Gen: Kitty Kitty, Bang Bang: Part 1

[dugindeep]

Master Post

The apartment is modest, but filled with pretty people. Décor is sleek and simple, and the few women at the gathering are adorned in glittery and expensive cuts of fabric. Men vary from uniquely handsome to utterly gorgeous, the woman could strut catwalks and star on the covers of magazines, and everyone smiles and laughs as they drink high-end mixers and wine.

In the kitchen, the two hosts argue quietly - one in a shiny, cream-colored halter, and the other in a much simpler, dark shirt and jeans that are the nicest thing in her closet. They’re sisters and roommates, but have little else in common.

The older one in cream is frowning and shifting against the counter and harshly whispering. “I don’t understand why you’re being like this tonight.”

“These are your friends,” the younger sister argues back. “I don’t like these kinds of things and you know that.”

“You could at least try.” It’s said softly and with a bit of encouragement, but she still seems annoyed. It’s followed by a gentle tug at the edge of her younger sister’s shirt, pulling it into place so the v-neck aligns better with a necklace she also repositions. She runs her fingers through the ends of her younger sister’s dark hair and frowns at the way it hangs limply over her shoulders.

“I’m not like you and your friends,” the youngest replies as she fidgets with her own shirt.

“But you’re not even trying,” is the murmured reply. Then she twirls her sister’s hair to give the appearance of a soft curl before returning to the party.

It’s just past midnight when the young girl steps out on the balcony. It’s dark, sure, with only a handful of streetlamps dotting the path throughout the apartment complex, but the moon above allows her to see out into the distance. There isn’t much there, just soft rolls of land that lead down to the next street. That road’s just as empty as the complex, and she shivers with the tiny bite of chill in the air and the eerie silence that surrounds her.

On the other side of the balcony doors, the dinner party goes on, but she can’t hear any of it no matter how loud guests get while arguing about the newest reality show and whose turn it is to refill drinks. She huddles into herself, sets her elbows on the short wall of the balcony, and leans forward. Her hair spills over one shoulder and she tips her head to the side so she can better observe the landscaping below.

The grass seems black at this hour, but she can make out the lighter shades of small bushes scattered near the light cement walkway. Between two little bundles of twigs and leaves, there’s another soft shape that she keeps staring at, unable to make out what it is. The longer she stares, the less defined it is and at some point, she swears it’s moving, shaking just a bit.

It’s the wine, she’s sure. She’s had a couple glasses to get through the social anxiety, and it’s dark outside, too dark. Her mind’s playing tricks on her, or maybe she needs glasses.

The more she stares, the more she thinks she sees, but she’s still so sure she’s imagining it. She’s likely creating the image of the small ball of shadow sliding to the left and definitely dreaming up the thin part branching out. Then it steps forward and she makes out pointed ears and paws stepping forward as the animal takes shape. Four legs, a head, a tail, all covered in dark fur that makes it even less discernable in the middle of the night.

Meow.

She flinches away from the ledge and covers her mouth, covers up the shocked squeaky laugh that still sounds too loud out here. She leans over the railing and sees the feline step closer to the building. Her heart races even as she’s on the second floor and doesn’t have a fear of cats. It’s still a surprise, and she chuckles at herself for it.

The cat stops, firm on four paws, and lifts its head to her. She can see a flicker of moonlight cross its eyes - golden globes lighting up its face - as it stares at her. There is no way she can stop staring back, completely transfixed by this creature, and her mind goes blank for just a second.

Hiss.

She jumps again and takes three steps back when the cat races forward and under the balcony. It’s so foolish, she knows, to be this afraid of a cat that can’t even reach her up here. Still, she presses her hand to her mouth and steadies her breath.

Something clamps onto her elbow and she shrieks. She spins in place to find one of tonight’s guests smiling fondly at her.

“Hi,” he says simply with a quick blink of his hazel eyes.

She presses her palm to her chest and slaps at him with the other, nervously laughing. “You scared the crap outta me!”

He chuckles with her and pulls her hand away from another hit, stopping her from hitting him again and holding gently. “You’re fine. Stop worrying so much.”

She would argue, the words are on the tip of her tongue, but his pale skin stands out from his slick, jet-black hair, sculpted away from his face to show off high cheek bones and a defined jaw. She can’t help but stare in awe.

He’s smooth like he’s been sculpted from clay, and she can’t stop the speed of her heart increasing with him standing so close. She’d been admiring him throughout the night, but a girl like her doesn’t stand a chance with a guy like this. Her face is soft and round and her body lacks defined curves. She’s certain he exclusively dates models and beds royalty. He must.

