The Stars Fall Like Feathers

Chapter 3: I Got 99 Problems...

Pairings: None intended, but can be read as slight Destiel

Rating: T

Disclaimer: Not Mine, Supernatural belongs to Erik Kirpke

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Chapter 3: I Got 99 Problems...

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As far as Dean's concerned, the stupid terrier puppy is a damn unwanted nuisance. His annoying brother argues valiantly that the puppy "has her up points", whatever the hell that's supposed to mean, but Dean really can't freakin' see them. The older hunter has a list as long as his arm about why she's a nuisance, but he's got it narrowed down to a couple biggies for convenience' sake if Sam brings it up again.

First off, on Dean's growing list of reasons to give the damn thing to a random passer-by, is the Impala. The day after leaving Bobby's for the possible hunt they were now chasing in Monahans, Texas, they came to the conclusion that she was going to suffer from travel sickness. Fucking terrific. Luckily, for Sam's, Cas' and the dog's sakes, Sam had expected as such; covering the back seat with an off-white folded stolen motel bath towel before they set off. If the younger Winchester had hoped that would improve Dean's mood if she did throw up, he'd severely misjudged Dean's potential to be reasonable. The smell and constant whimpering, which made Dean's heart twist no matter how violently he tried to crush the feeling, was seriously beginning to piss him off. The only relief came when the mutt fell asleep.

This leads nicely on to problem number two on Dean's puppy caused apocalyptic list. When awake she has no problem with it, but when she finally does drop off to sleep, huddled in towels and Sam's (Cause no way Dean was giving it one of his) jackets, the Scottie will startle awake at the loud notes of Dean's cassettes. And when awake, she would yip, yap, pine and throw up. And seriously, Dean's crept through Wendigo caves where he's not wanted to rouse the resident monster up less than how much he wants this stupid waste of space to wake up.

After spotting his murderous glares at the puppy through the rear-view mirror, Sam hastily suggests that having someone hold her may settle her nerves.

Which brought Dean promptly to issue number three. The youngster didn't like Sam touching her. She wasn't super choosy about Sam though, Bobby also couldn't touch or hold her without the damn thing squirming and hunching up in fear. Even that chick from the car in the gas station they had paused in was met with terrified rejection. Sam, for some reasons unknown to Dean, seemed to get depressed about the brush off, even more so because the suicidal rat, for some reason known only to that bastard God, seemed to like Dean.

Neither of them could fathom why, but the little bugger did.

She followed merrily after him around the pet store they had stopped in earlier like the most obedient creature on Earth. Maybe that was rather suitable considering her angelic saviour. They'd spent a good hour in that overly cheerful shop; Scottie trotting as quickly as her stubby little legs and huge paws could carry her after Dean as they fetched this and that. Well, Sam did most of the fetching. Dean mostly passed the time growling at things and glaring hard enough at the obnoxiously cheerful shop assistants that they awkwardly sidled away, shooting him nervous glances from behind the till. The stupid thing made no sense, she would grow nervous when passing other people in aisles, morphing into a small, black furry tennis ball whenever anyone tried to touch her. The only exception to this rule being squealing and just plain terrifyingly noisy young kids. Like, what the hell kind of behavioural consistency was that supposed to be? Two small girls barely up to Dean's knees had squealed, run up to the hunters and suddenly the shriveled ball of terror unwound itself and began binging around their feet. Yipping little puppy barks that echoed across the aisles until their mother practically dragged them away.

Dean was sure the thing was just being difficult on purpose. He was beginning to see why that asshole had tried to drown the little shit.

The next problem Dean had with her, was the cost of her. That pet shop run had taken a good chunk of their hard earned (hustled, but whatever) cash. And she hadn't been grateful when they had finally manhandled her new Sapphire blue collar around her neck, Bobby's address on her rather appropriately silver wing-shaped dog tag.

The vet trip afterwards had almost been as expensive as all the pet care crap they had stuffed in the trunk. Sam spouted on and on about how they didn't know if she has had her shots and that Rabies is a constant threat, not only to dogs, but also people until Dean snapped and drove them to the nearest vets. And there went another large chunk of their cash. Not to mention the already shy creature was downright glaring at Sam because Dean sure as hell wasn't holding her still while the not-so-hot-chick jabbed that giant needle in her scruff to chip her. Dean would have thought the Scottie was part cat the way she seemed to bare a grudge like this. And to think, it needed a booster shot in a weeks' time.

