Dizzojay's Dean Dreams (dizzojay) wrote,
Dizzojay's Dean Dreams

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Spring Fic Exchange: It's a Dog's Life

Written for the spn_bigpretzel Spring Fic Exchange
Recipent: disneymagics
Author: dizzojay
Artist: twisted_slinky
Beta: jj1564
Original Prompt:
During a hunt Dean's leg gets broken.  He jokingly tells Sam he's going to have to carry him back to the Impala.  Sam complies much to Dean's chagrin and also secret relief because his leg really does friggin' hurt!
Dean is laid up with some kind of injury and is going stir crazy.  Sam brings home a stray puppy he finds outside the bunker just to give it some food and water before taking it to the pound.  Dean falls in love with it.

Warnings/Spoilers: None
Characters: Sam, Dean, Castiel, Rowena ... and one other!
Rating: T
Genre: Gen, humour
Word count: 5,000

Summary: It's a grumpy time in the bunker.
Dean's grumpy because he's broken his ankle, and it hurts.  Sam's grumpy because he put his back out after carrying his great pie-stuffed lump of a brother back to the Impala, and it hurts.
Will the adorable little stray puppy Sam found shivering and crying beside the bunker help to lift the mood?  Castiel thinks not.
The brothers think he should just shut his angelic pie hole!

It had been a fairly routine hunt for the most part.  A ghoul hiding out in some shitty derelict warehouse, snacking on the occasional hobo, a couple of stupid thrill-seeking kids, and one unfortunate real-estate agent.

Dean had taken great delight in taking his machete and lopping the creepy bastard’s head clean off.  Of course, the part when he then slipped over in its blood, and tumbled ass over head down a flight of stairs hadn’t been quite so enjoyable.

On hearing Dean’s undeniably lively, expletive-laden descent, Sam had bolted down the stairs after him to find his brother lying in a groaning, tangled heap at the bottom of the staircase and, fearing the worst, began a manual assessment of Dean’s injuries.

“Dean, what the hell happened?”

“What d’ya think happened, Sherlock?” Dean grumbled ungraciously, swatting Sam’s wandering hands away. “I slipped and took a swan dive down the freakin’ stairs … and here I am,” he added with flourish.

“Can you move?” Sam asked, visibly scanning Dean’s body for anything vaguely misshapen, or any blood – at least blood that couldn’t be attributed to the ghoul.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed breathlessly, gradually raising himself toward a sitting position; “I can mo-AAAUUGH!” Dean pulled in a deep breath.  “Sam, I can’t move!”

“What is it?” Sam gasped, panic rising within him.

“M’ankle,” Dean replied breathlessly; “think I’ve busted my ankle.”


Sam scanned the warehouse for something to support Dean, and the only thing he found was himself. 

He sighed.

“Dean, we need to get you up,” Sam announced urgently; “this floor’s cold and damp – and filthy.”

Dean nodded a tacit agreement and shuffled around clumsily until he was in a semi-sitting position, balanced on his left asscheek.  Once he had steadied himself, he offered his right hand to Sam who managed, with a great deal of mutual grunting, groaning and cursing, to haul Dean into a one-legged standing position.

Sam glanced across at Dean, standing and swaying precariously, despite leaning heavily on him, with his right leg dangling in the air.  He was relieved to see that Dean’s foot was still attached, and wasn’t folded in half, pointing the wrong way or in any other way deformed, so his hope was that if the ankle was broken, it was a clean and simple break.

“Okay dude, if you lean on me, d’ya think we can make it out to the Impala?” Sam coaxed, “she’s just behind those trees – about a quarter mile away.”

Dean swallowed harshly and nodded.  “Yep,” he replied unconvincingly.

That was until the toe of his right boot touched the ground.

“GAH!  Nope … Sam, no – I can’t bear any weight on it.”

Damnit – again!

Still holding his listing brother upright, Sam glanced around the warehouse’ ramshackle interior looking for something they could utilise as a crutch.

