AN: This is pure, pure, pure fluff. Pre-series WeeChesters. New DMW chap should be out soon I promise. Rated G.
It was a Saturday morning and fourteen-year-old Dean was starting to go out of his mind. They were stuck in the middle of nowhere, in a crappy motel that only picked up one station on the crappy television—the news.
Have you ever tried to entertain a hyper four-year-old with the news?
What's more, Sam was sick-the kind of sick that kept Dean awake for pretty much three days straight to check for fever, force orange juice down his throat, and then clean the buckets after the orange juice was thrown up.
John would not let him take Sam to the hospital for the flu since that would alert Social Services, Rose was getting cabin fever, and Dean was about ready to pull his hair out in clumps.
Rose was a very good girl, but she was only four. Her understanding of "Sam is sick" only extended to not getting in his face and to using her crayons to draw lopsided, crooked hearts on newspaper as get better cards.
It did not, unfortunately, extend to not jumping on the squeaky motel couch when Dean had finally, finally gotten Sam asleep.
Dean caught her by the middle mid-jump and hauled her against his chest. She wriggled and squirmed against the too tight grip and accidentally kicked him in the balls.
That was the straw that broke Dean's back.
"Seraphina Rose Winchester!" He hissed, doubled over in pain.
"I'm sworry," she said, instantly repentant, though not sure what she had done. Still, the use of her big girl name signaled that she had done something. "You mad?"
"Yes!" He stood up with a wince, unmoved for once by the big green eyes filling with tears looking up at him.
"I'm sworry," she repeated, bottom lip starting to wobble dangerously.
That was usually when he would pick her up and tell her that it was okay, but Dean was running on no sleep, little food (the smell made Sam feel worse, so he was really only feeding Rose) and worry. "Go outside and play."
She nodded, head hung in shame, and walked out the back door. Dean had already scouted out the backyard; ten square fenced in feet. How much trouble could she possibly get into?
That was a dumb question. She was a Winchester so the answer was obvious. A lot.
He glanced out the window at her a few times while he was doing the dishes. She stayed huddled in one corner. That made him feel slightly guilty. He resolved to take her out for ice cream when Sam was feeling better, just the two of them to make it up to her. He would even let her order him that birthday cake shit she was always trying to get him to eat.
He had only gone a few minutes without checking on her when he thought he heard her say, faintly, what sounded like "bad dog." A spilt second later, he heard her repeat "Bad Dog!" in that shrill scream only little girls can manage.
"What the hell?" Dean started toward the door, breaking into a run when he heard a yelping sort of sound.
He burst through the door and the first thing he saw was a largish dog scurrying through a hole in the fence. The second thing he was his sister standing with muddy knees, a torn jacket sleeve, and a large rock clenched in her small hand.
"I'm sworry!" She said, trying to hide her sleeve behind her back.
He darted over to her and pushed the sleeve up to see some smeared blood and bite marks. "Damn it!"
"I sworry! I didn't mean to!" She started crying. "I didn't rip my sleeve! There was a doggy!"
"I know, I know. I'm not mad." He wiped the blood away with the dish towel still in his hand. "There, that's not too bad. What happened?"
"The dog wanted to eat my kitten." She sniffled, tears stopped at his promise he was not angry, and pointed at the ground and Dean noticed a small mound of gray fur for the first time. "I said that it was bad. Then it bit me. So I hit it."
The bites were not as bad as they could have been, but they needed looking after. "I need to put on some band-aides."
"Can I bring in Bobby?" She picked up the kitten before Dean could answer.
She sat bravely through the cleaning and bandaging process, although the tears threatened to fall when he poured on the antiseptic.
"Rosie," he said quietly when he applied the fourth and final band-aide.
She looked up from the kitten on her lap with a solemn expression too old for a pre-schooler. "I can't keep Bobby, can I?"
"No, Baby girl, you can't."
She sighed the sigh of someone used to it. It made Dean's heart break a little. "I didn't think so." She pulled the purring kitten into a hug. "I'm sworry I was bad earlier." She buried her face in matted, gray fur, sniffling out tears. "Do you still wanna keep me?"
At that, Dean's heart broke absolutely in half and then fell out of his chest completely. "Oh, Baby girl…" He plucked the kitten from her arms and set it in the tub, earning a grumpy glare from it that reminded him of its namesake. He pulled his sister into a hug, feeling little girl tears starting to soak through his shirt.
"There's nothing you could possibly do that would ever make me want to give you up."
She nodded and pressed a sloppy, slightly sticky kiss to his cheek. "I wouldn't let anybody make me give you away either," she said seriously.
If Dean found away to smuggle the kitten to Bobby Singer's place than it was just between him, Uncle Bobby, and his sister.