Fic: When You Think He's Half Asleep (gen, PG13, 1/1)
I admit up front that at least a dozen other people in SPN fandom have written fic about Dean and this particular transformation but well, I live in the country and that gives me perhaps a different view of things. Specific things. Things about the size of furry marbles amongst other things. You could call them Thing One and Thing Two. I wouldn't, but you could.
Title from McCavity (CATS by T.S. Eliot and Andrew Lloyd Webber), gen (or as we like to call it around here barkley safe), 5575 words.
When You Think He's Half Asleep
"How's Dean taking it?"
Sam glanced over at the bed. "He was a little out of it until I got him back to the room then he ate a cheeseburger and went to sleep."
"So business as usual then."
"Pretty much." He could hear pages turning, hear Bobby muttering to himself, then…
"Got it! The other statue is in a place called Hartwood. It's some kind of recreated English Country estate just outside Pittsburgh."
"A living history building?"
"I guess. Be a little easier to get Dean into than a regular museum anyway."
"True." Getting Dean into a museum wasn't easy on a good day and Sam suspected good days were going to be few and far between for a while. "So he's just got to touch this other statue?"
"That's what it says."
"Thanks, Bobby."
"Just send me a couple of pictures for the scrapbook and we'll call it even."
"Are you trying to get me killed?" But Bobby'd hung up and the older hunter had just saved him a solid day of research so he took a couple of quick shots of Dean asleep on his back and sent them on.
Then he took a few more and uploaded them into a heavily encrypted file on the laptop figuring it couldn't hurt to keep a little blackmail material handy.
To tell the truth, he kind of envied Dean's ability to sleep at a time like this. Climbing into the other bed, he let himself be lulled by the familiar rhythm of his brother snoring.
Next morning, he woke up with a concrete block on his chest.
Remaining completely still, breathing shallowly through his teeth -- not that he had any other option than breathing shallowly -- Sam opened his eyes.
A pair of brilliant emerald eyes started back at him from about four inches away.
The weird thing was, the eyes hadn't changed.
"Damn it, Dean, you're heavy! Get off!"
Dean yawned, slowly, deliberately, giving Sam a very long look at a mouthful of very sharp teeth and a whiff of morning after cheeseburger breath. Then he stood and stepped back, somehow managing to channel his entire eighteen pounds through the rear paw now directly over Sam's bladder.
It was the closest Sam had come to wetting the bed in twenty-four years. He made a wild grab but Dean was faster, claws digging through the cheap motel blanket and gouging into Sam's thigh. Considering how close those claws had been to other more delicate body parts, Sam wasn't as upset as he could have been about the whole bleeding thigh thing.
"Jesus fucking Christ, OW!"
Which is not to say that he wasn't upset.
Or exactly thrilled about what he found a few minutes later in the bathtub.
"I'm going to have to get you a litter box, aren't I?"
Dean watched him from the toilet seat, boldly striped tail curled around his front paws.
"Do you mind?" He waved the toilet paper wrapped cat turd.
Dean blinked.
"Seriously, dude. Move!"
Dean settled into the classic tea-cosy position.
Sighing, Sam shoved his free hand under his brother's belly and lifted, instantly turning what had been a complacent looking tabby into a whirling dervish of teeth and claws.
"All right, I get it!" Sam sucked at a deep scratch on his left hand as he dumped the turd into the toilet with the other and flushed. "You don't like being picked up. Fine. I don't like being stared at when I take a leak, so get out."
Dean glared at him from the top of the vanity.
Since moving him meant picking him up and that had already been proven to be a colossally stupid idea, Sam sucked it up, did what he had to, and made a mental note to start closing the bathroom door. Dean was still on the vanity when he got out of the shower -- or at least his back feet were, his front feet and whole upper body were in the sink as he investigated the drain.
His head was directly under the tap.
Figuring he was in all probability already damned, Sam reached out and turned on the cold water.
Four seconds later, everything on the vanity had been spread out all over the bathroom. The soap dish had knocked a chip out of the edge of the mirror. The towel rack swung crazily from a lone screw, the bathmat had been torn diagonally in half, and one of the threadbare washcloths was floating in the toilet.
Dean had disappeared under one of the beds.
Sam got dried. Got dressed. Got the bathroom more or less -- albeit more less than more -- back the way they'd found it.
Dean remained under the bed.
"Look, I said I was sorry." Sam could just barely make out the shadow points of his brother's ears up by the wall. "You can't stay under there all day, we have to hit the road and change you back. You want to be changed back, don't you?" Stretching out an arm, he could feel his fingertip brush soft fur. A quick grab and he could…
The soft growling that had begun when first knelt down grew distinctly louder.
"Fine." Rocking up onto his feet, Sam brushed off the knees of his jeans. Dean had been a cat for less than twenty-four hours, how the hell had he shed so much hair on the carpet? "I'll go get us some breakfast, you wait there."
The warm, heavy weight scooting out between his legs as he opened the door nearly knocked him over. He stumbled, grabbed for the door jam, and realized what it had to be. Mind suddenly flooded with a lifetime's images of furry bodies lying bloated by the side of the road, he dove forward, hands out-stretched, willing to take more damage if only to keep his brother safe from the dangers of all season radials.
Except Dean hadn't actually run out into the parking lot. He was padding out a figure eight in front of the Impala, rising up a little on every pass to rub his chin against the bumper. When he realized he had Sam's full attention, he lifted his tail and sprayed a pungent stream of urine onto the closest tire.
"Yeah, I get it. It's yours." This was not Dean in a cat's body, this was Dean as a cat but some things appeared to be consistent across species lines. Sam waited by the open driver's side door while Dean sprayed the other three tires then swaggered back around the car. Given the breadth of his chest, his front legs had a familiar bow. "All right, get in. I'll grab our gear and check us out. We can eat breakfast on the road."
***
"Sorry." The waitress stopped him just inside the door. "But you can't bring your pet in here. It's a health code thing."
"I don't have a…" Sam began then remembered and glanced down to see a familiar tabby sitting beside his left foot. He was 99.9 percent certain he'd left Dean in the car.
"And I am so sorry you can't come in because you are such a beautiful boy! Who's a beautiful boy, then?"
Dean sniffed the waitress's out-stretched finger then bumped his head against her hand.
Crouching now, she stroked his side, scarlet nails nearly disappearing into the thick fur. "And he's so soft! Look at that stripy tail, and those sweet black toes!"
"He doesn't like being picked up," Sam warned her as she gathered Dean up into her arms and stood. He took a moment to admire the muscles in her thighs because as cats went, Dean definitely fell into the lift with your legs category. Not fat, but solid and muscular. And apparently the not liking to be picked up thing didn't apply to being clasped to the ample cleavage of a peroxide blonde. Not that it ever had.
