SPN FIC - Companionship
A look back at the Stanford years -- Sam's been gone for a couple of months, Dad's gone off God knows where, and Dean is handling a simple salt-and-burn by himself. Which is just fine, until he gets thrown down a flight of stairs, and has to huddle in the Impala, nursing bruised ribs and a mostly-dislocated shoulder. All alone -- until he's not.
It's not until his nose starts to twitch and drip that he realizes that when he ran from the car half an hour ago, he left the window open.
And there's a cat in the back seat.
CHARACTERS: Dean and the cat (with a phoned-in appearance by John)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 3600 words
COMPANIONSHIP
By Carol Davis
He's been slumped in the driver's seat of the Impala for maybe five minutes, his wrenched and persistently throbbing arm cradled gently against the shredded front of his jacket, when a sneeze begins to stir to life in his head and his chest and he thinks, Not now. Oh no, not frigging NOW.
A sneeze is going to feel like a low-level nuclear blast. It's going to jar freaking everything.
The bruised ribs. The mostly-dislocated shoulder.
Don't do this.
Do NOT frigging do this to me.
He bites down hard on his tongue, chomps at it diligently, stops just short of drawing blood. The sneeze twitches and pulses a couple of times, swells his ribs enough to make him wince, then (thank you, GOD) it surrenders, and fades into nothing more a memory.
The second one bursts like a Fourth of July firecracker, creating a flood of pain that brings tears to his eyes - eyes that have suddenly begun to itch and burn.
It's not until his nose starts to twitch and drip that he realizes that when he ran from the car half an hour ago, he left the window open.
And there's a cat in the back seat.
~~~~~~~~
"Out," he mutters. "Go on. Scram."
Its eyes gleam amber at him in the darkness. It doesn't move, of course; it's made a nice little nest for itself in the old blanket he tossed back there this morning, figuring he'd fold it up and stash it in the trunk when he got to Madison Falls. He's going to have to pick the damn thing up (the cat, not the blanket; he's gonna need the blanket, ratty as it might be) and remove it from the car - but his damn ribs and shoulder aren't going to cooperate with anything like that.
"Could you -"
Of course not. Nobody's going anywhere. Not right now.
If Sam hadn't frigging left, he thinks, he wouldn't have this problem. He could have Sam get rid of the cat, then find them a motel and a bottle and some peace and quiet. Have Sam pop his shoulder back in and tape his ribs.
But Sam's in California. And Dad's Christ only knows where.
It's a comfort in some small way not to be entirely alone, even if it means doing battle with his damn allergies for the rest of the night.
"All right, then," he sighs.
~~~~~~~~
Come morning he gets a better look at his companion, and yes, it's entirely shitty of him to feel satisfied that the cat looks worse than he does. He'd imagined that it's someone's pet, but that can't be true; that cat hasn't been fed (at least, not adequately) in weeks. It looks like a scaled-down version of a fur coat draped over a bunch of coathangers.
Could be, it climbed into the car to die.
Yeah, he could open the back door, grab the blanket with his good hand and haul it out, dumping the cat onto the ground, but it peers at him from its burrow in old gold polyester with an expression so pathetic it would put Sam's best woeful look to shame.
It puts him to shame.
"What, you figured I'd rescue you?" he murmurs.
For no good reason he can think of - other than to put an end to sitting out here in the middle of nowhere, in the shadow of a long-abandoned house - he shifts around in the driver's seat, pokes the key into the Impala's ignition, and fires up the engine.
The first motel he comes to says NO PETS.
Screw that, he figures.
~~~~~~~~
"Here," he says, and tips his head toward the open doorway of Room 23B. "Go on. Nobody's looking."
The cat, lord of the back seat, ponders things for a good long while.
"Dude," he says. "I gotta stand here much longer, I'm gonna pass out on the friggin' pavement."
He's filthy, battered and bruised. That the desk clerk didn't react to that with much more than a raised eyebrow is testament to the type of customer the motel usually attracts. Good, he figures; nobody's likely to call the cops, or do much snooping around.
All that aside, remaining vertical long enough to pay for the room and secure a key was six kinds of a challenge.
Beat to shit, he thinks.
Hungry.
Thirsty.
In a perfect world, this place would have room service, or one of those magical Star Trek things-in-the-wall that produce soup, or Earl Grey tea, or an ice cream sundae if you ask them to. As it is, he's got three cans of warm beer, half a bag of Doritos and a dried-up lemon cupcake left over from his last snack stop. The cat's not likely to be interested in any of that.
Neither is he, really.