He tips his head and his eyes reach into her, as if reading everything bubbling beneath the surface. His smile softens as he squeezes her hand and she stretches her fingers out before holding right back.

“You’re nervous,” he says plainly.

“Just a little, yeah.”

His lips spread wide as he smiles, boasting straight, sparkling teeth. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

Cute, she thinks. Cute is a 13-year-old in pigtails. Cute is the girl next door who’s picked last at the dance.

Tipping his head again, he continues to assess her. His sight carries over her face and down her clothes before sweeping back up. “You wish you were beautiful.”

She flushes and tries to pull her hand back, but he won’t let go. “Who doesn’t?” she returns with a bit of annoyance.

He brings his other hand up to her face and his open palm curls with the shape of it, but never touches. “You want to be beautiful?” he asks this time.

“Yeah, of - of course,” she stutters out.

Leaning in close, his hand settles within her hair and she shivers with the soft touch of his fingertips along her scalp. He whispers at her other ear, “I can make you beautiful.”

She laughs to herself, only letting out a strangled sort of noise. “Is your father a plastic surgeon?”

He chuckles with her, but it’s darker than the night, and it tingles down to her toes. “It’s better than that.” His breath ghosts over her ear and his hand in her hair starts combing through the long tendrils. “I can make it happen. Just tell me what you want.”

There’s a hard pressure in her chest and she wants to run back inside, because this is absolutely ridiculous. This guy she’s only met tonight, and hasn’t said more than two words to before this now, is promising her something impossible without hours of reconstructive surgery. But all she can hear is his steady breathing and the only thing she feels is a barely-there wind across her cheeks and the gentle touch of his hand in her hair.

This night has spun her over and she feels like she’s under some spell that forces her words out. “I want to be gorgeous and thin. I want guys to look at me, to want me. And I want everything to be easy because I’m beautiful.”

The hand in her hair closes to a soft fist and he pulls to the side, baring her neck so he can bend down to it. “As you wish,” he murmurs just before licking a slow path from her collarbone up to her ear.

She feels feverish and her heart races, but she can’t stop the pressure of his tongue, flat and wide along her skin. The thumping in her chest is far too hard, she swears her heart’s about to break free, which makes her panic rise and her lungs stop functioning.

And then she faints.

***

The next noise outside is the balcony door sliding open as the older sister steps over the threshold, looking out into the darkness.

“Jenny?” she calls out.

No one answers, and she says it again.

“Jenny, you out here? You’ve been gone a while and everyone’s heading out.”

When still it’s too silent, she leans over the ledge to look up and down the walkway below the apartment.

“Jenny!” she yells.

Only a tabby cat comes out from under the balcony, dark chocolate hair with cream fur threaded through its coat.

Meow.



Seated in a hard plastic booth, Sam pulls a printed web article across the top of the local paper he’d been reading. His eyes roam the page, taking in the words that describe their next possible case: missing girls in California.

Dean drops into the seat across the way, slides a tray right over Sam’s paperwork, and gives a crooked, tired smile. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

Sam makes a face at both his disrupted research and the pathetic looking sandwich on his side the tray. He lifts the thin, smashed bun to discover the thinnest chicken breast he’s ever seen smothered in cheese and mayonnaise. His mouth slips into a bigger frown; this looks disgusting. “Really?”

“You said no red meat,” Dean mumbles around his large bite of a greasy cheeseburger.

He did say that, but he’d imagined something a bit healthier, more his style, less sloppy. He looks up to the menu board plastered above the counter just fifteen feet away, wincing as he reads over the choices in the dive of a corner shop they’d stopped at - the first restaurant in sight for the last hour. Nothing but burgers, hot dogs, and fried creations, so he supposes a chicken sandwich is the best he’s going to get right now.

Sam sighs and turns the tray ninety degrees to get the food away from him and his paperwork. “So,” he says to get Dean’s attention. “Three girls gone in a month. Another handful throughout the year. All disappeared overnight.”

“Girls run away all the time. Look at you,” he says with a big, burger grin.

“I don’t think it was willingly,” Sam says with a pointed look. When Dean doesn’t break from his food, Sam goes on. “They were all at parties with friends. All within a five-mile radius in Santa Barbara. And there’ve been no reports of any suspicious activity by the police department. They’re all listed as missing persons with no leads.”

“Maybe they ran off to L.A. to hit the big screen.” He guzzles down a third of his extra large soda then nods to his left. “Pass the ketchup?”

