call of the wild

by gottagofastt

Summary:

In which an amateur witch gets her first hit in on an angel, Dean learns to navigate being a dog parent, and Sam wishes his best friend and his brother would figure it out already.

Notes:

a few notes before we start!

- first, thank you so much for reading this.
- second, this is my first time writing for the SPN fandom, so apologies if my characterisation is a little off! i find castiel easiest to write, yet he barely speaks in this one. oops.
- third, i will die on the hill that cas would be a big dog. they're so awkward, but they're doing their best.
- and lastly is a disclaimer: no AI was used in any part of writing this. i am a huge fan of both the Oxford comma and the em-dash, both of which frequently appear throughout this work. it's my style of writing. i would rather write fanfiction with my own blood than have AI do it for me. :)

This was chalking up to be one of the weirdest moments of Dean’s life.

 

It had started – how all their bullshit started – on a hunt. Reports of people burning from the inside out in rural Colorado had turned out to be a coven of witches. Nasty ones, at that: they hadn’t caught sight of the three of them entering the barn for more than two seconds before they’d started firing off spells. Three being Sam and Dean with Cas, who’d insisted on tagging along. With his grace failing more often than not, he’d been getting cabin fever sitting in the bunker waiting for them to return. Dean felt guilty benching him (especially with that stupid puppy-eyed look he always wore as Dean left) but it was for the best. Cas was a warrior of God, but he was no hunter.

 

Case in point: Cas had launched himself at one of the witches, angel blade at the ready. He’d not checked his six (despite Dean specifically reminding him to do that in the car on the way there).

 

Before Dean could warn him, Cas was hit by a bolt of bright light. Between Dean wrestling a witch with her hands latched onto Sam like some demonic leech, he caught a glimpse of the angel’s body hitting the hay-strewn floor.

 

“Cas!” he shouted.

 

He turned back to the witch with a yell, throwing her to the ground and plunging his knife into her chest. The others fled quickly afterwards. Dean didn’t spare them a thought, pulling his knife back to him and bolting over to where Cas was. Or rather, where his clothes were – a heap of trenchcoat bunched up on the ground. Dean sucked in a breath. 

 

“Where is he?” Sam asked.

 

Dean was about to snap at his brother that he obviously didn’t know, before the clothes moved. He startled back.

 

A lump arose in the pile of fabric, unfolding its limbs and climbing to its feet. Dean gripped his knife. The tall lump thrashed around, freeing itself from the fabric. It was–

 

Sam let out a huff of disbelief. “Is that a… dog?”

 

The tall lump – dog – stood where Cas had fallen. It was long-legged, long-nosed and wiry, with a greying coat and short ears. Distinctly, it had two bright blue eyes, which were now staring pitifully at Dean.

 

No way, right?

 

“Cas?” Dean asked carefully. 

 

The dog’s ears perked up, and its tail gave a slow, hopeful wag. 

 

Yes way.

 

Dean rubbed a hand across his eyes. This was gonna be a whole thing. “Bring the car. And call Rowena while you’re out there.”

 

“But Dean–”

 

“Now, Sam!”

 

Sam left promptly with Baby’s keys fisted in his hand. Dean turned back to the dog – Cas. Cas’ tail swung once again.

 

“Dammit Cas. I told you to watch your back,” Dean hissed.

 

Cas stared at him. His gaze drifted down to the clothes he had shed, pawing at them with a low whine. Dean sighed.

 

“Yeah, I know. I hate witches too buddy.”

 

Dean stood with him in silence until he heard Baby’s tires rolling on the gravel outside. He sighed, eyeing Cas. 

 

“Come on, Lassie, let’s go.”

 

Cas shifted his feet – paws. His legs were awkwardly long, and watching him walk on them was like watching Bambi on stilts. Well, if Bambi looked like a wire brush dragged backwards through a hedge. Dean snickered.

 

Cas’ head snapped towards him, glaring as if trying to burn two holes into Dean’s brain. Maybe he could – they’d have to check his mojo status now he was sans human vessel. For now, Dean held back on further humiliating him right up until they reunited with Sam, who was leaning against the Impala’s hood and pointedly trying to avoid staring. 

 

“You get through to Rowena?”

 

“Sort of,” Sam replied. “She’s busy, but she said she’ll ‘make some time.’ Whatever that means.”

 

“Dammit,” Dean cursed. “Who’s to say it won’t get worse, huh? What if he’s a werewolf – I mean, he looks halfway there already.” He frowned when he saw Sam grimace. “What?”

 

“Uh– I think you hurt his feelings, Dean.”

 

Dean looked back at Cas, who had visibly wilted. “Oh come on, Cas, don’t give me that.”

 

He couldn’t even stand Cas’ kicked puppy look when he was human, and it looked worse on an actual dog. That look was the one that had convinced Dean to let him on this hunt in the first place, but he bit his tongue on that one. No use upsetting Cas any more. 

 

“He’ll be fine for now,” Sam said, “Rowena said transformation spells aren’t fatal. Just… inconvenient.” He paused. “We should probably go.”

 

Some of the tension dissipated from Dean’s shoulders. At least he wouldn’t have to go grovelling to Rowena to save Cas’ life. Or a demon. Or another dickwad angel.

