Gen: Kitty Kitty, Bang Bang: Part 2

[dugindeep]

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In the morning, Sam’s up and resolutely ignoring the fluff of orange fur curled up near the pillow on Dean’s bed. He hits the library, finding more cutesy fictional cat memoirs than anything historical or textual. A stop at a used bookshop brings more grief than help, as the lady in the long floral skirt grins at him, pats and gropes his forearm repeatedly, and tells him it’s adorable he’s so interested in the feline nature.

He gives her a tight smile and nods, thankful she can find a book or two he buys on the cheap. Though the thin paperbacks do little to ease his worry.

At the motel, he gets to research, because it’s what he does. When he’s bored, stressed, worried. Mostly lost is what he’s feeling right now.

Dean is … not well.

Sam shifts to see over his shoulder and find Dean resting on his belly, chin down on his paws, with his eyes boring right into Sam’s forehead by the looks of it. Dean is a cat and Sam has no clue how it happened or what possibilities there are to reverse it.

Not well is a major understatement right now.

He takes a sip from a glass of whiskey he’d poured himself an hour ago, but has barely touched. It’s Dean’s bottle, but there’s no way in hell Dean’s having any right now. And it’s not like Sam doesn’t need it. He needs everything to get him through this mess.

There’s a soft breath behind him and Dean’s up to stretch with his mouth wide open. His pink, spongy tongue hollows out before he completes the yawn with a snap of his jaws. Even at two feet long, Sam can see much of his brother right here. It’s disturbing, really.

Especially when Dean jumps across the open space between the bed and the table, landing surprisingly gracefully on the empty chair beside Sam. Dean hops up to the table and slowly strolls across the top, long, purposeful steps around the handful of lore books they carry with them on their travels. He even takes care to step on the flat parts of Sam’s laptop, avoiding keys, and sits at Sam’s elbow while staring at him.

Reeeeow.

It’s more of a groan if anything, Sam thinks, and he lifts an eyebrow at his brother. “What?” Dean keeps staring at him without another movement or sound. “What do you want?” Sam asks with a small whine. “It’s not like I can read minds, you know?”

Dean tips his head and there’s a strange shift on his face that Sam can almost read like Dean wants roll his eyes and hum, really?

Sam scratches at the side of his head. Okay, he could once kind of do something sort of related to that. But this is different. Dean is an animal, with four paws, whiskers, and the inability to speak English. This does not relate to anything Sam experienced these last two years. Though the headaches are quite familiar.

“Alright, whatever,” Sam concedes. “What’m I supposed to do with you now, anyway? I doubt a Ouija board can help us, and Bobby’s staying quiet. Aside from calling us morons every hour. On the hour.” As Dean takes a few steps over the Your Magical Cat: Feline Magic, Lore, and Worship paperback, Sam leans away from his reading and releases a small moan. “What’re you doing?”

Dean drags a paw over a few paragraphs then looks up at Sam.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know, it sucks. But it’s not like I have much to work with.” He keeps watching Dean, even as he continues to walk over the small paperback and claws at one corner of the left page.

It’s quiet for longer than is comfortable, especially between them, and Sam realizes he’s been waiting for Dean to reply.

Yeah. Like that’ll happen.

“It’s not like Lewis Carroll has instructions on how to Alice you into a big kid,” Sam complains. He sighs and leans forward with his elbows on the table, hanging his head down to read words between Dean’s paws.

Dean spins his upper body to look at Sam - well, more like glare - and Sam shoots him a pretty ugly look. Spinning back around, Dean flips his tail at Sam’s face.

Sam dry spits, hairs flickering away from his lips and mouth and floating in the air before swaying down to the table. It might be a bundle of fur, but Dean’s definitely in there. Before Sam can reconnect with The Mystique of Your Animal, he hears a light wet sound and looks up to find Dean just a few feet over with his head in Sam’s glass. Dean’s tongue is flicking out quickly, lapping up the whiskey faster than should be possible.

“No! What’re you-” Sam shouts, pulling the glass away even as Dean growls, deep and feral in the back of his throat. “God, two sips and you’re gonna fall right off the table.”

Dean hunches down on all fours with his spine arching up and his hair spreading out like he’s been electrocuted.

Sam just makes a face and tries not to laugh. “I don’t care if you’re as pissed off as I am right now. You’re not drinking.” He moves to the kitchenette and dumps the glass out so neither of them is further tempted. With the realization that Dean likely hasn’t had anything in his stomach for near a day, he refills it with water and makes a mental note to buy some supplies … milk instantly pops into his head. It amuses him, probably more than it should, and he starts chuckling as he moves back to the table.

Just then, Dean paws at the bottle of whiskey, shoving it down to its side. It lands at the edge of the table and spills out amber liquid in what is likely Dean’s dream waterfall, utopia, and nirvana all in one, because Dean hops right down to the growing puddle and buries his head in it.

In two quick steps, Sam sweeps Dean off the floor with a tight hand around Dean’s midsection and chucks him onto the bed before he can think better of it. As Dean sails to the mattress, Sam winces, but then he finds a mixture of shock and awe as Dean flips his body around and lands perfectly on all four paws.

“Huh,” Sam says with his eyebrows going high.

At least this Dean’s interesting to watch.



Dean wakes from a nap, all groggy and fuzzy-brained. It’s a familiar feeling after long nights, and as he rolls to his back and stretches, he remembers the whiskey waterfall. He smiles and snaps his jaws open and shut as he licks the whole of his mouth. At least he can still drink. He’ll ignore the fact that it only took a shot or two to knock him out.

The motel room door opens and shuts, shocking Dean to fully rise to all fours and see Sam pass outside the window. Dean hops over to Sam’s bed, then up to the windowsill to watch Sam get in the Impala and pull out once it’s all revved up.

Man, he misses his baby.

Dean sits back on his hind legs and watches her drive away. The parking lot is still idle when he feels sunrays warm up his coat. He lightly shakes out his legs before dropping to his side and taking up the whole length of the windowsill to rest.

Waking up from a deep, dark sleep to find himself with four paws and a mess of fur has likely been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. Last he remembered was bringing a hot chick back to his room and being about five seconds from getting them both down to their birthday suits and … that’s about it. It’s annoying that he can’t remember anything past that, because he knows for a fact that he had her hook-line-and-sinker, considering how quickly she’d agreed to join him.

And now he’s incapable of moving without using four legs and he can’t do more than growl or meow for attention.

But so far, this cat life ain’t too much to complain about. Sure, he’s starving for some good food and he’s dying to use the toilet instead of scratching a long path at the front door so Sam will take him out to avoid pissing in the corner of the carpet, but it’s not all horrible.

