Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Just a little bit of humor to quell all the recent angst.

Don't they have enough to deal with right now? Don't both he and Ava have enough sleepless nights and silent conversations about important things – Maya, the kids in general, the demon?

No, apparently not. Apparently life doesn't work that way when you're a parent. There's no ability to slow things down, no time to stop and think, no breaks. Ever. Oh, sure he loves his kids, more than life itself. But that doesn't mean that he doesn't often wonder just where that life itself escaped to, and why he chose to replace it with all of this...nonsense.

"It's a rodent," he says pitifully, never too proud to resort to whining.

Ava shoots him a glare, one of a rare and serious nature, a don't argue with me, I'm not in the mood look. "It's a rabbit."

"That's what I said," he mutters, unfazed by her drop it tone. Because if he's willing to pull out the childish whining as a tactic, he might as well go all the way into insolent arguing. "Rabbit's a rodent."

"A rat is a rodent," she retorts, not taking her eyes off the pile of laundry in front of her.

Dean, hanging back and leaning up against the wall, makes no move to help her fold, just sulkily watching. He scoffs. "A rabbit's just a rat with bigger ears and a fluffy tail."

And there's that look again, along with a pair of rolled up socks aimed at his head.

"Hey," he protests, dodging the sock missile. "Look, I get that they want another pet. But c'mon, rabbit's for eating, not…petting."

She turns to him slowly and says with tired sincerity, "It's his birthday. And he wants a rabbit. It's not like he's asking for a pony or a ride on a space shuttle or something. Just a tiny, little bunny to love and cuddle. I want my son to have what he wants."

Dean's defeated, right then and there, and he knows it. They'll be getting a rabbit. A disgusting, big toothed poop machine that he'll end up having to feed and clean and care for. But he's gotta try, so in one last futile attempt, "I thought we agreed no more pets," he says, arms folded stiffly across his chest.

"When did we ever say that?"

He shrugs, knowing it was never actually said, only implied. And even then, not by her or between the two of them, but within his own heart. Because taking old Murphy in a couple years back – Murphy, best mutt ever – and having him put down, looking into those big brown eyes that had greeted him every morning, bid him goodbye and promised to guard his family every time he walked out the door, was one of the most painful things he'd ever had to go through. And with Dean Winchester, that's saying a lot.

He'd promised himself then, never again.

She turns her back on him, continues with her laundry – no need to argue, she's already won and she knows it – and he sighs behind her, falls into that immature tone when he says, "Isn't Samantha enough for him? I mean, she's practically a pet. Not like she does much other than eat, crap, and sit around looking cute."

"Dean," she shrieks, turning on him, feigning offense while trying not to laugh

"What? Come on. She already knows how to fetch."

Another warning, "Dean," falls from her lips among a viscous and highly amused grin.

He moves towards her, wrapping his arms around her and dropping his forehead to hers, locking eyes with his wife. "We can find some cute little bunny ears, slap on a fuzzy tail. Hey, she even likes carrots."

"First of all…no," she says, twisting in his grip, letting him continue to hold her firmly around the waist even as she returns to folding laundry. "Second of all, what happens if she likes it? We'll have a kid who'll grow up and dream of being one Hugh Heffner's girlfriends."

"She'd be well cared for. You seen that mansion?"

"Dean," she chides again, smile bursting on her face as an elbow hits him in the side. He doesn't even wince.

Two days later they're celebrating Michael's birthday with a trip to the pet store, where, "That one! That one! That one," resounds in unsettling shrieks. He chooses the scraggliest, ugliest – What about that one, baby? Isn't he pretty? – most wide toothed, monstrous – He's threatening me with his beady little eyes – rabbit ever.

He names it Mike, never mind the kid at the counter telling them it's a girl.

A week and a half later, Mike has three little babies – all named Mike Jr., even though, "Shouldn't they be Mike the Third? If you're the first, Mike's second…"

But there's no reasoning with the boy. He promptly shushes his mother and informs her, "Babies need quiet," as though she hadn't raised three babies of her own already.

Mike is mean. Mean as shit. She was before the babies were born, and she's even worse now. The Hormonal Bitch, Dean dubs her. As in, "Where the hell is that Hormonal Bitch?" as he crawls around on the floor searching for her after the kids lose interest and forget to put her away. Or, "Swear to God, if that Hormonal Bitch bites the hand that feeds her one more time, I'm gonna break her fuzzy little neck and turn her into stew."