 

“Two hunters and an angel walk into a barn, and two hunters and a stray leave it,” Dean remarked with a sigh. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

 

He opened the door for Cas to climb into the backseat. He’d had picked up Cas’ clothes on their way out of the barn (who knows if the guy could find another trenchcoat) so he shoved them in first and gestured for Cas to follow. Cas did after a moment of hesitation, attempting to fold his freakish legs up to fit comfortably with minimal success. Dean shut the door behind him and got in at the driver’s side, with Sam following in the passenger seat. 

 

“You good there, Cas?” Dean called to his rearview.

 

Cas let out a huff, which Dean took as a yes. “No slobber on the seats, you hear?”

 

Cas didn’t respond this time, instead stretching his limbs out across the backseat and setting his head down. He didn’t seem all that bothered about his new four-legged body – maybe he’d used one as a vessel before. Could angels do that? How far did it go?

 

Dean was halfway through wondering if Cas’ true form could fit into a bee when they made it to the bunker. Cas bounded out of the car with enthusiasm, already scratching at the door by the time Dean and Sam reached it. 

 

“Move it Clifford, I can’t get in.” 

 

Dean pushed his giant head out of the way to turn the handle, stumbling a step as Cas pushed past him. Cas padded into the bunker, doing a lap of the map table before sitting beside it. 

 

Dean made a beeline for the kitchen, as he usually did after a hunt. Even a witch curse on his best friend couldn’t put a stop to his stomach growling. 

 

When Sam saw him setting out the package of burger patties on the counter, he stopped in his tracks. 

 

“What are we gonna feed Cas, Dean? We don’t have any dog food.”

 

Dean paused. Shit. He was trying not to be so flippant about the whole ‘Cas is a dog now’ thing, but it was so bizarre he had no room in his brain for the logistics of it. Would Cas even eat dog food?

 

“Cas?” he called. 

 

A moment passed before he heard a series of clicking footsteps amble across the floor. Cas appeared in the kitchen, towering at least half a foot above the counter. He watched Dean, his tail swaying back and forth curiously.

 

“You wanna eat?” A single bark, with a gravely tone to it that was so like Cas. “Okay. You craving dog food, or–”

 

Cas barked again, sharper this time. He turned his head, nudging the patties with his nose and looking back at Dean. 

 

He let out a laugh. “You want a burger? Sure buddy, coming right up.”

 

“Dean, he’s got a dog stomach now. He can’t digest burgers.”

 

Dean lit the stove. “S’just meat and bread Sam, he’ll be fine.” He spared a look at his brother, who was glaring pointedly. “Look, we’ll get him something better tomorrow, alright? Cas’s had a hard day, let the man have a burger.”

 

Sam muttered something under his breath, but didn’t push it and sat down to wait. Dean set down four burgers on the sizzling pan – two for him, one for Sam, one for Cas. Cas pressed against his side, peering into the pan as close as he could manage without Dean pushing him away. Fifteen minutes later and a lot of nudging Cas to move, Dean was dishing out four burgers with a proud grin. He set two down on his own plate and went to douse them in ketchup and mustard, but made the mistake of looking at Cas’ hopeful expression and wagging tail. Dean sighed, setting his plate down on the floor, which Cas began digging into heartily.

 

Sam gave him an odd look.

 

“What? Cas weighs even more than you, he needs the extra.”

 

“And he’s double your height too,” he bit back, dressing his own burger in whatever salad he had growing in the fridge. “What kind of dog do you think he is, anyway?”

 

After they had cleared up the kitchen, a quick computer search in the library told them that Cas was an Irish Wolfhound. 

 

“‘Known as gentle giants, Irish Wolfhounds have little interest in playing with others, remaining loyal to their owners.’,” Sam read. “Sounds like Cas.”

 

Dean looked at the dog in question, who tilted his head in a very Cas-like way. “You know, I always figured he’d be a pug or something.”

 

“You’ve thought about what dogs we’d be?”

 

“‘Course I have. For example, you’d be a poodle.”

 

Dean ducked in time to avoid Sam’s swipe at him. Cas, who had been pressing against him yet again, had to stumble to the side. He made his irritation known with a series of shrill barks, to which the hunter ruffled the top of his head in apology. Cas pushed into his touch, tail thumping against the floor.

 

“I think he likes it,” Dean said to Sam, grinning. 

 

“I mean he’s Cas,” Sam remarked, “I think he likes your attention.”

 

Dean withdrew his hand, suddenly conscious. “Whatever.”

 

Cas turned suddenly, walking – it was more like a trot if anything – out of the room with a sense of urgency. Dean listened to his steps trail away before he heard a low whining at the door. 

 

“Uh, Dean?” Sam lifted a brow. “I think Cas needs to… go.”

 

“Go?” Dean frowned, before his eyes widened. “Oh.”

 

“He can’t exactly use the bathroom.”

 

“Right. Er– I’ll– let him out.” 

 

Ten minutes later, Castiel returned to the bunker with his tail between his legs – literally. Dean avoided eye contact as he closed the door behind him. He decided he’d let Cas leave and do his business on his own; as dangerous as it was to let a cursed angel (ex-angel?) roam out of their sight, Dean risked it to spare the humiliation of it all. 

 

Plus, maybe Cas was disguised now: no one would suspect an angel of the Lord to be in a dog’s body. 

 

This theory was proven wrong when Rowena arrived the following day. Her hair, bundles of fiery curls, spilled over her shoulders and down her back, bouncing as she walked. She wore a long black dress adorned with lace, and her boots clacked against the floor of the bunker as she strode over to where Sam and Dean were sitting at the map table. 