Sam nudges the red plastic bottle towards his brother and watches in discomfort as Dean squeezes the hell out of it to create a ketchup lake in the middle of his plate then drags a handful of fries through it, stuffing the whole mess in his mouth. The entire scene turns Sam’s stomach and he frowns at his own sandwich, unable to stomach the ooze and grease.

“Yeah, so,” Sam starts again. “The latest girl went missing on Saturday night. Her sister said she went out on the balcony, and once their party was winding down, the girl was gone. All she found was a pile of clothes on the balcony.”

Dean perks up at that, mouth opening to show mashed fries and ketchup. Sam winces then rolls his eyes when Dean asks, “No clothes?” He sits up in the booth and leans forward in interest. “There’re girls missing without their clothes?”

Sam looks down to his papers just so he doesn’t have to see the sleazy grin he’s sure his brother’s got on his face. “It would appear so.”

“Are they hot?”

Pushing one of his print outs forward, Sam twists his mouth. “See for yourself.”

Dean tilts his head in a thoughtful way and lifts a shoulder. “I guess she’s alright.”

“’Cause she’s got clothes on,” Sam points out.

“Probably,” Dean admits. “Where’s all this going down again?”

“Santa Barbara.”

“And all three disappeared in their birthday suits?” he asks.

Sam looks over a few other print-outs. “Seems like it.”

Dean sucks down another third of his soda, straw squeaking as he hits the bottom of the cup. “Alright. I’m game.” He points at Sam’s abandoned plate and looks up. “You gonna finish that?”

With a grimace, Sam shakes his head, and Dean grins and pulls it closer.

***

“Was there anything strange before she disappeared?” Dean asks as they’re led into a rather plain bedroom.

Under the guise of Feds investigating missing persons in the area, they’d easily made their way into the house and this conversation. When the missing girl’s sister had opened the door, Dean quickly smiled at her, far too obvious when admiring the sleek curves of her body and her magazine-worthy face. She didn’t pause for a second when Dean asked if they could come inside to look around.

In the missing girl’s room, Sam takes his time to observe the cream walls dotted with a few personal pictures in plain black frames, the clean surfaces of two dressers, and a solid blue comforter on the queen bed against the far wall. It’s radically different from the posh style of the living room and kitchen; modern shapes and colors decorate every other space of the apartment. Photos of the missing girl - Jennifer Hampton - show a Plain Jane type standing with family all dressed a level or two above her.

Her sister, Ellie, is dressed well today, too, as she stands next to a dresser and nudges a small jewelry box into place. Her auburn hair flows in long waves down her back, her make-up is spotless, and her jeans and bright, sparkled tank top seem casual, but are definitely designer. Sam makes quick note of the drastic differences between the sisters.

“Not really,” Ellie replies to Dean’s question, pulling her shoulders in as she crosses her arms. “Jenny was a little anxious about the party, but she’s always jumpy and … awkward.”

Sam looks up from a portrait of the two girls - from at least ten years ago - in front of a lakehouse. “Why was she anxious?”

Ellie shrugs and bites into her lower lip. “I don’t know. She’s always weird when we had friends over. Fusses about everything and everyone. She isn’t really good at socializing or putting herself out there.”

Dean opens the closet door and glances inside as Sam looks over, too. There’s a line of plain colored tops on hangers, but nothing as flashy as what Ellie’s wearing now or anything that fits the rest of the apartment.

“You told the police she’d gone out to the balcony for most of the party?” Sam asks as Dean pushes clothes out of the way to search the back of the closet.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Jenny wasn’t really talking to anyone, just stayed quiet. And then she went outside and I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.”

“The report says you found what she was wearing?” Dean asks as he leans out from the closet.

“Were the others like that, too?” she asks in return.

Sam and Dean share a look and she sighs.

“That’s so creepy,” Ellie says with a visible shiver.

“I know,” Dean mumbles though he’s smiling a little. Sam shoots him a look to shut up, and Dean frowns at him, but then looks back to Ellie with trained interest. “Did she talk to anyone during the night? Anyone go out to the balcony with her?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Not that I remember. Everyone was in the living room for the most of the night. Stefan had gone out to make a call but that was it.”

Sam glances at Dean with an inkling of thought. The report didn’t mention a Stefan in the list of those in attendance, and this the first word of someone being on the balcony aside from Jennifer. “Stefan?” Sam asks.