He feels like he’s on vacation right now. He’s filled the last twenty-four hours with bonafide cat naps and long bouts of chasing dust particles in the air. On a whim and total curiosity, he’d groomed himself and found that it was akin to a soft sponge bath. In this new body, he could curl into himself and swipe this new long tongue down his belly and over his normally aching feet. The hair didn’t taste so great but it was a small price to pay for bathing himself with a built-in massage.

Getting drunk on a quick dip into the Jack Daniel’s pool wasn’t so bad - at least he didn’t have to commit to hours of downing the stuff. And now he’s camped out on the windowsill with the sun warming him up and he’s completely off the hook for working the case.

The break’s nice. To be utterly incapable of digging into books or trampling his way through town to get answers or finding that big a-ha moment, and leaving it all to Sam …

Okay, it kind of stinks. He can’t talk, can’t eat or drink the things he normally craves, and he can’t take a piss in any dignified manner. And as much as he hates to admit it, he’s bored out of his mind and misses human interaction. With law enforcement, professors, people close to the victims who can give them a hidden clue. And alright, yeah, he misses being able to talk to his brother with more than animalistic grunts and non-syllables.

It down right sucks.

Just to wallow in some more of his pitiful mood, he turns away from the window and lets the sun beat down on his back. He rests his head down on his front paws and stares across the room as he tries to piece together his last human night and find a clue - any clue - that he can point his brother towards. He’s got to find a good use for these claws anyway.

Marching around the motel room takes longer than it normally would, but still not all that long; it’s not a big space and the beds take up half of it. The bathroom seems typical for them, though when Dean hops up onto the toilet and rests his front paws on the sink, he’s a bit more grossed out by the toothpaste smudges and mess of facial hair Sam must’ve left behind in the sink when he got ready that morning. Again, it’s nothing new, but seeing it this big, this close up, it’s like an overgrown petri dish and he has to turn away.

Dean settles on the toilet seat and breathes deep, but something trickles up his throat. No matter how hard he tries to control the swirling of his stomach, nothing works, and he turns his head and dry heaves. Hacking as a cat isn’t any easier than it is as a human. In fact it seems far more retched than anything he’s experienced, even from the worst of bad food or far too much of alcohol.

He turns his head to the side and hacks two more times. Once shoves something up his throat and the second forces it into his mouth and he spits it out on the floor. Ugh, hairball. Big price to pay for giving yourself a massage.

Back up to the sink, Dean reaches out for the cold nozzle, pushes the knob over to start the faucet, and leans in to lick through the stream. Even when the taste of the hairball is gone, he keeps going, realizing how incredibly thirsty he is. It’s been at least a day since he last had a real meal - more than licking at crumbs left behind from the last meal they shared as humans - and it’s not like he can get himself anything with the lack of a voice or hands.

“Dean!”

He snaps his head up to find Sam marching towards him, and as he leans back to watch Sam charge into the room, he tries to ask what? but it comes out more like a tiny little mewl.

Sam turns the faucet off with a hard sigh, then glances down to the ground and groans. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”

It’s not like Dean can clean it up himself, or as thought he even wants hairballs. But there’s no way he can say so, and instead he releases a low Meow?

Sam glares at him, and Dean would love to know what Sam thinks of being turned into a house pet and wishes like hell he could work his claws to give Sam the middle one right now.

Being a cat sucks.

“Get outta here so I can clean up,” Sam complains, batting Dean’s back and nudging him off the toilet.

Dean stalks out of the room, glancing over his shoulder to see Sam grabbing toilet paper and getting down to the mess on the floor. Cleaning up hairballs could be torture enough for now, Dean figures. Then he smells something familiar and hurries to the table, hopping up to the seat he’d take if he were properly mobile, and sees the new paper bag on the tabletop.

Food! Sam’s brought food! Oh, for all that is good and mighty, Dean prays there’s something for him in there, too.

Meoooooow.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, relax,” Sam mutters as he joins Dean at the table. Sam pulls the sack open and places a large Styrofoam container on the table, and Dean wants to drool. Except his new spongy tongue sucks up most of the saliva pooling in his mouth. It’s weird, uncomfortable for sure. But hey, at least he can keep his face clean.

Sam places a smaller container in front of Dean, and Dean glares up at him. I want more than this Dean thinks, wanting so badly to bitch Sam out for it.

Reooooow.

Sam rolls his eyes, opens the top, and sits down to his own food. Dean’s eyes grow outrageously at the pile of roasted chicken with steam rising up from the glistening meat. “Yeah, you happy now?” Sam grumbles.

Dean glances at him, surprised by that kind of attitude. Dirty looks, confused ones, too, are more Sam’s thing. He’s usually not big on vocalizing true resentment unless they’re going toe-to-toe, and Dean’s pretty sure they’re not, even if they could.

Then again, Dean’s growing pretty lonely and impatient living as a cat, he supposes Sam’s growing tired of it as well.

Dean snorts to himself, then on the next breath in, he smells the juicy meat waiting for him.

Nevermind Sam! There’s food! Moist, succulent chicken scraps all for him!

Dean props himself up to the table with a front paw on either side of the container and his jaws opening wide so he can bite into the first piece. The top cut of chicken is one he’d normally be able to pop right into his human mouth, but now he needs a little bit of wrestling to get through it. And he does, albeit with more patience than he’s accustomed to. Once he’s got the use of his canines down, he powers right through the meal with hardly a second to breathe.

“You’re welcome,” Sam mumbles.

From the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam slowly picking through an order of fries all while watching him eat. Dean slants his head for a second and lets out a tiny mew in thanks, then gets right back to business.

Sam sounds a little happier for it as he dryly says, “Better than Kitty Chow, huh?” After a short chuckle, Sam pushes a fork through his own chicken dinner alongside Dean. “This is pretty good,” he says, and they share a quick look. Sam smiles and Dean does his best to return it, but he’s not sure how it really gets across with a face full of fur and whiskers.

When Sam reaches over to pet Dean, just a little scritch over the top of his head, Dean’s sure Sam got it loud and clear.

***

The door slams shut and Dean jerks up from his nap. He arches his back up high as he stands up on … whatever the equivalent of tiptoes are for cats … and flaps his mouth open to yawn, snapping it shut and shaking his head to get all the cobwebs out of his brain. When he’s settled on his hind legs, he sees Sam toss a stack of papers to the table before he stalks to the bathroom. As he passes, he drops a quick few fingers to the top of Dean’s head and starts rambling.

“Another girl’s gone missing. Last her roommate knew, she was going to Stefan’s salon to redeem a gift certificate someone gave her for her birthday, but didn’t want to really use. No one at the salon remembers. And Stefan’s buried in a round of hot stone treatments. I can’t get near him.”

Stepping to the edge of the bed, Dean leans forward to see Sam washing his face a bit too rigorously, really. Sam’s got to be getting water all over the sink and the floor with how hard he’s shucking water up to his face.

