Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Notes: Effeffdotnet wasn't being nice, so I separated this crap into four parts.
♠♠♠
Honestly, Sam hadn't found the demonic cat; the demonic cat found him. He'd been casually walking though the sewer, gun and flashlight out, when he heard the low, vicious growl from behind. He whipped around, lip curved into a concentrated snarl, finger readily pressed tightly on that trigger—but, wait, there was nothing to shoot at! A soft, confused murmur of, "huh?" rolled off his tongue, but he did not lower his weapon. From under his long, dark fringe, his wary gazed flicked right to left, up and—
Was something rubbing up against his leg? Sam stumbled back in surprise, not used to that kind of attention, and aimed his flashlight down. "Oh, hell no." Instantly, his jaw slacked, and his brows shot up to his hairline. There sat a cat—a large black cat, with red eyes, exceedingly sharp claws, and horns. Apparently, Satan lost his pet, which now stared up admiringly at the twenty-three year old. Cautiously, he kneeled down, a good three feet away from it, and briefly wondered if he was hallucinating.
"Mrrow." The demon cat meowed in a normal feline way, and Sam swore the freakish thing was smiling up at him. It really did sound like an old fashioned, non-demonic cat, though, in appearance, it was a bit fat. What does it eat? Sam asked himself, but, judging by the way it innocently licked it's long, thick set of fangs, he decided that he really didn't want to know, or find out. The black cat meowed again; now up on all fours, still staring at him with this expectant gleam in it's unusual eyes.
Intrigued, Sam hesitantly set down his flashlight, and extended an arm. He whistled softly at the cat, his long fingers stretched out welcomingly. The cat happily waddled forward, pressing the top of it's head into the palm of his hand. The feeling of it's soft fur made him smile, while the horns, located just in front of the inside of each ear, made him shiver. The texture reminded him that of a seashell, but felt hollow as they scraped against his hand.
Already fond of the demonic animal, the brunette smiled widely. When the sound of purring reached his ears, he chuckled, running his hand up and down the cat's back. The fat cat hummed louder, arching it's back, basking in the attention it was receiving from the human with the large, skillful hands. It, however, was not very happy when a cell phone suddenly went off, and the hand went away. Abruptly, Sam stood up, fumbling for his phone, cursing softly. His eyes remained locked on the horned cat. "Yeah?"
"Yeah? Dude, what the hell is taking you so long?" It was no one other than Sam's older brother, Dean, who uttered the kind words, which were surely spoken with patience and deep concern. With a broken ankle, Dean was currently, and not to mention stubbornly, out of commission. When there was word of a rawhead creeping around in the sewers, he wanted to charge down there, but Sam had threatened to take away his crutches. Also, there may or may not have been a brutal threat dealing the burning of cassette tapes thrown in there somewhere.
Sam, who was still at a loss for words at the sight in front of him, wetted his lips. "You're not going to believe what I found." He swallowed hard, starting to feel uneasy with the cat staring up at him so intently. Finally, he tore his gaze away, smiling nervously, but a part of him—the hunter part, perhaps—expected the demon, though feline, to attack. Instantly, he looked back down, only to find the cat diligently licking his nine-toed paw, as if it were patiently waiting for Sam to get off the phone. "Huh."
After a pregnant pause, a snort came through Dean's nose. "You're in a sewer; there's not much I wouldn't believe, you know that." Shuffling noises were heard; Dean was growing (even more so) restless. Another pause lingered in the air, followed by a tired groan. "Do I even want to know, Sam? 'Cause I'm not really in the mood for a repeat if it's a freakin' shapeshifter." There were only so many times a person could be declared illegally dead, and Dean had already reached his limit there.
"Oh, it's not a shapeshifter." Sam whistled through his teeth, trying to gather the cat's attention. Chuckling, he ducked his head when the cat's head shot up, it's right ear turning back.
"What the hell are you laughing at—oh, shit, there's a gas leak, isn't there?" The sound of the car door swinging open broke through the trance, and the younger male immediately straightened up, stuttering a chorus of, "no, Dean, no." He was already doing a terrible job of making sure Dean elevated and kept off his injured leg—he couldn't let him hobble through a sewer! "Save it, I'm comin' down."
"No! Come on, Dean, I'm coming up, right now, okay? Stay put. Stay." The last thing he needed was for Dean to slip coming down and break his neck. The twenty-seven year old refused to believe that the heavy cast slowed him down. The doctor had mentioned how very lucky Dean was not to need surgery, and apparently Dean took "lucky," as, "your ankle is perfectly fine, the cast is just so I get paid for doing something other than scamming you out of time and money."
Offended, Dean huffed. "I'm not a dog." There might have been a slur of, "dude," mixed in there somewhere, but these days, "dude," and, "man," were already pretty much implied, but always welcomed—always.