Ellie seems to shake herself from thought and barely looks up to Sam before watching Dean walk around the room to examine everything - or nothing, really, given how bare it is. “He works at the salon I go to. He’s new to town, only been around a few weeks. But super nice and I thought he’d like to meet some new people.” When Sam and Dean look at each other again, she stares at them. “What? What’s going on?”

Sam gives her a small, sympathetic smile. “Nothing. Can we see the balcony?”

She leads them out there and the three stand at the railing, peering down at the lush grass below. Sam takes in the area and figures the nearest street lamp wouldn’t grant much light over here. He’s certain there’s no way someone would jump down there at night and not stumble and disrupt the area, yet the lawn appears perfectly manicured.

“Her clothes were right here,” Ellie says, pointing to her right. She raises her eyebrows as she turns to Dean. “They were folded perfectly and stacked up.”

Dean’s gives Sam a look, and Sam lightly shrugs, trying to work out why someone would neatly fold Jenny’s clothes then take her away into the night. Hell, why it would happen all those other times, according to the other police reports.

“And you didn’t see anything else out here?” Sam asks.

Shaking her head, she shifts against the wood rail. “Nothing.”

Sam leans over the railing when a cat comes into view. It slinks out from under the balcony and looks up at them. Sitting back on its hind legs, it straightens its back and meows.

“God, that damned cat,” Ellie sighs. When Sam looks over, she goes on. “It’s been hanging around here the last few days, howling its head off at all hours. I called the management office, but no one’s claimed it and they say they have better things to worry about.” She rolls her eyes and flips her hair over her shoulder. “How the heck can a girl sleep with this thing going off all night?”

Furrowing his brown, Sam looks at the cat, which is staring right back at him. He tilts his head and the cat does, too. He keeps staring at it and Dean stands next to him to watch the cat as well.

Meow.

“Stupid thing,” Ellie mutters.

Dean hums for a second and shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s kinda cute.”

Meoooooow, it stretches out with its mouth opening wide.

Sam feels something tickle down his spine as the cat continues staring at him, eyes refusing to move even as Dean shifts around him to continue talking to the sister. When Sam shuffles to the side, the cat’s dark eyes still follow him.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but a hand landing on his shoulder shakes him from the moment.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” he replies slowly as he watches Ellie step back inside, leaving the balcony door open for them. He lowers his voice so she won’t hear. “She say anything else?”

Dean purses his lips. “Nothing more than a little feline hatred. What do you think?”

“We should stop by the salon.”

His brother eyes him. “You looking for some highlights?”

Sam sighs. “To talk to Stefan.”

Dean nods and smirks. “Of course. And if you’re good, maybe you can get a li’l trim.”

Sam rolls his eyes as he follows Dean back into the apartment.



The salon is all bright lights and metal furniture that reflect the rows of fluorescents above. Dean winces at the sterile setting and assesses the young man on a stool behind the front counter. The guy’s shapely brows and slick faux hawk makes Dean assume he gets more than just a paycheck from this place.

Another long look around the salon and there are a dozen stylists trimming precise cuts and a handful of perfect women are seated at desks giving manicures to more richly dressed customers.

“Can I help you?” the guy behind the counter asks with a friendly voice. He gives Dean a once over that makes him bristle because it feels too much like he’s being critiqued.

“We’re here to see Stefan,” Dean says.

“Oh!” The guy grins, sits up straight, and seems excited when he says, “You’re here for a brow wax and facial?”

Dean glances at Sam and they share an odd look. “What? No, we-”

“Yes, perfect. Stefan is running just ten minutes behind, but he can do both of you.”

Rubbing at his brow, Dean feels uncomfortable under the guy’s intense stare and is all too grateful when Sam steps up, nudging Dean out of the way. Sam flips his fake badge and uses his stern Fed voice to ask for the guy they need to talk to.

When Stefan Rogers approaches them, he’s tugging black latex gloves off his hands and reaches out to shake each of their hands. “Gentlemen,” he says. He bows his head in greeting and the angle of his dark pompadour is perfectly sculpted and stays in place no matter how he moves his head as he sizes them up. “What can I do for the good ol’ U.S. of A.?”

Dean can’t stop watching how Stefan keeps eying them both, as if he’s assessing the cut of their suits, the length of their hair, even the shine of their shoes.

Luckily, Sam powers on. “We’re here about Jennifer Hampton? You were one of the last to see her?”

“I’m sorry, who?” Stefan asks. He seems honestly unaware of the missing woman, but when Dean flashes a picture of her that Ellie had provided them with, Stefan nods with a small, growing smile. “Ahh, yes, her. Very lovely woman. The real ideal beauty.”