Of course, their lives could never be that easy.  Once again, the only thing he found was himself.

Sam wilted slightly.  “It looks like I’ll have to carry you out.”

“What?  NO!!”  Dean bristled; “you are not carrying me – anywhere.  I freakin’ forbid it.”

Sam rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation; “just stop with the macho insecurity Hopalong; how else are you going to make it back to the Impala then?”

“I’ll manage,” Dean stated defiantly.


Gritting his teeth, and clinging to Sam’s shoulder with all his might, Dean hopped forward.  Once, then twice. Then a third time

Damnit to hell, this hopping was hard work.  He’d only travelled about two yards, and his good leg was already aching.

And his ankle – well, when those doctors tell you to say how much something hurts between a scale of one and ten?  This was about a fourteen.

He hopped forward again, feeling a sheen of sweat begin to break out across his forehead, trying to ignore the irritated glare Sam was shooting him.

He hopped again, and unbalanced, swaying backwards and basically undoing the minimal amount of progress he’d already made.

It was at that point Sam decided that enough was enough.  “This is pathetic,” he snapped, and without warning, Dean felt himself being hoisted up into Sam’s arms.

He squawked indignantly, protesting vocally and colourfully, but heck, if the relief of being carried didn’t just feel totally awesome.

He could feel the throb of his ankle subsiding.  He felt safe and warm, comforted by the knowledge that his brother’s strong arms were carrying him back to his girl – to Baby.

Of course, wild horses would never drag that confession out of him - ever, but all in all this relief was totally worth looking and feeling a complete pussy for.

On pain of death – or broken ankles, Sam would never know.


The Impala was in sight when it happened.  When Sam stumbled, almost dropping Dean, and let out a pained yelp.

“What?” Dean looked up into Sam’s pain-gripped face with panic – “WHAT?”

“M’back,” Sam gritted out through clenched teeth; “something’s given out.”

“You need to put me down,” snapped Dean.

“You need to lay off the goddamn pies,” Sam replied breathlessly, grimacing as the tightened his grip on his squirming brother and staggered the last few strides towards the waiting Impala.


The following day, safely ensconced back at the bunker, the brothers took stock of their injuries.

Dean was stretched out on the couch.  A plastercast – a testament to his unwilling visit to the local ER the previous evening - adorning his right foot, extending halfway up his calf.

With Dean more-or-less immobile, Sam, despite his protesting back, was doing his best to keep the Winchesters’ everyday routine – such as it was – ticking over.  Hobbling around the bunker hunched over like a man twice his age, he wasn’t helped by Dean behaving like the most grouchy, pissed-off human being on the planet.  Sam wasn’t sure if Dean was grumpy because he was worried about Sam, or because he was embarrassed.  Embarrassed about Sam insisting on carrying him, or because Sam had implied that he needed to lose weight, or even because in an act of sweet revenge for his crook back, Sam had informed the ER triage nurse that Dean broke his ankle in ballet class.

But at least now they were home in the bunker and although broken and weary, they were safe. Ultimately, that’s all both brothers cared about.


Castiel was away at the moment, on a sojourn somewhere in the subcontinent, seeking out a lost jewel that they needed for a particular incantation that Sam was working on.  The fact that it currently resided in the navel of an exotic Himalayan demi-goddess who lived somewhere up a totally inaccessible mountain, and who ate mortals and wore their extraneous body parts as earrings, meant that Castiel was the ideal man – angel – whatever – for the job.

The Winchesters considered calling him back to heal them but decided that as their injuries were more annoying than life-threatening, and allowing for the fact that he’d be back in a few days anyway, they could just live with the current situation for now.

Given that in the past, Dean had died over a hundred times, Sam had been tormented into madness by Lucifer, and they had both been tortured in Hell; a busted ankle and a stuffed back didn’t seem too horrific in the grand scheme of things.



“Dean,” Sam yelled across the great hall; “I’m heading out on a supply run.  Wan’ anything?”