"You don't know how to cook," is Ava's only repose to that one, having no real desire to actually defend Mike. The Hormonal Bitch had nailed her one too many times as well.

"Shove a rabbit in a pot of boiling water," he says through a shrug, washing his bloody fingertip. "What's to know?"

Rachel decides she wants one of Mike's babies, much to Sam's dismay. Because, maybe it's just a Winchester thing, but, a rodent? Seriously? She picks the cutest one, with white tipped ears and big gray splotches dancing on his back. And she promises to take really good care of him – which Michael knows she will, being the oldest and therefore the most trustworthy. And she even agrees to keep calling him Mike Jr., though at home he's referred to as Fluffy, or Senior Fluffykins to be more precise – blame it on too many cartoon doodles in Spanish class.

But the other two Mike Jr.'s are to be brought back to the pet store just as soon as they're weaned. It's a guarantee they offer with all small animal purchases, the little whores apparently getting knocked up all the time, breeding like wildfire, breeding like…well, bunnies.

Michael screams and pleads for his babies, whom he's come to love, swearing he'll clean all the cages, everyday, and make sure they have fresh food and water, also everyday. And he'll keep Samantha away from them, no more poking, prodding little fingers jutting through the cage until they're bit and bleeding. And he'll use his own allowance to pay for all of their toys, he'll even share his own, which he'd already been doing, just not with his own, several of John's matchbox cars and Sammy's old teething rings, littering the bottom of the rabbit cage.

"No," Dean tells him, quick and sharp, putting his foot down for the first time since…well, ever. He has no choice. Cartoon character Band-Aids already adorn nearly every one of his fingers, battle wounds from having to do all the things Michael claims he can, and will, do threefold. Not gonna happen. He'd do anything for his son. Just not this.

Wrestling the babies away from their mother is no easy task, Mike being none too pleased about her brood being stolen. They've all gotten them out before, handled and played with, cuddled and snuggled, each of the babies. But this time she seems to know something's up and she's having none of it. Michael screams when Dean flings the Hormonal Bitch into the side of the cage after she charges him, teeth and nails both bared. And he gathers her up – him being the only person she won't bite, never has – and he tells her it's okay, they're all going to good homes.

"That's right," Ava says, patting him on the shoulder in that so proud way.

"And you can come over and visit us anytime," Rachel says to both Michael and Mike as she cuddles Fluffy close.

He smiles and nods, but his heart's not in it, eyes glistening with tears as his babies are put into boxes and sent away. He doesn't go to the pet store to see them off, just stays at home with Mike, who sits in her cage and screams.

She seems to figure out, after only about an hour, that her babies aren't coming back, and, oh well, que sera, sera. She goes about her business, eating and chewing and wriggling her little rabbit nose as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

It takes Michael a good five days to get over the trauma as well as she does, which is about four and a half days longer than Dean and Ava expected.

But things are okay for a while, even good. Mike gets a little less nippy. Michael claims to love his father again, forgetting all about why he hated him for almost a week. Sammy stops sticking her fingers places they don't belong…or at least she stops sticking them in Mike's cage.

Even outside their little pet travails, the world seems a bit brighter than it's been in months. John places second in the fourth grade spelling bee. Rachel gets asked out by a boy for the first time, and to everyone's delight, turns him down immediately. Sam wins the big case he's been working on forever. And with some help from a friend, Maya finally starts sleeping again, even starts smiling again, on occasion.

But clearly, something had to give, complacency always being punished with tragedy. Dean gets up one morning and, before he's even had a drop of coffee to drink, he notices Mike's open cage, the Hormonal Bitch nowhere to be seen.

He searches high and low – how a rabbit would get into the top cabinets he has no idea, but better safe than sorry – peering into pantries and closets, on his hands and knees looking under tables and chairs, couches and armoires. A good twenty, thirty minutes go by and still no sign of her. He even calls out quietly, so as not to wake the kids, "Mike. Mike. Come here and show yourself you blood sucking little bitch." But all to no avail.

When Ava gets out of the shower, finds her husband hunched over on the floor, spitting profanity under their couch, she knows exactly what happened. "Oh, no," she utters absently, turning on a heel and racing back up the stairs.

Dean slams his head, hard, on the couch as he rises to ask her, "What?" – which is promptly replaced by a, "Son of a bitch," from the throb in his skull. But he's cut off by a horrendous scream, shrill and loud and powerful, like only his eight-year-old could produce.

