fic: Some Small Cheer - Supernatural - Dean/Cas
Title: Some Small Cheer
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2954
Pairings/characters: Dean/Castiel, Balthazar, Sam, Bobby, Crowley
Warnings: none
Spoilers: general season 6
Summary: Balthazar threatens to smite a kitten. Castiel is having none of that. Also may include: Egyptian queens, capes, hazelnut lattes, and the best uses for rosemary.
Notes: Written for tristinai via deancas_xmas. Originally posted here. Much thanks to my betas, glovered and narie. <3 I waffled forever over three great prompts, but the possibility of unabashed fluff and goofiness in this one was too good to pass up. Hope you like it, tristinai!
Dean had stopped talking about the case fifteen minutes ago, about the same time the snow started coming down in fat gentle clumps. The job was easy but annoying, a confidence man that changed names and personalities so often that the Winchesters were having trouble finding the grave. Dean looked tired, but then he always had in Castiel's memory. The little white lights that the town had wrapped around he trunks of the trees seemed to give him some small cheer though.
"I'm going to get a coffee. Do you want something?" Dean's cheeks and nose were pink with cold and he was shivering, though trying to hide it. Castiel's couldn't understand Dean’s refusal to wear any winter accessories when he was clearly uncomfortable.
"No, thank you," Castiel answered.
"Suit yourself." Dean shrugged. He looked too cold to chastise Castiel for missing out on minor human pleasures as he usually did. Though he didn't particularly notice the cold, Castiel appreciated the blast of warm coming through he door for the relief it obviously offered Dean.
Heaven was unusually quiet, for which Castiel was extremely grateful. Taking a walk with Dean, even if they mostly talked about the hunt, was a rare pleasure for him. Perhaps he should be worried about he radio silence, but Castiel decided to let his mind rest these few short hours.
Dean ordered quickly and returned with two cups anyway, one he pressed into Castiel's hand. "Just try it."
"Alright, thank you." As he raised the cup to his lips and a truly wonderful smell rose in faint curls of steam, something nutty and sweet. Dean normally didn't have much of a sweet tooth when it came to coffee, he knew, but perhaps likewise felt that tonight was a little special.
Dean's face was simultaneously expectant and hopeful, sipping his own drink while he waited for an answer. Of course he was right - Castiel had wanted the drink, and it tasted as good as it smelled. "I like this. What is it called?"
"It's a hazelnut latte. I tasted Sam's the other day when he wasn't looking. Who woulda thought such frou-frou crap would be worth drinking?" Dean grinned and Castiel couldn't help smiling back. He followed when Dean turned to stroll along the sidewalk, looking a little more comfortable in the snow now that he had a hot drink. Castiel stayed close, their shoulders barely brushing as they walked. Dean said nothing, for once.
"Are you and Sam doing anything for Christmas?" Castiel suspected not. He saw Dean frown almost imperceptibly, just a slight twitch of his lips.
"No." Dean paused. "I don't know. Probably not. Why?"
"I was just curious," Castiel answered, though that wasn't his true reason for asking. He knew how lonely Dean felt around holidays even with Sam around, though it was like changing the ocean currents trying to get it out of him. This year seemed particularly difficult.
They had come to a park where one of the live pines was draped in alternating red and white lights. The effect wasn’t particularly tasteful, but it was certainly festive and Dean seemed to want to look at it. Not for the first time Castiel wished Dean had the [self-worth] to ask for things - guessing could only take him so far. He did have a pretty good guess, though, that this walk was the only real relaxation Dean had had in weeks.
The hesitant brush of Dean's fingers against his hand drew Castiel's attention away from the tree and his private thoughts. He looked down and caught the chilled hand in his own much warmer one. They were standing close enough that Castiel's coat would hide the gesture from prying eyes in such dim lighting. Dean hid his surprised smile with the coffee cup, but Castiel caught it anyway. He rubbed his thumb in broad circles over the back of Dean's hand, warming and working out the stiffness in his knuckles. He hoped he wouldn't be called back at least until morning.