"Oh listen, he's purring!" Bending her head, she kissed the darker markings on top of his head. "Such pretty green eyes! Are you flirting with me? Hmmm, are you?"
He was rubbing himself ecstatically against the soft swell of her breasts, expanding the neckline of her pink polyester uniform until Sam could see the upper edges of a lacy bra. Not so much flirting as making it all the way to second base.
"What's his name?"
"Dean."
"Dean is it? Oh yes, you look like a Dean, don't you?"
Dean's head disappeared for a moment under her uniform and when he emerged he was wearing what could only be described as a cheesy grin.
From where Sam was standing, he looked just like a Dean.
"If you take him back to the your car, I can get you some bacon and sausages for him. You'd like that, wouldn't you, sweetheart? Oops, careful." She scooped his paw out of her bra. "You don't want to get stuck in there."
It took Sam a moment to realize that the first part of that had been directed at him. "Some bacon and sausages would be great. And maybe a fried egg sandwich?"
"Oh no, I don't think a fried egg sandwich would be very good for him. Oh." Her cheeks flushed. "That's for you?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry. Dean here is just so adorable, he's very distracting."
Sam sighed. "I get that a lot."
***
When it came right down to it, Dean's eating habits appeared to have changed in only one significant way.
"I could have told you cats didn't drink coffee," Sam snickered as he pulled out onto the interstate heading east.
Dean sat on the passenger seat, facing the door, the angle of his ears and every line of his body radiating indignation.
"Hey, no one forced you to shove your paw in there."
The paw had gone between Sam's mouth and the edge of his cup, spilling coffee over Dean's fur and Sam's shirt. Further damage had been taken when Dean had flicked the excess liquid off, spraying some of it up into Sam's right eye. As far as Sam was concerned it had all been worth it for the look on Dean's face when he'd licked at the coffee remaining on his paw.
They'd just crossed the state line into Missouri when Dean rose up on his back legs and began beating on the window.
"Forget it, I'm not going to let you out, we're moving at seventy-five miles an hour."
Dean twisted his head nearly all the way around -- which was just fucking creepy -- shot Sam a look that suggested he was too stupid to live, and continued banging on the window.
"Oh." They'd hadn't passed a rest stop for a while so there had to be one coming up soon. And one thing Sam knew about his brother, whatever he was -- cat, dog, hamster -- Dean Winchester would not relieve himself inside the car. He amused himself thinking of Dean as a hamster for the next fifteen miles. If nothing else, it acted as a distraction from the constant banging on the damned window.
When he finally got the car stopped, he slid across the seat and popped open the door, yelling, "Don't go far!" as Dean leapt out and charged across the grass.
He didn't see the rusty pickup, or the three rednecks, or the dog.
At least not until he'd got out of the car and it was too late.
"Dean!"
"That your pussy's name?" Redneck number one chortled. "King there, he likes to get himself a little pussy."
King looked like a German Sheppard/hound cross, rough-coated and scarred, the evidence of a hundred battles fought and won in the way he moved. His lips were pulled back off enormous yellow teeth and his notched ears were flat against his head.
"Call off your dog!"
"Sorry, boy." Redneck number two came down hard on the boy. "Once King's got the scent, ain't no point in calling him. He won't listen."
Sam watched as King charged toward his brother, who'd flattened himself into the grass and was making a noise like a police siren. Only louder.
Redneck three frowned. "Why isn't the pussy running?"
"Seriously, guys, call off your…"
Too late.
From where Sam was standing it looked like Dean launched himself straight up and over King's head, twisting in the air to land on the dog's back, claws on all four feet driven through fur and deep into flesh, teeth sunk into his neck. King yelped, planted his front feet, snapped at his own shoulders, then proved he'd won at least some of those fights on brains by throwing himself to the ground and rolling.
When he scrambled up onto his feet, Dean was lying on his back…
…which meant all the pointy bits were facing up as King moved back in…
…and lost a part of his lower lip, a piece off the inside of his front leg, acquired four long bleeding furrows in his belly, and was very nearly castrated. When he tried to run, Dean clawed his way up the dog's side and got another grip on the back of his neck.
"Holy Jesus! Call off your cat, boy!" Redneck number two was right up in Sam's face.
"Fuck that!" Redneck number one, rummaged in the back of the truck and came up with a shotgun. "I'll blow that fucking pussy away!"
Redneck number three grabbed the barrel of the gun. "You'll hit the damned dog!"
Sam sighed, grabbed the back of Two's head and slammed it down onto his knee, drove his elbow into Three's gut, and took One down with the butt of his own gun. As he stepped back, he saw Dean strutting toward him across the grass, fur so puffed up he looked twice his size. The crashing in the surrounding underbrush suggested King was heading for the hills.
"You okay?"
Dean jumped up on the pickup's hood and pissed on the windshield.
"Yeah, yeah, you're the cat. Get in the car."
***
"Don't worry about it, Sam." Bobby sounded amused. "Tomcat skin's like boot leather, keeps them from ripping each other up. I watched a vet bounce a needle off the back off old Drake's neck once. Took him three tries to get it in. Dean's ears still in one piece?"
Sam glanced over at his brother who was sound asleep, braced in the angle between seat bench and back, feet in the air, smug expression still firmly in place. He seemed to be missing a bit of fur off one shoulder but the skin hadn't been broken and his ears looked fine. "He's okay, but it's just…" Deep breath. "It would just be such a stupid way to die."
"Ain't no smart ways to die, Sam. You should know that if anyone should. Just get him to Hartwood and that other statue, it's all you can do."
"Is he going to remember any of this?"
"How the hell should I know?" Bobby snapped, and hung up.
Sam shoved the phone into his pocket and reached out a tentative hand. Without opening his eyes, Dean pressed a paw against the inside of Sam's wrist, claws sheathed. When Sam moved his hand, the paw went with it but it didn't seem to be a threat, exactly. The fur on Dean's belly was as soft as it looked.
***
"So I assume you'll be taking your cat into the room?"
"Uh…" Sam twisted around and glared through the office window at Dean stretched out along the dashboard of the Impala, tail scribing a lazy arc against the glass. So much for "stay in the car and stay out of sight".
"Extra twenty bucks," the middle-aged woman behind the counter told him in a tone that suggested arguing would be pointless. "You can pretty much count on a tom to spray if he's in strange place and that takes extra cleanin'."
And extra twenty brought the bill up to what they usually paid for a double. Sam thought about leaving Dean in the car for the night but what the hell, John Frankfurt's credit card could cover it.
