A Dog's Tale Part One
Title: A Dogs Tale
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: erda
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~15,000
Warning: See pairing. Consensual incest.
Summary: Post Season 5. One way or another, the apocalypse is over or averted. Sam and Dean are back on the road and they adopt a bunch of dogs. First time wincest.
lisztful made the adorable banner and all the ills. She also listened to me talk endlessly about this, read over it repeatedly as it came together, and used her killer cheerleading skills to get me to finish writing it.
Thanks to my wonderful beta giandujakiss for suggestions which made this a better story, and incidentally gave me food for thought on improving any future stories I write.
Complete in two parts:
The chinks in Dean's macho armor are numerous. Sam has spent years cataloging them, arguing over them, mocking them, and finally accepting them, because he obviously can't win. Dean always has an answer, a justification, a rationalization, and no matter how lame the excuse, Dean himself is always so convinced by his own ridiculous bullshit that Sam is the one left feeling like an idiot.
So when Sam loses track of Dean at the mall, he knows right away that Dean has slipped off to visit his favorite store, which, though Dean lies shamelessly about it, is not the food court. No, Dean's favorite store is Claire's, that shiny, glitzy little costume jewelry and accessory shop that teenagers frequent, and which Dean insisted -the one and only time Sam tried to ridicule him about it- he only went into to follow a hot girl. Which led to an argument about ogling underage girls that Sam only later realized was deliberately designed to distract him from his attempt at mockery.
Sam finishes his own shopping. Their last job had placed them in the middle of a feud between a pair of rival black magic gangs (and really, when had they started organizing, anyway?), the bloody fallout costing him his second to last decent shirt. Even though Dean had called him prissy ("How many shirts does your prissy self need?"), he had insisted they make a quick stop in case the next job ruined his last one, as he did not want to be forced to go shopping in a torn, bloody, or otherwise horrifying shirt. The fact that Dean always had way more clothing than he did, and that he thought about it enough to choose colors that brought out the green in his eyes, didn't, of course, mitigate Dean's unceasing mock, mock, mockery.
Sam doesn't say a word when Dean ducks guiltily out of Claire's, nor when he sees the shiny gold links of a new bracelet Dean certainly hadn't paid for swinging loosely from his wrist when he reaches out to open the mall door, gesturing absurdly for Sam to pass through it first. He knows he can't win in the mockery battle, and he consoles himself with the thought that it's all fueled by Dean's mammoth inferiority complex, anyway.
It's when they get back to the car that they first see Jeb, only he isn’t named Jeb yet, doesn’t have a name at all as far as they know.
He's sitting placidly near the car and Dean reaches his hand out and pats him idly on the head as he walks by. Sam doesn’t bother explaining to him why petting a strange dog might be a bad idea, but he can’t completely repress the shudder that comes over him at the memory of that other dog Dean had casually touched, back in the bad old Tuesday loop he's never completely recovered from.
He's sitting placidly near the car.
This dog doesn’t attack. He doesn’t do anything, just sits watching them until Dean opens the back door of the Impala to throw his jacket inside. Then the dog stands up and brushes past Dean, leaping into the back seat and curling up on his jacket with a certain savior faire that Sam can’t help admiring. Dean slams the door shut like some dull-witted dog chauffeur and then stands blinking stupidly at Sam. "Why the hell is there a dog in my car?" he asks Sam in an aggrieved voice.
There is no way Sam is going to let Dean make this his fault. "You’re the one who patted him and opened the door for him."
"Well," Dean says, swallowing his pique with an obvious effort and switching to faux logical, "We can’t just leave him abandoned at the side of the road."
Okay, whatever, that almost sounds reasonable. "I suppose we could find the local pound and drop him off," Sam says. "His owner will probably look for him there."
"Fine." Dean huffs out the word the way he does when he is pretending to give in after a long, frustrating argument. "Except it’s after seven" -yep not really giving in, Sam notes- "so it probably isn’t open." He gets into the car and slams his door, leaving Sam no choice but to follow suit. "We can take him to the pound first thing in the morning."
"Fine," Sam says. It comes out sounding more resentful than it had in his head, like almost everything he says to Dean these days, but it's Dean's own damn fault for acting so weird.
Once they get back to their room, the dog stomps all over Dean’s crumpled duffle bag, which he had carelessly tossed into the corner when they’d checked in earlier, before lying down on it, looking for all the world as if he’d always been there.
Sam retrieves the soccer ball from where he'd thrown it onto the bathroom floor on his way into the shower the day before. He holds it out toward Dean. "Are you ready to be trounced some more?" he asks.
Dean flops back onto his bed, smirking at Sam. "I busted your ass yesterday" he claims, which is a complete and utter lie. Since Dean got the idea that they should keep in shape between jobs by playing soccer, he has never once managed to score a goal. True, often they don't play on a real field, and don't bother gathering stuff to mark out goals, but when they have goals, Dean never gets past Sam without cheating. "I'm not in the mood, anyway," Dean says. "Why don't you take the dog?" It's the first time Dean has cried off since they started playing, and he's a lot more disappointed than he wants to let on. Spending time with Dean, and sharing a laugh, is something he'd never gotten enough of, even as a child. Just the two of them, kicking a ball around, relaxed and enjoying being together, makes him happy. Okay, he definitely doesn't want Dean to know how important their evening soccer game is to him.
The dog is prancing around looking like he wants to play, and Sam figures if he wanted to run off he'd have done so already, so he takes him out into a field that runs behind the motel, and kicks the ball around with him. The dog doesn't seem to grasp the rules any better than Dean does, but he has a hell of a lot of fun jumping and running around barking little excited yips. Dean likes to turn the game into something more like tackle football than soccer, barreling into Sam headfirst and sending them both to the ground when he can't score, and Sam always protests his cheating because it would be weird not to, but he's secretly over the moon any time he gets to roll around on the ground with Dean. It gives him a reason to touch and be touched that never goes very far, but he's resigned himself that that is as much as he's going to ever get from Dean physically. He knows Dean isn't interested in him the way he's interested in Dean, in looking and touching and a lot more, and he's accepted that. Still, he'll take what he can get and enjoy it.
He likes to think the whole playing soccer thing is more about Dean coming to terms with the idea that there are a few things he missed out on growing up, and feeling comfortable reclaiming them, rather than some perceived need for regular exercise. He knows Dean picked soccer because he thought Sam would like it, and he does. He really does.
The dog takes a leap and lands on his chest, surprising him out of his wool gathering, and he goes down hard in the lumpy grass. It knocks the wind, as well as his incestuous longings, out of him, but it doesn't take more than a couple of seconds to recover. The dog has all four feet planted firmly on his chest, and is panting down at him, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, looking pleased and victorious. He pushes him off and gathers up the ball. The dog follows him obediently back to the room.
Dean’s whispering wakes Sam up the next morning. The dog is curled up on the bed with Dean, and Dean is stroking his hand through its thick fur gently, murmuring "good boy" and something that sounds a lot like "baby" to it, but Sam doesn't quite trust his ears on that one. Dean's forehead is pressed against the dog’s ear, his arms wrapped around the dog’s chest in a way that gives Sam a not entirely comfortable feeling in his own chest. He’s never noticed Dean being particularly interested in dogs before.
Nothing else is said about taking the dog to the pound. Dean makes a run for coffee and doughnuts, and shares his with the dog over Sam’s protest, then takes the dog outside to relieve himself. They still don’t have a leash, but the dog seems disinclined to leave them, savvy enough to recognize a good deal when he sees it. Probably his previous owners had fed him dog food or something.
The day is already shaping up to be a scorcher, and Dean comes back with a small chipped bowl he’d dug up somewhere, filling it with water for the dog, who gulps it almost dry before Dean refills it.
"We need to get a move on," Sam reminds him. They have an appointment to talk with a detective about a missing child, a child whose father claims was abducted by, to Dean's delight, some sort of swamp creature.
"Sure," Dean says. He twists his empty coffee container into a tube and lobs it at Sam, hitting him squarely between the eyes.
Sam winces in surprise. "You've spent way too much time in bars playing darts, Dude," he says, which sounded like an insult in his head, but it makes Dean look smug.
When the dog tries to squeeze out the door with them and Dean makes no attempt to stop him, Sam has to put his foot down. "Dean, that dog cannot come with us." He steps in and nudges the dog back away from the door.
"What? Why not?"
Dean and the dog seem to be having a soulful moment together, gazing into each others' eyes in a way that is beyond creepy. "Dean," Sam says. "What is going on with you and the dog?"
"What do you mean?" Dean asks. Dean always thinks he can fool people, but hardly anyone ever falls for his who me act, least of all Sam, who has been watching Dean try to use it on people all his life. "We can’t leave him all alone in a motel room. Besides, he might be able to help us."
"He would just be in the way," Sam says impatiently. He grabs Dean’s arm and pulls him through the door, slamming it in the dog’s pouty face without mercy. "Could you try to stop worrying about the dog for a few minutes and concentrate on the job?"
