Chapter Text
Six months ago Dean Winchester lost his best friend. If you’d have asked him from the floor of that god forsaken dungeon if he thought he was ever coming back from that, well… he wouldn’t have answered. But if you’d have asked a bit later, if he thought he’d be saved by man’s best friend, he would have probably said not in a million years. Dean was never a dog person, in fact, he’d always kind of disliked dogs. Maybe it was that time he had to be a dog that changed his mind. After all, nothing teaches you more about something than personal experience. But at the end of the day, the only thing that keeps him getting up again each morning—other than his brother Sam of course—is taking care of a shaggy, drooling, goofy ball of fur.
That first night after Chuck lost and they finally got home to the bunker, Dean was right back in hell—adrenaline fully depleted, he hit his bed, but didn’t sleep at all. Every time he closed his eyes he just saw that face. Those tears… those blue, blue fucking eyes. That goddamn smile. Happy to sacrifice. Happy to leave him alone in this life. So… happy. It’s nice to have distractions like stopping the end of the world, to get you through the worst times; but once it’s over, really, truly over, it’s time to ask yourself: Now what will you do? And maybe at one point Dean knew what he wanted after the end, but without his best friend; without the love of his life? He didn’t imagine that outcome. So Dean did what he always does, numbed it away with bottle after bottle of the good stuff. Of course, Sam was both pissed at him and worried about him because, going on hunts together? Shit, Dean was practically useless. If the monsters ganked him, then… they ganked him. It was selfish (and stupid), but so was confessing to the man you love and then dying; so what did Dean care?
And Dean knew that Sam understood why, (maybe even better than he did himself), he just… couldn’t care anymore. Sam had well and truly learned to take care of himself and frankly, Dean figured if he did kick it, then maybe one of them would be truly free. Whenever Dean looked back, he sometimes regretted going to get Sammy from Stanford at all. Maybe he should have never dragged Sam back into this whole mess. But it was too late for all that… sometimes, trashed at three am, Dean would still wonder if sticking together all this time was just him pulling Sam down with him—holding him back. Especially after purgatory… Sam hadn’t even looked for him. Maybe Sam would have had a life of his own by now, a real life, not a hunter’s life. And then Dean would remember that up to this point, it was all Chuck’s doing anyway and without someone pulling the strings, it was just him that had no direction. No idea where to go from here and no one to blame anymore but himself. After all, Sam had Eileen now and they were sickeningly happy, but for Dean Winchester, that kind of life just wasn’t in the cards… that kind of life died that day in the dungeon, covered in thick black ooze.
Six weeks after Dean’s best friend was stripped from his life, a miracle found him in Lebanon while he was on a drink run. The dog was laying among rubbish in the alley next to the bottle shop, dirty, but no worse for wear. After checking the surroundings for signs of things ordinary people wouldn’t even consider when seeing a lost dog, Dean knelt down on the spot and called out. Tongue lolling, tail whipping and ears back flat, the dog came running (as if he too remembered their first meeting at the end of the world) and barrelled Dean over with kisses, nearly smashing his booze. And Dean laughed. For the first time in weeks, he was laughing. Last time he’d seen that dog was in Hastings, Minnesota and Dean couldn’t fathom how in hell it’d found him all the way down here in Lebanon, yet again, by no small miracle… and so, Miracle got to ride shot gun back home to the bunker.
Now that Dean had a reason to get up in the morning again (and his drinking had tapered back to levels his liver was happier to tolerate) he spent more hours a day sober than drunk and comparatively, had all the time in the world. And nothing motivated Dean more than a good distraction and keeping busy. So, when the brothers weren’t out on hunts with Miracle in tow, Dean made sure the bunker was tidy; organised and cleaner than ever. In a natural progression of things, both Sam and Dean had begun to take on a role in the hunter community that was more like Bobby used to serve, and these days they often worked closely with Garth and Jody, coordinating hunts. Younger hunters would take the more complex hunts, as well as those farther away from their Lebanon home base. Cross country trips became rare and most of the time the boys were back at the bunker within a day or two. It wasn’t unusual to not go on a case for several days at a time and (pre Miracle) Sam had spent his days making sure Dean didn’t do anything stupid. Back then, Eileen would stay over at the bunker fairly frequently and Dean would pretend he didn’t know they were doing it to watch over him. But now, Dean was often on his own while Sam and Eileen went out and honestly, it made him a little bit happy that Sammy got to have that carefree life.