__
Castiel was relatively sure Balthazar was drunk off his ass even before agreeing to meet him. Supposedly it was a 'life or death situation' though he had his doubts. If Castiel hadn't already been on edge as a state of being lately, he might have ignored the call and continued staring at the ceiling all night while Dean snored into his shoulder. But Balthazar had not so much called as staged a rude mental drunk-dial that very much shook Castiel out of his carefully cultivated peace.
Balthazar was angry, though about what Castiel had yet to get out of him. He was also wearing a cape made out of a bed sheet, but Castiel chose to ignore that for the time being. It was the kind of thing he would expect from Gabriel; he had assumed Balthazar had more class when it came to escapades in the mortal realm. Either he was wrong or Balthazar hadn't noticed what he was wearing yet. He decided not to mention it.
"Brother, I wish you would tell me what was so urgent we had to speak immediately." Castiel knew he sounded exasperated and did nothing to hide it. Between the slurred offers of booze and hookers and descriptions of things Raphael could shove up his ass, he could hardly get a word in. Castiel wondered if there was a single bottle of alcohol left in the entire county.
“You really want to know?” he snapped. Castiel nodded reluctantly. “I’ve had it with Heaven and I’m hating you a little bit right now for dragging me back into that clusterfuck.” Balthazar gesticulated widely to emphasize his aggravation. Then he gave Castiel the finger and stalked back down the dirty alley he had found him in, kicking a trashcan hard enough to buckle it at the middle.
Something small and furry darted out the open end with a panicked squeal. At first Castiel assumed it to be a rat, until Balthazar growled, “Damn it to hell, I hate cats. Little demon spawn.” He scruffed the tiny creature, positioned to throw it.
The scene ranked fairly high on Castiel’s list of incredibly ridiculous events involving marginally socialized angels, right between the time he got turned into an action figure by the nine-year-old Antichrist and the time Sam got hit in the balls on Gabriel’s fabricated Japanese game show. Balthazar's reflexes were just impaired enough that he missed the wall completely and the kitten fell harmlessly onto a bag of trash.
"There's no reason to hurt a harmless animal just because you feel like having a bitchfit," Castiel chided, scooping up the kitten from where it remained huddled on top of the trash. The little thing barely filled both hands. "And you don't have to keep helping me...if you would prefer Raphael restarted the Apocalypse."
His last comment seemed to diffuse Balthazar's anger, or perhaps he was too drunk to care anymore. With a clumsy flutter of wings (and makeshift cape, though Castiel was still determined to file that issue away for later reflection) Balthazar was gone, back to whatever sleazy establishment he had stumbled out of, and there were many to be had on that particular street.
Castiel was still cradling the kitten in his hands, but it wasn't struggling, perhaps sensing it was in no immediate danger. The tiny body was emitting more heat than it should, which he guessed was a fever caused by abominable living conditions. He had never tried to heal an animal before, but it couldn't be much different than healing a human. In fact, it turned out to be considerable easier; such a small body required far less energy and concentration. With the kitten safe from infection, Castiel wondered what to do with it. Leaving it in the alley seemed cruel, especially after going to the trouble of rescuing it. Two wide, curious eyes the color of a stormy sea looked up at him, the damp gray fur sticking out in uneven tufts around too-large ears. He thought he should give the kitten a name, then perhaps find it a home. Find her a home, rather. How to accomplish this was a mystery.
Castiel ended up talking first with Sam about his unexpected dilemma while Dean was out. Sam looked extremely worried, like cats were a problem too big for him to handle. “I only know dogs, sorry,” he apologized, shifting uncomfortably between feet.
“That’s alright, Sam. I’ll ask someone else.” He sighed audibly and left before poor Sam started hemorrhaging Hell-tainted brain juice.
Bobby didn’t even try to sugarcoat his opinion on the matter. “What do you want a damn cat for?” He was clearly busy and uninterested, so Castiel left without saying goodbye.
Out of desperation he even asked Crowley and was somewhat hopeful when the demon’s eyes lit up, at least until he said, “Slow roasted with a pinch of rosemary and new potatoes is very nice.” Castiel realized “what do I do with a stray kitten?” was decidedly not specific enough.