Dean turns back and speaks mournfully to the closed door. "Bye, Jeb. We’ll be back soon. Just, uh, watch some TV or something, okay?" He shoots Sam a poisonous look.
He’s never noticed Dean being particularly interested in dogs before.
"Oh my god," Sam mutters, grabbing Dean by the collar of his shirt and yanking him over to the car. "Jeb?"
"That’s his name," Dean says. He gets into the driver's seat stiffly, and they drive to the local police station in strained silence, but Sam isn't too worried about it. He's too busy eating the Snickers bar he found on his seat when he opened the car door. Dean's been putting them in his seat almost every time they go anywhere since shortly after they put Lucifer back in his cage. It's adorable. Sam mentioned once, years ago, that Snickers are his favorite, and Dean remembered it. Sometimes he gets a little tired of always having the same candy, but he eats them anyway.
The police detective is female, so Dean uses one of his over-friendly fake smiles, and pauses to give her time to grovel, but she isn't impressed, just continues rifling through a huge pile of junk on her desk. She eventually straightens up triumphantly with a wad of paper napkins, which she uses to wipe a yellow smear from one corner of her mouth. Tossing the napkins into a styrofoam box containing a mostly eaten burger and a few limp fries covered with a small blob of congealed gravy, which is perching precariously atop one of the piles of folders and papers that covers every inch of the desk, she finally looks up, her gaze sliding over Dean and landing on Sam. She gives him a frank appraisal and apparently likes what she sees.
Sam is always taken by surprise on the rare occasions that someone prefers him to Dean. In honesty, his pleasure is more about watching Dean's smug come-ons fall flat than being interested in the girl for himself, but he isn't above using the attraction to gain information, so he returns her warm smile with one of his own.
She barely glances at their FBI IDs before gesturing to him to sit in the single worn chair beside her desk, leaving Dean to grab a chair from the neighboring desk in order to join them. "How can I help you?" she asks.
"Just checking what you've done so far, Detective," he says. He notices Dean noticing a second styrofoam container laying open on the desk, this one holding a large, untouched piece of cherry pie, Dean's favorite. Dean loses interest in the detective at that point, and Sam can see him thinking way too hard about the pie. It's too big for him to palm, and Sam hopes he isn't stupid enough to try to steal it right out from under a police detective.
"We searched all through the clearing behind the development," the detective says. She brushes the back of her hand ineffectually over a yellow spot on her uniform. "There's no way anyone or anything could be hidden there. The father was hysterical, all worked up by that flaky book the whole town's been reading. We even took a couple of dogs with us, went all over the area with them, mostly to convince the man we were taking him seriously. Didn't find a thing."
Sam nods. "Have you spoken to Mr. Parker? Not that we give any credence to his tales of swamp monsters-" Sam smiles, inviting her to assume they are united in skepticism. "But his knowledge of the area and the stories he's collected about it seem a bit suspicious. Seems like this kidnapping can't help but be good publicity for his book."
She gives him a sharp look. "Yes, we thought of that all by ourselves," she says. "Parker has an airtight alibi. He was giving a talk at the library about his book at the exact time the family claim a monster grabbed their son right out from under them. Tell you the truth, we'd be about half convinced the family killed him themselves, except that they surely could have come up with a better story than this swamp monster thing to explain the disappearance."
Sam can see Dean fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, obviously wanting to leave. A quick glance back at the desk at least confirms that the pie is still there, untouched.
Sam stands up, thanking the detective for her time. She smiles and seems about to say something else, but then brushes aside a pile of papers and snatches up a folder from the mess. "I've been looking for this!" she mutters. She leans back and opens the folder, forgetting all about them.
Dean seems to be in a godawful hurry to get out of the police station. He grabs Sam's arm and urges him outside. "What are you getting so worked up about?" Sam asks. "Can't stand that she was able to resist you? Or are you just that obsessed with pie?"
The sun is high and merciless when they step back outside. "What?" Dean asks. He looks even more confused than normal. "No. Jeez. It's just..." He smooths one hand down the front of his jacket and shifts his feet. "Jeb's been alone for a long time. I mean, what if he has to go out or something?" Dean starts for the car at a near jog, but then stops so suddenly Sam almost barrels into him. He tilts his head as if listening, turning around slowly, and finally heading off behind a small row of houses where he clambers over a low, rusted fence and into a tiny unkempt yard.
Sam follows him, mimicking his surreptitious movements instinctively. He hears a soft whining noise. There is no grass or anything growing in the yard, just hard packed dry dirt. A filthy wading pool lays abandoned next to a pole that my have once been used to secure a clothesline, but is now bare. Behind a pile of rusty garden tools thrown loose on the ground two little pug dogs are lying close together on the dry cracked ground. They're lying in direct sunlight, and there is no shelter around to provide any relief from the heat. A dented tin dog food bowl has a line of ants crawling down one side into a thin layer of cheap looking dry food on the bottom of the bowl. A second bowl, apparently used for water, is empty.
They're lying in direct sunlight, and there is no shelter around to provide any relief from the heat.
Dean picks up the little dogs -they are both rather incredibly overweight, and he grunts a little at their surprising bulk. He tucks one under each arm, and heads back the way they had come. "Dean," Sam hisses. "You cannot go around stealing dogs."
"Watch me," Dean says. His voice has that hard quality that means he will brook no debate, the one Sam is never intimidated by, no matter how many times Dean pulls it out of his bag of tricks. Dean doesn’t seem to know that he sucks at manipulating people.
Dean struggles back over the fence, clutching the stolen dogs like they are some sort of precious treasure, leaving Sam to follow after. Things are getting stranger and stranger.
Dean puts the pugs between them on the front seat, and peels out of there the second Sam closes the passenger door. The squat little dogs lie sprawled out like miniature bear rugs, looking barely alive, in contrast to Dean, who can't seem to sit still, shifting around like he has itching powder in his shorts.
They barely get the door of their motel room unlocked before Jeb streaks out, running right between Sam's legs in his haste. "Not on the path," Dean yells to the dog, but Jeb has already rushed into a small stand of trees and is lifting his leg against one of them.
Back in the room the little dogs make themselves at home on Dean’s duffle bag. Jeb pads over and sits next to Sam, resting his head on Sam’s knee until Sam gives in and scratches his ears, at which point Jeb tries to climb into his lap. "Dean, your dog is getting in my way here," he complains.
Dean doesn’t look up from where he is sitting on the floor petting the fat little pugs. "Maybe he likes you," he says. "No accounting for taste."
Sam pushes the dog away. "Fine, he can like me," he says. "But he’s too big to sit in my lap. Have you thought about what we’re going to do with them when we leave?"
Dean continues to pet the plump little dogs, one hand on each of them, scratching their ears until they roll their heads back in doggy joy. He gives them each a small piece of doughnut left over from breakfast. "Saw a store down the street," he finally says. "I’m gonna go check it out."
He watches Dean leave, back stiff, clearly making a careful effort not to slam the door. Sam feels an unpleasant combination of guilty and coldhearted.
When he turns back to his desk, all three dogs are staring at him accusingly. "What?" he asks them. "You think you’ll be happy eating doughnuts and riding around in the back seat of a car going from town to town and never having any permanent home?" Apparently they do.
Dean comes back after only a few minutes, carrying a paper bag from the store and acting as if everything is settled, his usual strategy when they disagree about anything. Sam feels sorry for anyone that would marry Dean Winchester. He never fights fair.
Dean twists open a bottle of water and fills the little bowl for the dogs before sprawling out on one bed with a box of mixed berry breakfast bars. The pugs totter over on their stubby little legs and Dean lifts them up onto the bed beside him. Jeb stays sitting with Sam as Dean and the pugs eat. After a few bites Dean unwraps another bar and tosses it to Jeb, who catches it neatly and gulps it down.
"Since when do you eat breakfast bars?" Sam asks.
Dean shrugs. "I like breakfast bars," he says sulkily.
The little dogs press up against Dean, and he puts both arms around them, hugging them close to his chest. "Dude, do you need to get another room so you can be alone with the dogs?"
Dean snorts. "Don’t pay any attention to him," he whispers to the pugs. Jeb tries to slide his head up under Sam’s arm, but he shrugs the dog off and stands up. Once upright he can’t decide where to go, so he takes a turn around the small room and stops behind Dean, then puts his arm out slowly, feeling like he is moving through molasses, and rests his hand tentatively on Dean’s shoulder. Dean immediately shrugs him off, scowling. Sam studies the wall, which is quite unremarkable, and waits, a beat, two, three, then puts his hand back on Dean’s shoulder, more firmly this time. He can feel Dean holding himself still and stiff, but at least he doesn’t pull away again, and after a moment he relaxes his hold on the pugs a little.
Sam kneads the tense muscles under his hand. "I think it's time to go see Mr. Parker," he says. His voice comes out softer and less businesslike than he'd intended.
