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“This wouldn’t have happened if we did things my way,” Sam says.
Dean stares at the tiny, stupidly inconsequential wounds on his shin and seriously thinks about putting a cap in Sam’s obnoxious ass. He’s pretty sure it wouldn’t kill him at this point. Not unless he reached for the silver bullets, anyway.
“Your way would have killed two innocent civilians,” he mutters darkly. He pokes at the wounds. “Oh come on,” he says, “It barely even punctured the skin!”
“I don’t think there’s such a thing as only being a little infected, Dean,” Sam says reasonably. “It’s like rabies. You can’t just be kind of rabid. It’s full on foaming or nothing.”
Smug freakin’ bastard. It’s not like he’s got a reason to be either; Dean’d barely bled, but he’d put twelve stitches and a fuckton of gauze on Sam to get him to stop. Sam’s entire arm is pretty damn savaged.
Fucking skinwalkers.
“Right,” Dean says, “So who’s shooting who?”
“Nobody is going to shoot anybody,” says Sam. He flexes his good arm and stares at it. Creepily. Because that’s pretty much the only expression Sam has at the moment. “Aside from having to wear gloves when we break out the silver, I’m really not seeing a downside here.”
“Because you weren’t enough of a monstrous freak with only the demon blood, you want to add puppy fun to the mix?” Dean snaps.
It’s kind of freeing being able to say anything to this Sam without having to feel even remotely bad about it afterwards. He’s pretty damn sure that’s gonna change when (if) they get Sam’s soul back, but at the moment, it’s kind of awesome.
“The demon blood’s dormant or something, I don’t think it counts unless I go on a bender.” Sam shrugs. “It’s kind of a crappy power anyway; it didn’t even protect me from that siren’s spit. Remember?”
Can he remember beating the shit out of Sam’s fucking face the year after he got back from hell? Yeah, yeah, he can. “You’re not inspiring confidence over here, Sam.”
“Why does this bother you so much?” Sam asks. “It’s not like you’re turning into a vamp again. You don’t have to hurt people. That was important, right? We didn’t use to waste everything that was supernatural.”
“Because you got all emo wobbly eyes on me if I tried!” Dean scrubs his face with his clean hand and scowls. “The vegetarian vamps? The rugaru? Madison? Any of this ringing a bell, sparky?”
“I killed the rugaru and Madison,” Sam points out. “But we don’t have to hurt people and we’re not going to be out of control even if we transform. Also, if you try to shoot me I will drop you so fast you’ll get whiplash.”
That’s the refreshing thing about this Sam. He doesn’t really see the need for comforting lies. “You think you can take me?” Dean asks. Sam raises an eyebrow at him and, yeah, alright, a no-sleeping robot with no conscience versus Dean? He’d be putting bets on the other guy too. “Shut your mouth.”
“You were pissed when the Alpha Shapeshifter got the baby,” says Sam, “And you let Lucky go.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t’ve,” Dean says.
“No,” Sam says, “They weren’t me, though.” He pauses and squints his eyes for a minute before his face clears and he offers a rueful smile. “That would have had more impact if I blah blah blah-ed about how it was different because it’s you who’s infected, huh?”
Dean holds his fingers apart. “Little bit,” he admits.
Things they don’t tell you about being turned into a skinwalker: you kind of start to itch if you don’t transform.
“Yeah, thanks, Bobby,” Dean says into the phone. He scratches at his scalp while his hand is by his head because he fucking well itches and tries not to hear Bobby take a soggy breath on the other end of the line.
It’s been a week and a half.
“Damn boy,” Bobby says. “Just, damn. You boys don’t ever catch a break, do you?”
“Not a one.”
Even Castiel hadn’t been able to help. He’d taken one look at them and thrown his hands into the air before declaring that he had better things to do than explain to them why he couldn’t fix them. He’d flittered off before Dean had finished gaping.
Dean kind of misses when the angel was just a dick without a sense of humor.
“Just keep it to yourself, hey?” Dean says.
