Dean’s Spinster Witch @deans-spinster-witch - Tumblr Blog

Jun 13

Stray - Dean Winchester

he storm started before dinner.

At first it was only a low grumble above the bunker, a distant roll of thunder that made the lights flicker once over the war room table. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that made Dean look up from the gun he was cleaning or Sam pause in the middle of typing up case notes.

You noticed it, though.

You always noticed storms.

Not because you hated them, exactly. There was something comforting about being tucked underground while the world above rattled and flashed and came apart in sheets of rain. The bunker was old, strange, and full of things that probably should have been locked behind more than one door, but on nights like this, it felt almost safe.

Almost like a home.

The thunder rolled again, closer this time.

Dean glanced toward the ceiling. “Great. Kansas is doing its haunted farmhouse impression again.”

Sam didn’t look away from his laptop. “It’s just a storm.”

“Yeah, that’s how every horror movie starts.”

You leaned against the library table with a mug of tea warming her hands. “You literally hunt monsters for a living.”

“Exactly. Which is why I respect bad weather. Bad weather is atmospheric. Atmosphere means something’s about to crawl out of a wall.”

Sam gave him a look. “You’re cleaning a gun in a warded bunker.”

Dean snapped the magazine into place. “Preparedness, Sammy.”

You smiled into her mug.

By the time the three of them made it to the kitchen, the rain had gotten heavier. It beat against the earth above them in a steady, distant rush, the kind that made the whole bunker feel sealed away from the rest of the world. Dean threw together grilled cheese because he claimed it was “a soup-adjacent emergency meal,” despite not making soup at all. Sam made a salad, because apparently even thunder couldn’t stop him from being Sam.

You sat on the counter, stealing fries from Dean’s plate every time he turned away.

“You know,” Dean said, catching her on the fourth fry, “some people ask.”

“Some people don’t make enough fries.”

“I made an appropriate amount of fries.”

“For one person.”

“For the person who made them.”

You took another.

Dean stared at you.

You smiled sweetly.

Sam, from the table, said, “You know she’s going to win.”

“She’s not winning. I’m choosing peace.”

“You’re choosing to make more fries.”

Dean pointed at him with the spatula. “Don’t psychoanalyze my fries.”

The bunker lights flickered again. This time, the thunder came almost immediately after, loud enough to vibrate through the walls.

You looked toward the hallway.

Dean noticed. “What?”

You listened. For a second, there was only the rain. Then she heard it.

Small.

Thin.

Almost swallowed by the storm.

A whine.

Her whole body went still.

Sam looked up too. “Did you hear that?”

Dean’s shoulders dropped.

“No,” he said immediately.

You turned toward him. “Dean.”

“No.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where your heart gets three sizes bigger and my life gets worse.”

Sam pushed back from the table. “It sounded like an animal.”

“No, it sounded like a problem.” Dean set the spatula down and pointed at both of us. “A problem we do not have to make ours.”

The sound came again.

A soft, trembling cry from somewhere beyond the bunker door.

You were already off the counter.

Dean groaned. “Of course. Great. Perfect. Love this.”

You grabbed your jacket from the back of a chair.

“Y/N,” Dean said, following you out of the kitchen. “It’s pouring.”

“Exactly.”

“That is not an argument.”

“It is if something is out there in it.”

Sam was behind you now, tugging on his own flannel. “Could be hurt.”

Dean looked at the ceiling as if asking the universe why it kept putting him in situations with people who had morals. “We do not know that.”

The whine came again.

You stopped at the base of the stairs, hand already on the railing. Dean softened for half a second when he saw your face. Then he hid it badly under a scowl.

“Fine,” he said. “We check. We do not adopt. There is a huge difference between checking and adopting.”

“Who said anything about adopting?”

“You didn’t have to. Your face said it in cursive.”

Sam coughed, hiding a laugh.

Dean rounded on him. “And you’re already on her side.”

“I didn’t say anything either.”

“You radiate support.”

You climbed the stairs and reached the heavy bunker door. The sound was clearer now, just outside, faint and miserable. You pulled the door open.

Wind and rain rushed in.

The cold hit first, sharp and wet, sweeping into the stairwell hard enough to make her blink. Beyond the doorway, the world was a blur of silver rain, gravel, and low, swollen clouds lit from within by lightning.

Then you saw him.

A dog.

He was curled against the side of the concrete steps, tucked as close to the wall as he could get beneath the narrow overhang. It wasn’t enough. Rain had soaked him through completely, flattening his dark fur to his ribs. Mud streaked his legs and chest. One of his ears stood up while the other flopped sideways, giving him a permanently uncertain look.

He lifted his head when the door opened.

His eyes found you.

His tail moved once.

Just once.