Dean turns his head slightly, not dislodging Sam’s hand on his shoulder. "Okay," he says, matching Sam’s tone exactly. He doesn't protest leaving the dogs behind this time, though he stands in the doorway lecturing them briefly about getting into stuff while they are out, and again suggests in a serious sounding way that they watch TV if they get bored. He ignores Sam's impatient huff to assure them that they won't be gone long, then finally follows Sam out.
Sam folds himself into the car, runs his hand along the seat, but there's no candy bar this time. Which is okay really, he's had enough for a while.
The author of "The Swamp Monster is Real" the detective's Richard Parker, lives close to the area where the boy was taken. It's not really a swamp, more of an industrial wasteland surrounded by tress and brush, and the houses that border the area are run down, many of them boarded up.
Dean pushes through the gate in the fence which encloses a small, grassless, front yard dominated by two ancient horse chestnut trees which had covered the ground with prickly green casings, nonchalantly ignoring the large "Beware of Dogs" sign secured with a single s hook through the chain link of the fence. The gate bangs ominously when he swings it open. A large, fierce looking dog crashes around the corner of the building, sliding to a stop inches from knocking into Dean. Sam's warning shout dies in his throat as Dean and the dog stare each other down, then Dean steps past the dog and calmly approaches the front door, which swings open almost as he knocks. The dog follows Dean meekly, and so does Sam.
A large, fierce looking dog crashes around the corner of the building, sliding to a stop inches from knocking into Dean.
The man that opens the door is old, so old and wizened Sam is afraid to breathe normally around him lest he knock the frail body over with the force of an exhale. He seems more surprised to see the dog than he is to see Sam and Dean, but after a moment he lets her follow them inside. The room he motions them to enter after Dean flashes his ID is small and cramped, the furniture looking as old and frail and slightly unclean as Mr. Parker. The walls are completely covered with weavings of different shapes and sizes ranging from napkin to tablecloth, made from what appear to be rags, the colors chaotic and random. It is hideous and oppressive, adding to the room's cramped, musty, overheated atmosphere. From behind the house they can hear more dogs barking, deep low pit bull sounding barks.
Mr. Parker motions them to sit down, and Sam perches on the edge of the sofa, trying not to look repulsed. Dean plunks down into a rickety looking armchair, making Sam wince. Mr. Parker stands over them crookedly. "Like some tea?" he asks. His voice is faint, with a rattle like dry, dead leaves.
"No," Sam says. It comes out sounding a little more forceful than he’d meant it to. "Uh, no thanks, Mr. Parker. We’re a little pressed for time. If you could just tell us what you know about what’s been happening with the swamp monster."
Mr. Parker nods, apparently not offended at the rejection of his hospitality. "Used to be more than one of them, you know," he says. "Been keeping track of them for a long time, and they never caused any trouble before this."
"Is there anything you can tell us about it that could help us, to, um," Sam fumbles a bit.
"Hunt it down?" Mr. Parker asks.
"Bingo," Dean says, sounding a little muffled. His chair is soft with age, and he's sunk down in it so that his ass is nearly on the ground, knees almost on a level with his ears, looking utterly ridiculous. The dog has stretched out on the floor beside Dean's chair.
"Any suggestions?" Sam asks.
The old man grins at him, startlingly white teeth that have to be dentures barely covered by his sickly looking thin, dry lips. "Got a few ideas," he says. Sam leans forward, forgetting the oppressive room, and listens.
"Got to keep in mind," the old man says, "these creatures are magic. Can conjure things right out of the air. Makes 'em hard to fight. They can make themselves invisible too, make anything invisible. But it takes effort for them to stay that way. They can only keep it up so long. Far as killing 'em? Not possible to my knowledge, but might be you can scare them off, make them uncomfortable enough they just up and leave." Parker turns aside and yells "Shut up!" in a surprisingly assertive tone, and the barking, which has been going on all this time, abruptly ceases.
"You raise pit bulls?" Dean asks, nodding at the dog lying by his feet.
Parker scowls. "That there is a true American Bulldog," he says. He looks at Dean suspiciously. "Funny how she likes you. Never seen her take to anybody like that before. Never tried to come in the house by herself before, neither. I mostly keep 'em outside less they're having pups. Got me three acres out back for 'em to roam on."
"Yeah," Dean says. He tries to shift in his chair, which only makes him sink deeper. "There must be something these swamp creatures don't like."
"Well," the old man says. "They don't much like the sunlight. Tend to be out more in the dark. But the thing they're mortally terrified of is dogs." He looks down at the dog again. "Bella here is usually mighty protective of my property. Not what you'd call a friendly critter." The dogs have started barking again outside, but Parker doesn't seem to notice.
"You said there used to be more than one creature?" Dean asks. "And that changed?"
"Seems to only be one of them out there anymore." The old man lets Dean change the subject again, but he is obviously still studying Dean and the dog. "Anyway, if you keep after them enough, they might just move on." He sneers when Dean, reaching down to pat the dog's head, reveals the gold bracelet on his arm. "Mighty pretty bauble for a man to wear," he mutters. Dean flushes and pulls his sleeve down over the bracelet.
With that, Sam gets up. It's clear the old man doesn't know how to kill the creature, and letting it move on to new territory and new victims isn't in the game plan. He watches Dean flail around in the chair for a beat before offering him a hand up. Dean knows he's doing it on purpose and tries to give him a dirty look, but that's one of the things Sam has always been better at, so Sam just smirks at him. The dog follows them to the door. Dean's hand trails down along its back as they walk, stepping in sync with the dog's gait.
"Don't have no use for the bitch any more," the old man says. "Never threw any good pups for me. Wouldn't mind finding a home for her."
Sam can see how much Dean likes that idea. "Dean," he says. "You can't just keep bringing home dogs, especially ones this big. There isn't enough room on the back seat."
Dean ducks his head, hand reaching to cup the dog's big face, his fingers sliding under its jaw. "Just one more," he says. He sounds like he's making a huge effort to sound casual, like it isn't important to him.
Sam feels a hard spike of resentment even as his resistance crumbles. He's never known Dean to care so much about anything that isn't directly connected to himself before. He turns away from them, leaving Dean to thank Mr. Parker for his time, and for the dog. Sam huffs out a huge breath into the close, hot sky when he gets outside, pushing the stale air from the cramped little house out of his lungs. He feels like he needs a shower.
Dean hustles through the gate and whips open the back door for the dog, who jumps in quickly, as if they both fear Sam will change his mind.
Back at the hotel, the new dog is accepted into the growing pack as if they've all known each other in a previous life, which, given their luck, might be true. Something strange is definitely going on with Dean and the dogs, and Sam would ask him what the deal is, except, yeah, that never works very well if Dean isn't in a sharing mood, and Dean is pretty much never in a sharing mood.
At least Dean's preoccupation with the dogs seems to make him agreeable, so that he goes along quietly with Sam's suggestion that they get something to eat, and that Sam should drive, and even that they should stop and buy some actual real dog food for the dogs. Dean insists on going down every single aisle in the pet shop, even the one with fish tanks, and, after careful inspection and a lot of dithering, he buys food bowls for each dog, and a big water bowl for them to share, though he scoffs at Sam's suggestion of leashes and collars. He stands in the food aisle reading the ingredients in all the foods, taking far more care over the dogs' food than he ever has over his own. He's clearly tempted by Chef Michael's Porterhouse Steak but he finally settles on a lamb and rice dry food.
Dean insists on going down every single aisle in the pet shop, even the one with fish tanks.
When Dean follows Sam into an actual restaurant without a word of protest about the diner he passed by, Sam seriously considers the possibility that Dean has been body swapped.
Sam orders a bowl of minestrone and a salad. Instead of rolling his eyes and sharing a laugh over Sam's order, Dean turns his head away, mumbling his own order to the waitress so softly Sam can't hear what he says. He then makes a clattering production out of separating his napkin from his utensils, laying everything out fussily like he never does. Sam stares at him for a while, but Dean doesn't look up or make a smart remark, so that after a bit he feels confused himself, like he's contracted Dean's uneasiness.
When the waitress returns it looks like she has doubled Sam's order of soup and salad, but before he can point out her mistake, Dean meekly takes one of the bowls and salad plates. Sam waits for the woman to leave, watching Dean fall on his food with slightly less than his customary gleeful manner. "Since when do you eat normal food?" Sam demands so suddenly that Dean drops his soup spoon into his bowl with a loud clatter, splattering some of it out onto the table. The red broth soaks into the tablecloth, spreading out toward Sam in fine rivelets that look to him like accusing fingers.
"You're acting really weird," he says. He reaches across the table and swipes at Dean's black shirt,which is covered with blondish hairs, dog hair, he realizes. None of it brushes off. "Does this have something to do with those dogs?" Dean's guilty flush would be funny if it weren't so perplexing.
"Look, they need to lose some weight," Dean mutters. He grabs his spoon and starts sucking down his soup again.
