♠♠♠

Dean hadn't woken up with a jerk, nor had he lain there, awake, but eyes closed. One minute he was in the mountains with Tyra, next his eyes were opened, though unfocused. His tongue felt like an oversized ball of cotton in his mouth. He was laying on his stomach, the duffel bag and pillows no longer under his leg, but now piled on the floor. With a grunt, he buried his face into the soft pillow—one half of it was stuck under his head, the rest flopping off the edge of his bed.

Suddenly, like a red-hot cattle prod to the shoulder, Dean lifted his head and shoulders. He twisted his body into a sitting position before he could even form a coherent thought. There was a dull pain throbbing within his ankle, and his knee was stiff, but all that was pushed aside when he saw that the bathroom door was wide open. It—the door—stared back at him almost tauntingly, as the word "fuck," rolled off his cotton-esque tongue.

The next word, of course, was "Sam," and his eyes darted to where his younger brother slept. That was where he found the little bundle of doom curled up to Sam's side. His protective streak flared up, as had his nostrils. You know what rule came after not allowing it into your bathroom? 'Do not sleep with demons.' Although, now thinking about it, Dean wondered if it made the, 'do not sleep with the enemy,' rule redundant. All demons were enemies, right?

Not on Angel—or Buffy. Dean couldn't ever see himself befriending a vampire or a demon. There wasn't any room with the wholesome and user friendly Winchester Trio (John? Not included. The Impala? Included). Besides, he had Sam (and the gorgeous Impala). Beat that, Angel and Buffy, beat that. Oh, wait, cancelled, just like Charmed. Maybe another time, maybe another show, bitches.

Do you know what time it is? Pill popping time, because there was no way Dean could handle this ridiculous situation while not on a high. He took the recommended amount, because really, the last thing he needed was another addiction, and he also took the medication dry; retrieving a drink of water would involve moving. He set the opened orange pill bottle on the table between the two beds, and kept the white cap pressed into the palm of his hand.

"Sam." He worked out the name, pronouncing it like an accented, "sayum." The aforementioned young man barely stirred. In fact, Dean was sure his snoring got louder. The cat's tail twitched. He puckered his lips pensively, before looking down at the cap in his hand. A, 'hmm,' sound purred out the back of his throat before he flung the bottle cap at the sleeping cat. It bounced off it's stomach and rolled off the bed. The demon lifted up it's head in Dean's direction, and hissed before it fell back down lazily.

And you know what? Dean hissed right back at it.

♠♠♠

"Would you quit staring at him while you're sharpening your knife?" Sam asked of his brother while the snowstorm outside their dinky motel complex brewed on stronger than before. He sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, playing Solitaire with a deck of cards. The "him," he was referring to was, in fact, the demon; he'd found out that it was a male demonic feline. The cat—Franklin, as Sam named him—laid on the chair behind Sam, glaring at Dean from over the brunette's shoulder. It's tail, which hung off the seat of the chair, swayed back and forth.

"I'm not looking at him, I'm looking at you."

Uninterested, and ever so slightly peeved, Sam focused on his card game, chewing on a thumbnail while his eyes skimmed the cards in front of him. Damn, why was it he won so much effortlessly on the computer? He folded an arm behind his head, allowing Franklin to rub his whiskers lovingly against the back of his hand. The scraping sounds of Dean sharpening the said knife ceased. "Somethin' wrong, Dean?"

Dean hadn't missed a beat. "Why Franklin?" It sounded like the name for a turtle, not a psychotic, and possibly mind controlling, devil cat. Sam flipped over a card, his fingers lingering on the smooth surface hesitantly. His top set of teeth caressed over his bottom lip. He glanced up, wearing a wide, boyish grin.

"Franklin Delano Roosevelt—he's my favorite president. He was in office for twelve years, you know. Only president to serve more than two terms."

Dean carefully set down his knife on the nightstand. He pressed a palm to his abdomen, absently smoothing out his shirt's wrinkles. "Okay, so, you named a demon after your favorite president? Real sweet, Sam, but now I see how badly screwed up we are."