A weak little thump against the concrete.

Your heart cracked clean in half.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Dean appeared over your shoulder.

There was a pause.

Then he said, “No.”

You crouched down slowly, ignoring him. “Hey, baby. It’s okay.”

The dog’s body trembled. He didn’t get up, but he didn’t try to run either. That, somehow, made it worse.

Sam came up beside you. “He’s freezing.”

“He’s also outside,” Dean said. “Where outside animals are generally located.”

You shot him a look.

Dean immediately looked away. “I’m just saying.”

The dog whimpered again and stretched his nose toward your hand.

You held still, palm open, letting him decide. He sniffed your fingers then he pressed his cold, wet nose into your palm.

That was it.

You turned toward Dean.

Dean closed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“He’s shaking.”

“I can see that.”

“He’s scared.”

“I can also see that.”

“He could get sick out here.”

Dean opened his eyes again, expression strained like he was physically wrestling his own conscience. “Y/N.”

Sam crouched down too. “We can at least bring him in until the storm passes.”

Dean looked betrayed. “At least? That is how it starts. That phrase is the gateway drug to buying tiny sweaters.”

“I would never put him in a tiny sweater,” You said.

Dean stared.

You hesitated. “Unless he was cold.”

“Unbelievable.”

The dog shifted, trying to stand. His front paws slipped a little on the wet concrete. You moved without thinking.

“Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”

You slid your arms carefully around him. He was heavier than he looked but too thin under all that wet fur. He didn’t fight you. He just sagged against your chest, shivering so hard you felt it through your jacket.

Dean made a strangled sound. “We are not carrying a mystery dog into the bunker.”

But you were already carrying a mystery dog into the bunker.

The dog dripped all the way down the stairs.

Dean followed the trail with growing horror.

“Look at the floor.”

“Dean.”

“Look at it, Y/N. We have a mud crime scene.”

“We have towels.”

“We had towels.”

Sam jogged ahead to grab some. You set the dog down gently near the war room entrance, and he immediately tried to make himself small again, lowering his head, tail tucked close.

Dean’s expression shifted. Barely but you saw it.

Then Sam returned with an armful of old towels, and the moment passed.

You dropped to your knees and started rubbing the dog dry. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Dean crossed his arms. “Temporarily safe.”

You ignored him.

Sam placed a bowl of water on the floor. The dog sniffed it, then drank desperately, lapping so fast that water splashed onto the towel beneath him.

“Poor guy,” Sam murmured.

Dean pointed at the bowl. “Do we even know if he’s had shots?”

Sam gave him a look. “He’s drinking water, Dean, not filing taxes.”

“I’m thinking long-term.”

“Oh, are we keeping him long-term now?” You asked, glancing up.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Nice try.”

The dog finished drinking and looked between you three. His ears twitched with every thunderclap. When lightning flashed in a window, followed by a heavy boom, he flinched and leaned into your knee.

You softened all over again.

“He can stay in my room tonight.”

Dean barked out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s going to pee on something ancient.”

“He won’t.”

“You do not know that. He could be full of pee. He could be ninety percent pee.”

Sam looked pained. “Dean.”

“What? She’s the one trying to turn the Men of Letters bunker into a kennel.”

You rubbed the towel gently over the dog’s ears. “I’ll take him outside when the storm lets up. I’ll clean up if anything happens before then. He can sleep on the floor.”

Dean looked at the dog. The dog looked back at him. Then, very slowly, the dog’s tail thumped once.

Dean stiffened. “Don’t do that.”

“He likes you.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“Maybe he has good instincts.”

“He broke into our house.”

“He sat outside and cried.”

“Emotional breaking and entering.”

Before you could answer, the familiar rustle of wings filled the room.

Castiel appeared near the map table, trench coat perfectly neat, head tilted as he took in the scene.

Dean immediately pointed at him. “Cas. Thank God. Literally. Tell them we cannot keep a stray dog.”

Castiel looked at the dog.

The dog looked at Castiel.

For several seconds, neither moved; then the dog stood and walked carefully toward him, sniffing the edge of his coat.

Castiel stared down at him with grave intensity.

The dog licked his hand.

You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling.

Castiel crouched.

“Hello,” he said.

The dog’s tail wagged.

Dean threw up his hands. “No. No, don’t hello him.”

Castiel placed a hand on the dog’s head. His face softened, just a little. “He seems like a good dog.”

You turned triumphantly toward Dean.

Sam grinned.

Dean stared at Cas. “You are the worst angel.”

“I am not.”

“You were supposed to be objective.”

“I am being objective. The dog appears frightened, underfed, and gentle.”

“See?” You said.

Castiel continued, “He also chose to come here.”

Dean closed his eyes. “Here we go.”

