow, it hurts his head even to say that), and he is definitely not sneaking off to get a fix, or whatever. Ruby's dead, there's been no sign of demon activity, and Dean is definitely, definitely not thinking any thoughts like that because they've put all that shit behind them.
“Sammy!”
The parking lot is all but deserted, but he catches sight of a familiar figure leaning up against the Impala, and his heart drops into his stomach. “Get away from my baby, you prick!”
Gabriel shakes his head, clucks his tongue. He doesn't move from where he is, and instead leans over to scratch behind the ears of a large dog sitting at his feet. What is it with this guy and dogs, anyway? “Tsk, temper temper, Dean-o. Hypertension is the silent killer, you know.”
Dean feels his fists clench, his teeth grind together. This is going to cost him a fortune in dental work, if he ever survives the apocalypse. “Are you here to lecture me on how to take care of my arteries?”
There's a derisive snort. “Far be it for me to take your cheeseburgers away. I see you haven't given up that habit either. Well, maybe you'll have a heart attack or a stroke before the apocalypse: seems like as viable a plan as any other you've ever come up with. I hear petting animals is good for your blood pressure,” he pats the dog's head.
“Nice dog,” Dean says, since the situation seems to call for it. It is a nice dog, as far as he can tell. He doesn't know much about them, but this one looks big and healthy, its black coat glossy, big hazel eyes staring at him. He didn't know dog's eyes came in that colour. It has a long feathered tail, which thumps on the ground in greeting, its tongue lolling from its mouth. “What happened to the small yappy one?”
“I still have him, but I left him at home. He doesn't like you.”
“How many dogs do you have, anyway?” Dean feels like the conversation has taken a turn for the surreal, but can't quite help himself.
“Enough. You like shepherds?”
Dean blinks. “Uh... yeah, I guess. I like dogs, they're fine. Don't have much use for 'em in my line of work, but yeah. Dogs're nice. Have you been smoking up?” he asks, tilting his head a bit.
“Don't need to. Life is a natural high.”
Dean feels a tension headache coming on. “Do you know where Sam is?”
“I might.”
“Did you do something to him?”
Gabriel manages to look injured. “Why do you always assume that I've done something?”
“Because you always do?”
“Fair enough. Look, it's not my problem you lost your brother. Maybe you shouldn't be trying to keep him on such a close leash anyway. Look what happened the last time you tried keeping tabs on him as though he was your -well, your pet dog instead of your brother.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Metaphor, yes, I get it. Look, are you here to do something ironic and whatever, or just to play peanut gallery?”
Gabriel shrugs, and his eyes sparkle with poorly-concealed amusement. “I like the peanut gallery. The snacks are excellent, and provide me with endless ballistic opportunities. But since you're not in a listening mood, I guess I'll just leave you to your search.” He snaps his fingers, disappears. Dean gets the feeling that the finger-snapping is pretty much just for show.
“Hey, you forgot your-” but Gabriel is long gone, “dog,” he finishes lamely. “Terrific.” He stares at the dog, which is sitting with its head cocked to one side, staring at him. “Hey, boy,” Dean returns the stare, then ducks his head, checking. “Yep, definitely a boy. Your master is a douche, just so you know. I know you've got the whole unflinching loyalty thing going for you, but you'd be better off putting your trust elsewhere.” He's talking to a dog. Awesome. He's obviously further gone than he thought. “You haven't seen my brother, have you? He's, like, eight feet tall, in serious need of a haircut, and looks like I'm about to kick him most of the time these days. Answers to Sam.”
The dog wags its tail. Thump-thump-thump against the asphalt.
“No? Didn't think so.” Dean heaves a long-suffering sigh. It's not really like Sam to up and disappear in the middle of a case -not recently, anyway- and he left all his gear behind, and Dean is trying very hard not to get worried just yet. There could be any number of explanations for this, none of which are particularly reassuring if he thinks about it for too long. “All right. I gotta go look for him.”
He dumps Sam's stuff in the trunk, keeps hold of the cell phone just in case, pulls the map of the area out of the glove compartment and spreads it out on the hood of the Impala. The dog settles at his feet with a whuffing noise, lays its muzzle on its forepaws. It's not a big town, so he figures he can go looking in concentric circles, stay on foot for the time being, to make sure he doesn't drive right by Sam if he's, say, passed out somewhere outside.