“Beer,” Dean replied; “and pie,” he added. “Not cake, not cookies, not donuts, not freakin’ pastries … PIE, got it?”

Sam rolled his eyes.  “Got it,” he replied, and mentally added fruit and vegetables to Dean’s list.

Sam’s back was gradually improving.  Although far from perfect, it felt better enough that he felt able to face a trip sitting in the Impala, and thankfully, since the hospital had loaned Dean a crutch, and Sam didn’t have to haul his heavy ass about any more, its improvement over the last couple of days was continuing apace.  It still hurt like a bitch at times, but as long as he kept moving around and didn’t allow it to stiffen up too much he could deal with it just fine.

Now dealing with Dean, the world’s most impatient patient, that was another matter entirely.  Seriously, the man was a goddamn nightmare.

Florence Nightingale would have brained him with her lamp by now – no question.


Sam’s trip to the grocery store wasn’t exactly exciting, but it was productive.  He picked up a decent amount of supplies – including Dean’s pie – loaded them in the impala and drove them home without any major niggles from his fractious back.  Sam was happy to count that as a win.

And if he managed to stuff enough stupid pie into Dean’s mouth, Dean might actually shut the hell up for a while.  That would be another, even better win.

Sam shivered as he carefully manoeuvred two chock-full paper bags out of the Impala’s back seat.  It was unseasonably cold, with a miserable chilly drizzle in the air.  The warmth of the bunker had never felt so welcome.

As he turned, nudging the Impala’s door closed with the heel of his boot, and swearing her to secrecy (Dean would kill him if he ever knew), he paused.

He could have sworn he heard something …

He stood, frozen in time for a moment.


Sam shook his head with a wry smile.  Damnit, he was so conditioned to hearing Dean’s whining over the last couple of days, he was hearing whining and moaning out here now.

He moved forward a step, and …


Yes.  There is was.  Sam wasn’t hallucinating, he was relieved to note.


But what the hell was it?  An animal of some sort?  It sounded hurt – or at least uncomfortable.  Sam’s eyes widened in horror as an awful though crossed his mind; he didn’t run something over when he pulled up?  Oh heck, no!

He placed the shopping down on the Impala’s damp hood and began a quick inspection of the ground around her.  He groaned as he crouched down as low as his creaking back would allow, and glanced under her, mightily relieved to see no injured or squashed animals.


It was behind him.

He began sifting through the undergrowth that surrounded the bunker, crooning softly as he did so … “hey, where are you?  S’okay little buddy, whatever you are - I’m not gonna hurt you… you’re not rabid, are you?”

It was a couple of minutes before he found what he was looking for.  There hunched in the undergrowth was a small, black shivering ball of wet fur.

He gently scooped the little body up, easily cradling it in his hands.

It was a puppy.  A black Labrador pup, Sam’s best guess was.  He couldn’t be sure, but judging by its little pudgy round body and snub nose, whatever breed it was, it was very young. The puppy blinked its soft brown eyes and tried its best to nestle into the warmth of his gentle hands. That’s when Sam realised … the poor little thing was horribly cold and wet.  No good at all for such a tiny little guy.

“Hey, s’okay little dude,” he reassured kindly.  Hesitating, he gently rolled the puppy onto its side and discreetly checked; yes it was definitely a dude – “let’s get you inside so we can warm you up and decide what’s best for you.”

The little puppy yawned wide and snuffled in what could have been interpreted as contentment, and Sam smiled sappily.

He cradled the tiny body in the crook of his arm, sharing as much body heat as possible, as he unlocked the bunker door, and strode rapidly down the metal steps into the bunker’s depths.

“Hey Sam, where’s the pie?”

He rolled his eyes, “stoked to see you too Dean.”

“This pie’s outside with the rest of the groceries.  Here, I need you to hold this while I go back and get it…”

Dean frowned in confusion, looking down as Sam leaned over him and placed something on his chest.

“What the hell?  A dog? What are you bringing a freakin’ dog into the bunker for?” Dean asked irritably.

