Stanford Communications

By PaBurke

*** Summary *** An odd little gift. And if you care, the word count is the following: 50, 50, 200, 50, 50, 300, 50.

*** Spoilers *** Season one of Supernatural. Book eight of the Dresden books, with great artistic license taken.

*** Disclaimer *** I'm playing with someone else's toys. No Copyright infringement intended. No money made. Hopefully everyone will treat this like a plug for Jim Butcher's Dresden Files. Very much worth reading, buying, or in our case-gifting.

*** Warning *** Little language. Somehow I managed to keep this rather PG-rated.

*** Distribution *** The Nook

"Dad, please?"

"No. Not with our life, it would be a weakness. It would hurt you when someone used it as a way to kidnap one of you or killed it out of revenge. It's too much responsibility when we're moving around so much."


"I said no."

"Yes, sir."


Harry Dresden wrote the letter. Nothing might result, but it didn't hurt to try. He had seen the longing. And the boys had saved his sorry hide.

The recipient of the letter nearly said no. All belonged here. All but the one who sat on the letter until he relented.


Dean awoke to something licking his chin. He reacted violently, swiping the thing away.

"Ouch! Shit!" Dean had hit his hand on the Impala door. Where was Sammy? Had he pranked…

A puppy whimpered.

A puppy.

Grey and shaggy, with intelligent black eyes, it was obviously the same kind of breed as the wizard's. Dean reached out in awe. The pup warily sniffed his hand and once Dean started scratching him behind the ear, the pup once again darted for Dean's face to lick his chin. The pup was half grown, pushing thirty pounds easy. Dean didn't mind the weight on his chest.

He chuckled.

Then the pup lost interest and scratched at the door.

"Hey," Dean complained. "Watch the interior!"

The pup whined instead.

"He's telling you that he doesn't want to piddle in your car," a semi-familiar voice explained.

Dean hurriedly let the puppy out. Then he turned and looked at the wizard. "Harry."

"Dean," he said with a smile.

"I… uhm…I mean, the pup's great. How the hell did you find us?"

"You're very welcome, Dean." The man always knew what the Winchester boys meant with their words. "I'm a wizard," he wiggled his fingers. "It's magic."


"Dean, you have to name the dog," Sam complained. "It's been over a week. It shouldn't get used to being called 'Dog'."

"John Wayne had a dog called 'Dog'."

Sam glared and grumbled about too many late nights watching motel TV's. He knew full well that Dean hadn't decided yet.


"Stanford! Get your ass over here! We're leaving."

Sam's head jerked up. "You named the puppy 'Stanford'."

Dean glared. "You got a problem with it?" He dared him to say more.

Sam smiled sadly and sighed. "You've got to aim a little higher than a dog, Dean."

"Not right now."


Dad had appeared. Dean thought it was great; knowing that everyone was here, safe and alive. He had checked his watch just after he had hugged his dad. It took exactly twelve minutes before Sam and Dad were arguing again.

This time was better, Stanford heard the ruckus and crawled from his normal hiding place under the motel bed and nosed Dean's hand. Dean sighed and scratched behind the dog's ear and waited. Sooner or later, he'd have to mediate if it looked like the argument was getting ugly, but instead it stopped abruptly.

"What the hell is that?" John Winchester was staring at Dean… or rather Stanford.

"It's a dog," Sam delighted in saying.

Dad ignored his younger son. "Dean, you know better. Why the hell would you let your brother talk you into dragging a dog with you?"

"It's Dean's dog," Sam answered with an evil grin. He was thrilled that Dean was the one in the hotseat, especially since he was pretty sure that his dad would have to eventually surrender to logic.


"A magical dog," Dean was quick to say. "From some monastery in Tibet. He's really good at sniffing out evil, and shapeshifters and the demon-possessed can't fool him. He's really protective and smarter than your average dog. And he can kill things I thought could only be taken care of with rock salt."

Dad grunted. "I want to see it."

"Okay. Come on, Stanford," Dean led the way to the door. "Let's find something evil."

"How often does it shit in the Impala?" Dad growled.

"He doesn't, at all," Sam said. "Harry and Dean did some serious training and now he guards that car almost as much as he guards us."

"Well, at least it isn't one of those sissy lap-rat, frou-frou dogs."


The Winchesters shared a pitcher of beer out on the veranda of the bar. They watched Stanford gnaw at his rawhide bone, a treat for detecting the evil.

Dad indicated the dog with his glass. "I didn't know dogs like that existed."

Sam and Dean grinned, enjoying the almost apology.