"How does what you eat for lunch have anything to do with their weight, Dean?" Sam asks. His patience with Dean is one of his most awesome qualities, and he needs all of it here.
"If I get a cheeseburger, they'll smell it on me when we get back." Dean's voice goes up high when he says this, his mouth twisted as if his soup is lemon flavored.
Sam wants to laugh, but hasn't he been after Dean for years to clean up his diet and take better care of himself? If worrying about upsetting the dogs is what it takes, he should let it go and be happy to see Dean putting some decent fuel into his body. Okay, that is all true, but he isn't capable of that much self restraint, so he laughs. A huge, belly clutching, super mocking laugh that makes Dean slump down in his seat, though he doesn't stop spooning soup into his mouth.
It's late when they get back to the hotel. Dean takes the dogs outside to relieve themselves, still without any leashes, then gets ready for bed. He sits on the floor and watches the dogs eat with an innocent pleasure Sam hasn't seen in him for years. After they finish eating, he pulls a little squeaky toy out of his pocket-it wasn't among their purchases, and damn Dean for never thinking how stupid it would be to get arrested for shoplifting from the pet depot- and throws it at Sam. It bounces off his arm with a loud squeak, and Jeb launches himself from the floor up onto Sam's bed to grab the toy. He pushes it against Sam's leg over and over, each time producing a loud squeak, until Sam relents and grabs onto it.
As soon as Sam touches the toy, Jeb bows his front end and starts tugging, making a playful little growling noise, his back end wiggling gleefully. It's stupid, but Sam can see Dean watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he looks so innocently happy, as if by playing with Dean's dog he is almost playing with Dean. Sam rolls over onto his stomach and starts shaking the toy back and forth in the dog's mouth, urging him on, saying "Come on, Jeb, get it boy." Jeb goes crazy with doggy silliness, shaking his whole head to shake the toy and revving up his growling. Sam finally manages to wrench the toy out of Jeb's mouth and he tosses it at Dean. It hits his chest and bounces off, but Jeb is on it so fast it barely hits the floor. Jeb dances round the room, squeaking the toy frantically, then jumps onto the bed and spreads out next to Sam, still squeaking away.
The pugs have been watching all of this with their little faces twisted up with disdain, though actually that is the only expression they seem to have. When Jeb finally stops, they both get up and pad over to Sam's bed, staring up beseechingly until he lifts them up. They climb up on him, the female lying down on his chest and the smaller male higher up almost on his throat, and start snoring softly almost immediately. The pit bull, or American Bulldog -he hears Parker's voice snidely reminding him in his head- lies down on the floor next to his bed.
Usually in the evening they watch a little TV together, but Dean has spent the evening surfing the net. It's always Dean that decides when they will watch, patting the empty space on the bed and inviting Sam to sit next to him, though he lets Sam pick the show. It's Sam's favorite time of the evening. Dean lets him sit close, their legs almost touching, not moving away like he does during the day, but Sam is careful not to get too close. He's aware that he likes it too much. Being close to Dean is the high point of his day, and he's tried to be content with what he has. He knows he's never going to be with Dean the way he wants, but he still craves whatever closeness he can get. Tonight he only has the pugs to sit with.
Dean doesn't seem bothered by the disloyalty of the dogs. He even gives Sam a small smile before going into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Sam pulls the sheet up over himself and the pugs, who don't seem to have any claustrophobia problem, and falls asleep while Dean is still in the bathroom.
The next morning he wakes up alone. Dean and the dogs are gone, as is the Impala. It's early, and Dean is rarely first up, but perhaps the dogs woke him to go out. Still, it's puzzling why he took them in the Impala. Sam is just about to head out on foot to search for coffee when he hears the familiar growl of the car returning. The dogs rush past Dean and into the room, almost knocking the styrofoam container out of his hands in their eagerness to greet Sam. Bella, in particular, seems to feel the need to sniff all over him, as if looking for signs of injury, before curling up on Dean's jacket in the corner of the room, her large brown eyes following Sam's every move protectively.
He takes a container of coffee from Dean with a grateful nod. "Where were you?" he asks, once he has swallowed enough to attempt conversation.
"At the dog park." Jeb and the pugs join Bella in their corner and curl up together, Dean's gaze following them fondly.
"What the hell is a dog park?" Sam asks.
"It's a place where people go to let their dogs run around and play. And where dog people can meet other dog people and, you know, talk dogs."
"And that's what you were doing?" Sam asks dubiously, "talking dogs?"
"Yeah. So what?”
“So nothing," Sam says. "I've just never noticed you joining any local social groups before."
Dean shrugs.
"You took them out without leashes or anything to control them?"
"I've been training them." Dean pours out food for the dogs' breakfast, and they all go straight to their assigned bowls to eat again. Sam wonders when Dean did all this training and how the hell he knew anything about training dogs to begin with. It just doesn't make sense. "Anyway," Dean says. "We're invited to a picnic. I figure it wouldn't hurt to talk to some of the locals about the case. And it'll be nice for the dogs to get out with other dogs."
Dean tosses his empty coffee container at the waste can, but it bounces off the rim and rolls off under the bed. After a moment Jeb goes over and squeezes his head under to retrieve it, giving it a shake before carrying it over and presenting it proudly to Sam.
All the dogs clamber obediently into the back seat of the Impala at lunch time. Sam is starting to miss his candy bars now, but Dean doesn't seem pissed off at him, just distracted by the dogs maybe. When they get to the picnic, the dogs follow Dean, or maybe Sam-it's hard to tell- up the drive to a large, white clapboard house with expansive windows and a wrap-around porch with a swing hung to the right of the door. They bypass this and head around back, into a large yard full of people and dogs.
The dog people are friendly enough, but something about them makes Sam uneasy, something besides the way they are insanely obsessed with their pets, dressing them up, giving them chairs to sit on, and generally treating them like little people. Dean is all buddy buddy with a slim older man he introduces as Raymond, the owner of the house and their host, who is apparently the guy he had gotten friendly with at the dog park. "This is Sam," he says to Raymond, and Raymond smiles as though he's already heard a lot about him, and shakes his hand. Raymond has a tiny, fragile little dog in a red sweater under his arm, and Dean introduces him to the dog, too. Her name is Anais, and Sam has to hear all about her bloodlines. When he asks what kind of dog she is, the man literally sniffs at him with disdain, which, okay, points for being able to carry that off. "Anais is an Italian Greyhound," Dean interjects, acting as if Sam has committed some appalling faux pas. He rolls his eyes at Raymond, and then slips an arm casually around Sam and steers him over to the buffet table.
Sam finally realizes what is odd about the gathering. There are no women at all, and several of the guys are obviously coupled up. Dean has gotten them invited to a gay picnic. What's more, Dean seems quite aware of it, and his arm stays around Sam's waist as he surveys the food. Dean hasn't once played the gay chicken game with Sam since getting out of hell, in fact, he hasn't heard Dean make any little digs about gay people for a long time. He'd kind of hoped that Dean had matured enough to realize how stupid it was, but apparently not.
"Pumpkin cheesecake," Dean points and Sam grabs a plate. He has a weakness for cheesecake, as Dean well knows, the dirty cheater. "Aren't you eating?" he asks Dean.
"Sure I am," Dean says, but he keeps standing there, arm still around Sam, watching. "Hard to know where to begin," he says, but before Sam can ask him what is up he gets a plate and starts slowly filling it.
Balancing the plate on one hand, he leads the way over to a picnic table, struggling to slide his legs under it without letting go of Sam. With a mischievous look, he swipes one finger through the cheesecake and holds it out. “Here, taste it,” he orders, and Sam thinks, what the hell, two can play this game.
Sam leans forward and sucks Dean's finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around viciously and making as pornographic a moan of pleasure as he thinks he can get away with. He'll be damned if he'll let Dean score off him, but he isn't prepared for the way Dean's breath catches, and his eyes darken, and he lets go of Dean's finger with a spit slicked pop. They've never gone anywhere near this far in this little game of theirs, and Sam isn't sure when or how it got away from him. It's Dean who finally looks away. "Pel wants up," he says, gesturing to the ground where the female pug is trying to climb into Sam's lap.
"Pel?" Sam asks. "You named her Pel?" And when Dean doesn't respond, "What's the other Pug's name?"
"Quark," Dean answers absently. He has picked up his plastic fork and is toying with his food.
"What?" he says, and for lack of anything better to do, picks the dog up. Of course, then Quark insists on being up too, so that he has to balance them awkwardly on his lap while he eats, both dogs actively trying to snatch the food off his plate like they think he put it there just for them. Bella has curled up at his feet, while Jeb is occupied catching tiny bits of food Dean tosses to him. Dean always used to scoff at him when he sat up at night watching Star Trek reruns on fuzzy hotel room tv's. He doesn't think Dean ever stayed in the room for more than a second of it, much less long enough to pick up on the names. It's odd, really odd, but he doesn't know what to make of it, so instead he moves his chips out of reach of Pel, who looks disappointed enough that he gives her one anyway.