Sam steps into the doorway of the bathroom and rests his forearms against the frame, shaking his head and biting into the corner of his mouth. “Ten girls now. Bobby’s got nothing. And you’re,” he trails off while flicking his hand out. “Still a cat.”

Dean’s well aware he is, and he’ll be the first to declare that it sucks out loud. If he could actually use words.

When Sam lands hard in a dining chair, Dean hops off the bed and up a chair and then the table. All the while, Sam’s rambling on about the case, reciting what they already know and then outright complaining about all that they don’t. Hunting alone - after spending two years at it together - makes twice the work. There’s no sidekick to distract the family so the other can search the new missing girl’s bedroom. There’s no one to split the recon with or bounce ideas off of.

“And I’m mostly just talking to myself now,” Sam says, defeated and sighing as he shakes his head and pushes the laptop away from him.

Dean’s about ready to tell him to shut up and count all the ways it’s worse for him. That he’s confined to this velvet-encased hotel room - one he was amused by when they first checked in, but now wants to gag at. He has to rely on Sam to bring him food because there’s no way he can track down his own meals. He’s got three damned eyelids, the third one always sliding in and out when he blinks and clouding his sight. Hairballs are becoming far too regular an occurrence., though he’ll quietly admit he keeps forgetting about that and has been licking at his coat more than he probably should. Wouldn’t be a problem if he could work the Magic Fingers box at the bedside and waste some time in other ways. And then he woke himself up in the middle night when his body was vibrating on its own, and he was a bit freaked out to realize he was purring and he liked it.

Okay, that one might not be so bad. But still. It feels a bit creepy that it happens without him realizing it.

“And you’re the odd man out,” Sam’s still complaining. “The only guy who’s turned, and you can’t even talk. How the hell’m I supposed to figure you out?”

Yeah, well, Dean grumbles to himself. You try walking around on all fours, drinking out of bowls, and dealing with a bladder the size of a golf ball and …

Damnit, that golf ball is pressing on him and he paws at Sam’s arm.

“What now?” Sam sighs.

Dean looks to the door and hopes Sam gets it. But Sam just shakes his head and lifts his giant shoulders. Dean shakes his head and jumps off the table, walks to the door, and scratches at it.

“God, you’re like a child,” Sam groans as he stands and meets Dean at the door.

Outside, they both walk around the side of the motel to a gravel-covered path that leads to another parking lot. Dean steps closer to the dirt-brown shingling of the building and crouches to piss. As he goes, sighing with relief, Sam huffs loudly and walks a few yards up and crouches down, too.

Dean winces, turning away, because this is the exact spot Sam’s been leading him to for bathroom breaks, and Jesus, what is Sam is doing with his hands in the gravel.

“Huh,” Sam says as he stares at a charm between his fingers, long gold chain hanging from his hand. He turns the piece over and Dean can see the triangle, and his brain smacks the back of his skull with the memory of that night. He wants to cry out that his mystery woman wore that same thing. That the last thing he remembers is taking her back to the room and making out in the doorway.

“JH,” Sam says with wonder. “JH. Jenny Hampton!” And then he’s up and rushing back to the hotel room.

Dean waits another second to finish, then spins around, trampling across the uneven gravel to follow, and meets the door just as it slams shut. He smacks his paw at the door, yelling Damnit, Sam! but it comes out more as a high-pitched REOWWWW.

The door clicks open and Sam’s frowning a little, possibly smiling a lot, when he pulls it enough to let Dean in. “Sorry.”

At least Sam sounds guilty, but Dean’s not going to let him get away with it, and he stalks to the bed, jumping up and settling right in the middle. He resolutely turns his body so he’s staring at the window and not at Sam, no matter how much Sam’s talking his way through the clue.

“So, you think Stefan is collecting trophies from his victims and he dropped this outside? What’d he take from you?”

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but then he winces when he feels his third eyelid flicking out then back into place. Jesus, he will never get used to that.

Sam’s still fiddling with Jenny’s charm, mumbling something about hoarding prizes from victims and Dean grunts - though it comes out more like an aborted purr. He gets up and goes to the table, stepping clear across Sam’s research and smiling at all of Sam’s complaints. He stops right in front of Sam and paws at the charm in Sam’s hand.

“What about her?”

Dean flicks the chain and then shucks his paw against his jaw, hoping a round of kitty charades will do the trick.

“What?”

Again, Dean paws at himself, but Sam still looks confused.

“Do you know where this came from?” Sam sits up, sounding more excited. “Where’d it come from, Dean?”

Oh, Christ, he is not fucking Lassie.

Losing the ability to communicate with his brother has got to be the most frustrating part of this whole episode. He can’t speak, can’t write, can’t even do stinkin’ hand signals to clue his brother into the fact that he’s now fully aware that Jenny Hampton was the girl he brought back here and that long lick at his neck was the thing that turned him.

Man, why the hell couldn’t he figure this out before? Maybe it’s because his brain is currently the size of an acorn.

Sam taps fingers at the top of Dean’s head, and Dean shimmies away from the sudden touch. “What’s going on in your walnut, Dean?”

God, how in the hell does he relay this?

After some staring, Sam’s eyes boring into him as they both think long and hard, Dean stretches out on his side and starts cleaning himself. Well, he’s really just trying to make a point as he licks long paths across his belly.

Sam huffs and groans. “God, Dean, what’re you doing?” he complains, pushing at the side of Dean’s head to make him stop. “That’s gross.”

Dean stands up and pats at the charm, looks at himself, and the charm. He licks at his paw, strokes over his neck, and then hits the chain again.

“Oh,” Sam says quietly. “Oh.”



The library is quiet, as it ought to be, but it’s also busy with some college kids at the table next to Sam and other patrons shuffling through books and walking all around him. The place smells like stale paper and books crack every time someone opens one.

It’s like Heaven.

Researching in public is easing his stress. Seeing people - actual people who can talk - and hearing hushed whispers is a strange comfort given he’s been living in near silence for three days now. He hates leaving Dean alone in the room with no way to help himself to anything, but Sam left a plate of cut-up grilled chicken and a bowl of fresh water before he left. He needs to see people and be reminded of what he needs to do. Make his brother a person again.

He combs through any book that came up in his search for animal transformations, feline-related spells, and Egyptian legends. Thinking through Dean’s bit of show-and-not-tell reminded Sam of the Web site they’d seen after they found all those cats in Stefan’s bedroom.

Egyptian women believed that the ideal beauty was that of a cat.

Sam pulls the missing persons reports together, flipping through each one, and considers the fact that they’re all rather plain looking. The pictures range from driver’s license photos that show awkward smiles, simple hairstyles, and little make-up. Other casual portraits are full of women with non-particular styles who would likely disappear in a crowd. Women who likely feel like they do, in fact, vanish in most company. Especially in a town like this.