“Dean!” Sam snapped, “I found the poor little guy stray outside, he’s got no collar, so I don’t know where he’s come from, but he’s freezing.  Probably got hypothermia, so hold him to your chest and keep him warm until I get back.”

“To my … Sam, he’s a stray mutt.  What if he’s got fleas?”

Sam was already heading back up the stairs to retrieve the rest of the groceries, “it’s your chest Dean – don’t flatter yourself – any flea that’s unlucky enough to end up there is gonna be registered homeless.”

Equal parts confused and outraged, Dean watched him disappear back out of the bunker’s main door.

“Bastard,” he thought indignantly. There were plenty of hairs there for the fleas to live on.  Well, three at least.

He felt the little body shift under his hand.

“So, you’re a lucky little tyke,” he muttered; “my brother always was a sucker for dogs. He’ll see you’re ok.”

The puppy’s little round butt wiggled slightly, and Dean realised he was trying to wag his tail.

“So, where’s your mom then, why is someone as tiny as you out all on your ownsome?”

He ruffled the back of the puppy’s head with his thumb and couldn’t help a smile when it gave a little squeal of satisfaction.

“You like that, huh?” Dean smiled, rubbing the same spot, before he paused, his smile faltering.  “Hey, are you housetrained?  You’d better not pee on me.  If you’re gonna pee on anyone, it can be Sam.”

He hadn’t even noticed Sam walking back into the bunker complete with grocery bags which he set down before walking towards the couch containing man and dog.

He reached down, and gently lifted the little pup from Dean’s grasp, bringing the tiny mite up to his shoulder; “hey, little dude, you feel much better – has grumpy uncle Dean warmed you all up?”

He grimaced, as a patch of warmth spread all across his shirt.

“You freakin’ peed on me, didn’t you!”


A long discussion ensued following Sam’s rapid change of clothes (and a laughing fit that almost caused Dean to require a change of clothes too) and Sam mooted the idea that after making sure the little pup was warm and recovered, and had a decent meal inside him, then the following morning Sam would take him down to the local shelter, where he’d hopefully find a forever home.

Dean was in total agreement, after all, both brothers agreed that their itinerant and dangerous lifestyle didn’t suit owning a pet, particularly a high maintenance pet such as a dog.  Sam boiled up half a chicken fillet for the puppy, who gorged down their offering like he’d never eaten before, and then he promptly fell asleep on Dean’s shoulder. 

Sam noted, with some degree of amazement that Dean didn’t seem to mind.


The following morning, Sam awoke to find Dean still sprawled out asleep on the couch complete with puppy, clinging limpet-like to his shoulder.

He frowned.  Dean’s broken ankle should be supported in a bed, not hanging over the arm of the couch.  He strolled sleepily over to his brother and shook him gently by the non-puppy-occupied shoulder.

Dean stirred, sleepily.  “Whaa….hey-uh?”

“You shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch – you should be in bed, it’s better for your leg.”

Dean yawned, knuckling tired eyes; “yeah, well – I didn’t wanna wake the little fluffbutt up, so I figured one night wouldn’t hurt.” He yawned again, and the puppy stirred, yawning with him.

Sam ran his hand through his hair.  “Yeah, well I’m gonna make coffee, then I’m taking him out to do his … you know, dog stuff.  I don’t want you moaning if he drops a pile in the Impala on the way to the shelter.”

Dean stared intently up at Sam.

“Yeah, ‘bout that Sam,” he hesitated, his eyes flicking between the little black being nestled into the crook of his neck, and Sam looming over him. “We don’t have to take him to the shelter, like, now.  Do we? Like today?  Why not tomorrow?  Or the day after?  I mean, I’m a friggin’ monopod, and your back’s tied in knots until Cas gets back and heals us, so it’s not like we’re going anywhere soon.”

Sam shook his head.  “Dean, it’s kindest if we just take him now before he has time to really bond with us.”