On these quiet days, with Miracle at his heels, Dean would do odd jobs to spruce up the bunker. First, he organised a call centre for all their fake agency phones in the bunker’s library. He hung each mobile phone in its own holster along the wall, meticulously labelled with which agency should answer, then ran a power strip on a table below as a charging station. Several notebooks sat on the table top, full of all the details needed to answer each of them convincingly... because though neither of them would admit it, their memories weren’t quite as sharp as they used to be. Once that project was complete, Dean went through their entire weapons cache, meticulously disassembling and cleaning the guns in lots. After each cleaning session, he would test fire that lot in the shooting range to check for any issues (which of course there never were). Then he started in on the cars and motorbikes stored at the bunker. First he’d thoroughly wash each one and afterward, give it a detailed once over and perform any required maintenance. In no time at all, every vehicle in the motor pool was in top condition. Even the nearly forgotten gym began to see regular use from both of them (and not just Sam), when Dean began to swap his morning beer for one of Sam’s protein shakes instead (much to Sam’s shock). And of course, Miracle got Dean out and about more; they were known by name at the local pet shop and taking him for walks had become (at minimum) a twice daily ritual.
When Dean didn’t feel like going all the way into town, one of their favourite spots was a nearby natural pond, where Dean could let Miracle off leash to run through the fields. Miracle loved the freedom and Dean found the area pretty relaxing, however, the resident ducks hated them. Miracle would chase them until they were forced to fly off, while Dean just laughed at his antics. In good weather, Dean would sit on the bank and rub his knees, watching the leaves change colour. Meanwhile, Miracle would go for a swim and get nice and muddy; neither of them upset by the mutual agreement they had to hose him off in the garage before he would be allowed back inside the bunker. Miracle’s long coat was actually a lot of maintenance as well, but Dean didn’t mind tending to it; unless it was after a particularly nasty hunt—then it could just be gross. So it ended up (even though Dean felt bad about it), that Miracle would often wait patiently in the car while the boys ganked the bad guys. Dean took care of Miracle like family; bought him the best food, shared his scraps at the table (when Sam wasn’t looking), sat with him snuggled on his lap during movie nights, and—in a move Dean thought he’d die before making—even let him sleep at the foot of his bed. All in all, life wasn’t so bad anymore. Dean still didn’t really know where he was going with it, but he was glad to have a buddy to share it with.
Which brings us round robin to today... six months after Dean Winchester thought he’d lost the meaning in his life forever and he’d never recover.
***
Every morning, Dean slammed his hand on the alarm clock to silence it and this one was no different. Wiggling his feet, he could feel that Miracle was no longer at the end of the bed, which usually meant Sam had taken him along on his morning run. Dean stretched out his body to work out the kinks, as he released an unnecessarily loud and exaggerated yawn. Then he yanked back his covers, stood while he scratched at his hair and finally, grabbed his grey (soft as fuck) ‘dead guy’ robe off the desk chair. Flipping it over his shoulders, he slid it on over his t-shirt and pyjama pants, then padded his way out to the galley down the hall. These days, coffee was once again his first port of call in the morning. Groggily, he set up the pot and started the first brew of the day while he began internal debate about what to have for breakfast. As he stood staring into the fridge, letting all the cold out, the bunker door slammed shut loudly in the war room. Nails click-clacked loudly against the hard floor as Miracle raced to the kitchen to greet Dean.
When he arrived, Dean knelt down to pat him, leaving the fridge still ajar. “Hey buddy, you have a good run?” As Dean rose back up from behind the stainless steel bench, Sam entered the room, staring distractedly at his phone. “Mornin’ Sammy. Coffee’s on.”
“Mmm? Yeah, okay.”
Dean pulled out the milk, settling on cereal. Quick. Easy. “What’s up? You got a case, or… is Eileen on your case?” He chuckled as he grabbed the cereal box.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, got a case…” he grumbled as he blindly made his way to the refrigerator, “nearby. Nebraska. Maybe a feral werewolf?”
“Alright, we’ll check it out after breakfast.” Cereal hit Dean’s bowl with a series of loud clinks and Miracle, sitting at his side, whined to remind him that he was there waiting. When Dean looked down at him, Miracle swished his tail adorably in a bid to get some of the cereal onto the floor. With Sam so distracted by his phone, Dean didn’t hesitate to comply.
“All goes well, we can be back by tonight.” Sam remarked, sitting food much healthier than Dean ever cared for onto the counter for a smoothie.
“Nice.” Grabbing his bowl, Dean strode across the room and poured himself a mug of the fresh coffee, taking both to sit at the kitchen table. “Nothin’ better than sleepin’ in my own bed.” If he was capable of being honest with himself though, Dean was just glad to be sleeping again at all.
“Which also means Miracle can stay here for once.”
Dean rolled his eyes and scratched behind Miracle’s ear as he leaned down to mutter, “He didn’t mean that, boy. You can come along.”
“Dean, every time he comes along is a risk.” Sam groaned, thinking back to last week, when Miracle was nearly killed during a ghoul attack. “We wouldn’t want him getting hurt.”
