A/N: This was written for the Sam Winchester Big Bang over on Tumblr. There is some incredible artwork that goes with it, which was done by the fantastic carpecaseum (also on Tumblr), who spoiled me rotten by making more art than she had to, all of it perfect. The story is also on AO3, with the artwork, under the same title, or you can find it under the "my writing" tab on my tumblr-I'm quakerhobbit.

A million thanks to my beta, Chloe, who provided the perfect combination of constructive criticism and fangirly encouragement.

This fic works as a standalone, but there are things that will make more sense/have more of an emotional impact if you read "Lost Boy" and "Boy, Lost" first.

This story was born out of my need for 1) Sam to have a dog, 2) Dean to stop being a jackass and apologize for past jackassery, 3) Sam to have friends, 4) Meg to not be dead, and 5) Jess to come back and her and Sam to live happily ever after. If anyone enjoys reading it even half as much as I enjoyed writing it, I will be thrilled to pieces. On the other hand, if any of that sounds unappealing enough to you that you think you're going to feel the need to leave me a comment telling me why I'm wrong, this might not be the fic for you.

"You wouldn't happen to be a dog person, would ya?" Jody asked, pretending like she didn't already know the answer. She'd known ever since she'd seen the way Sam was the time he accompanied Alex while she took some of the local shelter dogs for a walk.

"Uh, I guess. Why?" Jody could picture the puzzled look on Sam's face.

"Well, it's kind of a long story, but I've ended up with a dog on my hands who really needs a home."

That might have been stretching the truth a little. She could've let the giant mutt go to the shelter, and in this town, a big scary-looking dog like her might've actually had a better shot at a home than most. But it was easy to see what a softy the dog was, and she'd had a hard time of it, and then there was the other thing.

"Uh, Jody, I'd love to, but we're on the road all the time and I don't think that would be good for a dog. Besides, Dean—"

"Sam, honey, I'm gonna stop you right there. What did we talk about?" She kept her voice gentle, but firm. It took effort: she still got angry every time she remembered what Dean did, what was going on right under her nose and she couldn't see it because Sam was so used to hiding his hurt, to stowing his baggage and getting the job done and taking care of everyone else before he took care of himself. But Sam had turned up at her door, unannounced, a total wreck, saying he didn't know where else to go. She brought him inside and made him tea and the whole thing spilled out: the Trials and their consequences and how Dean chose to deal with them, the Mark and all that came with it, Dean's death, Dean a demon, having to hunt his own brother except it wasn't his brother except, worst of all, it was, and Sam knew he knew Dean would want Sam to cure him or kill him trying so that's what Sam did. Cas, who turned up half-dead and without his grace and, apparently, human for keeps this time, found a spell to get rid of the Mark, and that had been almost as bad as the demon cure, which was horrible. And Dean was human and himself again and looked at Sam and the first words out of his mouth were "What took you so damn long?" and Sam fled. Fled because after everything, everything, he still wasn't good enough, still nothing more than a too-imperfect tool for his brother's purposes, and he couldn't be that, not anymore.

Jody had listened in shock and horror, and she hadn't stopped the tears that welled up and spilled down her cheeks in sympathy, and when Sam was finished recounting what happened she reached out, slowly, making it his choice, and pulled him into a hug. He had collapsed against her, sobbing, and she stroked his hair and whispered "I've got you, I've got you" over and over, because that was the only thing she could say that she knew was true. And when the tears slowed and Sam's breathing settled, and he looked embarrassed and started to apologize, she stopped him, told him he had nothing to apologize for, that he was stronger than anyone should ever have to be for coping alone for as long as he had, that he was right to be angry at Dean, and amazing for staying by his side and amazing for setting boundaries and amazing for saving Dean and amazing for leaving. She told him he could stay as long as he needed, as long as he wanted. She told him she would do everything in her power to make him safe.