"Excuse me? If I asked you to name him, he'd be going around as, 'Led,' or, 'Ozzy,' or that weird tongue guy from Kiss, or—"

"First of all, I wouldn't name a demon. He's not a pet, dude. Secondly, 'that weird tongue guy from Kiss'? Have I taught you nothing?"

"Richard…?"

Dean looked as if he were about to slap his palm to his, or even Sam's, forehead. "Gene."

"Simmons!" Sam finished rather enthusiastically, slapping a hand to his knee. Damn, the kid brother part of him just loved to resurface long enough to yank some chains. "I'm just kidding; I know the difference between Richard and Gene Simmons." He waited until Dean rolled his eyes to lamely add, "brothers, right?"

The once white motel phone with the knotted cord suddenly let out a shrilling ring. Startled, Franklin darted across the room in the blink of an eye. Sam stared down blankly at his cards, which were now scattered around messily. Too bad, he thought he really had a chance at winning the game. "You going to get that?"

Dean casually picked up a conveniently placed gun magazine and began to flip through it. "Get what?" He started to ask, but was cut off by another cry from the telephone. He crankily wrinkled up his nose, eyes glued admiringly to a fabulous looking piece of weaponry printed on a page of the said magazine, "no, someone might try to talk to me or somethin'."

The phone let out another impatient ring. With a grunt, Sam moved forward, walking on his knees. "Fine, don't move your arm two inches to the right to answer, I'll get it. I'd hate for you to pull a muscle, or somehow manage to trip over the phone."

Dean nearly choked on his saliva. "Hey! Cheap shot, freakin' cheap shot, Sam!"

"Sorry." The apology sounded genuine, which sort of bothered the older brother, but he shrugged it off.

"Yeah, you ought to be."

"Am. Totally." Sam mumbled, no longer sounding earnest as he picked up the phone, bringing it to his ear. "Hello, room one-eighty…" He blinked, eyes darting sideways at the blonde lounging on the bed beside him. "Yeah, yeah, we are."

"Are what?"

"Shh!"

"Bored out of our ever-loving minds? Doomed? Suave and devastatingly handsome? Well, at least one of us is." From over in the chair, Franklin hissed, as if he, too, were telling Dean to shut his trap. "Oh, go choke on catnip."

The younger brother cupped his hand over the bottom half of the phone. His eyes flickered with impatience. "Dean, please leave Franklin alone."

"Sorry, Mr. President." His apology to the demon lacked that genuine flavor. Franklin, who stood in the doorway of the bathroom, unperturbedly stretched out his front legs; arching his back, slowly easing out those monstrous claws, snubbing the half-assed apology. "I don't think Frankie likes me."

Sam, after dropping a few more words, hung up, and stated ever so earnestly, his chin tilted high, "It's Franklin." Before any sarcastic comebacks were shot out like torpedoes, he hastily added, "We just got a friendly little reminder that we still have to pay each day we're snowed in." He sat back against the side of Dean's bed, not caring the metal frame dug into his back. "I'll pay in cash." Needless to say, Sam was waiting for their life of fraud to sneak up, hogtie, and then bite them in the ass.

"We're not made out of money, Sam; make every other payment in cash." Unexpectedly, a laugh (a laugh!) erupted from Sam. Though, actually, it was more like a burst of cackling laughter. He flopped his head back. Dean tugged on a dark tress of hair, and stated in mocked sincerity, "I'm serious." He frowned forcefully, feigning to be offended.

"Yeah, you are." He let out another throaty laugh, but sighed, rubbing the side of his face. "It's still snowing. How long do you think we'll be stuck here?"

"Still snowing? I'm thinking Donner Party: Part II."

"Oh, man, gross, just gross." He leaned forward, about to stand up, maybe to wander two feet away, but Dean reached down, clamping a hand to his shoulder.

"Just call me Hannibal." Hannibal the Cannibal Winchester!

