Chapter 2: Transform


Sam and Dean were out on the porch, it was approaching the end of the day, and Dean felt something under his skin that made him... itch . He didn't tell Sam or Bobby, but the itch had been growing since they had come to Bobby's. And he was also worrying that the itch was actually aligned with being a werewolf.

Was it coincidence that the full moon was coming up in only a night's time? Was it coincidence that his skin felt too tight, like he was bursting at the seams?

This was getting too much, like he was trying to hide being a monster. And his father had taught him better than that.

Dean wasn't a selfish person, he didn't think. He took enough to survive, took the small pleasures in life like alcohol, women, and food - but he didn't take things he didn't need on some level. It just wasn't him. So the lying, in defense of himself, purely, soley himself... was new.

Even so, even as selfish as that was, Dean would stop it the moment he was sure he was dangerous.

But it was hard. Staring out at the moon, watching it rise as the sun set, Dean accepted this as his last day. It didn't mean he couldn't mourn his own life, his lost potential. It didn't mean jack shit. It meant he drank his beer-light (the only kind he could actually stand since it just tasted like flavored water), spent a few more hours with Sam, and then did what he needed to do afterwards.

"You've been quiet." Sam said leaning against the balcony.

"Yeah," Dean said, noncommittally.

"Listen, Dean, we'll figure this out." Sam said, his hand coming out to land on his back.

Figure this out? They could barely figure out what the hell his symptoms were.

"Yeah? Figure this out like we've figured everything else out?"

Dean scoffed, looked at that puppy-dog face of his brother, and felt something burst at the edge of his skin. Like the itch evolving. It was a sucker punch but full body. The half-full beer in his hands fell from his fingers and shattered at his feet as he felt his body turn from itching to burning. Doubling over, Dean wheezed.

"Dean?" Sam demanded as he flew forward. His hands were like exploding suns, and if the burning of his skin was any kind of indication, it was worse than the itch.

Pushing his brother away, Dean gasped.

What the hell was happening?

Like any good hunter Sam had his gun out and pointed at Dean, precautionary, but it was still a threat. And Dean exploded.

Literally. It felt like he exploded at the very least. His clothes didn't fly off, nor did his skin, but it was as if everything expanded and then shrunk. His senses were still just as sharp as they had been for the past week, if not slightly tweaked. He found himself on all fours, crouched down.

Sam just stared at him, dumbfounded. His hands holding the gun unsteadily, falteringly.

"Holy shit." He breathed.

The itching was gone, but Dean was surprised to find that he wished desperately for it to come back, because at least that was a human reaction. Anything human would have been welcome right now, because Dean wasn't a human. He was a dog. A dog standing on four legs, unsteady, in a pool of his own clothes.

A dog.

If he had to guess, probably a sheppard.

Four legs, four paws, a tail - he could feel it twitched as he stood stock still - a snout, and all other kind of doggie bits. His tongue fit just right in his elongated mouth, but his fangs felt like they got all tangled up. His tail twitched and he couldn't control it, it was like it telegraphed his mood - cautious, careful, terrified.

Holy shit was right, Dean thought to himself before thoughts and feelings he'd not felt before took over and he turned tail -

And ran.

No longer did he think of his father. Or the demon who had killed his mother. Who had killed Jess. No longer did he think of Sam, of protecting him. No longer did he dwell on killing the demon, saving his family, or finding out what the hell was even happening to their family in the first place. No longer was it about the cumulation of all things, but rather everything that was at hand.

He left all those human worries behind. Left them behind in favor of dog worries.

Like how far he could run before they caught him and killed him, because being bit was one thing, being sick was another - transforming was an entirely new world of wrong.


Getting the hang of walking on four legs was a lot easier than Dean thought it was going to be. It wasn't like learning to walk: Crawl, flop, wobble. This was different. It was like knowing and then doing. On his feet - paws - and he was off. Uncoordinated for only a second. He wasn't a child, and even though these muscles and these legs were unfamiliar territory - Dean knew how to traverse them like he knew how to hustle rich-boys.

