The Impala’s engine cut out in the driveway, and a beat later, the front door creaked open. Dean stepped inside, boots heavy, jacket damp from the rain. He looked like he’d been through hell; mud on his jeans, exhaustion in his eyes, a fresh scrape on his cheek. He dropped his duffel by the door with a thud. “Sweetheart,” he called, voice low and gravelly. “You home?”

“Living room!” you replied, way too chipper for the hour.

That should’ve been his first warning. He walked in, unzipping his jacket and froze. Two dogs. One was sprawled across the couch like it owned the place. The other sat politely at your feet, tail thumping against the hardwood. Both turned their heads at Dean in perfect unison.

“What the hell…” Dean blinked. “Are those dogs?”

You smiled sweetly, like you weren’t committing the ultimate betrayal. “Yep.”

Dean stared. “You got dogs.”

“I did,” you said, petting the head of the one by your side. “This is Bear. And the couch-hog is Nugget.”

“Nugget,” Dean echoed flatly. “You got dogs and you named one Nugget.”

“They needed homes, Dean.”

“They shed. They drool. They pee on things. You know I hate-” He stopped mid-rant as Bear padded over, tilted his head, and sat down with perfect manners. Dean pointed. “No. Don’t you give me that face.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Which one, mine or his?”

“Both,” he grumbled, running a hand down his face. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“Nope,” you said cheerfully. “Because I knew you’d say no.”

“That’s the point of asking!” Dean threw his hands up.

You stood and walked over, looping your arms around his neck. “Dean, I get it. You’re tired. You hate animals. But… maybe give them a day? One day. If you still hate them tomorrow, I’ll-” You paused, reconsidering. “-I’ll figure something out.”

Dean stared at you, then glanced back at the dogs. Nugget let out a soft “boof” and rolled onto his back like a professional manipulator. Bear yawned dramatically. Dean sighed like a man accepting his fate. “If one of them chews Baby’s seats, I swear to God…”

You kissed his cheek. “You’ll survive.”

“I’m not walking them.”

“Noted.”

“I’m not cleaning up poop.”

“Obviously.” You say as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Dean looked down as Bear nudged his leg, then grumbled, “Stupid name. Bear’s not even that big.” You grinned.