~~~~~~~~
Just as well he hasn't eaten anything; popping his shoulder back into place is like being struck by lightning, then being run over by a fully-loaded tractor trailer. Tears stream down his cheeks for what feels like an hour, then, to cap things off, he's seized by a sneezing fit.
Because he's got a freaking CAT IN THE ROOM.
Three cans of warm beer and a handful of Tylenol later, his body has stopped screaming.
Mostly.
Nobody's cleaned the place, he observes from his huddle at the head of the bed. Could be he checked in before the housekeeping staff had a chance to make their rounds, but it's also perfectly possible that there is no housekeeping staff. That if you check into this place, you take your chances. On a typical day in his life, that would mean finding an assortment of bodily fluids spread throughout the room. A nice variety of insect life.
A whole cornucopia of weird smells.
Instead, there's a box of donuts and a bottle of orange juice, seal broken but still full.
That is some bizarre shit right there, he thinks.
The cat doesn't disagree. Nor does it object to eating half a donut.
~~~~~~~~
The blare of the TV jars him awake.
For a moment he's sure the goddamn spirit followed him here. Then he realizes he's rolled over onto the remote.
Grunting, he squirms and wiggles into a sit. He's slept through most of the day, he figures, because the room's dim, shadowed. Alcohol and sugar and being thrown down a flight of stairs have turned his body into a low hum of pain, and for a while he thinks wistfully of the clean, soft beds at Jim Murphy's house.
Of lying in the dark listening to the murmur of the TV filtering up the stairs.
Of Sam being close by.
Now, his only companion is a wretched, half-starved cat.
Hydrate, he thinks. Need water.
When Sam would insist on that, Dean would mock him for being prissy, would call him a granola-eating, hippie freak health nut.
The thing is, water does help. Three times he fills, and drains, the emptied orange juice bottle; after that he feels marginally better.
There's no bowl to offer to the cat, so he fills the palm of his hand, and the miserable animal laps from it gratefully, tongue rasping against his skin.
Somehow, that helps too.
~~~~~~~~
If he was alone, he'd just sleep - let a night's worth of oblivion smooth over the rough edges of the thrashing he took inside that old house. But he's responsible for another life now: put himself into that position for a reason he still can't figure out.
Then, too, there's the possibility that Dad will call, and demand that Dean show up somewhere. That "show up" includes "able to hunt" goes without saying.
So he's got to haul his battered ass off the bed and go off in search of some real food.
Sam could handle that, he thinks.
Sam could freaking GO DO THAT. While Dean slept.
It's a small but very gratefully accepted gift that the employees of the diner down the road - and the few people who sit slouched at its battered tables - are no more inclined to ask questions than the desk clerk at the motel.
If Sam were around, they'd sit at a table and eat, but alone, Dean can't think of much he'd enjoy less than occupying one of those red vinyl booths long enough to put away a meal.
The cat greets his return with something that looks very much like a grin.
~~~~~~~~
A diet consisting almost entirely of cheeseburgers would never earn the Sam Winchester Seal of Approval, Dean figures, again sprawled at the head of the bed, his back bolstered by a heap of musty-smelling pillows as he works his way through the meal spread across the torn-open paper bag on his lap.
In fact, it would probably earn him another round of Lecture #8347, one of Sam's favorites: The Importance of Vitamins.
But what the hell. Burgers, fries, pie? Covers all the major food groups. Protein. Grains. A couple of lettuce leaves - that's a vegetable, even if they're droopy. Ditto on the fries. He's never been clear on the "Tomatoes? Fruit or Vegetable?" issue, but there's definitely fruit in the pie.
He's only lacking dairy, so on the second day, he adds a milkshake to his order.
And there you go: he's nourished. Cholesterol might become an issue somewhere down the road, but for now, he's got bigger issues to worry about than the possibly less-than-pristine state of his arteries and the distant possibility of a major coronary.
He's not likely to live long enough for his arteries to shut down, anyway.
By the way? The cat freaking LOVES cheeseburgers.
~~~~~~~~
There are drawbacks, of course, chief among them being the damn sneezing, and the fact that the cat isn't at all inclined to go outside to do its business - which is understandable, given that the weather is cold and damp.
And really, who wants to poop in a parking lot?
But some years ago, Dad discovered the value of hauling a five-pound sack of cat litter around in the trunk, and he passed that wisdom on to Dean. Stuff's great for creating traction on ice, and in mud. Add into the mix an old plastic dishpan somebody tossed into the Dumpster out behind the motel, and voila.
That doesn't do crap for the sneezing situation, of course.