She had waited until she was sure Sam was asleep, and then she made a phone call. She hadn't yelled; she hadn't needed to. What she did was quietly explain to Dean that if he ever expected her to allow him near Sam again, he had better get the world's best apology ready, and he better not try any tricks, because she wasn't just a hunter, she was law enforcement, and she would use every skill from both sets to make sure Sam was safe from what Dean had been putting him through. She decided that she liked Castiel when he asked whether she thought he, too, had overlooked the need to apologize. Jody thought about what, according to Sam, was Cas' idea of comforting words, about Sam mentioning that Cas had wanted him to call Dean when it was all fresh and raw, to initiate working with Dean again, and told the angel—or whatever he was now—that yes, he definitely did.

They showed up two days later. In the meantime, Jody had been having a lot of long conversations with Sam about what he did and didn't deserve, about how he didn't owe Dean an apology for any of what had happened, certainly not for taking off. It was all pretty messy and overwrought and it took Dean three tries before what he said wasn't all about him and his feelings, and it almost came to blows the fourth time Jody made Dean start over from the beginning, because though his words were starting to be the right ones, she could tell he didn't mean it yet, was just doing what he thought he had to do, and she wasn't going to allow it. Sam recognized the danger signals and put himself between Dean and Jody and, stumbling over his words, not quite meeting his brother's eyes, told Dean that this wasn't just Jody, that he couldn't be around Dean until he knew that Dean really understood what he'd done and why it was wrong and was sorry. That's when the sincerity happened, because Dean looked lost, asked Sam to please tell him, because he honestly didn't get it. And even though he shouldn't have had to, even though it was hard, Sam did. He made Dean understand that he wasn't angry about being alive, he was angry that he had been possessed and used to hurt others, and that the person he was supposed to trust most ("stone number one, remember?") made it possible, tricked him and lied to him and then acted like he was at fault for being angry about it. He was angry and hurt that Dean behaved as though treating Sam like a person was conditional on Sam acting like Dean thought he should. He was hurt that Dean didn't listen to his concerns about the Mark, when he knew better than anyone the dangers of trying to use something evil to accomplish something good. Hurt but not surprised, because lately Dean only remembered the things Sam had been through when Dean needed to throw them in Sam's face.

So Dean had finally apologized, as had Cas, and Jody made sure Dean knew that she would be calling Sam nearly every day, to talk, to be there, and to remind him that he was Dean's equal. She still wasn't entirely comfortable, watching the three leave together, but it was a start. A new stone number one. Maybe.

That was a month ago, and it sounded like things were going OK, like what the brothers were slowly re-building was good for both of them for the first time in years. This would test it, Jody knew, but she was convinced that it was right. If anyone should have a dog, if anyone should have this dog, it was Sam Winchester.

There's a short silence on the other end. "Sam?" she prompted, "What do we keep talking about?"

"That . . . that I have the right to want things. And to have them, sometimes, even when Dean doesn't agree."

"Exactly. So get your butt out here and meet this dog, see if the two of you get along."

" . . . OK."

. . .

As much as he didn't want to, Sam decided that, in the long run, it would be better to be honest with Dean from the start about this.

"I'm going to Jody's. She has a dog she wants me to look at."

"'Look at?' What the hell does that mean?"

"It means the dog needs a home, and Jody thinks we should take her."

"No."

"It's not your decision."

"Yeah, but it's not yours either."

"Dean—"

"I think it would be nice to have a dog."

They both turned to stare at Cas.

"Yeah, well—" Dean started.

"Dean," Sam interrupted. "This is Cas' home, too, right? Which means he has a say in this, right?" It was a gamble, and it could go very, very badly, but Sam was betting on Dean's good intentions towards Cas winning out: they both kept telling Cas over and over that they wanted him here, that he was part of the team. Time to force Dean to consider whether he really meant what he said.

Dean glared daggers at Sam, but then: "Fine," he spat. "Go see the dog. But understand this: I'm not lifting a finger to take care of the thing, and you're gonna make sure it doesn't stink up my car. Which you are not using for puppy pick-up."

"Fair enough," Sam said, and left, unable to suppress a grin. He was probably getting a dog.