Fuck that, Dean's jumping off of that fuck-truck before he has that baleful puppy-eye stare aimed at him. He's heard that old beware the bad cat, holding a grudge crap that those weird elderly ladies that sit on their porches and watch you out in the boonies yowl at you. She may not be a cat, but she can damn well stare like one; glaring at you like she knows things. It's freaking creepy, man.

Turning his thoughts away from the nuisance curled up on the back seat glaring holes into the back of Sam's princess locks, Dean tried to relay the information about the hunt back through his head. It sounded like a good old fashioned Salt and Burn ghost haunting. A young girl, murdered in Allen Park by her drunk father, was attacking anybody entering her old home on South Helens Avenue who were known for being less than Stellar parents. Frankly, he gets the kid's motive, though it reminds him a little too much of that telekinetic kid Max from Michigan from all those years ago. John Winchester may have been a bit of a screw up with his sons in the fatherly department, but it could have been worse. Sam may argue against him, but it's true.

The younger Winchester was using his magic Wi-Fi attracting ability to find the kid's grave as the Impala purred her way along until the trio could find a suitable motel. They had left Bobby's yesterday morning, and the Winchesters were more than eager to stop for a while. Frankly, Dean's keen for this hunt to be over, it's only June 20th and he knows from hard experience that it can be hotter here than the 92° Fahrenheit it is today, but it's not far from pushing his comfort limit. He can function almost anywhere, but he hates sleeping in a hot room, absolutely hates it. Memories of Hell aside, he tosses and turns for hours and the crappy motels they usually bunk in almost never seem to have a functioning fucking air-con. Because that's just the Winchester luck. So yeah, Dean just wants out because he knows damn well that it'll be just his luck that a freakin' heat wave will show up just as they hunker down for the night.

It takes another few minutes of the tape deck blasting out Shoot To Thrill, but they eventually come across a motel that looks tatty enough to carry relatively cheap rooms, and is far enough away from the centre of town that some questionable things can be over looked; while still looking like it may have a fucking decent shower. Because really, that's all Dean really wants in his life right now, just decent water pressure. They stopped the God damn Apocalypse, surely it's not too much for a man to ask to have good water pressure?

But of course, by the time they actually leave behind the equally tatty looking man behind the check in desk, it's becoming more apparent that this is one of those places that tries hard to look like they might be somewhat decent, but really, there hasn't been an earnest clean here since the decade the place was built in. Which, from the jamming lock, rickety table, solid mattresses, grotesque wallpaper and questionable carpet stains, was a long, long time ago.

No nice shower for Dean, then.

He wouldn't put it past the dicks in Heaven to do this just to make him miserable. The thought alone makes him smirk, imagining several angels in plumber get-ups running around purposefully sabotaging his shower out of spite for stopping the God squad's retirement plan, makes him feel a little better. He almost secretly hopes one of them is listening to the thought, frowning, he cuts that off sharply; he wants none of those douches in his head.

Sam is glancing in his direction as he dumps his duffel on the sick coloured comforter of the closest bed, turning to frown down at the way the duffel sounds like it's dropping onto concrete rather than cotton, before depositing his precious laptop on the table with an air that he doesn't trust it to support the weight.

The stupid black ball of overjoyed fluff was hovering around Dean's feet, snuffling at the carpet eagerly, but not straying too far away either. He wants to be annoyed with it just for being near him, but then it looked up at him as if to say 'I don't like this place' and he grits his teeth because for fuck's sake he agrees with it whole-heartedly.

What were those first signs of madness? Talking to yourself? Because he's mentally talking back to an animal that can't even talk back. He wonders how far off the scale that is, then shrugs because that is far from the weirdest thing he's ever done and then he wonders how far up the scale Winchesters are fated to be. Does a scale that big even exist? What's the diagnosis terms for that? Sorry, scale not fit for purpose? Or just simply Winchester, enough said?

Sam keeps glancing at his brother, who seems to be having a staring contest with the puppy, before shaking his head in a 'I don't need to know' way and unlocking his laptop. Dean breaks from the eyelock with a scowl, grabbing a beer from his duffel and coming over to flop down on what is quite possibly the most uncomfortable chair in the whole state. He knows for a fact the most uncomfortable chair in the U.S is in Montana, but that isn't a memory he wants to revisit.