“He can't be far, right?” he says to the dog. “I mean, supposing he hasn't been zapped somewhere by angels, but so far that's only been my problem. Angels don't like zapping Sam anywhere if they can help it. All right,” he folds up the map, tucks it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “See you around, boy.”
He heads purposefully toward the entrance of the mall, figures he'll use that as a starting point, work his way around. To his surprise, the dog instantly gets to its feet and trots behind him, feathered tail held high behind it. He turns, makes a shooing motion.
“You can't come with me. Go find Gabriel. Go on, git!”
The dog stops, tail drooping, and whines at him.
“No, I mean it. I have to look for Sam.”
The dog whines again, gives a hopeful wag of its tail, and he sighs.
“Are you at least a good tracker?”
The dog cocks its head at him, both ears perked.
“I didn't think so. Well, come on, then.” There's a joyous bark, and the dog bounds to his side, tail wagging enthusiastically. “Why couldn't Gabriel have abandoned a bloodhound?” he grumbles. “I don't have any sheep for you to herd, you know.”
The search goes badly. He spends three hours making his way around the mall, through the streets, checking with every passer-by and shop owner he can find, but no one has seen hide nor hair of Sam. It's like he's fallen off the face of the planet, and by now Dean is hard-pressed not to lose his shit. He calls Bobby, for lack of any better idea, but Bobby doesn't have anything helpful to add either. So he keeps looking until the sun sets and it gets too dark to look properly. He heads back to the car, lets himself sink onto the bumper, head in his hands.
“Shit shit shit, fuck!”
The dog is still there, has been literally dogging his heels all afternoon and evening. It whines, picking up on his mood, shoves its nose into his ribcage.
“I've lost him. What the hell kind of lousy brother am I, that I can't even keep track of Sam when he's a hundred yards away?” he asks the dog. “Some hunter I'm turning out to be. Can't do anything right.”
Predictably enough, the dog doesn't have an answer, and there's nothing left but to head back to the motel. There's a good chance Sam will head back to the room now that they've been separated for so many hours. He pushes himself to his feet, pulls open the door, and nearly gets knocked off his feet as the dog barrels past him and settles into the shotgun seat.
“Oh, no you don't!” he leans into the car, makes a grab for the dog. “That's the original leather, you flea-ridden mutt! Get off there!” He tugs fruitlessly at the dog, realizes that it's a lot bigger and a lot heavier than he thought at first. It gives him a shit-eating doggy grin, the furry bastard, and flops onto the seat, tongue hanging out. “We are not going for a car ride,” he informs it sternly. “I don't care how cute you are.” He goes around the car, yanks open the passenger-side door, and tries to haul out the dog, only to meet with a hundred-odd pounds of very determined canine resistance. “Come on! Son of a bitch,” he stops, stares at the dog. “I don't have time for this. Fine, come with me, then, but you can't stay. And don't drool on the upholstery, or so help me I will kick your furry ass out of the car while it's still running.”
He drives back to the motel, the dog panting happily in the seat next to him, grumbles to himself under his breath about becoming a pushover in his old age. If Sam is there, he'll never let him live down being bullied by a creature that habitually drinks out of the toilet. God, he hopes Sam is there. His life is stressful enough as it is. He unlocks the motel room, turns to order the dog to stay, or whatever, but it's already too late: the dog has wormed its way through his legs and is in the room. He shakes his head, knows when he's defeated. If nothing else, it shows that it's Gabriel's dog: stubborn, and bent on driving him nuts.
“Sam! Sammy, you here?” There's no answer, but the dog is back at his feet, its tail wagging so hard it's practically a blur of motion. He switches on the light, scans the room for signs that Sam may have come and gone, but there are none. “Sam!” The dog cavorts around him, play-snapping at the air, and he reaches down and pats it absentmindedly, dumps his gear on the floor.
He checks his phone messages, but apart from a single text message from Bobby (and the thought of Bobby sending text messages still amuses him to no end) saying that he's checking in with some contacts to see if there's been any indication of weirdness or disappearances in the area, there's nothing. There's nothing on the motel phone either, which he checks out of principle rather than because he really thinks Sam would have left a message there. He sinks down on his bed -the one closest the door, as usual- clasps his hands between his knees, feeling his heart clench in his chest. For the first time, he wonders what he'll do if he can't find Sam, and the thought sends shivers of panic through him.
