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The shower was hot—much hotter than it should have been, but it felt real good. They ran out of shampoo and conditioner about two states ago, so he washed his hair with a bar of soap, which was something they never seemed to run out of, even while growing up. Sam grabbed a washcloth—his own, not the motel's—and scrubbed the white soap with the blue cloth, eyes closed, shoulders hunched. His long hair is matted to his face and neck, and he inhaled and exhaled through slow, deep breaths. Water cascaded down his long, lanky frame into the pool at his feet.

Ease. Yeah, that was a way to put it; he felt at ease, you could say. His body was relaxed for once, but with the need of sleep weighing him down, he felt as if he could fall asleep right then and there. Dean wouldn't like that—no, no, Dean would be pissed if he drowned while taking a shower. Sure, he was standing in a bathtub, but he was still in the process of showering. He rocked back onto his heels, and then forward onto the balls of his feet. Why was it he always thought about his brother while showering? He opened an eye as the water ran cold, and it was like sharp icicles were stabbing away at his flushed, warmed flesh.

The water was turned off, and the soap, wrapped up in the cloth, was set down on the tub's ledge after the green shower curtain was whipped to the side. He wrapped a towel, which felt as if it were partly made from cardboard, around his waist after patting (hey now, back off; he had dry, sensitive skin!) his skin dry. Uncaring that his hair was still dripping wet, he put on a pair of sweatpants and a lovely purple shirt with a greyhound on it. At first, Dean thought it was a unicorn, but he'd been wrong, very wrong.

Outside, the wind was howling, and the windows were rattling. Sam cursed when he walked out of the bathroom because holy shit, it was freezing. He whispered an apology to his sleeping brother as he tiptoed across the room to turn on a lamp so he could kick some sense into the radiator. Before his bare foot could connect with the heater, a sound distracted him. Every muscle in his body suddenly tensed up, and he looked around the room, straining to hear that noise—scratching. It was scratching. He looked up, down, and all around.

"Urph." A very threatening sound rose from where Dean, a light sleeper, laid, and stirred in his dreamless sleep. His eyes were now opened, and he made another sound, which could've been, "yarr," if he were a pirate. He also made another mumble, which sounded as if he were saying his brother's name through a mouth of cotton. "Tha' you?" He smacked his lips together, looking slightly out of it (and that made Sam wonder how freaking long he'd been in the bathroom) but once the brunette hissed out an answer in the negative, he shot up into a sitting position.

The scratching continued, this time more persistently. Sam grabbed the nearest weapon he could find—a knife—and followed the noise—right up to the door. He looked behind his shoulder at Dean, who was trying to find the balance to stand up. "Sit your ass down!" With one hand grasping the brass doorknob, he pointed the knife at Dean, who sat back down, hands up defensively.

"Who pissed in your Cheerio's?"

Sam ignored him, and then flung open the door. At the same time, he jumped back into a fighting stance, ready to attack! Oh, wait; there was nothing there. He heard a snort from behind him, but that turned into a choking sound.

"What the fuck is that?" Dean, of course, was referring to the large-sized black cat that strutted into the room, tail high up in the air. Shivering, Sam shut the door with a slam, and with a heavy sigh he flipped on the light switch.

"It's a cat, Dean."

"Like hell it is!" Clearly insulted, the cat hissed at the oldest brother, it's ears and whiskers folded backward. Dean's mouth made an, "o," shape and his brows shot up to his hairline. He shot a look at Sam. "You just going to stand there and let it hiss at me like that? Get it out of here!" He glanced back down at the cat, and his brow folded in confusion. "Are those horns?"

Sam merely repeated, softer now, "it's a cat, Dean." Not pleased with his brother's response, Dean looked around, like, "screw this, where are my crutches?" The cat sat down, and made a sneezing sound that warmed Sam right back up. "This… is what I found in the sewer." He admitted, setting down his knife on top of the pizza box. "I didn't—don't feel threatened by it."

"Of course not, he's not looking at you like you're a kitty chow buffet and it is 'all you can eat' time. Get rid of it, Sam, now."

