fic: The Amazing Adventures of Catsiel [1/2]
Title: The Amazing Adventures of Catsiel
Ratings/warnings: PG-13; none
Characters/pairings: Sam, Dean, Castiel, Catsiel; gen.
Summary: The Apocalypse is looming, the threat of death is high, and Dean has formed an unhealthy bond with a stray cat. Sam reluctantly goes along with this.
Notes: Early last year when I was at my local ASPCA, I came across a beautiful, fluffy white cat with blue eyes. Its name was Angel. I accredit the inspiration for this fic to Angel, and also to the beautiful, fluffy white cat that I would adopt several months later, following the death of my previous cat (may he rest in peace). Cotton, alas, does not have blue eyes; however, I frequently call him "Catsiel" all the same (as well as Cottonelle, Cotton Kitty, and Kittiel; he's, uh, not really picky). Catsiel's backstory is also taken from Cotton, although I think that Cotton's had considerably fewer guns involved.
The vessel falls to the ground as Sam pulls Ruby's knife out of it (and he really needs to give it a new name, because he can't help thinking of her every time that he pulls it out, and that makes things awkward because of the whole backstabbing/working with Lilith/Apocalypse thing). That demon was the last one of a group of three that managed to corner them in an alleyway, and they probably would have been screwed if Castiel hadn't showed up and killed the first one, giving Sam the chance to grab the knife, and Dean the chance to start an exorcism.
As he wipes the blood off on the dead man's jacket, determinedly ignoring the scent, a faint sound reaches his ears. It isn't the quiet murmur of Dean talking to Cas, or the wind sifting through the piles of trash. Whatever is making this rough, high noise is most definitely alive, and most definitely not in a human body.
"You guys here that?" he asks, really taking in his surroundings for the first time. There isn't much, just a dumpster that reeks of rotting waste, a few other overflowing trashcans, and some dead leaves.
Dean and Cas have stopped discussing whatever it was that they were talking about before--something to do with Castiel's God-search, and how it really isn't going that well--and in the sudden silence he can definitely hear it, a faint mewling sound that's coming from near the dumpster.
"Yeah." Dean shoulders him aside before he has the chance to investigate. "From behind here--"
He shoves his torso into the small space between the dumpster and the wall, going blindly against pretty much everything that they've ever been taught. A moment later there's a muffled cry of, "Score!" and he emerges with bits of wet leaves and God-knows-what-else stuck to his jacket.
That doesn't really matter, though. What draws Sam's attention is the large pile of pale fur that's weakly twisting its head and wriggling in Dean's arms.
A cat. Dean is carrying a cat that's probably a disease-ridden stray, and Sam's first reaction is to cringe away, because really? The last thing that either of them need is flea-infested laundry. And that thing is sure to have something.
Then he sees the expression on Dean’s face, and he decides to keep his concern to himself for the moment. Because Dean actually looks… well, happy. Excited, like finding an old cat in the back of an alley is the best thing that’s happened to him since he got back from Hell. Which, maybe it is.
“His leg’s broken,” Dean announces, looking at Castiel. “I think he went back there to die.”
Now that Dean is out of the shadows and standing in the faint light that floods out from a nearby streetlamp, Sam can see how one of the cat’s legs is at a wrong angle, with dark blood staining its fur. By the look of it, the injury became infected a long time ago.
Castiel frowns, looking down at the cat. “That’s generally what animals do.”
Dean shakes his head, glaring at the angel. "Can't you heal him?"
"My powers are minimal at the moment, Dean, given my lack of connection to Heaven. I can't afford to waste them."
"Waste them?" Dean adjusts the cat, which lets out a feeble meow and claws at Dean’s shoulder. If that's its only protest, it must be really--as in, deathly--sick. Sam feels bad for it; at one point, it must have been handsome. It looks like a tom, with long white fur that would be fluffy if it weren't so matted, and a thick tail that dangles down limply over Dean's arm. "Aren't you supposed to care about all God's creatures, big and small?"