Dean turns the picture back so he can regard Jennifer. She’s without make-up, her hair’s up in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing a plain black, ill-fitting t-shirt. She’s certainly not hard to look at, but his mind doesn’t go right to ideal.

Putting the picture back in his inside jacket pocket, Dean straightens. “Her sister says you’d gone out to the balcony while she was out there. I’d imagine you two talked?”

Stefan looks between Sam and Dean then shakes his head with an easy smile. “I’m sorry, but did something happen to her?”

“She’s missing,” Sam says plainly.

“And you seem to be the last to have seen her,” Dean adds.

“Well,” Stefan replies, putting his hand into the air, “We talked for a bit, yes. She really is a darling woman with such potential. Once we were done, I stepped back inside and finished my drink before leaving. I’m sure Ellie can attest to that.”

Even as the explanation is so simple, something feels off, and Dean turns a critical eye on the man, flipping his words over again. “What did you talk about?”

Stefan laughs brightly and aims a sharp smile at Dean. “I work in a salon, she wanted to be prettier. I shared a few of my secrets and left her with a game plan.”

“Was she still,” Dean says slowly, waving a hand in front of his chest, “You know, dressed when you shared beauty tips?”

Sam shoots him a look and Dean shrugs it off. It’s a pretty freaking valid question given the evidence.

Stefan laughs and checks his watch. “Indeed she was. Look, agents, I’d love to help more but I do have a peel to finish in the back.” He gives them another long look and smirks as he tips his head and motions at their faces. “But do come back. There’s plenty I can help you both with.”

***

Back at the motel, Dean leaves Sam at his laptop to hit the bathroom. While there was nothing particularly off about Stefan Rogers, neither of them have a good feel for him, and Sam digs through the internet for any word on the guy while Dean takes a few extra moments in the bathroom to stare in the mirror and think. Too much, probably.

He knows he’s a good looking guy, gets enough women coming his way. Why the hell would any of those damned pampered stylists insist he needs work?

He thumbs low across his forehead, satisfied that there’re no stray hairs there, and follows the line of his eyebrow to pull skin up towards his hairline. Okay, there’re a few lines that’ve popped up in the last few years, but crap, who doesn’t get a little weary being a hunter, anyway?

“That freaking guy,” he grumbles at his reflection.

“I know,” Sam says from the table across the room. “He’s like a shadow. He has no history.”

Dean keeps evaluating his face as Sam rambles on about every nook and cranny he’s searching on the net but finds empty.

His nose is maybe a little too sharp, his lips a little too red and dry, and his eyes are like something out of a cartoon book, too bright and green. Shoot, he could use a shave more often, and if he ever got enough sleep, these bags under his eyes would disappear.

“Dean!” Sam calls out. When Dean looks to his left, Sam’s leaning back in his chair and watching him like he’s grown another head. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles and marches right up to the table to join Sam. “So, what’s the deal with Mr. Skeezy?” Sam shoots him an odd glance and Dean flinches at it. “What? You don’t think it was all weird how he kept critiquing us, insisting on facials and skin peels and manis and pedis.”

“Manis and pedis?”

“Whatever,” Dean grunts, trying to sneak a peek at his fingernails. “What’d you find?”

Sam pushes the laptop away and leans back in his seat. “Absolutely nothing. That’s what I’ve been saying while you were,” and he waves his hand at Dean’s face, “critiquing your shortcomings.”

Dean starts to argue, “I don’t have any - whatever. He’s gotta come from somewhere to work in that high class of a salon.”

With his thoughtful face on, Sam pulls the laptop back in and types out a few commands until he hijacks the neighborhood commerce board and gets into the salon’s employment database to review Stefan Rogers’ application. “Stefan Rogers lives just four blocks from Jennifer and Ellie Hampton.”

Sifting through the paperwork and books on the table, Dean yanks a local map out from the pile and spreads it out. It’s already marked with the addresses of the other missing girls, and Dean adds an X for Stefan’s then draws a few lines to connect the dots. “Huh.”

“What?” Sam asks, leaning over Dean’s shoulder to see.

Dean taps each dot and traces the lines with his finger. All three missing girls are in a five-mile radius of the newest dot marking Stefan’s apartment. “Looks like Mr. Rogers really is in the neighborhood.”

***

They search Stefan Rogers’ third-floor apartment to find nothing out of place in the sleek, modern space, all sharp-angled furniture and equally sharp looking decor. Most of the walls are covered with mirrored glass so that every time they move, they can see themselves, and Dean is actually a bit freaked out by the constant appearance of Sam in the mirrors searching a bureau behind him.