"You do realize that—"

"You'd clog up my arteries?"

"No, no, you'd clog up my arteries." Oh, god, they weren't actually having this discussion, were they? Oh. They were—but Dean's grip on Sam's shoulder was tight, but not too tight, and even he chuckled along with Sam. It was as if some tension had worn away. Well, either that, or there was a gas leak. Kidding. It had to be the medication—had to be. Or maybe—just maybe—they were just being brothers, engaging in gross, brotherly banter.

Franklin still stood in the doorway, his lengthy tail sweeping in a slow, wide swath in mid-air. He simply stared at the sight of the brothers, unmoving except for the motion of his tail. It seemed almost as if he were lost in thought, or just thinking—plotting—of something, or someone. Hell, or maybe he just was enjoying the view of the two Winchesters, merrily chattering about who would breakdown and, if need be, eat the other brother first.

He twitched an ear. Weirdos.

♠♠♠

"Cable's out." Yeah, and not to mention, the laptop was forgetfully left in the trunk of the car, and their stomachs were starting to rumble. Conveniently, there was a soda and a candy machine down the hall from their room, and Sam already took the liberty of raiding them. "This bites." The television was on mute so Dean wouldn't have to hear a blast of static as he flipped through the stations.

"Out loud?"

"Really hard." Sam nodded, barely listening. He still sat on the ground, cross-legged, playfully teasing Franklin with the shoelace he took out of Dean's right boot. The frisky demon pawed hastily at the black string, and Sam wore a ridiculous grin, even chuckling at times. "Geesh." Dean shoved a handful of stale (just how long has that candy machine been out there?) pretzels into his mouth.

The brunette shot him a look, but kept his attention centered on the cat. Suddenly, something caught his eye, and he dropped the shoelace, reaching forward, planting a hand firmly on Franklin's back. "Whoa, he's…"

"A demon?" Like hell Dean was ever going to let that go. A few crumbs and specks of salty saliva flew from his mouth. "'Cause I've been—"

"Growing feathers on his back, above his shoulder blades."

Dean sat up straighter, rolling a stiff shoulder. He failed to look impressed, or even curious. "Feathers, huh? So?" Out of all the shit he has experienced, a feathered demonic feline actually wasn't the most outrageous creature he had seen. Now, if the damned thing could talk… sure, that'd be interesting.

Sam gently brushed his calloused fingers over the dark patch of small, smooth feathers. Franklin continued to claw at the abandoned shoelace, not quite done with this activity yet. "Wings, Dean. Wings."

"Frankie's growing wings? I don't know Sam, sounds kind of fruity."

The younger male frowned. "Franklin's not fruity." His lips curved back into a smile when Franklin sneakily pounced on the thick string. "I find it kind of ironic… horns and wings. Symbolic, don't you think?"

"Uh, no? Not really." Dean wasn't convinced that a few feathers equaled wings. However, he could definitely go for some hot wings with celery and blue cheese. His stomach heartily agreed with a hollowed rumble. "We got any pizza left?" Sam shook his head.

"We have an old bag of canned food in the trunk, but other than that, it's Cheetos and Snickers galore." Now it was Dean's turn to frown, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I don't know how you expect me to heal properly on an empty stomach." His mouth stated matter-of-factly, while his brain crossly said, "I don't know how you expect me to heal properly on an empty stomach… and alcohol." Dean wasn't an alcoholic; he just wanted that deliciously numb buzz, which the pain medication was nearly able to do, but without falling asleep.

"Yeah, I'm a horrible brother." Sam moved up onto his bed, an empty bag of Fritos crinkling and the old springs groaning under his weight. Franklin remained on the floor, now lying on his back, front paws in the air, fat stomach exposed. "Hey…" He lifted his gaze from the cat to meet his brother's. "If he's half-demon, half-cat, do you think there are people who are…" He trailed off for a second, hands absently fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. "Half-demon?"

There was this look in Sam's eyes that made Dean uncomfortable, and not want to answer. He shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know, ask dad; he'll probably know."