“Dammit, Sam, where are you?”
There's a blur of motion, and before he can so much as flinch the dog has launched itself at his chest. It bowls him backward on the bed and straddles him, soft pink tongue lapping at his face, giving him the most thorough licking he's ever received in his life. He sputters, shoves at it, tries to twist away.
“Ack! Get off! That's... ptuh! That's seriously gross, dude. I only kiss girls on the lips. Get off!”
The dog doesn't budge, but it stops licking him. He's stuck, spreadeagled on the bed with a hundred pounds of dog on his chest. It shoves its nose into his face, fixes him with an intense gaze, the weird-coloured hazel eyes seemingly waiting for him to do something, or maybe say something. For the second time that day it occurs to him that he's never seen a dog with eyes that colour, and if it's a black dog, shouldn't it have brown eyes? He blinks at it.
No. It can't be.
“Sam?”
The dog barks once, and licks the tip of his nose.
Oh, shit.
*****
Part 3
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: 2,581 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 1
*****
Zombies. Straight out of a Romero triple-feature. Slow and shambling and wearing really terrible 1970s clothes. There are only two of them, though, and after two spectacular head shots (he ought to get a prize, but since when is life ever fair that way?) Dean is by himself in an abandoned clothing outlet. Surrounded by jeans, halter tops, and two decomposing corpses that just literally tried to eat his flesh. It's actually kind of awesome. Except for the flesh-eating part: that was gross. He checks to make sure there aren't any more undead lurking behind the display racks, finds a corpse that looks like it's been snacked on, and he puts a bullet through its forehead just to be on the safe side. All things considered, he thinks that whatever is going on, it's not actually about the zombie apocalypse, and that's a good thing: they've already got one apocalypse to deal with, two just feels like overkill.
He conducts a sweep of the store, then just outside the door. “It feels like Half-Life 2,” he says to no one in particular. Speaking of which, he hasn't heard from Sam since he headed off into the electronics store. He glides down the deserted hallway, thankful at least that when the dying started in earnest someone had the good sense to evacuate the mall. The electronics store is dark, half the lights out for some reason. It's also deserted, except for one guy who looks like he belongs in a wax museum for the chronically lame and nerdy.
“Sam?” He pokes around in the aisles, finds Sam's pack, but no sign of Sam. “Sammy? You in here?” Nothing. He pulls out his cell, dials Sam's number, is rewarded by the sound of Sam's pack ringing shrilly, with the same ring tone he programmed into it a couple of months ago. Sam pretended to be annoyed that he programmed The Muppet Show theme as a ringtone, but Dean can't help but notice that he hasn't changed it yet. Which doesn't solve his more immediate problem of his baby brother being AWOL.
He picks up the bag, starts a more systematic sweep of the mall, getting a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Sam!”
Still nothing. The bookstore is empty (first place to check for Sam), although there's a woman who's become a permanent display case for Oprah's book club, which makes him shudder. He's never watching that show again. The food court is empty, and he helps himself to a still-warm burger (hey, a guy has needs) before moving onto the next place, but eventually he has to reconcile himself to the idea that there's no one here. There are only two floors to this building, it's not that big: a small joint in a podunk town. So the next logical step is to try outside. Sam can't be far, that much is obvious. Sam wanted back into hunting, he's been acting like Dean's freaking shadow ever since Dean got back from the future (and wow, it hurts his head even to say that), and he is definitely not sneaking off to get a fix, or whatever. Ruby's dead, there's been no sign of demon activity, and Dean is definitely, definitely not thinking any thoughts like that because they've put all that shit behind them.
“Sammy!”
The parking lot is all but deserted, but he catches sight of a familiar figure leaning up against the Impala, and his heart drops into his stomach. “Get away from my baby, you prick!”
Gabriel shakes his head, clucks his tongue. He doesn't move from where he is, and instead leans over to scratch behind the ears of a large dog sitting at his feet. What is it with this guy and dogs, anyway? “Tsk, temper temper, Dean-o. Hypertension is the silent killer, you know.”
Dean feels his fists clench, his teeth grind together. This is going to cost him a fortune in dental work, if he ever survives the apocalypse. “Are you here to lecture me on how to take care of my arteries?”