Part Two
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: erda
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~15,000
Warning: See pairing. Consensual incest.
Summary: Post Season 5. One way or another, the apocalypse is over or averted. Sam and Dean are back on the road and they adopt a bunch of dogs. First time wincest.
lisztful made the adorable banner and all the ills. She also listened to me talk endlessly about this, read over it repeatedly as it came together, and used her killer cheerleading skills to get me to finish writing it.
Thanks to my wonderful beta giandujakiss for suggestions which made this a better story, and incidentally gave me food for thought on improving any future stories I write.
Complete in two parts:
The chinks in Dean's macho armor are numerous. Sam has spent years cataloging them, arguing over them, mocking them, and finally accepting them, because he obviously can't win. Dean always has an answer, a justification, a rationalization, and no matter how lame the excuse, Dean himself is always so convinced by his own ridiculous bullshit that Sam is the one left feeling like an idiot.
So when Sam loses track of Dean at the mall, he knows right away that Dean has slipped off to visit his favorite store, which, though Dean lies shamelessly about it, is not the food court. No, Dean's favorite store is Claire's, that shiny, glitzy little costume jewelry and accessory shop that teenagers frequent, and which Dean insisted -the one and only time Sam tried to ridicule him about it- he only went into to follow a hot girl. Which led to an argument about ogling underage girls that Sam only later realized was deliberately designed to distract him from his attempt at mockery.
Sam finishes his own shopping. Their last job had placed them in the middle of a feud between a pair of rival black magic gangs (and really, when had they started organizing, anyway?), the bloody fallout costing him his second to last decent shirt. Even though Dean had called him prissy ("How many shirts does your prissy self need?"), he had insisted they make a quick stop in case the next job ruined his last one, as he did not want to be forced to go shopping in a torn, bloody, or otherwise horrifying shirt. The fact that Dean always had way more clothing than he did, and that he thought about it enough to choose colors that brought out the green in his eyes, didn't, of course, mitigate Dean's unceasing mock, mock, mockery.
Sam doesn't say a word when Dean ducks guiltily out of Claire's, nor when he sees the shiny gold links of a new bracelet Dean certainly hadn't paid for swinging loosely from his wrist when he reaches out to open the mall door, gesturing absurdly for Sam to pass through it first. He knows he can't win in the mockery battle, and he consoles himself with the thought that it's all fueled by Dean's mammoth inferiority complex, anyway.
It's when they get back to the car that they first see Jeb, only he isn’t named Jeb yet, doesn’t have a name at all as far as they know.
He's sitting placidly near the car and Dean reaches his hand out and pats him idly on the head as he walks by. Sam doesn’t bother explaining to him why petting a strange dog might be a bad idea, but he can’t completely repress the shudder that comes over him at the memory of that other dog Dean had casually touched, back in the bad old Tuesday loop he's never completely recovered from.
He's sitting placidly near the car.
This dog doesn’t attack. He doesn’t do anything, just sits watching them until Dean opens the back door of the Impala to throw his jacket inside. Then the dog stands up and brushes past Dean, leaping into the back seat and curling up on his jacket with a certain savior faire that Sam can’t help admiring. Dean slams the door shut like some dull-witted dog chauffeur and then stands blinking stupidly at Sam. "Why the hell is there a dog in my car?" he asks Sam in an aggrieved voice.
There is no way Sam is going to let Dean make this his fault. "You’re the one who patted him and opened the door for him."
"Well," Dean says, swallowing his pique with an obvious effort and switching to faux logical, "We can’t just leave him abandoned at the side of the road."
Okay, whatever, that almost sounds reasonable. "I suppose we could find the local pound and drop him off," Sam says. "His owner will probably look for him there."
"Fine." Dean huffs out the word the way he does when he is pretending to give in after a long, frustrating argument. "Except it’s after seven" -yep not really giving in, Sam notes- "so it probably isn’t open." He gets into the car and slams his door, leaving Sam no choice but to follow suit. "We can take him to the pound first thing in the morning."
"Fine," Sam says. It comes out sounding more resentful than it had in his head, like almost everything he says to Dean these days, but it's Dean's own damn fault for acting so weird.
Once they get back to their room, the dog stomps all over Dean’s crumpled duffle bag, which he had carelessly tossed into the corner when they’d checked in earlier, before lying down on it, looking for all the world as if he’d always been there.
Sam retrieves the soccer ball from where he'd thrown it onto the bathroom floor on his way into the shower the day before. He holds it out toward Dean. "Are you ready to be trounced some more?" he asks.
Dean flops back onto his bed, smirking at Sam. "I busted your ass yesterday" he claims, which is a complete and utter lie. Since Dean got the idea that they should keep in shape between jobs by playing soccer, he has never once managed to score a goal. True, often they don't play on a real field, and don't bother gathering stuff to mark out goals, but when they have goals, Dean never gets past Sam without cheating. "I'm not in the mood, anyway," Dean says. "Why don't you take the dog?" It's the first time Dean has cried off since they started playing, and he's a lot more disappointed than he wants to let on. Spending time with Dean, and sharing a laugh, is something he'd never gotten enough of, even as a child. Just the two of them, kicking a ball around, relaxed and enjoying being together, makes him happy. Okay, he definitely doesn't want Dean to know how important their evening soccer game is to him.
The dog is prancing around looking like he wants to play, and Sam figures if he wanted to run off he'd have done so already, so he takes him out into a field that runs behind the motel, and kicks the ball around with him. The dog doesn't seem to grasp the rules any better than Dean does, but he has a hell of a lot of fun jumping and running around barking little excited yips. Dean likes to turn the game into something more like tackle football than soccer, barreling into Sam headfirst and sending them both to the ground when he can't score, and Sam always protests his cheating because it would be weird not to, but he's secretly over the moon any time he gets to roll around on the ground with Dean. It gives him a reason to touch and be touched that never goes very far, but he's resigned himself that that is as much as he's going to ever get from Dean physically. He knows Dean isn't interested in him the way he's interested in Dean, in looking and touching and a lot more, and he's accepted that. Still, he'll take what he can get and enjoy it.
He likes to think the whole playing soccer thing is more about Dean coming to terms with the idea that there are a few things he missed out on growing up, and feeling comfortable reclaiming them, rather than some perceived need for regular exercise. He knows Dean picked soccer because he thought Sam would like it, and he does. He really does.
The dog takes a leap and lands on his chest, surprising him out of his wool gathering, and he goes down hard in the lumpy grass. It knocks the wind, as well as his incestuous longings, out of him, but it doesn't take more than a couple of seconds to recover. The dog has all four feet planted firmly on his chest, and is panting down at him, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, looking pleased and victorious. He pushes him off and gathers up the ball. The dog follows him obediently back to the room.
Dean’s whispering wakes Sam up the next morning. The dog is curled up on the bed with Dean, and Dean is stroking his hand through its thick fur gently, murmuring "good boy" and something that sounds a lot like "baby" to it, but Sam doesn't quite trust his ears on that one. Dean's forehead is pressed against the dog’s ear, his arms wrapped around the dog’s chest in a way that gives Sam a not entirely comfortable feeling in his own chest. He’s never noticed Dean being particularly interested in dogs before.
Nothing else is said about taking the dog to the pound. Dean makes a run for coffee and doughnuts, and shares his with the dog over Sam’s protest, then takes the dog outside to relieve himself. They still don’t have a leash, but the dog seems disinclined to leave them, savvy enough to recognize a good deal when he sees it. Probably his previous owners had fed him dog food or something.
The day is already shaping up to be a scorcher, and Dean comes back with a small chipped bowl he’d dug up somewhere, filling it with water for the dog, who gulps it almost dry before Dean refills it.
"We need to get a move on," Sam reminds him. They have an appointment to talk with a detective about a missing child, a child whose father claims was abducted by, to Dean's delight, some sort of swamp creature.
"Sure," Dean says. He twists his empty coffee container into a tube and lobs it at Sam, hitting him squarely between the eyes.
Sam winces in surprise. "You've spent way too much time in bars playing darts, Dude," he says, which sounded like an insult in his head, but it makes Dean look smug.
When the dog tries to squeeze out the door with them and Dean makes no attempt to stop him, Sam has to put his foot down. "Dean, that dog cannot come with us." He steps in and nudges the dog back away from the door.
"What? Why not?"
Dean and the dog seem to be having a soulful moment together, gazing into each others' eyes in a way that is beyond creepy. "Dean," Sam says. "What is going on with you and the dog?"
"What do you mean?" Dean asks. Dean always thinks he can fool people, but hardly anyone ever falls for his who me act, least of all Sam, who has been watching Dean try to use it on people all his life. "We can’t leave him all alone in a motel room. Besides, he might be able to help us."
"He would just be in the way," Sam says impatiently. He grabs Dean’s arm and pulls him through the door, slamming it in the dog’s pouty face without mercy. "Could you try to stop worrying about the dog for a few minutes and concentrate on the job?"
