Kitten, par moi
Here's another piece of fanfic from
spn_flashfic, for the housing challenge. I've also got a new(er) one up discussing lessons learned from movies. Enjoy!
Title: Kitten
Author: malcolm_stjay
Rating: PG-13 (just to be safe... dammit, where is my porn-brain???)
Word count: 807
Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me.
Notes: I get lamer and lamer, every week. And my titles always suck. And I'm not sure I like this, but what the hey. Feedback is nice, criticism can be taken, and thanks for reading.
Dean first saw the kitten in Dennisburg, OH. It was orange and white, with wiry hairs bristling out of its tail as it regarded him from the lid of a trashcan. Dean didn’t hesitate, just caught a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye and continued on his striding way.
***
The Impala had been Dean’s home - that is to say, where his heart was - for as long as she’d been with him. They traveled the world together, he slept in her when there was nowhere else to go, and she housed his dirty laundry and arsenal without complaint. Recently, Sam’d moved back in, taken up half of the trunk and most of the cab with his freak-legs, and it was real homey again.
***
It took a few more sightings, but by August Dean had figured out that the kitten was following him. It came in different colours, but it always had the same look in its eyes. It said, ‘Hey Dean-o! Look at me, I’m so cute! And if that mouse right there tries to bother either one of us, I’m gonna drag his punk ass all the way down Hell-Beat Boulevard.’
Dean liked its attitude, but very rarely stopped.
***
Some days, when a hunt was just getting into its stride and nothing else mattered, or right after the big destructive finale when he was so tired his eyes felt like they’d melt out of his ears, he didn’t mind the motels. He could ignore the bizarre decorating schemes (Big Game, Smileys, Country Fair, and on one memorable occasion, Smurfs) and the lumpy mattresses and the incredibly awful porn.
Some days, he couldn’t. Some days, he just wanted to roll the Impala into her very own garage.
***
Dean was playing the spoons and yodeling “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah” at the top of his lungs, seeing how long it would take for Sam to break, when it walked by again. This time, it was a black and white short hair. Dean trailed off at “I know-oh-OH-oooh,” but managed to rally in time to come back in at “ban-JO!”
Sam snapped twenty-four bars later, and pegged Dean in the ear with a Dorito just as Dean was launching into his big spoon solo.
***
In late October, he opened the crooked door to room 103 and nearly squashed it. It was white this time, and looked like that kitten that sold toilet paper.
“Look,” Dean told it, squatting down to tickle its head, “you need to stop following me. You’re cute and everything,” he glanced around to make sure Sam wasn’t around to hear that, “but I live out of my car.”
The kitten pawed at his finger. It didn’t seem to care about the car. In fact, it flipped its tail as if to challenge Dean, ask him if living in a car wasn’t better than following a guy who lived in his car around the country. ‘For Chrissakes,’ it said, ‘it is way too hot in Texas for a fluffy white kitten, and you at least get the breeze.’
Dean had nothing to say to that, so he straightened up, and continued on his way.
***
For four months, there was no sign of the cat, and Dean missed it like he missed his Led Zeppelin II tape; he’d reach for it at odd moments before he remembered it wasn’t there. ‘It wouldn’t have worked out between us,’ he told himself sternly when he caught himself peering around corners.
***
The cat turned up in Grand Rapids. Dean wrenched the Impala up onto the curb and hurled himself into the street, leaving Sam in the middle of a speech about how stupid that last prank was (it wasn’t - it was in fact awesome). It was sitting on a garbage can lid again, this time grey with white toes and long eyebrow whiskers. It gave a little mew of greeting as Dean scooped it up and into his leather jacket, where it settled in to the warmth of his body and began to purr.
Dean got back in the car and pulled the kitten out of his coat and passed it over to Sam, just as gently as you’d pass an egg in one of those contests where you have an egg on a spoon, you know? And you carry it? Wait, did you pass the egg in those things, or just try not to drop it? Okay, crappy metaphor, and probably Sam knew a better one, but. Dean passed the kitten over to Sam gently.
Sam, surprised, took it and rubbed it and smiled when it made kitty-biscuits on his thighs. “And kitten makes three?” he asked, trying (and failing, miserably) to stifle his grin.