 

“Who died?” Dean muttered under his breath.

 

“Quiet, Deanie boy. I’m doing you a favour, and not charging for it at that,” Rowena said airily. Her eyes fell on Cas sitting beside Dean, her smile widening. “And there’s the wee pup! Oh, aren’t you a beauty?”

 

Cas eyed her warily, but his tail betrayed him: thumping against the floor in a rhythm. His head swung back to glare at it, which Rowena took as an opportunity to rub her hand behind his ears and under his chin. Cas pulled his head away with a low grumble in his throat, to which Rowena cooed. 

 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Dean bit. Rowena tutted, but pulled away. “Can you turn him back?”

 

The witch hovered her hand over Cas for a moment, closing her eyes. After a minute had passed, she withdrew with a sigh.

 

“Well?” Sam asked, leaning forward.

 

Rowena smiled at him. “It’s a curse, but a simple one at that. Amateur, really.”

 

“So you can fix it,” Dean said.

 

She hummed. “I’m not all that keen on transformations, boys. I find it all rather silly.”

 

The hunter ran his hand across his face, shoulders sagging. “We should’ve gone after those witches then and there.”

 

“Maybe I can reach out to other hunters nearby, see if they’ve seen anything–”

 

“Ah ah ah,” Rowena cut in, pointing a manicured finger between the two of them, “I said I wouldn’t fix it, but who’s to say it’s permanent? It’s likely the first curse that witch has ever thrown in her life, the poor lass. It’ll last a week at best.”

 

“A week?” Dean echoed. “You’re saying Cas is stuck walking round like Beethoven for a week?”

 

She waved her hand at him. “In his lifespan it’s barely a blink of an eye. He’ll be alright on the kibble for now.”

 

Dean grimaced.

 

“Well” – she clapped her hands together – “I’d better be going. Plenty of business to attend to, not that you’d know.”

 

“Thanks, Rowena,” Sam said.

 

Dean scowled – she didn’t help one bit, but he bit his tongue. No use making an enemy out of her again. 

 

“Bye, boys.” With that, Rowena whisked herself away with a flutter of her hand. 

 

Cas let out a pitiful whine. Dean reached for him again, his hand rubbing the top of his head in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. 

 

“It’s just a week,” Dean reminded him. 

 

“I’ll check the lore,” Sam offered, “might be something there. It’s just a week, but there’s still cases out there that need us. If we could get Cas back to normal tomorrow–”

 

“We’re not putting any more witch spells on Cas. If Rowena won’t touch it, like hell am I letting you.”

 

Sam sighed. “Then I guess we’re taking the week off.” He got up, stretching out his shoulders. “Well, I’m heading to the library.”

 

“Sam–”

 

“I won’t! I’m gonna see if those witches got caught yet. Don’t want them turning up again to turn you into a frog or something.”

 

“‘Or something’,” Dean grumbled. “Okay, fine. Go look up what Cas can eat while you’re there.” 

 

He’d fed him four strips of bacon straight from the pan this morning alongside a bowl piled high with scrambled eggs, which was barely enough to sustain Cas when he was the size of a small horse.

 

“Will do.” He left.

 

Dean let out a sigh, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. He turned to Cas, who was sitting awkwardly with his eyes fixated on the ground. Something strange pulled in Dean’s chest. It was the same strange thing he felt when he saw Cas sleeping, or hurt, or when he saw the face he would make when he and Dean were fighting: they were all reminders that he wasn’t as all ‘angel Terminator’ as he used to be. He was vulnerable now. Human.

 

Right now, he was probably feeling pretty sorry for himself. That was no good to Dean.

 

“Hey Cas,” he called, waiting for Cas’ head to perk up. “How about a walk, huh?”

 

Cas jumped up, tail swishing back and forth slowly in cautious excitement. It was so convincingly dog-like that Dean had to suppress his laughter. He got to his feet, checking for Baby’s keys in his pocket: bingo. 

 

“You know, I think we might even have a leash out back,” he said, feigning sincerity.

 

Cas clenched his jaw, and Dean could’ve sworn he saw that trademark ‘eternally constipated’ frown in his canine face. This time, he did laugh.

 

It would be easy to take Cas for a run outside the bunker, but far too many strays turned up unannounced (what were they, a halfway house now?) and the risk of them running into Cas wasn’t worth it. Instead, he drove them a good forty-five minutes down the way, to where the forest spanned on for miles and the only noises were from calling birds and his own footsteps. 

 

Cas walked just ahead of him – not too far (but far enough to do his business out of sight), and he would periodically glance back at Dean to affirm the hunter was still following. Dean understood: when you lived the lives they lived, quiet moments like this were never without a price. There was a reason he had a gun tucked against one side of his waistband and a knife sitting flush against the other. 

 

Still, it was nice. The weather was crisp, a light breeze ruffling the leaves hanging low above them. Dean breathed it all in while he could. 

 

Fall was fast approaching, the first of the dried-out leaves crunching occasionally under his feet. Cas maneuvered around them – something to do with his paws, maybe. If he was stuck like this any longer, Dean would make a note to get him some boots. And a coat. Did they make dog-sized trenchcoats?

 

He shook his head to clear the thought. Who knew if Cas could hear him in that form. His prayers to Cas seemed to reach him half the time anyway; sometimes he wouldn’t even intend to pray, but Castiel heard. Profound bond and all that jazz.