"You know," she continued, holding the room key on its big plastic fob just out of reach, "you ought to neuter that cat. Keep him from fighting, keep him from wandering, won't keep him from spraying but it won't smell so strong. And God knows there's enough unwanted kittens in the world. A tomcat's only good for two things; fighting and making little cats. I know what you're thinking; you're a man and you're thinking he'll miss his balls when they're gone but trust me, son, he won't."
"Not exactly what I'm thinking," Sam murmured, as she finally handed over the key. Although, in all fairness, he had considered removing Dean's balls on a few occasions in the past.
They were in room seven at the end of the row. Sam parked the car and opened the door. "All right, stay here until… Dean! Damn it, get back here!"
Dean ignored him as he raced toward half a dozen sparrows scratching in the gravel by the side of the parking lot. As they took wing, Dean launched himself into the air, his jaws closing around the closest bird with a snap. He hit the pavement, bird hanging limp in his mouth, then raced into the long grass.
"Look, Dean, I know you haven't eaten for three whole hours but you can't…" Too late. Sam winced at the wet crunching sounds coming out of the grass. "You know that thing's probably got all sorts of parasites and shit. You pick up a tapeworm and I'm never going to let you forget it." He frowned as a gust of wind picked up some of the loose feathers. Was it possible to catch a tapeworm off a toilet seat? He was definitely spending some time with Google once he got Dean into the room.
***
"You don't deserve it, since you already ate, but I got you a fish taco and…" Hand on the door handle, Sam froze and stared at the room's one double bed. Dean sat right in the middle of the sea foam green bedspread, one rear leg in the air, body bent nearly double, his tongue vigorously licking his own balls. Given that his brother had been a cat for nearly forty-eight hours, and given his brother, Sam was actually a little surprised it had taken this long.
***
"Dude, you're a cat. You don't need to be on the bed at all." Sam fought to get enough blankets out from under Dean's body to actually cover his shoulders. "And given that I'm not tossing your fuzzy ass off onto the floor, you can fucking share."
Dean stretched out his front paws, pressed them up against Sam's side and began to knead. Toes flexing, in and out.
"Is this your idea of an apology?"
Claws flexing, in and out.
"OW! Damn it, Dean!"
***
Sam couldn't identify the noise that jerked him out of sleep. It was a loud, wet, hacking sound -- like a swamp demon or a Hellhound torturing something small and moist. He grabbed for his gun with one hand, slapped on the light with the other and jerked up to see Dean with his back arched, stomach working like a bellows, forefeet braced against the floor, and something truly disgusting coming out of his mouth.
"Oh man, if you're vomiting up your internal organs as a part of this transformation, we're in some serious shit."
With one last wet cough, Dean got the final piece out of his mouth and backed away, drooling slightly.
Up close, the beak and the feet made the identification of regurgitated sparrow parts disgustingly easy.
"I thought only owls did that."
Dean shot him a look that suggested he was mentally deficient. In spite of fur and stripes and whiskers and no lips to speak of, the expression was pure Dean. A little creeped out, Sam laid back down again and turned off the light.
"I'll get that in the morning."
In the morning, Sam found himself precariously balanced on the edge of the bed with Dean stretched out over the greater portion. This was not the first time they'd shared a bed and his brother, in his own not particularly small body, didn't take up that much room. Sam had no idea how an eighteen pound cat could manage it.
And if he'd thought cheeseburger breath was bad, fish taco and sparrow puke reached a whole new level of gross.
"First thing you're doing when you change back is brushing your fucking teeth." Yawning and scratching under the waistband of his boxers, Sam headed for the bathroom.
"Oh my god…"
Over the course of his life, Sam had been covered in some fairly noxious fluids but somehow none of them measured up to scraping cold, regurgitated sparrow out from between his toes.
***
"The only reason I was driving erratically is because you decided you had to be under the fucking gas pedal," Sam growled rolling down the window as the state trooper approached the car. "Sit there and behave yourself while I try to get us out of… Dean!"
Hind feet on Sam's lap, front feet up on the door, Dean looked up at the state trooper and made a sound that could only be described as seductive.
"Well hey there, big guy." The officer pushed his hat back and grinned. "Aren't you a good-looking' fellow." He reached out one beefy finger and scratched Dean behind the ears.
Predictably, Dean reacted by pushing into the touch and beginning to purr.
"You got quite the rumble in the engine there, big guy. Oh yeah, that feels good, doesn't it."
Sam could feel the tips of his ears start to heat up. His brother was on his lap being felt up by a state trooper. Okay, his brother was currently a cat but somehow that didn't help.
"So, I expect your wobbling had something to do with this fellow, did it?"
"Yes sir, he was trying to get under my feet."
"They do that. Don't they, big fellow?" Scowling, but still petting Dean, the officer peered into the car. "You shouldn't be driving with him loose. Safer for all concerned if he's in a crate and that crate is secured with a seatbelt."
"He hates being confined."
"Yeah, well, I bet he'd hate being t-boned by a transport more."
"No bet," Sam muttered as Dean lifted his head to give the state trooper access to his lower jaw.
"Since the big guy here is clearly a bit of a handful…"
"You have no idea."
"…I'm going to let you off with a warning. And remember what I said about the crate. And you…" He wrapped a huge hand around Dean's head and shook it lightly. "…you stay up on the seat where you're out of the way, you hear me?"
"You," Sam sighed a moment later as he steered the Impala back onto the road, "are a slut."
Dean looked smug and bent to do some personal grooming.
***
They reached Hartford late that afternoon, drove past the gates, noted the four pm closing, and went to find a motel.
The room contained a double bed, two mismatched bedside tables, a very green bathroom, and upon emerging from the bathroom, an angel.
Castiel sat on the end of the bed staring at Dean. Dean sat on the dresser beside the ancient television, and stared at Castiel.
"A cat can look at a king," Sam said, turning back toward the bathroom to zip his fly.
"I am not a king," Castiel protested.
"It's a quote. Are you here to fix this?"
He shook his head. "Cats do not come under the providence of Heaven."
After the last three days, Sam wasn't surprised. "Then why are you here?"
"Dean Winchester is a cat."
"Yeah." He spread his hands in the universal gesture for and.
"That is not part of my Father's plan."
Sam rubbed at his temples, fighting off one hell of a headache, and sighed, "Go away."
***
Dean had not been impressed with being zipped into a duffle bag in order to be carried up the long drive to the fake manor house and his vocabulary had not suffered from the transformation. Profanity was profanity and cats swore like sailors.