"Dean." Dean's cast clad leg purposely slipped off the bed. It cracked off the floor with an echo that made both brothers flinch. That was Dean's answer to Sam's whine, and damn, actions really do speak louder than words. Sam took a step over to the cat, and kneeled down. Albeit with hesitation, he wrapped his arms around it to pick it up, but just as quickly as his skin met the fur he retracted. "He's wet, Dean—feels like ice!" With wide eye, the cat let out a soft, "meow," and feebly lifted a paw. A sound filled with sympathy erupted in the back of Sam's throat. "Dean."

"No."

"There's a blizzard out there!" Sam wiped his palms on his thighs and stood up, eyes glued to the demon cat, which was now rubbing against his leg. "Ooh." He cooed, like a woman with a ticking biological clock who has just spotted a newborn baby. Dean could only manage to gape at Sam as if he just shot heroin into his eyeball. "Come on, Dean."

"No, you come on. Dad would—" Sam clenched his jaw. People over in Australia heard the cringe worthy sound of his molars grinding together, and collectively told him to quit angsting so loudly.

"Dad's not here." He stated so simply, as if it were the answer to life, the universe, and everything. "I can't just throw it back out there." The brunette swallowed hard, eyes pleading. "Please." His voice cracked perfectly. Too bad the Vicoden that Dean popped earlier watered down his invulnerability to Sam's infamous, "puppy dog eyes," which were being screened at the max right now.

"No."

"I'll keep an eye on him." Sam nodded his head eagerly as if Dean was stuck on a, "maybe."

"It's a demon, Sam. We hunt demons. We're supposed to kill them, not invite them over for a slumber party. Get rid of it." Suddenly, something was telling Sam that by, "rid of it," Dean wasn't just talking about shooing the creature outside.

"He hasn't done anything!" He gestured down at the furry beast, which was stilling there, tail twitching back and forth. It looked rather innocent, yes, but both brothers learned a long time ago that looks could be deceiving.

"Yeah, hasn't done anything… 'cept make you grow freakin' ovaries."

Fuck that shit. Sam crossed his arms over his chest, and looked his brother straight in the eye, as he sternly stated right back at him, "no."

Dean blinked. "W—what?" He wasn't surprised—just caught off guard. Yeah, wait, wasn't he the one saying no? Just who did Sam think he was! "I'm serious, Sam." To prove his seriousness, he—with effort—pushed himself up into an unsteady standing stance. The cat yawned loudly, not intimidated by the crippled twenty-seven year-old. "Hey!"

"Give him—her—it a chance."

"When were you bit in the ass by the SPCA?" Dean was still stubborn as ever as he stared down at the furry beast in disbelief. Sam echoed, "it's a cat," which prompted a blunt, "it's fat." He shook his head, finally looking away. "I don't want it in here—I want to forget that there's… demonic animals crawling around in the sewer."

"Would you rather it be an alligator?" Sam bent down and scooped the cat into his arms. With a grunt, he held it tightly to his chest, and straightened up. It meowed, eyes flashing.

"Uh, yeah?"

Sam ignored that. "He's not even just a cat—" Dean limped forward, muttering, "obviously," but the younger brother continued, neck and arm muscles straining. "—He's smart, Dean; he followed us here in a blizzard—in—a—blizzard! And he seems to understand what we're saying, and—" His lower lip quivered, the cat like a heavy chunk of ice in his arms. "He's staying—here—with us."

"Is he? And what if he eats us, Sam, hmm?"

"He won't eat us." The cat chirped in agreement—or, as Dean figured, in disagreement. The damned thing also looked very content in Sam's long, warm arms. Then again, who wouldn't? Dean quirked an inquiring brow at Sam, who sighed, softly stating, "I'll keep him in the bathroom." An ear of the feline twitched back. "How's that?"

"This is ridiculous." Yeah, next John will appear out of nowhere, telling him that there are vampires living amongst them, and the Buffy rules don't abide to the bloodsuckers. Waitaminute! "We can't have a demon—here—with us."

"And yet, we're going to."

Hell's temperature dropped down to thirty-two degrees, and it still wasn't cold enough, yet that was that.

♠♠♠

Sam was obviously under the influence… of mind control. There was no other way to explain it, or so Dean figured. He was now lying back in bed, eyes wide opened, listening to Sam's snoring and the demonic son of a bitch's shuffling and meowing from inside the bathroom.