“He waits in the car!”
“Dean…”
“Keep it up and I’m gonna give him shotgun.” Dean grumbled.
Sam made the bitchiest possible face he could muster in reply, then started the blender. Neither of them wanted to see Miracle get hurt, but Sam especially worried about what that would mean for Dean’s progress these last few months. Both got lost in their thoughts as the blender whirred loudly through the kitchen for several minutes. Once Sam turned it off, Dean dropped his spoon noisily into his bowl.
“The dog’s coming Sam.” he spat with finality as he abandoned his empty bowl, scooped up his mug and stomped out the kitchen to get ready for the hunt, Miracle hot on his heels.
***
The hunt was a textbook case. View the corpse, interview the next of kin, follow the trail of mutilated cows, get the jump on the monster living in the abandoned building. Tick, tick, tick and tick. Loaded up with sliver rounds in the 1911 and the Taurus (and with a shotgun full of sliver buckshot each for good measure) the pair busted into the dilapidated barn under cover of night. Of course, nothing can go perfectly, so one werewolf, was naturally three, and Dean found himself disarmed and on his ass, outside in the dirt next to Baby. Back to the gravel, struggling to keep the snapping jaws from goring his face, Dean searched for a way out. Above him, he could see Miracle with his nose against the glass of the partially opened window, fogging it up in a steady rhythm as he panted casually. Oddly, instead of his eminent demise, Dean found himself worrying about how he’d have to clean the Impala windows yet again to get rid of all the drool and nose prints. Dean managed to wiggle his leg up to hook his boot into the wolf’s hip and kick him with full force, flinging him off. Pulling his .45 from his waistband, he raised the gun as the werewolf returned to lunge for him again and shot him square in the forehead. The werewolf’s body landed on him with a heavy thud, knocking the breath from his lungs in a loud grunt. Gettin’ too damn old for this… he muttered to himself as he pushed the corpse off.
Inside the barn, Sam had taken out the first werewolf with the shotgun, but the surprise second one had pummelled him over, knocking the shotgun from his hands. He’d watched, helpless, when the third one pounced, taking Dean through the door and back outside with it as he pointlessly cried out Dean’s name. In the silence after, Sam could hear werewolf number one nearby, whimpering on the ground as he slowly died. Pulling his 9mm, Sam aimed as werewolf two made his move, but his shot missed. He heard gunfire from outside as the wolf disarmed him yet again, then found himself on his back in the dirt, in a fist fight for his life. As Dean re-entered the barn, the pair worked together to dispatch the last wolf; Sam pushing with all his might to raise him up and away from his body, as Dean fired a shot from his .45 directly through the werewolf’s temple. Sweating, filthy and covered in blood, the boys made their way back outside to the waiting Impala. Inside, Miracle was laying calmly on the backseat, only lifting his head when Dean opened his door. Dean reached over the seat and scratched Miracle behind the ear, remarking about a job well done, before he took the helm and drove them all home to the bunker.
***
Later that night after a hot shower and a change of clothes, Dean retired to his room early, Miracle in tow. Like he did almost every night these days, he reached under the bed and grabbed out the notebook, manuscripts and pair of thick books hidden underneath. Opening the drawer on the table at his bedside, he pulled out a pen, as well as the bottle of whisky he kept stashed there and a fresh tumbler glass—which he filled nearly to the brim. Finally, he grabbed his headphones and put on Metallica as he sat back on the bed, ready to drink until he could close his eyes and not see him in the darkness waiting there. Miracle jumped up onto the bed and curled up against Dean’s feet, as Dean opened the large tomb across his lap to begin reading. He stretched forward and gave Miracle some scratches on his hind leg before opening his notebook, prepared to find nothing once again.
Two hours later, he’d written a total of four sentences of largely unhelpful information he’d found. What good was having a massive library of occult history and lore, if it didn’t cover angels? After four months of searching, Dean could categorically say the Men of Letters had no information on the Empty whatsoever. Hell, most of the information they had on angels wasn’t even useful. Having had one as a best friend for over a decade, Dean felt like he knew more about angels than most of the damn books in the place anyway. He slapped the notebook shut and chucked it across the room, the spine cracking loudly against the wall. Miracle sat up sharply and whimpered.
“Hey boy, I’m sorry.” Dean murmured, petting Miracle’s soft fur gently, more to calm himself than the dog. “I’m just frustrated.” Dean sighed and Miracle got up to nuzzle against him, while trying to lick his face. “We’re gonna get him back though. You’ll see. I’m not gonna give up.” Dean couldn’t help the small smile spreading on his face at the antics of the cheerful dog. He scratched both ears for him. “No, we’re not, are we? We’re not giving up.” Then Dean turned and poured the last of the whisky into his glass.