"Of course not, a dog listens." Before Dean could think of a retort—the cast may not have slowed him down mentally, but the painkillers have—he hastily mumbled, "I'll be up in a minute." As soon as the words left his mouth, the Big Brother Timer™ went off in Dean's head, counting down from a minute. Sam disconnected the call, shoving the cell into his pocket. A frown tugged back on his lips as he glanced down at the cat—demon cat, he reminded himself—apologetically. "Sorry. Got to—" With his thumb he pointed behind his shoulder. "You know, go."
"Mrrow?" Fuck puppy dog eyes—the kitty cat eyes made Sam's heart melt, even if they were red, and the cat a bit on the creepy side. Maybe the dark was playing games with his eyes, but it appeared the cat was… salivating? Yeah, it was about time to leave, especially since the smell? That was starting to get to him, but was it the usual sewer smell… or the smell of rotting human flesh? After the cat winked at him, Sam reached down, grabbing his flashlight, and shagged some mighty ass.
♠♠♠
"Last time I heard, a minute was sixty seconds." Dean leaned against the Impala; striking Sam in the calf with a crutch as he hurried passed him. Sam hissed in pain, stifling a groan, but shot the shorter male a peeved look, actually tempted not to hit the temporarily crippled one—at least, not physically. However, Sam's tightly furrowed brow warned Dean that if he used his crutches for violence ever again, he'd be hopping everywhere.
"Really? You must've missed the memo." Sam made his way around the car slowly, allowing Dean more time to slip into the passenger's seat after sticking his crutches into the back through the rolled down window. He pushed back the seat once he got in, wondering how it always seemed to move up on him. His left hand rested on the steering wheel, while his other went to the ignition, only to find it missing something of importance. Instantly, he put out his hand, his fingertips curled in. "The keys, Dean."
"Why don't you show me your license first?" Dean was clad in a black hoodie and a pair of Adidas (or was it Nike? Brand names never mattered growing up, why should they now?), pants. The pants had buttons down either side of each leg, which was just what Dean needed due to the bulky cast on his right leg. "Hmm?" He cocked a brow, also putting out a hand, only his fingers wiggled impatiently.
"Well, it depends—whose license do you want to see first?" His mouth went back to rambling the second confusion flickered in Dean's hazel-green eyes. It would only take Dean about a second longer to figure out what he'd meant, but really, Sam didn't want to pass up an opportunity to show how much he frowned upon their Life game of fraud. "There's James Carson from Michigan, Eric Bloom from New York, oh and there's Kirk Hammett from California! Wait, can't forget Robert Hope from—"
Oh, hello there! How nice the keys looked and felt in his hand. Sam's grin of victory widened from ear-to-ear as he turned over the engine—and he made sure to rev it more than necessary just for Dean, who had shifted away from him, grumbling, while most likely harboring evil, torturous thoughts about him. He adjusted the rear view mirror, eyeing the crutches, now with a smug smirk. Eh, he didn't have anything to worry about. Not until Dean's cracked talus healed, at least. Sam pressed down on the accelerator, suddenly wary for his future.
Dean gnawed at his bottom lip, every so often looking over at Sam to shoot daggers from his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but then paused, and shook his head. He purposely knocked his hand against the door, wrinkling his nose, and pouting like a child in time out… a time out that would last at least seven more weeks, with only one down. Finally, he rested back, sinking into the seat, head tilted back. "So," he started as causally as someone who looked like they wanted to slap you upside the head with their crutch could, "what did you find?"
Sam chewed on the inside of his mouth wistfully. He figured answering with, "a cat," would make Dean roll his eyes and ridicule him with sarcastic retorts until the sun died out, while answering with, "a demon cat," would make Dean want him to make a U-turn so they can go back and shoot it. His hands tightened around the steering wheel. Shoot it? Oh, no, he couldn't do that! The damned thing meowed at him, and looked happy to see him! He couldn't shoot something after it looked happy to see him.
"Oh, god, you've got Bambi eyes. You made friends with another rat, didn't you? Freak."
"Dude, I was eight, and it was a hamster, not a rat."
"Huh, well, it sure bit like one." Dean was absolutely positive that, in the right light, he could see the small white scar that Sam's lovable reincarnation of freaking Hitler left on his right index finger. Dean had soaked the rodent in holy water, believing that it was surely possessed, but even after a few bellowed cristo's the damned thing hadn't looked any more pissed. Although, looking back, Sam had. "So, if it wasn't a rat, what was it? An alligator?" His head lazily lolled over in Sam's direction.