“That could be significant.”

“It could be raining, Cas. He came here because it was raining.”

“Perhaps,” Cas said. “But animals often sense safety.”

Your heart did something small and painful.

Dean’s jaw worked for a moment. Then he looked down at the dog, who had returned to you and was now leaning against your leg like he had known you forever.

“One night,” Dean said.

You straightened. “Really?”

“One night. Then tomorrow we check for a chip, call shelters, put up whatever lost-dog stuff people do, and if nobody claims him, we find him a place.”

“A place here?” Sam asked.

Dean pointed at him. “Do not test me, Samantha.”

Sam lifted his hands.

You smiled down at the dog. “One night is good.”

Dean muttered, “One night is how every disaster starts.”

The dog sneezed.

Dean looked at him. “Yeah, I’m talking about you.”

The first night went better than Dean expected.

Which annoyed him.

You took the dog to your room after the storm quieted enough for one last trip outside. You made a nest of towels and an old blanket on the floor beside her bed. You expected him to curl up there.

He did not.

He waited until you climbed into bed, then rested his chin on the mattress and stared at you.

“No,” you whispered.

His tail thumped.

“You are wet.”

Another thump.

“You smell like rain and road.”

He blinked.

You lasted thirty-two seconds.

“Fine. Get up heret.”

The dog climbed up carefully, circled twice, then collapsed against your legs with a sigh so deep and relieved that you had to stare at the ceiling for a minute and blink hard.

In the morning, Dean was waiting in the kitchen with a mug of coffee and the face of a man prepared to be right.

“So,” he said as soon as you walked in, the dog trotting at your side. “What did he destroy?”

“Nothing.”

“What did he pee on?”

“Nothing.”

“What did he chew?”

“Nothing.”

Dean frowned. “Suspicious.”

Sam came in behind you, already dressed for the day. “I called the closest vet. They can scan for a chip this morning.”

“Great,” Dean said. “Love a plan.”

You poured coffee, watching as the dog sniffed cautiously around the kitchen. He didn’t jump on anything. Didn’t bark. Didn’t beg. He sat beside you like he had been trained to do it.

Dean stared.

The dog stared back.

“You’re weird,” Dean told him.

The dog wagged his tail.

Sam crouched. “We need to call him something.”

“No, we don’t,” Dean said. “Naming is step one.”

“We can’t keep calling him ‘the dog,’” you said.

“Yes, we can. Very efficient.”

The dog stood, wandered over to the trash can, sniffed it once, and immediately backed away when you gently said, “Leave it.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted. “He knows some commands.”

Dean looked even more suspicious. “Great. Educated dog. Probably a spy.”

You looked down at him. “What’s your name, huh?”

The dog sat.

Sam had a half-eaten piece of toast in his hand. The dog’s gaze locked onto it with laser focus, though he still didn’t move.

Sam smiled. “He’s like a little ranger. Alert, loyal, weirdly serious.”

The dog’s ears perked.

You looked at Sam who was already looking at you.

Dean looked between you two. “No.”

“Ranger,” You said softly.

The dog’s tail started wagging.

Dean set his coffee down. “Absolutely not. That is a cereal mascot name.”

“Ranger,” Sam repeated.

The dog walked over to him.

Your smile widened. “He likes it.”

“He likes toast.”

“He answered to it.”

“He responded to tone.”

“Ranger,” you said again.

The dog barked once.

Dean pointed. “That was a coincidence.”

Castiel appeared in the doorway, somehow exactly on time. “Ranger is a suitable name.”

Dean turned slowly. “Were you lurking?”

“I was listening.”

“That’s lurking with feathers.”

Cas looked at Ranger. “Hello, Ranger.”

Ranger trotted over and sat on Castiel’s shoe.

Castiel looked pleased.

Dean looked doomed.

The vet found no chip.

The shelters had no reports of a missing dog matching Ranger’s description.

You posted online, called around, checked lost pet groups, and left your number with three rescues. Sam helped print flyers. Castiel, very seriously, offered to question local wildlife. Dean told him that was not necessary.

For the first three days, Dean insisted nothing had changed.

“This is temporary,” he said while stepping over Ranger in the hallway.

“This is not our dog,” he said while moving a box of ammunition out of Ranger’s reach.

“We are not adjusting our lives around him,” he said while relocating a cursed object from a lower shelf because Ranger kept staring at it.

You and Sam kept their promise.

You bought food.

You bought bowls.

You bought a leash, collar, dog shampoo, treats, a brush, and a bed.

Dean objected to every item.

“Why does he need a bed? We have floors.”

You held up the receipt. “Because he’s not a medieval prisoner.”

“He’s a dog. Dogs like floors.”