There's a derisive snort. “Far be it for me to take your cheeseburgers away. I see you haven't given up that habit either. Well, maybe you'll have a heart attack or a stroke before the apocalypse: seems like as viable a plan as any other you've ever come up with. I hear petting animals is good for your blood pressure,” he pats the dog's head.
“Nice dog,” Dean says, since the situation seems to call for it. It is a nice dog, as far as he can tell. He doesn't know much about them, but this one looks big and healthy, its black coat glossy, big hazel eyes staring at him. He didn't know dog's eyes came in that colour. It has a long feathered tail, which thumps on the ground in greeting, its tongue lolling from its mouth. “What happened to the small yappy one?”
“I still have him, but I left him at home. He doesn't like you.”
“How many dogs do you have, anyway?” Dean feels like the conversation has taken a turn for the surreal, but can't quite help himself.
“Enough. You like shepherds?”
Dean blinks. “Uh... yeah, I guess. I like dogs, they're fine. Don't have much use for 'em in my line of work, but yeah. Dogs're nice. Have you been smoking up?” he asks, tilting his head a bit.
“Don't need to. Life is a natural high.”
Dean feels a tension headache coming on. “Do you know where Sam is?”
“I might.”
“Did you do something to him?”
Gabriel manages to look injured. “Why do you always assume that I've done something?”
“Because you always do?”
“Fair enough. Look, it's not my problem you lost your brother. Maybe you shouldn't be trying to keep him on such a close leash anyway. Look what happened the last time you tried keeping tabs on him as though he was your -well, your pet dog instead of your brother.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Metaphor, yes, I get it. Look, are you here to do something ironic and whatever, or just to play peanut gallery?”
Gabriel shrugs, and his eyes sparkle with poorly-concealed amusement. “I like the peanut gallery. The snacks are excellent, and provide me with endless ballistic opportunities. But since you're not in a listening mood, I guess I'll just leave you to your search.” He snaps his fingers, disappears. Dean gets the feeling that the finger-snapping is pretty much just for show.
“Hey, you forgot your-” but Gabriel is long gone, “dog,” he finishes lamely. “Terrific.” He stares at the dog, which is sitting with its head cocked to one side, staring at him. “Hey, boy,” Dean returns the stare, then ducks his head, checking. “Yep, definitely a boy. Your master is a douche, just so you know. I know you've got the whole unflinching loyalty thing going for you, but you'd be better off putting your trust elsewhere.” He's talking to a dog. Awesome. He's obviously further gone than he thought. “You haven't seen my brother, have you? He's, like, eight feet tall, in serious need of a haircut, and looks like I'm about to kick him most of the time these days. Answers to Sam.”
The dog wags its tail. Thump-thump-thump against the asphalt.
“No? Didn't think so.” Dean heaves a long-suffering sigh. It's not really like Sam to up and disappear in the middle of a case -not recently, anyway- and he left all his gear behind, and Dean is trying very hard not to get worried just yet. There could be any number of explanations for this, none of which are particularly reassuring if he thinks about it for too long. “All right. I gotta go look for him.”
He dumps Sam's stuff in the trunk, keeps hold of the cell phone just in case, pulls the map of the area out of the glove compartment and spreads it out on the hood of the Impala. The dog settles at his feet with a whuffing noise, lays its muzzle on its forepaws. It's not a big town, so he figures he can go looking in concentric circles, stay on foot for the time being, to make sure he doesn't drive right by Sam if he's, say, passed out somewhere outside.
“He can't be far, right?” he says to the dog. “I mean, supposing he hasn't been zapped somewhere by angels, but so far that's only been my problem. Angels don't like zapping Sam anywhere if they can help it. All right,” he folds up the map, tucks it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “See you around, boy.”
He heads purposefully toward the entrance of the mall, figures he'll use that as a starting point, work his way around. To his surprise, the dog instantly gets to its feet and trots behind him, feathered tail held high behind it. He turns, makes a shooing motion.
“You can't come with me. Go find Gabriel. Go on, git!”
The dog stops, tail drooping, and whines at him.
“No, I mean it. I have to look for Sam.”
The dog whines again, gives a hopeful wag of its tail, and he sighs.
“Are you at least a good tracker?”
The dog cocks its head at him, both ears perked.
“I didn't think so. Well, come on, then.” There's a joyous bark, and the dog bounds to his side, tail wagging enthusiastically. “Why couldn't Gabriel have abandoned a bloodhound?” he grumbles. “I don't have any sheep for you to herd, you know.”
