A Sam and Dean Fanfic.
Plot? What plot? There is no plot. Just the boys. (Oh, and no slash either. Definitely NO SLASH. EVER.) Be aware, in my Supernatural world, Dean Winchester uses language that The CW would never allow him to.
(I own nothing except my ridiculously over-active imagination. )
Of Mice And……. Winchesters????
Awareness came slowly, force of habit holding him still and silent. You just never knew when it would be beneficial, for those first few minutes upon awakening, to seem to be asleep/unconscious. Ok, so he was still at the table in the MoL kitchen, where he’d spent the night, drinking booze and surfing the net. The forearm his head rested on was damp with drool, and he could smell the morning-after stink of his own breath. He wondered how long since he’d passed out, but moving suddenly seemed like a bad idea, as pain jolted through his head and nausea coiled through his stomach. A small sound filtered into his brain. Too quiet to be his sasquatch brother. Sam could move as silently as fog when they were on a hunt, but put him in the bunker and the phrase “herd of elephants” sprang to mind.
The scratching noise continued and it occurred to Dean to wonder if Kevin had somehow slipped away from his mother, and found his way back to the bunker. But no, that wasn’t possible. Kevin had most likely moved on, along with all the other ghosts who’d been stuck in the veil when Metatron slammed the gates of heaven. So had they somehow picked up another ghost? With patience born of years of staking out dark, damp, and dangerous places, Dean slowly, very slowly, turned his head. On the table, right in front of his eyes, munching on his leftover sandwich, was a tiny, gray mouse.
“What the..?” Dean jerked his head back in surprise and the tiny rodent took off – a gray streak – disappearing two seconds later under the ancient MoL stove.
“Sam?” It came out as a squeaky croak. He coughed. “Sam?”
And there it was: the Men of Letters’ own private elephant herd burst into the kitchen, gun in one hand, iron sword in the other, and bed hair so ridiculous Dean could barely hold back a howl of laughter.
“DEAN?” Sam glanced wildly around the kitchen, obviously spooked. “Are you ok man?” He swung around, seeking out the threat. “What’s happening?”
Dean struggled to hide his combined amusement and concern at the depth of fear in Sam’s reaction to his call.
“Dude, chill. We’ve got visitors is all.”
“Visitors?” Sam turned a full circle. “Who?”
“Furry little buggers who sneak up on a dude while he’s sleepin’ and steal his food, that’s who.”
“Mice, Sam. We have mice.”
“What, did you have a stroke during the night?” Dean rubbed his blurry eyes. “Yes, mice. Well…. mouse…. I only saw one. Question is, how the fuck did it get in?”
Sam yawned as he checked out the coffee maker.
“Probably in those boxes we brought from dad’s storage locker last week.” He turned and looked at Dean, who was now squatting in front of the stove, poking under it with the sword. “No big deal, it’s time we got a cat anyway.”
“Cat? No way are we getting a cat. You know I’m allergic to ’em. I’ll get some mouse traps next time I’m out.”
“No, Sam. We’re not getting a damn cat!”
“Ok, YOU get rid of the mice then.” Sam poured his barely warm coffee and went back to his room, muttering about pig-headed big brothers who think they know EVERYTHING.
One week, and a half dozen mouse traps later, it became apparent that the mouse was actually mice. Dean camped out in the kitchen every night with a bottle of hunter’s helper and a fire poker, but even his reflexes weren’t quick enough to splat the little buggers. Sam, of course, muttered about that having more to do with the amount of hunter’s helper Dean was consuming, but the fact remained, the mice were too fast for Dean, and too smart to get lured into the traps.
Sam rolled his eyes and peered reluctantly around the kitchen door. Dean was still trying to figure out where exactly the mice were nesting, and had pulled the old stove and the ridiculously heavy refrigerator out from the walls.
“I can’t find the little bastards. Are we sure they’re not possessed?”
“No, Dean. They’re mice. Why would demons possess mice? I still think a cat would be a better option….. they’re quicker than you and a whole lot less noisy.” Dean hauled himself off the floor, where he’d been inspecting the skirting behind the workbench.
“How many times do I have to say it, Sam? Allergic.”
“You are not.”
“Am too. Remember that kitty familiar a couple of years back?”
“You are NOT allergic. It was the guy’s cologne you were reacting to. That was bad enough to make anyone’s eyes water.”
“Whatever. I hate cats.”
“Well the traps aren’t working – there’s more mice than ever. I’m going to check out that animal shelter in town.” He turned and headed out the door with Dean calling after him,
“You are NOT bringin’ a cat in here. Sam? SAM? SAM?”