Sam carried in a bag of training treats. “He also needs rewards.”

Dean opened the bag, sniffed it, and recoiled. “These smell like sadness.”

“They’re liver treats.”

“Exactly.”

Ranger adapted quickly.

Too quickly, according to Dean.

He learned the bunker layout within days. He knew the kitchen was where food appeared, the library was where humans sat for too long, and the garage was the magical room Dean cared about more than most people.

The first time Ranger approached the Impala, Dean nearly materialized out of thin air.

“Back away from the car.”

Ranger sat.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be cute near Baby.”

Ranger tilted his head.

You, watching from the doorway, whispered, “You’re losing.”

Dean didn’t look back. “I am not.”

“You talked to him like he understood you.”

“He does understand me. He’s choosing defiance.”

Ranger’s tail swept across the floor.

Dean looked down. “And do not wag at the car.”

Sam took training seriously.

Every morning, he spent twenty minutes in the hallway with Ranger teaching sit, stay, come, down, and leave it. Ranger picked it up quickly, especially when food was involved. You handled potty training and walks, though it turned out Ranger was already mostly housebroken.

Dean pretended not to notice.

He especially pretended not to notice when Ranger started waiting outside his bedroom door.

The first morning it happened, Dean opened the door and nearly tripped.

“What the-”

Ranger looked up from where he was curled in a tight ball on the floor.

Dean stared at him. “Why are you here?”

Ranger yawned.

You stepped into the hallway, toothbrush still in your mouth.

Dean pointed down. “Explain.”

You took the toothbrush out. “He likes you.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He slept outside your room.”

“Maybe he got lost.”

“Dean, your room is at the end of the hall.”

“It’s a confusing hallway.”

Ranger rolled onto his back.

Dean recoiled slightly. “Nope.”

You smiled. “He wants belly rubs.”

“He wants to manipulate me.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

Dean stepped carefully over Ranger. “I am not participating in this.”

The next morning, Ranger was there again.

And the morning after that.

By the end of the week, Dean stopped asking why.

He just opened the door, looked down, and said, “Move it, furball.”

Ranger never moved.

Dean always stepped around him.

You noticed that Dean started opening the door more slowly.

You noticed that he stopped wearing his heaviest boots in the morning.

You noticed that he muttered insults in a softer voice every day.

And you noticed the first time Dean dropped a piece of bacon.

It happened on a Sunday morning.

You were at the kitchen table, half-awake, while Sam read something on his phone and Ranger sat politely by the doorway. Dean stood at the stove, making breakfast with the level of confidence only he could bring to eggs and meat.

A piece of bacon slipped from the plate.

It landed directly in front of Ranger.

Ranger looked at it.

Then he looked at Dean.

Then at you.

Then back at Dean.

Dean froze.

You lifted an eyebrow.

Dean said, “Gravity did that.”

Sam looked up. “Gravity?”

“Yep.”

“You dropped it right in front of him.”

“Accidents happen.”

Ranger waited.

Dean looked down at him, then sighed. “Fine. Dispose of the evidence.”

Ranger ate the bacon.

You grinned. “You fed him.”

“I did not feed him. I allowed him to participate in cleanup.”

Sam smiled. “That’s feeding him.”

Dean turned back to the stove. “Everyone’s a critic.”

The hunt came after two quiet weeks.

Quiet, for them, meant no apocalypses, no demon ambushes, and only one cursed teapot that screamed when Sam tried to catalog it.

So naturally, a case showed up.

Three strange attacks in a small Missouri town. All near the same abandoned property. Witnesses reported something moving fast through the trees. Animal control found tracks but couldn’t identify them. One survivor kept insisting the thing looked like “a person wearing the wrong shadow.”

Dean closed his laptop. “Well, that’s not unsettling at all.”

Sam frowned. “Could be a skinwalker.”

“Could be a shifter.”

“Could be something cursed.”

“Could be Missouri being Missouri.”

You glanced down at Ranger, who was asleep under the table with his head on her boot. “We’ll need someone to stay with him.”

Dean looked up immediately. “He stays here.”

Your face fell. “Dean.”

“No. Nope. Absolutely not. We are not bringing the dog on a hunt.”

“He gets anxious when we leave.”

“He can be anxious safely at home.”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “He did chew through that towel last time we left for more than six hours.”

Dean pointed at him. “That towel was ugly.”

“He also howled for forty minutes,” you said.

“We were not here to hear that.”

“Cas was.”

Castiel, standing near the bookshelves, nodded. “It was mournful.”

Dean rubbed his forehead. “Of course it was.”

You leaned forward. “He can stay at the motel while we work the case. We won’t bring him into anything dangerous.”

“No.”

“Dean.”

“Y/N.”