"Yeah, ask dad. Easier said than done—I'd be lucky to get coordinates in response." Bitter much? Hell yeah.

"I meant when we find him." Yes, when—not if, never if. A warm spread of pain trailed up his leg, and yet he shivered, shifting uneasily. "My ass fell asleep." He moved again, but this time the shifting generated a hot rush of pain to flare up. He exhaled sharply, tired muscles tensing, preparing for another attack. "Christ." He hissed under his breath. "Quit staring at me."

"I'm not." Sam grabbed an orange pill container off the nightstand between their beds, and popped it open. "One or two?"

"Wasn't talking to you—" He nodded down at Franklin. The demon, from a sitting stance, was now staring at him, but looked away. "—And four."

Sam shook his head. "Two."

"Three."

"One." Franklin's glowing eyes glanced back and forth between them as if he were watching a swaying shoelace. The clump of feathers on his back rustled amusingly.

"Two and a half."

"A half."

"Half of eight?"

He shook his head again. "Dean."

"Two, Sam, I'll take two. Bitchy little heckler." Sam got to his feet, dropping the two white pills in Dean's opened palm before moving away to retrieve water. Except, the second he turned his back, Dean brought his palm to his mouth, tilting his head back to swallow the pills once they touched his tongue. A chalky taste lingered in his mouth; he smacked his lips together loudly.

As Sam moved in long strides across the room, Franklin tried to keep up, moving in between his legs, nearly tripping him. "Don't do that." The brunette politely asked of the demon, stopping to pick up a bottle of water off the chair next to the table. Franklin now rubbed his body against Sam's calf, merrily purring. "I think he's hungry."

"So why don't you cut off your hand and feed it to him?" Realization struck and Dean furrowed his brow, resting a hand on his abdomen. "Hey, I'm hungry, too."

"I can't cut off both my hands." Sam barked out a short laugh. "Dad always said having a pet around would cost an arm and a leg." Sam was actually sure that their father never uttered those exact words, but that was beside the point, really now.

"For the last time, he's not a pet, he's a demon." Instantly, Franklin's ears flattened, and Sam made this odd noise that made Dean want to hit him upside the head with his cast.

"You hurt his feelings, jerk."

"Yeah, I can understand how demons hate to be referred to as that stereotypical word, "demons." Get real, man."

Slowly, after several seconds of silence, a smug smirk curved back on Sam's lips. "You get riled up way too easily in your old age, Dean."

"Dude, you're purposely yanking my chain?"

"I'm not yanking anything." Sam kneeled down in front of Franklin, poking at the cat's horns before stroking his long back with the heel of his palm. "I'm going to run out to the car—for the emergency food we keep in there." He wasn't asking, so Dean just shrugged, which nearly surprised Sam, who was expecting a snappy retort. Several minutes later, after he was clad in layered clothing, boots on, tightly laced, he held out his right hand to Dean. The older brother looked up, one brow cocked impatiently.

"What?"

"The keys, Dean, the keys."

♠♠♠

Twenty-seven seconds after Sam walked out that door, Dean was standing up, arms awkwardly stretched out to keep balance. Franklin jumped onto a chair, bearing his teeth, but not hissing.

"Cut your crap, Frankie—the world doesn't revolve around you." He staggered a few steps before stopping, shoulders hunched, cursing at the pain that had yet to numb away. "It revolves around me."

The cat's whiskers folded backward, one ear twitching, all like, "bitch, please." He then proceeded to jump onto the table, practically knocking everything off it before the unsteady table toppled the hell over. At the sound of wood cracking, and screws rolling around on the uncarpeted area of the floor, Dean groaned, pressing a palm to his forehead. Franklin had let out a strangled, "meow!" before dashing across the room in the blink of an eye. The blonde shot it a dirty look; how could something that fat move so quickly?