He caught Dean that evening, half asleep on his motel bed with a bottle of beer held loosely in his fingers and TV-glazed eyes. “Dean, I have a question.” He counted it a triumph in their odd relationship that Dean barely startled anymore when he appeared unannounced. It was better for his health, anyway.
“If this is about the kitten, then no.”
“Sam told you?” Of course, Sam told his brother. He probably thought Castiel had been experiencing temporary madness. The kitten shifted in his coat pocket, and he slipped a hand inside to pat her head. “Oh.”
Dean shifted, now fully awake, and set down his drink on the bedside table. “Look, I like cats just fine, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. Neither of us are exactly stable home kind of people. Why don’t you take it to an animal shelter?”
He hadn’t thought of that, but leaving her in the care of complete strangers didn’t sit well. “I suppose,” he answered slowly. “Shouldn’t we try to find her a regular home?”
“‘Her’? Cas, did you already name it?” Dean groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Yes, her name is Hatshepsut, after the powerful Egyptian queen.” Castiel drew her out of his pocket, and she automatically latched her tiny claw into his sleeve, mewling. “Balthazar was going to kill her, I couldn’t do nothing.”
“Hat-what?” Dean looked bewildered. “Is that where you went last night?”
“Hat-shep-sut. And yes, he said it was important.” He started trying to detach Hatshepsut from his sleeve so that Dean might see her. She was unwilling and he held out his arm instead, cat and all.
“Hat-shet-sup. Hat…uhh, whatever.” He stood, stretching his back and eyeing the kitten from a few feet away. The kitten stared back with her disarmingly wide gaze, ears perked forward. Dean chewed his bottom lip, clearly taking the issue under consideration.
Castiel finally succeed in extricating Hatshepsut from his sleeve, and held her out with both hands until Dean took her. He knew he was being a little manipulative of Dean’s caregiver tendencies, but he also knew it would probably work with minimal effort. Within second the kitten had attached herself to the front of his shirt with her claws. Dean let go carefully, and she hauled herself up to his shoulder to sniff his hair. “Tenacious little fuzzball,” he commented, obviously surprised that a stray would take to human companionship so quickly.
“She was very sick when I found her. I think she’s grateful.”
“Huh, maybe.” The kitten protested when Dean plucked her back off his shoulder and dumped her on the bed. “But look, we’re not finished with this job and I don’t have anything she could eat, not to mention she’s gotta poop somewhere. How is this supposed to work?”
“I don’t know how to care for a cat,” Castiel answered simply. Sitting on the bed, he stroked Hatshepsut’s head and back.
Above him, Dean snorted. “So your first thought was to give it to me?”
“Yes.”
As always when Castiel settled on simple honestly, Dean didn’t know what to do with it. He hunched his shoulders and sat back on the opposite bed. “I still don’t think this is a good idea, but….”
“At least until we can find her a real home,” Castiel prodded, but he already knew he had won and smiled faintly.
“Fine. But if I get caught shoplifting cat food, it’s your fault. And you better bust my ass out of jail.”
__
Castiel was not able to visit again for almost a week. By then the Winchesters (and, presumably, Hatshepsut) had returned to Bobby’s house. Surprisingly, Bobby had attempted a Christmas tree, a sad little thing that appeared to be a small clump of pine branches that were shedding needles in a full circle on the hardwood floor. There were some dollar store battery-operated lights wound around it and ornaments that looked suspiciously like pull tabs and an empty hex bag. Bobby himself was slopping something in a frying pan that smelled much better than it looked while arguing on the phone.
Dean was in his usual position, passed out on the couch with one arm thrown over his face to block out the light and noise. Castiel was found it a great mystery how he was able to sleep in this environment. Hatshepsut was balanced on his chest, also asleep, curled with her little head down and purring like mini motorboat. That Dean has been able to convince Bobby to allow the cat in his house was a small miracle after the reception he had originally received.
“Mrrrowt.” The kitten had woken up when he entered the room, and she stared at him as if confused as to why her nap had to be interrupted. He rubbed her ears, which seemed to appease her temporarily. Hatshepsut was turning out to be an appropriate name indeed.