“Thought I’d start screaming it from on high,” Bobby huffs, “You’re an idjit. ‘Course I’m gonna keep it to myself. I’ll start researching, see if there’s anything we’ve missed.”
“We already killed the pack alpha.” Dean scratches his eyebrow, then the side of his nose. “We could go after the Alpha-alpha, but I don’t think it’ll do much good. Crowley’s killed the Alpha vamp and it didn’t do bupkis for the rest of the vamps.”
Sam walks through the door just then, with one coffee and one breakfast burrito. Seriously? Dean mouths at him. Sam just looks bewildered. Christ. “I gotta go, Bobby,” Dean says, “Tall, dark, and soulless just got back.”
“Don’t kill your brother’s body,” Bobby advises.
“Yeah, whatever.” Dean hangs up the phone, throws it on the bed, and glares at Sam. “What have I told you about only getting’ food for yourself?”
“It’s something I wouldn’t have done when I had a soul,” Sam obliges. He pauses, raises an eyebrow, and tilts his head. “It’s too much work to drive while you’ve got two coffees. You can get your own.”
“Dick.”
“You’re really crabby today,” Sam says, setting his coffee down on the crappy table. “I’d ask if you slept alright, but since I was in the room all night and didn’t hear you screaming, I already know you did.”
“Dude, you’re a fucking creeper,” Dean says, scratching at the scab on his shin. He scratches at the back of his thigh too, because it fucking itches, and then blurts out, “Are you itchy?”
Sam’s face folds into his considering, sympathetic look. “Did you catch an STD from someone again?” he asks gently.
“What? No!” Jesus, you get the clap one time…
“Oh.”
Dean hasn’t had sex with anyone since Lisa. He’s not going to say that out loud, though, because that’s kind of pathetic. Instead, he says, “I meant your wounds, Francis.”
“I’ve got twelve stitches, Dean,” Sam says slowly, “Of course it itches.”
“Not like healing wound itch,” Dean says, giving Sam a warning look, “Kind of like ‘it feels like I should peel all of my skin off and scratch the muscles underneath’ itch.”
“Oh. That feeling. Yeah, I feel like that. I’m pretty sure that’s because we haven’t, you know, transformed yet.” Sam blinks. “Not having a soul kind of feels like that, by the way. It’s… itchy. It took me a few days to notice the difference.”
Dean’s head jerks up and around, like a demented dog. Like the demented dog he’s going to have to turn into. “I thought you said you didn’t feel anything!”
“Nothing emotional,” Sam says. “Physically? I kind of feel itchy all the time. I don’t notice it that much anymore.”
“I have a soul,” says Dean.
“I know. So it’s gotta be the skinwalker thing.”
“Awesome.” Dean scratches at his eyebrow again. “So, what the hell are we going to do about it?”
Sam raises both eyebrows at him this time. “Transform?” he offers.
Even more awesome. “How are gonna do that, genius?”
“It can’t be that hard,” Sam says, “Lucky didn’t strike me as the sharpest crayon in the box and he managed it alright. Maybe we just think dog?”
Dean crosses his arms and thinks really, really hard about being a dog. Really hard. So hard his eyes start to cross and he’s still standing there like a complete friggin’ idiot, tail wagging in agitation, and he opens his mouth to tell RoboSam off for his stupid situation and then he kind of… doesn’t.
Because his tail is wagging.
Huh.
He struggles out of his pile of clothes and then noses back into them again because they smell kind of interesting. Really interesting. He does not remember his clothes smelling like this two seconds ago, but, alright, he can roll with this.
Literally. He flips onto his back and rolls all over his t-shirt because it smells awesome.
“You look ridiculous,” Sam tells him helpfully. Dean gives him a filthy look, ears pinning back, but Sam looks unimpressed and kind of constipated. “I don’t think you get just how ridiculous and fluffy you are. I need to take a picture of this.”
Other things they don’t tell you about being a skinwalker: your motherfucking dog form has to grow up.
Dean absolutely refuses to freakin’ try that shit again until the damn form is at least old enough not to fall all over its own feet. Plus, there’d been this weird compulsion to roll around on his back all over the carpet and Sam’s a soulless son of a bitch who owns a camera phone.