It's awful, truly, truly awful. And the only thing that keeps him from laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, is his little boy's sobs as he clings to his mother, a giant stiff mound of fur gripped tightly in his hand.

He'd been asking for weeks if Mike could sleep with him at night, and the answer was always no. Because it was weird and unsanitary, and she might get lost, or get…smothered. But he'd been sneaking her up anyway, three times last week, Ava catching him after goodnight kisses and ordering him to march that animal back down stairs before his father found out.

Last night she didn't even check, up late on the phone with Sam, discussing things she had no desire to discuss. It was after twelve when she went to bed, ready to fall into some sort of sleep and leave the day behind her. Too much was on her mind to think, or care, about whether or not there was a bunny in her son's bed.

He had rolled over on her in his sleep, smothered her dead. "Maybe even broke her neck," Dean sniggers into the phone later. "Hard to tell."

"Dude," his brother replies on the other line, "it's not funny."

And Dean knows it's not, he really does. But he's always had difficulty with emotional situations, nervous laughter popping up out of the blue. And besides, he tried to control himself, really, but when he says the words out loud, even thinks them clearly in his head, "My son rolled over on his best friend last night, squashed her like a bug," he can't help but be morbidly amused.

"What was he doing with it in his bed, anyway?" Sam asks.

"I don't know. He knows he's not allowed to sneak chicks up to his room until he's at least fourteen."

He can almost hear Sam's eye rolling head shake on the other end. "First of all, man," he says very slowly, "I have a daughter who's fourteen, so I better never hear you give that as an age of consent again."

"Good point," he cedes, waiting for the rest.

"Second of all," Sam begins before hesitating. He goes silent for a moment, then lets out a long sigh, amusement lighting his words, "Seriously, dude. That's fucked up." He laughs briefly, before covering it with a cough, an obvious hint that someone's entered the room. He's suddenly somber when he says, "So are you getting another rabbit?"

"Hell no," he scoffs.

"You sure? I can make you a great deal on Senior Fluffykins," he says, his line of the phone quickly being lost to Rachel's indignant, "Daaaaaaaaaad."

"Senior who now?" he asks, still hearing his niece in the background as she whines something to the effect of, he's family, you're required to love him.

Sam laughs off an ow, presumably following a much deserved slap from his daughter – cracks about family pets equaling family dinner can do that – and says, correcting himself for his brother, "Mike Jr."

"Ah, yeah. No. He's all yours, buddy boy."

"Gee, thanks," he says with genuine sarcasm. Then, "Seriously though," making Dean sigh in awful anticipation, because he just knows what's coming next. "Michael loves animals."

"I know that, Sam," he says, impatience leadening his words.

"What about a hamster or something?" he tries for his nephew.

"No more rodents."

"Goldfish?"

"Die too fast," he shoots down. "I'm not gathering the whole family around the toilet for a funeral every other week."

"Well then, what about another dog?" he asks, words ringing with encouragement. "You loved Murphy, man."

He scoffs as though it's the stupidest comment in the world. "Of course I loved Murph. But he was one of a kind. Never find another dog like that, and I don't want to waste my time trying."

"Dude," Sam tsks into the phone, "you gotta think of your kids here."

"Sammy," he lets out, a low and warning rumble.

"You gotta think of me," he says quickly. "I hate that little big eared rat running all over my house, shitting on my floor. And if you don't get something else to occupy Michael, he'll be over here all the time, taking that thing out every damn day, letting it run loose. I can't handle that, man. I can't."

"Oh," he drawls, smug smile playing on his lips. "I see how it is. Once again, it's all about you."

"Yeah, Dean," he deadpans. "Everything's always about me."

"Don't I know it," he mumbles absently.

"Look," Sam tries, serious now, "consider it your making up to me, and, I don't know, the pet universe at large, for the Cujo incident."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he plainly lies.

"All I wanted was a puppy," Sam reminisces. "All I wanted in this world."

"Yeah, well, you always were a little self-centered."

"I was seven. What was I supposed to want, world peace?" he snipes.

"Works for Miss America."

"The point, Dean, is that I wanted a puppy, and Dad said no."

"You know, if you did your hair right, got a nice dress…"

"Dean," he warns, name lost inside an exhausted breath.

"I'm just saying, you're as pretty as those pageant girls," he mocks, fingers incessantly fiddling with random items in the kitchen as he speaks. The other end is silent as he runs his hands over the pile of dirty dishes, debates whether or not to do them. "Sammy?" he asks finally.

