The original title was too long for fanfiction so I had to shorten it. The original title's down below. Proceed at your own risk.
Pairings: Sam/Dean (Very, very mild)
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, darn it.
Timeline: pre-Pilot (Could be the reason why Sam left for Stanford in the first place)
Warnings: No human cussing, no violence; they're just so doggoned cute.
Summary: To paraphrase Kim Manners on the Supernatural DVD, "If they were dogs, Jensen (Dean) would be Rin Tin Tin, and Jared (Sam) would be Pluto."
I'm blaming the people who are reading my multi chap story, Dog Eat Dog. Some of y'all freaked out when you thought that one was going to be the Supernatural version of "The Shaggy Dog." It's not. You guys gave me the idea for this. That damn plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, so I've decided to unleash this fic on an unsuspecting world.
I blame you guys and Kim Manners.
This is not my fault.
The One Time Only, Hopefully Never to Be Repeated Adventure of Rin Tin Tin and Pluto
by silver ruffian
It was like taking candy from a moron. Dean went around in circles with the tennis ball on a rope in his mouth, and when he let go and the ball went flying that big damn stupid boxer took off running after it. Dean strolled over, picked up the bone with his mouth and trotted off in the opposite direction. He held his head high, and the way he carried his tail, like a flag, told everyone that he was happy. Alpha male happy.
There was still a lot of meat on the bone, and the smell made his mouth water. He wanted to just sit down and start gnawing on the damn thing, but he couldn't. He tried not to slobber too much on it, either. Sam was liable to be pissy about stuff like that.
Sam didn't move, not even when Dean walked up right next to him, opened his mouth and dropped the bone on the ground right next to his nose. One long floppy black ear lay over Sam's right eye. He let it stay there. He felt too screwed up, too weirded out to move.
C'mon, dude, you gotta eat something.
I don't wanna.
Dean shrugged. Well, what can I say, Sammy. This is a crazy gig. It'll be all right.
Sam felt like biting him. It'll be all right. It'll be all right. How the hell did you come to that conclusion? We've been turned into dogs, Dean. That witch snuck up behind us as we were laying in wait for her, and she zapped us. Then this hillbilly dogcatcher grabs us and sticks us in this pen with these other mutts. I look like Mickey Mouse's damn dog -
Pluto, Dean thought calmly
Sam glared at him.
What? Dean cocked that handsome head of his to one side. Dude, that's his name---
And you look like Rin Tin Tin. You mind telling me how this is going to be all right?
Dean shrugged. Dean in his heroic looking, deep chested German shepherd dog skin looked pretty much the way Dean in his compact, muscular human skin did.
Drop dead gorgeous.
Dean still had those impossibly long eyelashes, for God's sake. Sam wondered if the reason why he was really acting so pissy was because Dean's looks translated. He still looked spectacular, no matter what. Why the hell can't I get that for once, Sam thought moodily, and then he tried not to think about it.
Dad's still out there. Dean sat down, closed his eyes and scratched behind his right ear. Then he smelled his foot and licked it. She didn't get him. Dad'll find us.
Will you listen to yourself? You think Dad's gonna know this is us? For all you know that witch already nailed Dad. That Rottweiler mix over there could be Dad!
He's not. I already checked.
You already---Dean, wait a minute…you…you sniffed his butt?
Another shrug of those still manly shoulders. Hey, when in Rome, dude.
The first day Dean made the rounds, did recon on the pen and the occupants thereof. His reasoning was that even though he was sure that Dad was coming to get them, and they wouldn't be there too long anyway, there was no sense in making themselves miserable, and it helped to know the lay of the land. Dean was at home in holding cells, cheap motel rooms, anywhere. Sam knew his big brother was adaptable, but damn, this was ridiculous.
After half an hour Dean came back, grinning wolfishly. Okay. First off, there aren't any girls in here. Skippy over there -- and Dean jerked his head in the direction of a weird looking beagle mix -- said he thinks that's because old Jim Bob makes a living selling strays he picks up to medical labs, and he does a little dog fighting on the side, so hell yeah, we might have to bail before Dad gets here.
At the mention of John Winchester Sam didn't move, just stared rather coldly at Dean.
Dean caught the look, and bristled. Hey, this isn't Dad's fault. Come to think of it, we do have a bitch in here, and it's you. Knock it off, Sammy.
Sam kept right on staring.
Anyway, I think you're gonna like this next part. I asked some of the others about the food. They said Carrie-Anne is in charge of the grub here. That's Jim-Bob's wife. She mixes cooked meat and vegetables in with the dry food. Well, you wanted a home cooked meal, Sammy, and now I think you got one. Sam stared in disbelief as Dean practically did a happy dance. Then his idiot older brother noticed the look and stopped, puzzled, ears pricked.
Dude. You do realize that you're dancing in place, practically drooling all over yourself, because you're about to eat horse meat, pig entrails, and God knows what else?
Whatever, Dean sniffed. Sam could tell his feelings were hurt, but Sam didn't care.
When he saw her later on that afternoon Sam thought Carol-Anne wasn't exactly Dean's type. Then Sam realized that Dean's type was female, with a pulse. She was a little plumper, a little older, a little rounder than some of the women Dean had, ah, dated, but she had long wavy brown hair and a round moon face with kind eyes. Sam had to admit it could've been worse. If she had come over to the fence with a meat cleaver in one hand staring at them hungrily he would've started digging thru that reinforced fence, no matter what.