Dean turns back and speaks mournfully to the closed door. "Bye, Jeb. We’ll be back soon. Just, uh, watch some TV or something, okay?" He shoots Sam a poisonous look.
He’s never noticed Dean being particularly interested in dogs before.
"Oh my god," Sam mutters, grabbing Dean by the collar of his shirt and yanking him over to the car. "Jeb?"
"That’s his name," Dean says. He gets into the driver's seat stiffly, and they drive to the local police station in strained silence, but Sam isn't too worried about it. He's too busy eating the Snickers bar he found on his seat when he opened the car door. Dean's been putting them in his seat almost every time they go anywhere since shortly after they put Lucifer back in his cage. It's adorable. Sam mentioned once, years ago, that Snickers are his favorite, and Dean remembered it. Sometimes he gets a little tired of always having the same candy, but he eats them anyway.
The police detective is female, so Dean uses one of his over-friendly fake smiles, and pauses to give her time to grovel, but she isn't impressed, just continues rifling through a huge pile of junk on her desk. She eventually straightens up triumphantly with a wad of paper napkins, which she uses to wipe a yellow smear from one corner of her mouth. Tossing the napkins into a styrofoam box containing a mostly eaten burger and a few limp fries covered with a small blob of congealed gravy, which is perching precariously atop one of the piles of folders and papers that covers every inch of the desk, she finally looks up, her gaze sliding over Dean and landing on Sam. She gives him a frank appraisal and apparently likes what she sees.
Sam is always taken by surprise on the rare occasions that someone prefers him to Dean. In honesty, his pleasure is more about watching Dean's smug come-ons fall flat than being interested in the girl for himself, but he isn't above using the attraction to gain information, so he returns her warm smile with one of his own.
She barely glances at their FBI IDs before gesturing to him to sit in the single worn chair beside her desk, leaving Dean to grab a chair from the neighboring desk in order to join them. "How can I help you?" she asks.
"Just checking what you've done so far, Detective," he says. He notices Dean noticing a second styrofoam container laying open on the desk, this one holding a large, untouched piece of cherry pie, Dean's favorite. Dean loses interest in the detective at that point, and Sam can see him thinking way too hard about the pie. It's too big for him to palm, and Sam hopes he isn't stupid enough to try to steal it right out from under a police detective.
"We searched all through the clearing behind the development," the detective says. She brushes the back of her hand ineffectually over a yellow spot on her uniform. "There's no way anyone or anything could be hidden there. The father was hysterical, all worked up by that flaky book the whole town's been reading. We even took a couple of dogs with us, went all over the area with them, mostly to convince the man we were taking him seriously. Didn't find a thing."
Sam nods. "Have you spoken to Mr. Parker? Not that we give any credence to his tales of swamp monsters-" Sam smiles, inviting her to assume they are united in skepticism. "But his knowledge of the area and the stories he's collected about it seem a bit suspicious. Seems like this kidnapping can't help but be good publicity for his book."
She gives him a sharp look. "Yes, we thought of that all by ourselves," she says. "Parker has an airtight alibi. He was giving a talk at the library about his book at the exact time the family claim a monster grabbed their son right out from under them. Tell you the truth, we'd be about half convinced the family killed him themselves, except that they surely could have come up with a better story than this swamp monster thing to explain the disappearance."
Sam can see Dean fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, obviously wanting to leave. A quick glance back at the desk at least confirms that the pie is still there, untouched.
Sam stands up, thanking the detective for her time. She smiles and seems about to say something else, but then brushes aside a pile of papers and snatches up a folder from the mess. "I've been looking for this!" she mutters. She leans back and opens the folder, forgetting all about them.
Dean seems to be in a godawful hurry to get out of the police station. He grabs Sam's arm and urges him outside. "What are you getting so worked up about?" Sam asks. "Can't stand that she was able to resist you? Or are you just that obsessed with pie?"
The sun is high and merciless when they step back outside. "What?" Dean asks. He looks even more confused than normal. "No. Jeez. It's just..." He smooths one hand down the front of his jacket and shifts his feet. "Jeb's been alone for a long time. I mean, what if he has to go out or something?" Dean starts for the car at a near jog, but then stops so suddenly Sam almost barrels into him. He tilts his head as if listening, turning around slowly, and finally heading off behind a small row of houses where he clambers over a low, rusted fence and into a tiny unkempt yard.
Sam follows him, mimicking his surreptitious movements instinctively. He hears a soft whining noise. There is no grass or anything growing in the yard, just hard packed dry dirt. A filthy wading pool lays abandoned next to a pole that my have once been used to secure a clothesline, but is now bare. Behind a pile of rusty garden tools thrown loose on the ground two little pug dogs are lying close together on the dry cracked ground. They're lying in direct sunlight, and there is no shelter around to provide any relief from the heat. A dented tin dog food bowl has a line of ants crawling down one side into a thin layer of cheap looking dry food on the bottom of the bowl. A second bowl, apparently used for water, is empty.
They're lying in direct sunlight, and there is no shelter around to provide any relief from the heat.
Dean picks up the little dogs -they are both rather incredibly overweight, and he grunts a little at their surprising bulk. He tucks one under each arm, and heads back the way they had come. "Dean," Sam hisses. "You cannot go around stealing dogs."
"Watch me," Dean says. His voice has that hard quality that means he will brook no debate, the one Sam is never intimidated by, no matter how many times Dean pulls it out of his bag of tricks. Dean doesn’t seem to know that he sucks at manipulating people.
Dean struggles back over the fence, clutching the stolen dogs like they are some sort of precious treasure, leaving Sam to follow after. Things are getting stranger and stranger.
Dean puts the pugs between them on the front seat, and peels out of there the second Sam closes the passenger door. The squat little dogs lie sprawled out like miniature bear rugs, looking barely alive, in contrast to Dean, who can't seem to sit still, shifting around like he has itching powder in his shorts.
They barely get the door of their motel room unlocked before Jeb streaks out, running right between Sam's legs in his haste. "Not on the path," Dean yells to the dog, but Jeb has already rushed into a small stand of trees and is lifting his leg against one of them.
Back in the room the little dogs make themselves at home on Dean’s duffle bag. Jeb pads over and sits next to Sam, resting his head on Sam’s knee until Sam gives in and scratches his ears, at which point Jeb tries to climb into his lap. "Dean, your dog is getting in my way here," he complains.
Dean doesn’t look up from where he is sitting on the floor petting the fat little pugs. "Maybe he likes you," he says. "No accounting for taste."
Sam pushes the dog away. "Fine, he can like me," he says. "But he’s too big to sit in my lap. Have you thought about what we’re going to do with them when we leave?"
Dean continues to pet the plump little dogs, one hand on each of them, scratching their ears until they roll their heads back in doggy joy. He gives them each a small piece of doughnut left over from breakfast. "Saw a store down the street," he finally says. "I’m gonna go check it out."
He watches Dean leave, back stiff, clearly making a careful effort not to slam the door. Sam feels an unpleasant combination of guilty and coldhearted.
When he turns back to his desk, all three dogs are staring at him accusingly. "What?" he asks them. "You think you’ll be happy eating doughnuts and riding around in the back seat of a car going from town to town and never having any permanent home?" Apparently they do.
Dean comes back after only a few minutes, carrying a paper bag from the store and acting as if everything is settled, his usual strategy when they disagree about anything. Sam feels sorry for anyone that would marry Dean Winchester. He never fights fair.
Dean twists open a bottle of water and fills the little bowl for the dogs before sprawling out on one bed with a box of mixed berry breakfast bars. The pugs totter over on their stubby little legs and Dean lifts them up onto the bed beside him. Jeb stays sitting with Sam as Dean and the pugs eat. After a few bites Dean unwraps another bar and tosses it to Jeb, who catches it neatly and gulps it down.
"Since when do you eat breakfast bars?" Sam asks.
Dean shrugs. "I like breakfast bars," he says sulkily.
The little dogs press up against Dean, and he puts both arms around them, hugging them close to his chest. "Dude, do you need to get another room so you can be alone with the dogs?"
Dean snorts. "Don’t pay any attention to him," he whispers to the pugs. Jeb tries to slide his head up under Sam’s arm, but he shrugs the dog off and stands up. Once upright he can’t decide where to go, so he takes a turn around the small room and stops behind Dean, then puts his arm out slowly, feeling like he is moving through molasses, and rests his hand tentatively on Dean’s shoulder. Dean immediately shrugs him off, scowling. Sam studies the wall, which is quite unremarkable, and waits, a beat, two, three, then puts his hand back on Dean’s shoulder, more firmly this time. He can feel Dean holding himself still and stiff, but at least he doesn’t pull away again, and after a moment he relaxes his hold on the pugs a little.
Sam kneads the tense muscles under his hand. "I think it's time to go see Mr. Parker," he says. His voice comes out softer and less businesslike than he'd intended.