Kneeling down, Castiel lifted Dean’s arm away from his face. Carefully, of course, because last time he woke him up too suddenly he got a knife in the shoulder and a very upset Dean for the rest of the day. He was not eager to repeat that incident.
“Wha?” Dean shifted enough to dislodge the kitten. “Sorry, Hattie,” he mumbled.
“Hattie? You gave her a nickname already?” Castiel smiled, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. He fingered the soft flannel of his shirt, completely understanding Hattie’s interest in nesting on it.
“Hey, Cas. I thought you weren’t going to make it for Christmas.”
“I almost didn’t,” he admitted. “Things are…difficult right now.”
“I’m glad you’re here. And I think this little girl is too.” Dean nudged Hattie where she had hunkered back down. She rose and stretched, one leg back and nose out to sniff Castiel approvingly before jumping down. The pine needles all over the floor were apparently fascinating.
“She’s been playing with the tree all day,” Dean chuckled. “I hope she didn’t swallow anything weird.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t know what to do with her.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it. Sam’s been working on it while we have a break. Gives him something unthreatening to do for a while.”
“Dammit, cat! Stop foolin’ with the tree!” A wadded dishrag came flying out of the kitchen and landed a foot shy of Hattie, who promptly pounced on it instead. Bobby swore and stomped across back across the tiles. At least Bobby had thrown something soft rather than any number of heavy kitchen implements, which hopefully meant he was not planning to murder Hattie yet.
“Uhh…he’s having a little trouble adjusting. Sam already fell for her like the big wuss he is, so at least it’s been two against one.” Dean yawned, and rubbed his neck, propping up on one elbow.
As Dean moved to sit up, Castiel slipped an arm around his waist, drawing him into a full hug when he proved was receptive to the idea. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”
__
“Dude, I’m not saying I don’t like to get a little kinky sometimes, but this is just weird.” Castiel’s concentration broke and he finally looked up to see what kept distracting Dean. Hattie was sitting on the small writing desk pushed against the other wall, perched like a vulture among Bobby’s stack of extraneous papers. Her eyes flashed in the near dark, and for the first time since finding her Castiel started to believe cats had demonic inclinations.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2954
Pairings/characters: Dean/Castiel, Balthazar, Sam, Bobby, Crowley
Warnings: none
Spoilers: general season 6
Summary: Balthazar threatens to smite a kitten. Castiel is having none of that. Also may include: Egyptian queens, capes, hazelnut lattes, and the best uses for rosemary.
Notes: Written for tristinai via deancas_xmas. Originally posted here. Much thanks to my betas, glovered and narie. <3 I waffled forever over three great prompts, but the possibility of unabashed fluff and goofiness in this one was too good to pass up. Hope you like it, tristinai!
Dean had stopped talking about the case fifteen minutes ago, about the same time the snow started coming down in fat gentle clumps. The job was easy but annoying, a confidence man that changed names and personalities so often that the Winchesters were having trouble finding the grave. Dean looked tired, but then he always had in Castiel's memory. The little white lights that the town had wrapped around he trunks of the trees seemed to give him some small cheer though.
"I'm going to get a coffee. Do you want something?" Dean's cheeks and nose were pink with cold and he was shivering, though trying to hide it. Castiel's couldn't understand Dean’s refusal to wear any winter accessories when he was clearly uncomfortable.
"No, thank you," Castiel answered.
"Suit yourself." Dean shrugged. He looked too cold to chastise Castiel for missing out on minor human pleasures as he usually did. Though he didn't particularly notice the cold, Castiel appreciated the blast of warm coming through he door for the relief it obviously offered Dean.
Heaven was unusually quiet, for which Castiel was extremely grateful. Taking a walk with Dean, even if they mostly talked about the hunt, was a rare pleasure for him. Perhaps he should be worried about he radio silence, but Castiel decided to let his mind rest these few short hours.
Dean ordered quickly and returned with two cups anyway, one he pressed into Castiel's hand. "Just try it."
"Alright, thank you." As he raised the cup to his lips and a truly wonderful smell rose in faint curls of steam, something nutty and sweet. Dean normally didn't have much of a sweet tooth when it came to coffee, he knew, but perhaps likewise felt that tonight was a little special.
