A/N: Hey, everyone! Here's chapter two! Unbeta'd, and, as always, I'd love feedback if you find any mistakes! Thank you so much to everyone that has favorited/followed this story. I'm starting to hash out the plot details, and I am so excited to share with you the awesome story that's unfolding in my head. Like I mentioned in the prologue, this is my first SPN fic, but it's also my first multi-chaptered fic, and having people who actually subscribed to HatH is absolutely inspiring. Just, ahh. I love you all. Read on.

"I'm sorry," the vet said, coming into the small room with a few papers in her hand, "but this dog doesn't have a microchip. Other than that, he's in fine health."

"What do you mean? I thought they all had microchips these days," Dean argued. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir," the vet smiled apologetically, "We're sure. Most dogs do have microchips. But some owners believe that microchips are unnecessary and cruel. And some, though not many, actually think we might control their pets with the thing!"

Dean tried to laugh, but his heart felt heavy. This puppy would be going to the pound. Granted, he wasn't tiny, but still. Sam would suffer. Dean had seen pound dogs, they were cautious and defensive to the point of meanness.

"Well," he said, dreading the words as they poured from his mouth, "I guess that means he'll be going to the pound, then?"

"Are you not keeping him?" the vet asked, eyes narrowed.

"Well, I mean," Dean fumbled, "It's just me and the road. I can't have a dog. Plus, I know some family would love to have him. Right?" He knew he was trying to convince himself as much as the vet, and he hated himself for it.

"Well, I'm sorry, sir, but the shelter is full at the moment," she replied, her words clipped. "Maybe you and the road can make some room for Sam, because we can't afford it. Have a good day." With those words, she left the room, leaving Dean staring desolately at the bundle of fur curled up on the examination table. Him, Dean Winchester, with a dog? What was he going to do with a dog? Jesus Christ.


Sam listened carefully to the vet. He wouldn't be staying in the pound. Shame. He'd seen a German Shepard that looked like he could be taken down a few pegs. Oh well. Maybe Dean would keep him. Anything's better than the streets, although Sam supposed that he'd manage that as well, if need be.

"Well, little buddy, I guess it's just you and me," Dean sighed.

Great, Sam thought, another round of cooing and patronization. To his disbelief, his tail wagged slightly. "No," Sam wanted to say to it, "I'm not happy, stop."

Unfortunately all that came out was a small snorting growl. It didn't stop his traitorous tail; the thing kept wagging back and forth, like some idiot flag of happiness. Dumb thing.

And no, it did not wag harder when Dean smiled down at him. Sentimentality was for fools. Or something.


Dean watched as Sam wagged his tail at his new owner. It was like the dog knew good news when he heard it. But, nah, that was stupid. Must just be getting used to him, that's all.

Now, if only Dean could get used to Sam. That'll be the hard part.

It turned out that it actually wasn't that hard at all. Sam had kept to himself, mostly, and had fallen asleep just as they crossed the state border between Indiana and Wisconsin. Dean had decided to go to Bobby's while he sorted himself out. The older man would know what to do, he always did.

Bobby Singer was one of the oldest hunters still living in America. He was technically "retired" because he rarely left his home in South Dakota, but everybody in the business knows that true retirement comes only when Death finally rings the dinner bell.

That didn't mean that Bobby had stopped saving people, though. He preferred to handle the theoretical side of hunting in his old age. He spent his days and night rifling through his massive preternatural library, searching for the right bit of information to help hunters kill their target. He had also accumulated a large network of scholars and other higher-ups that would help him whenever his book collection couldn't provide the necessary knowledge.

But Bobby was more than just a source of lore for Dean. Dean had first met Bobby when he was eight years old and just learning to sharpen knives. He and his father, John, were in the middle of hunting a werewolf that turned out to be a rugaru in some nowhere place in Montana. Bobby had rolled into town and taken over the case. John was furious at first, but it turned out that Bobby had handled rugarus before and knew how to kill them, and John knew that he was in way over his head, especially because he had Dean to look out for.

John and Bobby had formed a cautious truce, which was about as close as you got to immediate friendship in the business. Bobby, unlike the Winchesters, had a home base that he could always return to, and he provided reprieve from the endless nights of cheap motels and nickel-a-cake soap. Not that his lumpy sofa was a big step up, but hey, the Winchesters weren't complaining. Dean had always liked Bobby anyways. Bobby, unlike John, enjoyed making Dean laugh, and made sure to spend time with him whenever he could. He even took Dean to the park once. They'd tossed a baseball around and gotten ice cream. It was the first and only time Dean had really felt like a kid.

John had been beside himself, of course, but Bobby had told John to stuff it. Dean had always been a good son—pleasing John was akin to pleasing God Himself, in his eyes—but he had felt a forbidden thrill when someone actually defied the man.

Bobby had quickly become a second father to Dean. John was his commander-in-chief, sure, but Bobby was the one that felt like home. Bobby snuck him candy and toy soldiers. He'd even bought him his first skin mag, the old geezer. He was as close as Dean had ever come to normalcy.