Dean slowly moved toward the broken table, bending forward at the hips and shoulders every time he put weight on his injured foot. "I even make limping look cool." He feigned arrogance, breath hitching, trying to heartily encourage himself without making a face. "You're not moving like an eighty-two year old man with a stick shoved up his ass… you're moving like… a… oh, hell." It was hard to lie to a face like his.

"'Rrow?" Franklin looked around the room frantically, terribly missing that tall brunette with those dreamy eyes. With boredom, his dim red eyes landed on Dean. He made this odd chirping noise, and looked completely relaxed… but then he charged forward, gritting those fangs; his ears and whiskers folded back.

Dean, though he would deny it, let out a half-yell, and tried to grab at his crutches, which were propped up against the wall, but they were not within his reach. He ended up stumbling forward into the wall. He leaned there, trying to keep steady; palms and forearms flat against the cool, smooth surface, and looked behind his shoulder just in time to see Franklin make a beeline… right smack into the wall, too. "That's got to hurt."

A small black feather floated to the ground. "Mrrroow." The cat plopped onto his side, and then rolled onto his back, large paws—claws out—in the air. While clawing fitfully at the air, Franklin started to moan, his raspy voice high-pitched enough to make Dean flinch. His stressed out, "meows," sounded suspiciously like Dean's brother's name.

Franklin was totally gay for Sam. Dean cocked his head to the side. Sure, everything and everyone's a freakin' Sam!girl, Sam!boy, and now… Sam!demon-kitty. "You've got to be kidding me." Nope! "Damn." Dean shook his head, and then tried to turn his attention back to staggering around the room. "Now, where was I going?" Oh, you mean other than to the brink of insanity? Nowhere in particular. "Okay, what was I doing?" Other than staggering around in the room, narrowly missing a demon cat stampede? Nothing in particular.

A half-frozen Sam was expected back any minute, but Dean really wanted to stretch out his muscles. He remained steadily supported by the wall, his weight shifted onto one leg, and honestly, this position wasn't at all comfortable. His hip was bruised from where he landed on a bulky rock. An image of that careless, rude black dog (which had to have pushed him! He did not trip, did not; did not!) flashed in his mind, and he glared down at Franklin. He hated evil.

Demons? Like, without a doubt evil.

Cats? Oh, yeah, man, totally evil. Like, phenomenally evil. Wicked.

So, all of this? Was like a double whammy of all that was evil. It was even starting to make his skin itch—must be allergic.

Franklin rolled around twice before twisting onto all fours. He stared up at Dean, waiting. Dean stared back, jaw tightly clenched. "I'm on to you." The growing patch of feathers on Franklin's back twitched at him. "Really." A not-so-intimidated ripple breezed through the plot of feathers. "Snow's going to stop sometime, Frankie—melt, too, and then we're out of here." The sneer he wore silently added the, "sans you, bitch."

Now, the cat sat there, and pointedly looked away, yawning because running head first into walls really tired a demon out. It was obvious Dean wasn't a threat to the demon, and honestly, the blonde didn't really blame him; he was, after all, standing there, holding onto the wall, half of a leg in a white cast. He was hot though, so take that!

The motel door flew open, and through a breeze of flurries in came Samuel Winchester, half-frozen as expected. His clothing, especially his layered clothed limbs, was coated with a thin layer of snow, which revealed that he might have (read: definitely) tripped (read: wasn't pushed by a vicious, heartless black dog) a few times. The door slammed shut behind him, and the bag of canned food dropped to the ground. "F—fr—freezing!" He shook his head, which resembled a dog (oh, let's say… a yorkie!) drying off, and frozen clumps of snow fell from his hair and clothing onto the floor.

Dean remained facing the wall. "It's slowing down out there, right?"

"Yeah, it's… what the hell?" Sounded like shivering Sam finally laid eyes on the overturned table and the mess surrounding it. "What are you doing out of bed? And why is the table not upright? I left for, like, three minutes, Dean! Three! I can't leave you alone for three minutes?" With watching eyes, he stripped off his jacket, and the hoodie he wore underneath it, and then the button-down plaid shirt. He kicked off his shoes, and then pulled off his soaked jeans so that he was now clad in socks, briefs, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a regular t-shirt over the long-sleeved one. He scrunched his mouth to the side, watching Dean. "Are you going to keep fondling the wall, or do you need help?" He looked down at Franklin with a long, tired sigh.

