Work Text:
Soundtrack: Just So – Agnes Obel
The Minutes Kick and Play
Things aren’t perfect, but they’ve been on the mend. After getting all of their crap organized and settling into their new apartment, Dean thought life might be a little different – it turns out not to be, though, as Gabriel is homeless and without possessions, therefore moving in with them to live in the room that Dean thought they were going to get to use as multi-purpose game-movie-relaxation room. Now it has an ugly mattress in the middle of the floor, clothed in Target-brand Batman sheets.
It isn’t all bad, though. Gabriel takes the loss in stride with a surprising amount of resilience. While he teases Dean and Cas if they fuck too loudly or argue “like a married couple,” he also shells out money for utilities and doesn’t leave the toilet seat up after using the bathroom.
This is why Dean entrusts Gabriel to some top-secret info that he doesn’t want to let Sammy in on, because even miles away in another state, Sam’s a blabbermouth and will spill the beans to Cas almost inevitably.
“So, uh, V-Day’s comin’ up,” Dean says, casually, over the counter at Trickster Coffee. Cas is already on campus for his classes, and Dean needs the time to execute this plan without Cas being in the know.
“I thought you two lovebirds weren’t, and I quote, ‘into that shit,’” Gabriel says, and cocks a brow before he ducks to assemble Dean’s drink. Dean doesn’t even have to tell him his order anymore. All he’s been drinking lately are quad Americanos, small, no room. Probably ‘cause work at the station’s been intense lately. They haven't gotten much snow this winter, and with the dry spell come more flame-related accidents.
Dean rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes and says, “Yeah. Well. Change of plans.”
“Let me guess, don’t come in if there’s a sock on the doorknob?” Gabriel says. He passes Dean the drink over the counter, and glances to see if he has any other customers at the counter before he goes on, “Just don’t do rose petals and candles, man. There totally is such thing as going too far.”
Dean wrinkles his nose and says, “What? No. No, dude. I asked him if he wanted to go out or anything but he said no. Figured we’d order in and watch Batman. Anyway, he hates candles. I just want to get him his goddamn puppy.”
Gabriel’s brows soar up on his wide forehead. He nods, “No shit?”
“Gabe, man, you know he’s wanted a fucking dog forever,” Dean says, “I checked with the landlady, she says beagles are fine. Problem is, I don’t know where to get a fucking beagle puppy around here, and you know if I went to like a pet store or something, he’d lecture me about irresponsibility and blah blah blah something ASPCA shit or whatever.”
“Did you try using the great Google machine?” Gabe asks, “Search engines were invented for a reason, Dean-o.”
“Shut up,” Dean says with a flourish of his middle finger, “And can you keep this on the DL?”
Gabriel presses his thumb and forefinger together, moving them over his mouth in a zipping motion before he agrees, “My lips are sealed.”
X
Google yields surprising results. There aren’t many of them, but the one that stands out in particular is a familiar name: Pamela Barnes. The website that she’s listed on recommends her as being a beagle breeder for upwards of eight years, and underneath this blurb has her phone number, several photos of balls of way-too-adorable fuzz, and customer reviews. Dean peruses the reviews and clicks through pictures of people with puppies in their arms describing how great their experiences were.
Is it weird to call his doctor to buy a beagle puppy?
He sure as hell hopes not, ‘cause that’s exactly what he intends to do. Pam’s awesome, and he figures she’s awesome at anything she does, whether that be STD testing or breeding beagles.
When he dials her number, the phone rings twice before she picks it up and says, “This is Pam.”
“Hey lady, it’s Dean,” he says.
She snorts, “Not that I’m not flattered to have a sexy dude ringing me up or anything, but how the hell did you get my phone number, freckles?”
“Relax,” Dean says, “I’m actually, uh. I’m in the market for a puppy.”
“No kidding,” Pam laughs, a sultry sound, and then asks, “What the fuck for?”
Dean groans and runs a hand through his hair. He grabs at the back of his neck and admits, “Okay, I swear on my dad’s grave if you laugh at me, I’m gonna punch you in the fucking face.”
“That’s not very gentlemanly of you,” Pam replies.