On a five-tiered glass shelving case, sleek statues and porcelain dishes are tipped up by display stands. One features smooth lines to form a woman’s silhouette, another is covered in etchings of a foreign language Dean can’t even identify, and the dish at the very top is covered with earthy brown paint. In the center of it, a feminine body has the head of a lion.

“Okay, weird,” Dean says tightly. Sam looks over with a crooked shrug, and yeah, they’ve seen stranger shit on the job, but Dean still shakes his head because these pieces are far out of place with the rest of the apartment.

More searching, mostly digging through the long bureau that covers one wall, yields them nothing. Dean stands up from his crouch and stares at himself in a sunburst of glass above the cabinet. He tips his head to catch different shades of light through the nearby windows. “Why’s a guy need so many goddamn mirrors?”

“Are you surprised?” Sam asks with his head tucked into a deep shelf. “He works at a salon, constantly making people look better than they can by themselves.”

Dean turns to Sam and winces when he catches himself in another mirror. He steps to the side so he doesn’t have to see the saddlebags under his eyes or the rough, stubbled shape of his jaw. After a second’s thought, he steps back to regard himself and tilts his head as he runs a few knuckles over the edge of his cheek. “How much you think a guy like that makes being everyone’s fairy godmother?”

Sam glances around them and shrugs. “Must be a lot, by the looks of this place.”

Picking up a few magazines off a side table - GQ, Men’s Vogue, Esquire - Dean sighs. “Can’t believe all the crap people put themselves through just to look like this,” he says, flapping the magazines in his hand. Sam hums and Dean flips through the thick books before looking at his brother. “What?”

“Nothing, just … it’s funny that you’re bothering to be insulted or something.”

Dean furrows his brow and snorts. “What?”

Sam shifts from his spot to face him. He releases an amused sigh and gestures at him. “Look at yourself, Dean. You’re always fussing with your collars and checking out women. And you have to have your hair just right before we anywhere.”

“You think I’m just like these guys?” he asks, suddenly insulted, and slapping the magazines back to the table.

“Not exactly, but it’s not like you don’t have a lot in common.”

“And what’s that, Sam?”

“It’s all the same vanity,” Sam explains simply. He turns back to the drawer he’s searching and shrugs. “All the same end point. To look good and pick up girls.”

“Alright, whatever,” he mumbles as he drags his sight across the apartment. It’s not entirely wrong - doing what he can in the name of getting laid. But he’s not like this guy, with his facials and manicures and pricey wardrobe. Christ, he hasn’t bought a new anything in years, using what money they do have to zigzag across the country.

Sam chuckles and shakes his head, and Dean decides to ignore him, not wanting to get any further into this train of thought. He heads into the bedroom to scope it out, but once he opens the door, he stalls and blinks.

“Uh, Sam,” Dean says oddly.

Sam comes up behind and looks down at him. “Yeah?”

Dean flips his hand out at nearly a dozen cats in the room, some sleeping on the king-sized bed, two in the windowsill, and the others roaming the wood floor. “Either he’s a breeder or he’s harboring a secret life as the neighborhood’s old cat lady.”

Sam’s eyes narrow before he makes a strange noise and his mouth twists.

***

Dean tosses his cell onto the motel bed before dropping into the chair across from Sam at the table. “Well, Bobby’s got nothing.” Sam hums but doesn’t look up from his screen and Dean sighs. “I’m guessing you’ve got nothing?”

“Pretty much,” Sam returns with his own sigh.

“That’s great.” Dean kicks his feet up to the table, shaking the whole thing when his ankles cross, and Sam shoots him an angry look. “What?”

Sam elbows Dean’s feet off the surface and purses his lips.

He sighs again and rests his arms on the table, flicking his hands out. “You really got nothing?”

“What do you want me to look for? Cats traded for missing girls?”

Dean stands again and leans at the counter in the kitchenette, grabbing a beer from the cooler next to him. He takes a moment for thought with the bottle raised to his mouth. “Sounds like a fairy tale, now that you say it like that. And Stefan’s our wicked stepmother.”

Sam clicks through a few sites, shaking his head as he goes. “Nothing hits when it comes to a guy hoarding cats and girls disappearing.”

“Well, there’s always a first time for somethin’,” Dean muses and takes a sip.

Sam leans closer to the screen and seems pretty darn lost with his hands spreading around the keyboard but never hitting a single letter. Then his brow furrows. “Huh.”