. . .

She was perfect. A huge mix of who knew what combination of large breeds, the kind of dog people tended to approach with caution if they approached at all. She was grey, a darker shade on her back, sides, and head, lighter on her stomach and parts of her legs, with floppy ears that were small compared to the size of her blocky head. Sam folded himself slowly onto the floor and held out his hand for her to smell. She took a cursory sniff and then dropped as much of herself as would fit into his lap. Her thick, rough-looking fur was surprisingly soft. As Sam scratched her ears with one hand and rubbed her belly with the other, it occurred to him, for the first time in years, that being as tall as he was wasn't always such a bad thing; he and this dog were matched in size.

"What's her name?"

"Doesn't have one. The jackass who owned her last just called her 'girl,' if he was in what passed for a good mood."

"Well, we'll have to fix that, won't we sweetheart?" Sam said to the dog. "So, what happened to him?" he asked, looking up at Jody.

"Vengeful spirit," Jody told him matter-of-factly. He raised his eyebrows. "It was pretty bad. He was an asshole, but no one deserves to go like that. Thing is, it happened right before I got there, but I could hear her barking like mad when I pulled up, and him yelling at her. Then I heard her snarling and lunging, but a dog can't fight a ghost, and by the time I got inside it was too late."

"So . . . you think she knew there was a spirit?"

"I know she did. I was curious, so I took her with me on the rest of the hunt—it's not unprecedented, using a murder victim's pet to help ID a killer, so I used my capacity as sheriff to pretend like that's what I was doing. Not really pretending, either. Anyway, when I tracked down the thing the spirit was attached to, she started growling before I could tell it had showed up. Seems to me your kind of hunting just might be in her blood somehow."

"Huh. Well, that might help bring Dean around, anyway. You said the owner was a jackass. Did he do more than just yell at her?"

"Don't know for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me."

Sam grimaced. "What about the normal stuff? Her age? Has she had her shots? Has she been spayed? Any health concerns?"

"Well, I took the liberty of taking her to the vet. They said she's about five years old, spayed, vaccinated, and healthy. I'm guessing the jerk wanted a guard dog and was smart enough to know that those need to be healthy. I've got papers with all the info on them that you can take with you."

"And what about . . . I mean the bunker might be home base, but we're on the road all the time. Is that really good for a dog, all that time in the car, do you think?"

"Can't be any worse for her than it is for you, and you seem to do OK." Sam smiled ruefully at that.

"So what do you think? Do you have yourself a dog?" As if the answer wasn't obvious.

Sam grinned. "Yeah, I guess I do."

. . .

"I thought you said it was a dog, not a mutated wolf," were the first words out of Dean's mouth when Sam led the bunker's newest resident down the stairs.

Sam made a face, choosing not to dignify that with a verbal response.

"No, she's definitely a dog," Cas told him, very seriously, as he approached, crouching down and holding his hand out for her to sniff.

"And when did you become an expert?" Dean groused, though there was genuine curiosity in his voice.

The dog waved her tail back and forth, just a little, and Cas began fondling her ears. Sam sat down next to her and scratched his fingers up and down her spine—he'd already discovered how much she liked that. The waving of her tail increased to a definite wag.

"Angels can see what God's creatures are, just by looking, even without grace. I couldn't tell you what bloodlines this dog comes from, but her . . . you don't have a word for it in English. Animals don't have souls in the same way that humans do, but they have something that's soul-like, and it's more on the surface of what they are than human souls, which makes it visible. Hers is dog, not wolf, and certainly not mutated," Cas informed them.

"'God's creatures'?" Sam asked. "Is that why shifters and things like that can still fool you? Because they're Eve's?"

"Yes."

"Huh," Sam and Dean chorused.

"Learn something new every day," Dean added in that not-quite-flippant tone he reserved for things he wasn't entirely sure how to process. "So," he added after a moment, when it became apparent that Sam and Cas were perfectly content to pet the dog in silence, "does it have a name?"

"She," Sam and Cas corrected at the same time.