Two books appear on the table beside his elbow and the young, brunette librarian who’d first directed him to the computers gives him a small smile. “Here’re two others,” she says quietly.

He gives her a smile in return and glances at the cover of The Cat in Ancient Egypt with its hieroglyphics and crude drawing of an animal that looks more like some feral beast. A hyena or serval or something

“Thanks,” he nods as he grabs the book and flips through it. He drags his fingers over text and skims the words. There are details on how cats were treated in the days of pyramids, how they were the first domesticated animals, and many were regarded as regally as the queens they sat next to. “These are great,” he says with wonder.

“You’re welcome.” She leans against the table, tweed skirt scratching at the edge of it. He glances up and can admit that he admires the soft sweater hugging her slight curves and the soft smile she’s still feeding him. Her face is round and smooth and her eyes bright when her smile slides into something a little more nervous. “This is a real interesting topic you’re going after. I’ve always been interested in Egyptian culture and how they hold items sacred.”

“Really?” he asks. He bites into his bottom lip when she tilts her hips to nearly sit at the corner of the table.

“You know that some believed in objectifying people for in the name of vanity.”

Sam chuckles, drawing a few patron’s dirty looks for the noise, so he gives a guilty wave and quiets down. He’s read enough in the last three days to have seen that in a few places, and, when thinking of his brother, vanity is a definite check on the list.

“There’s a tale of a master who collected people as artwork. He’d dress them up in the finest fabrics and jewels then put them out like art.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it when he’s oddly interested. “I hadn’t read that one,” he admits slowly.

She shifts closer and tips her head as she smirks and continues. “There was one prince who would only keep good-looking servants. A few of the more loyal, he turned them into cats to project their perfect beauty.”

“You’re kidding me,” he says quietly, eyes roaming her face to read if there’s a trace of joking.

Instead of verifying, or admitting to a lie, she stands and taps at the top of the book she’d brought him. “I’m off the clock in a few minutes. I could come back and help you get through some of your research.”

He’s more than willing to accept help, given how useless Dean is at the moment, not to mention he wouldn’t mind talking to her and keep her sweet look with him a little longer.

But he’s distracted when his phone rings, a loud blare of a default tone, and everyone in view glares at him. He hits the answer key and brings the phone to his ear with a low greeting.

“I think I might’ve found you boys something to work with,” Bobby says.

“Yeah, me, too,” Sam says quickly. He tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder and pulls his books and papers together. “I can call you back on the way to the room.”

“Where you at now?” Bobby asks strangely.

“Leaving the library.”

“You left your brother alone? Christ, this is how you two idjits get into trouble. Splittin’ up and ignorin’ one another.”

“I’m not ignoring him,” Sam defends. “What’m I supposed to do? Sit around and watch him lick himself?”

He looks up to the librarian’s muted groan and finds her face twisting with disgust.

“What? No, I just mean - ” he defends.

She’s already frowning and waving him off. “No, it’s fine. I have … work … to do.”

He sighs pathetically when she’s out of sight.

“Sam? You still there?” Bobby asks through the phone.

“Yeah, I just - I’ll call you in a few,” he whispers and ends the call.

***

Sam marches through the hotel parking lot with purpose. He’s got a lead and a shit-ton of books. There’s a thread of confidence spinning through him and he’s ready to tell Bobby and Dean all he found. He hip-checks the door open and rushes into the room to drop his books to the table

“I think I found something,” he grins, and then he stops. The sight of Dean, a small ball of orange fluff lounging on top of the made bed is still alarming, even when he knows this is exactly what he’s trying to get them out of.

Dean tips his head and Sam watches before he huffs at himself for expecting some sort of answer.

“Right. You’re still Hello Kitty.”

Dean growls and stands on all fours, back arching in what could be menacing to a mouse, but doesn’t mean a whole lot right now.

“Don’t get your tail all in a knot,” Sam sighs as he sits down. He calls Bobby back and puts it on speaker, waving for Dean to join him at the table.

When they’re both in place and Bobby’s answered, Sam starts talking. “So, there’re stories of Egyptian royalty turning people into cats because they’re too obsessed with vanity, creating that ideal beauty out of people who aren’t normally considered anything like it. Some keep the cats around like their trophies, trying to outdo each other with how many they collect. The girls who’ve gone missing are all quiet, meek types who don’t really compare to others around here. I’m guessing Stefan’s got himself some kind of spell over them and is keeping them out of his own pride. A handful of them were regular customers at the salon and let’s not forget the fact that he works at a salon. He’s at the epicenter of vanity and beautification.”

“About time you found yourself a theory,” Bobby mumbles before clearing his throat. “That fits fine and good with my stuff. Around 2000 B.C., Egyptians started worshiping their first domesticated cat, the Egyptian Mau. It was their new god and soon enough, the cult of Bastet formed. In god-form, Bastet was seen as a woman with the head of a cat, and was considered the absolute beauty.”

Dean meows then growls and flicks his paw over his ear. Sam narrows his eyes at that movement and thinks of Dean scrubbing a hand over his head when he’s frustrated and something clicks.

“There’s a plate at Stefan’s apartment.” Dean’s head picks up and Sam smiles at him, realizing they’re finally on the same page. For the first time in three days, and it feels damn good. “It had a woman’s body with a feline head.”

“Well, then there’s your boy,” Bobby says.

“Yeah, but what now?” Sam asks as he looks at Dean. Dean blinks at him and they watch one another for a while. Bobby’s quiet aside from turning pages, and Sam’s stomach burns at the thought of Bobby not having an answer for them.

“Well, there ain’t much in the books, but a few Wiccan sites give a couple-a possibilities.”

Sam waits for Bobby to continue while he and Dean both stare at the phone in the following silence. “Bobby?”

“Yeah, you might not like this.” He huffs a laugh and Sam frowns at the idea of Bobby’s wry smile.

Dean instantly turns to Sam and stares, eyes all wide and green, looking worried and pathetic, really. Sam does his best to ignore him. “What is it?”

“A honeydew and a pint of dolphin’s milk.”

Dean's Meow comes out more like a question and Bobby chuckles.

“Drink and chant and cross your fingers.”

“That sounds disgusting,” Sam says with a wince.

“Dean would drink, not you, you knumbskull.”

Oh. Sam considers that for a moment. “Where would one get dolphin’s milk?”

Dean growls at him, and Sam does his best to look guilty.

“What else you got?” Sam asks, resolutely keeping his eyes to the phone and away from Dean.

“Another calls for two raw eggs, a citrus fruit, something from the hexer and the hexee - ”

“Something, like … you wanna be more specific there, Bobby?”

“Like remains.”

Sam gapes at the phone. “We’re trying to keep Dean alive.”

“I’m not talkin’ literally,” Bobby grumbles. “Just something with DNA.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Sam says pathetically.