"So, get this." Sam's voice breaks him from his thoughts again, and he sips his beer with a dip of the head at his brother to carry on. "I searched for the girl's grave site on the towns archive I hacked into on the way over here. Turns out she's buried behind the old house she lived in. Most of the houses around that area are new, but some are actually way older than they look. The one we want is exposed as hell though, we won't be able to take flash-lights, and we'll have to book it out of there."

Dean sighs heavily, trying to ignore the small weight of paws standing on the toe of his right boot. "Perfect" he growls irritatedly, if there's one thing worse than digging up a body, it's digging up a body in a residential area with no lights and a high chance of being arrested. "Well, it's like, what? Four? Don't know about you, but I plan on doing nothing else for the rest of the day." He means it too. He's been driving for hours, his feet are killing him.

There isn't much else to do with the day anyway, Bobby put them on this case after another hunter had already interviewed all of the victims, but dropped out to help his cousin, another hunter, with a Water Spirit the next state over. After following up with another one of the victim's relatives, it was pretty clearly an angry spirit. And there's only so much you could do to prepare for that until later in the evening.

It's still taking a long time for that to settle into his mind. To be able to wait for a few hours without half expecting another plague, or some other apocalyptic omen to come breathing down their neck. The world wasn't ending, Sammy was still suffering nightmares, and Hell was a strictly off the books conversation topic at the moment, but the younger Winchester was safe. And God, Dean swore he would never take another minute like this for granted again. Sure, Cas was concerned that Raphael was trying to kill them all, but there wasn't many physical signs of this on Dean's sphere of things that he was able to intervene in. And, until there was something more he could do, it wasn't really his fight to jump into the middle of. He was concerned about the Seraph, but distracting the guy wasn't high on his to-do list, even if the bastard had ignored a prayer or two that he come down and have a break. It's not improving Dean's mood of dealing with this rat that he's now being ignored.

But, then again, you never could tell with Castiel when he would show up.

The constant blanking shouldn't bother the hunter; Castiel's a big boy, he can take care of himself, and like hell does Dean need to lean on anyone but his brother. But it's shoving another issue into his face, this one coming with it's own sirens and warning lights, and it's really damn hard to ignore. The apocalypse, and the angel's waning Grace, had bound the members of Team Free Will together. Taking on the world one dick at a time... it had kept them with each other. And now that it was over, there was nothing really to hold them all together.

Well, that wasn't totally true in Sam's case, there's an air of obligatory loyalty with family, especially in the Winchester clan (Bobby included). Dean's been secretly afraid that the younger Winchester would abandon the hunter life the second the apocalypse ended. But apparently, spending nearly two hundred and fifty days separated from his older brother in Hell, and the constant threat that at least one of the brothers would be killed during the apocalypse, seemed to make Sam more eager to stick by his older brother for the foreseeable future. And Dean has absolutely no problem with that; he would have a veritable meltdown if Sam up and left suddenly after all of the pressure of the last few years. After all this crap, Sam deserves to stop if he wants to. Dean would kill to give it too him. But Christ, not yet. He's not ready, Dean's just got him back, and they've got people to save. The job never stops and the idea that Sam could just pretend that none of this life existed and could stop infuriated part of the older Winchester. But, right now, Dean's content enough to let it go. They're not splitting up, not yet, and God that's all he really wants right now.

But Cas, Cas is different. There isn't the obligation of family blood to the Winchester's that Sam and Dean have. And sometimes Dean lets it wander around his mind that these two humans had fallen onto the angel's back burner, and now they had, how long would it be until they fell off completely? Castiel's always had his own life to lead, bigger things afoot and all that. Why would he come back?

Honestly, the fact that the Seraph's fought back Hell to rescue not just Dean, but later, Sam as well, and had resurrected Bobby, should have been more than enough to convince him that the angel would always come back eventually. In fact, Sam had given him an 'I can't believe that you even thought of that, Dean, I didn't know you could be so stupid, the guy's practically a Winchester, the poor bastard' look when he'd offhandedly mentioned it a few days ago.