Two hours later, the sound of footsteps heralded the return of the world’s stubbornest baby brother. Without looking up from the ancient book he was reading, Dean barked, “Tell me you didn’t bring a feline in here.”
“No, Dean, I didn’t bring a feline in here.”
“I brought two.”
“You WHAT?” He slapped the book closed and threw it on the table. “What the hell, Sam? I told you not to get even one cat, and you bring two?”
“I had to – they’re brothers. I couldn’t take one and not the other.”
Treating Sam to a bitchface to out-rival Sam at his bitchfaciest, Dean slowly hoisted himself out of his chair. Sauntering across the room, he peered into the pet carrier Sam had placed on the MoL war table. Inside were two tiny kittens – one very fluffy dark tortoiseshell, and the other a short-haired, caramel-and-tan striped tabby.
“Their mother died and the shelter people couldn’t find anyone who’d take both of them. They were going to put them down if I didn’t take them.”
“Scrawny little buggers aren’t they? What exactly are they going to kill?
“Well I ain’t cleanin’ up any shitty messes. I had enough of that when you were little.”
“Shut up Dean.”
Dean returned to his chair and picked up his book. “Whatever. Just keep ’em away from me.”
Sam opened up the cage and carefully lifted both kittens out, placing them on the polished hardwood floor. The tortoiseshell immediately trotted off to explore, the green eyes of the tabby glued to his brother. When the tortoiseshell had gone as far away as the tabby was comfortable with, he galloped after him, tackling him and holding him down while furiously licking his ears. Sam laughed out loud – a rare and precious thing. He watched them for a while before turning to Dean.
“We need names for these little guys.”
Dean shot Sam a disgusted look. “No. We don’t. They’re not pets, they’re here to hunt mice. They don’t need names. And by the way, how can those flea-ridden furballs possibly be brothers? They don’t even look anything alike.”
Ignoring the complete lack of logic in that statement, Sam continued, “We’ve gotta call ’em something. How about you choose?” in the hope that naming them might make Dean accept them just a little.
Looking over at the two tiny animals which were now rolling around on the floor wrestling, Dean sighed. “I don’t know….. Godzilla and Mothra?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Dude, you can’t name them after monsters – they’re kittens.”
“Godzilla’s the one that looks like he needs a haircut; Mothra’s the handsome one with the green eyes.”
Sam’s eye roll was almost audible.
“You said I could name ’em. Those are their names. End of story.”
Realizing he’d pushed his luck as far as he could in that direction, Sam dropped the subject and went about creating a bed for the kittens from an old cardboard box and Dean’s oldest, softest, flannel shirt.
Until Dean realized what he was doing. “Dude, that’s my favourite shirt!” Frowning, he snatched it from Sam’s hands and shook it out.
“Oh come on! It’s ancient and there’s more holes than shirt!”
“I don’t care. Use one of your own gigantic shirts.”
“You never even wear it any more.”
“So? I like knowing it’s there so I can wear it if I want to.”
“God you’re annoying Dean.”
“Right back at ya!”
They stood glaring at each other for a moment, till a tiny frightened meow snagged their attention. Godzilla mewed piteously from the top of a bookcase, his brother gamely trying to find a way to get to him, but failing miserably.
Tossing the shirt back in the box, Dean rushed across the room. “How’d you even get up there, buddy?” he muttered, as he reached up for him. “Shit!” He just as quickly drew back his hand as the frightened cat hissed and swiped at him. Trying again, Dean spoke soothingly “It’s ok buddy. I gotcha. I won’t let you fall.” He carefully lifted the kitten down and held him close. It was lucky Dean couldn’t see Sam’s face right then or there would have been words. Rude, anti-chick flick type words.
Later, Sam noticed, Dean didn’t even comment as he walked past the box containing two kittens curled around each other, sleeping snugly on his precious shirt.
Sam had almost dropped off to sleep in front of his laptop when he heard Dean snort. Then laugh out loud.
“Dude! Did you know tortoiseshell cats are almost always female? Like 99.9%?”
Sam stared at Dean in bemusement. “So?”
“So Godzilla reminds me a lot of you – big and fluffy and always gettin’ into trouble.”
“…And your point is?”
“Given the odds, he should have been born a girl. Just like you. Samantha.”
Dean turned to check out the effect of his words and was rewarded for his efforts with ….. a big, soppy grin.
The grin got even wider. Sam was so damn thankful to see the teasing side of Dean. It had been so damn long, that he really didn’t didn’t give a crap that he was being made fun of. Or that Dean’s face was turning pink. Sam’s grin turned into a full on chuckle.
“Dude. Cut it out.”
The glare deepened and he threw a bottle cap at Sam, whose shoulders were heaving with the effort of controlling himself. “Now say it like you mean it.”