Dean's face was simultaneously expectant and hopeful, sipping his own drink while he waited for an answer. Of course he was right - Castiel had wanted the drink, and it tasted as good as it smelled. "I like this. What is it called?"
"It's a hazelnut latte. I tasted Sam's the other day when he wasn't looking. Who woulda thought such frou-frou crap would be worth drinking?" Dean grinned and Castiel couldn't help smiling back. He followed when Dean turned to stroll along the sidewalk, looking a little more comfortable in the snow now that he had a hot drink. Castiel stayed close, their shoulders barely brushing as they walked. Dean said nothing, for once.
"Are you and Sam doing anything for Christmas?" Castiel suspected not. He saw Dean frown almost imperceptibly, just a slight twitch of his lips.
"No." Dean paused. "I don't know. Probably not. Why?"
"I was just curious," Castiel answered, though that wasn't his true reason for asking. He knew how lonely Dean felt around holidays even with Sam around, though it was like changing the ocean currents trying to get it out of him. This year seemed particularly difficult.
They had come to a park where one of the live pines was draped in alternating red and white lights. The effect wasn’t particularly tasteful, but it was certainly festive and Dean seemed to want to look at it. Not for the first time Castiel wished Dean had the [self-worth] to ask for things - guessing could only take him so far. He did have a pretty good guess, though, that this walk was the only real relaxation Dean had had in weeks.
The hesitant brush of Dean's fingers against his hand drew Castiel's attention away from the tree and his private thoughts. He looked down and caught the chilled hand in his own much warmer one. They were standing close enough that Castiel's coat would hide the gesture from prying eyes in such dim lighting. Dean hid his surprised smile with the coffee cup, but Castiel caught it anyway. He rubbed his thumb in broad circles over the back of Dean's hand, warming and working out the stiffness in his knuckles. He hoped he wouldn't be called back at least until morning.
__
Castiel was relatively sure Balthazar was drunk off his ass even before agreeing to meet him. Supposedly it was a 'life or death situation' though he had his doubts. If Castiel hadn't already been on edge as a state of being lately, he might have ignored the call and continued staring at the ceiling all night while Dean snored into his shoulder. But Balthazar had not so much called as staged a rude mental drunk-dial that very much shook Castiel out of his carefully cultivated peace.
Balthazar was angry, though about what Castiel had yet to get out of him. He was also wearing a cape made out of a bed sheet, but Castiel chose to ignore that for the time being. It was the kind of thing he would expect from Gabriel; he had assumed Balthazar had more class when it came to escapades in the mortal realm. Either he was wrong or Balthazar hadn't noticed what he was wearing yet. He decided not to mention it.
"Brother, I wish you would tell me what was so urgent we had to speak immediately." Castiel knew he sounded exasperated and did nothing to hide it. Between the slurred offers of booze and hookers and descriptions of things Raphael could shove up his ass, he could hardly get a word in. Castiel wondered if there was a single bottle of alcohol left in the entire county.
“You really want to know?” he snapped. Castiel nodded reluctantly. “I’ve had it with Heaven and I’m hating you a little bit right now for dragging me back into that clusterfuck.” Balthazar gesticulated widely to emphasize his aggravation. Then he gave Castiel the finger and stalked back down the dirty alley he had found him in, kicking a trashcan hard enough to buckle it at the middle.
Something small and furry darted out the open end with a panicked squeal. At first Castiel assumed it to be a rat, until Balthazar growled, “Damn it to hell, I hate cats. Little demon spawn.” He scruffed the tiny creature, positioned to throw it.
The scene ranked fairly high on Castiel’s list of incredibly ridiculous events involving marginally socialized angels, right between the time he got turned into an action figure by the nine-year-old Antichrist and the time Sam got hit in the balls on Gabriel’s fabricated Japanese game show. Balthazar's reflexes were just impaired enough that he missed the wall completely and the kitten fell harmlessly onto a bag of trash.
"There's no reason to hurt a harmless animal just because you feel like having a bitchfit," Castiel chided, scooping up the kitten from where it remained huddled on top of the trash. The little thing barely filled both hands. "And you don't have to keep helping me...if you would prefer Raphael restarted the Apocalypse."