Still, Dean has a few abandonment issues to keep nice and strong inside of his mind, so the idea never quite goes away, even if the rest of him doesn't believe the angel would leave them permanently. The guy was busy fighting a war, there is only so much he can do at once. Seriously, Dean. Give the guy some space.

Shrugging his thoughts away from the from the troubling situation with the Seraph, the man turned in his chair to glare down at the joyful little face staring back at him. Why couldn't the angel pick something else to rescue? A crow, or mouse, or something else they could just pretend escaped. Dogs weren't his forte, Sam had had an obsession with getting one since they were children, but that wasn't for Dean. Dogs had always seemed like too much work, and to be honest, his dealings with Hell-hounds hadn't done his love for them any favours what so ever.

But she was a dog. And what was worse, she was a chick's dog, small and fluffy. It wouldn't even be useful to them, the only this this thing could potentially rid them of is a rat in a particularly disgusting excuse for a motel room. It couldn't help track, or even protect their rooms, or the Impala. It was too...Cute. All soulful eyes, and perky ears and wagging tail. It was the least manliest animal the Seraph could have dragged back with him, part of Dean was inclined to be suspicious the ass had done it on purpose. Though, the angel never had much grasp over social stigmas and concepts, it probably hadn't even occurred to him that the Righteous man might have a problem with babysitting a useless lapdog.

The pair continued to stare at each other until his brother let out a sharp breath. The older Winchester knew the sound of a snort of amusement escaping without permission when he heard one and snapped his pissed stare to his brother. "What?" he ground out forcefully.

Sam tried and failed to keep the amusement off his face, the emotion causing his face to screw up as he tried to fold his massive frame to hide behind the laptop screen blocking Dean's view. "Nothing. Just, she's like Cas junior with all that staring." The bastard was snickering silently, Dean could see his shoulders shaking, Dick.

"Bitch." He snapped, his eyes returning to the little animal with even more hatred than before, but, if she noticed, she didn't show it. Instead, she began mouthing at his boot lace, tugging at the strands and shaking her head. Stumbling around his shoe when the shakes were too much for her puppy paws to handle, though her happy little yips continued regardless. Dean tried to keep his anger up, nudging her away with his boot gently, a silent scolding for nibbling his best boot laces. God forbid he actually say anything out loud, can't have Sam thinking he's 'rehabilitating' her or 'training' her or whatever other crap the younger Winchester would start spouting off about. He'd been looking at those pretentious, patronising dog handling books with stupid names like When A Good Dog Goes Bad. It doesn't really help the younger Winchester's case that there had been another book along side it declaring in huge blue and white text Does God Ever Speak Through Cats?Maybe Dean should have brought Castiel a copy, if only to see his face reading the title.

The terrier doesn't get the message. Pouncing clumsily onto his boot again and snapping up the soggy lace, her front paws slipped outwards until her chest was resting against the top of his foot, and she's too uncoordinated to shimmy off. Undeterred, the creature continued to mouth the fabric, staring up at him with an illegal amount of trust considering they've had her for so little time.

He would not acknowledge the little puppy was persistent, nor that his eyes softened the tiniest bit as she gave up on the boot lace, still draped over his foot, huge soft brown eyes watching him. He wouldn't. Instead, the older Winchester forced out a rough grumble, sliding his foot out from under her carefully and standing. "I guess you want me to feed you too? Freakin,' Fido." The Scottie's little tail began wagging eagerly, the motions making her already stumbling walk even more wobbly as she trailed after him. Grumbling, the Winchester stalked over to the far side of the room, making a show of moodily pulling out the puppy kibble and ignoring the tiny creature staring at him with nothing short of adoration.

He misses his younger brother's quiet, "soft old Jerk." And that was probably to the best of Sam's health.

–

The conclusion of the case isn't nearly as clean as Dean would like. Though, while sipping his beer in the motel room afterwards, he admits it went fairly well considering their usual outcomes.

After having packed the Impala, the pair had driven out to South Helens Avenue, Scottie in the back seat because the damn thing hadn't stopped whining when they'd left her alone. The actual digging of the grave was hard, lack of lights meaning lots of stubbed toes and muffled swearing between the two Winchesters, but it hadn't been as torturous as Dean had feared it would be. Bruised piggies aside.