“Get yourself all that stuff, and then butterfly wings and read an incantation a few times.”

Sam furrows his brow and one glance at Dean seems to be telling him the same thing. Butterfly wings? Is he supposed to go out to the parking lot and chase them around until he gets his giant hands on one? He supposes he could visit the local museum, check out their entomology department, but he’s not sure this is their best option either.

“Anything else?” Sam asks.

“Not so far, but you may wanna head down to the zoo just in case.”

It’s nearly eight o’clock, the sun going down on their day. On his own, there’s likely a better chance of scamming someone out of the items in the morning than breaking in without someone to watch his back tonight. Sam sighs and wants to dump his head onto the table, but there’s hardly any room with all his research and Dean sitting right in front of him. “Yeah, alright. Thanks, Bobby.”

“So, how’s our boy holdin’ up?”

Sam and Dean’s eyes lock again and Sam frowns. He immediately regrets it, though, given how Dean crouches down and rests his head on his front paws. “He’s holding,” Sam lies, not wanting to throw Bobby into a fit of swearing and scolding again.

“How ‘bout you?”

A moment passes for Sam to take in the whole room, one he’s been sharing with Dean for a week now, but it’s nothing like any other job they’ve had before, being on his own to work and unable to talk things through together. “I’m fine,” he lies again.

“You sure sound fine,” Bobby says grimly. “We’ll both keep looking and find something in the morning. You oughta rest.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” As he ends the call, he considers that while it sucks to be doing this on his own, he’s got Bobby keeping things moving with his hard work. He’s lonely, but not quite alone.

At that thought, he drops his head to watch Dean, who shifts to look up from one eye. He rubs fingers over Dean’s ears and releases a long breath. “What’re we gonna do with you?” he asks quietly, more to himself than Dean.

Dean rises to all fours and stares at him, that sad wide-eyed look, and Sam can’t bear to look at it any longer. He flips all the books on the table closed and heads right to his bed, falling back to the mattress. He rubs his hands over his face, thumb and forefinger digging into his eyes.

“God, I’m so tired of staring at books,” he groans. The want to bitch and moan and whine is so strong right now, after going so long without having someone who knows him able to answer. “I haven’t read this much since school,” Sam mumbles, once he’s added up the number of hours he’s logged at the library, on the internet, and reading books. He stays in the center of the bed, knees bent at the edge of the mattress and feet firm on the ground, unable to move - or just unwilling to, maybe. If he gets up and moves around, it’ll remind him that he’s short on options and Dean’s a cat, and their lives are so screwed right now.

Suddenly, there’s a hard weight on his chest, and Sam can’t breathe with the press of Dean’s hard front paws pressing into him as he hops up. On all fours, Dean stands on Sam’s chest and looks at him, eyes still sad but not as wide as before. Dean sighs as his body drops back on his hind legs.

Sam’s breath catches with not only the image, but the mass pressing at his lungs, centered right on his sternum. He shifts a little and slightly smiles at the way Dean flinches and rises up with the movement. When Sam feels more comfortable, he brings his hand up to Dean’s back and squeezes lightly.

“Sorry, there.” Once Dean settles back down, Sam squeezes again before rubbing his fingers over the soft, orange hair at Dean’s side. “You’re tiny, but dude, those legs are digging right into me.”

Dean lightly steps forward, as if testing the angle of Sam’s chest, and then he lowers himself to lie across the center of Sam’s chest.

There’s instant relief, and Sam drops his head back to the mattress, but he doesn’t let go of Dean. He closes his hand over Dean’s back then drags his fingers up and down a few inches, just light rubs that may be weird in any other situation, but comfort him instantly. Dean’s hair is smooth beneath Sam’s calloused hand, and the thought that this would creep either of them out comes and goes so swiftly that Sam just keeps on petting his brother.

He figures they’re not lost from one another when Dean sets his chin down, turning it against his paws. Dean’s not ready to move, and Sam most definitely doesn’t want to. He’s mentally and physically drained from all the solo work, and his brain is far too packed to research more tonight.

He’s not sure he’s ready for sleep just yet, but then Dean starts purring. The steady vibration seeps through his shirts and into his skin, thrumming against his easing heartbeat and spreading over his chest. It’s probably pathetic how quickly it calms him, but he can’t care. It lulls him right to sleep.



When Dean was four and some change, Dad charged him with watching his little brother. For the next eighteen years, he did just that. Even if he gave attitude and sometimes tried to leave Sam behind in hotel rooms just to get himself a little space, he never backed down from keeping Sam in the corner of his mind. Sam’s four years at Stanford made it hard for Dean to keep that promise, but ever since they’ve come back together, he’s done one hell of a job watching his brother’s back and keeping them both alive and sane.

So fuck all if the only way he could do it now was to sit on his brother’s chest and purr the big lug to sleep.

Dean has standards, yeah. But he’s also a cat and has himself a crapload of limitations.

He’s got an even bigger crapload of questions when Sam wakes in the morning with the happiest frickin’ disposition the kid’s had in his life. Sam could start whistling Dixie and talking to birds, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised given how Sam hurries out of the hotel room with a grin splitting his face all bright and open.

It really is like they’re living in some twisted Disney fairytale. Dean’s a cat, Sam’s racing to … wherever … with a skip in his step and the determination to save them both from the horrible witch who keeps court in a salon, weaving spells on the insecure.

Dean’s firmly set on ignoring any reason he fell victim to this particular case. He’s also dead set on getting back into his body and moving right onto their next case with this one firmly in the rear view.

Forgive him, though, that when Sam returns a few hours later, still with that sunshine smile on his face, that Dean runs from his water bowl in the corner, meets Sam at the table, and launches himself up to the tabletop to see what his brother’s brought home.

Sam’s in jeans, a suit shirt, tie, and jacket with corduroy on the elbows, looking like he’s about to give a lecture on Shakespeare, women’s studies, or whatever the hell he studied at Stanford. If Dean had more than two vocal chords, he would start ripping into his brother for the outfit and hypothesizing what types of chicks he’d pick up dressed like that - or wouldn’t.

But all he can manage is a long reooowww followed by a more curious mew? when Sam empties a bag. There’s a fancy pair of nail clippers and a few grocery store items, but Dean can’t bother identifying them all because Sam’s pulling a glass, square box out and there’s a goddamn butterfly inside.

“So,” Sam says firmly, smile from that morning still in place. And then he starts to ramble. “I went over to Stefan’s apartment and scrounged around. The cats were all sleeping and he was off at work, so it was an easy job. In the bathroom, he’s got these fancy nail clippers that also hold the nails inside, so we’ve got his DNA. And then I ran over to the university and spent a good chunk of time talking to Eddie the entomologist, and after going on for hours about his love for the metaphor of a butterfly’s life - ultimate change in the face of nature - he so kindly handed this sucker over.”

