He's got that dog in him
(Dean & female reader & Sam - all platonic)
Summary Sam and Dean get themselves into a bark-ward situation, and of course it's up to you to help them. That doesn't mean you and your fluffy boys can't have some fun. CWs Dogs, big and small. Shenanigans. Questionable use of seasonal plushies. Some cuddles. 2.9k words AN I originally had another fic planned for today, but then this idea got stuck in my head and I couldn't get rid of it. Thank you to @ambiguous-avery and @jollyhunter for their enthusiasm when I told them about this, cause it definitely pushed me across the finish line, and for the idea of making dog Dean bowlegged and the term "Dogchesters". Prompt "Death! Death to pumpkins!"; Cozy cuddles
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“Oh, you have to be goddamn shitting me!”
Your eyes widen, your mouth drops open and terror floods your veins as you stare at where Sam and Dean Winchester were standing only a second ago. Just behind that spot, you conveniently shielded from whatever that bright orange light that was coming out of her fingertips was, lies the dead witch, bullet hole between her eyes.
You don’t need to look at the clothes that now lie pooled at their feet - paws - to know which brother is which. Sam is slender yet hulking, all warm chestnut with floppy, hanging ears the size of your hand and the wettest eyes you’ve ever seen. Frowning, of course, because that’s just what he does. Dean, on the other hand, is proportionally much smaller. He’s a big guy when he’s human, but this form does not represent it. He looks like a mix of breeds, chest white and the rest a soft, deep caramel. His mouth is hanging wide open and he looks like he’s goddamn grinning while his tail wags back and forth like a whip. Scruffy little thing.
He barks once, sharp, loud, and you flinch, then stand there, frozen. Sam does something between a snort and a sneeze. You drop your tensed shoulders, slowly shake your head, your eyes refusing to stop being saucer-big.
“No way,” you mutter as you look at the two dogs that are Sam and Dean.
You grab their clothes.
The two aren’t skittish, so that’s good. You wonder if that at all means that they are aware of the situation, or if they simply don’t see you as a threat. They watch you, heads tilted, as you quickly gather up jeans, flannels and jackets, t-shirts and underwear, trying not to look too closely at the latter. Your arms full of clothes and your head full of slowly rising panic, you bend down again, grab for two large pairs of boots. It makes the red and black flannel that Dean was wearing drop out of the pile in your arms, only to be quickly scooped up by his dog version.
“N–no, dog, I mean, Dean, stop it!” you yelp, but he’s already running around you in circles, the shirt dragging over the dirty ground of the abandoned warehouse you’re in. You chase him for a few steps, then stop with a frustrated sigh. Turn to look at Sam, who is sitting on his ass, still more than half as tall as you, watching you while his ear twitches.
You lead them out to the car, open the back door, toss the clothes in, then grab for Dean’s jeans, fumble for the keys. You can’t panic. That’s the most important part. They’re alive, they’re not hurt. They’re just, well, dogs. This is something you can fix.
You find the keys, throw closed the door and haul ass over to the other side. You open that door, then turn to Sam, waving him in. Good boy that he is, he trods forward, and with something that can only be described as an embarrassing hop, his front half makes it into the backseat, the frame creaking under him just like it does when human Sam gets into the car. He seems to have trouble bringing in the rest of himself though, so you scoot down, reach for his backside and help him push up. He plops down on the bench, dragging more creaking from Baby. You’re already sweating.
You open the passenger side, and Dean shoots in like lightning.
“At least you’re still good at that,” you mutter, close the door and hurry over to the other side. You slide into the driver’s seat, only to immediately feel sharp little paws dig into your thigh, and a second later, Dean is on your lap, panting and looking out the front.
You look at him, and then you can’t help but bring one hand up, fingertips brushing against the rough fur under his chin. He smacks his little mouth contentedly before he starts panting again. You can’t fight the grin that spreads on your face.
“You wanna drive, huh?” you mumble, scratching him again, and Dean yawns, mouth ripped open, ears pulled back in a shockingly accurate imitation of the real thing.
For a second, you’re half sure the witch somehow survived and has hit you in the back when you feel the impact, but when you quickly turn your head, you realize it’s only Sam, smushing his big skull against yours, humongous paws over the back of the bench. You scoff, raise your other hand, scratching at his chin too.
“We’re gonna figure this out, okay?” you say, your voice dipping into that cutesy register reserved for adorable animals and babies. “It’s all gonna be fine.”
Sam snort-sneezes again. Dean’s tongue shoots out and wets the side of your thumb. Yeah. It’s all gonna be fine.
You make it back to the motel. You’re pretty sure dogs aren’t allowed here, so you hope to usher them in without drawing much attention. The boys, however, have other plans.
Dean keeps running circles around you, nipping at your heels while Sam seems to have a unique talent of managing to stand in your way every time you’ve just avoided Dean, making you grunt with the way you smash into his big body.