Getting him into the duffle bag had been surprisingly easy. Sam had made a ball from a burger wrapper, squeezed it a few times to make crinkly sounds, then tossed it in the empty bag. Dean had dove in after it and, while he was beating it into submission, Sam had closed the zipper.
"Look, you're the one who just had to touch the coven's glowing cat statue," Sam sighed, setting the growling duffle bag down and peering around a big shrub at the house, "so quit taking it out on me." He made a grateful note of the primitive security system. "We're in luck. It doesn't look like there's a caretaker on at night. We break in. We find the statue." Not that we would be particularly accurate given that Dean was likely to be less help than usual. "Bobby says all you have to do is touch it so..."
When lifted, the duffle bag was decidedly lighter.
One of the side seams had been shredded.
Sam swept his flashlight beam around the immediate area. No sign of his brother. "Dean, come on, stop being such a fucking ass!" The urge to try a here, kitty, kitty, kitty was almost overwhelming. In the interest of keeping various delicate body parts intact, Sam resisted.
Wondering if he should just steal the damned statue and find Dean later, he froze as he heard sirens in the distance. No, not sirens. Cats.
Or possibly Klingon opera.
It was hard to tell exactly where the sound was coming from; it echoed off the house, wrapped around the multiple outbuildings, and lifted the hair off the back of Sam's neck. There was something primal about it. In much the same way there was something primal about fingernails on a blackboard.
Finally, just when he was starting to think the noise was in his head, he spotted a smug looking calico perched on top of a wooden barrel outside what looked like an old garden shed and, on the ground below her, Dean facing off against an orange tabby almost his size. The orange cat's ears had been notched in previous fights and scar tissue kept his left eye from opening more than halfway but he had the same broad chest, the same big head, the same heavy muscle, the same attitude that said bring it.
Then the song reached a crescendo and both cats launched themselves forward and the only thing Sam could see was a writhing, screaming, mass of flying fur. A few minutes later they broke apart and crouched again, panting. The whole area stank of tomcat piss and the lack of light make it impossible for Sam to see if Dean was injured.
"All right, that's…"
Another scream and they charged again. This time when they broke apart, the orange cat turned and ran. Dean raced after him, caught him at least once if the renewed screaming was anything to judge by, then the two of them disappeared into one of the flower beds.
Sam played his flashlight beam over the area but all he could see was a path of broken plants. "God damn it, Dean, get your fuzzy ass back…"
The vibration of his phone cut him off. Swearing under his breath as he fished it out of his pocket, he squinted down at the screen. Bobby.
"Let me guess," he sighed by way of greeting, "there's a time limit and if I don't change Dean back tonight, he'll be a cat forever."
After a moment's silence, Bobby growled, "How the hell did you know that? I just found the reference."
Dropping the ruined duffle bag, Sam leaned against the shed, and rubbed at his temples with his free hand. "Somehow, it seemed obvious. Dean's disappeared."
"What do you mean disappeared?"
"He got into a fight with another cat and took off."
"Well get him back, damn it! If you don't fix him by midnight, that's all she wrote."
Fixing Dean seemed like a better idea every time Sam thought about it. "How do I get him back?"
"How the hell should I know? I'm a dog man and he's your brother. Dangle a catnip mouse at him or something!" The word idjits was strongly implied as Bobby hung up.
Sam had no idea where to find a catnip mouse during the day let alone in the middle of the night while trying to break into a historical building. It wasn't something they tended to carry in with their weapons. Although, Sam promised himself, dropping to his hands and knees and shining the flashlight in under some likely looking bushes, they were going to start.
He called for Dean as loud as he dared. He pleaded. He swore. He made promises he had no intention of keeping.
No response.
Then the calico on top of the barrel made a distinctly oh baby, baby do me kind of call and Dean swaggered out into the light, tufts of orange fur under his claws.
"Typical," Sam snorted. With Dean distracted, he tossed the duffle bag over him, wrapped the straps around bag and brother both, and carried the thrashing bundle toward the house. "You're going to thank me for cock-blocking you this time," he muttered, as he secured the bundle under one arm, pulled out his knife, and slipped the latch on one of the kitchen windows.
Objectively, it didn't take long to find the drawing room and the glass curio cabinet that held the statue. Subjectively, creeping through a dark house, carrying a struggling cat that howled and hissed and managed to stretch one paw far enough out of the bag to open three parallel bleeding lines on Sam's cheek, fully aware that they'd lost a terrifying amount of time out in the garden, it took hours.
The statue looked exactly like the statue that had gotten them into this mess. About four inches high, made of time darkened bronze with a tiny gold hoop glinting in one ear, the cat stared disdainfully out of the case at them.
Sam shifted his grip on his brother. "Okay, I'm going to have to put you down to get the lock open and I need you to…"
Dean folded himself in half, bringing his hind legs up under Sam's hands and driving his claws out through the worn canvas, one of them catching in the soft flesh at the base of Sam's thumb.
"Son of a bitch!"
He staggered back, tripped over a low footstool, lost his grip on Dean who slammed into the side of the curio cabinet knocking it over. Proving that a cat wrapped in a duffle bag had no chance of landing on his feet, Dean hit the floor on what was probably his shoulder, rolled, and kicked the statue with one of his thrashing hind legs.
Close enough apparently.
Sam smelled a familiar acrid odor, felt the world shift sideways, heard what might have been choirs of angels, and saw his brother -- all six foot of him -- sprawled out on a pile of broken glass and tacky Victoriana.
Dean sat up very, very carefully, spat, and growled, "What the fuck have I been eating?" He spat again. "And why am I naked?"
***
Wrapped in Sam's jacket, Dean took another mouthful of whiskey from the emergency flask they kept under the front seat of the car, swished it around, then swallowed it.
"Probably do more good if you rinsed and spit it out," Sam told him, pulling out to pass a transport.
"Might do more good if I had another bottle to open after this," Dean muttered.
Back in the right hand lane, Sam snickered, relief still making him feel a little lightheaded. "You know you broke that calico's heart right?" She'd wound around Dean's bare ankles all the way down the long drive. "And if we get pulled over on the way to the motel, I'm going to need you to rub up against the state trooper and get us out of the ticket."
"Fuck you, Sammy." He poked Sam in the shoulder with the flask. "You're just jealous because I was an awesome cat."
If they did get pulled over, they'd have enough on their plate what with Dean being half naked and Sam still oozing blood from the scratches on his face but hell, they'd taken bigger risks. "You were an awesome cat," Sam agreed, took a drink, and passed the flask back.
Dean shifted under the seatbelt and scratched at the nick in his left ear. "You know what I wish?"
"Yes."