"Yes." The brunette lied honestly, taking a hand off the steering wheel to scratch at an area above his Adam's apple. "It was an alligator." He dropped the hand to his lap, but then raised it, and reached for the on/off knob to the radio. With surprisingly quick reflexes for someone under the influence of a handful of painkillers, Dean slapped his hand away with a "back off, bitch," warning that stung loud and clear.
"Liar." He drew out the word, and turned his head back over to look out the window as snow began to fall. This made him scowl; of course now all the sidewalks were going to be slippery. Oh, well, if he went down, then he'd drag Sam and his unmanageable hair with him. "Whatever, dude." The older brother mumbled, shrugging a shoulder. He tried to appear uninterested, but the mere fact of Sam not wanting to tell him all of a sudden was intriguing. "Cristo!" Dean snapped out through a forced fit of coughing.
"I'm not possessed!" Sam huffed, actually feeling somewhat offended. He scowled, eyes narrowed forward, trying to pay more attention as the snow started to fall heavier. "And don't you even try to sprinkle me with holy water."
"'Course not; wouldn't want you to melt." Yeah, then we'd all be subjected to see what he really looked like under all that pretty. (More pretty? Ludicrous!) Now, while Dean's tone was light, his pouted lips viciously wore a disgruntled frown that could not be reckoned with. To Sam, his brother's grumpiness was like a Jupiter-sized pimple making a home at the tip of his nose. "So, what's on our, uh, agenda, chauffer? A little bowlin'?"
"Yeah, then I thought maybe we'd go ice skating." The roads were already getting slick with the fresh snow, which made Sam extra wary. "I guess we'll just stop for take-out and get back to our motel—I think we're due for a few inches, and I don't want to be out driving in it."
Dean rested the side of his head against the cold window, peering sideways outside, his hazel-green eyes flickering left to right. "You could just—"
"No way, man, you're not driving; you can't drive." Another sound cracked from the back of Sam's throat, but he stopped talking as they halted at a red light. A restless Dean now slumped back into his seat, and the brunette reached over, just brushing his palm against the curve of Dean's shoulder. "You can't even sit still," he mused with a slight smile, "why don't you lay off the coffee?" If there weren't a concerned glimmer in his dark eyes, Dean would have backhanded him. "You shouldn't even be taking it with your pills."
"It helps." The blonde explained simply, absently leaning in toward his brother, hands clasped tightly in his lap. The pad of one thumb rubbed against a calloused knuckle. He let out a whoosh of air, suddenly taking notice of Sam watching him, his smile faltering wearily. "If you don't quit staring at me, I'm going to start charging, and I ain't cheap."
"What? No discount for damaged goods?" Sam felt horrible—really—for poking fun at his brother's injury—which, if it didn't heal correctly, would lead to chronic pain, arthritis, and the bone even collapsing, which proved the seriousness of his condition—but when he remembered how Dean injured himself he just had to—
"Watch it—as soon as I'm back in that seat, you're riding in the trunk." Well, at least he'd have the dream catcher to keep him company, and a secret compartment of nifty weapons, ammo, and supplies rattling beneath him—'tis very soothing!
—He just had to not tease Dean…
…No matter how many times the image of Dean tripping over an undersized black dog, that had been playing dead, played over (and over, and over…) in his overzealous mind.
Yeah, and Sam was the clumsy one.
♠♠♠
"Wow, it's really coming down out there." Holding a half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand, Sam peered through the beige curtains in their motel room. He turned back to Dean, who was situated on one of the double-sized beds, taking a bite from his food. A piece of the stringy cheese hung from his bottom lip, and he wiped it away with the back of his other hand. "Good thing we got here when we did, huh?"
"I guess." Dean expressed ever so optimistically through a mouthful of crust. Tomato sauce tainted the corners of his mouth. He was propped up against the white pleather headboard with his leg being elevated with extra pillows and the duffel bag containing a few choice guns and knives. Feel free to rest easily—Sam had made damn sure the guns were unloaded and the knives were wrapped up before letting his brother use it as a freaking footstool. "This cold pizza's missing the taste of beer."
"Guess you won't be having your Champion's breakfast of stale pizza and flat beer tomorrow then."
"Actually, I was hinting you should go out and fetch me some." Truthfully, there was no way in hell Dean would ever allow his little brother out in this weather, thus he mainly did it to get a rise out of Sam. He was rewarded with an eye roll and exasperated sigh. "I'm subtle like that."
"If you want beer, you can go hop to it in the blizzard." Likewise, there was no way in hell Sam would ever allow his older brother, injured or not, to wander out for beer in such weather conditions, thus he mainly did it to… oh, crap, tease Dean. Damn, almost. He almost made it. Anyway, after noticing the time, it was time to push those invisible Sammy glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Besides," The brunette started matter-of-factly, and Dean already wished he were drunk, "you're not drinking alcohol with your medication."