“Guys, come on,” you hiss through your teeth. “Not helping.” Dean yaps, runs ahead, then looks over his shoulder and you could swear he’s grinning again. His hindlegs are rounded just like his real ones.
They crowd you as you unlock the door, nearly pushing you off your feet, but then they stumble over each other to get inside. You throw the door shut behind you, sigh as you watch the two.
Sam goes for the bed, jumps on it, walks around in a circle before lying down, big head going down to rest on the back of his brick-sized paw. Dean meanwhile waddles over to the couch. He jumps up, grabs for one of the pillows and starts chewing on it.
You blow out some air through your pursed lips. Then you walk over the table, reach for the book Sam left open last, and start reading.
When Sam gives a low whine, you look up, blink. Almost forgot both your boys are dogs.
Sam whines again, full-bodied yet soft. You look over at Dean on the couch. He still has the edge of the pillow between his teeth but he’s on his back, eyes closed, one outstretched paw twitching. It’s darker in the room and with a start you raise your hand, look at the watch on your wrist.
“Shit, you guys must be hungry,” you mutter, immediately interrupted by your own stomach growling. You grimace, then push yourself away from the table.
“Okay,” you say, looking at the two dogs in turn. “I guess I can figure out how to turn you back once we’ve eaten.”
After Dean wakes with a snort and Sam accidentally body checks you on his way to the door, you finally manage to hustle the two outside. There’s a small grocery store down the road, and the boys trot after you, both staying close. When you reach the store, you see the large No dogs allowed sign. You turn around.
“You guys okay to stay here for a sec?” you ask them. Sam tilts his big head, but Dean is busy trying to bite his brother’s wagging tail. You look at them for a second longer, then nod. Turn to walk away, but look back immediately. They remain where they are. You can’t help but smile. “Good boys.”
You buy several large tins of dog food, even springing for the slightly more expensive one, as well as a few plastic dog bowls. You also grab a pre-packed sandwich and some coffee for yourself. If you want to crack this curse, it might be a long night. You’re standing by the cash register, waiting your turn when your eyes fall on the bargain bin nearby, and you grin to yourself.
Sam and Dean haven’t moved when you come back outside with two plastic bags in your hands, the coffee cup balanced in one. You click your tongue as you approach, then stop in your tracks.
“Sam,” you sigh, “take your brother’s head out of your mouth.” Sam sideeyes you, while Dean yaps from inside his little brother’s maw, being gently gnawed on.
You’re halfway back to the motel when you see the park. You stop walking, look around, then at the two dogs. It’s silly. They’re not really dogs. But it still feels wrong for them to be cooped up all day. And you could use the break and fresh air yourself.
“You guys wanna go to the park?” you ask. Both of them react with wagging tails.
You cross the street, then set the bags down, reach into one. The bone dog toy goes flying, lands on the ground somewhere behind the dogs. Both give you a questioning look.
“You can go after it,” you say. “Kinda what dogs do.”
Dean starts running first. Not surprising really. Sam keeps looking at you, as if wanting to make sure he’s really allowed to have fun.
“Go, boy,” you say, and then he’s off. He catches up with Dean within a few quick bounds of his long legs, takes the toy from him like it’s nothing, Dean yapping and jumping on his bowed hindlegs.
“Don’t fight!” you yell after them, grinning, and already reaching into the bag again. “There’s more where that came from.”
The air is cool and the trees naked, which is why the pumpkin plush must have been so cheap. It goes flying too, and maybe it’s the bright color that gets Dean’s attention, makes him sprint towards it. He catches it out of the air, and you can’t help but whoop at that. Before you know it, you’re running towards him.
Dean’s hanging on to one side of the pumpkin toy, your hand is holding the other while he throws his head back and forth. Sam is jumping around you two, more excited than you’ve ever seen him. You’re laughing loudly at both of their demeanors.
“Yeah, get it, boy!” you say, shaking the toy and Dean along with it. “Death! Death to pumpkins!”
Eventually, your arm gets tired, and you cede the pumpkin to Dean. He starts running in a circle with it, much too proud by half, until Sam, now untethered from his usual seriousness, comes bounding towards him, snort-sneezing again, and Dean drops the toy and instead goes for his brother.
You take a sip from your coffee, then nearly spit it out when the two go rolling a few feet, Dean pawing at Sam’s neck, the big dog looking positively bored but like he is humoring the little guy. You can’t stop laughing at their expressions, their short yelps, the way they throw themselves back and forth so dramatically, like titans locked in a battle for life and death.
Eventually, Sam untangles himself from Dean, comes bounding towards you, but rather than tackle you he hides behind you, pressed close, as if he’s hoping he’ll be able to hide. The chuckle that leaves you sounds so delighted that it surprises you - it’s been a long time since you’ve heard yourself laugh like that. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Winchester brothers so free of worry, and as Dean runs towards you as well, basically jumping at his brother and you squeal, it’s pure excitement and joy that make the sound come out of you.
