If Dean could describe you, he’d say you’re more like a loyal dog than the werewolves he’d hunt on the job.

You were very close to him, literally, you were like attached to his hip almost always. Except for that time once a month when he had to lock you in the bunker’s basement for a full moon.

But on normal days, like today, you were always by his side. Almost begging for attention, a habit he assumed was the more canine side of your DNA.

Right now, he was laying on one of those recliner chairs he had in the Dean Cave, a random movie playing on the TV in front of him and a beer lazily sitting in his hand.

Normally, he’d be by himself in the Dean Cave but you were with him, spread on top of him with your head on his chest.