 

Dean then thought about the years before he’d even considered praying to something. It had been just him and Sam then, hunting monsters and sticking their necks out searching for their deadbeat dad. Simple. Then Dean had gone to Hell, and an angel of the Lord had saved him, almost killing himself in the process and changing Dean’s life forever. And now, Dean was walking him on a (metaphorical) leash, Turner and Hooch style.

 

He grinned to himself. No regrets.

 

“C’mere, Cas.”

 

Cas’ ears pricked up. He turned around, padding over to where Dean was standing with his head tilted and question in his big blue eyes.

 

Dean pushed his luck: “How ‘bout a game of fetch, huh?”

 

Cas bristled, expression souring. If looks could kill, Dean would be buried out here under next winter’s snow. 

 

“Oh come on,” Dean huffed, “you’re a dog, dogs fetch! We can use that stick you’ve got up your ass.”

 

This pushed Cas over the edge – he charged, rearing up to shove his front two paws against Dean’s chest. Dean, unable to hold his own against a hundred-and-fifty pounds of canine, was sent sprawling to the forest floor. 

 

“Asshole,” Dean cursed when he’d sucked the air back into his lungs. 

 

Cas stumbled over him in a clumsy attempt to regain his balance, giving Dean the opportunity to lurch up and wrestle him to the side. Cas sprung backwards to free himself. Dean swiped his legs with his boot, sending him tumbling. This back-and-forth continued for several minutes, with Cas letting out a long string of high-pitched barks and Dean unable to stop the wide smile from breaking his face. 

 

“Alright, you win!” Dean gasped finally, flopping onto his back once more. The dirt felt ice cold under the exposed backs of his hands. 

 

He turned his head to find Cas, who was panting but remained relatively unruffled where he stood.

 

“If you were human, I would’ve had you calling uncle in two seconds flat.”

 

Cas didn’t seem challenged by this – instead, he stared at Dean with something fond in his expression. It was a look the angel often gave Dean, but he’d never been able to make sense of it. Cas was an eternally old, ultra-powerful being – Dean couldn’t even understand half of what he said or did on a daily basis. However, here and now, Cas’ tail swung back and forth, which made the meaning all too obvious.

 

Dean was conscious of his heart hammering loudly in his chest. He turned away.

 

“S’getting late. Let’s go.”

 

They trekked back in comfortable silence, Cas not straying from Dean’s side this time. When they reached the Impala again, Dean noticed another smaller car parked a distance away. Emerging from it were a couple – thirties, dressed in bright workout gear with sunglasses pushed up high on their heads. They noticed Dean a moment later and pivoted to approach him with waves and smiles. Not good.

 

He tensed, hand drifting to his side. Cas pressed them thigh-to-thigh, positioning the front half of his body in front of Dean. 

 

“Well, hello!” the man called. “Thought we’d come and say hi.”

 

Dean frowned, regarding them both apprehensively. What were the chances of two civilians arriving to a secluded area the moment he and Cas were leaving?

 

“Oh, we didn’t mean to bother,” the man said, worry clouding his expression. “We didn’t think other people walked around these parts, is all. And you’re a dog parent too!”

 

He relaxed slightly. Any demon or demon-adjacent would’ve ganked them by now – no witnesses, no signal, no obvious backup nearby. These were probably just John and Jane Doe, living their apple-pie life in atrociously bright sportswear.

 

“We’re new to the area,” he said coolly. “Just taking a walk.”

 

“Oh, Fifi just loves it here,” the woman told him, glancing down.

 

Dean’s eyes followed hers, landing on where a small white dog was lingering at her heels. Its beady eyes were fixated on Cas. 

 

“He’s a toy poodle,” she added proudly.

 

A smile ghosted Dean’s face. “You don’t say.”

 

Fifi let out a bark – it was a sort of yipping sound – at Cas, who was unwavering. Dean wondered if it was some kind of uncanniness (or un-canine-ness) that Cas had that the poor overgrown cottonball could sense. 

 

The woman was none the wiser, smiling wide at Cas. “And who’s this handsome boy?” 

 

She reached her hand out. Cas recoiled, now ducking behind Dean as if he wasn’t the size of a small elephant. The woman retracted her hand quickly. 

 

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. She looked back up. “Is he a rescue?”

 

Dean did grin this time. “Yep. His name is Castiel– oof.” Cas batted into Dean’s legs, sending his knees buckling. Luckily this time, he was able to regain his balance by stumbling a step forward. 

 

Fifi let out a squeak, skirting backwards.

 

“Big dog,” the man remarked, “he must bump into things all the time!”

 

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Dean grumbled, thinking of the numerous times he’d already stumbled over Cas just walking between rooms in the bunker. His massive frame seemed to linger in the exact place Dean needed to stand, to the point where he was convinced it had to be on purpose. 

 

The three of them got through a polite goodbye, with Dean assuring them he’d see them again – in reality this meant never (if he could help it). That’s what Fifi was probably hoping for. Dean snickered as he held the back passenger door open.

 

“I think you freaked that thing out, Cas.”

 

Cas glanced at him, a glimmer in his expression, before he jumped into the car. Dean gaped after him. 

 

“Was it on purpose?”

 

Cas couldn’t speak with his newly-acquired dog tongue, but Dean was trained enough in silent Cas behaviour to know the answer anyway. Huh. 

 

The journey back was just as silent as it had been on the way there, but it was the comfortable kind of silence. The last dregs of summer sun had made the air in Baby humid, so Dean worked his jacket off as he drove to toss it onto the passenger seat. He glanced in his rearview at Cas, sitting covered head to toe in fur, and wound down the back window.