His spotty pink belly and tiny little dick are not things he wants the world to see.
“Ah,” Sam says after Dean gets all his clothes back in order, “You were adorable.”
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to see exactly where I can shoot you that isn’t fatal,” Dean threatens. He brushes futilely at the long white and red hairs all over his shirt and scowls. It’s not enough that he’s a puppy. He’s got to be a puppy that sheds everywhere.
Sam laughs loud, obnoxious, and enough to make a chill roll down Dean’s spine. Fucking soulless creep. “I’m sure I’ll want to see it when I’ve got a soul to properly appreciate it,” he says. “Look at your little pink belly! It’s so… cute.”
“One,” Dean says, “Never ever say that about me or my belly again.”
“What’s two?” Sam interrupts.
Dean bares his teeth. “It’s your turn to transform, genius. I’ve got a camera phone too.”
“I don’t care if you take pictures of me,” Sam says with a shrug. He pauses for a second, then says, “So, did you just… think dog?”
“Yeah, Sam. I thought dog.”
Robofreak’s eyebrows pull together as his eyes squint. Dean snorts. “I didn’t say try to take a shit in the middle of the room, dude,” he says. “Think dog, not constipated.”
“This is my thinking dog face,” Sam says peaceably and scrunches his entire face in more. Dean’s kind of scared it’s going to be swallowed up by his giant Neanderthal forehead, but they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.
“I really hope I’m not a toy poodle,” Sam says and then he disappears.
Dean toes at the pile of his brother’s clothes for a second. He gets a glimpse of soft red ears that are dangling ridiculously, a chubby little body, and he’s pulling out his phone and snapping a picture as quick as he can, crowing in righteous payback.
And then Sam gets his head out of the jacket enough to look at him.
Sam as a human is just subtly off most of the time. It’s enough to creep out most people without them, you know, actually knowing why they’re creeped out. Well, that, and Sam’s habit of going off on tangents like a complete psychopath.
Turns out that’s not the worst part though. The worst part is that Sam’s an adorable puppy and he’s looking at Dean.
The dark eyes that stare up at him are so wrong it’s downright sickening. They’re aren’t soft like most dogs’ are, they aren’t right. Dean’s fingers twitch, but the silver knife is in the bottom of his duffel bag and anything else is just not going to get the job done. He knows that.
Even knowing what he knows, Dean’s hard pressed to look at Sam and not want to bash the little bugger’s head in. It’s hard wired self-preservation or something, he doesn’t know, but he wants it to stop looking at him right the fuck now.
“You can’t do that around other people,” Dean manages.
Sam’s tongue lolls out of his mouth in confusion.
Dean’s whole hand twitches this time, not just his fingers. He can almost hear the baying of invisible hounds. “You look like a freakin’ hellhound, Sam,” he says. “You not having a soul is really goddamn noticeable.”
Sam’s tail hasn’t moved once.
He really wants to throw up. “Change back,” he demands. “Now.”
Life goes on. As much as it burns Dean to have to wear gloves right now, it’s actually not any worse than most of the fucked up shit that’s happened in their lives. Sam spends half of his time in the dog form, learning the ins and outs because he’s a soulless freak.
Other than that? Yeah, life goes on. They’re still on Crowley’s short leash, only now the demon makes cracks about his fine hunting dogs whenever he sees them.
“You get dog fur in my car and we’re gonna have words, Robopet,” Dean says. He cocks his gun and raises his eyebrows pointedly.
Silver bullets are a pain to get in the chamber when you’ve got to wear big, bulky gloves to keep from smoking, but Dean’s never let a little point like that stop him.
Sam lolls his tongue out of his mouth and shakes his whole body with the deliberate nonchalance of a dog. He’s getting freakishly good at that. Dean’s willing to grudgingly admit that it might come in handy someday, but the dog form still freaks him right the hell out.
He wasn’t kidding about the hellhound thing. Dogs should have wagging tails. Hell, even angry dogs have wagging tails. Sam’s just sits there like a rat tail or something, hanging down against the back of his leg.