His last comment seemed to diffuse Balthazar's anger, or perhaps he was too drunk to care anymore. With a clumsy flutter of wings (and makeshift cape, though Castiel was still determined to file that issue away for later reflection) Balthazar was gone, back to whatever sleazy establishment he had stumbled out of, and there were many to be had on that particular street.
Castiel was still cradling the kitten in his hands, but it wasn't struggling, perhaps sensing it was in no immediate danger. The tiny body was emitting more heat than it should, which he guessed was a fever caused by abominable living conditions. He had never tried to heal an animal before, but it couldn't be much different than healing a human. In fact, it turned out to be considerable easier; such a small body required far less energy and concentration. With the kitten safe from infection, Castiel wondered what to do with it. Leaving it in the alley seemed cruel, especially after going to the trouble of rescuing it. Two wide, curious eyes the color of a stormy sea looked up at him, the damp gray fur sticking out in uneven tufts around too-large ears. He thought he should give the kitten a name, then perhaps find it a home. Find her a home, rather. How to accomplish this was a mystery.
Castiel ended up talking first with Sam about his unexpected dilemma while Dean was out. Sam looked extremely worried, like cats were a problem too big for him to handle. “I only know dogs, sorry,” he apologized, shifting uncomfortably between feet.
“That’s alright, Sam. I’ll ask someone else.” He sighed audibly and left before poor Sam started hemorrhaging Hell-tainted brain juice.
Bobby didn’t even try to sugarcoat his opinion on the matter. “What do you want a damn cat for?” He was clearly busy and uninterested, so Castiel left without saying goodbye.
Out of desperation he even asked Crowley and was somewhat hopeful when the demon’s eyes lit up, at least until he said, “Slow roasted with a pinch of rosemary and new potatoes is very nice.” Castiel realized “what do I do with a stray kitten?” was decidedly not specific enough.
He caught Dean that evening, half asleep on his motel bed with a bottle of beer held loosely in his fingers and TV-glazed eyes. “Dean, I have a question.” He counted it a triumph in their odd relationship that Dean barely startled anymore when he appeared unannounced. It was better for his health, anyway.
“If this is about the kitten, then no.”
“Sam told you?” Of course, Sam told his brother. He probably thought Castiel had been experiencing temporary madness. The kitten shifted in his coat pocket, and he slipped a hand inside to pat her head. “Oh.”
Dean shifted, now fully awake, and set down his drink on the bedside table. “Look, I like cats just fine, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. Neither of us are exactly stable home kind of people. Why don’t you take it to an animal shelter?”
He hadn’t thought of that, but leaving her in the care of complete strangers didn’t sit well. “I suppose,” he answered slowly. “Shouldn’t we try to find her a regular home?”
“‘Her’? Cas, did you already name it?” Dean groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Yes, her name is Hatshepsut, after the powerful Egyptian queen.” Castiel drew her out of his pocket, and she automatically latched her tiny claw into his sleeve, mewling. “Balthazar was going to kill her, I couldn’t do nothing.”
“Hat-what?” Dean looked bewildered. “Is that where you went last night?”
“Hat-shep-sut. And yes, he said it was important.” He started trying to detach Hatshepsut from his sleeve so that Dean might see her. She was unwilling and he held out his arm instead, cat and all.
“Hat-shet-sup. Hat…uhh, whatever.” He stood, stretching his back and eyeing the kitten from a few feet away. The kitten stared back with her disarmingly wide gaze, ears perked forward. Dean chewed his bottom lip, clearly taking the issue under consideration.
Castiel finally succeed in extricating Hatshepsut from his sleeve, and held her out with both hands until Dean took her. He knew he was being a little manipulative of Dean’s caregiver tendencies, but he also knew it would probably work with minimal effort. Within second the kitten had attached herself to the front of his shirt with her claws. Dean let go carefully, and she hauled herself up to his shoulder to sniff his hair. “Tenacious little fuzzball,” he commented, obviously surprised that a stray would take to human companionship so quickly.
“She was very sick when I found her. I think she’s grateful.”