 

The radio crooned Bob Dylan – Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door. The soft strums of guitar in the early evening were heaven-sent. 

 

Dean checked his rearview again. Cas was resting his head on the door and leaning his weight against it, letting the air roll across his face. His eyes were closed, and he looked so peaceful that Dean felt something swell in his chest and he had to look away. 

 

It was so typical to see Cas all wound up about something or other. Angels just came built-in with that sort of programming. Funny that being the furthest away from being one he’d ever been had done him the most good.

 

Pulling up to the bunker and now in signal range, his phone chimed. Dean checked once he was out of the car: one missed call and a series of texts from Sam, sent hours ago. He frowned at the screen.

 

  Sam: Did you leave?

  Sam: Is Cas with you?

 

Then, fifteen minutes later:

 

  Sam: Assuming you’re alive, have fun

 

Then, an hour later, finally:

 

  Sam: I found some ground beef and salmon in the freezer, Cas can have that

  Sam: We can boil him some vegetables

 

Dean huffed. Trust Sammy to notice they were gone within five minutes, but worry more about Cas having a balanced diet. Speaking of – he hadn’t moved, his body still slumped awkwardly against the door. Dean opened it, ignoring the fact that he and Cas were at eye-level. 

 

“C’mon, Cas. You know I can’t carry your giant ass in there.”

 

Cas let out a low rumble – something sarcastic, Dean was sure – but clambered out of the Impala anyway, plodding over to the bunker door like he had weights tied to his legs. After triple-checking Baby was locked (God forbid someone try and lay a hand on her interior), Dean opened the door. 

 

Once inside, he spied Sam hunched over a book at the map table. ”Honey, we’re home!”

 

Sam darted up out of his seat. “Did you get my texts?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean replied, “we just went for a walk, didn’t we?”

 

Cas walked up to Sam, pushing his head into his hand in what looked to be a greeting. Sam let out a laugh, ruffling the top of his head the way Dean had been doing. 

 

“Hey, Cas.” He turned back to Dean. “I’m not getting used to this, am I?”

 

“Not any more than Cas is. Guy wouldn’t even play fetch.”

 

“Wolfhounds aren’t big on fetch, Dean,” Sam told him. “Plus, Cas is still human. Or– angel, I meant. Sorry.” He grimaced.

 

Dean didn’t dare look at what face Cas was pulling now. Probably something pathetic and heartwrenching. Pivot, Dean.

 

“Now how ‘bout something to eat?”

 

Cas was in the kitchen in a second. Before Dean followed, he turned back to his brother.

 

“You find anything?” he murmured. 

 

“Nope,” Sam replied quietly. “No sign of them. Just have to wait it out, like Rowena said.”

 

Dean sighed. “Okay. Well, could be worse. We get a dog for a week and no hunts, and Cas gets his freedom. Real Scooby Doo stuff we’re living.”

 

“What, does that mean you’re Shaggy?” 

 

“I always figured I’d be Daphne.”

 

Cas barked from the kitchen. Dean sighed.

 

“I’d better go feed Old Yeller. He’s got a bottomless pit for a stomach now.”

 

“At least he has an excuse.”

 

“Bitch. And I mean the dog kind.”

 

“Jerk.” 

 

Dean took a jab at him before going into the kitchen. 

 

Cas was as impatient as ever – shifting on his feet and trying to hover over the pan when it was spitting. By now, Dean was used to keeping one hand free when he was cooking to shove him away. 

 

Dean cooked a portion of the ground beef and a portion each of salmon and carrots. Cas wolfed it down in under a minute, only for the opportunity to sit and whine at Dean while he made food for himself and Sam.

 

“Sorry, Cas,” Dean said, “dogs can’t have burritos. Especially dogs that can’t use the inside bathroom.” 

 

This comment didn’t put Cas off one bit. Dean didn’t expect it to. The guy was in a complete dog mindset when it came to food – he’d eaten more in the past couple days than he had throughout the entirety of his brushes with being human. Well. Apart from that run-in with Famine. Cas had chowed through at least four hundred burgers in a night then. 

 

Cas whined again. This was going to be a long week, Dean decided. 

 

The three of them fell into a loose routine in the following days. In the mornings, depending on who was up first, one of them would let Cas out to do what he had to do, repeating this again in the afternoons and evenings. Dean cooked all the dog-friendly meals: variations of ground meat, salmon, eggs and vegetables, with the occasional slip of bacon in the morning when Sam wasn’t looking. Sam even put on nature documentaries for Cas to watch because “Dogs need mental exercise too, Dean.” 

 

Neither of them took Cas out for a walk again – although it was harmless, Dean didn’t want to run into anyone else again. It was a risk the first time around. Next time, it would be a demon they ran into instead, and they’d make a (literal) dog’s dinner out of Cas.

 

It was all a little domestic for him, really. The hunter’s blood ran hot through his veins, itching for him to get his teeth into another hunt. Worst drug in the world to get clean from, and Dean had tried – and failed – many times. But now his best friend was cursed into man’s best friend, meaning all of them had to wait it out in the bunker. 

 

Bringing Cas along wasn’t an option either. Dean didn’t want to let him tag along on a hunt ever again. So, with no solution to be found, he held in his complaints, even when the smell of homemade dog food lingered uncomfortably in the kitchen and he was nearly sent flying for the twentieth time thanks to Cas’ lack of spatial awareness.