She practically squealed when she saw Dean."Oh, my. Aren't you a big, handsome fella! Aren't 'cha? Aren't 'cha?" Dean sat down on her foot, put his head back, and grinned as she scratched him under his chin, all over his head, between his ears and down his chest. Damn, that woman had some talented fingers. His left hind leg started thumping and he couldn't stop it. He didn't close his eyes, though. He had a good (upside down) view of her heaving bosom. He was happy, and Dean Jr. got happy, too. It was win-win for everyone involved.
Hey, he was a dog, all right? Cut the kid some slack.
Sam had to admit the food wasn't bad. He picked out the vegetables and the baked chicken and left that other stuff in the bottom of the pan. He ended up getting growled at by this bossy little blonde cocker spaniel who thought he ran the place. Sam really didn't want to kill the little sumbitch, so he went and laid back down under the tree. A few fights broke out among the others, nothing really spectacular. He didn't see Dean anywhere.
He was half asleep when Dean padded over ten minutes later.
Dude. Here. Dean opened his mouth and a couple of big pork chops hit the dirt next to Sam's nose. Sam jerked his head up and stared.
Well? Dean tilted his head at his brother.He looked around and saw that damn cocker spaniel easing up on them. Dean bared his teeth at him, and the little bastard backed up. You better eat that. It ain't getting any fresher, Gilligan.
Sam held the first pork chop between his paws, took a big bite out of it, and sighed, deep inside. He closed his eyes. At last. Food. Real, honest to God food. He could taste the seasonings. It was cooked, well done, not raw. Where'd you get this?
Dean sat there grinning smugly. Carol-Anne. Hey, what can I say? She likes me. I got 'em for you.
Sam had to admit, he had a good big brother.
Later on that afternoon Sam got that splinter in his forehead when he was nosing around the fence. It was no good to dig under because apparently one day Jim-Bob was feeling industrious and he put the fencing six feet under. Sam pushed his forehead against the wooden planks at the bottom, and he let out a yelp when he felt something pierce his skin.
Dean came from nowhere.
Hold still, pipsqueak. Dean sat down, right in Sam's personal space, and he put his paw on Sam's neck. Dean bared his teeth, then very, very gently mouthed the splinter and pulled it out. It was a big ass splinter, almost as big as a tooth pick.
Sam yipped like a puppy. Dean spat the damn thing out and started licking Sam's forehead. Sam had a weird moment in which he realized that Dean was licking his face with his tongue, long slow strokes, and it felt good. Damn good. Toe curlingly (and is that even a word?) good.
Sam Jr. woke up.
Then Sam realized that even though they were brothers this was an unusual situation and they were both dogs and none of this counted, so there.
And yeah, one thing led to another and then there was that whole balls licking thing….
It was all good.
Dean sat there afterwards, staring off in the distance, looking, well, damned heroic.
He should have been saving orphans from a burning building, pulling a stranded traveler from a snowdrift somewhere….
I miss my leather jacket, Dean thought wistfully, and he yelped and twisted around when Sam came up behind him and nipped him on the butt. Hey, dude, what the hell---
Sam flopped down on his back, perked his ears up and waggled his eyebrows at his brother.
Deann, I think I got another splinter…
The newest mutt in the pen was a huge son of a bitch. He must've weighed about one sixty, easy, and he was some kind of Saint Bernard, mastiff, and God knows what else mix. He padded over and sat down heavily in front of Sam and Dean. His jowls swung back and forth, and he slobbered like a leaky faucet. He stared at Dean with sunken dark eyes.
Dean drew back. Yikes.
You wanna be my friend?
Uh, do I have to do anything to be your friend?
After that Dean slept with his ass backed up against the tree.
Sam laughed like hell.
Dean growled at him.
That damn cat showed up the next day.
It was a big barrel chested Persian cat, and it slunk along the top of the fence yowling and cussing. Some of the dogs ignored it. Some of them went crazy as they jumped up and tried to kill it.
Enough of those idiots kept throwing themselves against the fence, and sure enough, pretty soon that section of the fence came tumbling down.
Make a break for it? Nobody had to tell Dean and Sam twice.
They were about one hundred feet from the fence, running full-out into the woods, with Dean bringing up the rear, ready to bite or body slam any human who tried to stop them (except, of course, Carol-Anne) when they heard a familiar gravel-voiced rumble inside their heads that made them both stop short.
That large black Persian cat strolled out of the underbrush. It had a little gray around its muzzle. The tip of one ear was chewed off, and it looked somehow grumpy, yet fully in charge. The skin around its eyes crinkled slightly and it seemed to be smiling at them.
Dean's ears were perked up higher than usual, and Sam didn't think that was possible.
John sat down, started to lick his paw and swipe it over his face, then obviously thought better of it.
Dean, you take point, John rumbled. We'll head for Bobby Singer's place.
Dad, that's two states over! Sam protested.
The look Dean shot at him said it all: Shut your cakehole. Dad's here!
Dean was already at attention, practically vibrating with excitement.
Picture perfect bastard, Sam thought as he walked over to stand next to his brother.
Dean looked smug.
I'm the good son, Dean thought proudly. That's why I get the extra cookie.
You mean dog biscuit, Sam muttered.
Sam, John grumbled, not another word.