"Help? I don't need help. Go help yourself." The pain mediation finally kicked in, and Dean blinked a few times. Was he really still standing there? "Whoa." He looked down, narrowing his green eyes, and raised his brows when he noticed that there were two dents in the wall from Franklin's horns. "He's no Kitty Pryde, that's for sure."

Sam cocked his head to the side, squinting. "Are you all right?" His brain was already in the process of making a checklist of things to do: 1.) Get Dean back into bed, and, if necessary, handcuff him to the headboard, 2.) Pick up table, and then proceed to clean up around it, and 3.) Grab a change of clothes, and take a long, hot shower—really long, and really hot.

Unfortunately, his stomach growled, reminding him that he, along with the two other living beings in the room, was hungry, and that trip to the Impala wasn't for nothing. However, his core body temperature had yet to rise, thus his pearly whites were chattering away nonstop, and Dean was still hanging out with the wall, and Franklin was staring up at him, his eyes noticeably brighter. "Dean? Hungry?"

Finally, Dean grunted, and looked behind his shoulder. "Yeah, Dean hungry." He sarcastically admitted, all caveman-esque. "Dean also got a cramp in his leg—fuck." At least that explained why he stood there, body tense, and unmoving. Sam let out a breath of air he'd been unknowingly holding in.

The motel room, while already small, had a small kitchen area—just an electrical stovetop, an out-of-order oven, and a small sink. Luckily, there was a handle to a stainless steel saucepan sticking out of the bag on the floor. Sam cupped both hands around his mouth and exhaled his cold, numb fingers. "D'you want soup or raviolis? I think there also might be a can of Spaghetti O's."

"What, no steak?"

"Damn. Must've dropped it outside." The brunette rubbed his palms up and down either arm; goose bumps had already begun to rise.

"Bitch." Dean joked as he pushed himself away from the wall. Since Sam's bed was closer, he pitifully limped the three feet it took to get there, and sat down, wiggling his brows when Sam scoffed out, "that's my bed." The older brother nodded, lip curving into a smirk. "Yeah, I can tell by all the demon cat and Sammy hair that you two have shed everywhere."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, stubbornly stating, "I don't shed."

"Sure you don't."

"Shut up; I'm making you soup."

Dean was quiet for a few seconds. Was that a threat? Whatever. "I don't want soup." He uttered out soup as if he would end up with a cold bowl of Chicken and Stars. Hell, he didn't want freakin' raviolis or Spaghetti O's either, but his stomach disagreed. "Raviolis; meat or cheese?" Franklin sauntered on over to the bag, sniffing it, interested. He pressed down a paw on the saucepan's handle, tipping the bag over. A can of Spaghetti O's rolled out. One of his small wings fluttered before he pounced at it.

"Uh, meat? Yeah, meat, I guess. Want that?" Sam grunted, turning the table upright. He sloppily placed the fallen items back on the said table.

Want that? Dean wanted a well-done steak smothered in A1 Steak Sauce, creamy mashed potatoes coated in thick gravy, buttered corn on the cob, a case of cold beer, not to have a broken ankle, a new crossbow… "It'll do." He absently traced a pattern on the quilt beneath him with his index finger. His nail caught on a loose thread.

I'm sorry it's not up to your standards. Sam almost barked out, but caught himself, and instead smiled with a nod. "Good." It would have to do. It wasn't as if they had much of a bigger option while growing up on the road. "Guess I'll have the Spaghetti O's then, and maybe heat up soup for Franklin." Demons liked soup, right?

"I think Frankie has already claimed your Spaghetti O's." He nodded down at the aforementioned cat, Sam's gaze following. "Next the little bitch will be trying to steal your Lucky Charms." Silly demon, Lucky Charms was for Sammy! "You going to stand for that, Sam?"