Oh, and worst of all? His bladder was bitching to be emptied—now, like right now. Shit. He lifted his shoulders and neck, eyes skimming the dark room for any traces of his damned crutches. Shit, shit, shit. Why'd he agree to keeping the—oh, wait, he never agreed to anything!

Payback's a bitch, Sammy. He silently snapped at Sam earlier, when the younger brother had been setting down a newspaper, a mug of water, and a Styrofoam plate of pizza on the floor for the sweet little kitty. Sweet little kitty his ass—that thing was a beast. Huge paws, long tail, and was that a forked tongue?

"Cristo?" He had also tried once last time as Sam slipped into bed. Maybe that wasn't enough… there was a plastic Gatorade bottle of holy water in the table between the beds, right next to the bible and rosemary.

"Man, Dean, I already told you I wasn't possessed! Let it go—go to sleep."

"Yeah, I'm going to sleep just great knowing that the feline version of Cujo is camping out in the bathroom, good idea."

Sam was obviously menstruating with his new set of super cool ovaries, as he had just rolled onto his side, his back and cold shoulder turned toward his brother.

"'Night Sam… see you tomorrow if we're not disemboweled while we slee—"

"Dean!"

Several minutes later, Sam was fast asleep, as if he hadn't gone crazy, betraying nearly every rule that their father set while growing up. Don't approach a demon, don't pet a demon, don't invite a demon in, or let it into your bathroom. You think that thing flushes, or washes it's hands afterwards? No.

Okay, maybe those weren't his dad's rules verbatim, but they were close, really. Damn. Maybe he should've been tougher on Sam, but… Damn. Just damn. Damn, damn, damn! Dean rolled his hands into tight fists. A thick vein in his forehead throbbed. Oh, yeah, maybe—just maybe—he was a little pissed off.

The pressure on his bladder was enough to turn him into the Incredible Hulk. He couldn't just squeeze his legs together, and lay there, doing a, "I've got to pee!" jig. Hell, he was going to burst. Just call him Dean the Geyser! Or not.

"Screw this." Totally. He was Dean Winchester: hunter extraordinaire! He wasn't going to let a forty-seven pound hell beast get the best of him. Beer… now, that he could let get the best of him. After he emptied his bladder, that is. If only… bah, right on, screw it, he didn't need crutches to limp awkwardly to the bathroom.

Slowly and quietly, to avoid waking up the brooding Jolly Green Giant, Dean twisted and turned, levering both legs off the bed. Broken ankle my ass—nothin' wrong with it. Until the pain medication wore off. Denial wasn't just a river in Egypt. Dean had insisted the doctor order another round of x-rays—must've been a strand of hair in the way. That had offended the young doctor, but before he could say anything, Sam, who'd been standing behind his brother's shoulder, shook his head fervently, putting his arms up, mouthing humor him, before mumbling, "yeah, must've been."

While Sam stirred in his sleep, Dean shuffled across the room, silently cursing anything and everything. His mood was sour enough to make even Chuck Norris cower and think, "oh, my, maybe I won't roundhouse kick his sweet, hot ass." Wait, what? Dean halted with a wobble, rubbing the top of his head. Damn, even the pain medication had the flying pink elephants seeing flying pink elephants.

Whatever. Shifting weight to his good leg, Dean extended his arm, and shot a look over his shoulder at Sam. The lanky brunette turned onto his side, smacking his lips, oblivious to world around him. Dean smirked, grasping the bathroom doorknob with a cautious hand. His bladder cheered him on, which was quite distracting. Finally, he just twisted the knob and yanked the door open. Like lightning, it brushed past his leg, nearly knocking him off balance, with a triumphant hiss.

"Little shit." He hissed right back, shooting a dagger filled look at Sam's still sleeping form. Jesus, that boy could sleep through a hurricane when he wasn't ailed with freakin' visions. The cat ran under the bed, and peeked out at him with glowing red slanted eyes. He sighed; this damned thing rivaled with vampires for the number one spot on his 'ridiculous shit' list. Anyway, he shambled into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Several minutes later, after a flush and the sound of the sink running, the bathroom door creaked open, and Dean inched out, dragging his cast-clad leg with him. He suddenly heard the pitter-patter of paws, and his eyes widened. "Sam!" He choked out with his brain screaming, "I'm going to kill you!" when something attacked his leg—sharp fangs grazed the calf of his uninjured leg. The attack, and he hated to admit this, caught him off guard, and he lost his balance, tumbling to the ground.

