There’s a scratching at the front door. Sam and Cas are playing chess nearby, both deep in thought, carefully plotting their next moves. Sam grabs his Taurus – he doesn’t feel right if he isn’t carrying a weapon, even now – and he and Cas move to the door slowly.
There’s a low whine, and Sam eases the door open, eyebrows raising at the muddy, skinny creature that sits and stares at them, pink tongue hanging out one side of its mouth.
Dean gives the usual tests – it’s not a skinwalker or a familiar. It’s just a skinny, dirty chocolate lab, whining pathetically at their feet, and Sam scratches it behind the ears. They turn matching eyes to Dean.
“We’ll have to hunt more often,” Dean says, thoroughly annoyed, “you can’t feed it on vegetables.”
“I’ll take him out,” Sam says, “he can hunt with me.”
Dean rolls his eyes but gives in.
They have meat in storage – raccoon, some fox. They get deer when they’re really lucky, but they haven’t for a while. Sam feeds then bathes the mutt, christens it Baskerville – Dean groans, suggests Cujo (“he was a Saint Bernard, Dean.”) – but it gets shortened to Bass.
Dean gets a kick out of Cas walking the dog, so he can yell “Cas and Bass!” He decides it’s a good name for a restaurant meal, something with fish.
“You’re an idiot,” Sam tells him, but he smiles.
He smiles a lot more now, with Bass following him around. He doesn’t hide himself in the library as much, and Dean gets up less than a week later to find Sam playing tug-of-war with an old leather belt, the dog growling and shaking its floppy ears.
The world may be falling down around their ears, but they have everything they need, right here.
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timeasmymeasure
2/2
Date: 2016-11-10 11:37 pm (UTC)There’s a low whine, and Sam eases the door open, eyebrows raising at the muddy, skinny creature that sits and stares at them, pink tongue hanging out one side of its mouth.
Dean gives the usual tests – it’s not a skinwalker or a familiar. It’s just a skinny, dirty chocolate lab, whining pathetically at their feet, and Sam scratches it behind the ears. They turn matching eyes to Dean.
“We’ll have to hunt more often,” Dean says, thoroughly annoyed, “you can’t feed it on vegetables.”
“I’ll take him out,” Sam says, “he can hunt with me.”
Dean rolls his eyes but gives in.
They have meat in storage – raccoon, some fox. They get deer when they’re really lucky, but they haven’t for a while. Sam feeds then bathes the mutt, christens it Baskerville – Dean groans, suggests Cujo (“he was a Saint Bernard, Dean.”) – but it gets shortened to Bass.
Dean gets a kick out of Cas walking the dog, so he can yell “Cas and Bass!” He decides it’s a good name for a restaurant meal, something with fish.
“You’re an idiot,” Sam tells him, but he smiles.
He smiles a lot more now, with Bass following him around. He doesn’t hide himself in the library as much, and Dean gets up less than a week later to find Sam playing tug-of-war with an old leather belt, the dog growling and shaking its floppy ears.
The world may be falling down around their ears, but they have everything they need, right here.