They'd purposefully left it slightly later than usual, and it was maybe half an hour before the first light would start easing the night back into day when they'd finished. The spirit hadn't even bothered them, and for half a moment, the brothers thought that everything was going to actually go perfectly for once.

And, honestly, Dean has no idea why he'd ever had that thought to begin with.

Still, it hadn't gone too badly by even normal standards. The grave had been dug, coffin lid creaking as they pried it open, releasing a smell that should never have been allowed to exist. Before they'd heaved themselves out, poured in the lighter fluid and salt and quickly packed everything, bar a cheap lighter, away into frayed old duffel bags.

They would need to leg it when it was lit. This was too residential an area, and staying to fill in the hole was too risky. Even if someone did notice the fire, there wasn't much chance that someone would actually bother to extinguish it when they realised it was the lawn apparently burning and not the house itself. At least, not until the fire and salt had done their jobs.

A last glance around proved they had everything they'd brought with them, before Sam flicked the lighter, dropped the small device in, before the pair had turned tail, making a dash to the Impala through the darkness.

Which would have been fine, if Dean hadn't suddenly become a dog magnet. Because, one moment they were running across the neighbour's driveway to the side of the car, the next a fucking monster of a Rottweiler had shot out to the end of it's chain. The dog thankfully didn't bark, but it was growling menacingly, even as it's sudden appearance from a freakishly well hidden dog house had Sam tripping over the chain as the monster leapt at Dean.

The younger Winchester's trip had tugged the dog back and stalled it, somewhat unintentionally, the two seconds or so it took Dean to get out of it's reach, and as Sam leapt to his feet and booked it towards the Impala Dean was currently leaping into, the Rottweiler hit the end of it's chain with a metallic snap. Dean had the Impala purring by the time Sam skidded around to the passenger side and slammed into the closed door, the Scottie yapping tiny puppy barks on the back seat at the other dog even though she wasn't physically tall enough to see out of the window. The dog had started barking; a great, deep, thuuming sound that pounded into the duo's ears that had become hypersensitive in the dark and silent night.

The noise attracted attention, and even as the Impala was fading into the distance, a few house lights in the dog owner's house came on. Dean had been swearing a blue streak, gripping the steering wheel so tightly Sam had looked worried it may snap straight off of the steering column.

And okay. He may have been a little bit glad in that moment that at least the mutt they'd got lumbered with wasn't capable of mauling him to death. Because once is more than enough, thank you very fucking much.

Or maybe she was. Now that was the lamest way Dean could go; Here Lies Dean Winchester, Mauled By Living Shoe Brush. Hell, maybe his Man Card could have it's own tiny grave next to his.

This was probably another one of those signs of madness. Well, shit.

Now though, Sam was glancing over the salt line on the motel room's window. The apocalypse maybe over, but there were some things that were never going to change. Apparently satisfied, the younger Winchester barely mumbled a "'Night, Dean" before falling onto his mattress and was out cold by the time Dean had even reached his bed. Dean was jealous of the kid's skill.

It had long since passed dawn, and after a short squabble over shower rights, the pair had been ready to sleep all through the day. Dean sighed out a "night, Sammy." dropping his now empty brown beer bottle onto the puke coloured carpet, the hunter turned off the bed side lamp and curled into his own solid excuse for a mattress, the only light in the room coming from a pale sliver of light creeping in between the closed patchwork curtains.

The room smelt of dust and damp, and it was twenty degrees too hot. But it was blessedly silent, with the exception of Sam's muffled snores. Well, for all of five seconds.

Whine

The hunter grit his teeth. There was no way that stupid mutt was making him move now, the thing could cry all night long if it wanted, there was no way he was letting it up here with him. And he knew that was exactly what the little bitch wanted. The infant animal was pawing at the corner of the comforter hanging down near to his pillow, whining short, high pitched squeaks of abject misery and abandonment.

Whine...

'Fuck, fuckfuckfuck.' Growling, Dean rolled onto his side, picking up his pillow and mashing it over his head, if he ignored it, the damn thing would stop.

And for a moment Dean actually believed the pillow was working.

Whine

"Damn it!" He snapped into his pillow, there was no way in hell, Dean Winchester, bad-ass hunter of forever, would give into something so God damn small. Castiel will be damn lucky if Dean doesn't kill the thing.