The little puppy wriggled even tighter under Dean’s chin, wedging his tiny cold wet nose into the neck of Dean’s t-shirt.

Dean looked up at Sam, and Sam’s heart lurched when he saw the earnestness in Dean’s eyes.

“I think that ship’s sailed, Sam,” Dean sighed; “I think Fluffbutt’s well and truly bonded with me.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed.  “Fluffbutt?  You named him?”

Dean shrugged; “it kinda fitted.”

Sam palmed his face; “are we talking about the dog bonding with you, or you bonding with the dog?”

Dean tried to sit upright, but then gave up lest he dislodge Fluffbutt who had now wormed his way almost entirely inside his t-shirt.  “Well, the dog bonding with me, of course, I mean, I don’t even like dogs.  I wouldn’t …”

He looked down at the little black barnacle clinging to his chest, and up at Sam, standing over him, arms folded and sporting bitchface #4, and knew his argument was lost.

“… well, who cares?” he snorted indignantly; “I just don’t see why he can’t stay a couple more days.  Maybe we can find him a good home without him having to go to the shelter?  I read about those places Sam, sometimes they …” he paused, whispering the next words, presumably to avoid offending their new lodger, “… KILL dogs they can’t find homes for.”

Sam sighed.  Heck, but Dean’s idea was actually pretty reasonable.

“You know we can’t keep him, right Dean?”

Dean gnawed his lip and nodded, ruffling the the lump under his t-shirt.

“Uh, Sam…”


“He peed on me. It’s all warm!”

Now it was Sam’s turn to laugh.


Castiel reached into his pocket, rolling the vivid green jewel between his fingertips, just to reassure himself that it was there.  He’d gone through a lot to convince Eskara to part with it.  Luckily she had appeared to find his vessel attractive, and so no real unpleasantness had been required.

He had to admit, however, that her fourteen arms had made avoiding her advances difficult, especially as the price of her precious jewel had been his virginity. 

He wished she had listened to his warnings that the purity of an angel is too powerful even for many minor deities to handle, but she was persistent, and he was impatient to get the job done.  It was still a shame though, when halfway through proceedings on the second day, she exploded.

Castiel guessed that the followers of the cult of Eskara would be pretty miffed when they found out, and he wasn’t sure if the stains would ever come out of his trenchcoat, but he had the jewel, and now he was home.  So life was – on the whole – good.

That positive feeling lasted approximately the fifteen seconds that it took him to announce his presence into the bunker and walk down the staircase.

“Hey Cas’,” Dean and Sam both called in unison.

Castiel was just processing the fact that Dean was injured, and Sam too, to a lesser degree, when suddenly a small black creature appeared at his feet.  It made a sound which Castiel interpreted as a growl, but that sounded more like a squeak.

He pulled in a deep breath as his grace seethed.  A frisson of dread drilled though him like a blade of fire, and he pulled himself up to his full height - all 5’ 10” of it.

“Dean.  What is that?” He tried to keep his voice as level as possible.

“This?” Dean called back from his usual spot on the couch; “what d’ya think it is, numbnut?  It’s a puppy.”

Castiel’s whole being was aflame with fury toward this abomination … “it is a Hellhound.  A beast of darkness. That creature is evil incarnate.”

Dean blinked.  “What … Fluffbutt?”

“Let me smite it for you, Dean.”

“Smite him? What the hell…?   You smite Fluffbutt, and I’ll kick your angelic ass so hard, we’ll need a darn good proctologist to get my boot back.”

The three figures glowered silently at each other for a moment, before Castiel broke the silence.

“Dean, the dog has urinated on my foot…”


Castiel sat on the end of the bed in the bunker that was allocated to him, and that he never used, and sighed.

Sam and Dean couldn’t see it.  They were both completely in thrall of the cute puppy and wouldn’t hear a word against it but Castiel knew.  He knew there was something wrong with it.  Something bad, wicked even.  He just didn’t know what.

It didn’t look much like any hellhound he’d ever seen, and he could see it wasn’t possessed, but nevertheless, there was something about the cute little dog he just couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Fluffbutt was pure evil.