Sam’s waving the case in his hand and grinning right at Dean, and Dean’s convinced Sam’s lost his damn mind.

Dean takes a step back, and another one or two as he realizes the other items on the table are a mixing bowl, whisk, a lime, tweezers, and a crate of eggs. Sam’s set on the spell, and yeah, it’s their only good chance right now - forgoing the horror of Dean having to drink a pint of dolphin milk, and Jesus, could a cat’s stomach even hold a pint of regular milk? - but still, Dean can’t suppress the fight or flight response that’s screaming to soar.

“And now, we just need something from you, the hexee,” Sam announces as he clicks the clippers and turns towards Dean.

No fucking way.

There’s too much adrenaline pounding through his tiny cat body, and he won’t let Sam near him with anything sharp.

Dean leaps off the table and races to the other side of the hotel room, but Sam and his giraffe legs carry him to Dean in seconds. He runs between Sam’s feet and rushes to the other corner, leaping up onto Sam’s bed, hopping over to his, and continuing to narrowly escape Sam’s reach.

“Damnit, Dean,” Sam pants as he continues to chase Dean around the room.

In a quick second, Dean runs into the bathroom, and spins back to the door suddenly remembering he’s a freaking cat and can’t slam and lock the door shut like he would any other time his brother might be manically chasing him through the hotel room.

When Sam steps into the bathroom, Dean arches his back, growls low in his throat, and reaches out with his paw stretched wide and his claws slashing the air when Sam’s hand gets too close.

A few attempts and Sam can’t stop flinching away until he finally mutters, “God, Dean, be a bigger baby,” and just grabs Dean around the middle and hauls him up to his chest. He’s clutching so tightly, there’s no room to move and Dean thinks he’ll be smashed in his brother’s death grip.

Death by squishing, it’ll make the headlines.

Sam snags a towel from the bathroom then settles at a dining chair, wrapping Dean up in the towel no matter how much Dean squirms, hisses, or scratches up Sam’s forearms. Dean has no clue what his brother has planned for him, has no want to find out, and he’s determined to wriggle his way out of the towel.

When he frees one paw, he wants to cry in victory, but it’s short-lived. Sam snags that paw tight in one hand and reaches with the other, brandishing Stefan’s nail clippers Dean didn’t realize Sam still had. Before Dean can yank his paw back, Sam clips the edge of one of Dean’s claws.

It burns as Sam nicks something more than nail. He growls and hisses through the steady pulse of pain through his paw followed by actual blood dribbling out of the nail.

“Oh, shit, Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam says quickly. He’s hugging Dean against him now, instead of strangling him with the towel, and Dean swears his intestines will burst with how hard Sam’s squeezing him. Sam at least sounds and looks guilty as he dabs the towel to Dean’s paw and holds with enough pressure to hopefully stop the bleeding but not cut off circulation.

Dean yowls in pain and anger, and when Sam frowns, Dean smiles inside at the continued guilt.

Sam pulls the towel away and pats at Dean’s paw until the bleeding stops. He lightly holds Dean’s neck and his eyes flick between each of Dean’s. “You okay now?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean briefly shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to experience his third lid clouding his sight. Sam’s looking at him like he’s a wounded animal and … okay, so he is wounded, and an animal, and it’s at Sam’s own hand that he’s in this mess right now. But it doesn’t mean Dean wants Sam taking pity on him for a chipped nail.

“Okay, seems good now,” Sam says as he scrubs his knuckles over Dean’s head.

Dean growls as Sam drops him to the bed then hisses at him for good measure.

But Sam is distracted with the table full of stuff, and he drops Dean’s nail into the mixing bowl along with one of Stefan’s. Dean limps over to the dining chair, slowly hopping up onto it, and watches Sam crack open two eggs and drop them into the bowl. Sam peels back some of the lemon rind and squeezes out a teaspoon or so, and then lifts his shoulders as he carefully opens the butterfly case, uses the tweezers to pull a wing out, and adds it to the mix.

Dean holds his breath as Sam whisks it all together until it’s a sick slosh of thick yellow liquid dotted with nails and butterfly wing. Sam drops his shoulders with a short sigh and nods. “Okay, that should do it.”

There’s an ominous crack of a giant leather-bound text that Sam opens, and while Dean wants to witness the entire ritual, he’s also suddenly kind of - okay, a scaredy cat, yeah, whatever. He can’t bear to watch it all go down.

What if Sam gets it wrong and he turns into something else. What’s a step down from a cat - a rat? A cockroach? Oh Jesus. What if he turns into a butterfly because of the wings? Oh God.

Dean’s back to the bed by the time Sam’s found the rhythm of the incantation, and he burrows between the pillows, face smooshed by the cotton and ears effectively covered so it’s nothing but mumbles when Sam’s voice carries faster and louder as he finishes up the third round of chanting.

He clenches his eyes shut, third slimy lid slipping into place, and he prays, oh does he pray, that this will all be over soon.

***

He’s still a cat.

He’s still lying on the bed, plopped down in a huff of annoyance when Sam wouldn’t stop watching and waiting for something to happen. He’s still got four paws with two tucked under him, and when he puts his chin down on his front legs, his whiskers still touch the blanket and make him twitch with a tiny tickle at his cheeks.

This fucking sucks.

Sam taps out a beat at the table, mouth twisting in thought as he stares at Dean. “Where do you think we can get dolphin milk?”

Reoooow.

Tipping his head in thought, Sam wonders, “How do you even milk a dolphin?”

Very carefully, Dean figures. He growls at his brother for his stupid question.

Sam shrugs pathetically to Dean’s rumble. “We’re kinda out of options here, Dean.”

Dean sighs and turns his face away. He’d rather stare at the ugly, green floral wallpaper than Sam’s ugly, guilty mug.

“Well, shoot,” Sam grumbles, and Dean shifts to watch Sam from the corner of his eye.

Sam spins Jenny’s chain around his fingers and smacks his lips together, repeatedly, getting louder the longer he does it. It’s so fucking annoying Dean's gonna claw Sam’s eyes out.

You know, if Sam wasn’t his only hope.

“Alright,” Sam sighs and stands. He tosses the necklace down at the bowl holding the spell’s ingredients, kicks his chair back into place, and walks to the door. Pausing, he glances at Dean, and Dean actually takes a moment to look back at him. “You think I can force Stefan to reverse it?”

Dean rolls his head against the mattress and gives Sam a sideways look.

Sam opens the door and smacks the frame as he leaves.

As Dean flexes one front paw, he growls at it. He’s not sure he’s grateful for the space, but it’s not like he can stop Sam from leaving anyway.



