Dean's getting restless in this town. They've been looking for something-anything-to hunt, for what seems like weeks now, but they've got zip.
Dean watches as Sam clicks away on his laptop, searching, he assumes, the websites of all the newspapers in the state, maybe the country, because they've been waiting around for a Freaky-News-Of-The-Day headline or a call from Bobby-Hell, Dean's already called the man himself a few times now- but he's starting to feel like all the meatsuit-nabbing demons and ghouls, shifters, wedigos- they're all, what, out to lunch?
No, if they were, we'd have heard about it.
Dean snorts at where his train of thought has dropped him, causing Sam to glance over, all typing ceased. Dean scrubs at his face with his hand.
"What?" Sam looks agitated, though he shouldn't be. Dean didn't direct that at Sam, didn't even mean for it to come out, really.
Dean sucks in a very long, very audible breath, which turns to a sigh near the end. "Ah, Nothin'."
Sam slowly releases his stare, turning back to the screen. "Mhm." He drags out, obviously thinking otherwise, but seemingly too caught up in what he was doing to ask further. Sure is typing a lot, Dean observes, when suddenly his thoughts are crushed by a loud bang at the door.
They both shoot up, muscles tense and waiting for the need to spring for their guns, salt, or badges. Dean glances, eyes serious, to Sam and, as he receives the same look, they both step forward, Sam slightly behind, and Dean unlocks and opens the door. He stares out into the bright light of the late-afternoon sun, glinting magestically atop the Impala's hood. He fights with his thoughts for a moment, before, finally, looking down.
Dean bends into a crouch, reaching his fingers into the open box and underneath the thin blanket held within, flipping the edge of it up. Sam can see Dean's shoulders are tightly hunched, ready for anything, his whole body a live wire.
"What is it?" Sam finally asks after a few moments lacking movement from his brother. Dean shoots abruptly upwards and backsteps, almost coming in to contact with Sam's chest. He shuts the door gingerly, like he's attempting not to wake the baby he doesn't have, and turns, though Sam hasn't moved. He stands firm, waiting to see if Dean picked the box up.
He didn't.
"Dean."
"What?"
"What was it?" Sam's bitchface twitches in and out of his expression, while curiousity holds the main stage. Dean shrugs and pushes past him, returning to his spot on the floor where their guns await polishing. Sam huffs a breath and re-opens the door. Dean turns to face the guns, muttering about how Sam should just leave it be, as his brother dips down into Dean's earlier stance and briskly flips the folded blanket open. Sam, too, sits for a moment in thought, watching the slow rise and fall of the small animal's round belly. It couldn't be more than 6 weeks old. It's tail is, well, kind of not there, but it doesn't look to Sam like it was one of those "eat-your-young" things. It doesn't look bob-tailed either, though.
Sam lifts the box slowly, bouncing back up and onto his feet. He brings the box inside and plants in upon the table. Dean groans faintly behind him.
Sam concludes, fifteen minutes-and multiple complaints from Dean- later that the town doesn't have any animal shelters, and the closest one is a two hour drive. Dean immediately sputters on about how the Impala's not a litterbox and there's no way he's cleaning up cat piss and how it would ruin the apholstery and so on.
"Well, since the Demons seem to be taking all their sick-days at once and we've got no leads on anything else-"
"Sam, we can't keep him."
"Her." Sam corrects, stepping to loom over the box. The kitten has rolled over onto her back, displaying her white underbelly, front paws crossed over her face. Sam smiles slightly when she opens her small eyes groggily, and flips over to face him. Dean stands and joins Sam at the box, eyes fixed upon the kitten's small teeth as she yawns. Sam sneaks a glance over at his brother and sees his mouth twitch upwards.
"I'm gonna go see if I can find some stuff for her." Sam says as he twists around and grabs his wallet off the table. Dean's vision targets a small black oval travelling along on her light-and-dark-grey-striped side.
"Sam."
"Yeah?"
"Get Flea stuff. And don't get her crap food, she needs the good stuff so she'll be healthy. Maybe a cat-carrier, too."
Sam stares at his brother's back for a moment. Dean sounds like he might actually be okay with having her here. His lips fight a smile.
"Kay. I'll look around." Sam nabs the keys off the table and then he's out the door. The kitten's eyes flit to Dean's, and they stare for longer than Dean can manage without blinking. Her eyes are a golden yellow, and as Dean sits in the chair to get closer, he sees the innermost part of her iris is teal coloured. He reaches in and runs two cautious fingers along her side, the contact immediately sending her into soft purring. He repeats the motion a few times, and then picks her up out of the box. Her body hangs tiredly in his large hands, her curious eyes still burning into his own.
He cradles her on her back in the crook of his arm, and stands, lifting the blanket from the box to carry with him to the bed. He hadn't noticed before, but the thing's pretty dirty, and she's no different. He tosses the blanket back into the box and gets a small towel from the bathroom, wetting it underneath the faucet. He expects the kitten to jump when the water rushes into the sink, but she just stares. Seems like all she can do. Her body is a limp, warm, ever-purring mass against his chest, and Dean finds himself smiling down at her again. He settles her down on his lap and gently drags the towel down her back, wiping free the gunk caked in her fur. He wraps the towel around his finger and holds her face, wiping her little dark-pink nose, above her eyes, under her chin. Some fleas scuttle along, away from the newly cleaned fur. Dean furrows his brows as he inspects her ears. Dried blood from fleas and the mites they carry sits near the entrance to her over-large ears. He re-wets the towel in another corner, re-wraps his finger and, as softly as he can manage, digs into her ear and swipes out as much as he can, cursing the small dark creatures now running along through the fibers of the towel. He quickly does the other ear with yet another corner and tosses the towel in the garbage can.
He lifts her back up into his arms as she shakes the water from her ears, but she hadn't protested verbally at all. Dean'd be glad to get the fuckers out of his ears, too.
He steps back over to his bed and beats his pillow to soften it. He lays her down, and she stretches out her paws before curling up to ready herself for her return into the land of long kitten-naps. Dean pets her head and scratches behind her ear before shifting down onto the floor where the guns have laid untouched. He faces her, looking back and forth from her to the shotgun he's cleaning the barrel of. She mews, small and faint, before shutting her eyes once more. She doesn't seem to have any complaints about her new surroundings, or her new big brother.