"Dude, you have no idea!"
Sam glanced over at his brother -- whose green eyes were gleaming in the intermittent light of passing cars -- and grinned. "You wish you could still lick your own balls."
--end--
Title from McCavity (CATS by T.S. Eliot and Andrew Lloyd Webber), gen (or as we like to call it around here barkley safe), 5575 words.
When You Think He's Half Asleep
"How's Dean taking it?"
Sam glanced over at the bed. "He was a little out of it until I got him back to the room then he ate a cheeseburger and went to sleep."
"So business as usual then."
"Pretty much." He could hear pages turning, hear Bobby muttering to himself, then…
"Got it! The other statue is in a place called Hartwood. It's some kind of recreated English Country estate just outside Pittsburgh."
"A living history building?"
"I guess. Be a little easier to get Dean into than a regular museum anyway."
"True." Getting Dean into a museum wasn't easy on a good day and Sam suspected good days were going to be few and far between for a while. "So he's just got to touch this other statue?"
"That's what it says."
"Thanks, Bobby."
"Just send me a couple of pictures for the scrapbook and we'll call it even."
"Are you trying to get me killed?" But Bobby'd hung up and the older hunter had just saved him a solid day of research so he took a couple of quick shots of Dean asleep on his back and sent them on.
Then he took a few more and uploaded them into a heavily encrypted file on the laptop figuring it couldn't hurt to keep a little blackmail material handy.
To tell the truth, he kind of envied Dean's ability to sleep at a time like this. Climbing into the other bed, he let himself be lulled by the familiar rhythm of his brother snoring.
Next morning, he woke up with a concrete block on his chest.
Remaining completely still, breathing shallowly through his teeth -- not that he had any other option than breathing shallowly -- Sam opened his eyes.
A pair of brilliant emerald eyes started back at him from about four inches away.
The weird thing was, the eyes hadn't changed.
"Damn it, Dean, you're heavy! Get off!"
Dean yawned, slowly, deliberately, giving Sam a very long look at a mouthful of very sharp teeth and a whiff of morning after cheeseburger breath. Then he stood and stepped back, somehow managing to channel his entire eighteen pounds through the rear paw now directly over Sam's bladder.
It was the closest Sam had come to wetting the bed in twenty-four years. He made a wild grab but Dean was faster, claws digging through the cheap motel blanket and gouging into Sam's thigh. Considering how close those claws had been to other more delicate body parts, Sam wasn't as upset as he could have been about the whole bleeding thigh thing.
"Jesus fucking Christ, OW!"
Which is not to say that he wasn't upset.
Or exactly thrilled about what he found a few minutes later in the bathtub.
"I'm going to have to get you a litter box, aren't I?"
Dean watched him from the toilet seat, boldly striped tail curled around his front paws.
"Do you mind?" He waved the toilet paper wrapped cat turd.
Dean blinked.
"Seriously, dude. Move!"
Dean settled into the classic tea-cosy position.
Sighing, Sam shoved his free hand under his brother's belly and lifted, instantly turning what had been a complacent looking tabby into a whirling dervish of teeth and claws.
"All right, I get it!" Sam sucked at a deep scratch on his left hand as he dumped the turd into the toilet with the other and flushed. "You don't like being picked up. Fine. I don't like being stared at when I take a leak, so get out."
Dean glared at him from the top of the vanity.
Since moving him meant picking him up and that had already been proven to be a colossally stupid idea, Sam sucked it up, did what he had to, and made a mental note to start closing the bathroom door. Dean was still on the vanity when he got out of the shower -- or at least his back feet were, his front feet and whole upper body were in the sink as he investigated the drain.
His head was directly under the tap.
Figuring he was in all probability already damned, Sam reached out and turned on the cold water.
Four seconds later, everything on the vanity had been spread out all over the bathroom. The soap dish had knocked a chip out of the edge of the mirror. The towel rack swung crazily from a lone screw, the bathmat had been torn diagonally in half, and one of the threadbare washcloths was floating in the toilet.
Dean had disappeared under one of the beds.
Sam got dried. Got dressed. Got the bathroom more or less -- albeit more less than more -- back the way they'd found it.
Dean remained under the bed.
"Look, I said I was sorry." Sam could just barely make out the shadow points of his brother's ears up by the wall. "You can't stay under there all day, we have to hit the road and change you back. You want to be changed back, don't you?" Stretching out an arm, he could feel his fingertip brush soft fur. A quick grab and he could…
The soft growling that had begun when first knelt down grew distinctly louder.
"Fine." Rocking up onto his feet, Sam brushed off the knees of his jeans. Dean had been a cat for less than twenty-four hours, how the hell had he shed so much hair on the carpet? "I'll go get us some breakfast, you wait there."
The warm, heavy weight scooting out between his legs as he opened the door nearly knocked him over. He stumbled, grabbed for the door jam, and realized what it had to be. Mind suddenly flooded with a lifetime's images of furry bodies lying bloated by the side of the road, he dove forward, hands out-stretched, willing to take more damage if only to keep his brother safe from the dangers of all season radials.
Except Dean hadn't actually run out into the parking lot. He was padding out a figure eight in front of the Impala, rising up a little on every pass to rub his chin against the bumper. When he realized he had Sam's full attention, he lifted his tail and sprayed a pungent stream of urine onto the closest tire.
"Yeah, I get it. It's yours." This was not Dean in a cat's body, this was Dean as a cat but some things appeared to be consistent across species lines. Sam waited by the open driver's side door while Dean sprayed the other three tires then swaggered back around the car. Given the breadth of his chest, his front legs had a familiar bow. "All right, get in. I'll grab our gear and check us out. We can eat breakfast on the road."
***
"Sorry." The waitress stopped him just inside the door. "But you can't bring your pet in here. It's a health code thing."
"I don't have a…" Sam began then remembered and glanced down to see a familiar tabby sitting beside his left foot. He was 99.9 percent certain he'd left Dean in the car.
"And I am so sorry you can't come in because you are such a beautiful boy! Who's a beautiful boy, then?"
Dean sniffed the waitress's out-stretched finger then bumped his head against her hand.
Crouching now, she stroked his side, scarlet nails nearly disappearing into the thick fur. "And he's so soft! Look at that stripy tail, and those sweet black toes!"
"He doesn't like being picked up," Sam warned her as she gathered Dean up into her arms and stood. He took a moment to admire the muscles in her thighs because as cats went, Dean definitely fell into the lift with your legs category. Not fat, but solid and muscular. And apparently the not liking to be picked up thing didn't apply to being clasped to the ample cleavage of a peroxide blonde. Not that it ever had.