“Four,” Dean replied, rubbing the dash as he guided the car back into traffic.
spn_flashfic, for the housing challenge. I've also got a new(er) one up discussing lessons learned from movies. Enjoy!
Title: Kitten
Author: malcolm_stjay
Rating: PG-13 (just to be safe... dammit, where is my porn-brain???)
Word count: 807
Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me.
Notes: I get lamer and lamer, every week. And my titles always suck. And I'm not sure I like this, but what the hey. Feedback is nice, criticism can be taken, and thanks for reading.
Dean first saw the kitten in Dennisburg, OH. It was orange and white, with wiry hairs bristling out of its tail as it regarded him from the lid of a trashcan. Dean didn’t hesitate, just caught a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye and continued on his striding way.
***
The Impala had been Dean’s home - that is to say, where his heart was - for as long as she’d been with him. They traveled the world together, he slept in her when there was nowhere else to go, and she housed his dirty laundry and arsenal without complaint. Recently, Sam’d moved back in, taken up half of the trunk and most of the cab with his freak-legs, and it was real homey again.
***
It took a few more sightings, but by August Dean had figured out that the kitten was following him. It came in different colours, but it always had the same look in its eyes. It said, ‘Hey Dean-o! Look at me, I’m so cute! And if that mouse right there tries to bother either one of us, I’m gonna drag his punk ass all the way down Hell-Beat Boulevard.’
Dean liked its attitude, but very rarely stopped.
***
Some days, when a hunt was just getting into its stride and nothing else mattered, or right after the big destructive finale when he was so tired his eyes felt like they’d melt out of his ears, he didn’t mind the motels. He could ignore the bizarre decorating schemes (Big Game, Smileys, Country Fair, and on one memorable occasion, Smurfs) and the lumpy mattresses and the incredibly awful porn.
Some days, he couldn’t. Some days, he just wanted to roll the Impala into her very own garage.
***
Dean was playing the spoons and yodeling “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah” at the top of his lungs, seeing how long it would take for Sam to break, when it walked by again. This time, it was a black and white short hair. Dean trailed off at “I know-oh-OH-oooh,” but managed to rally in time to come back in at “ban-JO!”
Sam snapped twenty-four bars later, and pegged Dean in the ear with a Dorito just as Dean was launching into his big spoon solo.
***
In late October, he opened the crooked door to room 103 and nearly squashed it. It was white this time, and looked like that kitten that sold toilet paper.
“Look,” Dean told it, squatting down to tickle its head, “you need to stop following me. You’re cute and everything,” he glanced around to make sure Sam wasn’t around to hear that, “but I live out of my car.”
The kitten pawed at his finger. It didn’t seem to care about the car. In fact, it flipped its tail as if to challenge Dean, ask him if living in a car wasn’t better than following a guy who lived in his car around the country. ‘For Chrissakes,’ it said, ‘it is way too hot in Texas for a fluffy white kitten, and you at least get the breeze.’
Dean had nothing to say to that, so he straightened up, and continued on his way.
***
For four months, there was no sign of the cat, and Dean missed it like he missed his Led Zeppelin II tape; he’d reach for it at odd moments before he remembered it wasn’t there. ‘It wouldn’t have worked out between us,’ he told himself sternly when he caught himself peering around corners.
***
The cat turned up in Grand Rapids. Dean wrenched the Impala up onto the curb and hurled himself into the street, leaving Sam in the middle of a speech about how stupid that last prank was (it wasn’t - it was in fact awesome). It was sitting on a garbage can lid again, this time grey with white toes and long eyebrow whiskers. It gave a little mew of greeting as Dean scooped it up and into his leather jacket, where it settled in to the warmth of his body and began to purr.
Dean got back in the car and pulled the kitten out of his coat and passed it over to Sam, just as gently as you’d pass an egg in one of those contests where you have an egg on a spoon, you know? And you carry it? Wait, did you pass the egg in those things, or just try not to drop it? Okay, crappy metaphor, and probably Sam knew a better one, but. Dean passed the kitten over to Sam gently.
Sam, surprised, took it and rubbed it and smiled when it made kitty-biscuits on his thighs. “And kitten makes three?” he asked, trying (and failing, miserably) to stifle his grin.
“Four,” Dean replied, rubbing the dash as he guided the car back into traffic.