The smells as a dog were powerful. As if everything was made up of smells. He could practically seethem, which was good, because his eyesight as a dog was slightly worse than as a human. Not to say that wasn't still good, but it was more human with some color excluded. The smells though... ugh. The smells. Trails of dead animals that were dragged through the yard, alive animals that chased other animals, dogs, critters, the smell of garbage, rotting leather and upholstery. Metal splattered every which way that gave the air a kind of choked smoggy taste. And human. Bobby. Sam. Both their own flavor and he could follow each around the yard for days .

Oh. And that taste. Dean knew if he were human he would want to throw up, but it seemed that a dog could handle licking dead animals, rust, and ass all day long.

Hide hide hide his brain chanted to him.

It was just his luck the junkyard was like a maze.

"DEAN!"

Dean could hear Sam calling to him, but Sam wouldn't get close unless Dean allowed it. His nose was too good, his hearing impecable. He could hear the other dogs yards away from himself and stayed clear. The last thing he needed was a fight.

Even though he was sure he would win.

"Dean!" Sam called again.

Dean ignored him, settling in front of a shiney hub.

He was a dog but he wasn't long haired like a shepherd, or dark like the dog that had bit him was. He was a light brown, with pointed ears, and a medium stocky build. For some reason, Dean thought he looked like he'd come from Australia. Kind of like those sheep dogs. In all truth, Dean didn't have a single clue what kind of dog he was. Which was baffling.

He was bit by a German Shepard, so why wasn't he a shepherd?

It stood to reason that if you are bit by something, and turned by something, then that something you shall be.

Yet, here Dean stood. Different.

Yet. In control. He didn't feel murderous, or dangerous. He felt small, weak like a dog, but also aware of himself. He'd never been so aware. His skin rippled with the wind in his fur. His ears perked and he bent them back. Bared his fangs. It was like a puppy trying to look angry. Dean had seen it in just about every puppy he'd had the misfortune to handle.

What the hell?

"DEAN!"

Sam was closer, Dean knew it, but he was also coming from the east. Dean had at least three exits to the south, four to the North, and two hiding spots in this area alone. He was small enough that Sam wouldn't get his arms around him if he didn't want him to.

Did he want him to?

There were so many things to think about.

Was he a monster? Was he dangerous?

If he'd been bit by a werewolf or a vampire, this would all be easy. He would eat a bullet and die. It would be sad. It would tear his family into bits and pieces and fling them into the wind - but what else was new? Now... now who knew anything? If he wasn't dangerous, then what was he? If he could control himself, what were his options? Was this permanent? Could it be reversed?

Did he want Sam to find him and help him figure it out?

Dean realized, no, not until he figured out what he was. Not until he learned more. Not until he figured out how dangerous he was, or if he was just the regular run of the mill dog. If this was permanent. He was ready to run forever, if need be. Take off and go. Lose humanity and shed it like a bad skin. Being a dog couldn't be that awful...

"Dammit, Dean," Bobby's voice came over the cars, much, much closer than Sam's voice, and in the opposite direction. "Dean, ya idjit! We know what you are!"

... Wait. What?


He hid under a car as Sam and Bobby met in the middle of the clearing.

It could be a trap, was what Dean thought.

It could be a trick.

But they said they knew what he was.

Then again, if they knew, they would kill him. Cause that's what Dean would do.

He would stick around to hear either way. He owed it to them.

... Only it was different when it was your own life. Dean understood even more why the monsters, awful and horrible as they had been, had fought tooth and nail to survive. There was beauty in existence. And that beauty would be extinguished if the life was. Wouldn't it? There was beauty in beer, in burgers, in his family (small as it was, broken as it was).

But he'd dwell on that later. Hed dwell on all those monster's he'd killed later. Much, much later.

"Did you find him?" Sam asked, out of breath as if he'd been sprinting. He pulled up like a giant lumbering animal, stopping almost skidding.