"Oh listen, he's purring!" Bending her head, she kissed the darker markings on top of his head. "Such pretty green eyes! Are you flirting with me? Hmmm, are you?"
He was rubbing himself ecstatically against the soft swell of her breasts, expanding the neckline of her pink polyester uniform until Sam could see the upper edges of a lacy bra. Not so much flirting as making it all the way to second base.
"What's his name?"
"Dean."
"Dean is it? Oh yes, you look like a Dean, don't you?"
Dean's head disappeared for a moment under her uniform and when he emerged he was wearing what could only be described as a cheesy grin.
From where Sam was standing, he looked just like a Dean.
"If you take him back to the your car, I can get you some bacon and sausages for him. You'd like that, wouldn't you, sweetheart? Oops, careful." She scooped his paw out of her bra. "You don't want to get stuck in there."
It took Sam a moment to realize that the first part of that had been directed at him. "Some bacon and sausages would be great. And maybe a fried egg sandwich?"
"Oh no, I don't think a fried egg sandwich would be very good for him. Oh." Her cheeks flushed. "That's for you?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry. Dean here is just so adorable, he's very distracting."
Sam sighed. "I get that a lot."
***
When it came right down to it, Dean's eating habits appeared to have changed in only one significant way.
"I could have told you cats didn't drink coffee," Sam snickered as he pulled out onto the interstate heading east.
Dean sat on the passenger seat, facing the door, the angle of his ears and every line of his body radiating indignation.
"Hey, no one forced you to shove your paw in there."
The paw had gone between Sam's mouth and the edge of his cup, spilling coffee over Dean's fur and Sam's shirt. Further damage had been taken when Dean had flicked the excess liquid off, spraying some of it up into Sam's right eye. As far as Sam was concerned it had all been worth it for the look on Dean's face when he'd licked at the coffee remaining on his paw.
They'd just crossed the state line into Missouri when Dean rose up on his back legs and began beating on the window.
"Forget it, I'm not going to let you out, we're moving at seventy-five miles an hour."
Dean twisted his head nearly all the way around -- which was just fucking creepy -- shot Sam a look that suggested he was too stupid to live, and continued banging on the window.
"Oh." They'd hadn't passed a rest stop for a while so there had to be one coming up soon. And one thing Sam knew about his brother, whatever he was -- cat, dog, hamster -- Dean Winchester would not relieve himself inside the car. He amused himself thinking of Dean as a hamster for the next fifteen miles. If nothing else, it acted as a distraction from the constant banging on the damned window.
When he finally got the car stopped, he slid across the seat and popped open the door, yelling, "Don't go far!" as Dean leapt out and charged across the grass.
He didn't see the rusty pickup, or the three rednecks, or the dog.
At least not until he'd got out of the car and it was too late.
"Dean!"
"That your pussy's name?" Redneck number one chortled. "King there, he likes to get himself a little pussy."
King looked like a German Sheppard/hound cross, rough-coated and scarred, the evidence of a hundred battles fought and won in the way he moved. His lips were pulled back off enormous yellow teeth and his notched ears were flat against his head.
"Call off your dog!"
"Sorry, boy." Redneck number two came down hard on the boy. "Once King's got the scent, ain't no point in calling him. He won't listen."
Sam watched as King charged toward his brother, who'd flattened himself into the grass and was making a noise like a police siren. Only louder.
Redneck three frowned. "Why isn't the pussy running?"
"Seriously, guys, call off your…"
Too late.
From where Sam was standing it looked like Dean launched himself straight up and over King's head, twisting in the air to land on the dog's back, claws on all four feet driven through fur and deep into flesh, teeth sunk into his neck. King yelped, planted his front feet, snapped at his own shoulders, then proved he'd won at least some of those fights on brains by throwing himself to the ground and rolling.
When he scrambled up onto his feet, Dean was lying on his back…
…which meant all the pointy bits were facing up as King moved back in…
…and lost a part of his lower lip, a piece off the inside of his front leg, acquired four long bleeding furrows in his belly, and was very nearly castrated. When he tried to run, Dean clawed his way up the dog's side and got another grip on the back of his neck.
"Holy Jesus! Call off your cat, boy!" Redneck number two was right up in Sam's face.
"Fuck that!" Redneck number one, rummaged in the back of the truck and came up with a shotgun. "I'll blow that fucking pussy away!"
Redneck number three grabbed the barrel of the gun. "You'll hit the damned dog!"
Sam sighed, grabbed the back of Two's head and slammed it down onto his knee, drove his elbow into Three's gut, and took One down with the butt of his own gun. As he stepped back, he saw Dean strutting toward him across the grass, fur so puffed up he looked twice his size. The crashing in the surrounding underbrush suggested King was heading for the hills.
"You okay?"
Dean jumped up on the pickup's hood and pissed on the windshield.
"Yeah, yeah, you're the cat. Get in the car."
***
"Don't worry about it, Sam." Bobby sounded amused. "Tomcat skin's like boot leather, keeps them from ripping each other up. I watched a vet bounce a needle off the back off old Drake's neck once. Took him three tries to get it in. Dean's ears still in one piece?"
Sam glanced over at his brother who was sound asleep, braced in the angle between seat bench and back, feet in the air, smug expression still firmly in place. He seemed to be missing a bit of fur off one shoulder but the skin hadn't been broken and his ears looked fine. "He's okay, but it's just…" Deep breath. "It would just be such a stupid way to die."
"Ain't no smart ways to die, Sam. You should know that if anyone should. Just get him to Hartwood and that other statue, it's all you can do."
"Is he going to remember any of this?"
"How the hell should I know?" Bobby snapped, and hung up.
Sam shoved the phone into his pocket and reached out a tentative hand. Without opening his eyes, Dean pressed a paw against the inside of Sam's wrist, claws sheathed. When Sam moved his hand, the paw went with it but it didn't seem to be a threat, exactly. The fur on Dean's belly was as soft as it looked.
***
"So I assume you'll be taking your cat into the room?"
"Uh…" Sam twisted around and glared through the office window at Dean stretched out along the dashboard of the Impala, tail scribing a lazy arc against the glass. So much for "stay in the car and stay out of sight".
"Extra twenty bucks," the middle-aged woman behind the counter told him in a tone that suggested arguing would be pointless. "You can pretty much count on a tom to spray if he's in strange place and that takes extra cleanin'."
And extra twenty brought the bill up to what they usually paid for a double. Sam thought about leaving Dean in the car for the night but what the hell, John Frankfurt's credit card could cover it.
