A/N: Okay, so this weird little bugger has been buzzing in my skull for quite a while now, and it's time I let it out. Deciding in my uniquely fevered imagination that Dean possesses characteristics stereotypically associated with dogs (loyalty, devotion, etc.), and that Sam similarly possesses those associated with cats (intelligence, independence, etc.), I thought that it would be funny if they were hit with a witch's curse that turned them into these pets! Then I decided that it would be cute as well if they were very young. The icing on the cake would be John having to deal with the hilarity and overwhelming cuteness and subsequent stress.

So I did it!

Not what I usually write, so I'd appreciate any tips/comments/suggestions.

…

LIKE CATS AND DOGS

…

November 1984

Flagstaff, Arizona

…

John Winchester kept firing until the witch stopped moving. What a way to spend the one year anniversary of Mary's death.

The witch's mistake had been to select innocent children among her sacrificial victims, a quick way to get dead in John's book. Witches were human, and, as far as he knew, not impervious to bullets, so once he had her located, finishing her off was a quick job.

After the hunt, John went for a drink. Another stellar move. Yeah, he was really handling this well: leaving his two baby boys alone with some small-townie teenager while he sat and got drunk in the local dive on the anniversary of their mother's death. Dean wasn't even six yet, and already he was responsible for himself and Sammy as their father slipped deeper into a grief-filled alcoholism matched only by his obsession with revenge.

It took a stiff string of JD to snap John out of his anguish. Friggen grow a set, Winchester. I don't care how much it hurts, those boys are all you have left of her. Go look after them. Pragmatism added, You don't have enough dough to pay the townie for staying all night, especially if you keep drinking like this.

It was settled. John paid for the round and headed back to the motel where his boys—if they knew what was good for them—he was their father, after all—were in bed, asleep.

…

As soon as the man left the house, the witch opened her eyes. The pool of blood haloing around her was definitely a huge problem.

How was she ever going to get it out of the carpet, for starters?

Well, no, that wasn't strictly true. The biggest problem before her was how she was going to exact revenge upon—okay, quick divination spell, the carpet can wait—ah, yes: upon John Winchester.

…

For Lorelei McKennon, right now, life was good. SNL was on late night TV and she was munching happily on cold pizza. Mr. Johnson had promised her $3 an hour to watch his two sons for the evening while he was out on business—though what business he could be doing at 11:00 at night was anyone's guess—and he was creeping up on five hours already!

The boys had been adorable but exhausting, especially little Sammy, whose curiosity was outmatched only by his clumsiness and was, as a result, a ticking time bomb of self-injury. Dean had been helpful in this regard, when he could be pulled away from his army men and a suspicious affinity for locating the pay-per-view channels on the motel television just by button-mashing the remote. She was more than a little glad to put them to bed by 9:30 after telling them the story of—her specialty—watered-down Star Wars for kids. She could have sworn she heard, though, as she turned off the light and closed the door to the bedroom, Dean saying "Naw, Sammy, she didunt get it right. I'll straighten ya out…" She tried not to laugh, and let it slide. So long as no one got hurt and she got paid, they could be up til 3:00AM talking to each other.

In the dark room beyond, Sam and Dean lay tangled together on the large queen-sized bed, slightly off to one side as if waiting for when their father would join them there. They had been asleep since 9:35, after Dean had corrected their erring but well-meaning (and kinda hot) babysitter that Han, in response to Leia firing a blaster near his feet as they tried to escape the prison block, did in fact say "What the hell are you doing?" not "What the heck are you doing?" as their babysitter would have had them believe. Honestly, did she think they were stupid? Even Sammy knew that one, and he hasn't even seen Star Wars yet.

As the clock struck midnight and Lorelei grinned in anticipation of the $15 richer she was going to be by the end of tonight, the window in the other room squeaked open. Sam, the lighter sleeper of the two, stirred, and Dean pulled the covers higher over his baby brother on reflex, but neither woke.

The clawing, grasping shadows of the trees writhed on the floor before materializing into a single shape: a witch riding a broomstick. Pointy hat and all, but then she was a stickler for tradition. And Johnny boy picked the wrong girl to mess with. First a little emotional torment was in order, then a lot of pain, and then, if he was very lucky, death. It was a good thing she was in the market for a new pair of familiars—since Winchester had killed her last black cat and her guard hound before deluding himself that he could kill her, too—otherwise she'd just as soon brain them where they slept.

She carved symbols in the wall, sprinkled herbs in a circle around the bed, and began the incantation…

And damn if these newer models weren't cuter than the originals.