Or the fact that his eyes feel like they're lined with sandpaper.
Or the fact that his nose is running so much, he's pretty sure the entire contents of his head has liquefied.
He'd think about finding a place to get rid of the cat.
But every time he turns to look at the thing, it purrs. And at night, it nestles up alongside his hip, relaxed and content.
It's been a long time since anybody wanted to be with him this much.
~~~~~~~~
For all its drawbacks, the motel turns out to be a reasonable place to stay. It's quiet and dry, the TV picks up a whole bunch of stations, and there's plenty of hot water in the shower. Because he shows up at the same time every day, the people at the diner have his order ready when he arrives, and he's able to get it back to the room while it's still piping hot.
The fourth day they're there, the cat consents to having its fur wiped down with a warm, wet washcloth. That helps with the dander situation.
He's like some crazy old man, Dean thinks: him and his cat.
Pastor Jim calls, and Bobby. He's fine, he assures them. Getting rid of the damn poltergeist turned out to be a little more complicated than he envisioned, but he'll have it all wrapped up soon. In the meantime, he's golden.
More than golden, really, because he spends his days napping and watching TV, and playing with the cat. Day by day, the shoulder feels better, as do his ribs.
The poltergeist is, actually, toast - gone to wherever it is that evil shit goes - but nobody needs to know that.
~~~~~~~~
Yes.
Fine.
People are dying out there. Having their lives turned upside down by some evil thing or other. They're terrified and blindsided, and have no idea what to do about it, other than calling the police, who are generally worse than no help at all.
And yes, every day he spends lying around the motel room is another day that somebody else is spending scared out of their wits.
What about me? he thinks.
All busted up.
Don't I get a friggin' break? Everybody else does.
It'd be one thing if this was the damn zombie apocalypse, and the world was overrun with evil. If nobody had a fair chance of getting through the day without being killed, or maimed, or eaten. But the truth is, the world is more or less the same as it's always been.
Shit happens, he thinks.
Car accidents. Disease. People falling down the stairs, or shooting each other. That's nothing he can do anything about. That'll all go on happening, and at the same time, a handful of people will run up against the supernatural.
They can hang the hell in there, he thinks.
Couple more days. A week.
The cat doesn't disagree.
~~~~~~~~
Turns out, the cat is a big fan of Bruce Willis movies. Which is excellent, because there's a Die Hard marathon on TNT - six full hours of non-stop John McClane ass-kicking - and life doesn't get much better than that.
"Never tried that, you know," he tells the cat. "Climbing up and down elevator cables. That kind of shit."
The cat seems to ponder that for a minute.
"Don't figure you have, either," Dean says. "That lack of opposable thumbs thing. I figure that might be a problem."
They've got pie, and a complete break from cheeseburger tradition: a hot turkey sandwich, which is a big hit with the cat.
Makes sense. Because, hey. GRAVY.
Life is good.
Midway through Die Hard with a Vengeance, the two of them nod off for a while. When Dean wakes up a while later, the cat is draped over his left thigh, purring as it diligently bathes a paw. Nose twitching, he runs a hand along the animal's now-glistening fur, which prompts a louder round of purring.
Yeah, okay, people are getting thrashed out there.
Let Bruce Willis handle it, he decides.
'Cause he's getting pretty sick of getting thrown down the damn stairs.
~~~~~~~~
By the eighth day, they're both looking better. Dean's bruises are fading, and he can take a deep breath without cringing. He's got to be wary of the shoulder, but it's healed before, and with some training, it'll be reliable again.
The cat, thanks to a week's worth of cheeseburgers and turkey, is looking kind of fat. Comparatively speaking, of course - it'll take another month or two of care and good meals to work it up to fighting shape, assuming there's nothing wrong with it that's not apparent from the outside. It's playful now, and will chase a piece of string or the shiny ball Dean made from the foil covering of one of their meals.
He saved it.
It would have died out there in the woods, but he saved it.
Does it know that? he wonders.
It's a little overly fascinated with watching him bathe, brush his teeth, shave, use the toilet, but what the hell.
It's not like he's unaccustomed to being watched.
The difference is - and it's a satisfying difference - that the cat doesn't comment on what it's observing.
Doesn't criticize.
It's awfully silent, though. A comment or two wouldn't hurt, even if it was bitchy.
~~~~~~~~
A couple of nights later, because there's nothing much on TV, he tells the cat about Sam. Chapter and verse, from the beginning: how he expected a little brother (a fully-formed person, about his size, able to talk, and catch a ball, and run) and instead, was presented with a mostly bald, suspicious, easily stressed-out baby.