Then there’s the staring thing. With the big, brown, soulless puppy eyes.
“Dude,” Dean says, “Could you stop with the dog staring?”
Sam’s ears prick forward before he puts his head on his paws and sighs. A second later, Dean’s looking at his brother’s naked form. This is getting so common now it’s just depressing. His life is messed up.
“Clothes are not optional in this room, sparky,” Dean says, averting his eyes.
“You used to say clothes were always optional,” Sam points out.
Dean can see him grabbing for a pair of jeans out of the corner of his eye, so he spends a minute getting well acquainted with the ceiling. “That’s for me,” he says. “Soulless freaks of nature should keep their pants on.”
Sam shrugs, pulling a shirt on. “Crowley wants us after that werewolf by tonight,” he says. “Last night of the full moon.”
“I know.”
“Which means we need to track it,” he says.
Master of the obvious, Dean thinks, scowling. “Know that too.”
“Which means we don’t have time for research into who it might be,” Sam says. Dean would call it patiently if Sam was capable of feelings, but he’s not, so it’s mostly just creepy.
“Sounds like a lost cause to me,” Dean says casually. He knows all of this already. Sam’s not saying anything helpful, so he can just shut his mouth.
“I’ve been researching dog breeds,” Sam says. “You’re a bird dog, which I’m sure I’ll get a kick out of when I get my soul back, but I’m a hound.”
If this were really Sam, Dean might sing Elvis right about now, but it’s not, so he doesn’t. “Seriously, Sam, get to the point.”
“I can track,” Sam says. “I’ve been practicing picking out individual scents.”
Oh. Yeah. That’d be helpful.
“Where’d the attack last night take place?”
Sam grins at him, way too many teeth on display. “I’ll show you.”
Their dog forms are still puppies for the most part, but Sam’s legs are long and gawky and the little bitch can run when he needs to. This is the only thing that saves Dean from finding out if being a skinwalker protects you from becoming a werewolf too.
“Thanks,” he manages to gasp.
Sam doesn’t even deign to glance at him; he’s too busy with his new chew toy.
The werewolf’s laid out flat on its back, arms and legs spasming even as it tries to heal from having its throat ripped out. Sam’s cracking the thing’s chest open with his teeth and claws, clearly going for the skinwalker gold, but Dean’s winded and bruised and really doesn’t give two shits at this point.
Crowley’s going to be pissed about the werewolf missing its heart, but the demon’ll have to deal.
Sam barks twice when he gets through the ribs and into the chest cavity. It makes Dean jump, even doubled over; Sam’s voice is ridiculously deep even if he weighs about thirty pounds, max. He looks up in time to see viscera disappear down Sam’s gullet.
Good riddance. Disgusting, unsanitary, and freakish, but, still. Good fucking riddance.
The dog keeps digging, though, pulling another chunk of... something out and flinging it.
“Think you got it,” Dean says, coughing.
Sam transforms back and swipes the blood off his face with the heel of one hand. It brings Dean back to two years ago, a demon between them and Sam smiling with blood in his teeth. Except that Sam’s dick is waving in the breeze right now. “You were pissed when I let you turn into a vamp,” Sam says. “I figured you wouldn’t be much happier if I let the werewolf take a chunk out of you.”
He sounds absurdly pleased with himself.
Dean pauses in the act of catching his breath, hands on his knees, to slide an incredulous look at the thing that isn’t his brother. “Good job?” he offers.
Sam nods at him, still beaming. Jeez. His life is such a sideshow freak parade.
Sam’s face wrinkles suddenly. “Werewolf hearts taste like shit, man,” he says, pawing at his mouth.
“The more you know,” Dean returns, still choking on adrenaline. “Put some goddamn clothes on.”
It’s easier, after that. Dean still doesn’t like his dog form, but he dutifully transforms every week to keep the itch in his bones down to manageable levels. Sam, though, Sam takes to it like a fish to water.
Two months into it, when Crowley sends them after a rugaru and Sam’s just starting to grow into his legs, Dean’s reminded of why Sam’s soul is so fucking important.