Castiel sighs, looking irritated. “Surely we’ve been through enough for you to not believe every word the Bible says.”
“Cas. It’ll die without you.” Dean steps in front of him and gives him that long, intense look that seems to be passing between them more and more often. “It deserves to live. It didn’t do anything, just got stuck with the shitty end of the stick. Are you gonna let it die because it got born into something that it didn’t deserve?”
Sam very nearly steps in, wanting to remind Dean that they couldn’t take care of a goldfish, let alone a cat, with the life that they live. But the more he thinks about it, the more it seems like Dean is actually comparing himself to a dying cat that he just picked up in an alley. And that’s wrong on so many levels, and it kind of makes Sam’s heart ache, which shouldn’t even be possible at this point. Particularly since he’s pretty sure that Dean doesn’t even know what he’s doing.
Dean and Cas hold that look for almost a minute, until Castiel finally breaks it with another displeased sigh. Dean grins.
“I still think this is foolish,” Castiel says as he lays his hand on the cat’s mangled leg.
“Cas, you can think whatever you want about this, as long as you actually do it.”
A soft blue glow spreads out from Castiel’s hand, making the cat look like it has periwinkle fur. It meows and twists in Dean’s arms, but he holds it steady.
The look on Castiel’s face is one of intense concentration as he carefully probes the cat’s side, healing the festering sores that Sam can see only because of the light from his Grace. The cat gradually calms, something that Sam figures is a side-effect of the angelic healing, because a stray cat should be freaking the hell out at being held down and doted over by two strangers.
In any case, it’s completely languid in Dean’s arms by the time that Castiel finally steps back, almost stumbling. He frowns at Dean as he flicks blood off of his hands. “It’s done. The cat should be completely healthy.”
“Really? Awesome!” Dean grins again, the serious expression that was left from pleading with Castiel gone. “Do you know, like, how old he is? Where he came from, any of that?”
“I didn’t talk to it,” Castiel answers with a frown. “But I can say that its age is approximately six years. I can’t learn where it came from just by healing it.”
“Okay. Six years old. Awesome.” Dean nods, carefully adjusting his hold so that he’s cradling the thing like a baby. “Good age for a cat. You don’t know what his name is, do you?”
“No. I told you, we didn’t speak.”
“Hmm.” Dean nods contemplatively. “Hey Sam, do you like Catsiel?”
“What?” he asks, because giving a cat a name usually means you’re keeping it, or at least that you’re kind of attached to it. And even if it wasn’t for the whole nomadic-lifestyle thing, the current being-vessels issue that they’re dealing with really doesn’t give them time to take care of a pet.
Plus, even if he and Dean were living out of some tiny cottage in the mountains, who the hell names a cat Catsiel?
Dean, unfortunately, takes the look that he’s giving him as consent. “Catsiel it is,” he says. “Because Cas healed him, and also, this guy has really blue eyes.” And even though it’s dark out, Sam thinks that Dean blushes at the admission that he actually notices what color Castiel’s eyes are (although Sam’s not blind; he’s sure Dean notices a hell of a lot more than that).
“Let’s talk about this later,” Sam decides to say. “When we’re not in an alley.”
“Okay. C’mon, Catsiel,” says Dean, scratching the tom’s ears as he walks out of the alley. “Cas? You spending the night?”
“No.” Castiel starts the walk back to the Impala with them anyway, shaking blood off of his trench coat and looking tired. “I have more work to do.”
“It’s midnight. Take a break.”
“I don’t take breaks,” Castiel all but growls, looking annoyed despite his weariness. Sam, for all that his opinion is worth, thinks that Dean is actually in the right here. If healing a cat-even a cat that looked like it was dying-takes that much out of him, then the line between human and angel is probably getting thinner and thinner. Which means that sleep is not a bad idea.
