A/N: Hello all! Chapter one, woohoo! Thank you to everyone that has favorited/followed my story- you guys are awesome! Like I mentioned last chapter, all of this is unbeta'd, so please feel free to PM me if you find any horrible mistakes. Or want to beta for me (hinthint :)). Please do review! Do you like it, do you hate it? I want to know!Disclaimer that I forgot last time: I own nothing. If I owned anything, Gabriel would be back by now.
This is the life, Dean Winchester thought. He took a massive bite of his Bacon Cheddar Butterburger, rocking his head to one of his favorite mullethead rock jams. Underneath the thrumming baseline of Metallica, his cherry '67 Chevy Impala purred, content to cruise the roads of America at sixty-five miles per hour. This is really living it.
He was forty miles outside of Fort Wayne, Indiana, where a coven of witches had been terrorizing some philandering husbands. So far, three men were dead, but Dean knew the witches weren't done. Once those bitches got started dealing out their special brand of justice, no one was safe. So, even if those bastards were getting what they deserved (Dean didn't hold much regard for cheaters), he had to put an end to it.
Finishing his burger, he tossed the empty wrapper to the back seat and sped up. The quicker he finished this job, the better.
Well, he didn't think it would be quite that easy, but Dean wasn't complaining. He spoke to the local sheriff and apparently a federal officer had already come through to handle the case. No one seemed to know how, but men stopped dying about two days ago. Dean knew the signs: another hunter had gotten here first.
Usually, Dean was disappointed when he didn't get the kills, but, well, witches, man. They're just eugh. They're all slime and spew and which-body-part-haven't-we-shriveled-lately. He always felt dirty after a witch hunt, the kind of dirty that lingered with a man for days. So, as far as he was concerned, good riddance.
Dean drove back to his motel room and started changing out of his suit. He had already bought the room for the night, he figured he might as well hit the bar and make a night of it. He paused for a moment, about to undo the third button on his starchy shirt. Maybe he should go business casual? Chicks always seemed a little more eager when they thought he was someone of actual money making. Just as the thought passed through his mind, a spot on his lower back started itching.
Nope, fuck it. Wasn't worth the discomfort. He continued undoing the buttons, looking forward to the comfort of his trusty jeans and favorite button-down.
He stopped by the motel office before he headed out. "Hi," he said, grinning at the girl behind the counter, "I just checked in today and I've never been here before. Where can a guy go to relax?"
"You mean besides right here, behind the counter?" the receptionist flirted, her eyes glittering with amusement. "The closest bar is The Pines. It's about half a mile up this street. Can't miss it."
"Thanks, sweetheart," Dean replied. He gave the girl a once-over. She was cute, if not a little young. Still, he liked her. "What's your name, again?"
"Jamie," she responded. "And I get off at eleven. Maybe I'll meet you there?"
"Maybe you will," Dean agreed, giving her his patented Dean Winchester I'm-just-as-good-as-I-look smile. If she was old enough to buy her own drinks, his moral conscience would be clear tonight.
He strolled out of the office and walked toward the Impala. He stopped, resting a hand on the taillight. Did he want to drive to the bar? It was only half a mile; he could probably walk there in fifteen minutes or so. And that way he could drink and not worry about driving. He didn't care about the legality of it, mind, but he really didn't trust his inebriated self with his baby.
Was he going to get drunk? Or just tipsy? He couldn't handle alcohol like he used to. Used to be, Dean could knock back five shots like nothing. He would drink beer, shoot pool, and wile away hours in smoky bars before got drunk. And he wouldn't feel it in the morning. Life wasn't like that anymore, Dean thought dejectedly. Now it was taking advil before bed and keeping a trash can handy the next day. Granted, he still drank like an alcoholic fish, but his hangovers were decidedly not awesome.
He stood for a moment more before making up his mind and walking away from his car. Walking would do him some good, especially after sitting in a car for so long.
He strode away, not noticing the tiny brown head peeking out from under the Impala.
The next morning was rough. Dean woke up in his motel room with someone that was not Jamie and he didn't remember much of anything from last night. He let her use the bathroom before kicking her out of his room. She hadn't really minded: she was as casual a lover as he was, he remembered that much. He showered, scrubbing at his hair with the cheap, citrus shampoo the motel provided. He brushed his teeth and downed two Tylenol, willing his headache away. Fucking hangovers.
Fifteen minutes later, he hauled his duffel into the trunk of the Impala and slammed the door shut. He got in behind the wheel and moved to slam his door shut when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. He paused, hunter's instincts kicking in. A puppy the size of his calf was lingering around the corner of the motel, looking him dead in the eye. It lowered its head a fraction before moving slowly toward him, keeping close to the wall of the motel room.