It isn’t that he forgets or anything like that. It’s just that sometimes he can pretend the thing sitting next to him in the car isn’t a symptom of everything wrong in Dean’s world.
“I took care of the kids,” Sam says, shaking himself out like he always does after a transformation. Blood flicks off his hair to splatter on the concrete.
Dean’s heart decides to skip the next beat. “What kids?”
“The rugaru’s kids.” Sam tugs his clothes into place and wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand. “Made it look like a dog attack and then burned the house down. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You killed the kids?” Dean demands.
His brother’s corpse tilts his head. “Yeah,” he says, “And the wife for good measure; wouldn’t want her to be pregnant or something. Why wouldn’t I? They’re just gonna turn into monsters later anyway.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“And you thought biting them was a good way to get rid of them?”
“Supernatural monsters can’t be infected by each other, Dean,” Sam says reasonably. “We’d have hybrids all over the place if they could be. Relax. I took care of it.”
“What the hell made you think you should ‘take care of it’?”
Sam scratches at an eyebrow. “Well, you weren’t going to do it,” he says. “You have a thing about kids.”
“A thing.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, and waves his hand, “A thing about not killing them.”
“That’s called having a soul, you creepy son of a bitch!”
“Like I said,” Sam says, “You have a thing.”
Castiel shows up again two days after Sam decides he wants to remain dogbot instead of a real boy. Not that Dean’s going to honor that decision. He’s got a lead. He’s just got to keep Sam in one place long enough for it to pan out.
Sam growls on the bed.
“It’s your own fault you’re stuck like that,” Dean says, picking at his nails. Sam growls again, lower and meaner. “Yeah, yeah, you’re real scary, Cujo. I gave you a choice. Not my fault you picked the hard way.”
There’s a sound like wings behind him. Dean’s shoulders hunch up towards his ears. “Thought you were busy fighting heaven’s war,” he says, turning to look at Castiel.
“Dean,” Castiel starts, then trails off and stares.
He does this sometimes. Dean finishes picking dirt out from under his thumbnail, checks to see what level staring they’re at (level 2, apparently), and decides to start on his ring finger. When he’s finished with that one too, he sneaks another look at Castiel.
Who’s still staring.
Dean gives up. “Why the hell do you look constipated?”
“Sam,” Castiel says.
Sam snuffles on the bed. He’s cranky because Dean’s got him tied down with silver while he works this shit out, but otherwise, every thing’s normal. As normal as they get with metal chains tying a dog to a bed, anyway.
“What about him?” Dean asks.
Castiel’s expression gets more intense. “I find I want to pet him,” Castiel says. His hands twitch at his sides. “His ears appear to be very soft.”
“Oookay,” Dean manages. He doesn’t like to touch Sam in dog form. The creep factor kind of goes up astronomically when his brother’s fluffy and soulless instead of just soulless. “Knock yourself out. Just watch out for his teeth. He’s kind of pissy right now.”
Castiel walks over to the bed, perches on the edge of it, and reaches for Sam’s face. Sam’s lips peel back from his teeth. The angel pauses. “It would not be wise to bite me, Sam,” he says. “I only wish to pet you. I do not believe your ears fall into the ‘bad touch’ zone.” He glances up at Dean. “They don’t, do they?”
Oh, Jesus Christ. “No,” Dean says shortly. “Sam. Do not bite the angel.”
The little fucker growls at him from the bed. He’s all twisted up because he won’t sit still, and his ears are long enough that one’s hanging over the side of the bed and the other is draped across his muzzle. It’d be cute, if there wasn’t fiery soulless death in Sam’s puppy eyes.
Castiel grasps the middle of Sam’s dangling ear between two fingers. His face pulls up in contemplation. Sam’s lip lifts off his canines, but he keeps still.
“Touched by an angel,” Dean says ominously, trying to hold back a smile.
Castiel gives him a baffled look, but Sam glares from behind the ear drooped over his face. “They are softer than I was expecting,” Castiel admits. He rubs the ear. “I find this pleasant.”