"Right. Because that's the thing to keep straight here."

Sam realized that, if he didn't say something now, Dean would only build on the passive-aggressive foundation he was laying in his behavior towards the dog.

"Dude, lay off. I know you're not really a dog person, but you don't get to take it out on her. Or me," Sam added after a moment's hesitation, picturing Jody, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Cas and I want her here. Like I already said, you don't have to help take care of her, I'll make sure she doesn't go in your room—"

"Or the kitchen!" Dean interrupted.

"OK, or the kitchen. I bought seat protectors for the car, so she literally won't touch the inside—"

"If we ever have to take her anywhere in it, which we will be avoiding at all costs."

Sam found himself in a (lately) familiar battle with years of this-is-how-to-get-along-with-Dean instinct: he could capitulate and let this slide, it probably wasn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things . . . Fuck. That was exactly the kind of thinking that contributed to things getting as bad as they had. No, that wasn't quite right (the correction came in Jody's voice): Dean acting like this, insisting on his way in all the little things, making it so fucking exhausting to fight every single one, so when it came to the big stuff Sam was too drained, was the kind of thing that contributed to things getting as bad as they had. They'd talked about it enough that Sam knew Dean didn't do it on a conscious level, but that didn't make it any less awful. Fuck.

The dog growled.

At Dean.

She had turned her head so she was looking straight at him, and growled.

The three men froze.

"Uh, what the hell was that?" Dean asked, eyes locked on the dog, sounding mostly angry but also a little . . . apprehensive.

She growled again, a deep rumble Sam could feel resonating inside her. "Easy, girl," he murmured, resting his hand on her back. She turned her head and licked his cheek, as if to reassure him, then went back to staring—glaring?—at Dean.

Cas pivoted so he was sitting on the dog's other side and looking up at Dean. "Dogs have very keen senses. It can make them receptive to the emotions of the humans around them. Perhaps she has detected that Sam is upset with your behavior, and wishes you to stop antagonizing him," he told him.

"What makes you think Sam is 'upset with my behavior'," Dean snapped, using scare quotes to demonstrate just how ridiculous he considered that statement.

The dog growled, low and loud and long.

"You were being unnecessarily argumentative and dismissive," Cas said matter-of-factly. "It's a habit of yours. Sam sometimes finds it amusing and endearing, but most of the time it is annoying at best and upsetting at worst. I am inclined to agree with this assessment."

Sam blinked. When had Cas gotten so . . . observant? And perceptive?

Dean, apparently, didn't agree. "Cas, man, just 'cause you lost your mojo for good this time doesn't mean you're friggin' Oprah."

"I don't understand that reference."

"I thought Metatron downloaded a pop culture update straight to your melon."

"Stories," Cas corrected. "He gave me complete knowledge of every story he had read, heard, or seen in his time on Earth. Oprah, apparently, was not included. I take it this person is not fictional?"

"No, Cas, Oprah is not fictional," Dean told him in exasperation.

"Back off, Dean," Sam broke in. "It's not his fault he didn't know. And anyway . . . " he took a deep breath, rallying himself. Wasn't this supposed to be getting easier? "He was right. One hundred percent."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me."

"You know, I swear I don't even know what we're—"

"Do not finish that sentence," Sam interrupted, voice low and intense and accompanied by another rumbling growl from the dog.

Dean finally seemed to realize how serious the conversation had gotten.

"O—K," he said slowly, and, after a moment's hesitation, sat down on the floor.

"What, uh, what d'you want from me here?" Dean asked.

"Well, for starters, I want to see if you can figure out where and how this conversation went wrong," Sam told him. He didn't expect Dean to remember that a version of the sentence he had put a stop to, I don't even know what we're fighting about, was one of the last things Dad said to him. It had taken Sam a long time to let himself admit it, but he'd known for years that it was manipulative bullshit, and he wasn't going to take it from Dean. (Anymore.) He was going to pull Dean back from being that. (More than Dean already was.)