“Yeah, well, bite me,” Dean says, “Cas…uh. He’s been hung up on wanting a beagle. And I said no, we’re not getting a goddamn beagle, we’ve got enough shit to sort out anyway. But he wants one so bad he printed out a fucking fact sheet on beagles at the campus library and wouldn’t fuck me until I read it. V-Day’s around the corner and I dunno, Pam. It seems like the thing to do.”
Pamela does not laugh, but he does hear her shift a little. She slowly says, “It’s not a bad idea, you know. Animal companions can be pretty therapeutic to veterans.”
“You don’t have to sell me on it,” Dean says, “I’m already sold.”
“You’re whipped, is what you are,” Pam corrects.
“Eat me,” Dean snips.
“I don’t think your partner would be very happy with me if I did.”
“For fuck’s sake. Okay. So can we do this thing?” Dean asks.
Pamela exhales and says, “I want you to come over and visit with the dogs I have right now, and then we’ll see. I like you, but I wanna make sure that I’m sending one of my babies to a good place first.”
“Fine, yeah, I can do that,” Dean says, “I don’t really have another day off for a while – could I come over today?”
“Yeah, give me an hour so I can clean this dump up,” Pam says.
“For me? I’m honored,” Dean responds.
“Can it, freckles,” she says, “See you soon.”
She recites an address that Dean scribbles onto a Post-it note and tells him to keep his nose clean, which has him laughing before he hangs up the phone. He stares at the mess of bad handwriting and thinks, fuck. He is almost one hundred percent surely getting a damn dog. After saying no. Multiple times.
Pam’s right. He’s whipped to hell.
X
Pam lives in a modest, ranch-style home in a quiet suburb, only about a fifteen minute drive from Dean and Cas’ apartment. The outside is mostly neat, with some sort of wreath hanging on the front door, and a welcome mat patterned in moons and stars. He can smell incense even before he knocks, and when he does, there is an immediate onslaught of enthusiastic barking.
The door opens and Pam leans against it, casually dressed in a Zeppelin tank top and low-slung jeans, her feet bare. The barking sounds off someplace in another room.
“Heya, handsome,” she says.
“Hey yourself,” he replies, and follows her inside.
“So, it’s cool that you wanna do something nice for Cas,” Pam says, “but it doesn’t sound like you’re too happy about getting a dog yourself. I mean, if it sounded like you wanted one, then I wouldn’t even have to think about it, you know? So tell me what’s going on.”
Dean groans, “Really? You invited me over to play Dr. Phil?”
She gives him a Grade-A look that would have made Sam proud.
“I dunno, Pam,” he says, and scratches his head, “It’s not like, I’m totally opposed to it. Otherwise I wouldn’t even be here. It’s just like, it’s another thing to add onto the list of ‘Dean is fucking nesting here.’”
The response he receives to this is one arched brow and a, “Dang, that’s sad. That’s like, really sad. That’s not even like, ‘I was attacked by dogs as a child,’ it’s ‘I’m a dude that’s afraid of big, bad commitment.’”
“That’s not –”
“It is,” Pam says, “So, you wanna see my puppies?”
“Yeah,” Dean answers, “Yeah, sure.”
The interior of the house surprises Dean. Pamela’s always come off to him as having a distinct personality makeup of rock n’ roll and the professionalism necessary for her job at the clinic, but her place is kinda…homey. Like, arts and crafts homey. There are handmade decorations on the wall and ceramic pieces that look like they flew straight out of a craft fair catalogue. They do pass an incense burner, and the smoke makes his eyes water.
The dogs have their own room. In it there are food and water bowls, blankets and dog beds, enough toys to make Richie Rich weep, and the cutest fuckers that he’s ever laid eyes on. When the dogs spot Dean and Pamela, they race toward the door, which has a baby gate locked over it, and perch their paws on it.
Only one puppy is slower than the others – Dean looks up from at the wagging tails to see one straggler, just about as big as all the other puppies, but it’s missing one thing. The puppy doesn’t have a right back leg, instead a stump that’s bandaged.
“What happened?” he asks.
A look of discomfort crosses Pamela’s face and she says, “I left my dogs in bad hands. My mom’s great, but she’s kind of senile and doesn’t keep as great a watch as she should. A lot of times you gotta keep an eye on the dogs because the mama dog gets stressed out eats her puppies.”