It was just a dog, Dean realized. He moved to close his door. As long as it wasn't about to kill him, Dean didn't much care. He looked over at the dog again and stopped.
What was a dog doing out here? Dean wondered. It looked terrified. He looked around for its owners. It obviously wasn't a stray: its shaggy brown fur looked clean and shiny. Perhaps it was lost?
Dean swung his legs out from beneath the dashboard, determined to help the dog find its owners. Something about this dog struck a chord in him, a chord he hadn't even realized could be struck. At his sudden movement, the puppy stopped, tucking its tail between its legs and shying back. Dean cautiously lowered himself to his knees, opening his hands in supplication.
"I'm not gonna hurt you, little buddy. I just want to figure out where you came from," Dean spoke softly. Internally, he chastised himself. He's speaking to an animal like it could understand him. Jesus Christ, he was a mess. Nevertheless, the puppy had started moving again, so maybe he didn't do too badly. It walked forward trepidatiously, stopping almost two feet from Dean's extended hands.
"Hey, there," Dean grinned before he could stop himself. "What's your name? I'm Dean." Get a grip, dude, he told himself. Dog don't fuckin' care what your name is.
The puppy closed the gap between them uncertainly, tail still lodged firmly between its legs. It touched Dean's palm with its nose and, sniffing, gave it a small nudge.
And no, Dean did not melt a little, because that would be unmanly and Dean was a man. A big manly man with manly man hair and man parts.
The puppy, apparently deciding that Dean was safe, tucked its head into the hollow of Dean's hand, as if to say 'Okay. You can pet me now.'
And no, Dean did not pet the puppy gently, because he was a manly man and manly men didn't pet puppies gently.
Damn, this puppy had some soft fur.
Dean shook himself out of his reverie and looked the dog over. It—make that he—had pretty big paws for such a small dog. He would grow up to big. He seemed healthy enough, thank God. Dean's fingers caught on a chain around the dog's neck and, following the chain around, he located a tiny tag. He squinted to see the font.
"Sam," Dean read aloud. "Hi Sam," he said to the dog. Sam wagged his tail slightly, recognizing his own name. That was good. Dean examined the tag more, but it revealed nothing about the dog's owners or anything. Just "Sam."
"Well, buddy," Dean said, tamping down his desire to pick the puppy up to cuddle him, "It seems you don't know where you belong any more than I do. Maybe you have one of those microchip things. You think?"
Sam gave no indication of affirmation. Which he wouldn't, Dean noted derisively, because he's a dog, you moron.
"Let's take you to the pound and see if they can sort you out, okay?" Dean said. He found an old blanket and laid it over the passenger seat before picking Sam up and depositing him on the blanket. He drove away from the motel toward an animal shelter he remembered seeing yesterday.
Why was he helping this dog? Dean had never been the bleeding heart type. He'd seen animals mutilated for sacrifices, children ripped apart by vengeful spirits, and much worse. He had a tough skin borne of years of violence and evil-smiting. He didn't take strays to the pound to get sorted out.
But, as his traitorous hand began petting the puppy again, maybe he could change.
God, this guy is easy, Sam thought dryly. He'd noticed the man, Dean, when he'd rolled in on his fancy ride yesterday. He had all the markers of a hunter; Sam knew the signs. He'd walked into his room wearing an outfit straight out of an army surplus store and walked back out in a cheap business suit. He had probably heard about the witches and come running.
Sam had watched as Dean came back, obviously relieved about not having to work with witches (at least he was experienced, Sam noted. Witches were godawful.), and went straight to the bars. He had come back with a nice piece of ass. A few hours later (being a dog came with enhanced hearing that did not allow for much privacy), the couple had fallen asleep.
Over the course of the night, Sam had formulated a plan, and, so far, it worked perfectly. The tough guy hunter was a big softie, just as Sam had thought he'd be. All Sam had to do was feign fear and the guy was putty in his hands. Paws. Whatever. Dean was going to take him to the pound and get him checked out. It was pointless—Sam knew he didn't have a microchip—but hey, at the pound he'd get free food and maybe rustle up a few dogfights for fun. With his hunter's instinct paired with his new, canine reflexes, he'd be top dog in no time.
Sam curled up on the blanket Dean had given him, happy that his plan was working so well. Dean began petting him again shortly thereafter and, much to Sam's chagrin, he realized that he liked it. Must be a dog thing, Sam rationalized. It's not like I actually like this.
Pretending that he'd convinced himself, Sam gave in to the simple joy of being pet and let himself surrender to sweet, blissful darkness.