 

Being held up at home base kept his brain far too unoccupied – so much so that one night he woke up gasping for air, the last tendrils of his nightmare fading from his sight. Dean pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Nightmares were a nightly occurrence for any hunter with a leg to stand on, but this particular version had been so convincing. Something with Cas, grey and lifeless– It was already growing fuzzy at the edges, but his heart continued to hammer in his chest and the sweat that had pooled on his shirt grew cold and clammy. 

 

He glanced to the side where his alarm clock sat: two-fifteen. Not enough hours. 

 

“I need a drink,” he rasped into the darkness, already halfway out of bed. 

 

Three fingers of whiskey downed in the light of the refrigerator later, Dean stumbled onto the couch with the bottle clutched in his hand and a glass in the other. Already it was working, spreading warmth through his body and relieving the tightness from his muscles. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

 

A whine. Dean’s eyes flew open. 

 

He could just about make out Cas standing in the darkness, his blue eyes lit up like headlights. He fixed them on Dean.

 

“Dammit, Cas,” he muttered under his breath. 

 

Cas whined again, sitting down.

 

“What’s wrong with you? You need to go?”

 

He stared insistently. Dean frowned.

 

“Look, I’m sorry for waking you. Kinda forgot you were in here. Just couldn’t sleep.”

 

Cas’ gaze shifted – finally – and landed on the bottle still in Dean’s grip. Another whine. 

 

Dean sighed, setting the bottle down and the glass next to it. He’d argue, but it was no good arguing with someone that couldn’t even speak. It wasn’t like Dean could bark back at him either. 

 

“Happy now?” he bit, harsher than he meant to. Stupid whiskey. Stupid nightmare.

 

Cas hesitated for a moment before he slowly leaned his head down to rest on Dean’s knee. His eyes lifted to meet Dean’s, wide and woeful as ever. He grumbled, and it almost sounded like “Dean.”

 

Something thudded in Dean’s chest – the same something he’d felt in the forest just days ago. Something that he’d really been pushing down for years, pretending it didn’t exist at all. It was bubbling to the surface now, faster than he could try to put a lid on it. It was dangerous, Dean knew that for definite. He couldn’t– wouldn’t let himself think about it. It was an eternal elephant in the room between them that he was dragging around on an invisible leash.

 

The words tumbled past his lips before he could help it: “Cas, I’m sorry.”

 

Cas blinked. Dean had never prayed more for him to speak. He’d stop Dean, wouldn’t he? Tell him he was drunk, and he needed to shut his mouth and go back to bed.

 

Dean continued.

 

“I’m sorry for all of it.” 

 

For what exactly, he couldn’t say. Pushing Cas away all the time was a start, but that was reflexive by now – doing it would keep them both safe, he had reasoned. Fat load of good that had done them. One of them was always buried up to the hilt in shit one way or another.

 

“I know I always screw things up between us, but…” His voice came out as a croak. Just what the hell was in that whiskey? “I’m trying, Cas.”

 

Cas lifted his head, and for a moment Dean feared he was going to disappear. But Cas stayed, choosing instead to step up onto the couch and lay across it with his head further in Dean’s lap. Dean inhaled sharply– then exhaled, his hand working his way through Cas’ wiry fur. It was the closest they’d ever been, dog or angel or human alike. 

 

And it was enough, for now. 

 

Dean awoke in the morning to Sam’s heavy footsteps trudging past him to the kitchen. It took him a moment to realise he was still on the couch. The whiskey and glass were still sitting on the floor. Cas was halfway across his lap now, soft huffs leaving his body as he continued to sleep.

 

Dean swallowed past the dryness in his throat. “Cas.” 

 

He shook him lightly, causing Cas to stir. He yawned, big and wide and exposing bright white canines lined in a row along his gleaming gums. A minute of stretching out later and he was hopping up, walking to the kitchen with a swing in his tail. Dean stretched his own legs out; the relief from sleeping with Cas’ weight pressing on them had sent pins and needles firing through his nerves. 

 

After a few minutes had passed, he followed Cas into the kitchen, getting a pan out with one hand and setting down a mug for coffee with the other. Sam leaned against the counter, holding his own mug already. He regarded Dean with a look.

 

“What?” Dean asked him. 

 

“Just seems like you’re enjoying this, that’s all.”

 

Dean stilled, suddenly grateful that he was hidden from his brother’s view (courtesy of the refrigerator door). He slowly reached for the eggs.

 

“No idea what you’re talking about.” And it was true! He wasn’t enjoying it. As funny as it was to watch Cas navigate his newfound doghood, it was a damn inconvenience. Plus, he missed the Cas with his meatsuit. That was the Cas who wouldn’t be trying now to snatch eggs straight from the carton like a snake. “Hey, quit it!”

 

“You sleeping okay?”

 

Dean turned to frown at his brother, hand pushing away Cas’ muzzle. “Huh?”

 

“Cause I don’t think Cas is,” Sam continued, “I hear him walking around at night.”

 

“Oh.” Dean blinked. He thought of Cas this morning: all six feet of him, dead to the world, curled up in Dean’s lap. “He’s probably sick of being a dog, s’all.”

 

Sam gave him a wry smile which Dean turned away from, scowling. Fortunately, he didn’t push it further. Nor did he push it when over the next few nights, after he’d let Cas out for his bathroom break, Cas would follow Dean into his room. 