A sleepy growl brought Dean out of his reminiscing. He glanced over at Sam, who had fallen asleep about two hundred miles back. The little guy was dreaming, if his twitching paws and aborted snorts were anything to go by.

"Chasing squirrels, are ya, little buddy?" said Dean, trying to fight the grin that was working its way across his face. He knew he was two more comments away from buying panties and shaving his legs, but he couldn't help himself. This dog just didn't stop being cute. And hey, know one else was around to hear him, right?

Dean scrubbed at his lower lip, pushing the thought to the back of his mind. He just needed to get to Bobby. He would know what to do. Hopefully.


Sam curled tighter into himself, hiding his curled lip under his foot. Seriously? This guy was a fucking hunter? Jesus Christ. It's a wonder he wasn't dead yet, the pansy. Sam swore that if Dean called him "little buddy" one more time, he'd bite through the man's Achilles tendon.

Little buddy…. It was damned emasculating! Sam was a Campbell! A hunter, and a good one! He was a warrior to the undead and festering! He was over six feet of muscle and sinew! He was—

Hungry. Wow, was he hungry. Had he eaten recently? Sam counted back the days. Nope. Not since being a dog, anyway.

"Well, little buddy," Sam bit into his leg so he wouldn't bite Dean, "I don't know about you, but I think my stomach's about to cave in on itself. Whaddya say we make a pit stop and get some burgers?"

Finally, the man had said something not completely stupid. Sam looked up and wagged his tail. Dean grinned at him. "Knew you'd like that," he said. "We'll get you some real dog food when we get to Bobby's, but you'll be okay on beef for a little bit. I think. I haven't really had the chance to meet any dogs, you know, life on the road—"

Sam tuned the man out. Bobby? Bobby Singer, the old drunk in South Dakota? From what Sam had heard, Bobby was the closest thing the hunting community had to a professor. Bobby had also developed a system of telephone numbers and resources so that hunters could sneak into crime scenes and examine corpses while pretending to be federal agents. It was a good idea, one that the Campbell family had quickly copied. But, other than that small innovation, Bobby didn't contribute much other than dusty books and flea-bitten beds.

Sam had never met the man, of course; the Campbells liked to keep to themselves, when it came to the hunting community, and they tended to avoid other hunters. Many of the men and women that fought the supernatural were seeking vengeance for a lost loved one or similar. They were crude, revenge-driven drunkards with little care for their personal well-being or that of the people around them. Samuel had once suggested that that was why many hunters didn't live past forty: they fought to win or die, and no one won, in the end.

The Campbells were different. They didn't hunt for revenge; they hunted because it was who they were. The running joke was that Campbell blood would fell a vampire, if one were ever daring enough to try a taste. No vampire ever had. The Campbells had their own libraries, their own weaponries, and their own medical centers. Hell, they even had a blacksmith that spent his days pouring silver bullets and hammering daggers. They lived above hunters.

The car (which was stupidly showy, in Sam's opinion) rolled to a stop. Sam's new and improved canine nose picked up the scent of grilling meat and salty, fried potatoes. He stood, his tail wagging a little as he salivated.

"Yeah, dude, I know," Dean chortled. "Me too." He got out of the car and walked into the diner. Sam sat and waited patiently. He hoped Dean would know not to actually get him a burger. He doubted dogs did well with onions and pickles.

Twenty minutes later, Dean walked back out with two grease stained paper bags. Sam licked at his chops: it smelled delicious. Dean got into the car and put the bags on the floor in front of Sam's chair. Instincts taking over, Sam crouched down to stick his nose in one of the bags. Oh, it smelled heavenly.

Suddenly, Dean tapped him firmly on the back. "Hey, there, don't. We gotta find a place to chill out first. I know you're hungry, but I doubt people'd take too kindly to me sitting here, feeding a dog in the parking lot. Hold on."

Fine. Sam pulled his snout out of the bag, but he lay down at the edge of the seat so that he could still smell the food. God, he was so hungry.

Dean drove around to the back of the diner, out of sight of the patrons. "Okay, bud. Let's see what we got," he said, pulling boxes out of the bag. "Alright, this one's mine," Dean said, laying a box on his lap. "I got you a little steak. I wasn't sure how you'd handle a burger. Here you go." He opened another box and set it on the chair.

"Don't get grease all over my Baby's seats, you hear?" Dean warned. "You won't like the consequences."

Sam ignored the man, his entire being focused on the gourmet in front of him. The steak wasn't big—it'd hardly even touch his hunger as a human—but it seemed huge compared to his current size. And it was all his. Sam dove for it, digging in with relish.

Flavor burst on his tongue. This wasn't like eating as a human. Everything was so much more. Sam could taste sweetness and saltiness and that certain musk of beef. It was indescribably good. The spices were like fireworks of sensation, complementing the savory taste of meat perfectly. Every bite tasted better and better, new flavors constantly exploding like Christmas presents for his mouth. Sam couldn't get enough.