You gave him the look.

The one Dean claimed ruined his life.

His resolve visibly cracked, then tried to glue itself back together.

“No,” he repeated, weaker this time.

Ranger woke up, stood, and rested his chin on Dean’s knee.

Dean looked down at him.

Ranger gazed up with absolute trust.

Dean whispered, “You are a menace.”

Ranger came on the hunt.

Dean complained for the first hour of the drive.

“He gets one paw print on the seat, and I swear-”

“He’s on a blanket,” You said from the backseat.

“That blanket better be enough.”

Sam smiled out the window. “He’s being good.”

Dean glanced in the rearview mirror.

Ranger sat beside you, ears perked, watching the road like he had been waiting his whole life to ride in the Impala.

Dean looked away quickly.

“He better not drool.”

You stroked Ranger’s head. “He’s not drooling.”

“He’s thinking about it.”

“You think everyone is plotting against you.”

“Because most things are.”

Ranger sighed and rested his head on your lap. Dean caught it in the mirror. His expression softened before he could stop it.

The motel was the kind they stayed in too often: faded carpet, thin walls, buzzing lights, and a vending machine that looked like it had survived at least one exorcism. Ranger sniffed every inch of the room, then claimed the space between the two beds.

Dean stood in the doorway with their bags. “He’s going to bark.”

“He won’t,” Sam said.

“He’s going to chew the bedspread.”

“He won’t,” you said.

“He’s going to eat something questionable.”

“Honestly, that’s more likely to be you,” Sam muttered.

Dean glared. “I heard that.”

They spent the day interviewing locals.

Ranger stayed with you during the first round, walking politely at your side while you asked questions around town. He attracted more attention than you did. People who might have brushed off questions from strangers softened when Ranger sat beside you and wagged his tail.

An older woman outside the diner bent to scratch his ears. “Handsome boy.”

Ranger leaned into her hand.

You smiled. “He knows.”

The woman looked at you, then at Sam and Dean near the car. “You folks asking about the old Miller place?”

You straightened slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

That was how you got the first real lead.

By evening, you had enough to know the attacks were connected to the abandoned Miller property outside town. Old house, older land, rumours of something buried beneath it. Standard ominous nonsense, as Dean called it.

You returned to the motel to gear up.

Ranger watched you silently from the bed.

Dean pointed at him. “You stay.”

Ranger wagged his tail.

“No, don’t wag. Stay.”

You clipped his leash to his collar. “We can leave him in the car while we check the place.”

Dean’s head snapped toward you. “No.”

“Dean-”

“No. This is not a Scooby-Doo episode.”

Sam zipped his duffel. “Actually, having a dog in the car might be useful. He hears better than we do.”

Dean stared. “You too?”

“I’m just saying.”

“You are always just saying something that makes my life worse.”

You stepped closer to Dean, lowering your voice. “We won’t take him inside. I promise. He’ll stay locked in the car, windows cracked, with water. We’ll be close.”

Dean looked at you.

That was the problem, really.

You knew it. Dean could say no to a lot of things. He could say no to danger, to sentiment, to comfort, to admitting he cared. But he had a much harder time saying no to you when you looked at him like you believed he was softer than he pretended to be.

He sighed. “Fine. But if anything goes sideways, the dog goes first.”

You blinked.

Dean looked away. “I mean out of danger. Not as bait.”

Sam’s mouth twitched.

You smiled softly. “I know what you meant.”

Dean grumbled, “Yeah, well. Don’t make a thing of it.”

The Miller property looked worse in person.

The house sat hunched at the end of a dirt road, windows dark, porch half-collapsed, trees pressed too close around it. The storm from days earlier had left the ground soft and muddy, and the night air smelled like wet leaves and old wood.

Dean parked a short distance from the house.

Ranger stood in the backseat, alert and still.

You turned to him. “Stay, okay?”

Ranger whined softly.

Dean leaned over the front seat. “Listen to your mother.”

Everyone froze.

Dean froze hardest.

Sam turned very slowly.

Your mouth opened.

Dean pointed at both of them. “No.”

Your smile spread. “His what?”

“I said nothing.”

“You said mother.”

“I said other. Listen to your other.”

Sam nodded seriously. “Your other what?”

Dean got out of the car. “Shut up.”

You kissed two fingers and tapped them gently against Ranger’s head. “Stay. We’ll be back.”

Dean, from outside, yelled, “No kissing the dog before a hunt. It’s weirdly emotional.”

You laughed and shut the door.

You moved toward the house together.

Inside, the air was wrong. Not sulfur. Not rot. Something colder. Something stale and watchful. Sam’s EMF meter crackled.

Dean lifted his flashlight. “I hate houses like this.”