"OK, sure," Dean said. "You came in with the dog, we determined that it—sorry, she" he amended when Sam shot him a look,"—is in fact a dog and learned our weird angel factoid for the day. I asked what her name was, but failed to use the word her, which was, according to you and Cas, an oversight on my part, because you started—huh. Was that it? Me calling the dog an 'it' when I asked what her name was?"

"Right in one. You're improving." Dean glared, but Sam wasn't sorry.

"C'mon Sam, she's just a dog, it's not like it's gonna bother her," Dean said.

"That's not the point."

Dean was looking at him expectantly, but Sam was tired of spoon-feeding him. "Care to elaborate?" Dean finally asked.

"I want you to figure it out."

"C'mon, man, just tell me, because I seriously don't know! You're like a chick or somethin', expecting me to be a mind reader."

The dog was growling again.

"I don't think she appreciates the misogyny, Dean," Sam told him smugly, then added, "And just because I don't go back and forth between total emotional constipation and vomiting my feelings all over everyone doesn't mean I don't express myself. Not my fault if you're not paying attention."

"OK, first of all, do not ever, ever, let me hear you use the phrase 'emotional constipation' again. Seriously, I should confiscate your man card right—"

The dog wasn't just growling, she was snarling.

"What is a man card?" Cas asked, since Dean had snapped his mouth shut and was in the process of scooting backwards across the floor, away from the dog.

"A sexist metaphor," Sam informed him.

"So . . . losing it would not, in fact, be a bad thing?"

"Not really, no."

"And the two of you wonder why I have so much difficulty understanding humans," Cas said, unable to keep the bite out of his voice.

"Can we only have one fight at a time?" Dean called from half way across the room.

"Can you be less of a jackass?" Sam shot back.

"Dude, I am what I am."

"Right. 'Cause that's worked so well for everyone."

"Shut up."

"No."

Dean started to get to his feet—Sam was kind of amazed it had taken him this long to bail—but the dog, slow and steady and very, very menacing, walked over and, in a move that was almost casual, knocked him back to the ground before he could finish standing, then sat down next to him. He stared at her, eyes wide and scared.

"This dog is a menace," Dean told Sam.

Sam honestly didn't know what to make of the dog's behavior: surely this level of canine intuition, this early in their relationship, wasn't normal. Still, use what you have while you have it, right?

"Yeah, to your skewed perception of how things work around here."

"Sam, I don't—I mean—I thought you said I was doing better, or whatever. I thought we were good."

"Define 'good,' Dean."

"You know. You and me. Cas now, too, I guess. Saving people, hunting things. The family business."

"And when you picture it, what does that look like?"

"I don't know! Like—like you and me in my baby, talking shop or just listening to music. Us and the open road."

"What music?"

"C'mon, what does this have to do with—"

"What music, Dean."

"Classic rock. Maybe some of the newer stuff. Always something that rocks, though."

"Who's driving?"

"Me."

"So, to you, us being good is sitting in the car that you always refer to as yours instead of ours, with you driving, while we listen to your music. And you don't see how that's a problem?"

"Hey, wait a minute. I mean, when you say it like that, it sounds . . . I don't know, but it's not like how saying it that way makes it sound."

"Isn't it?" Cas broke in.

"Stay out of this, Cas," Dean snapped.

"Why? I'm the closest thing you have to an objective third party. I realize that my way of seeing the world is . . . askew, by human standards. It's why it took me so long to realize there was something amiss in your relationship. You see, all angels are siblings—though more after the manner of a religious order than a nuclear family—but some command, and others follow, and that is right because of what we are . . . what I was. So it was not odd to me to see two brothers, one commanding, the other following. But that is not how human siblings are meant to function. It is not right—what is the phrase? oh, of course—it is not right for the driver to always pick the music and the shotgun to always shut his cake hole. Not for humans, and especially not for you."

Sam and Dean were staring at him.

"What?" he asked, sounding somewhat curious but mostly irritated.