...Whi-ine...

Damn it all!

The puppy gave a surprised squeak when the hunters large hand wrapped around it easily and plucked it off the floor as carelessly one would a discarded sock that had been tossed at the laundry hamper and missed. Dropping it on the other ratty pillow across from him, Dean glared hatefully through the darkness at the shadowed, huge puppy eyes being aimed his way. "There. Happy now?" The bite to his voice was softer than normal, Dean would die before he let Sam know he had the damn thing up here.

She did seem content, little half-flopped, half-perked ears twitching happily at him, before she stumbled on top of the comforter and curled up leaning against the lump that was the hunters forearm underneath the itchy, stained fabric.

Dean took a deep breath and counted to five, before he decided he didn't care, at least the Bitch had stopped crying at him now. He was too tired for this, next time she can sleep on the damn floor. There is no way in Hell that he is letting this stupid thing getting used to sleeping all over him or his bed. Beds are for people, not for freaking mutts.

And if anyone said he had been beaten into submission by something so small, Dean would likely shoot them dead.

–

Needless to say, Dean wasn't at all pleased to be dragged away from the two strippers showing off their talents in his dream, but as soon as he's aware of the groaning voice of his younger brother, Dean knows getting back to sleep is out of the equation. Gratefully, he realises that Sam's actually grumbling into his phone rather than in his sleep, and Dean stretches like a cat that had spent it's day basking in the sun. Joints stiff and aching from the long nights work.

Sitting up, Sam gives him an off-handed wave of acknowledgement without breaking the conversation going on between him and the other person. The Scottie isn't on his bed, but is curled up around his duffel bag on the floor. The black menace spots him standing up and bings over to greet him. Her little tail is waving like a hyped up windshield wiper as she all but pounces on his foot and nibbles on the hem of his sweats. Her little paws are smaller than his big toe and that is not adorable damn it. Hunters don't do adorable. Christ.

Dean can sense his brother's eyes on his back, and grumbles half-heartedly as he nudges the small thing off of his foot. "Yeah, all right, stupid Tyke." Despite being brushed off, she yips happily at his voice being aimed her way, and instead starts running around the room excitedly, trailing him as he grabs some clean clothes and disappears to have a shower, closing the door just in front of her nose. Dean will tolerate her in the motel room. But he is not having the damn thing watch him strip off and shower, that's just fucking weird.

And yeah, fucking crappy water pressure, again.

His shower only takes a few minutes, but by the time he's stepping out, (Sam had already taken most of the hot water, the bastard), Sam is packing their things. "That Bobby?"

Sam is shoving the puppy kibble Dean left on the table into his duffel, trying to discretely drop one or two biscuits that the puppy eagerly hoovers up noisily. The Kiss-ass is still trying to win her affection then. Dean doesn't get the problem, he'd kill for the amount of distaste the puppy aims at Sam. "Yeah, turns out a bunch of weird crap just randomly started going down in Lordsburg, and we're the nearest ones to it." He sounds a bit peeved, and Dean doesn't blame him, the plan had been to go back to Bobby's, it was a two day drive to Sioux Falls as it is, but New Mexico adds another almost five hours to that.

"He thinking demons?" They haven't gone after demons since the big swan dive. Hitting up the big leagues again makes Dean's skin crawl uneasily.

Sam frowns at laptop his thoughtfully, glancing at his duffel, before reluctantly accepting that it's not going to fit in the bag with the kibble and he'll have to carry it separately. "Not sure. There haven't been any deaths yet."

Dean frowned, shoving his old clothes back into his own duffel, ignoring the small tugs on his jeans, from their resident rodent problem. "Dunno, Sammy. Doesn't sound like our type of gig." Follow the body count is their usual M.O. Not just sorting out every Tim, Dick and Harry's small supernatural daily stressors. Bigger picture and all that.

Sighing, the younger hunter shouldered his duffel, picking up his laptop with the same arm. "Bobby seems to think it is. Bit weird that it started up when we're so close." It's a hollow point, Dean can tell Sam's just as sceptical, but, so soon after finishing this anti-climatic hunt, Dean doesn't really feel like diving into a demon hoard right now either. They'd agreed to start off with small fry, and if nothing else, this feels like small fry.