How he carried Sam out of the house to safety, and after that, would curl around him at night to keep him warm, even though, more often than not, Sam smelled of runny poop and sour milk.
How he taught Sam to like Cap'n Crunch, and bananas, and mac-and-cheese.
How he would tickle Sam to piss him off, and was surprised each time when Sam would laugh rather than scream, or cry.
How he would help Sam with his homework, because it was a chance for them both to learn something, take pride in something.
How all of a sudden, when Sam was 15, Sam was no longer the shorter one.
How all of a sudden, at a point Dean can no longer remember, Sam began teaching things to Dean.
How Sam asked Dean to come with him to California.
And Dean said no.
~~~~~~~~
In the middle of an Oprah! episode called "Over 40 and FABULOUS!!" he begins to wonder where the cat came from - whether it was born out in the woods to a feral mother (he found one of those in the woods, a tiny white kitten, a long time ago, God, such a long time ago, out near Pastor Jim's) or whether it started out being someone's pet, and the someone got bored with it, or angry, or frustrated, and decided to dump it.
If that's what happened, then that someone sucks.
You don't just give up on somebody, for any reason, any reason at all, even if the somebody is just a cat.
"They get into trouble, we're not gonna save 'em, are we?" he asks it.
God, it's quiet in this room, in spite of the TV. For a place with cheesy plumbing and a heater that clanks and bangs and whistles, this room is awfully silent.
He can't stay here.
Won't be able to stay here by himself. The cost is adding up, after all.
Will he be fabulous when he's over forty? he wonders.
If he makes it to forty.
And if anyone honestly gives a damn.
~~~~~~~~
"Dean," Dad's voice says.
And that's it, isn't it? The end of this little adventure. Dad's got something lined up. Something urgent.
Everything's urgent with Dad, but never mind.
"Yes, sir," Dean says, watching the cat happily pat its ball of aluminum foil.
"Need you in Wellfleet."
Where the hell is Wellfleet? Dean wonders, but he knows: somewhere on Cape Cod. Haunting, more than likely; the Massachusetts coast is cheek-to-jowl with men gone to a watery grave, half of whom seem to have shown up back at home to hang out for the duration. The witch trials, the Revolution, frigging Lizzie Borden. Massachusetts is a mess.
"You buttoned up, out there?"
The rest of the question goes unspoken. Did you get your shit together and finish that job?
"I'm good," Dean replies.
There's a pause, a moment of leaden silence from the other end of the line. The truth of it is, Dad's no frigging good at being by himself. They both know it. It's why Dean stayed. Why Dean's not in California right now, with Sam.
It's a truth that shows itself in Dad's being surly. Sometimes, outright mean.
"I'll be there in the morning," Dean tells him quietly.
~~~~~~~~
He could stay, of course.
He could tell his father to go shit in his hat. To take the damn job and shove it, because the fate of the world at large is really not Dean's problem. At the very least, it's not entirely his problem, either because of what happened to Mom or because he knows what really goes on in the dark. Beyond that, he's an adult, and he's earned the right to make his own decisions.
To go, and do, and be, exactly what he chooses.
The trouble is, he has no real idea what that would be, if it wasn't this.
If he wasn't his father's son. If he didn't help people. Save them. Eliminate the things that took them by unpleasant surprise.
"I gotta go," he whispers.
The cat blinks at him, the ball of foil skewered on one claw.
It'll be good, he thinks, when his nose stops running. When he's stopped sneezing, when his eyes don't burn and itch. He's had his vacation, his downtime, and he deserved that, because he was beat half to hell, but it's over, and there's work to be done.
The allergies. They're what's making his eyes water.
~~~~~~~~
The place is full of cats. Yellow cats, tabby cats, Siamese cats. Old cats, baby cats, fat cats, skinny cats.
One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish, he thinks.
One cat has three legs. Another one is missing most of its tail, and another is obviously blind. Most of them ignore him completely, in favor of going on about their inscrutable cat business, but a few stare at him so steadily that yeah, it's creepy.
"You swear to me," he says to the woman who answered the door.
"I do," she says. "If they're not adopted, they live out their lives here."
"You swear."
"Yes. I promise."
This is not at all like surrendering your baby, he tells himself. It's just a cat.
All the same, he lowers his head and speaks to it softly. "If you hate me, I get it," he murmurs. "But - thanks. Okay?"
The cat twitches a brow.
Then, when Dean leans toward an inviting-looking chair, it climbs readily out of his arms and treads out a comfortable spot.