…

Lorelei was a nice enough girl, but John ushered her out the door $14 richer a little quicker than was necessary when he got home in anticipation of seeing his boys. He was taking them out for ice cream tomorrow, that was a promise, for being good for the babysitter and to help assuage his guilt for leaving them alone on tonight of all nights. He hadn't yet gotten his boots off, however, when he heard a commotion in the bedroom.

It sounded like…barking.

Oh, no, they didn't. John thought, with a feral growl. Sam had been on a wanting-a-puppy kick for the past week or so, which Dean had been asking John for incessantly. How they had conned the babysitter into letting them keep a stray, though, was beyond him.

Then John heard another sound, but one that he recognized all too well, if only from having heard it just hours before: the inhuman shrieking of a certain witch.

John burst upon the scene with the fury of a mother bear defending her cubs, though he paused briefly to take in what he saw—which was weird, even for him. A small dog, puppy-sized, was the center of his attention. It had latched with its jaws onto the bristles of a broomstick which was itself being used by the witch he had just killed to make an escape. John's eyes darted to the bed, which was empty of Sam and Dean, and panicking, he raised the Colt 1911 he had not yet disarmed himself of at the witch.

"Try that again, Johnny boy," she shrieked, "and I'll drown the little brats the next time I see them!" With a shake of her broom, she dislodged the puppy, who fell with a yelp into a pile of clothes. "Don't think I won't be back for them!" she cackled and flew away out the open window.

John stood dumbfounded for only a moment. Then, "Dean? Sammy?" he barked.

He didn't expect a bark back.

He turned in time to see a small golden mutt trot obediently out from beneath the pile of clothes, apparently unharmed, and sit and stare at him expectantly.

"Dean…" John tried again, looking around, refusing to believe the situation on many levels. "Dean, where did this dog come from? Where are you hiding? Where's your brother?"

This last question was answered by a tiny, lost-sounding mewl from the bed. As John couldn't bring himself to move, the puppy darted from where it had been sitting up onto the bed, where it began worriedly rooting around in the blankets, sheets, pillows, and—

Clothes. Empty clothes. Empty Sam and Dean's pajamas. Except that, tangled inside Sammy's hand-me-down Batman t-shirt, was a little black kitten. Its mewling and crying soon subsided as the puppy began to give it a rough but thorough once-over.

"Oh, my God." John sat down heavily. He couldn't form words for a long minute, then: "What did that bitch do to you boys?" he breathed.

The puppy barked excitedly, as if attempting to answer the question.

John licked his lips. "Dean?" He didn't really want to know the answer.

The puppy barked again, this time wagging its tail.

"Um. Okay. Uh. Can you understand me? Bark once for 'yes.'"

A solid, single, yip!

"Jesus Christ." John ran a hand over his eyes. "Where's Sammy?"

The puppy—Dean—if it really was Dean—turned, grasped the tiny, mewling, and immediately perturbed-looking kitten by its scruff and held it up in his jaws, like an offering.

"That's Sam?"

The single bark of affirmation caused Dean to drop the kitten, which immediately burst into tears, as near as an animal could come. And damned if it didn't sound like Sammy.

"Oh, boys," John nearly sobbed, gathering the creatures into his arms in an embrace. He threatened to break down as longing, fear, separation, dread, concern, anger, and love all boiled up in him, but he just managed to keep it under control as long as he was holding onto them. It was a strange experience, but the animals sort of hugged him in return, like small boys and very much unlike any creatures John had ever known, which would have wriggled away at such close confinement. And Dean could understand him. Sammy probably could, too. That was something. They were still them inside. He had to fix this.

…

Dean may have been just a kid, but he knew what was up. And, right now, something was definitely up.

Seriously, what the hell?

The last thing he remembered, hot babysitter, Star Wars, sweeping army men aside so they wouldn't poke him as he slept, Sammy fussing about having to go to bed and friggen falling asleep in the middle of his claim that he wasn't even tired, and then suddenly that bitch was in the room.

Or, yeah, witch, whatever.

Dean had opened his eyes just in time to see her transform Sam into a cat! "What the hell are you doing?" he tried to say, like Han Solo, but it came out funny, and he felt weird, but then Dad had burst into the room and everything was okay.

Except, not really.

He was—What the hell?—she'd done something to him, too? Dean looked down at himself, alarmed but not really surprised, in the scheme of things, to be met by paws and fur and now he recognized the sound coming out of his mouth: she'd turned him into a friggen dog!

Then he had found kitten-Sammy trapped inside his own clothes, and then Dad was practically crying and hugging them, and then Dean felt suddenly sleepy so maybe this was all a dream and he would be better when he woke up.