But of course, he also knows that Castiel is too prideful to ever admit that, so he just reaches out and opens Dean’s door for him, since his arms are too full of cat to do anything. Behind them, there’s a soft rustling that indicates that Castiel has left, following his typical procedure of not actually saying goodbye. “Please tell me that you’re not going to drive with that in your lap.”
“No, of course not. I don’t want to wake him up. That’s why you’re gonna be carrying him.”
Sam opens his mouth, and then thinks better of protesting. If having a cat makes Dean happy, then they’ll have a cat for a few days. Eventually, he’ll realize that it’s completely impossible.
After he’s inside the car, Dean leans down and carefully passes him the limp cat. It opens its eyes and blinks when it lands in Sam’s lap, but apparently the effects of the heavenly healing are still wearing off, since it gives one low “Mrow?” before it proceeds to stretch out, curl up tightly, and go back to sleep.
Dean slides into his seat as Sam strokes Catsiel. He’s fluffy, if dirty, and Sam gets the idea that he hasn’t been stray for long. “Someone is probably looking for him, Dean. We’re going to need to pick up a paper, check out the classified ads.”
“Tomorrow.” Dean reaches over, driving one-handed for a moment (making Sam wince, even though the street is abandoned at this time of night) and scratches the cat’s ears. “I’m sure Catsiel won’t mind staying with us tonight.”
“Yeah. No food, water, or litter box? It’s going to be in Heaven.” Although it already seems to be pretty content on Sam’s lap, all curled up into a fuzzy, white ball. Even if that is probably because it’s too knocked out to do anything else.
“He is not an “it.” He is Catsiel. And we’ll get him a litter box. If,” he says, anticipating Sam’s next comment, “we can’t find his owner. Okay?”
Sam sighs and shakes his head. This is one argument that he’s pretty sure he won’t win-at least not right now-so he settles back and reluctantly strokes the ball of fluff that’s made a home atop of his legs.
*
Sam awakes to the sound of meowing. He rolls over and presses his pillow hard against his face, intent on drowning it out.
Then he remembers that no, that’s not right. He isn’t supposed to be woken up by the caterwauling of, well, a cat. Because he’s a twenty-something year old hunter who makes a living traveling across the Continental 48, not an up-and-coming lawyer with a wife and a cat.
“Dean?”
“I know, I know,” his brother grumbles from across the room. “I’m letting him out. C’mon, Catsiel. Don’t run away.”
Sam hears the door opening as he sits up, rubbing the last of his dreams from his eyes. Dean is standing there, supervising the small feline shape that darts outside and out of Sam’s view. It comes back inside a moment later, trotting in happily. Dean closes the door behind it. “Well, whaddaya know,” he says, smirking. “He knows who his owners are.”
“Who?” asks Sam, heading for the bathroom. “Dean, I get that you like him. I think that he seems like a cute cat too. But have you even paused to think about the logistics of this?”
Dean bends down and scoops up Catsiel, who mews once, and then reaches out his front paws so that they’re resting against Dean’s collarbone in a sort of kitty-hug. “You’re just jealous that he didn’t sleep on your bed last night.”
“What? No. He slept on your bed last night?”
“Yes he did,” says Dean smugly. “He just jumped up and stayed there after we came in. All curled up, fluffy and warm. Purring. Didn’t you, Catsiel?” he adds in a tone that is as close to cooing as Sam has ever heard Dean get.
“Well. That’s…nice.” No, it isn’t. Because when Dean Winchester gets attached to something-as he certainly seems to be doing with this cat-he doesn’t let it go unless it, like, turns around and tries to kill him. He’s like a dog, a big German Shepherd, who has a favorite bone that he will absolutely never, ever, under any circumstances, let go of. “Have you checked the classified ads?”
“I just got up.” Dean sets the cat on the floor and stretches. “I suppose there’s no way that I can convince you not to.”
“We can’t just steal someone’s pet. I don’t care how many other illegal things we’ve done, Dean; that would be a new low.” Because scamming hospitals across the USA out of what probably amounts to thousands of dollars in medical bills is one thing. Sam can live with that. He doesn’t think that he could live with the knowledge that they drove away with some little old lady’s best friend.