“You hate all abandoned houses,” you whispered.

“Because abandoned houses are where things abandon common sense.”

You searched the first floor slowly.

Broken furniture. Water stains. Claw marks along the baseboards.

Sam crouched near a doorway. “These are fresh.”

You looked toward the ceiling. Something was moving above you. Dean’s flashlight snapped upward. A scrape then silence.

Sam rose. “Dean-”

The wall behind him burst open.

The thing that lunged through was fast, hunched, and pale-eyed, its shape human only in the loosest sense. Dean fired once, forcing it back. You grabbed Sam’s jacket and pulled him sideways as splinters rained over them.

“Not a shifter!” Sam shouted.

“Yeah, got that!” Dean fired again.

The thing scrambled into the next room, moving too quickly, all wrong angles and sharp turns.

You split up without meaning to.

Dean went after it through the hall. Sam circled toward the back exit, and you followed the sound of movement above, heart pounding but focus sharp.

Then, outside, Ranger barked.

Once.

Twice.

A deep, urgent sound unlike anything you had heard from him before. You stopped dead.

Dean’s voice came from the next room. “Y/N?”

Ranger barked again.

Then Sam shouted.

You ran.

You tore out the front door, Dean right behind you. The Impala sat where they had left it, back window cracked open wider than before.

Ranger was not inside.

“Oh, no,” you breathed.

Dean swore.

Another bark came from behind the house.

You sprinted around the side.

Sam was on the ground near an old shed, one hand braced in the mud, his gun several feet away. The creature stalked toward him, low and twitching, attention fixed on its injured prey.

Ranger stood between them.

His body was stiff, fur raised, teeth bared. The leash dragged behind him through the mud. He looked smaller than the monster by half, but he did not move.

“Ranger!” you shouted.

The creature twitched toward the sound.

Ranger lunged. Not close enough to be grabbed, just enough to distract. He snapped at the air, barking, drawing its attention away from Sam.

Dean lifted his gun.

“Move, boy,” he muttered.

As if Ranger understood, he darted sideways.

Dean fired.

The creature went down.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then you was on yourknees in the mud, hands all over Ranger, checking him frantically. “Are you hurt? Are you hurt? Oh my God, Ranger-”

Ranger panted, tail wagging like this had been the greatest adventure of his life.

Sam sat up with a groan. “I’m okay.”

Dean stood frozen, gun still in hand.

His eyes were on Ranger.

You looked up at him. “Dean?”

Dean blinked, like he was coming back to himself. Then he crouched in front of Ranger.

Ranger immediately stepped into his space and licked his chin.

Dean closed his eyes.

“You stupid, stupid dog,” he said quietly.

Ranger wagged harder.

Dean’s hand came up and settled on his head.

His voice went rough. “Good boy.”

You went still.

Sam looked over.

Dean didn’t seem to care who heard him.

He scratched Ranger’s muddy ears and exhaled, shaky and annoyed and relieved all at once.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Good boy.”

After that, things changed.

Dean did not make an announcement.

He did not admit defeat.

He did not sit everyone down and say, “I have decided the dog is ours.”

That would have been too easy.

Instead, he stopped saying shelter.

He stopped saying temporary.

He stopped saying the dog.

He started saying Ranger.

Not often. Not softly.

But enough.

“Ranger, move.”

“Ranger, drop that.”

“Ranger, stop staring at my pie.”

“Ranger, I swear to God, if you lick my toothbrush again-”

You noticed every single time. Sam noticed too, but he was smart enough not to point it out often. Castiel pointed it out immediately.

“You have accepted him,” Cas said one afternoon in the library.

Dean looked up from cleaning a knife. “I have accepted nothing.”

“Ranger is sleeping on your jacket.”

Dean looked over.

Ranger was, in fact, curled on Dean’s jacket under the table.

Dean stared.

Then he shrugged. “Wasn’t my good jacket.”

You, without looking up from her book, said, “It’s your favourite jacket.”

Ranger became part of bunker life in pieces.

His leash hung near the door.

His bowls sat in the kitchen.

His toys slowly migrated into every room, even though Dean kept tossing them into a basket and complaining that the bunker looked like “a pet store exploded in a military museum.”

There was a squeaky hamburger that Dean hated most.

Naturally, Ranger loved it.

The first time the squeak echoed through the library during research, Dean nearly jumped out of his chair.

“What was that?”

Ranger squeaked it again.

Dean pointed at the toy. “Absolutely not.”

Squeak.

“No.”

Squeak.

“Ranger.”

Squeak.

Dean got up, took the toy, and placed it on top of a bookshelf.

Ranger sat beneath it and stared.

Dean tried to ignore him.

Ranger stared harder.

You watched over the top of your book.