"You know," she continued, holding the room key on its big plastic fob just out of reach, "you ought to neuter that cat. Keep him from fighting, keep him from wandering, won't keep him from spraying but it won't smell so strong. And God knows there's enough unwanted kittens in the world. A tomcat's only good for two things; fighting and making little cats. I know what you're thinking; you're a man and you're thinking he'll miss his balls when they're gone but trust me, son, he won't."
"Not exactly what I'm thinking," Sam murmured, as she finally handed over the key. Although, in all fairness, he had considered removing Dean's balls on a few occasions in the past.
They were in room seven at the end of the row. Sam parked the car and opened the door. "All right, stay here until… Dean! Damn it, get back here!"
Dean ignored him as he raced toward half a dozen sparrows scratching in the gravel by the side of the parking lot. As they took wing, Dean launched himself into the air, his jaws closing around the closest bird with a snap. He hit the pavement, bird hanging limp in his mouth, then raced into the long grass.
"Look, Dean, I know you haven't eaten for three whole hours but you can't…" Too late. Sam winced at the wet crunching sounds coming out of the grass. "You know that thing's probably got all sorts of parasites and shit. You pick up a tapeworm and I'm never going to let you forget it." He frowned as a gust of wind picked up some of the loose feathers. Was it possible to catch a tapeworm off a toilet seat? He was definitely spending some time with Google once he got Dean into the room.
***
"You don't deserve it, since you already ate, but I got you a fish taco and…" Hand on the door handle, Sam froze and stared at the room's one double bed. Dean sat right in the middle of the sea foam green bedspread, one rear leg in the air, body bent nearly double, his tongue vigorously licking his own balls. Given that his brother had been a cat for nearly forty-eight hours, and given his brother, Sam was actually a little surprised it had taken this long.
***
"Dude, you're a cat. You don't need to be on the bed at all." Sam fought to get enough blankets out from under Dean's body to actually cover his shoulders. "And given that I'm not tossing your fuzzy ass off onto the floor, you can fucking share."
Dean stretched out his front paws, pressed them up against Sam's side and began to knead. Toes flexing, in and out.
"Is this your idea of an apology?"
Claws flexing, in and out.
"OW! Damn it, Dean!"
***
Sam couldn't identify the noise that jerked him out of sleep. It was a loud, wet, hacking sound -- like a swamp demon or a Hellhound torturing something small and moist. He grabbed for his gun with one hand, slapped on the light with the other and jerked up to see Dean with his back arched, stomach working like a bellows, forefeet braced against the floor, and something truly disgusting coming out of his mouth.
"Oh man, if you're vomiting up your internal organs as a part of this transformation, we're in some serious shit."
With one last wet cough, Dean got the final piece out of his mouth and backed away, drooling slightly.
Up close, the beak and the feet made the identification of regurgitated sparrow parts disgustingly easy.
"I thought only owls did that."
Dean shot him a look that suggested he was mentally deficient. In spite of fur and stripes and whiskers and no lips to speak of, the expression was pure Dean. A little creeped out, Sam laid back down again and turned off the light.
"I'll get that in the morning."
In the morning, Sam found himself precariously balanced on the edge of the bed with Dean stretched out over the greater portion. This was not the first time they'd shared a bed and his brother, in his own not particularly small body, didn't take up that much room. Sam had no idea how an eighteen pound cat could manage it.
And if he'd thought cheeseburger breath was bad, fish taco and sparrow puke reached a whole new level of gross.
"First thing you're doing when you change back is brushing your fucking teeth." Yawning and scratching under the waistband of his boxers, Sam headed for the bathroom.
"Oh my god…"
Over the course of his life, Sam had been covered in some fairly noxious fluids but somehow none of them measured up to scraping cold, regurgitated sparrow out from between his toes.
***
"The only reason I was driving erratically is because you decided you had to be under the fucking gas pedal," Sam growled rolling down the window as the state trooper approached the car. "Sit there and behave yourself while I try to get us out of… Dean!"
Hind feet on Sam's lap, front feet up on the door, Dean looked up at the state trooper and made a sound that could only be described as seductive.
"Well hey there, big guy." The officer pushed his hat back and grinned. "Aren't you a good-looking' fellow." He reached out one beefy finger and scratched Dean behind the ears.
Predictably, Dean reacted by pushing into the touch and beginning to purr.
"You got quite the rumble in the engine there, big guy. Oh yeah, that feels good, doesn't it."
Sam could feel the tips of his ears start to heat up. His brother was on his lap being felt up by a state trooper. Okay, his brother was currently a cat but somehow that didn't help.
"So, I expect your wobbling had something to do with this fellow, did it?"
"Yes sir, he was trying to get under my feet."
"They do that. Don't they, big fellow?" Scowling, but still petting Dean, the officer peered into the car. "You shouldn't be driving with him loose. Safer for all concerned if he's in a crate and that crate is secured with a seatbelt."
"He hates being confined."
"Yeah, well, I bet he'd hate being t-boned by a transport more."
"No bet," Sam muttered as Dean lifted his head to give the state trooper access to his lower jaw.
"Since the big guy here is clearly a bit of a handful…"
"You have no idea."
"…I'm going to let you off with a warning. And remember what I said about the crate. And you…" He wrapped a huge hand around Dean's head and shook it lightly. "…you stay up on the seat where you're out of the way, you hear me?"
"You," Sam sighed a moment later as he steered the Impala back onto the road, "are a slut."
Dean looked smug and bent to do some personal grooming.
***
They reached Hartford late that afternoon, drove past the gates, noted the four pm closing, and went to find a motel.
The room contained a double bed, two mismatched bedside tables, a very green bathroom, and upon emerging from the bathroom, an angel.
Castiel sat on the end of the bed staring at Dean. Dean sat on the dresser beside the ancient television, and stared at Castiel.
"A cat can look at a king," Sam said, turning back toward the bathroom to zip his fly.
"I am not a king," Castiel protested.
"It's a quote. Are you here to fix this?"
He shook his head. "Cats do not come under the providence of Heaven."
After the last three days, Sam wasn't surprised. "Then why are you here?"
"Dean Winchester is a cat."
"Yeah." He spread his hands in the universal gesture for and.
"That is not part of my Father's plan."
Sam rubbed at his temples, fighting off one hell of a headache, and sighed, "Go away."
***
Dean had not been impressed with being zipped into a duffle bag in order to be carried up the long drive to the fake manor house and his vocabulary had not suffered from the transformation. Profanity was profanity and cats swore like sailors.
Getting him into the duffle bag had been surprisingly easy. Sam had made a ball from a burger wrapper, squeezed it a few times to make crinkly sounds, then tossed it in the empty bag. Dean had dove in after it and, while he was beating it into submission, Sam had closed the zipper.