(Not that they’re going to drive away with it, even if the little old lady is dead or something. Not that it’s started to twine around Sam’s legs. Not that Dean looks happier than Sam’s seen him since…well, since he came back from Hell, probably. Maybe even longer).
“Dean, sorry to burst your bubble, but I think this is it.” Sam pokes the screen of his laptop, where he’s got the lost-and-found section of the local newspaper up. “‘Lost: white cat, blue eyes. Unneutered. Deaf.’”
“Deaf? Catsiel!” Dean snaps his fingers and makes a clicking noise with his tongue, but Catsiel, who’s sitting in the corner and batting at a dust bunny, doesn’t give any sign of recognition. “Huh. I guess he is.”
“Yeah, I seem to remember reading that cats with the blue eyes/white fur combination are usually deaf. That’s genetics for you. There’s a phone number listed; want me to call?”
Dean sighs and reclines on his bed. “I guess so.”
“Okay.” Sam reaches for his cell and dials the number listed in the ad. It’s got a local area code, so in all likelihood, they can just drop off Catsiel (or whatever his name is, since the owners didn’t say) and then be off to the next job. Quick and easy, and hopefully, Dean hasn’t fallen in love too much yet.
Someone answers on the third ring. “Whadda ya want?”
The speaker is a man, Sam deduces, with a rough voice that sounds vaguely hung over. “Um, hi. I saw your ad in the Times. About the cat? Well, my brother and I found one in an alley yesterday that matches the description. I think he’s yours.”
“Hmm. Guess he is. He better be,” adds the man in a vaguely threatening voice. “Bring him to 325 Redburn Ave. I’ll be here all day.”
“Yeah. We should be there soon. Bye.” Sam ends the call, frowning. There’s something about the guy that he doesn’t like, something that just screams Dick, avoid at all costs at him.
But that doesn’t make any sense, of course. You can’t tell anything from one phone call. The cat’s owner might be a perfectly nice, rough-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside type of guy. Much as he trusts his instincts, Sam reminds himself, he shouldn’t just go out and make assumptions based on a thirty-second conversation that wasn’t even face-to-face.
Still, even as he says to Dean, “I’ve got the address. Want to head out now?” he can’t help but shake the feeling that he’s got.
*
Sam’s first sight of the house tells him that yes, he should trust his gut when it comes to phone calls. It’s little more than a shack, with a collapsing porch and sharp, rusty bits of metal littering the yard. From somewhere in the back, he can hear the sound of two cats yowling as they fight. Catsiel tenses in his lap (because apparently he’s become the designated cat holder when Dean drives) and meows plaintively.
“We’re not leaving you here,” Dean mutters, clenching the Impala’s steering wheel and glaring at the house, like he has some sort of personal vendetta against it. “Right, Sam? C’mon, I wouldn’t leave one of Bobby’s clunkers here, let alone a cat.”
As inclined as he is to agree with Dean, Sam still says, “Well, maybe it’s nicer on the inside.”
Dean snorts and continues sitting there.
“Come on,” Sam presses. “Let’s just see what it’s like, okay?”
“I think I’ve seen enough,” Dean replies, but he opens his door anyway. Sam clambers out with the warm weight of Catsiel in his arms. Managing to slam his door shut one-handed, he looks behind him and sees Dean standing at the trunk, just closing it.
“What are you-”
“Nothing. Come on.” He strides up to the porch, carefully avoiding anything in the yard that might give them tetanus. Sam follows, having a slightly harder time navigating because of the giant thing of white fur blocking his view, but he manages to get up to the porch (which looks very much like it might sink under their weight) just as Dean is knocking at the door.
The person who answers is a man with a large beer belly, a few weeks’ worth of growth on his chin, and a scowl that doesn’t look like it ever leaves. “Yeah?”
