Pussy Galore

.:.

Dean was most definitely not a morning person. Not now, not ever – never ever ever. Thus, he was most definitely not a wake-up-at-the-break-of-dawn-on-a-Sunday-morning type of person, either. In fact, at a very early age, he had pledged to put a cap in the ass of anyone who dared disturb his Sunday morning slumber. Sam knew this very well, but on this particular Sunday morning, he coincidentally decided to forget.

Dean felt a tugging on his blanket, but he refused to stir from his well deserved sleep. Swiping at the source of the nuisance he mumbled an expletive-packed reply before shoving his head under the motel provided pillow he rested on. Light wasn't even filtering in through the thin curtains yet. He most definitely was not getting up. For anything. At all.

Yet, the tugging persisted, and was then accompanied by one annoyingly familiar voice.

"Dean. Dean, wake up. Dean, where are the towels? Dean!"

Dean huffed and grumbled and rolled over onto his stomach, refusing to open his eyes. He knew that beside him crouched the gangly mess of his little brother. He also didn't care.

"Baafvroom," Dean grumbled huskily.

Sam smiled victoriously. A moment later, Dean heard the hurried shuffling of feet as Sam rushed toward the bathroom door. A loud slamming followed, and Dean felt his cheeks warming in anger (also contributed to by the stuffiness that having his head shoved under a pillow created.)

For a few seconds, there was peace, and Dean thought that for once he would be able to drift back to sleep and forget his bubbling anger.

No such luck though.

The door slammed open, rattling against the thin plaster walls of the motel, and Sam's booming baritone of a voice resonated throughout their small motel room.

"Dean! Dean, I need milk. Where's the milk, Dean?"

Dean pushed his face hard against the starch-like sheets as he yelled coarsely into them, telling Sam to leave him alone. He wouldn't open his eyes. He refused to open his eyes. He wouldn't get up.

"Dean! Dean, where's the milk? I need the milk!"

Another lot of shuffling persisted. Dean could then hear things being tossed from his duffle and across the room. He almost shot awake. Almost.

"Kwitchin, you idgit!" Dean growled under the various pillows and blankets he was now using to minimise the racket. The fact that he was starting to sound like Bobby didn't help with the whole anger thing.

Sam let out a squeal of delight and dove towards the mini fridge. The smashing and clanging of bottles punctuated his search. Once he had located the milk he let out another squeal and skipped towards his bed. But, when he reached it, he realised he was missing something else, and shot a distraught doe-eyed look at the mess of covers hiding his big brother.

"Dean!" he sang. "Where are the bowls? Dean, Dean, Dean! I need bowls!"

Dean didn't answer straight away. He couldn't bring himself to. If he tried, he knew that his instincts would lead to him pulling a gun on his brother. Sure, he couldn't actually kill him forever, and the angels would bring Sam back faster than he could blink, but Dean just really wasn't in the mood to clean up blood stains and explain the noise to the motel staff.

"Cwupboawd!" Dean yelled, muffling his anger through the fabric and forcing himself to take long, deep breaths. He had to avoid any unfortunate stabbing incidents. Sure, hurting Sam would piss Lucifer off and cause Zachariah, the dick of all dicks, to come down on his ass, but mostly he just didn't want to face the wrath of Bobby if he ever found out.

Sam's bed creaked as he leaped up and ran for the cupboards. More smashing and crashing sounded as he grabbed a white plastic bowl and launched himself back onto his bed with a gleeful laugh. Dean let out an exasperated sigh as Sam began whistling Wham!

That.

Was.

It.

Dean shot up, tearing the covers off himself, his muscles cracking with every movement, and bore into his overly-excited, cherub-faced brother. "Sammy! I swear to God, I love you, but if you make so much as one more sound I will blast you so full of rock salt you will crap margaritas!"

Oh shit, Dean thought bitterly, I am turning into Bobby.

Sam's eyes shot to Dean, a stunned look of absolute horror on his face as he sat cross-legged on his bed. Automatically he clutched something to his chest – something that Dean didn't spot. As Sam did this his appearance mirrored one of a possum in headlights, his wide eyes filled with terror. This had Dean backtracking.

"What are yo-"

Dean would have continued with his enquiries if it wasn't for a little squeak coming from Sam's lap.

Well, it was actually more of a meow.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Dean said breathlessly, mirroring Sam's wide-eyed expression. He knew that sound. He knew it as well as he knew his car. But, unlike the car, he hated that sound and everything attached to it.

Dean didn't want to look. He sincerely didn't. Sadly, his instincts were just too overpowering, and his eyes dragged down to Sam's lap, his heart thumping like a jack hammer in his chest. Sure enough, the devil itself reared its fluffy little head.

Kittens. Five of them, including the one Sam hugged for dear life.

Dean's heart dropped into his ass.

"How? What? Why? Who? You!"

Dean was hysterical. He couldn't even think properly. Kittens. Kittens. Sam had mother fucking kittens.

It was worse than the damn apocalypse.

Dean had always hated cats, kittens and any other type of feline species. He was afraid of them about as much as he feared flying. Only kittens provided a far more sinister reason. When they were young Dean and Sam were best friends. They were unbreakable. But, one Christmas on the road, Sam had brought a cat home. Okay. Fine. That was all swell...until the cat jumped Dean while he was asleep in his bed and scratched up his chest. Dean had the wounds for weeks. Even thinking about the episode made Dean wince and clutch at the old, invisible wounds it had dug. After that, and a certain run in with a cat during his episode with Ghost Sickness, his hate for cats was solidified. Dean was a dog person, through and through.

He hated cats.

And when they were young, this absolute hate for cats versus Sam's adoration for them had almost forged an unforgiveable split between the two. Now, the problem was back, rearing its ugly head in the form of five fluff balls of doom.

"Dean, meet Julian, Dick, Anne, George and Timothy, my kittens."

Dean's eyes bulged. "You named them? And after the Famous Five, too! What the hell, Sammy?"

Sam saw Dean's absolute rage, and, huddling over his bundles of joy, he stated his stance, as well as managing to look like a five year old.

"Don't hurt them, Dean! It's not their fault! I love them!"

Dean gaped. "How? Why? What? Where did they come from?" he demanded.

Reluctantly Sam reached over to his bedside table and grasped the letter that had come with his new found friends.

"They...they...they came with this," he answered nervously.

Dean snatched the letter from Sam's shaking hand and tore it open. What he saw had him nearly screaming in absolute rage.

Dear Sam and Dean,

I found these little guys in a nice local pet store. They made me think of you. Especially you, Dean. You love cats, right? Look after them for me. I know there are quite a lot of them but it gives a whole new meaning to Pussy Galore, don't you think?

Sincerely,
Gabriel, aka, your friend the Trickster.

While Dean read the dammed letter Sam turned back to his newly acquired friends, smiling gleefully and rocking them with a cheery lullaby. After reading the letter, Dean could only manage two simple words.

"Fucking Gabriel!"

.:.

Author's Note: Hi there. This is my first Crack fic. The characters are a bit OOC and I'm sorry for that. Please review! I'd love to hear what you think, even if you didn't like it.