"Metatron read Chuck's books?" Sam asked, though on reflection he supposed it made sense. First Crowley, now Metatron. He didn't care how impossible Charlie claimed it was, he would find a way to erase those damn things from the face of the planet.

"Apparently," Cas replied.

"Enormous ick factor aside, isn't that kind of not the point? I mean, Cas, you've . . . you've got it all wrong, man," Dean said.

"Explain," Cas replied.

"What?"

"Explain in what way I have it all wrong. Explain in what way, despite the fact that your words and actions were heavily influenced by the Mark of Cain at the time, you were not speaking the truth when you told Sam that your relationship was a dictatorship. Or, if that is too much, tell me when the last time was that Sam drove the Impala when you were present, yet neither injured nor in need of sleep, and without having to ask to do so."

"I . . . I don't know. But, I mean, it's not like he minds, do you Sammy?"

"Actually, Dean, yeah. I do mind. I spent a lot of years telling myself I didn't, but look where that got me: an angel riding shotgun and a demon for a brother."

"Whoa whoa whoa. How does who drives the car have anything to do with that crap?"

"Because the big things can't happen without all the little things happening first. You deciding you had the right to violate me and lie to me about it in a big way happened because you had, literally and figuratively, been in the driver's seat for years. I stopped fighting you on it because it was too hard, too exhausting. I thought if I saved my energy for the big stuff that I could at least win those, but I was wrong."

"OK, let's say I . . . let's say you're right. What about this last month. I mean, has there been anything good about it, or has it all been, I don't know, faking it until we make it or something?"

"I don't know, Dean. I mean, you've handed over the keys every time I ask to drive, and that's a step. You didn't straight up turn off my music, and you kept your bitch-fits quiet enough that they didn't drown it out, so that's a step. You use the occasional vegetable when it's your turn to cook. You only fought me on it for five minutes when I said I didn't want to watch a western the other night. You haven't been going rogue on cases, at least as far as I know. They're all good steps, Dean. It's just . . . they're really small, slow ones, you know? And I can't help but wonder whether you'd be taking them at all if you didn't have the wrath of Jody hanging over your head."

It was quiet. Sam decided that it would probably be best to let it all sink in, let Dean process at his own pace. That's what had produced the best results in the past. So he stood up, grabbed the dog supplies he'd deposited in the doorway, and whistled for her to come with him, which she did without hesitation.

. . .

Things were quiet for the rest of the day. Sam had bought two dog beds: one to go in his room and one in the library. He put the food and water dishes in the library, with another water dish in his room. He took the dog for a run, because they could both use the exercise; she hadn't seemed to mind hanging out in the bathroom while he showered, and he suspected that, even though it was only the first day, she would have stayed right outside the door waiting for him if he'd left her loose.

Dean made chicken stir-fry for dinner, heavy on the vegetables. They didn't talk while they ate, but that was OK with Sam. The dog didn't even try to beg for table scraps.

Sam retired to his room early, taking one of the Oz books with him and reading himself to sleep.

He dreamed of Kevin, of Kevin's eyes burning out beneath his hands, but then they weren't eyes and they weren't beneath his hands and the flames were above him and he was watching Jess die and what was that whimpering sound? He hadn't whimpered, he had screamed, and Jess had been silent, but someone or something was whimpering and there was something wet on his face that wasn't blood or tears and that's when his eyes shot open and he reacted on instinct, sitting up and jerking away from the wet thing shoved against his cheek, only to discover that it was the dog, who looked at him with canine concern from where she sat by his bed.

He took a deep, steadying breath and patted the bed next to him. She eagerly jumped up and immediately put as much of herself as she could in his lap.

He rubbed her ears, feeling himself calm much faster than he usually did after a nightmare. "And here I thought I was the one who was looking after you," he told her softly. She thumped her tail against the bed and rolled onto her side so he could rub her belly.

Sam huffed a laugh and shifted her slightly so he could lay back down, then gave her the belly rub she was begging for with pleading eyes. "You know," he murmured sleepily, "you're really too big for this whole sleeping on the bed thing." His last coherent thought as he drifted back to sleep was that it was a good thing he'd let Dean talk him into getting a better mattress.