"No, but he said he had super hearing or somethin' didn't he?"

"Yeah? So?"

"So. He can hear us, right?"

Dean laid his head on his paws, feeling utterly thankful that Bobby was smart enough to figure that out, to listen.

"We're right about in the middle of the yard," Bobby said, as he pocketed his gun. "Dean can hear us probably any which way. If he's still here."

"He's still here," Sam said, sure of himself, running his hands through his hair. "Well, Dean, if you're listening, you aren't a werewolf, or a skinwalker, or anything really dangerous - "

Bull . Dean wanted to snarl, he changed into a dog , but it caught in his throat as Bobby interrupted to quickly deliver the information.

"Get to the point Sam."

"You're a familiar, Dean."

He couldn't help it, he barked a laugh.

Familiar? Like... Witches?

... So he wasn't thedangerous thing, he was a pet to the dangerous thing. Great... Just... Fuck.

Sam and Bobby both twirled around to the car he was under.

"Dean?" Sam asked as he crouched. He practically had his chest to the ground before he could see Dean's sad state. All curled up with his head on his paws. "Oh. Dean."

It was the first time Sam got a real good look at him.

"Dean, gettoutta there." Bobby commanded.

Something within him snarled and growled. As if offended by the very thought of someone giving him a command. Or, at least that someone being Bobby. It came like an intrusive thought, but it stayed as he bared his fangs in Bobby's direction.

Who was he to try and command him?

Dean's more human thoughts came back and his ears perked in inquiry of himself as he questioned... Why did that even matter?

"Dean, come on out, and stop with the snarling. It's just Bobby and me, we won't hurt you."

The anger dissipated some, and Dean felt a cool kind of state pervade his bones. Like he was under control, except he wasn't. He wanted to come out from under the car now. He wanted to stop snarling. He wanted to stop.

He wanted Sam to use those big hands of his to scratch his ears.

It was the last point that made him shuffle out of his hidey-hole and carefully, watchfully, tip-toe forward. His head was down low, he walked almost sideways, and he kept himself small. It was instinct. It was raw and it was so, so easy to fall into. Instinctive in a way that a gun in his hands felt, or the smell of ghosts, or the raw feeling of fear. Sam was huge to him as a human, and crouched as he was, he was a monster to dog-dean.

When he got close enough, something within him, a gut reactions, a gut feeling, spoke to him. It said trust. And good. Ease. Dean didn't know of what, but he found everything was confusing. Was this another piece of him now? These... strange feelings? These... dare he think them instincts?

"Hey, Dean," Sam said, holding his hand out like he was some stray. "It's going to be okay."

Bobby rolled his eyes audibly. Dean snorted in the only way he can, which made a sneezing sound.

"Yeah..." Sam dropped his head sheepishly. "Little bit of a stretch, huh?"

Dean nodded, ears flopping as he did.

"Well, at least we know you're basically harmless, Dean." Sam tried to convey warmth, and comfort, and ease through his actions. He succeeded. Dean allowed his muscles to relax, slightly. Close as he was, he didn't need to sniff the hand to know everything about Sam. Leather. Books.

Nerd. He thought affectionately.

Still, there was something more to Sam. A different light. It was... calming. It was soothing. Like a lullaby.

Then Sam talked, and even his voice turned musical.

"You were bit by a familiar. So, you're a familiar. We think it's closer to a curse than a full transformation though."

A curse? Dean cocked his head... That made sense. His heart felt lighter after that.

A curse he could live with. A curse was what tons of people lived with. Some people were cursed to be ugly, some were cursed into animals (forever animals not some weird turning-human-turning-animal thing), and most still lived lives. Albeit vastly different ones to what they had lived before, but they had lived.

Dean would live.

Bobby piped in. "Never knew how they were made, you know? Thought it was family lines. Didn't know it could be passed on through a bite."