"Dude," Dean says. "I'll see ya around."
For once, as he drives determinedly away from the shelter, he's profoundly grateful to be alone in the car.
* * * * *
It's not until his nose starts to twitch and drip that he realizes that when he ran from the car half an hour ago, he left the window open.
And there's a cat in the back seat.
CHARACTERS: Dean and the cat (with a phoned-in appearance by John)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 3600 words
COMPANIONSHIP
By Carol Davis
He's been slumped in the driver's seat of the Impala for maybe five minutes, his wrenched and persistently throbbing arm cradled gently against the shredded front of his jacket, when a sneeze begins to stir to life in his head and his chest and he thinks, Not now. Oh no, not frigging NOW.
A sneeze is going to feel like a low-level nuclear blast. It's going to jar freaking everything.
The bruised ribs. The mostly-dislocated shoulder.
Don't do this.
Do NOT frigging do this to me.
He bites down hard on his tongue, chomps at it diligently, stops just short of drawing blood. The sneeze twitches and pulses a couple of times, swells his ribs enough to make him wince, then (thank you, GOD) it surrenders, and fades into nothing more a memory.
The second one bursts like a Fourth of July firecracker, creating a flood of pain that brings tears to his eyes - eyes that have suddenly begun to itch and burn.
It's not until his nose starts to twitch and drip that he realizes that when he ran from the car half an hour ago, he left the window open.
And there's a cat in the back seat.
~~~~~~~~
"Out," he mutters. "Go on. Scram."
Its eyes gleam amber at him in the darkness. It doesn't move, of course; it's made a nice little nest for itself in the old blanket he tossed back there this morning, figuring he'd fold it up and stash it in the trunk when he got to Madison Falls. He's going to have to pick the damn thing up (the cat, not the blanket; he's gonna need the blanket, ratty as it might be) and remove it from the car - but his damn ribs and shoulder aren't going to cooperate with anything like that.
"Could you -"
Of course not. Nobody's going anywhere. Not right now.
If Sam hadn't frigging left, he thinks, he wouldn't have this problem. He could have Sam get rid of the cat, then find them a motel and a bottle and some peace and quiet. Have Sam pop his shoulder back in and tape his ribs.
But Sam's in California. And Dad's Christ only knows where.
It's a comfort in some small way not to be entirely alone, even if it means doing battle with his damn allergies for the rest of the night.
"All right, then," he sighs.
~~~~~~~~
Come morning he gets a better look at his companion, and yes, it's entirely shitty of him to feel satisfied that the cat looks worse than he does. He'd imagined that it's someone's pet, but that can't be true; that cat hasn't been fed (at least, not adequately) in weeks. It looks like a scaled-down version of a fur coat draped over a bunch of coathangers.
Could be, it climbed into the car to die.
Yeah, he could open the back door, grab the blanket with his good hand and haul it out, dumping the cat onto the ground, but it peers at him from its burrow in old gold polyester with an expression so pathetic it would put Sam's best woeful look to shame.
It puts him to shame.
"What, you figured I'd rescue you?" he murmurs.
For no good reason he can think of - other than to put an end to sitting out here in the middle of nowhere, in the shadow of a long-abandoned house - he shifts around in the driver's seat, pokes the key into the Impala's ignition, and fires up the engine.
The first motel he comes to says NO PETS.
Screw that, he figures.
~~~~~~~~
"Here," he says, and tips his head toward the open doorway of Room 23B. "Go on. Nobody's looking."
The cat, lord of the back seat, ponders things for a good long while.
"Dude," he says. "I gotta stand here much longer, I'm gonna pass out on the friggin' pavement."
He's filthy, battered and bruised. That the desk clerk didn't react to that with much more than a raised eyebrow is testament to the type of customer the motel usually attracts. Good, he figures; nobody's likely to call the cops, or do much snooping around.
All that aside, remaining vertical long enough to pay for the room and secure a key was six kinds of a challenge.
Beat to shit, he thinks.
Hungry.
Thirsty.
In a perfect world, this place would have room service, or one of those magical Star Trek things-in-the-wall that produce soup, or Earl Grey tea, or an ice cream sundae if you ask them to. As it is, he's got three cans of warm beer, half a bag of Doritos and a dried-up lemon cupcake left over from his last snack stop. The cat's not likely to be interested in any of that.
Neither is he, really.
~~~~~~~~
Just as well he hasn't eaten anything; popping his shoulder back into place is like being struck by lightning, then being run over by a fully-loaded tractor trailer. Tears stream down his cheeks for what feels like an hour, then, to cap things off, he's seized by a sneezing fit.