"Dean?" Shuffling noises were heard before the light was flipped on.

"No, Cain!"

There was definitely something mentally wrong with Sam when he asked, "what are you doing up?" rather than, "oh, my god, Dean! Are you okay?"

There was a pause, then a hoarse mumble of, "I'm not exactly up," as he sat up, rubbing his elbow, which was red from carpet burn. "Jesus Christ Sam, your stupid demon attacked me!" Dean looked for the wound on his leg where he was sure the cat had bit him.

Frowning, Sam looked around the room, quickly spotting a long, crooked bushy tail sticking out from under his bed. His eyes crinkled as he stated, "you scared him!" With an exasperated sigh, he came up behind his brother, trying to hook his arms under Dean's armpits to help him up.

"Get off o' me!"

"I'm not on you just like you're not up, now come on, work with me here." Sam wasn't begging—he actually sounded kind of pissed. This made Dean scowl—what did he have to be pissed about? Sam hadn't broken his ankle when he stupidly tripped over a smart aleck black dog, nor did he have a buckets o' crazy brother who insisted on sharing their motel room with—out of all things—a demon.

Dean had been allowing himself to be lifted up, but suddenly jerked down. Pain shot up his tailbone. "Hold on, quit fondling me." He elbowed Sam in the shin before reached over, pulling up his left pants leg to the knee. He examined his unmarked calf with a furrowed brow, his fingertips ghosting over the flesh. Sam kneeled down behind him, peering over him. A knee pressed into Dean's back, a hand on his shoulder. The older brother blinked, deadpanning, "I swear..."

Sam's hand rubbed forward and backward before it hovered down his spine, lingering at the small of his back. The pad of his thumb covered a small hole in the navy colored t-shirt. "I don't see anything." He stated after a long moment of silence. He sniffled, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. "Dean?"

"It bit me."

"I don't—"

"Yeah, well, you're blind." The blonde squinted; there had to be something…

"Do you see anything?" Here was a moment of truth—maybe Dean was delusional. Hell, maybe Sam was delusional. At some point, the cat had sauntered over to him, and brushed up against the side of his thigh. He ran his free hand down it's flexible spine, "You probably stepped on his tail, startled him, and he pawed at your leg." Sam, like Dean, couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth—he just wasn't getting any bad vibes from the creature. It was so weird how he felt like he could… trust it.

"Mind control." Dean decided, hunched forward, the word Cristo ready to roll off his tongue again, "mind control. Or—" He smirked, holding back a snicker, "he's probably releasing pheromones, and you're responding to them like a horny kitten."

Sam's lips twitched into a frown. "To the moon, Alice, to the moon," he mumbled, his hand now slapping back to Dean's shoulder. "I'm tired, Dean—real freakin' exhausted. Now, I'm going to help—"

Dean cleared his throat, staring forward.

"Assist—"

He did it again, this time glancing up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly at the bright fluorescent light.

"Chaperone?"

"Chaperone?"

"Ugh!" He was less than three seconds away from ripping out a patch of his hair. "You're getting into bed, Franklin's going back into the bathroom, and then I'm going to sleep—got it?" He didn't wait for a response. "Good."

Dean wasn't too impressed, but still smugly stated, "Geesh Sammy, you're starting to sound like a real topper."

"Up!" Sam groaned, not wanting to hear another word. He straightened up, extending a hand, which Dean had reluctantly accepted, and pulled his brother to his feet. Once balance was restored, Dean shooed him away, limping ("crutches, Dean, crutches!") back to bed.

The fatigue of sleep was tugging at him, both mentally and physically. His eyes drooped once he was settled, and he let out a long exhale. In no time, the room went dark, and he heard Sam's bed creaking as he slid his long frame under the covers.

Half a minute later, an eye popped open. "Franklin?"

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