Dean snorted. It seemed no one had. Though, Dean really hadn't even known familiars existed . They were stories. There were rumors. Whispers. One of the only mythical stories that hadn't seemed real. Every monster, every Witch they'd fought had been by themselves, alone, no backup except perhaps more of their kind.

Cocking his head, Dean tried to ask a question. As broad as it was. Bobby seemed to understand.

"A familiar isn't really anything special without a Witch. At least, as far as we know. Hunters don't know a lot about Witches and Familiar bonds because, well. Witches don't tend to talk to us..." Sam sighed as Dean watched him, unblinkingly. "From what we could gather, Witches control familiars. Since there are no Witches around, we should be safe. You should be safe."

Dean knew Sam didn't really believe that. Witches were everywhere. Hidden in plain old society like any other monster was. What was to say that Familiars and Witches couldn't find each other? What was to say that Dean wouldn't be called to a Witch? Dean turned away, not wanting to stare at Sam any longer. Then the strides turned longer, and shorter, and he turned and spun. He was pacing. It came easily. Like he was restless so he paced, as easy as that, as simple as that. His brain on Dog was base instinct, was easy, was simple.

Pulling himself to a stop, Dean huffed.

Simple? It was anything but.

Because Dean wanted things simultaneously. He wanted to be petted. He wanted to bite Bobby. He wanted to run as far and as fast as he could. He wanted to crawl over to Sam and burrow into his jacket and smell the comfort of home, of family.

He wants it all, but he has to make choices. And as a dog, making choices seems to tear at his very existence.

So he makes the only one's he can.

"Dean?" Sam called to him, pulling him from staring into the wide blue yonder.

What could he do but add comfort where he could?

Dean made his way over to Sam, collapsed on the ground next to his feet and shoved his face into his leather jacket as far as he could. And then he pretended he wasn't a person and pretended he wasn't a familiar and that this wasn't his life. When Sam's hands came down on his neck it made him believe the lie a little more. The strokes made him believe he was just a dog. That this was his life. That he was never human and this was some sick dream.

He allowed the fantasy for about a minute before pulling away, getting up, and walking back to the house, leaving Bobby and Sam in his dust.

It was time to start living with being what he was. It was time to live as a familiar.

And it was time to learn.


Bobby was woefully underprepared for any kind of familiar questions. He called everyone he could. He reached out to connections Dean and Sam had never even thought he could touch - and it all lead to very little.

Most Hunters agreed that familiars existed, but only a handful had ever defeated a Witch with one. All they said about that was that familiars were obedient to a fault, powerful, and not to be trifled with. See a Collared familiar, their Witch would not be far behind.

( Collar? Dean had glared balefully, going pale under his fur. Bobby giving him an apologetic shrug while Sam looked distinctly uncomfortable.)

None of them had ever met a familiar that was unbonded.

That was something... at least. Even so, Dean promised the second he turned back to a human he would force a promise from Sam. That no matter what, if a Witch ever bound him, that he would shoot him dead. After Sam had been so estranged from the family maybe it would even be easy on him.

Maybe it would be easier than the other options.

Actually surviving.


Dean couldn't speak, so Sam and he came up with a way to communicate when Dean had a lot to say but it would take forever with a yes or no twenty-question game.

And it was simply to sit Dean in front of a computer made for mentally challenged kids or children. The buttons were big, the keyboard large enough that if Dean had a stick he could poke the buttons.

It wasn't perfect, but it worked.

gonnnna gio afgfter dadd?

Dean typed one day.

"Go after Dad?" Sam asked, shaking his head. "Why would I? We've got to figure out you before we go after Dad."

Whuat bnpout hjeeessuicvca

Sam absolutely stiffened.

"Jess is dead, Dean," Sam said after a moment, his voice thick. "I'm going to get revenge on that son of a bitch that killed her, but Dean," His large hand came out and pet down Dean's neck. "We've got to solve this problem before we can go all blood thirsty."

Dean went back to the keyboard, ready to respond, but Sam took the stick.