Oh, what a surprise—Dean was not amused. He shifted against the headboard uncomfortably, his shoulder blades digging into the padding. "Any other ground rules, chief?" He asked, one arm folded behind his head, the other sprawled across his abdomen. His short nails lazily scratched at exposed skin where his shirt had ridden up. "Don't want me to stand while pissing either?" Dean tilted his head challengingly, voice low, but the humor was still there, somewhere.
"Actually…" As soon as the single word slipped, Dean groaned, tossing one arm over his eyes. "I'm serious, Dean, you lose balance easily, and you can't support yourself on crutches and…" Sam paused, his ears rather pink, and he started to chew on his thumbnail. Awkward!
"Aim?" Looking insulted, Dean snorted, peeking at Sam from under the crook of his arm. "Geesh Sam, give a man some credit. I do know a few tricks." Oh, my, and across the globe, a thousand wandering minds have simultaneously combusted. Dang.
"I don't think I want to continue this conversation."
"Oh, take it like a man, Sam." Dean pointed at the opened box of half-eaten pizza on Sam's bed before snapping his fingers impatiently. Sam was just glad he hadn't pointed from his opened mouth to the box repeatedly this time. His little older brother was evolving, hurrah!
Shaking his head, Sam's eyes crinkled around the corners as he moved around his brother's bed. On the way, he reached down, patting the shorter male's uninjured foot. "I could say the same to you, but I won't." Dean said frowning, while wiggling his toes at him in a very threatening way. "I'm nice like that." The mirrored smug statement unexpectedly made the blonde's lips quirk back into a smile.
When Sam handed Dean a slice of pizza, Dean hesitantly accepted it, suddenly not all that hungry. He peeled off the crust—his favorite part—and then just plopped the rest into the small garbage bin next to his bed. "Where're we heading next?"
Sam looked pointedly at the window, visualizing the snowstorm outside. A chill ran down his spine, and he crossed his forearms against his abdomen, only muttering, "south." He'd gotten too use to California weather. It felt like they were in freakin' Vancouver, geez.
"Beach south?" Dean tried, already picturing bikini clad woman smothering his damaged self with attention and pity (for whom?) sex. He also pictured Sam off in a short distance, rolling his eyes, completely jealous. "'Cause that? I could so do." After finishing the crust from the pizza, he wiped his greasy palms up and down on his shirt.
"I'm sure you could." He somewhat stressed on, "sure," as if he'd said, "I know you could," and his raised brow told Dean that they weren't heading for the beach any time soon. Unless there's a sand monster, thrashing the shores, stealing bikini tops and whatnot, that is. "Just someplace… warmer; less snow." He felt the cold draft caress his bare skin, and grumpily added, "no snow."
"Yeah, and all that snow at the beach? Drives me just crazy." As he drew out the vowel sound in the last word, he titled his head back, eyes fluttering shut. He drooped down on the bed more, his shoulders and back of the head now comfortably rested on the fiber-filled pillow. "Damn, you drugged my pepperoni, didn't you?" He asked, and suppressed a yawn that rolled into a low moan as he stretched out his stiff limbs.
"Yeah, you caught me." Sam verified falsely with a ghost of a smile. "You know there's nothing I love more than drugging and taking advantage of my older brother." He closed the box of pizza, picked it up, and after several seconds of looking around the room, he placed it on a small wobbly table near the door, not caring what was already there.
"Sam, you just totally passed the line between sarcastic and creepy." Despite his words, Dean looked more proud than disturbed. "But what are brothers for, huh?" To that, he opened his eyes, looking up pointedly at the florescent light on the ceiling.
The younger brother couldn't help but to grin—at least Dean wasn't insisting on doing everything himself like last night. By now, he figured, either the medication mellowed him out, or Dean was just being lazy. Don't get him wrong; he wanted Dean to be lazy—extra lazy. It saved them both the aggravation—for now, that is. "I'll get the light—you sleep, I'll shower."
"Good, 'cause I wasn't goin' to say anything, but dude, you smell like grease, pizza with overcooked pepperoni, and wet cat—all with a splash of sewer."
Only two words stood out, echoing in Sam's mind. "Wet cat?" He repeated, resting against the wall, next to the light switch, which was decorated with a black and white sticker reminding guests to turn off lights when leaving the room. He shifted weight from one leg to the other while a hand lingered above the said light switch.
"Yeah, you know, mildew." The room went dark, save for the light peeking out from under the closed bathroom door.
"Right." After reaching for his knapsack at the foot of his bed, Sam found himself in the crawlspace of a bathroom, already stripping off his shirt before the door was even shut. Granted, the bathroom was small, but at least the bathtub was spacious. He peeled off his socks, and started running the water in the shower before he tugged off his jeans and briefs.
♠♠♠