Dean’s entire body twitches. “Dude,” he says, “If I’m gonna watch dog fucking, there’d at least better be a hot chick involved.”
“The perversions of your species know no bounds,” Castiel says. “Humans will fornicate with anything.”
“Hey!” Dean points at him with one finger, scowling. “This human’s fornication record is squeaky clean. Sam’s the one who fucked a demon.”
“You had relations with a former angel.”
“She wasn’t a demon!”
Petulant is not a good look on Castiel. “Anael still wasn’t completely human,” he says, tugging absently on Sam’s ear. Sam snarls and whips his head around, teeth bared.
Castiel’s free hand snaps up to grab Sam’s muzzle, slamming it shut and down against the mattress. “I believe I warned you not to do that,” says Castiel.
Sam gives a muffled growl. His back legs scrabble uselessly at the bedspread, but Dean’s damn good at his job and his brother’s not going anywhere. Sam growls again.
“That’s probably enough petting,” Dean says. “Dude can only take having his ear molested for so long.”
Castiel’s gaze transfers to him. “Are you jealous?” he asks. “If you transform, I will possibly want to pet you as well. We do share a more profound bond, no matter how soft Sam’s ears are.”
Seriously. His life.
The good thing about being able to tie Sam up with silver is that Dean can confidently leave him alone while he fucks off to be Death for a day. He turns the tv on first because he’s not a complete soulless asshole, unlike gigantor, and even finds something Sam’s guaranteed to enjoy.
“Dude,” Dean says, waggling his eyebrows, “Barbie in a Mermaid’s Tale. Right up your alley, right?”
Sam growls at him, but what else is new?
A week later, Dean’s gotten sick of the kid’s channel. It’s not bothering sleeping pooch, obviously, and Dean’s been tortured enough over his lifetime; he just doesn’t have it in him to voluntarily watch Go, Diego, Go!
Most of the other channels are static though. There’s a Turner Classic Movie channel of all things that comes in alright. Dean’s been refreshing his knowledge of the classics in between bouts of watching shit like iGo to Japan because it’s either that or Pretty in Pink.
Not even Molly Ringwald can save that steaming pile of crap as far as Dean’s concerned.
iCan’t Act Worth Shit finishes up on one channel, so Dean flips to other just in time to see some ugly blond kid’s face light up and two puppies tumble out of a box. Two familiar lookin’ puppies.
“Dude,” Dean says, nudging Sam’s shoulder with one boot, “Look! Mini-yous. That actually wag their tails. Huh.”
Predictably, Sam doesn’t react at all, but Dean’s getting used to that. Kind of. He prods at Sam to make sure he’s still breathing and then leans back to watch the movie. It’s not his usual sort of thing, but the dogs’re cute enough.
Something’s kind of bugging him about it though. He’d bet his life on never having seen it before, but he knows what the dogs names are gonna be even before he sees the heart carved in the tree.
It’s not until the kid and his dogs tree a cougar that Dean realizes what’s been bothering him about the whole damn movie. He lunges up, manages to get the tv off just as Old Dan starts whimpering and goddamn Billy finally gets up off his ass to save his dogs.
“Goddamn movie,” Dean mutters.
Then he goes to take a shower, because he’s got dust in his eyes or something. So what if he scratches behind Sam’s ears before he goes? Sam’s not conscious and nobody’s gonna tattle on him.
When Dean gets out of the shower, the damn movie’s back on and Castiel is perched on the edge of the bed next to Sam. Dean eyes the hand he’s got on top of Sam’s head and decides not to say anything.
Just not worth it.
“This movie is inaccurate,” Cas says. “I have never heard of an angel planting a red fern over a dog’s grave.”
“Have you ever planted anything over a dog’s grave?” Dean asks. He glances at the movie to see the red fern nestled in between two little graves and wants to hit something.
Castiel tilts his head slightly to the side to regard the credits better. “No,” he says after a second. He scratches Sam’s ears absently, which is kind of really fucking creepy. Angels shouldn’t do anything absently.