Making a show of grumbling, Dean shouldered his own bag, pulling the Impala's keys from his jacket. "Fine, but pie first." He compromises, a final look confirming they haven't left anything behind, and following his brother out into the afternoon sun, Scottie on his heels.

He doesn't actually see it, but Dean can tell from the way Sam's head tilts upwards that his brother just rolled his eyes, no doubt at his dietary choices. Grinning at the familiarity of the action, they chucked the gear in the trunk, before sliding into the front. Half way through closing his Baby's door, he remembers Castiel's blood sucking flea, and puts his hand back out just in time to prevent hitting the poor thing with the door. The puppy shies away a little from where she had stood on tiny paws to try and climb into his door, before returning to the pose eagerly, tongue lolling pathetically out of the side of her mouth.

Sam is grinning beside him like an idiot and Dean damn well knows it. Scowling, he picks up the chubby creature and dumps it on his brother's lap before slamming his door closed with an amused scowl. His younger brother jumps slightly, the puppy still doesn't like him all that much, and she shies from him. Sam glares at him, before slowly reaching out to let the puppy sniff his index finger, she pulls her ears back, but sniffs the offered digit. Becoming bolder, Sam gently rubs his finger under her chin and her ears raise and her tail wags happily again.

By the time Sam puts her in the back the kid is beaming like a child on Christmas, Dean hurriedly hides his slightly affectionate smile for his brother who hasn't smiled like that since before going to Hell, behind a scowl at the pair of them. He's not sure if Sam buys it or not.

Damn, now he's actually, sort of grateful for the stupid Scottie. They need to get rid of it soon before Sam gets any more attached.

They drive past two different Diners before Dean spots one with a sign in the window declaring Today's Special: Pecan Pie. Sam sighs at him, but Dean is so busy trying to not to drown in his own saliva that he doesn't think about the Scottie following them loyally until a pretty young brunette waitress stops them just before they get to the booth they'd being aiming for. "I'm sorry, there's no dogs allowed in here."

Dean falters for a second, glancing down traitorously at the mutt, before the look is gone and he plasters on his most adorable, but I'm cute expression and picks the small creature up. "Aw, c'mon, have a heart, she's too tiny to cause any harm. And she gets lonely in the car." He finishes it with his most flirtatious smile that has her blush and look at the puppy instead. It proves to be a mistake because the damn thing seems to know that she needs to ramp up the cutefactor to max, her eyes down-right huge with want and love, ears perked hopefully.

The waitress gives a look at Dean's flirty smile and Sam's huge puppy eyes of his own and she caves spectacularly. Sighing, she smiles at them and ushers them into the both furthest away from the counter, "Fine, fine, but don't let her wander." She pauses to glance at the small creature, and coos at her softly before taking their order and leaving.

Sam is smiling again when the waitress leaves and Dean glares at him in response. "Maybe we can ditch breaking and entering and just convince people to let us in using her, she could be the Winchester Mascot."

"Bitch"

"Jerk"

The waitress, who Dean finally notes is called Cindy, arrives back with their coffee, Dean's Pie and Burger meal and Sam's freaky ass salad shake rabbit food and coffee. She offers one final coo at the puppy, who for once, isn't shying away like she expects to be struck. Before she turns and leaves them alone, her phone number on the back of Dean's napkin. The Winchester smirks at his younger sibling's exasperated eye roll, and absently drops the puppy on the window side seat of the booth, nearly leaping out of his skin when he realises Castiel is suddenly very much occupying that space.

"Damn it, Cas!" He bites out, dropping the mutt on Castiel's thigh half in surprise, she yips in greeting and snuffles at his hand until he induldges her with a stroke.

The angel narrows his eyes at the irate human, before nodding at the younger Winchester with a gravelly, "Hello, Sam." Adding a "Hello, Dean" half a second later, as if he's not sure why Dean seemed so put out to see him.

"Hey, Cas." Sam offers instead, his face gaining a light frown the longer he stares at the angel. And Dean gets why, the Seraph looks even more dishevelled than usual, trench coat and shirt sporting more wrinkles and slight frays than before, the poor bastard looks spent. "Everything all right?"

The angel glances tiredly at Sam, before running long fingers gently over the eager bundle on his lap, some of the tension in his shoulders seems to bleed away the longer he keeps it up. "The war is...not easy." He doesn't seem to want to explain details and both Winchesters don't really want to know. "I...There is a small lull in the fighting, I thought I could, "Check In" with you both."