. . .

Sam was shocked to discover that it was 7 a.m. when he next woke: he was used to fitful, nightmare-riddled sleep, of which he gave up the pretense around 5:30 when he got up for his morning run. He wondered whether the dog, who had draped herself on top of him some time during the night, was somehow the reason for his abruptly altered quality of sleep.

He rolled the still-sleeping dog off him and got up. When he got back from the bathroom and began to change into his running clothes, he saw her eying him suspiciously from where she had curled herself into a surprisingly small ball after Sam's shove had disrupted her sleep.

"What's wrong, sweetheart? Are you not a morning person?" he asked, smiling. She wagged her tail, just at the tip, at the attention. "Hate to break it to you, gorgeous, but, most days, this is when I run. And if we're going to keep you healthy, that means you come with. So come on!" he finished, slapping his thigh and adding as much enthusiasm to his voice as he could.

The dog stood up, stretched, and then stared at him with a martyred expression. He called her again, laughing, and she, very slowly, climbed down from the bed and made her way to his side. "You're as bad as Dean," he told her, clipping on her leash.

The sky was cloudless and already bright blue, promising another hot summer day, the kind that made him grateful for the bunker's cool interior. Sam spent the run trying to think of a suitable name for the dog, something that encompassed the way she was big and strong and protective but also sweet and cuddly and, apparently, a little lazy, at least in the morning. By the time he'd finished his shower and was in the process of getting dressed, he had almost decided on Helga, as in Hufflepuff, but it wasn't quite right, somehow.

As he was transferring Jess' thimble from the pocket of his running shorts to the jeans he was wearing that day, thinking wistfully about how Jess had been really invested in him someday getting a giant rescue dog, the perfect name hit him. "Nana," he said aloud. She looked up from her reclaimed position on his bed and thumped her tail enthusiastically. Nana, the dog from Peter Pan, who had been big and loyal and done her best to care for the children in her charge while still showing when she felt put-upon. And the obscure connection to Jess gave him a bittersweet feeling of being watched over. Cared for. He knew it was nonsense, that Jess was safe in heaven and blissfully unaware of the train wreck his life had become after she died, but he still liked the idea of a connection between this sweet, protective dog and the sweet, protective woman he once thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with.

. . .

"Nana?" Dean asked incredulously, putting down his coffee cup. "Come on, Sam, big fierce-looking bitch like that—" Dean smirked, clearly waiting for Sam to appreciate his literal use of the word, but Sam rolled his eyes and glared, waiting for Dean to finish while he poured himself his own cup of coffee. "—and you want to call her Nana?"

"First of all," Sam said irritably, filling the kettle and putting it on the stove, "only females who aren't spayed are bitches, so you misused that word in every possible way just now. Second, yes, that's her name, and I know this isn't going to make it more appealing to you, but it's a Peter Pan reference, OK?" Sam leaned against the counter, waiting for the water to boil, and sipped his coffee.

"Oh, so not only is it a squishy cuddly feel-good name, but now it's a reference to a fairy tale."

"Peter Pan isn't a fairy tale. I mean, it is, but it's not actually that old, and it was a play and then a novel and then multiple movie adaptations. And Nana was always big and fierce in her own way. And she's already responding to the name, so it stays. Besides, you never said that you approving her name was a condition of her being here or anything, so you can just suck it up."

Dean looked slightly taken aback, but all he said was "Nerd," gulped down the last of his coffee, put the mug in the sink, and left, giving Nana a wide berth. Sam was pleasantly surprised. Sure, it had only been a day, but Dean was, apparently, listening, at least for now. "Maybe I should've named you Fairy Godmother," he joked to Nana, who was sitting patiently by the door to the kitchen/dining room area. Her previous owner might have been an asshole, but Sam was discovering that he'd trained her well: he'd told her to "stay" at the door before he stepped into the kitchen, since she wasn't allowed in, and that's exactly what she'd done.