Sam just keeps right on sleeping through it. Dean’s really hoping he turns back into a human before he wakes up. This whole skinwalker thing is not the first talk he wants to have with a newly resouled Sam.
Dean presses the fingers of one hand to his eyes. He just really hopes Sam wakes up.
Cas is staring at him when he drops his hand. Dean can see the little lightbulb go off over his head. “The dogs reminded you of Sam,” he says.
“No shit,” Dean says, “That’s why I turned the damn thing off.”
“The dogs died.” Castiel’s head tilts the other way. “You’re afraid Sam will die. I warned you that was the likely outcome.”
“Shut your mouth,” Dean grumbles. He knocks Castiel’s hand away from Sam’s head and tugs on one of his brother’s ears. “He’s gonna wake up.”
Dean wakes up to something cold and wet shoved into his ear. “Bitch,” he growls, slapping at it, “Wet willie? Really?”
The thing in his ear snuffles, blowing hot air into it, which, gross. Dean flexes his fingers on soft fur and whiskers, and that’s about when his brain decides to come back online.
“Sam?”
Something thumps against the bed hard enough to rattle it. Multiple times. The cold, wet nose in his ear snorts more disgustingly warm air.
Dean flips over onto his back and squints up at the very large teeth and very pathetic eyes looming over him. The bed rattles again and Sam (Sam!) sits back on his haunches to stare at Dean.
There’s actually something in those eyes now.
Dean swallows hard. “Hey, Sammy,” he manages, throwing an arm Sam’s doggy shoulders. Dean hauls him in, tucking that stupid muzzle over his shoulder, and just hangs on for dear life. Just for a second, alright? He’s earned it.
Sam wriggles around then just sort of slumps into Dean with a whine. He’s about fifty pounds of awkward muscle at this point, so it knocks Dean flat on his back again; he lets it slide, though, because he’s kind of still clutching right now.
“Your ears are freakishly huge,” Dean tells him. His voice wobbles alarmingly, so he clears his throat and yanks on the ear currently flopped over his face. Sam whines again and wiggles until he’s got both paws planted on Dean’s chest, his pointy dog elbows digging into Dean’s stomach.
Dean can’t stop fucking grinning, even when Sam leans in and sniffs his face. “You’re a heavy fucker,” he says cheerfully. “You lick me and I’ll kick your ass.”
Of course Sam licks him. Dean gets a little teary eyed. He’s missed the fucker.
He has not, however, missed Sam’s fucking morning breath. “Dude,” he says, shoving Sam’s face away, “You haven’t brushed your teeth in fuck knows how long. Get out of my face.”
It’d probably hold more weight if Dean could stop petting Sam. He’s scratching his ears with one hand and ruffling the fur on Sam’s back with the other. Kid’s lost a little bit of weight since he’s been sleeping.
“Think you can get off me, sparky?”
Sam huffs. His wagging tail thumps against the outside of Dean’s thigh, but he doesn’t move his gigantic paws off of Dean’s chest. He just sits there staring.
“Dude, don’t look at me like that,” Dean says, giddy. “Think human or something, I don’t know. You were the one who figured it all out.”
Sam puts his head down between his front paws and just stares at Dean some more. Dean twitches. “You want a demonstration?” he asks because, well, this is Sam. Of course Sam wants a demonstration.
The bed shakes under the force of Sam’s tail.
“You say one word about my dog form, Sam...” Dean threatens.
He’d looked it up months ago, and if it wasn’t bad enoughthat his form had long flowing girlie fur, it also shared a name with a washed up pop princess. He pushes Sam’s chest until his brother flops over and he can sit up to shuck his t-shirt.
He pauses. “I’m serious, Sam,” he says, staring threateningly, “One freakin’ word from you, and I will tie you up with silver and throw you off a bridge.”
Dean can just about hear the “kinky” in the way Sam lolls his tongue out of his mouth and drools on the bedspread. God, he’s missed his kid brother.
Thinking dog never gets less weird, no matter how often Dean’s been forced to do it in the last six months. A second later he’s hauling himself out of his pants and flopping on the bed next to Sam, his own tail wagging a mile a fucking minute.