"Look, you're the one who just had to touch the coven's glowing cat statue," Sam sighed, setting the growling duffle bag down and peering around a big shrub at the house, "so quit taking it out on me." He made a grateful note of the primitive security system. "We're in luck. It doesn't look like there's a caretaker on at night. We break in. We find the statue." Not that we would be particularly accurate given that Dean was likely to be less help than usual. "Bobby says all you have to do is touch it so..."
When lifted, the duffle bag was decidedly lighter.
One of the side seams had been shredded.
Sam swept his flashlight beam around the immediate area. No sign of his brother. "Dean, come on, stop being such a fucking ass!" The urge to try a here, kitty, kitty, kitty was almost overwhelming. In the interest of keeping various delicate body parts intact, Sam resisted.
Wondering if he should just steal the damned statue and find Dean later, he froze as he heard sirens in the distance. No, not sirens. Cats.
Or possibly Klingon opera.
It was hard to tell exactly where the sound was coming from; it echoed off the house, wrapped around the multiple outbuildings, and lifted the hair off the back of Sam's neck. There was something primal about it. In much the same way there was something primal about fingernails on a blackboard.
Finally, just when he was starting to think the noise was in his head, he spotted a smug looking calico perched on top of a wooden barrel outside what looked like an old garden shed and, on the ground below her, Dean facing off against an orange tabby almost his size. The orange cat's ears had been notched in previous fights and scar tissue kept his left eye from opening more than halfway but he had the same broad chest, the same big head, the same heavy muscle, the same attitude that said bring it.
Then the song reached a crescendo and both cats launched themselves forward and the only thing Sam could see was a writhing, screaming, mass of flying fur. A few minutes later they broke apart and crouched again, panting. The whole area stank of tomcat piss and the lack of light make it impossible for Sam to see if Dean was injured.
"All right, that's…"
Another scream and they charged again. This time when they broke apart, the orange cat turned and ran. Dean raced after him, caught him at least once if the renewed screaming was anything to judge by, then the two of them disappeared into one of the flower beds.
Sam played his flashlight beam over the area but all he could see was a path of broken plants. "God damn it, Dean, get your fuzzy ass back…"
The vibration of his phone cut him off. Swearing under his breath as he fished it out of his pocket, he squinted down at the screen. Bobby.
"Let me guess," he sighed by way of greeting, "there's a time limit and if I don't change Dean back tonight, he'll be a cat forever."
After a moment's silence, Bobby growled, "How the hell did you know that? I just found the reference."
Dropping the ruined duffle bag, Sam leaned against the shed, and rubbed at his temples with his free hand. "Somehow, it seemed obvious. Dean's disappeared."
"What do you mean disappeared?"
"He got into a fight with another cat and took off."
"Well get him back, damn it! If you don't fix him by midnight, that's all she wrote."
Fixing Dean seemed like a better idea every time Sam thought about it. "How do I get him back?"
"How the hell should I know? I'm a dog man and he's your brother. Dangle a catnip mouse at him or something!" The word idjits was strongly implied as Bobby hung up.
Sam had no idea where to find a catnip mouse during the day let alone in the middle of the night while trying to break into a historical building. It wasn't something they tended to carry in with their weapons. Although, Sam promised himself, dropping to his hands and knees and shining the flashlight in under some likely looking bushes, they were going to start.
He called for Dean as loud as he dared. He pleaded. He swore. He made promises he had no intention of keeping.
No response.
Then the calico on top of the barrel made a distinctly oh baby, baby do me kind of call and Dean swaggered out into the light, tufts of orange fur under his claws.
"Typical," Sam snorted. With Dean distracted, he tossed the duffle bag over him, wrapped the straps around bag and brother both, and carried the thrashing bundle toward the house. "You're going to thank me for cock-blocking you this time," he muttered, as he secured the bundle under one arm, pulled out his knife, and slipped the latch on one of the kitchen windows.
Objectively, it didn't take long to find the drawing room and the glass curio cabinet that held the statue. Subjectively, creeping through a dark house, carrying a struggling cat that howled and hissed and managed to stretch one paw far enough out of the bag to open three parallel bleeding lines on Sam's cheek, fully aware that they'd lost a terrifying amount of time out in the garden, it took hours.
The statue looked exactly like the statue that had gotten them into this mess. About four inches high, made of time darkened bronze with a tiny gold hoop glinting in one ear, the cat stared disdainfully out of the case at them.
Sam shifted his grip on his brother. "Okay, I'm going to have to put you down to get the lock open and I need you to…"
Dean folded himself in half, bringing his hind legs up under Sam's hands and driving his claws out through the worn canvas, one of them catching in the soft flesh at the base of Sam's thumb.
"Son of a bitch!"
He staggered back, tripped over a low footstool, lost his grip on Dean who slammed into the side of the curio cabinet knocking it over. Proving that a cat wrapped in a duffle bag had no chance of landing on his feet, Dean hit the floor on what was probably his shoulder, rolled, and kicked the statue with one of his thrashing hind legs.
Close enough apparently.
Sam smelled a familiar acrid odor, felt the world shift sideways, heard what might have been choirs of angels, and saw his brother -- all six foot of him -- sprawled out on a pile of broken glass and tacky Victoriana.
Dean sat up very, very carefully, spat, and growled, "What the fuck have I been eating?" He spat again. "And why am I naked?"
***
Wrapped in Sam's jacket, Dean took another mouthful of whiskey from the emergency flask they kept under the front seat of the car, swished it around, then swallowed it.
"Probably do more good if you rinsed and spit it out," Sam told him, pulling out to pass a transport.
"Might do more good if I had another bottle to open after this," Dean muttered.
Back in the right hand lane, Sam snickered, relief still making him feel a little lightheaded. "You know you broke that calico's heart right?" She'd wound around Dean's bare ankles all the way down the long drive. "And if we get pulled over on the way to the motel, I'm going to need you to rub up against the state trooper and get us out of the ticket."
"Fuck you, Sammy." He poked Sam in the shoulder with the flask. "You're just jealous because I was an awesome cat."
If they did get pulled over, they'd have enough on their plate what with Dean being half naked and Sam still oozing blood from the scratches on his face but hell, they'd taken bigger risks. "You were an awesome cat," Sam agreed, took a drink, and passed the flask back.
Dean shifted under the seatbelt and scratched at the nick in his left ear. "You know what I wish?"
"Yes."
"Dude, you have no idea!"
Sam glanced over at his brother -- whose green eyes were gleaming in the intermittent light of passing cars -- and grinned. "You wish you could still lick your own balls."
--end--