Series Background:

Lucifer's in the cage—for good this time. Amara is gone. God is back. After returning as Chuck, He limited the number of demons and monsters roaming the Earth to give the Winchesters some well-deserved peace. And did I mention that as a reward, Castiel was allowed to stay? Sam and Dean are finally settling down, but their adventures are far from over. They must now adjust to one of their greatest challenges to date: suburbia (or something like it. They've got to get in at least one hunt on the weekends, for Chuck's sake).

Collection: Further Down the Road

Title: Ain't Nothing But a Hound Dog

Snapshot: 1 of ?

"You've got to be freaking kidding me."

It looked like a normal dog. Black lab, probably less than a year old with those gangly limbs. But when Dean turned his head and looked at the dog out of the corner of his eye, he saw it—glowing red eyes, curled claws, teeth the size of his little finger. That was definitely not your run of the mill pet.

"You want us to babysit a hellhound?" Dean asked.

Crowley grinned with something close to . . . affection. Frankly, it was disturbing. "Daddy's got to go to a business meeting, and I don't want to leave her alone."

"Why don't you put one of your lackeys on monster duty?"

"Hell's been going through a bit of a . . . renovation since the big exile. Lots of firing and hiring—you never know who you can trust," Crowley said. "And as inept as you and Moose and that pet angel of yours are, I assume that you can handle one dog."

"No," Dean said. "I'm not your damn—"

"Or I could just set her loose in the nearest playground and let her entertain herself." Crowley smiled smugly. That bastard.

"Fine. But you better be back when your evil powwow's over, or it's not gonna be pretty."

"Done. And if there's a hair harmed on my darling's little head when I return, then there will be hell to pay." And with that, the demon disappeared.

"Great. Just great," Dean muttered. He already had his Sasquatch moose of a brother to deal with, not to mention an angel who had the tendency to stare at him like some kind of half-drowned cat and was currently around pretty much twenty-four-seven, and now there was this thing. He almost missed fighting for his life.

Almost.

"Dean," said a low, familiar voice behind him. "Why is there a dog in the living room? I thought you do not like dogs."

The dog, which had been sitting quietly on the floor, rose on all four legs and started growling at the angel.

"You'd better hang back, Cas," Dean said. "I'm betting hellhounds and angels don't exactly play nice."

The dog was full out barking now. Drool was dripping from its jaw—gross. "Pipe down," Dean said. When that didn't work, he said, "Sit. Sit."

Nothing. He could feel the first tinges of a headache coming on.

"Perhaps if you called her by name, she would be more willing to respond," Castiel said, seemingly unfazed by the one hundred pounds of demon meat ready to pounce on him. Stupid angel mojo.

"Damn it," Dean said. "Crowley didn't tell me its name."

"She says her name is Growley."

"Growley. Growley?" Of all the dumbest names . . . Chocolate freaking Bon Bon would have been better. "Wait a minute. You can talk to it?"

Cas nodded. "Angels speak most languages except for a small number of rare, antiquated tongues."

"Of course you do." Dean looked down at Growley. The dog was still snarling, but at least it was no longer barking its head off. "So . . . What is it—"

"Growley."

"—Growley thinking now?"

"Growley is averse to me because . . . Well, an exact translation would be: I am too shiny. But she is growing used to it."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Okay, Electro. Let's take this puppy for a walk before it craps on the carpet."

"Hellhounds don't need to defecate, Dean."

"Whatever. They've still gotta exercise, right?"

"Growley would like a game of fetch, preferably with a fireball rather than a stick," Cas said. "And she does not appreciate your assumption that she would relieve herself indoors."

"Well, I'm so sorry to offend. And we don't have any fireballs, whatever the hell those are."

"They're gaseous spheres that have been ignited—"

"I was joking, Cas."

The angel looked down at his shoes, blue eyes contrite. "My apologies."

Dean shook his head, though he couldn't help smiling a little. He looked around for something that would serve as a substitute for a fireball. They didn't keep bouncy balls on hand—Dean didn't want a dog, and he really put his foot down when Sam mentioned adopting a rescue cat—but they did have a bowl full of oranges thanks to Gigantor the health nut.

Dean picked one up, squeezed it to test its firmness, and threw it over the dog's head. "Okay, fetch."

Growley just stared at him. If dogs could talk, Dean would have sworn that this one was saying, You are the world's biggest idiot. Of course, this dog technically could talk thanks to Cas, so he really didn't want to know.

"What, you don't like citrus?" he asked.

"I'm afraid you have it backwards," Cas said. "When Growley suggested fetch, she meant that you would be the one retrieving the ball."