“Huh, maybe.” The kitten protested when Dean plucked her back off his shoulder and dumped her on the bed. “But look, we’re not finished with this job and I don’t have anything she could eat, not to mention she’s gotta poop somewhere. How is this supposed to work?”
“I don’t know how to care for a cat,” Castiel answered simply. Sitting on the bed, he stroked Hatshepsut’s head and back.
Above him, Dean snorted. “So your first thought was to give it to me?”
“Yes.”
As always when Castiel settled on simple honestly, Dean didn’t know what to do with it. He hunched his shoulders and sat back on the opposite bed. “I still don’t think this is a good idea, but….”
“At least until we can find her a real home,” Castiel prodded, but he already knew he had won and smiled faintly.
“Fine. But if I get caught shoplifting cat food, it’s your fault. And you better bust my ass out of jail.”
__
Castiel was not able to visit again for almost a week. By then the Winchesters (and, presumably, Hatshepsut) had returned to Bobby’s house. Surprisingly, Bobby had attempted a Christmas tree, a sad little thing that appeared to be a small clump of pine branches that were shedding needles in a full circle on the hardwood floor. There were some dollar store battery-operated lights wound around it and ornaments that looked suspiciously like pull tabs and an empty hex bag. Bobby himself was slopping something in a frying pan that smelled much better than it looked while arguing on the phone.
Dean was in his usual position, passed out on the couch with one arm thrown over his face to block out the light and noise. Castiel was found it a great mystery how he was able to sleep in this environment. Hatshepsut was balanced on his chest, also asleep, curled with her little head down and purring like mini motorboat. That Dean has been able to convince Bobby to allow the cat in his house was a small miracle after the reception he had originally received.
“Mrrrowt.” The kitten had woken up when he entered the room, and she stared at him as if confused as to why her nap had to be interrupted. He rubbed her ears, which seemed to appease her temporarily. Hatshepsut was turning out to be an appropriate name indeed.
Kneeling down, Castiel lifted Dean’s arm away from his face. Carefully, of course, because last time he woke him up too suddenly he got a knife in the shoulder and a very upset Dean for the rest of the day. He was not eager to repeat that incident.
“Wha?” Dean shifted enough to dislodge the kitten. “Sorry, Hattie,” he mumbled.
“Hattie? You gave her a nickname already?” Castiel smiled, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. He fingered the soft flannel of his shirt, completely understanding Hattie’s interest in nesting on it.
“Hey, Cas. I thought you weren’t going to make it for Christmas.”
“I almost didn’t,” he admitted. “Things are…difficult right now.”
“I’m glad you’re here. And I think this little girl is too.” Dean nudged Hattie where she had hunkered back down. She rose and stretched, one leg back and nose out to sniff Castiel approvingly before jumping down. The pine needles all over the floor were apparently fascinating.
“She’s been playing with the tree all day,” Dean chuckled. “I hope she didn’t swallow anything weird.”
“I’m sorry, I still don’t know what to do with her.”
“Eh, don’t worry about it. Sam’s been working on it while we have a break. Gives him something unthreatening to do for a while.”
“Dammit, cat! Stop foolin’ with the tree!” A wadded dishrag came flying out of the kitchen and landed a foot shy of Hattie, who promptly pounced on it instead. Bobby swore and stomped across back across the tiles. At least Bobby had thrown something soft rather than any number of heavy kitchen implements, which hopefully meant he was not planning to murder Hattie yet.
“Uhh…he’s having a little trouble adjusting. Sam already fell for her like the big wuss he is, so at least it’s been two against one.” Dean yawned, and rubbed his neck, propping up on one elbow.
As Dean moved to sit up, Castiel slipped an arm around his waist, drawing him into a full hug when he proved was receptive to the idea. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”
__
“Dude, I’m not saying I don’t like to get a little kinky sometimes, but this is just weird.” Castiel’s concentration broke and he finally looked up to see what kept distracting Dean. Hattie was sitting on the small writing desk pushed against the other wall, perched like a vulture among Bobby’s stack of extraneous papers. Her eyes flashed in the near dark, and for the first time since finding her Castiel started to believe cats had demonic inclinations.