“Hi there,” Sam says, attempting to be polite. “I called about your cat-”
“That’s him.” A particularly vicious shriek comes from the fighting cats in the yard, causing Catsiel to tense in Sam’s arms. Beer Belly turns around and yells, “Shaddup! Fucking things,” he growls, turning back to them.
Another cat peers out curiously from behind the man’s leg, and Sam can see at least two more in the junk-filled room that the door opens up to. Hoarder, he thinks. A glance at Dean tells him that he’s having similar thoughts, and suddenly Sam is certain that they’re going to leave this place with Catsiel still in tow.
“Well?” says Catsiel’s proper owner, glaring at both of them. He reaches out his grubby arms. “Hand him over.”
“No.” Before Sam can question him, Dean’s got a gun out, which is shoved against the guy’s belly. “I don’t think we’re gonna “hand him over.”
The guy goes stock-still as Sam swears and says, “Dean, what the hell are you doing?”
“Something that would make PETA proud. Listen up, man. I think that you’ve got a problem, and I think that you had better get help for it. Because this isn’t somewhere to raise a pan of frigging bacteria, let alone a bunch of cats. And I think that I would have run away from you, too. And if you don’t get this place cleaned up and find some responsible homes for these cats, well…” Dean pokes the barrel of his gun just enough to make the guy whimper. “Got it?”
“Yeah. Yes. Look, man, I promise that I’ll clean up; please don’t kill me…”
Dean pulls the gun away from his stomach, but doesn’t bother to put it away. He gives the man his most withering glare. “Good. C’mon, Sam.”
Sam goes, keeping a firm grip on Catsiel, who doesn’t seem at all devastated to not be going back to his old owners. When they’re inside the car, he says, “Dean. What the fuck was that?”
“Did you see that place? We couldn’t have left Catsiel there! It’s a dump.”
“That’s not the point. You just threatened a civilian with a gun. A non-possessed civilian. Don’t we usually try to avoid that?”
“Yeah, well. Aren’t we supposed to be about protecting the little man, Sam? Including the ones that might not actually be people? And anyway, all I did was put the fear of God into him. Not like I actually shot him.”
Sam tries to think of how to respond to that, but for the life of him, he can’t formulate an appropriate response. So he just sits back, sighs, and pets the purring Catsiel, hoping that maybe that’ll make his blood pressure go down. If Dean wants to be an animal-rights vigilante, well, Sam’s not going to stop him. After all, it’s better than sitting around and waiting for a pair of angels to swoop down and claim them as their meat suits.
*
Once they’re a couple of hours out of that town, Dean stops at a grocery store and gives Sam firm instructions to stay in the car with Catsiel. When he comes back, he’s got a disposable litter box, a bag of dry food, and a large container of plastic bowls, because apparently animal rights doesn’t always equal environmentally sustainable.
He piles all of it in the back seat, looking proud of himself. “See, Sam? I know what I’m doing.” He scratches Catsiel’s ears and adds, “Right, man? I’m doin’ a good job, aren’t I?”
Catsiel purrs. Sam sighs and mutters a barely-audible comment about how Dean should have just called him Purriel.
*
When Sam and Dean stop at a motel for the night-they’ll look for a hunt in the morning-Dean immediately gets to work setting up a corner for the cat. Catsiel doesn’t seem to mind the wait: he’s just scouting around the motel room, sniffing every corner and jumping on the beds.
“There!” Dean straightens up, looking pleased at his work (even though all he really had to do was take off the cover over the litter, since it’s a disposable box and all). “All set.”
“Did you remember to bring a pooper scooper?” Sam asks, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Dean’s glare is reply enough.
“We can pick one up tomorrow,” he says. Catsiel comes up to investigate what they were setting up, and apparently approves, because he jumps in almost immediately and starts pawing at the litter. Sam and Dean turn around to allow him some semblance of privacy (because, of course, cats care greatly about that).