Finally, Dean stood, grabbed the toy, and handed it back.

“One squeak,” he warned.

Ranger squeaked it immediately.

Dean looked at you. “He’s doing this on purpose.”

“He’s a genius.”

“He’s a criminal.”

“He learned from you.”

Sam laughed. Dean threw a pen at him.

The worst part, in Dean’s opinion, was that Ranger chose him.

At first, Ranger had been your shadow. He followed you through the bunker, slept by your bed, and sat outside the bathroom door like he was worried you might vanish through the pipes.

Then he divided his loyalty between you and Sam. Sam had treats and patience and a voice Ranger listened to immediately.

But after the hunt, something had shifted.

Ranger started watching Dean.

When Dean entered a room, Ranger’s head lifted.

When Dean left, Ranger followed.

When Dean sat, Ranger leaned against his leg.

When Dean worked on the Impala, Ranger lay nearby, nose on his paws, watching every movement like Dean was rebuilding the universe one engine part at a time.

Dean pretended this annoyed him.

“You have a whole bunker,” he told Ranger one afternoon in the garage. “A whole underground Batcave of places to be.”

Ranger blinked.

Dean tightened something under the hood. “But no. Gotta be here. Breathing judgmentally.”

Ranger sighed.

Dean pointed a wrench at him. “Don’t take that tone with me.”

You stood just outside the garage, listening.

Dean continued, unaware.

“And stop looking sad when I go on supply runs. I come back, don’t I? Every time.”

Ranger’s tail thumped once.

Dean glanced up and caught you staring, his face shutting down immediately.

“You heard nothing.”

“I heard everything.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“You told him you come back.”

Dean closed the hood. “I was making conversation.”

“With the dog you didn’t want.”

“He was available.”

You walked closer, smiling. “You love him.”

Dean scoffed. “I tolerate him.”

“You bought him a collar.”

“He needed one.”

“With a custom tag.”

Dean’s expression turned defensive. “The old one was ugly.”

“The tag says ‘Property of no one, bunker address classified.’”

“That is accurate information.”

You laughed softly.

Ranger got up, trotted to Dean, and shoved his head under Dean’s hand.

Dean looked down at him.

For half a second, his face did that thing again.

The thing you loved. The thing where all his sharp edges went quiet.

Then he scratched Ranger’s head.

“Needy,” he muttered.

Ranger leaned harder against him.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

It was embarrassing, really, how obvious Dean became.

He kept treats in the Impala. Which he denied this with great force until Sam found them in the glove compartment.

“Those are emergency rations,” Dean said.

“They’re shaped like tiny bones.”

“Emergencies come in different shapes.”

You leaned into the open passenger window. “Dean.”

He snatched the bag from Sam. “Fine. They’re his car snacks.”

“His what?” Sam asked, not even trying to hide his grin.

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

Ranger was eventually allowed in the Impala officially.

Dean laid down rules.

No paws on the leather.

No licking the windows.

No barking at motorcycles.

No sitting in the front.

Ranger broke two of those rules in the first ten minutes.

Dean forgave him by minute twelve.

At night, Ranger still slept in your room most of the time, but sometimes he disappeared.

You found out where one night when you woke around two in the morning and realized the spot beside your bed was empty.

You slipped into the hallway, quiet. The door to Dean’s room was open just enough for you to poke your head in. He was asleep on his bed, one arm hanging over the side.

His hand resting on Ranger’s head.

You stood there for a moment, heart warm and aching.

Dean, half-asleep, mumbled, “Stop staring.”

You startled. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I’m a hunter.”

“You’re cuddling the dog.”

“I’m guarding the hallway.”

“From your bed?”

“Advanced technique.”

Ranger’s tail thumped lazily against the floor.

You smiled. “You know he loves you most, right?”

Dean’s eyes opened a little.

In the dim light, his expression was soft, unguarded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. ““Dumb mutt.”

But Dean’s hand moved gently over Ranger’s fur, his fingers slow and careful where they scratched behind his ears.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them both.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

Dean looked up at you.

There was more in the question than Ranger. There always was, with you.

More in the space between your doorway and his. More in the quiet nights after hunts when he reached for you in the dark like he needed to make sure you were still there. More in the way he handed you coffee exactly how you liked it and pretended it was a coincidence, even though you knew he had memorized it months ago.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “You?”

You nodded, then crossed the room without another word.

Dean lifted his arm before you even reached the bed.

It was such a small thing. Such an easy thing. But it still made something inside your chest soften every time.

You climbed in beside him, fitting yourself against his side like you had done it a hundred times before. Your head settled on his chest, your hand resting over his stomach, and Dean’s arm came down around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer.

Ranger huffed from the end of the bed, as if annoyed you were taking attention away from him.