Dean hums out as he takes another drink.

“What was it Stefan said about Jenny?”

Dean snorts lightly at the memory of their time in the salon. He doesn’t want to remember much of it, but a few things have stuck. “That she had potential.”

Sam shakes his head and his fingers flutter above the keys, still not touching the laptop. “No, something about beauty, right?”

Now there’s some interest brewing, a possibility, and Dean puts his bottle down to the table just next to Sam’s elbow. He leans in over his brother’s shoulder to view the screen and mumbles, “Ideal beauty.”

“There,” Sam says, pointing at a line across a crude display of html.

Complete with an awkwardly blue background and red, clunky text, the Web site boasts cat myths, and the line Sam’s pointing at reads Egyptian women believed that the ideal beauty was that of a cat.

Dean reads through the words a handful of times, trying to wrap his brain around the statement, but all he can come up with is: “He’s making cats?”

Sam turns toward Dean and his face is scrunched up, a cross between surprise and grossed out. “What?”

Shrugging, Dean backs away, instantly on the defense. “Well, I don’t know. You got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

Sam turns back to the screen and reads the passages over and over. Dean has to drain the rest of his beer to truly consider what seems to be the only answer.

“He couldn’t …,” Sam drifts off. “But maybe they’re - ” He turns to Dean with quite the same strange face, but confusion is now taking over. “You really think he’s turning girls into cats?”

“Would explain why they’re going naked,” Dean replies with a shrug. He suddenly snaps at Sam. “That cat at the girls’ apartment. Maybe that’s really Jenny? Like she comes back to visit her sister? And then he’s got a whole slew of other missing girls in his bedroom.”

“You think?”

“Only one way to know.”

***

A couple of hours are burned in a stakeout with the Impala parked a few doors down and across the street from Stefan Rogers’ apartment building. There’s no sign of him until after six when he returns home, presumably from work. When he reappears around ten, he hops into a sleek silver sedan and pulls away.

They follow him to a local bar with neon across the brick and people bustling in and out. To remain unseen, they wait a few minutes to follow him inside, but it turns out to be a bad idea since they never catch sight of him again. Still, Dean orders them each a beer and they stay off to the side at a bar-height table to keep a lookout.

Sam leaves for the bathroom and Dean’s still combing the room as he sips from his pint glass when he’s startled by a woman seated at the bar. She’s got long dark, luscious curls flowing over her shoulders, a sinfully fitted, low-cut dress that’s creamy like her skin and stops high on her thighs, and she’s holding a cherry to her mouth as she leers at him.

Dean chances a quick look over his shoulder, even as he’s sure she’s got him on her mind, and when he looks back to her, she winks and sucks the cherry into her mouth.

Well. If ever there was a more perfect invitation …

He leaves a twenty on the table and dials up Sam’s cell. As soon as his brother answers, he rattles off, “I’m following a lead. You stay here and keep watch for our hairdresser.”

“What’ve you got?”

“A good feeling,” he replies with a smirk. He snaps his cell shut as he crosses the bar to meet the woman. In the darkness of the bar, soft shadows fall over her face, but he can still see her upturned, glossy lips and eyes that flicker up to him with intent.

He motions at her short glass, cubed ice coated in something creamy.

“You look like you could use a refill,” he says lowly, his best smirk in place.

She licks her lips seductively and swivels on her stool to fully face him. Leaning in close, she rests her hand at his elbow and purrs in his ear. “I sure wouldn’t mind, if it’s comin’ from you.”

Dean bites at his lower lip as he pulls back enough to see her eyes, the hazel flickers under a light angled near the bar and he’s mesmerized by the sparkle across her eyes. For a second, he swears he recognizes her, but there’s no way he’ll go that route - don’t I know you? - even if he might.

The way she shifts on the stool draws his eyes to her long neck, all smooth, soft skin. A gold chain reaches far down her chest, begging his eyes to follow the line down to her cleavage where a triangle-shaped charm sits at the swell of her breasts, which he tries hard to not stare at. Especially when she slips part of the chain across her mouth, dragging his sight to her lush lips.

She clears her throat, letting the charm drop into place, and his eyes flick up. Her pink tongue comes out again, tucking at the corner of her lips for a second. “Kahlua and cream. On the rocks.”

He narrows his eyes, but when she begins to smirk, he grins right back at her and chuckles. “What d’ya say we get one for the road?”

She doesn’t say yes so much with her voice, but more with the way she rises to her feet and her hips sway as she leads him to the door, pushing it open and strutting across the paved parking lot until he directs her to his car.