Because he's got a freaking CAT IN THE ROOM.
Three cans of warm beer and a handful of Tylenol later, his body has stopped screaming.
Mostly.
Nobody's cleaned the place, he observes from his huddle at the head of the bed. Could be he checked in before the housekeeping staff had a chance to make their rounds, but it's also perfectly possible that there is no housekeeping staff. That if you check into this place, you take your chances. On a typical day in his life, that would mean finding an assortment of bodily fluids spread throughout the room. A nice variety of insect life.
A whole cornucopia of weird smells.
Instead, there's a box of donuts and a bottle of orange juice, seal broken but still full.
That is some bizarre shit right there, he thinks.
The cat doesn't disagree. Nor does it object to eating half a donut.
~~~~~~~~
The blare of the TV jars him awake.
For a moment he's sure the goddamn spirit followed him here. Then he realizes he's rolled over onto the remote.
Grunting, he squirms and wiggles into a sit. He's slept through most of the day, he figures, because the room's dim, shadowed. Alcohol and sugar and being thrown down a flight of stairs have turned his body into a low hum of pain, and for a while he thinks wistfully of the clean, soft beds at Jim Murphy's house.
Of lying in the dark listening to the murmur of the TV filtering up the stairs.
Of Sam being close by.
Now, his only companion is a wretched, half-starved cat.
Hydrate, he thinks. Need water.
When Sam would insist on that, Dean would mock him for being prissy, would call him a granola-eating, hippie freak health nut.
The thing is, water does help. Three times he fills, and drains, the emptied orange juice bottle; after that he feels marginally better.
There's no bowl to offer to the cat, so he fills the palm of his hand, and the miserable animal laps from it gratefully, tongue rasping against his skin.
Somehow, that helps too.
~~~~~~~~
If he was alone, he'd just sleep - let a night's worth of oblivion smooth over the rough edges of the thrashing he took inside that old house. But he's responsible for another life now: put himself into that position for a reason he still can't figure out.
Then, too, there's the possibility that Dad will call, and demand that Dean show up somewhere. That "show up" includes "able to hunt" goes without saying.
So he's got to haul his battered ass off the bed and go off in search of some real food.
Sam could handle that, he thinks.
Sam could freaking GO DO THAT. While Dean slept.
It's a small but very gratefully accepted gift that the employees of the diner down the road - and the few people who sit slouched at its battered tables - are no more inclined to ask questions than the desk clerk at the motel.
If Sam were around, they'd sit at a table and eat, but alone, Dean can't think of much he'd enjoy less than occupying one of those red vinyl booths long enough to put away a meal.
The cat greets his return with something that looks very much like a grin.
~~~~~~~~
A diet consisting almost entirely of cheeseburgers would never earn the Sam Winchester Seal of Approval, Dean figures, again sprawled at the head of the bed, his back bolstered by a heap of musty-smelling pillows as he works his way through the meal spread across the torn-open paper bag on his lap.
In fact, it would probably earn him another round of Lecture #8347, one of Sam's favorites: The Importance of Vitamins.
But what the hell. Burgers, fries, pie? Covers all the major food groups. Protein. Grains. A couple of lettuce leaves - that's a vegetable, even if they're droopy. Ditto on the fries. He's never been clear on the "Tomatoes? Fruit or Vegetable?" issue, but there's definitely fruit in the pie.
He's only lacking dairy, so on the second day, he adds a milkshake to his order.
And there you go: he's nourished. Cholesterol might become an issue somewhere down the road, but for now, he's got bigger issues to worry about than the possibly less-than-pristine state of his arteries and the distant possibility of a major coronary.
He's not likely to live long enough for his arteries to shut down, anyway.
By the way? The cat freaking LOVES cheeseburgers.
~~~~~~~~
There are drawbacks, of course, chief among them being the damn sneezing, and the fact that the cat isn't at all inclined to go outside to do its business - which is understandable, given that the weather is cold and damp.
And really, who wants to poop in a parking lot?
But some years ago, Dad discovered the value of hauling a five-pound sack of cat litter around in the trunk, and he passed that wisdom on to Dean. Stuff's great for creating traction on ice, and in mud. Add into the mix an old plastic dishpan somebody tossed into the Dumpster out behind the motel, and voila.
That doesn't do crap for the sneezing situation, of course.
Or the fact that his eyes feel like they're lined with sandpaper.
Or the fact that his nose is running so much, he's pretty sure the entire contents of his head has liquefied.