Dean turns his head slightly, not dislodging Sam’s hand on his shoulder. "Okay," he says, matching Sam’s tone exactly. He doesn't protest leaving the dogs behind this time, though he stands in the doorway lecturing them briefly about getting into stuff while they are out, and again suggests in a serious sounding way that they watch TV if they get bored. He ignores Sam's impatient huff to assure them that they won't be gone long, then finally follows Sam out.
Sam folds himself into the car, runs his hand along the seat, but there's no candy bar this time. Which is okay really, he's had enough for a while.
The author of "The Swamp Monster is Real" the detective's Richard Parker, lives close to the area where the boy was taken. It's not really a swamp, more of an industrial wasteland surrounded by tress and brush, and the houses that border the area are run down, many of them boarded up.
Dean pushes through the gate in the fence which encloses a small, grassless, front yard dominated by two ancient horse chestnut trees which had covered the ground with prickly green casings, nonchalantly ignoring the large "Beware of Dogs" sign secured with a single s hook through the chain link of the fence. The gate bangs ominously when he swings it open. A large, fierce looking dog crashes around the corner of the building, sliding to a stop inches from knocking into Dean. Sam's warning shout dies in his throat as Dean and the dog stare each other down, then Dean steps past the dog and calmly approaches the front door, which swings open almost as he knocks. The dog follows Dean meekly, and so does Sam.
A large, fierce looking dog crashes around the corner of the building, sliding to a stop inches from knocking into Dean.
The man that opens the door is old, so old and wizened Sam is afraid to breathe normally around him lest he knock the frail body over with the force of an exhale. He seems more surprised to see the dog than he is to see Sam and Dean, but after a moment he lets her follow them inside. The room he motions them to enter after Dean flashes his ID is small and cramped, the furniture looking as old and frail and slightly unclean as Mr. Parker. The walls are completely covered with weavings of different shapes and sizes ranging from napkin to tablecloth, made from what appear to be rags, the colors chaotic and random. It is hideous and oppressive, adding to the room's cramped, musty, overheated atmosphere. From behind the house they can hear more dogs barking, deep low pit bull sounding barks.
Mr. Parker motions them to sit down, and Sam perches on the edge of the sofa, trying not to look repulsed. Dean plunks down into a rickety looking armchair, making Sam wince. Mr. Parker stands over them crookedly. "Like some tea?" he asks. His voice is faint, with a rattle like dry, dead leaves.
"No," Sam says. It comes out sounding a little more forceful than he’d meant it to. "Uh, no thanks, Mr. Parker. We’re a little pressed for time. If you could just tell us what you know about what’s been happening with the swamp monster."
Mr. Parker nods, apparently not offended at the rejection of his hospitality. "Used to be more than one of them, you know," he says. "Been keeping track of them for a long time, and they never caused any trouble before this."
"Is there anything you can tell us about it that could help us, to, um," Sam fumbles a bit.
"Hunt it down?" Mr. Parker asks.
"Bingo," Dean says, sounding a little muffled. His chair is soft with age, and he's sunk down in it so that his ass is nearly on the ground, knees almost on a level with his ears, looking utterly ridiculous. The dog has stretched out on the floor beside Dean's chair.
"Any suggestions?" Sam asks.
The old man grins at him, startlingly white teeth that have to be dentures barely covered by his sickly looking thin, dry lips. "Got a few ideas," he says. Sam leans forward, forgetting the oppressive room, and listens.
"Got to keep in mind," the old man says, "these creatures are magic. Can conjure things right out of the air. Makes 'em hard to fight. They can make themselves invisible too, make anything invisible. But it takes effort for them to stay that way. They can only keep it up so long. Far as killing 'em? Not possible to my knowledge, but might be you can scare them off, make them uncomfortable enough they just up and leave." Parker turns aside and yells "Shut up!" in a surprisingly assertive tone, and the barking, which has been going on all this time, abruptly ceases.
"You raise pit bulls?" Dean asks, nodding at the dog lying by his feet.
Parker scowls. "That there is a true American Bulldog," he says. He looks at Dean suspiciously. "Funny how she likes you. Never seen her take to anybody like that before. Never tried to come in the house by herself before, neither. I mostly keep 'em outside less they're having pups. Got me three acres out back for 'em to roam on."
"Yeah," Dean says. He tries to shift in his chair, which only makes him sink deeper. "There must be something these swamp creatures don't like."
"Well," the old man says. "They don't much like the sunlight. Tend to be out more in the dark. But the thing they're mortally terrified of is dogs." He looks down at the dog again. "Bella here is usually mighty protective of my property. Not what you'd call a friendly critter." The dogs have started barking again outside, but Parker doesn't seem to notice.
"You said there used to be more than one creature?" Dean asks. "And that changed?"
"Seems to only be one of them out there anymore." The old man lets Dean change the subject again, but he is obviously still studying Dean and the dog. "Anyway, if you keep after them enough, they might just move on." He sneers when Dean, reaching down to pat the dog's head, reveals the gold bracelet on his arm. "Mighty pretty bauble for a man to wear," he mutters. Dean flushes and pulls his sleeve down over the bracelet.
With that, Sam gets up. It's clear the old man doesn't know how to kill the creature, and letting it move on to new territory and new victims isn't in the game plan. He watches Dean flail around in the chair for a beat before offering him a hand up. Dean knows he's doing it on purpose and tries to give him a dirty look, but that's one of the things Sam has always been better at, so Sam just smirks at him. The dog follows them to the door. Dean's hand trails down along its back as they walk, stepping in sync with the dog's gait.
"Don't have no use for the bitch any more," the old man says. "Never threw any good pups for me. Wouldn't mind finding a home for her."
Sam can see how much Dean likes that idea. "Dean," he says. "You can't just keep bringing home dogs, especially ones this big. There isn't enough room on the back seat."
Dean ducks his head, hand reaching to cup the dog's big face, his fingers sliding under its jaw. "Just one more," he says. He sounds like he's making a huge effort to sound casual, like it isn't important to him.
Sam feels a hard spike of resentment even as his resistance crumbles. He's never known Dean to care so much about anything that isn't directly connected to himself before. He turns away from them, leaving Dean to thank Mr. Parker for his time, and for the dog. Sam huffs out a huge breath into the close, hot sky when he gets outside, pushing the stale air from the cramped little house out of his lungs. He feels like he needs a shower.
Dean hustles through the gate and whips open the back door for the dog, who jumps in quickly, as if they both fear Sam will change his mind.
Back at the hotel, the new dog is accepted into the growing pack as if they've all known each other in a previous life, which, given their luck, might be true. Something strange is definitely going on with Dean and the dogs, and Sam would ask him what the deal is, except, yeah, that never works very well if Dean isn't in a sharing mood, and Dean is pretty much never in a sharing mood.
At least Dean's preoccupation with the dogs seems to make him agreeable, so that he goes along quietly with Sam's suggestion that they get something to eat, and that Sam should drive, and even that they should stop and buy some actual real dog food for the dogs. Dean insists on going down every single aisle in the pet shop, even the one with fish tanks, and, after careful inspection and a lot of dithering, he buys food bowls for each dog, and a big water bowl for them to share, though he scoffs at Sam's suggestion of leashes and collars. He stands in the food aisle reading the ingredients in all the foods, taking far more care over the dogs' food than he ever has over his own. He's clearly tempted by Chef Michael's Porterhouse Steak but he finally settles on a lamb and rice dry food.
Dean insists on going down every single aisle in the pet shop, even the one with fish tanks.
When Dean follows Sam into an actual restaurant without a word of protest about the diner he passed by, Sam seriously considers the possibility that Dean has been body swapped.
Sam orders a bowl of minestrone and a salad. Instead of rolling his eyes and sharing a laugh over Sam's order, Dean turns his head away, mumbling his own order to the waitress so softly Sam can't hear what he says. He then makes a clattering production out of separating his napkin from his utensils, laying everything out fussily like he never does. Sam stares at him for a while, but Dean doesn't look up or make a smart remark, so that after a bit he feels confused himself, like he's contracted Dean's uneasiness.
When the waitress returns it looks like she has doubled Sam's order of soup and salad, but before he can point out her mistake, Dean meekly takes one of the bowls and salad plates. Sam waits for the woman to leave, watching Dean fall on his food with slightly less than his customary gleeful manner. "Since when do you eat normal food?" Sam demands so suddenly that Dean drops his soup spoon into his bowl with a loud clatter, splattering some of it out onto the table. The red broth soaks into the tablecloth, spreading out toward Sam in fine rivelets that look to him like accusing fingers.
"You're acting really weird," he says. He reaches across the table and swipes at Dean's black shirt,which is covered with blondish hairs, dog hair, he realizes. None of it brushes off. "Does this have something to do with those dogs?" Dean's guilty flush would be funny if it weren't so perplexing.
"Look, they need to lose some weight," Dean mutters. He grabs his spoon and starts sucking down his soup again.
"How does what you eat for lunch have anything to do with their weight, Dean?" Sam asks. His patience with Dean is one of his most awesome qualities, and he needs all of it here.