He can’t drive fast enough, legs getting jittery with excitement. He keeps himself calm, even when she cups his knee, rubs down his thigh, and squeezes at the muscle. “You got somewhere else you oughta be?” he asks then chuckles.

Her only reply is a wink and a long swipe of her pink tongue over red lips, and he kicks the gas pedal down to run a yellow light.

Dean gets the door to the hotel room open just as she presses up against him, all fluid movements and gentle hands. He’s got nothing but a broad smile as she dips in to nip along his neck.

“You’re so very nice to look at, you know,” she murmurs at his ear before lightly tugging his lobe between her teeth.

With a throaty chuckle, he slips into the room, pulling her with as he makes sure there’s hardly any space between them. “I’m quite aware.”

She kisses up his jaw then moves away just a few inches so she can drag her finger down his nose and over his lips. “So very beautiful.”

Dean cocks his head and shoots her a sly look. “As are you, sweetheart.”

With her hand under his chin, she tips his head back and licks a long swipe up his throat, forcing his eyes to roll back and all the air in his lungs to leave him.



It’s been a few hours, Sam figures. Long enough to grant Dean time with whoever he’s picked up tonight. Sam’s ready to drop into bed and prepare for an early morning of research and more stakeouts, and he’d really appreciate it if his brother were somewhere else or at least done for the night.

But Jesus, if Dean could find someone in that bar, there’s no way he’ll be ready to hit the sack if he’s back at the hotel, even he’s alone. He’ll likely be grinning and humming his way through another beer, knocking his feet up on the table.

So, when Sam pushes the door open and finds the place dark and quiet, he’s surprised. And when he stumbles over Dean’s boots, he curses him out, shouting in the silent room with only an echo as his answer.

That is until he hears a light scratching noise and a low growl.

Sam fumbles his way to the bedside table, turns the lamp on, and that’s when he sees it. An orange tabby cat sits on Dean’s bed, hind legs resting flat on the mattress as it lifts up to its front legs.

“Dean!” Sam calls out, not even caring how frantic he sounds at the moment. There is a cat in the hotel room and their case is riddled with them and … no way, this thing is staring right back at him, tipping its head like it’s trying to read his mind.

Reowwww.

“Dean?” he asks, though he’s more afraid of this answer than most anything in life.

The cat brings its paw up to scrub at its face, yawn, and then seemingly scowl before dropping back down to the mattress.

“Oh crap.”

***

“You did what?!”

Sam winces at the boom of Bobby’s voice over the line. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling and fights the right words. “I didn’t do it,” he replies lamely.

“Your brother’s been turned into a goddamn cat, and you’re sayin’ you didn’t have a single thing to do with that?”

“I wasn’t even here,” Sam argues back. He takes a few quick steps to start pacing, but stops when he reaches Dean’s bed and … Dean, he supposes. The cat is perched at the corner of the bed and staring up at him. The entirety of its face seems to be those wide, green eyes watching Sam. “I mean, maybe it’s not really him.”

“If it ain’t him, then where’s he at?” Bobby asks, quieter this time but still just as sharp and cynical.

Sam looks at the bedside table, at Dean’s cell. Once he’d recovered from the shock of a cat left alone in their room, one that wouldn’t stop following Sam with its eyes or meow and growl at him, he called Dean only to find the cell on the floor between their beds and ringing without anyone to answer. Even the cat looked over at the phone then gave Sam a strange, tilted look.

“And if that ain’t your brother, why’re you botherin’ me?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam cringes and asks himself that same thing. “So, you’ve never heard of this sort of thing before?” he chances.

“Right, ‘cause Tom & Jerry show up in lore all the time?”

Yeah, he’d guess not.

Bobby sighs, rough and long. “Alright, I’ll go on this wild goose chase and see what I can find.”

“Okay, yeah,” Sam sighs in return.

“And you keep an eye on your brother,” Bobby demands, and Sam figures if they were in person, there’d be a few fingers pointed in his direction. “Make sure he doesn’t turn into a tiger or something.”

“Alright, thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby grunts in return and ends their call.

Sam looks at the cat … at Dean, and man, this is going to take some getting used to. With as strong of a smile he can muster, he nods at Dean. Trying to comfort his brother, as much as himself, Sam says, “Bobby’s got a few leads, and we’ll get you out of this real soon.”

Dean cocks his head then shakes it, turning in a circle and plopping down on the bed.

Yeah, they’re totally screwed.



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