“Holy fuck, what?” Dean bursts.
“Anyway, she chewed up the leg on that baby girl pretty bad. She’s fine now, but –” Pam sighs, “Yeah, never doing that again.”
Dean studies the puppy and then asks, “Can I hold her?”
Pam nods and reaches over the gate to lift up the little thing. She looks so small when she’s being carried, and feels even smaller when she’s transferred to Dean’s arms. Two little front paws press against his chest through his cotton t-shirt, and a little pink tongue licks along the stubble on Dean’s jaw.
When she wags her tail, Dean knows he’s gone.
He’s whipped – whipped by a one-legged man and a three-legged puppy.
“Goddamnit,” he says, and then, “I need her, Pam.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
X
Valentine’s Day rolls around much faster than Dean expected it to. He works the day shift at the station, and when he’s off the job drives immediately to Pam’s to pick up the puppy. Pam’s been texting him regular reports of how she’s doing. On Monday of this week, the vet took her stitches out, and she’s been more mobile than before.
Dean is a little reluctant to give the girl free range in the Impala, even if it is only for fifteen minutes, but when he sets her down on the passenger’s seat she stays there, wagging her tail with her tongue lolling out. He waves goodbye to Pam, and –
and starts to feel actually nervous.
Oh, that’s bullshit. But he wants this to be perfect, which is stupid, and he feels that way anyway because this is something that Cas asked from him. He’s so damn nervous that he feels like he’s gonna throw up as he parks and takes the puppy into his arms, carrying her to the elevator.
When he gets to their apartment, he knocks instead of sticking his key in, and hastily holds the beagle behind his back with both hands. Cas answers the door a moment later in plaid pajama bottoms and one of Dean’s shirts.
“Dean?” he says, and his brows lift, “You have a key. Those open doors, you know.”
“I got you a little something,” he says.
Cas groans, “I thought we agreed upon no gifts today. Now I look like an asshole for not –”
Dean cuts him off by presenting the dog, not unlike Rafiki holding up Simba in The Lion King.
For a painful second, all Castiel does is stare at him like he’s grown a second head. He glances from Dean to puppy and puppy to Dean before he weakly squeezes out, “Oh. Oh, may I hold it?”
“Her,” Dean says, and passes him the puppy.
“Oh,” Cas says again, when the puppy licks his face like she licked Dean’s on the first day they met, “Oh. Dean, you – she’s beautiful, I – can we keep her?”
“That’s kind of why I bought her, jackass,” Dean says, and adds, “Not from a pet store. From a breeder.”
“Does she have a name?” Cas asks, blue eyes already round with adoration. It hasn’t even been an entire two minutes put together, and the puppy already has both of them wrapped around her little stinking paws.
Dean shrugs, and finally scrapes together enough brain power to step inside and close the apartment door behind them both. A hot rush of affection pours over him at the sight of Cas cradling the dog like she’s a priceless artifact against his chest while her tail thumps against his arm and she licks along his face.
He says, “I thought we should name her together, you know. Something dumb like that.”
“Vera?” suggests Cas.
“Gay.”
“Dean, that’s rude,” Castiel complains, “Don’t be a dick in front of the puppy.”
“Fine, how about...Chevy?”
“After your car?” Cas says, “I think not.”
Dean licks his lips and mulls it over for a moment, thinking back over all the shit that he and Cas have been through, the ludicrous way that they met and how unromantic it is that the first time he laid eyes on Castiel was in an alleyway beside a strip club. And they’re sure as hell not naming her after that moment, no thank you.
“Okay,” Dean says, “How about Spectre?”
“As in from Watchmen?” Castiel queries.
“Yeah,” Dean says, “It was the first book you loaned me.”
Castiel studies him and then smiles that odd, off-kilter smile he gets when he’s surprised and pleased all at once. He says, “I like that. Hello, Spectre.”
“Welcome to the jungle, Spectre,” Dean says. Castiel laughs.
A beat passes, and then Cas leans over and covers Dean’s mouth with his. The kiss is long and thorough and stupidly sweet.
More than that, though, the kiss and the taste of Cas’ tongue against his tells Dean something even more important: he got something right.