Eventually, he decided that he needed to swallow his pride and seek advice, away from Sam and Dean and their mawkish obsession over the thing of darkness, and thus it was that he found himself early the following morning sitting in his car, about fifty miles from the bunker calling a phone number he never dreamed he would call – willingly.


“Castiel … my darling boy, what a delightful surprise.”

“Um, yes … well … Rowena, I need some assistance.”

There was a chuckle on the end of the phone.  “Never one for smalltalk, were ye, Castiel.”

Castiel hesitated.  He briefly considered instigating a short discussion about the weather but decided to plough on regardless.

“Ah, yes.  Rowena, I have a dilemma.”

“Oh, poor thing, I believe you can get pills for that …”

“I do not believe I need medication in this Instance.”

*sigh* “Go on, what d’ye need?”

“I need to be able to confirm a suspicion, Rowena.  There is a dog in the bunker; I believe it to be a thing of evil, but Sam and Dean think it is cute and are very fond of it.  Actually they are completely smitten with it.  They call it Fluffbutt.  Dean threatened violence if I attempted to harm the dog.”

There was a brief silence on the end of the phone.


“Yes, Fluffbutt,” Castiel continued.  “Fluffbutt is not possessed, nor is it a Hellhound – I don’t think so anyway.  I just need to be able to find out why I feel evil emanating from it and whether it is a danger to Sam and Dean. I wondered if you had some kind of spell or incantation which would reveal the truth.”

Castiel could have sworn that Rowena giggled before she spoke.

“Fluffbutt? That’s adorable,” Rowena chuckled; “when you say ‘dog’, Castiel, I assume you mean ‘puppy’?”

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed hesitantly; “it is a small black puppy. Why … how do you know? Does this have anything to do with you…?”

Rowena’s laughter intensified to the point that she was having trouble speaking.  “So they found him – Fluffbutt – then?”

Castiel drew in a deep breath.  “He?  Who?”

“He … you know, that obnoxious spawn of mine.”


“That’s right.  We had an argument – not an unusual occurrence I’m sorry to say – and he called me a scheming bitch.  Well, in the heat of the moment, I think I responded something like, ‘well if I’m a bitch, that makes you my pup’.  And, well, the rest you can work out.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped “Crowley?  The puppy is Crowley?”

“Sharp as a tack, aren’t ye?” Rowena replied acerbically.

“But … but, why is he at the bunker?”

Rowena hesitated.  “He might be a sanctimonious little shite, but now he’s just a little wee animal, with all the weaknesses and limitations that such a tiny beast would have.  I wanted to teach him a lesson, but I’m not a complete – well – bitch; I didn’t want to see him run over or eaten by coyotes while he’s so helpless, so last night, I spirited him down at the bunker because I knew those two big soft-hearted lugs would take him in.”

Castiel blinked, and shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts.  “The puppy.  Is Crowley…”

“Hmmm… am I using too many long words, Castiel …?”

“So, you say that although the puppy is Crowley, he has no powers?”

“Nope, nothing beyond what an ordinary wee puppy can do.  He’ll be trapped in that tiny body going out o’ his noggin with the frustration of the situation – and he’ll never forgive them for naming him Fluffbutt – which makes it even more hilarious!”

“So, are you going to change him back?” Castiel asked, concerned; “I need to warn Sam and Dean.”

“Och, I don’t know.  I thought I’d let him live out the lifespan of the dog – that’s but the blink of an eye when you live as long as we do.  Then after he’s lived a long life as a happy, healthy dog, and the dog’s body finally dies, hey presto … I get my delightful ray-of-sunshine son back.  Lucky me!”

A faint smile spread across Castiel’s face.  “Rowena, I think you might actually be a genius.”

“Oh Castiel my dear boy – you’ve only just worked that out…?”


Castiel opened the door to the bunker and cautiously stepped inside to be met with two pairs of enquiring eyes.