"If I get a cheeseburger, they'll smell it on me when we get back." Dean's voice goes up high when he says this, his mouth twisted as if his soup is lemon flavored.
Sam wants to laugh, but hasn't he been after Dean for years to clean up his diet and take better care of himself? If worrying about upsetting the dogs is what it takes, he should let it go and be happy to see Dean putting some decent fuel into his body. Okay, that is all true, but he isn't capable of that much self restraint, so he laughs. A huge, belly clutching, super mocking laugh that makes Dean slump down in his seat, though he doesn't stop spooning soup into his mouth.
It's late when they get back to the hotel. Dean takes the dogs outside to relieve themselves, still without any leashes, then gets ready for bed. He sits on the floor and watches the dogs eat with an innocent pleasure Sam hasn't seen in him for years. After they finish eating, he pulls a little squeaky toy out of his pocket-it wasn't among their purchases, and damn Dean for never thinking how stupid it would be to get arrested for shoplifting from the pet depot- and throws it at Sam. It bounces off his arm with a loud squeak, and Jeb launches himself from the floor up onto Sam's bed to grab the toy. He pushes it against Sam's leg over and over, each time producing a loud squeak, until Sam relents and grabs onto it.
As soon as Sam touches the toy, Jeb bows his front end and starts tugging, making a playful little growling noise, his back end wiggling gleefully. It's stupid, but Sam can see Dean watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he looks so innocently happy, as if by playing with Dean's dog he is almost playing with Dean. Sam rolls over onto his stomach and starts shaking the toy back and forth in the dog's mouth, urging him on, saying "Come on, Jeb, get it boy." Jeb goes crazy with doggy silliness, shaking his whole head to shake the toy and revving up his growling. Sam finally manages to wrench the toy out of Jeb's mouth and he tosses it at Dean. It hits his chest and bounces off, but Jeb is on it so fast it barely hits the floor. Jeb dances round the room, squeaking the toy frantically, then jumps onto the bed and spreads out next to Sam, still squeaking away.
The pugs have been watching all of this with their little faces twisted up with disdain, though actually that is the only expression they seem to have. When Jeb finally stops, they both get up and pad over to Sam's bed, staring up beseechingly until he lifts them up. They climb up on him, the female lying down on his chest and the smaller male higher up almost on his throat, and start snoring softly almost immediately. The pit bull, or American Bulldog -he hears Parker's voice snidely reminding him in his head- lies down on the floor next to his bed.
Usually in the evening they watch a little TV together, but Dean has spent the evening surfing the net. It's always Dean that decides when they will watch, patting the empty space on the bed and inviting Sam to sit next to him, though he lets Sam pick the show. It's Sam's favorite time of the evening. Dean lets him sit close, their legs almost touching, not moving away like he does during the day, but Sam is careful not to get too close. He's aware that he likes it too much. Being close to Dean is the high point of his day, and he's tried to be content with what he has. He knows he's never going to be with Dean the way he wants, but he still craves whatever closeness he can get. Tonight he only has the pugs to sit with.
Dean doesn't seem bothered by the disloyalty of the dogs. He even gives Sam a small smile before going into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Sam pulls the sheet up over himself and the pugs, who don't seem to have any claustrophobia problem, and falls asleep while Dean is still in the bathroom.
The next morning he wakes up alone. Dean and the dogs are gone, as is the Impala. It's early, and Dean is rarely first up, but perhaps the dogs woke him to go out. Still, it's puzzling why he took them in the Impala. Sam is just about to head out on foot to search for coffee when he hears the familiar growl of the car returning. The dogs rush past Dean and into the room, almost knocking the styrofoam container out of his hands in their eagerness to greet Sam. Bella, in particular, seems to feel the need to sniff all over him, as if looking for signs of injury, before curling up on Dean's jacket in the corner of the room, her large brown eyes following Sam's every move protectively.
He takes a container of coffee from Dean with a grateful nod. "Where were you?" he asks, once he has swallowed enough to attempt conversation.
"At the dog park." Jeb and the pugs join Bella in their corner and curl up together, Dean's gaze following them fondly.
"What the hell is a dog park?" Sam asks.
"It's a place where people go to let their dogs run around and play. And where dog people can meet other dog people and, you know, talk dogs."
"And that's what you were doing?" Sam asks dubiously, "talking dogs?"
"Yeah. So what?”
“So nothing," Sam says. "I've just never noticed you joining any local social groups before."
Dean shrugs.
"You took them out without leashes or anything to control them?"
"I've been training them." Dean pours out food for the dogs' breakfast, and they all go straight to their assigned bowls to eat again. Sam wonders when Dean did all this training and how the hell he knew anything about training dogs to begin with. It just doesn't make sense. "Anyway," Dean says. "We're invited to a picnic. I figure it wouldn't hurt to talk to some of the locals about the case. And it'll be nice for the dogs to get out with other dogs."
Dean tosses his empty coffee container at the waste can, but it bounces off the rim and rolls off under the bed. After a moment Jeb goes over and squeezes his head under to retrieve it, giving it a shake before carrying it over and presenting it proudly to Sam.
All the dogs clamber obediently into the back seat of the Impala at lunch time. Sam is starting to miss his candy bars now, but Dean doesn't seem pissed off at him, just distracted by the dogs maybe. When they get to the picnic, the dogs follow Dean, or maybe Sam-it's hard to tell- up the drive to a large, white clapboard house with expansive windows and a wrap-around porch with a swing hung to the right of the door. They bypass this and head around back, into a large yard full of people and dogs.
The dog people are friendly enough, but something about them makes Sam uneasy, something besides the way they are insanely obsessed with their pets, dressing them up, giving them chairs to sit on, and generally treating them like little people. Dean is all buddy buddy with a slim older man he introduces as Raymond, the owner of the house and their host, who is apparently the guy he had gotten friendly with at the dog park. "This is Sam," he says to Raymond, and Raymond smiles as though he's already heard a lot about him, and shakes his hand. Raymond has a tiny, fragile little dog in a red sweater under his arm, and Dean introduces him to the dog, too. Her name is Anais, and Sam has to hear all about her bloodlines. When he asks what kind of dog she is, the man literally sniffs at him with disdain, which, okay, points for being able to carry that off. "Anais is an Italian Greyhound," Dean interjects, acting as if Sam has committed some appalling faux pas. He rolls his eyes at Raymond, and then slips an arm casually around Sam and steers him over to the buffet table.
Sam finally realizes what is odd about the gathering. There are no women at all, and several of the guys are obviously coupled up. Dean has gotten them invited to a gay picnic. What's more, Dean seems quite aware of it, and his arm stays around Sam's waist as he surveys the food. Dean hasn't once played the gay chicken game with Sam since getting out of hell, in fact, he hasn't heard Dean make any little digs about gay people for a long time. He'd kind of hoped that Dean had matured enough to realize how stupid it was, but apparently not.
"Pumpkin cheesecake," Dean points and Sam grabs a plate. He has a weakness for cheesecake, as Dean well knows, the dirty cheater. "Aren't you eating?" he asks Dean.
"Sure I am," Dean says, but he keeps standing there, arm still around Sam, watching. "Hard to know where to begin," he says, but before Sam can ask him what is up he gets a plate and starts slowly filling it.
Balancing the plate on one hand, he leads the way over to a picnic table, struggling to slide his legs under it without letting go of Sam. With a mischievous look, he swipes one finger through the cheesecake and holds it out. “Here, taste it,” he orders, and Sam thinks, what the hell, two can play this game.
Sam leans forward and sucks Dean's finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around viciously and making as pornographic a moan of pleasure as he thinks he can get away with. He'll be damned if he'll let Dean score off him, but he isn't prepared for the way Dean's breath catches, and his eyes darken, and he lets go of Dean's finger with a spit slicked pop. They've never gone anywhere near this far in this little game of theirs, and Sam isn't sure when or how it got away from him. It's Dean who finally looks away. "Pel wants up," he says, gesturing to the ground where the female pug is trying to climb into Sam's lap.
"Pel?" Sam asks. "You named her Pel?" And when Dean doesn't respond, "What's the other Pug's name?"
"Quark," Dean answers absently. He has picked up his plastic fork and is toying with his food.
"What?" he says, and for lack of anything better to do, picks the dog up. Of course, then Quark insists on being up too, so that he has to balance them awkwardly on his lap while he eats, both dogs actively trying to snatch the food off his plate like they think he put it there just for them. Bella has curled up at his feet, while Jeb is occupied catching tiny bits of food Dean tosses to him. Dean always used to scoff at him when he sat up at night watching Star Trek reruns on fuzzy hotel room tv's. He doesn't think Dean ever stayed in the room for more than a second of it, much less long enough to pick up on the names. It's odd, really odd, but he doesn't know what to make of it, so instead he moves his chips out of reach of Pel, who looks disappointed enough that he gives her one anyway.
Part Two