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Sam was sautéing his chorizo in grass fed goat butter (He liked supporting local farmers and wasn't going to “get fat and die” thanks very much Dean, ever heard of keto anyway?) when he heard the familiar scrape of Dean callously wiping his boots on the door jam.
There was a thump and a groan; from his brother or the couch, he never could tell.
“Hey Sammy wanna bring me a beer? And not any of the new age hippie crap!”
“I really regret giving you a key. And it's called sour beer, expand your horizons. The guys at Barton Creek Brewing said it's the new IPA.”
“I need to come by more often, you're spending way too much time at the farmers market. Ah thanks.” Dean said, craning his neck for the beer Sam passed over the couch.
Sam came around and sat gently (see Dean, it CAN be done) beside him.
“You say that and yet I see you're here for the hippie ‘crap’ sausage.”
“Don't you drag the sausage into this!”
“Yeah, yeah. Or maybe you’re just hoping to see your new friend? Since you seem to like talking about him so much?”
“Shut up Samantha! Making new friends isn’t a crime!” Dean might have blushed but it was hard to tell around the throw pillow launched at his face. Being the graceful merman he was, it was easily dodged.
“You know his ex was a guy right?”
Dean choked, a little beer foam dribbling onto his chin. He pretended to recover by haughtily replying, “I don’t know why you think you have to tell me that. I'm open-minded. Hip with it.”
Jesus, his comebacks were getting progressively worse in his old age.
“Oh you don’t know?” Sam raised his eyebrow in the way he knew Dean absolutely hated, which was immediately countered by Dean attempting to smother him with a bird pillow. The argument devolved into a wrestling match, same as the last three decades.
“Touchy much? Ow okay shutting up.” Dean landed one more punch to his arm before pouting towards the television and petulantly scrolling channels, as if first world tools were a burden made for him alone to suffer.
Suddenly he gasped and grabbed for Sam’s arm. He quickly raised his hand in defense of another Home Goods attack but his brother was distracted.
“There's a Dr. Sexy marathon on! I can finally catch up on the early season I missed because of your damn dog.”
“How about you get your own cable then? And still claiming you’re not a fan?”
“Shut it, I’m watching.” Dean said, palming Sam’s face without breaking eye contact from the TV.
“LA SEMANA PASADA….”
“Mariposa mía, Te amo. No me digas que no me desees.”
“Cabrón! Véte al carajo. No quiero verte jamás.”
There was a confused pause before the warm spot next to him uttered, “What.”
“I think you mean... '¿qué?’.”
“Shut up Samantha! Why is ABC now dubbed over in Spanish??”
“Remember that thunder storm last weekend—”
Bark! Bark bark! Ruby had abandoned her contraband sausages—wait, when did she get sausage??—in favor of staring at “El Doctor Sexy”.
“No! Háblame!”
Ruby began to howl.
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam. Ruby looked at Dr. Sexy.
“Is she—“
“—Bilingual?”
“Only you Sammy, I swear.”
“No, this is good! I just have to command her in Spanish.”
“Yeah but no in Spanish is still no.”
“Huh.”
They both sat stumped on the couch, while Ruby wagged at the TV.
“Oy, Ruby! No caca en el carpeto!”
“Dean, what? No. She’s bilingual, not brain damaged. Ruby, siéntate.”
Ruby, amazingly, sat.
“Look!!”
“I have eyes, you moose. Why don’t you tell her to drop the sausages with your semester Spanish?”
“Ruby, suelta.”
She looked from the link of sausages at her feet to Sam’s face, and back again. Deciding he wasn’t much of a threat, she nosed at her food and bit off a chunk.
“Maybe she’s Italian?”
“We live in Texas, Dean, why would she be Italian?”
“Romance language? I don’t know! Maybe she’s just defective.”
“My dog is not defective! She’s just. Clever.”
The two stared at the canine demon, who was happy as Dean at a free bbq, barking at the TV with her greasy mouth. Which seemed... familiar. Were Ruby and Dean really just the same dog-person? In all likelihood Dean had probably peed somewhere in his house that was not the toilet. Something unpleasant belatedly occurred to Sam.
“Wait, when did she poop on the carpet? Dean?!”