There’s no point denying it: Sam’s stumped. He has no clue what could really be done to save Dean from spending the rest of his years as a cat. He’s not looking forward to the continued miscommunication, having to take Dean outside for the bathroom - because he is not carting a kitty litter box from town to town - or cleaning up hairballs for another day, a week, or year. Or seven years, he supposes, in cat - err, Dean years.

Add on that he’s so distracted by the defeat of that spell not working that he’s missed his turn and winds up pulling down the wrong street, heading now away from Stefan’s apartment, rather than to it.

Dean’s last look - albeit muted by a face full of fur - had said more than enough about his confidence in Sam being able to convince Stefan into reversing the curse. But maybe he can barter with him?

It takes a handful of turns down one way streets to finally find his way, and by now he’s absolutely frazzled and unable to keep all too quiet when he marches up the stairs to the right floor. With his trusty lock pick set, he finagles his way inside, softly closes the door, and turns to a dozen cats.

They’re all standing at attention in the living room - orange tabbies, black coats, Siamese. On one hand, Sam considers the ease of this moment. He’d been planning on nabbing one or two, having read that Bestat became overly protective of her children and figuring that Stefan might be as well. They’re all standing here, just waiting for him to do something. On the other hand, there are a dozen cats perfectly lined up as if ready for battle, and they’re just ten feet away from him, dozens of tiny claws poised to attack.

He shuts down any hopes for a quick get away before any of them start clawing up his legs and back, and Jesus, he wasn’t really afraid of cats before, but a dozen of anything facing you down will make you reconsider a few things.

His heart is beating far too fast to register anything else going on, until he hears the distinct click-clack of nails coming near him. He leans forward to peek into the hallway that leads to the bedroom and there’s Stefan, draped in fine silken fabrics, walking barefoot towards him.

Another glance to Stefan’s feet and Sam spots sharp claws in place of toenails, and they’re clicking on the polished hardwood floor as he strolls into the living room.

“My favorite federal agent,” Stefan grins, and Sam can tell that Stefan’s just mocking him. “Where is your brother?”

Sam twists his mouth so he doesn’t smart off and let Stefan know that he’s getting under Sam’s skin with this whole charade.

Stefan snaps his fingers, long claws clicking together there, too. “Oh, he must be home napping.” He crouches down beside the cats and strokes his fingers over a Persian at his feet, his own pointed claws thread through the feline’s long, white hair. “We do love our catnaps. Don’t we, Melinda?” he asks it, scratching just behind the cat’s ears, eliciting a long purr. “All my beautiful creatures in one place.” Stefan suddenly looks up. “Especially Jennifer. She’s one of my proudest creations.”

“Yeah? What about her?”

Tipping his head, Stefan grimaces. “You two fools were getting too close, so I let her out to slow you down a little. Or at least Dean. How’s it been working solo, Sam?”

Standing his ground, Sam remains silent and runs a mental tally of the weapons he has on him. Maybe he’ll just jam his knife right in Stefan’s chest so he can avoid the mocking monologue and exposition. He knows what’s going on and why, understands how Dean fell under the spell, and at this point, he’s pretty sure that Stefan won’t stop until he’s outright shut down. Sam doesn’t care how it happens, he just wants his damn brother back.

As Stefan straightens and regards Sam, he sniffs the air, and twelve other pink noses follow suit. “You … you’re …”

“I’m what?” Sam mumbles, doing everything he can to not smell his own shirt.

“You’re scared. I can smell it,” he finishes with a sly smile.

“How about we save each other some time and blood. You tell me how to get my brother back and I won’t carve your heart out.” Sam figures he’s now speaking for Dean, like Dean, because he hasn’t heard his voice in so long.

Stefan pulls back at Sam’s outburst and clucks his tongue. “Oh, Sam, so angry. Let’s go back to scared. You’re much more beautiful that way.”

“What’re you ...” Sam mumbles as he tips his head. Then he shakes it, because this is not what he’s here for. He can’t be convinced to think of looks at a time like this. “No! ” he insists. He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out his pure silver blade, clutching it tightly in his left hand as he widens his stance. “We’re not discussing that. We’re here about my brother.”

Stefan smiles and it looks strangely genuine, lighting up his handsome face and - NO Sam yells at himself this time. No more handsome talk!

“I wish I could help you, but I’m a little busy taking care of my litter here.” Stefan picks up a dark grey and black stripped tabby and bundles it in his arms. His long claws stroke over the top of its head in a steady path from its nose, between its eyes, and back to its ears. It’s all very James-Bond-Dr.-No-ish.

Sam’s sure he’s got his confused, twisted face on, but he doesn’t really care. On a rush of adrenaline, Sam sweeps up another cat, caramel colored and spotted with dark chocolate patches. “Yeah? You so busy you can’t save one of your kitties?”

“Oh come on, Sam,” Stefan sighs, but he still seems amused. “What’re you going to do with her? Bring her home for Dean to play with? They’ll probably get at it within a day and then she’ll just birth their very own litter. And won’t that be fun? Hunting with nine cats in tow.”

As an empty threat, Sam puts the knife to the cat’s head.

Empty or not, Stefan tenses and gives Sam a long look. “What’re you doing?”

Sam smirks and lightly shakes his head. “Are you afraid now?” Sam doesn’t have any want to hurt them, he wants to turn them back into humans, but this is the best warning he can manage.

Stefan’s jaw clenches and his fingers flick in and out, claws clacking against each other. Then he spins to the cabinet behind him, snatches something off the surface, and shakes it. That movement commands all attention of the cats and Stefan smirks just before he tosses it at Sam. Sam grabs the thing in his palm and he narrow his eyes to see it’s a stuffed mouse. It smells, quite strongly. Musk and weeds mix in his nose, and he figures it’s catnip, figures it’s harmless.

Until the cat in his arm starts to groan, a gravelly sound that whirls up into something stronger. The sound is purely animalistic, and Sam stares as its eyes widen larger than should be possible.

“Good luck, Sam,” Stefan says with a smirk, and once the cat strikes Sam’s arm, he runs into the bedroom.

Sam yelps in surprise, and then pain when she does it again and scratches through the cuff of his jacket. She keeps clawing at his wrist, breaking skin across the back of his hand and he drops the cat to all fours. But that’s not enough, because now the other eleven are on him, scratching at his legs, jeans ripping under their attack, and trying to climb his pants.

He fumbles a few steps back, but they keep jumping and clawing at him, tearing at his pants and scratching his legs. His only hope is to jump up onto a nearby decorative stool. It’s tiny enough that only his feet cover the surface, yet high enough the cats leap up but never reach him.

The front door slams open and Dean skids into the room. Sam just gawks and Dean stares back, eyes flipping between Sam and the cats at his legs.

It’s Dean, in his familiar human body, and Sam could rush to him. He could haul Dean into his arms and squeeze the life outta him just because it’s his brother again.

But then Sam’s brain runs away on him, wondering how he left Dean as a cat and now he’s a human standing in Stefan’s apartment where a dozen other girls are still cats.