At this point Sam completely lost it as Dean’s expression became more exasperated.
Just as things couldn’t get any more awkward, Dean squawked as the tabby kitten proceeded to climb up his leg, needle sharp claws penetrating the thick denim of his jeans.
“YEOW!!! Dude, that’s my leg!”
Peeling the tiny kitten carefully off he held him up by the scruff of his neck, in front of his face. The kitten hissed and struggled but could not escape. Frowning green human eyes bored into matching green feline eyes. “It’s not cool to stab the person who named you. Now go catch a mouse.” Dean carefully placed the tiny animal on the floor and he promptly scampered off to find his brother, paws slipping on the polished floor.
“That little guy sure can move it when he wants to.” Dean caught himself grinning and slapped on a frown. “I still don’t see how those little squirts are gonna gank any damn mice though.”
“Well they won’t right away…. which is why we’ll still need to set the traps.
“You do realize Godzilla and Mothra might get hurt if they spring those traps?”
“Oh. Right.” Sam squelched the urge to comment on his brother’s concern for the kittens. “Well…. how about we shut them in your room and then leave the traps out over night?”
“They ain’t stayin’ in my room … they’ll pee everywhere – what if they shit on my rug? Why can’t they sleep in your room?”
“All right! Jeez Dean, they’re not that bad, they’ve been using the litter box just fine.”
“Whatever. Just make sure you don’t leave those traps where they can get caught in ’em.”
Two days later, Sam shuffled into the kitchen, still three quarters asleep, to find Dean sitting cross legged on the floor holding a one sided conversation with the kittens, both of whom were tucking into their morning cat biscuits and completely ignoring him.
“See, it’s like this, you guys are fierce predators. You’re hunters, just like me ‘n’ Sammy, so you gotta track down those mice and gank ’em.” Sam’s snort of utter disbelief had his brother on his feet in seconds.
“Oh hey Sammy….. I was just…. well…” Dean rubbed his hand across his face in a vain attempt to wipe the sheepish look off his face.
“You were what, Dean? You weren’t talking to those ‘flea-ridden furballs’ by any chance?”
“No. Maybe.” Clearing his throat, he continued, “We gotta do somethin’ about those damn mice, Sammy. They got into my Peanut M&Ms”. He pulled a crumpled bag out of his pocket and opened it up. “They even ate all the green ones. Little fuckers.”
Sam’s face lit up. “Of course!” He reached out one long arm and snagged the packet from Dean’s hand. “We’ve been using the wrong bait. All the websites say peanut butter, or chocolate. But this combines both”.
Dean stood, staring from kittens to baby brother as Sam set about baiting all the mousetraps with Peanut M&Ms.
“Ok so I guess it’s my turn to look after the furballs tonight?”
Sam looked up. “Only if you want to Dean.”
He shook his head vigorously. “Of course I don’t want to, but it’s hardly fair to expect you to put up with them every night is it?”
His brother didn’t bother to point out that fairness had never entered into any discussion ever over whose turn anything was. The fact that Sam was younger always pretty much ensured everything was his turn if it involved something Dean didn’t want to do.
Nevertheless, that night, when Dean turned in, he was carrying the box which held two exhausted kittens, and a very holey plaid shirt.
Sam did one final sweep of the bunker before settling down for the night. He knew Dean had already done it, but they’d had so many visitors (some less welcome than others) recently, he was paranoid that something would find its way in.
Nothing. He swung through the kitchen to double check the mousetraps. All the baits were still in place, and there had been no new evidence of mice for over a week.
As he passed Dean’s room he stopped. Peering around the door the sight that greeted him had him pulling his phone from his pocket and snapping a quick photo. Payback for all the sneaky pics Dean had taken of him while he was sleeping – pics with his mouth hanging open, drooling. Pics with toy moose antlers sitting on his head, or a plastic halo. Pics with a plastic spoon (or worse) hanging from his open mouth. THIS was the ultimate payback. Dean friggin’ Winchester flat on his back, sound asleep, snoring his head off, with two tiny kittens snuggled right in there under his chin, also sound asleep. Their furry little bodies, one tortoiseshell, one caramel-and-tan striped tabby, rising and falling with every breath Dean took.
For a second, Sam just stood there. Because his big, badass, Mark of Cain branded brother, who never backed down from a fight, who took on the meanest, scum of the earth, filthiest monsters without batting an eyelid, had been brought to his knees by two tiny animals. But they in return, were helpless against the breadth and depth of Dean Winchester’s love and devotion. Just as he was. Just as he would always be. Because Dean Winchester was his brother, and his hero.
(Unless I change my mind and write some more)
Random fun fact. 99.9% of tortoiseshell cats are female.
Absolute truth. Would I lie to you?