You play until the sun begins setting. Until even the boys seem to start getting tired out. Sam somehow managed to turn both flaps of his ears around, and you take his big face in your hands, scratching at it, before turning them around, and scratching behind them too for good measure. He opens his mouth, pants at you and you grin.
It’s only when you turn around, call for Dean, that you guffaw. There he is, out for God and everyone to see, humping the plush pumpkin.
“Dean!” you hiss, running towards him. “Stop that!”
Eventually, you manage to get them both home, back to the motel. You put out the bowls and open their food for them, both boys attacking the stinky brown mess like it’s their last meal on earth. Once they’re busy with that, you sit on one of the chairs, unpack your sandwich. Chew it slowly and deliberately as you watch the two eat their fill, pushing the bowls around with their noses when they’re empty.
The grin on your face isn’t going anywhere. You’ve understood that at this point.
It’s not much later that you notice your eyes are starting to close on their own accord. You stretch your neck, then sigh.
It’s been a long day. Surely a short break, maybe a nap, won’t make much of a difference. Your boys have had their exercise, they’ve been fed. They’re warm and safe.
You plop down on the couch, TV already on, then pat the seat either side of you. Dean is quicker, jumping onto the couch like he was born for it, but Sam’s arrival is a bit more impactful. He hops up on the couch, and then leans against you, nearly sending you to the other end of it. You manage to get your arm around his barrel chest, petting it, while you’re keeling to the side, and in the next second Dean’s wagging tail hits you in the tit with a suddenness that makes you gasp, but you can’t stop the laughter from bubbling over.
“Guys, guys,” you say. “Calm down.”
The three of you eventually all get settled. Your arm is still around Sam, while your other hand is gently patting Dean’s butt. The TV’s sounds are lulling you in, and you lean your head back, close your eyes. Just a quick little nap, in between the warmth of your boys. And then you will take care of everything.
Morning sunshine falls on your face, and the TV is still on. You make a noise in your throat, turn your head, body stiff from sleeping in that position. You sniff, remembering the previous day, sure the air in the room must be filled with the smell of dog.
It is, but it’s not as bad as you think it would be. And when you move the fingers of one hand, they don’t brush against fur, but against skin.
It’s like you’re catapulted off the couch. You turn, see just enough to confirm that Sam and Dean have, in fact, at some point in the night turned back to being human, were lying smushed against you, completely and utterly naked, before your hands are shooting up and covering your eyes.
“Oh my God!” you yell. “You guys are friggin’ naked!”
They must only just be waking up themselves, because Dean’s voice sounds rough and heavy when he speaks - very unlike his bark.
“What the hell happened?” he asks. “God, this is the worst hangover ever.” And then Sam speaks next.
“And why are we… holy crap, why are we naked?”
You take that as your cue to spin around, sprint towards the bathroom, nearly stumbling and breaking your neck a few times until you manage to slam the door shut between you and your friends.
You lean your back against the door, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“A Jack Russell Terrier? Seriously?”
It’s not the first time Dean asks, and you doubt it’ll be the last. You confirm again, and he makes a face as he opens Baby’s trunk.
“Aren’t those the small, yappy ones?” he asks as you deposit your duffle, then look up at him. He looks more than insulted. “Meanwhile Sam was freakin’ Scooby? Not fair.”
“It was hardly about fair, Dean,” Sam says, ever reasonable, as he walks up next to you, drops his bag in the trunk too. “It was just a spell.”
“Yeah, but I should have been a majestic dog,” Dean continues, not dropping the bone, you think to yourself with a grin. “A Rottweiler or German Shepherd or something.”
“You don’t even like dogs,” you fire back, rolling your eyes at him. “Besides, all dogs are, you know, dogs. They’re not actually majestic. They’re all a bit silly.”
Dean’s halfway to rounding the car so he can get into the driver’s seat when he freezes, looks at you, eyes narrowed.
“Dear God,” he says. “Did I… did I roll over and get my belly scratched? Did I like it?” You press your lips together, try to keep your expression serious. Think of that pumpkin toy, waiting for Dean to call. You’re gonna keep that one in your backpocket for a rainy day.
“Nope,” you say. “You’re all good.” Dean throws you a suspicious look before finally getting in the car, but Sam looks at you with a knowing smile deepening his dimples.
Once all three of you are in the car, Sam turns around where he’s sitting, looks at you.
“So,” he says, “we know what kind of dogs we turned into. What breed would you have been?” You lean forward, arms crossed over the back of the bench.
“Easy,” you say, looking between the two brothers. “I would have been a cat.”
Dean snorts and Sam chuckles, and then Dean starts the car, pushes in a tape. You drop back with a shit-eating grin. Tap your finger to the music.
Once you’re pulling off the lot, you reach forward, extend your arms, and scratch both brothers behind an ear.
You don’t hear the end of it for a couple hundred miles.
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