He'd think about finding a place to get rid of the cat.
But every time he turns to look at the thing, it purrs. And at night, it nestles up alongside his hip, relaxed and content.
It's been a long time since anybody wanted to be with him this much.
~~~~~~~~
For all its drawbacks, the motel turns out to be a reasonable place to stay. It's quiet and dry, the TV picks up a whole bunch of stations, and there's plenty of hot water in the shower. Because he shows up at the same time every day, the people at the diner have his order ready when he arrives, and he's able to get it back to the room while it's still piping hot.
The fourth day they're there, the cat consents to having its fur wiped down with a warm, wet washcloth. That helps with the dander situation.
He's like some crazy old man, Dean thinks: him and his cat.
Pastor Jim calls, and Bobby. He's fine, he assures them. Getting rid of the damn poltergeist turned out to be a little more complicated than he envisioned, but he'll have it all wrapped up soon. In the meantime, he's golden.
More than golden, really, because he spends his days napping and watching TV, and playing with the cat. Day by day, the shoulder feels better, as do his ribs.
The poltergeist is, actually, toast - gone to wherever it is that evil shit goes - but nobody needs to know that.
~~~~~~~~
Yes.
Fine.
People are dying out there. Having their lives turned upside down by some evil thing or other. They're terrified and blindsided, and have no idea what to do about it, other than calling the police, who are generally worse than no help at all.
And yes, every day he spends lying around the motel room is another day that somebody else is spending scared out of their wits.
What about me? he thinks.
All busted up.
Don't I get a friggin' break? Everybody else does.
It'd be one thing if this was the damn zombie apocalypse, and the world was overrun with evil. If nobody had a fair chance of getting through the day without being killed, or maimed, or eaten. But the truth is, the world is more or less the same as it's always been.
Shit happens, he thinks.
Car accidents. Disease. People falling down the stairs, or shooting each other. That's nothing he can do anything about. That'll all go on happening, and at the same time, a handful of people will run up against the supernatural.
They can hang the hell in there, he thinks.
Couple more days. A week.
The cat doesn't disagree.
~~~~~~~~
Turns out, the cat is a big fan of Bruce Willis movies. Which is excellent, because there's a Die Hard marathon on TNT - six full hours of non-stop John McClane ass-kicking - and life doesn't get much better than that.
"Never tried that, you know," he tells the cat. "Climbing up and down elevator cables. That kind of shit."
The cat seems to ponder that for a minute.
"Don't figure you have, either," Dean says. "That lack of opposable thumbs thing. I figure that might be a problem."
They've got pie, and a complete break from cheeseburger tradition: a hot turkey sandwich, which is a big hit with the cat.
Makes sense. Because, hey. GRAVY.
Life is good.
Midway through Die Hard with a Vengeance, the two of them nod off for a while. When Dean wakes up a while later, the cat is draped over his left thigh, purring as it diligently bathes a paw. Nose twitching, he runs a hand along the animal's now-glistening fur, which prompts a louder round of purring.
Yeah, okay, people are getting thrashed out there.
Let Bruce Willis handle it, he decides.
'Cause he's getting pretty sick of getting thrown down the damn stairs.
~~~~~~~~
By the eighth day, they're both looking better. Dean's bruises are fading, and he can take a deep breath without cringing. He's got to be wary of the shoulder, but it's healed before, and with some training, it'll be reliable again.
The cat, thanks to a week's worth of cheeseburgers and turkey, is looking kind of fat. Comparatively speaking, of course - it'll take another month or two of care and good meals to work it up to fighting shape, assuming there's nothing wrong with it that's not apparent from the outside. It's playful now, and will chase a piece of string or the shiny ball Dean made from the foil covering of one of their meals.
He saved it.
It would have died out there in the woods, but he saved it.
Does it know that? he wonders.
It's a little overly fascinated with watching him bathe, brush his teeth, shave, use the toilet, but what the hell.
It's not like he's unaccustomed to being watched.
The difference is - and it's a satisfying difference - that the cat doesn't comment on what it's observing.
Doesn't criticize.
It's awfully silent, though. A comment or two wouldn't hurt, even if it was bitchy.
~~~~~~~~
A couple of nights later, because there's nothing much on TV, he tells the cat about Sam. Chapter and verse, from the beginning: how he expected a little brother (a fully-formed person, about his size, able to talk, and catch a ball, and run) and instead, was presented with a mostly bald, suspicious, easily stressed-out baby.
How he carried Sam out of the house to safety, and after that, would curl around him at night to keep him warm, even though, more often than not, Sam smelled of runny poop and sour milk.