"No, Dean, I know." Sam said, and it was the first time he'd activity shushed Dean. "I've been focused on finding Jess's killer, I know. I've been kind of a dick about it too. But. Dean. Jess is dead. You're still here. You're the priority. We'll get you back to yourself first, then we'll do what I need to do."

Sammy... Dean thought, bearing his fangs in a snarl.

"Dean, I need you."

That snarl fell of Dean's face. What could he say to that? Nothing, literally, so he did the only thing he could. He scooted closer to Sam, who threw his arms around Dean and hugged him close.

We'll get revenge, Sam , Dean thought tucking his nose under his chin. We'll kill that son-of-a-bitch.


Dean slept with Sam most nights. He didn't feel comfortable sleeping in his own bed, by himself, because everything was just too big. Too much space. With Sam it was as if he took up just enough room, but it was on one particularly stormy night that Sam tossed and turned enough that it awoke him. As a dog, Dean knew he could sleep in just about any position, but he'd taken to guarding Sam's feet, curled up nose to tail. Which is why he awoke when Sam kicked him.

:Hey! : Dean snarled, waking up with a snapping jaw, itching for a fight.

His hackles immediately settled as he saw the covers in the dark, moving. Violently. Sam was shifting, arms flailing, legs trapped under the blankets. It took Dean a moment. Only one to realize that Sam was having a nightmare, and a horrible one at that.

Sammy, Dean thought to himself, the hair on the back of his neck flattening as he padded softly over to Sam's face. He couldn't shake him awake. He didn't have hands. He could bark, but that might just startle him. Sam had the reflexes of a cat, arms flinging deadly weapons as easily as if he were awake.

So... Dean took the highroad. He kicked himself internally, because this was going too far, wasn't it? This... wasn't this too dog?

But Dean found he was slowly losing his ability to care.

So he did it. He slowly but surely hoped onto the bed, made sure his paws were placed carefully as Sam tossed and turned. Then getting over Sam's right arm, he plopped down over his chest and pinned his arm down. That settled Sam and he couldn't move much after that. Not without tossing Dean.

Even subconsciously he would never do that.

In fact, his breathing settled, his heartbeat still thundering, but Dean tucked his nose up against Sam's face, against his ear, and puffed softly. Trying to sooth in this new body, trying to figure out how to work it all. When Sam had been a baby, he would sit with him all night if he was fussy. This wasn't so weird, when that was the alternative, huh?

In the morning, Sam woke up first, to Dean absolutely crushing him.

Considering Dean only weighed a third of his usual weight, it wasn't much, but Sam groggily blinked. Dean hadn't cuddled like this with him since they were kids. In fact, he'd gotten close like a dog, but it had never been this close. Practically on top of him.

Why would Dean do that? Sam questioned himself as he cocked his head and blinked blearily. Was it a dog thing?

It was just his luck that dog-Dean slept like the dead, just like human-Dean did. When he moved, Dean flopped like a useless piece of dead weight into his lap. It was endearing, a little. And, well, Sam was always one to take advantage of a situation. And Dean cuddling with him was something he wasn't about to give up.

Especially after that nightmare. Jessica staring at him. Ceiling aflame. It was the same every time. Every damn time.

His hand pet Deans soft fur in even, kind strokes. Dean snuffled. Sam didn't feel better, per se, but he felt a little lighter. He sat like that for a few minutes, just breathing, letting his heart go back to normal, and petting Dean. Which is why when Dean woke up, he was a little shocked that he didn't bound off the bed, snarl and wipe his face, or do anything else Dean like.

He just sat and stared up at him.

Sam was shocked as Dean blinked groggily, stretched like a real dog would, and shook his head. It was part sleepily done, another part groggily confused. Once he figured out it was Sam he was up against, he settled back down again, head on his paws, in Sam's lap. Closed his eyes and yawned.

The younger brother hadn't a clue what Dean would be saying in that moment, but he didn't care.

He didn't.