The search goes badly. He spends three hours making his way around the mall, through the streets, checking with every passer-by and shop owner he can find, but no one has seen hide nor hair of Sam. It's like he's fallen off the face of the planet, and by now Dean is hard-pressed not to lose his shit. He calls Bobby, for lack of any better idea, but Bobby doesn't have anything helpful to add either. So he keeps looking until the sun sets and it gets too dark to look properly. He heads back to the car, lets himself sink onto the bumper, head in his hands.
“Shit shit shit, fuck!”
The dog is still there, has been literally dogging his heels all afternoon and evening. It whines, picking up on his mood, shoves its nose into his ribcage.
“I've lost him. What the hell kind of lousy brother am I, that I can't even keep track of Sam when he's a hundred yards away?” he asks the dog. “Some hunter I'm turning out to be. Can't do anything right.”
Predictably enough, the dog doesn't have an answer, and there's nothing left but to head back to the motel. There's a good chance Sam will head back to the room now that they've been separated for so many hours. He pushes himself to his feet, pulls open the door, and nearly gets knocked off his feet as the dog barrels past him and settles into the shotgun seat.
“Oh, no you don't!” he leans into the car, makes a grab for the dog. “That's the original leather, you flea-ridden mutt! Get off there!” He tugs fruitlessly at the dog, realizes that it's a lot bigger and a lot heavier than he thought at first. It gives him a shit-eating doggy grin, the furry bastard, and flops onto the seat, tongue hanging out. “We are not going for a car ride,” he informs it sternly. “I don't care how cute you are.” He goes around the car, yanks open the passenger-side door, and tries to haul out the dog, only to meet with a hundred-odd pounds of very determined canine resistance. “Come on! Son of a bitch,” he stops, stares at the dog. “I don't have time for this. Fine, come with me, then, but you can't stay. And don't drool on the upholstery, or so help me I will kick your furry ass out of the car while it's still running.”
He drives back to the motel, the dog panting happily in the seat next to him, grumbles to himself under his breath about becoming a pushover in his old age. If Sam is there, he'll never let him live down being bullied by a creature that habitually drinks out of the toilet. God, he hopes Sam is there. His life is stressful enough as it is. He unlocks the motel room, turns to order the dog to stay, or whatever, but it's already too late: the dog has wormed its way through his legs and is in the room. He shakes his head, knows when he's defeated. If nothing else, it shows that it's Gabriel's dog: stubborn, and bent on driving him nuts.
“Sam! Sammy, you here?” There's no answer, but the dog is back at his feet, its tail wagging so hard it's practically a blur of motion. He switches on the light, scans the room for signs that Sam may have come and gone, but there are none. “Sam!” The dog cavorts around him, play-snapping at the air, and he reaches down and pats it absentmindedly, dumps his gear on the floor.
He checks his phone messages, but apart from a single text message from Bobby (and the thought of Bobby sending text messages still amuses him to no end) saying that he's checking in with some contacts to see if there's been any indication of weirdness or disappearances in the area, there's nothing. There's nothing on the motel phone either, which he checks out of principle rather than because he really thinks Sam would have left a message there. He sinks down on his bed -the one closest the door, as usual- clasps his hands between his knees, feeling his heart clench in his chest. For the first time, he wonders what he'll do if he can't find Sam, and the thought sends shivers of panic through him.
“Dammit, Sam, where are you?”
There's a blur of motion, and before he can so much as flinch the dog has launched itself at his chest. It bowls him backward on the bed and straddles him, soft pink tongue lapping at his face, giving him the most thorough licking he's ever received in his life. He sputters, shoves at it, tries to twist away.
“Ack! Get off! That's... ptuh! That's seriously gross, dude. I only kiss girls on the lips. Get off!”
The dog doesn't budge, but it stops licking him. He's stuck, spreadeagled on the bed with a hundred pounds of dog on his chest. It shoves its nose into his face, fixes him with an intense gaze, the weird-coloured hazel eyes seemingly waiting for him to do something, or maybe say something. For the second time that day it occurs to him that he's never seen a dog with eyes that colour, and if it's a black dog, shouldn't it have brown eyes? He blinks at it.
No. It can't be.
“Sam?”
The dog barks once, and licks the tip of his nose.
Oh, shit.
*****
Part 3