How he taught Sam to like Cap'n Crunch, and bananas, and mac-and-cheese.
How he would tickle Sam to piss him off, and was surprised each time when Sam would laugh rather than scream, or cry.
How he would help Sam with his homework, because it was a chance for them both to learn something, take pride in something.
How all of a sudden, when Sam was 15, Sam was no longer the shorter one.
How all of a sudden, at a point Dean can no longer remember, Sam began teaching things to Dean.
How Sam asked Dean to come with him to California.
And Dean said no.
~~~~~~~~
In the middle of an Oprah! episode called "Over 40 and FABULOUS!!" he begins to wonder where the cat came from - whether it was born out in the woods to a feral mother (he found one of those in the woods, a tiny white kitten, a long time ago, God, such a long time ago, out near Pastor Jim's) or whether it started out being someone's pet, and the someone got bored with it, or angry, or frustrated, and decided to dump it.
If that's what happened, then that someone sucks.
You don't just give up on somebody, for any reason, any reason at all, even if the somebody is just a cat.
"They get into trouble, we're not gonna save 'em, are we?" he asks it.
God, it's quiet in this room, in spite of the TV. For a place with cheesy plumbing and a heater that clanks and bangs and whistles, this room is awfully silent.
He can't stay here.
Won't be able to stay here by himself. The cost is adding up, after all.
Will he be fabulous when he's over forty? he wonders.
If he makes it to forty.
And if anyone honestly gives a damn.
~~~~~~~~
"Dean," Dad's voice says.
And that's it, isn't it? The end of this little adventure. Dad's got something lined up. Something urgent.
Everything's urgent with Dad, but never mind.
"Yes, sir," Dean says, watching the cat happily pat its ball of aluminum foil.
"Need you in Wellfleet."
Where the hell is Wellfleet? Dean wonders, but he knows: somewhere on Cape Cod. Haunting, more than likely; the Massachusetts coast is cheek-to-jowl with men gone to a watery grave, half of whom seem to have shown up back at home to hang out for the duration. The witch trials, the Revolution, frigging Lizzie Borden. Massachusetts is a mess.
"You buttoned up, out there?"
The rest of the question goes unspoken. Did you get your shit together and finish that job?
"I'm good," Dean replies.
There's a pause, a moment of leaden silence from the other end of the line. The truth of it is, Dad's no frigging good at being by himself. They both know it. It's why Dean stayed. Why Dean's not in California right now, with Sam.
It's a truth that shows itself in Dad's being surly. Sometimes, outright mean.
"I'll be there in the morning," Dean tells him quietly.
~~~~~~~~
He could stay, of course.
He could tell his father to go shit in his hat. To take the damn job and shove it, because the fate of the world at large is really not Dean's problem. At the very least, it's not entirely his problem, either because of what happened to Mom or because he knows what really goes on in the dark. Beyond that, he's an adult, and he's earned the right to make his own decisions.
To go, and do, and be, exactly what he chooses.
The trouble is, he has no real idea what that would be, if it wasn't this.
If he wasn't his father's son. If he didn't help people. Save them. Eliminate the things that took them by unpleasant surprise.
"I gotta go," he whispers.
The cat blinks at him, the ball of foil skewered on one claw.
It'll be good, he thinks, when his nose stops running. When he's stopped sneezing, when his eyes don't burn and itch. He's had his vacation, his downtime, and he deserved that, because he was beat half to hell, but it's over, and there's work to be done.
The allergies. They're what's making his eyes water.
~~~~~~~~
The place is full of cats. Yellow cats, tabby cats, Siamese cats. Old cats, baby cats, fat cats, skinny cats.
One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish, he thinks.
One cat has three legs. Another one is missing most of its tail, and another is obviously blind. Most of them ignore him completely, in favor of going on about their inscrutable cat business, but a few stare at him so steadily that yeah, it's creepy.
"You swear to me," he says to the woman who answered the door.
"I do," she says. "If they're not adopted, they live out their lives here."
"You swear."
"Yes. I promise."
This is not at all like surrendering your baby, he tells himself. It's just a cat.
All the same, he lowers his head and speaks to it softly. "If you hate me, I get it," he murmurs. "But - thanks. Okay?"
The cat twitches a brow.
Then, when Dean leans toward an inviting-looking chair, it climbs readily out of his arms and treads out a comfortable spot.
"Dude," Dean says. "I'll see ya around."
For once, as he drives determinedly away from the shelter, he's profoundly grateful to be alone in the car.
* * * * *