Before he knew it, however, the steak was gone. Luckily, it had come with a bone. Ignoring how weird it should have been to gnaw a bone, and how weird it was that it didn't feel weird, Sam got to work licking some exposed marrow.

"Wow, dude," Dean commented, his mouth full of burger, "you tore through that pretty quick."

Yeah, you would too, if steak tasted like sex and pepper, Sam wanted to say. Unfortunately, being a dog didn't allow for conversation, and his mouth was busy anyway. He chewed with a single-minded intensity until his attention was called away by the unmistakable scent of French fries.

Dean noticed Sam's change of behavior and laughed. "You want one?" he offered, holding out a fry. "Just don't get it in your head that this is gonna become a regular thing. I don't want you begging me every time I get food."

Sam didn't even hear him. He was experiencing the nirvana that was fried potato. How had he never liked French fries before? Obviously they were one of the best foods ever, second only to steak. The oil was just a little creamy (Must have been peanut oil, Sam thought) and it enhanced the sweetness of the potato so well he could cry. And the salt! The salt tasted—well, it didn't even feel like a taste. Salt tasted like need, like it was the most necessary nutrient he would ever ingest.

He realized, with growing horror, that he would gladly do anything to get more tangy, sharp, beautiful salt. Suddenly, he understood dogs a lot better: he would lick the sweat off Dean's body if it meant he could have salt.

Although, it wouldn't have taken much convincing to get Sam to lick at Dean anyway. The man was beautiful. His looks toed the line of femininity, almost in defiance of his tough-guy persona. Except he isn't very tough around me, Sam thought amusedly. Nonetheless, Dean was the kind of guy that Sam would have admired from afar, but never flirted with. Dean looked like he could pack a pretty nasty punch, and Sam didn't like getting beat up if he didn't have to.

A new scent wafted towards him. This one was distinctly sweeter, with just a hint of tang. He peered into the box Dean was currently opening.

"Pie," Dean explained. "This is pie. Betcha never seen pie before. Here, have a cherry."

Dean pulled a little piece of cherry out of the side of his pie and gave it to Sam. Sam licked the cherry off his fingers and, driven by another wave of blissful flavor, licked off all of the syrup that remained. The syrup was even better than the fruit: it was sweet, almost bewilderingly so, and tangy, but not the same tangy as salt, and fruity. But there was something else, a flavor that the cherry hadn't had. It was just barely salty and very musky, and a touch sour. It was heavenly. Something deep within him said male. But how could a taste be male? Unless…

Sam cast a glance up at Dean, who was enjoying his pie. Was that flavor Dean? Further tests were needed. He whined softly, earning Dean's attention.

"You want more? You shouldn't beg, you know," Dean chastised. Sam lowered his head, feeling slightly consternated. Master is angry at me. The idea—more feeling than thought—tore through him like hot, shameful fire. It was an instinct, a deep urge to be good to this man who had taken such good care of him, and it was utterly foreign to Sam, who hadn't willfully taken orders since he turned eighteen. He looked up at Dean balefully, wondering why this stranger had such pull over him.

Apparently his gaze looked pleading, because Dean rolled his eyes, offering another cherry to Sam. Sam lapped it up eagerly, cleansing his palate of the taste (and Lord have mercy, it was good) so he could taste Dean.

Oh, Sam thought, finally getting a real swipe of Dean-taste. It was the taste from the syrup, but, uncontaminated by the sugary confection, it was even better. Dean didn't taste like food tasted. He tasted like person, whatever that meant. He tasted strong and male and virile and dominating and like Master.

Sam shook himself a little. No, Dean couldn't taste like "Master." Sam had no master. He was a human, dammit, not an actual dog. And even if Sam did have a master, it wouldn't be Dean. No fucking way.

He moved away from the man, curling back up on his blanket. Between his discoveries with food and this internal battle of instinct and cognizance, Sam was drained. The last thing he saw was Dean, grinning down at him, a tiny smudge of cherry on the corner of his lip.

I want to lick it off, Sam thought, before darkness fell over him once more.


This fucking dog would be the death of him, Dean knew. Every time he saw the lump of brown shag, Dean felt a bubble of warmth in his chest that worried him in a bad way. It felt like love, and hunters were never supposed to feel that. Love tied you down, it made you weak. It was inappropriate for a lifestyle that involved mortal peril. At least it was just a dog. If Dean felt this way about a human, well, that would be really bad.

Dean sighed and flipped on the radio. AC/DC blared through his speakers and, sparing one last look at the puppy that had somehow claimed his heart in but a few short hours, he cleared his mind of any thought and let the road lead him onward.

A/N: So Sam's learning a lot about being a dog, huh? And yay, he's officially Dean's! Woohoo! ;).

Soon: Dean and Sam go to Bobby's. What will Bobby think of Sam? More importantly, what will Sam think of Bobby? And we find out Sam's breed! I know you all are dying to find out. Review with guesses! I'll tell you who got it right next chapter. :)