“Where’ve you been?” Dean asked gruffly, his voice muffed for the fact that Fluffbutt appeared to be lying halfway across his face.

“I am sorry Dean,” Castiel replied, as contritely as he could manage under the circumstances; “I went out to seek clarity and to clear my thoughts.”

Sam and Dean frowned in unison.

“I want to apologise about the puppy,” Castiel announced; “I am not accustomed to being around dogs.  In fact the only dogs I have experience of are hellhounds, and I believe I may have allowed my limited experience in this respect to cloud my judgement.  I no longer think the dog is dangerous or evil and like you, I would like only the best for it – him.”

Sam and Dean side-eyed each other; “okaaay.”

“And now I want to do what I should have done yesterday; Dean let me heal your leg, and Sam I believe you have a sore back.”

Dean glanced down at his leg, then up at Castiel.

“Ah, it’s no big deal – it can wait a couple days … or more”

Sam glared at Dean.  “Dean, we talked about this last night, and anyway I want my back better – have you any idea how difficult it is to wipe dog pee off the floor when you can’t bend properly?”

Castiel glanced quizzically between the brothers.

“Garth’s cousin, Jenny, is going to take Fluffbutt, when we’re ready to let him go,” Sam explained, mainly to Castiel but for Dean’s consumption too.  “I had a long conversation with both of them yesterday.  She’s got a smallholding just outside Purcell, Oklahoma and she’s kept dogs all her life. She’s already got two sheepdogs, so Fluffbutt will have friends, and he’ll get loads of exercise. And the best thing is, she’s only five hours away, she says we can go see Fluffbutt anytime we like.”

Castiel noted that Sam looked far more enamoured of the idea than Dean did.

“But Sam, we’ve never met this woman,” Dean mumbled sulkily; “what if she’s not good enough for Fluffbutt?”

Sam sighed, and Castiel got the impression he was sick of having the same conversation; “Dean, Garth thinks the world of Jenny and says she’ll give Fluffbutt a great home. You know Garth as well as I do Dean, he’s the most generous spirited, honest dude out there. If Garth says she’s cool, that’s good enough for me.”

Castiel cocked his head quizzically as he regarded his injured friend; “and you think that when your leg is healed, Dean, you’ll have to get back to the hunt, and so you’ll have to let Fluffbutt go?”

Dean’s glum face said it all.

“You know,” Castiel mused; I could heal you – there’s no immediate need to hand Fluffbutt over.”

The little puppy wiggled his butt in Castiel’s direction before jumping down from Dean’s lap onto the ground.  He tried to growl menacingly at the amused angel, but only managed to come across as adorable.

“I mean,” Castiel mused; “suppose you were to make him an appointment to get a veterinarian to check him over and give him any shots he needs in the next few days – you’d have to keep him until that happened.”

“Good call, Cas” Dean agreed; “we wanna make sure we’re giving Garth’s cousin a healthy little mutt don’t we.”

Sam hesitated, considering the idea, before he nodded in agreement.

Sam pondered the idea, “sounds reasonable,” he agreed; “and anyway, he’ll have to get used to going to the vet because Jenny said when he’s old enough, she’s going to get him fixed.”

“Oh hell Sam,” Dean snapped; “that’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?”

“It’s the responsible thing to do,” Sam retorted.

“But really? To chop his little … “Dean mouthed the word ‘balls’ “… off?”

Sam rolled his eyes; “Don’t be so dramatic. He’s never used them, I’m sure he won’t even miss them.”

No-one noticed the broad smile on Castiel’s face as he scooped up the little puppy and lifted the little figure until he was staring eye-to-eye with it.  He wasn’t sure if it was his finely-tuned angelic senses, but he could have sworn he heard Fluffbutt squeak ‘BOLLOCKS!!!’.

“Not for much longer,” Castiel whispered with a grin, and tickled the little dog under the chin.


Tags: castiel, dean winchester, fan art, fan fiction, rowena, sam winchester, spn-bigpretzel

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