“What’re you doing?” Dean yells at him.

“Dean?”

Dean comes at him, grabs the catnip mouse, and throws it across the room to distract the cats. They all run onto the couch and rip the fabric as they fight over one another to reach it. “Yeah, me Dean, you Sam.” He rolls his eyes and tugs on Sam’s jacket to pull him off the stool and down the hall. “Jesus, you know how to finish a fight or what?”

Sam stops and yanks Dean to a stop. “Wait, wait, wait. How’d you …? How do I know …?”

“That it’s me?” Dean asks, all pissy and incredulous. “Dude.” He lifts one hand and wiggles his hand. “Opposable thumbs. Eh?” he adds with a grin. When Sam rolls his eyes, Dean grabs at his coat and pulls. “Let’s go, before Garfield gets away.”

In the bedroom, Stefan’s loading up a suitcase, zipping it shut seconds before Dean jumps at him. But Stefan turns, slashing his claws across Dean’s face then pushing him clear over the bed to land with a thud on the floor. Sam goes at him, too, but leans away to avoid a hit, dodges to the left and right to stay out of striking distance. Sam stands back up with a small smile. Stefan looks at him for a second and then clocks him in the nose.

No doubt, Sam goes down cradling his face, and Stefan escapes the bedroom.

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean grumbles as he pulls Sam up off the floor.

Sam stumbles to follow, wincing with the pain in his nose. They run into the living room and this time, Dean successfully tackles Stefan to the floor, elbows and knees knocking hard on the wood floor as they tumble over each other.

Dean lands a solid jab to Stefan’s cheek, forcing Stefan to roll away. Sam shoulders his way into the mess, does just as he’d pictured earlier when Stefan was expositioning his way through a horrible villain monologue, and jams his knife right into Stefan’s heart.

Stefan’s back arches and he releases an inhuman growl. As his body sags back to the ground, eyes flickering from hazel to black then slivering to just a slit of gold, his noise winds down to a yowl, sliding into a fractured purr.

Sam stands over him with his shoulders punching up and down with heavy breaths. He watches Stefan and cringes at how the claws on the man’s hands and toes retract and a slimy film slips over his eyes before they completely close. He keeps on watching to make sure Stefan doesn’t move, and then lightly toes at Stefan’s knee, but there’s no response.

A slap at his shoulder makes him flinch, then he breathes easy when it’s his brother looking at him. Dean’s mouth curls into a smirk and he tips his head. He’s looking at Dean.

“Sam Winchester,” Dean says with a strange, serious intonation, “The Cat Slayer.”

Sam shucks Dean’s hand off of him, and he huffs. “Can’t you go back to being a cat? When you couldn’t talk?”

Dean smirks and pats Sam’s cheek. “Aww, Sammy. Didn’t ya miss your big brother?”

“Just glad I don’t have to take your ass out to piss anymore.”

There’s a moment where Dean looks down, and when he looks back up, he winces and shakes his head. “Yeah, let’s not talk about that again.”

Meow

Meoooow

They glance at the couch and all twelve cats are still there, but they’re not attacking each other or the catnip. They’re pretty much just sitting there, on and near the couch, watching Sam and Dean with wide, pleading looks. And meowing. A lot. And it’s less of a threat and more like worry and question.

“We gotta do something with them,” Sam says.

“You ready to kick off another dozen spells?”

Turning back to Dean, Sam widens his eyes. “Yeah, how did you …?”

“I guess you needed something from the real cat fairy. Stefan didn’t turn me. Jenny did. You tossed her necklace into the bowl and …” Dean trails off motioning his hands up and down. “Ta-da.”

Sam flips his mouth down into a thoughtful frown. Makes perfect sense, and he can’t believe he didn’t consider that. “So … what? We grab a fistful of Stefan’s mane and do this until they’re all turned back, huh?”

Dean nods. “Sounds about right.”

***

It’s not easy escorting twelve cats out of the apartment and into the Impala. Even harder to drive with them all whining, yowling, and hissing with every second it takes to stop at a convenience store and then head over to the hotel. Not to mention Dean’s on edge and whimpering for all the holes punched into the upholstery as the cats run around the back seat.

They’re about to start on the first cat and Sam’s ready with the clippers, but Dean gives him a sharp look that makes him pause. “What?”

“Dude, you’re awful with those things,” Dean replies, lifting his finger and showing where his own skin is still pierced from what Sam had done to him earlier that day.

“Like I had any other choice?” he asks in defense.

Dean rolls his eyes, walks over to the nearest cat, and snags his fingers through its fur. He comes up with a few creamy strands of hair and a taunting grin.

“Alright,” Sam sighs. “Next time you’re a cat, I’ll go for the hair.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean grunts. He drops the hairs into the mixing bowl along with a few strands of Stefan’s and stirs it all up.

Twelve chants, three times over, and the room is full of women. Twelve tired, scared, naked women, and Dean seems like he’s considering the advantages of consoling each and every one of them.

Sam shoves at Dean’s shoulder. “Go get more towels from the front desk.”

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles, turning away. “Not like you could get lucky anyway.”

As soon as the door closes, Sam looks at each of them, resolutely keeping his eyes above their shoulders. He offers them a meager wave and mumbles, “Hey.”

No one waves. They’re all busy covering their most intimate parts.

Five very, very uncomfortable minutes later, Dean returns with a stack of worn out motel towels and they pass them around the group.

It takes another few hours traipsing around town to bring each woman home.

Outside the very last house, Jenny Hampton marches up the front walk, pauses with a quick look over her shoulder, and grants them a thankful smile and wave as she clutches the towel around her.

Dean shakes his head, bites into his lower lip, and smacks at Sam’s thigh. “We just saved twelve girls in one day, Sammy. What d’you say we hit up Reno and cash in on our good karma?”

Sam manages to not roll his eyes this time, grateful it’s his brother’s hand touching him and not a tiny paw with five claws. No matter what skeezy, underhanded things his brother says, he’s thankful it’s his brother’s voice and not a detached meow.

“I don’t think I can wait that long,” Sam says on a sigh.

“For what?”

“For a drink. Man, you don’t know what it was like.”

Dean tsks hard. “I don’t know what it was like? I was a frickin’ cat. I had to walk around on all fours, crap in gravel, and lick myself for a shower.”

Sam cringes at the memory of Dean doing just that. “Don’t remind me.”

“Alright, so we both had a bitch of a hard time with this one. We’ll just agree to disagree on who had it harder.”

“Whatever,” Sam says, shaking his head and sighing again. “Let’s just … go get some food and a beer.”

Dean grins and shifts gears to drive out. “Now we’re talkin’.” Once they’re cruising down the block, Dean glances over. “I’m thinking fish fry, what d’you say?”

THE END