Dean gave him a sleepy scratch with his free hand. “See? Bossy.”

You smiled against his shirt. “He learned from you.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

Dean’s fingers moved absently over your shoulder, warm and steady. For a while, neither of you spoke.

The bunker hummed around you. Safe. Quiet. Full of weapons, secrets, old ghosts, and one dog who had somehow found his way into the middle of all of them.

You listened to Dean’s heartbeat beneath your ear.

Strong. Steady. There.

After everything, that still felt like something worth holding onto.

“You know,” you said softly, “he found us.”

Dean looked down at Ranger first then at you.

His expression shifted, just barely. The kind of softness he only let show when the world was quiet enough not to notice.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice lower now. “Guess he did.”

You tipped your face up toward him.

Dean leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering there for half a second longer than he needed to.

Ranger let out another dramatic huff.

Dean sighed. “You jealous or something?”

A small laugh slipped out of you, quiet and disbelieving as you looked between them.

“I still can’t believe you were ever going to turn him away.”

Dean scoffed, but there wasn’t any real bite in it.

“Oh, please,” he said, glancing down at Ranger like the dog had personally betrayed him. “The moment I saw your eyes land on him, I knew he was gonna end up here.”

You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest.

Dean shook his head, but his mouth twitched at the corner.

“Never stood a chance.”

Ranger’s tail thumped, like he agreed.

A few days later, you came into the kitchen to find Dean making Ranger breakfast.

Not feeding him leftovers.

Not accidentally dropping bacon.

Making breakfast.

There was kibble in the bowl, sure, but also a carefully cut-up scrambled egg on top.

You stopped in the doorway.

Dean froze.

Ranger sat at attention, vibrating with anticipation.

You slowly crossed your arms. “What is this?”

Dean looked at the bowl. “Dog food.”

“That is an egg.”

“Protein.”

“You made him an egg.”

“I made eggs. He got some.”

“There is no egg on your plate.”

Dean looked down at his empty plate.

Then back at you.

“I was full.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“Emotionally full.”

Your grin was immediate and unstoppable.

Dean pointed at her. “No.”

“You love him.”

“Do not start.”

“You made him breakfast.”

“He saved Sam’s life. He gets benefits.”

You walked farther into the kitchen, still smiling, and came to stand beside him. “Uh-huh.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to be cute and annoying.”

“I am cute.”

“You’re annoying.”

“But cute.”

Dean tried to hold the look.

He failed.

His mouth twitched, and you leaned up to kiss the corner of it before he could pretend otherwise. He grumbled under his breath, but his hand found your waist anyway, thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of your shirt.

Ranger whined.

Dean looked down at him. “Alright, alright. You’re starving. Clearly neglected.”

“I can’t believe you’ve made him a gourmet breakfast. You never make me a gourmet breakfast.”

“It’s an egg.”

“You cut it up. And is that cheese? Did you add cheese?”

Dean shoved the bowl onto the floor before you could properly inspect the egg. Ranger happily began eating.

When he had finished, licking the bowl spotless, he crossed the kitchen, bypassing you entirely to sit on Dean’s foot.

You mocked-gasped. “Ranger. Betrayal.”

Dean looked smug.

“Like I said,” he told them, scratching Ranger’s ears, “dog’s got taste.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “He was my dog first. You didn’t even want him.”

Dean looked down at Ranger. “You hear that buddy? All lies.”

Ranger wagged and llicked Dean’s hand.

You pointed at Ranger. “I rescued you from a storm.”

Ranger blinked lovingly at you then rested his chin on Dean’s boot.

Dean winced sympathetically. “That’s rough, sweetheart.”

Then he laughed. Actually laughed. Not the sharp kind. Not the sarcastic kind. The real kind, low and warm and surprised out of him.

You loved that sound.

You loved that Ranger brought it out of him.

You loved that the bunker had changed in small, ridiculous ways. That there were paw prints by the door and dog treats in the kitchen cabinet. That Sam talked to Ranger while researching like Ranger was a very quiet assistant. That Cas greeted him with the seriousness of an old friend.

That Dean Winchester, who had once declared hunters didn’t have pets, now made scrambled eggs for a stray dog.

You smiled at Ranger sitting by Dean’s feet, proud and content, wearing his ridiculous custom tag and looking like he had planned all of this from the beginning.

Outside, the sky was clear.

No storm.

No thunder.

No rain.

Just morning light filtering down into the bunker, catching on the map table, the coffee mugs, the scattered books, the dog hair Dean kept pretending to hate.

deans-spinster-witch

They just aren’t words as to how much I love this – so many adorable one liners, I could absolutely see this - I love it!

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Dean’s Spinster Witch