All Sam utters, in tight-lipped anger, is, "I hate you."

Dean rolls his eyes as he walks away from the sink, leaving the dishes behind. "Hey, I got you your damn dog, didn't I? Even though Dad said no. Even though he threatened to kick my ass."

"He threatened to kick your ass because you're a cruel, sadistic bastard who…who…" he stutters, trying to pick words appropriate enough to convey his level of rage, all the while his brother tries not to laugh on the other end. "Who mocked and crushed my dreams, and tortured me with a dead stuffed dog."

"Crushed your dreams? Tortured you? Don't be such a freaking baby."

"You're an ass," he mutters, a mantra spoken so many times before that it falls freely from his lips.

"And for the record," Dean says, knowingly egging his brother on, "Cujo was a good dog. A great dog."

"He was a dead dog," he says plainly.

But Dean goes on. "Never gave us a lick of trouble."

"Never gave a lick period," Sam mumbles, "seeing as how his tongue was removed by the taxidermist."

"We never had to clean up after him. Never had to feed him, take him for walks."

"I wanted to take a dog for walks," Sam audibly pouts.

"No vet bills."

"Dean," he says, tone impatient, "he was dead."

"That any way to talk about your best friend?" he spits.

"My best what?"

"Man, that dog followed you around everywhere," he says dreamily.

There's a distinct silence on the other end of the line, sharp and long, followed by a deep steadying breath. "You followed me around everywhere, and put that creepy ass thing in my way. I'd go to the bathroom, he'd show up outside the door. I'd go to bed, wake up in the middle of the night with that…that…thing standing in my bed, staring at me."

"He loved you."

"He was dead."

"You could see it in his eyes," he goes on, unfazed.

"His creepy dead eyes."

"Sam," he says with faux sincerity, as though talking to a small, stupid child, "his eyes were glass."

"He followed us on a hunt once, remember that?" he asks accusingly.

"I vaguely recall, yes," he says, nodding his head.

"I almost shot him," he claims, as though it would have been the most horrific thing in the world to shoot a dog that's already dead.

"You almost pissed yourself," Dean counters with a cocked eyebrow and a crooked grin.

"I thought he was a werewolf," he defends.

"Dude, he was like ten pounds, some kind of chihuahua mix or something," he chokes between stifled bouts of laughter.

"It was dark. And I was seven. And," he goes on, still eager to defend himself, "he snuck up on me."

Dean laughs. And he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

"You know what, man…if you have such fond memories of that piece of stuffed roadkill, why don't you just go get another Cujo for Michael," he says, voice entering pissy Sam territory. "Or better yet, just have Mike stuffed and shellacked. I'm sure that wouldn't traumatize your son at all. Hey, you could even put her on a string so he can pull her around the house, take her out for walks."

And, of course, Sam was only kidding. Of course he never meant for what happened next to actually happen. But Dean stops laughing suddenly on the other end, falls into a thoughtful silence for a moment before, "Genius," flies from his mouth and he hangs up the phone.

It doesn't take long for him to find a taxidermist willing to do the job. Apparently people do this sort of thing fairly often. The guy who does it has eerily wide eyes, a thin creepy smile, and says things like, "It's my pleasure and duty to preserve the beauty and integrity of your beloved family member." Which just makes Dean shudder.

It costs him about five times what another rabbit would have been. But this new and improved Mike doesn't do any of the awful things the old Hormonal Bitch did. She doesn't leave any little round pellet poops on the carpet, doesn't chew at his wood trim in the hall, doesn't have to be fed, watered, or bathed. And, aside from the time she's abandoned on the stairs and Ava takes a header after tripping on her, she never draws blood again.

Michael's just happy his old friend's still around. And she can sleep with him, every night now, without any worries of what might happen if he suddenly, sleepily rolls over. And, as it turns out, Sam's leash idea is a great one, the kids having a ball dragging her all over the neighborhood, racing along as their little wheeled rabbit careens behind them.

It's weird and kind of creepy, a little gross at times when they really think about it. Like when they find Samantha sitting with Mike in her lap in front of the TV, one long furry ear in their little girl's mouth. But she's their pet, a member of the family, and that's what counts.

Dean no longer calls her the Hormonal Bitch, not anymore. He calls her Lucy, after Ava's mother, because they have the same glassy-eyed stare and staunchly stiff posture.

Sometimes Ava wants to kill her husband.

But he's her pet, a member of the family, and that's what counts.