 

He spent the nights curled up at the foot of Dean’s bed, with Dean waking up groggily each morning with at least two limbs sprawled across him. There was something familiar, at least, about having Cas lingering on the edge of his bed while he slept. 

 

Familiarity felt good. Dean didn’t have any more nightmares.

 

On the seventh day of Cas’ curse, it all came to a head.

 

Sam had received a call in the morning about a potential wendigo two hours away. Eight victims consumed in a week, with no sign of it stopping any time soon. Dean had rounded on his brother the moment he’d put down the phone.

 

“We’re not going.”

 

“Dean–”

 

“No, Sam! We said no hunts until Cas was back to normal.” He gestured at Cas, who was still four-legged and furry all over. “He look back to normal to you?”

 

“A lot of people are dying, Dean. We can’t just sit here.”

 

Dean could’ve laughed at the irony. Usually the argument went the opposite way for them, with Dean insisting on pursuing every hunt and Sam protesting against it. Maybe this week had taken its toll on Sammy, too. 

 

“Cas doesn’t have his grace, you know that. He’s a sitting duck if we leave him here.”

 

“The curse is supposed to wear off at any–”

 

Cas chose that moment to involve himself; he positioned his body between them, facing Dean. He barked loudly over and over and over, making Dean’s ears go funny. He paused to wait for Dean’s response. 

 

“You’re not–” Dean tried to say, but Cas interrupted him with more barking. Momentarily, Dean prayed that whoever the witch was that had given Cas the vocal strength of a foghorn, she was currently burning in some sub-section of Hell. 

 

“Alright, alright!” he yelled. 

 

Cas fell silent. Dean sighed, rubbing his brow. 

 

“You better behave,” he warned. “If you get turned into a cat, I’m handing you in to a shelter for a week.”

 

Cas’ tail was already wagging. Likely, he’d not even listened to Dean’s threat, caring more about the fact that he’d got his way. 

 

“So,” Sam said, metaphorical tail wagging, “we’re going then?”

 

“Out in five.”

 

“Cool. Right. Let’s go.”

 

As it turned out, it really was a wendigo. They’d spotted its grossly elongated figure sprinting through the woods, the remnants of its latest victim dripping down its bony front. 

 

Dean and Sam – Cas in tow – had chased after it. 

 

Dean managed to shoot an arrow into the creature’s shoulder. It roared as it turned on him, swiping its claw deep across his calf before he could blink. He cried out and gritted his teeth to stifle it. 

 

“Dean!” Sam yelled. 

 

The wendigo took the opportunity to leave, much to Dean’s disdain. He let Sam tie his flannel tight over the wound without complaint, but waved him away when Sam told him to go back to the car.

 

“It’s nothing,” he ground out. “C’mon, let’s follow it.”

 

Cas led the chase in front, with Dean half-limping behind him and Sam jogging close to his brother’s side. Eventually they reached what looked to be a cave formed deep into the ground, with a narrow opening barely a foot across. The surrounding dirt had been kicked up, with long claw marks freshly embedded within.

 

Dean gaped. “No way it fit through there.”

 

“We’ll have to find another way,” Sam said, craning his head to look around them. 

 

“It might take off by then,” Dean argued exasperatedly. His leg was throbbing now, the blood already seeping through the fabric. They were running out of time. 

 

It happened in an instant.

 

Cas lurched forward on his hind legs, miraculously squeezing himself through the cave entrance in seconds. Dean threw his arm out– but it was too late. Cas disappeared into the dark. 

 

“Cas!”

 

“Shit,” Sam hissed.

 

Dean reached into the hole, hoping to feel fur, but found nothing but empty space. His chest heaved in and out. Cas had no weapons, no backup. He was alone in a fight with a monster twice the size of him, with spears for fingers and teeth that could tear his throat out. 

 

And yet, no matter how hard he strained, he couldn’t hear anything. No barking, no snarling. No pattering footsteps. Was that good or bad?

 

“Cas,” he yelled desperately, whilst trying to pry the soft edges of the entrance loose, “wait for us, man. Just hold on.”

 

He had a sudden sense of deja-vu – a feeling he was downright sick of by now. Cas had a penchant for throwing himself into fights without thinking and Dean was sick of feeling like he could never get there fast enough. If they made it out of this one alive, Dean would say something. He’d tell Cas everything he’d never told him over the years. Anything, if it meant not losing him again.

 

“Dean!” Sam called. “Found another entrance!”

 

Dean was up in moments, scrambling towards Sam’s voice. His brother was right: there was another entrance, wide enough for them to enter the cave if they hunched over.

 

“Come on.” Dean nudged him.

 

He took the lead forward, with Sam close behind. The first thing he noticed was that the air was biting. The second thing was their shoes squelching from the water trickling down the surrounding walls. The third was that it was dark. Sam – ever-resourceful – pulled out a torch, illuminating the path ahead in bright light. Nothing. Dean sighed. 

 

“You see anything?” Sam asked.

 

“No.”

 

As the minutes passed of them trudging their way through the cave tunnel, the ball of anxiety twisted in Dean’s chest. It almost felt worse than the shredded skin of his calf; that was treatable, at least. Antiseptic, a bandage and a couple days of taking it easy at most. A bandage wasn’t going to cut it for Cas being missing – or worse. 

 

Then–

 

a yelp. 

 

They froze. 

 

“Was that–” Sam began.