Dean takes the moment to really examine his friend, and he doesn't think he's seen the angel look quite so lost for a long time, it kindles something fierce and protective that Dean usually feels when something is bothering or threatening any of his make-shift family. The emotion kind of blindsides him, he can almost feel the physical blow to his Man Card. But, the angel looks worn, not injured and that's more than enough for Dean to shrug off and change the subject. "Good, you thought of a name yet?" He can sense a few 'disappointed Sammy rays' bouncing off of him, but Castiel seems more grateful.

The puppy is gnawing on the button on his left coat sleeve, looking up at him with over joyed eyes and wagging her tail as he continues to stroke her gently, lips tugging up minutely at discovering her wing shaped dog tag, running careful fingers over the Castiel engraving above Bobby's address. Sam's fucking idea, not Dean's. Hell the older Winchester hadn't actually seen the tag closely, Sam just wandered off and did it, slipping it onto the collar Dean'd grabbed. The tag screams she's being kept and she damn well is not. "I am unsure" Castiel continues on oblivious to Dean's mental objections. "Though, I had thought of giving her the name 'Uzziel'"

Dean screws up his face, they had agreed an angelic name, but he was not going to be yelling Uzziel! In public if the stupid thing ever wandered off. That was a blow to his masculinity Dean Winchester would not take. A sharp kick from Sam under the table has Dean glaring at him in question, Cas is staring at him shyly, tired blue eyes looking for approval, damn it. "Uzziel, huh? Particular reason?" His voice is nonchalant, he's struggling to not sound condescending and though Sam's not impressed, Cas seems to lose a little more tension. As if this had been weighing on him.

"Uzziel was the angel of Faith." He explained softly, sad reminiscence colouring his gravelly tone. "She died beside me when we laid siege to Hell. She saved my life." The memory must have been playing behind his eyes, because Castiel's usual intensity is blocked by a long enough blink that it strikes Dean as odd before he can work out why.

Dean internally folded. Now there was no way he could complain against it. Dean Winchester knows he's a bit of an asshole. But he's not that much of an asshole thank you very freaking much. Even if Sam's icy stare seems to say otherwise, and by the way, screw you Sam. It's brief, but the older Winchester takes the moment to entertain the idea of this chick not sticking up for her brother in Hell; Dean may never have been saved from Hell, Sam would have fallen completely into Ruby's hands straight away, the Apocalypse would happen, but this time would never be stopped. Maybe the angel's would have taken Adam from the start...Dean could still be in Hell. The thought makes his blood freeze, and his throat won't let him answer the angel's almost embarrassingly hopeful look, blood rushing through his ears. Dean's seen some shit in his life but his most traumatic recurring nightmare is being left behind in Hell.

Sam, thank fucking God, saves his ass. "That's a great name for her, Cas." He gives the angel a genuine smile, because it's actually kind of a heartfelt, not to mention human, thing to do. Castiel's blue eyes seem to soften at the younger brother, and Dean kicks himself for not manning up.

"It is, Cas." Dean admits, pushing his fries between them in silent offering, because he's been with Cas to enough diners to know that he won't order his own food, but will sometimes steal Dean's out of curiosity. "Uzi, huh?" He tests the nickname on his tongue, now that he can pass off as manly, he's always wanted an Uzi pistol anyway. "I like it."

Castiel stares at him as if he's just given him leave to actually keep the damn mutt. Which, fuck, he may have actually just done that. That was not the freaking plan!

But it's also odd to see an angel embarrassed about something, and it's kind of awesome too.

The Winchesters just doesn't understand that, although "Uzzi" and "Uzi" sound identical, "Uzzi" also means The Lord Is My Strength. And Sam and Dean's agreed nickname soothes Castiel far more than any simple word has any right to.

"Uzzi." Castiel murmurs, stroking the small Scottie curled on his lap gently, smiling for the first time since he left the Singer yard days ago. The small terrier tilts her head curiously at the sound, she doesn't recognise it as her name yet. But she will.

A/N: A little fillerish. I swear, there's not a great deal of plot involved in this story.

Just to make it clear: Deano and Cas don't know their both calling her by different names.