Sam sniffled, and offhandedly commented in the negative; that he was going to sit down, and did, on Dean's rumpled bed. He peeled off his white socks, tossing them carelessly to the ground. His face was still flushed from the cold, and parts of his mop of hair were now damp. "Could you…" He trailed off, biting his tongue once he realized what he was going to ask of Dean—to grab his duffel bag, which while was closer to his brother, sat several feet away, abandoned by the rattling heater. "Never mind."

It wasn't long until Sam, freshly clad in gray sweatpants and a maroon colored sweatshirt, was stirring Chef Boyardee beef raviolis in tomato and meat sauce at the stove, like a good wife. Franklin was circling around his feet, nosily mewing, his tail hungrily twitching.

"Feed yourself first." Dean had told him earlier, face scrunching up when he saw Sam dumping the ravioli into the pan. The younger brother pointedly ignored him, busying himself by reading the directions label on the can, which made Dean scoff, "dork." Sam was the only person (or, more compassionately, "weirdo,") that he knew who would read directions (well, "precautions,") off those freakin' air freshener sprays before every initial use.

"I'll eat after I shower." He stabbed at a defenseless ravioli with a plastic spork, already feeling Dean breathing down his neck from across the goddamned room.

"You showered last night."

"I know that, but it gives me something to do."

A wry smile stretched over Dean's face. "Really? And just what are you doing in there that gives you, "something to do"?"

"Bathing. You should try it sometime." The tub was, after all, the reason Sam wanted the room; so Dean could bathe. Not that he smelled; it was just that he wasn't supposed to put weight on his injured leg, thus he couldn't stand to take a shower. Sam had an extra garbage bag in his duffel bag to wrap around Dean's cast covered leg so that he could take a bath later. He brought his hand to his mouth, sucking on his knuckle where there had been a spot of sauce. "You will."

"That a hint?"

"It's something." They exchanged a look that could be misinterpreted as, "eye shagging," but the cat (more so or less) had really started to distract Sam. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you." He promised, earning an eye roll from the shorter male.

"Quit that shit." Sam gave him this confused, hurt puppy dog look. "The talking nonsense. It's like people doing that stupid baby gibberish to infants."

"Would you rather the, "stupid baby gibberish," to the demon, Dean?" He didn't wait for a response. "And you know, I don't think he's that old—maybe a kitten?" Oh, a demon kitten? Yeah, that was rich. "He just doesn't seem like, I don't know, a cat—"

"Wow, you think that might be because he's a demon? Besides, look at him, he's huge." Franklin shot him a dirty glace, all like, "I'm big-boned, you insensitive twit."

"Like you said, he's a demon, so maybe for feline demons, his size is normal, or average. I've been giving this a lot of thought—"

"That's never good."

"Stop interrupting me!"

Dean hadn't missed a beat. "Stop neglecting my raviolis."

With a weary sigh, Sam, now using a spoon, stirred the raviolis as the excess sauce around the sides started to boil. Within a few minutes, he was handing Dean a bowl of hot raviolis in a plastic blue bowl he found among a few other pieces of the like crammed into the broken oven. "Anything else?" He asked, sans sarcasm. Keeping his gaze locked down, Dean shook his head, and shrugged a shoulder. Steam rose from the food, tickling his nostrils.

With that now out of the way, Sam washed the saucepan, and then opened up a can of soup. "It's alphabet soup, so please don't choke on the little letters." Dean looked up, quirking a brow, lips tainted red. Sam grinned sheepishly. "What?"

"Nothing, you sad, sad boy."

Sam, insulted, put a hand to his hip. "I poisoned your food."

"Good, now I have something to look forward to." Waiting for death was such a treat! Then again, wasn't that exactly what he was waiting for, what with Franklin, (for the millionth time) a demon cat, staying with them? Damn. Dean hurriedly stuffed his mouth with ravioli.

♠♠♠