 

“Cas,” Dean breathed. 

 

He sprinted forward, ignoring the pain flaring as a result. Further into the cave he heard noises – was that Cas or the monster? – and Dean called out for Cas again. Eventually, the cave’s walls opened up into a cavern even colder than the tunnel had been, enveloped in near total darkness. Guttural growling sounds rattled off the walls now like an earthquake, but Dean couldn’t make out where they were coming from. 

 

“Sam–”

 

“I’ve got it.” Sam dropped the torch onto the ground, diffusing its light into the cavern. 

 

Dean saw the wendigo first. It appeared bigger than it had in the forest now that it wasn’t obscured in the foliage, its arms hanging low and its shrivelled body appearing to glow uncannily through its paper-white complexion. Like every wendigo, it was a real ugly son-of-a-bitch. 

 

Then his gaze fell to its leg, which Cas had his jaws clamped around. He ragged his head back and forth like the thing was a giant chew toy, his growls reverberating through his body. The wendigo attempted to swipe at him, frustrated and pained, but Cas was faster and unrelenting in his grip. He could’ve given Cujo a run for his money. 

 

“Cas!”

 

Cas’ wild eyes met Dean’s. For a moment, he looked relieved.

 

Big mistake. The wendigo seized him by the throat, lifting him into the air with a snarl. Cas kicked at it with his limbs, but it was a pointless effort – the thing swung its arm back and sent him soaring through the cavern and crashing into the wall thirty feet away. 

 

His body hit the floor. He didn’t move.

 

“No!” Dean howled.

 

The cavern trembled for a terrifying moment. 

 

Rocks and debris crumbled away from the wall in quick succession, piling on top of Cas like he was condemned to a tomb. He didn’t make a sound.

 

Dean staggered forward, bad leg buckling. His heart pounded in his ears. 

 

“Cas.” Sam gasped out. Then: “Dean, it’s coming!”

 

Dean managed to grasp his awareness back in time to pull his knife out, striking the hilt of it into the monster’s jaw as it lunged for him. The wendigo stumbled to the side, dazed. This moment was enough time for Sam to pull out his flare gun. 

 

Point two for Sam Winchester. 

 

The creature wailed as the cavern lit up in dazzling orange. As the light fizzled out and his eyes adjusted to the darkness again, Dean heard its body crash to the floor. A surge of grim satisfaction rose up in him.

 

“Good hit,” he said to Sam, who smiled back at him briefly. 

 

A beat passed before it dawned on him, and Dean’s shoulders sagged. “Cas, God–”

 

The two of them ran to where Cas was buried under the rubble. Dean dropped to his knees (biting back his wince), pulling loose rocks away in the hopes of finding fur underneath. Sam crouched beside him to do the same. Each rock they pushed aside felt like a tick on the clock.

 

But it wasn’t fur that Dean found underneath. When he lifted one of the larger stones, a hand was underneath, palm-up and still. More importantly, it was human. He inhaled sharply.

 

Now with a starting point to go from, he and Sam had Cas freed in less than a minute. He was coated in a thick layer of dust and grime, with his hair sticking in every direction. He didn’t stir.

 

“Cas?” Dean whispered. 

 

He repeated his call, louder, shaking Cas’ shoulder. Cas didn’t even twitch.

 

Dean looked at Sam helplessly, who looked at him equally lost. He turned back to Cas.

 

“Dammit, Cas,” he said shakily, “don’t do this. Please.”

 

An aching moment passed where the only sound Dean could hear was his own heavy breathing. His lip trembled.

 

On his next exhale, he began to pray.

 

Cas’ eyes flew open.

 

“That was… unpleasant.”

 

Dean let out a breathy laugh. He pulled Cas to sit up, hands reaching to hold his dirty face. He wanted to blurt out how unbelievably good it was to hear Cas’ voice again after the most bizarre week of their lives, but decided that could wait. 

 

“Good to see you back on two legs,” he said.

 

Cas smiled back at him, his expression sickeningly fond. This time, Dean didn’t look away, drinking him in.

 

Sam cleared his throat behind them. Dean jumped back.

 

“You guys catch up, I’ll get the car. And uh– Cas’ clothes.”

 

Right. Cas was naked.

 

Dean’s cheeks burned as he tossed Sam the keys. He silently prayed that this wouldn’t be cannon fodder for his brother to humiliate him with later – judging by Sam’s grin as he left, he wasn’t holding out hope. He sighed.

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean turned back to Cas, his eyes fixated upwards and out of sight of– well, anything. He startled as he felt a palm press against his leg. The wound ebbed with blood that disappeared in its entirety in the next moment, the pain dissipating like it had never been there at all. Grace flooded through Dean’s veins, warm and light and familiar.

 

Dean dared to meet Cas’ eyes. “You back in gear?”

 

Cas shook his head slightly, his smile bittersweet. “My grace is refreshed for now. It won’t last.”

 

Dean nodded. Only so many miracles in a day and all. He reached for Cas again, daring to grip his shoulder. Now or never.

 

“Listen, I… I gotta tell you something.”

 

“I know, Dean,” Cas told him, accompanied by a classic tilt of his head.

 

Dean swallowed. “You do?”

 

“Of course.” He paused. “I know you.”

 

And wasn’t that the kicker? Dean inhaled, holding his breath for a moment before letting the tension slip from his body on the exhale. 

 

“So we’re good?”

 

Cas closed the distance. 

 

And that was answer enough.