“You’re lucky that he even knows how to use a litter box, after living with that guy for so long. I wouldn’t think that he would’ve bothered potty-training his cats.” Catsiel definitely does know how to use it, if the sounds behind them are any indication. And the smell. Sam cringes slightly at that. He’s used to unpleasant odors (kind of has to be, given his line of work) but that doesn’t mean that he likes to invite them into his room.
Still, it doesn’t exactly smell like roses here in the first place. The motels that they squat in generally aren’t easy on the nose, even if they don’t allow pets (this one doesn’t; Dean had to sneak Catsiel in by shoving him inside his duffel bag and ducking inside under the cover of darkness). And at least the disposable litter box that Dean chose brightly claims to cancel out unpleasant odors.
Catsiel finishes up his business and heads over to where he and Dean are standing. He twines around Sam’s legs and lets out a loud, off-key meow.
“I think you better put out his food. Poor thing’s probably starving.”
“Right.” Dean goes to dig the bowls and food out of his bat as Sam bends down and scoops up the cat, who nuzzles him and purrs loudly.
Sam knows that this isn’t reasonable in the least. Catsiel will have to be left alone at a motel that doesn’t even allow animals for a good part of the day when he and Dean are out looking at bodies or interviewing witnesses. He’s going to have to spend more time on the road, and even though he just curled up nicely on Sam’s legs before, that doesn’t mean that he’s going to keep it up. The last thing that he or Dean wants is a yowling cat in the backseat or, worse, a cat who needs to use his litter box in the middle of a traffic jam. And cat food, disposable litter boxes, and all of those don’t exactly come cheap. Dean knows all this as well he does.
But…as he rubs Catsiel’s head and feels the warm weight of the fur in his arms, he can’t help but fall for the cat too. Just a little, because Sam was always more of a dog person (and he thought Dean was too, although maybe that changed after the hellhounds). But it’s enough to make him want to make him work, both because of Dean’s bizarre attachment to it, and because Sam is kind of getting fond of it himself.
*
Catsiel proves himself to be a loyal, low-maintenance companion. He’s always waiting for Sam and Dean when they come back, always eager to rub against them and shed all over their suits. He’s never too vocal: sometimes he meows when they step through the door, and he’ll occasionally comment when they first arrive at a motel room. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t just sit around and yowl to his heart’s content. They’ve never been thrown out of a motel for having him with them.
What’s more, Catsiel is entirely litter box trained, and he eats almost anything. Both of these things prove to be a great boon: even when they don’t have time to stop and buy a box, he always lets them know when he’s got to go, and according to Dean (who lets him out most of the time) he never wanders that much. Plus, cat supplies aren’t really in their budget, not with gas and ammo and everything else that a hunter needs to keep on the road. Being able to toss him a half of an unwanted burger is a hell of a lot cheaper than having to shell out for some Meow Mix every few weeks. Although, to be fair, Catsiel is actually a lot fonder of chicken sandwiches than of burgers. He really likes fries, too; Sam suspects that it’s the ungodly amount of salt that Dean usually puts on his.
Sam would never admit it, but it’s actually kind of nice to have something to…to come home to, for lack of a better word, although it’s hard for him to think of a roach-filled room as “home.” Catsiel never cares when he and Dean stumble in, all covered in mud, blood, and the brains of some twisted creature. He still purrs at them like they’re scrubbed squeaky clean. And even though it’s clear that Dean always gets the good bed in the motel room, sometimes he curls on Sam’s, lying in the crook of his legs, and Sam finds no shame in admitting that it kind of melts his heart.
One night about a month after they found Catsiel, Sam finds himself suddenly awake, even though it has to be only an hour or two past midnight. He lies still for a moment, trying to figure out what it was that woke him up: no, there isn’t a cat pawing at his chest and staring at him (something that’s happened in the past; there’s nothing quite like being a hunter who finds himself lying in bed with a blue-eyed, glowing white creature peering down at him. He’s rather surprised that Catsiel even still approaches him after that). And it’s quiet out, so it probably wasn’t a fight or a party in the room next door.
Actually…Sam focuses, listening, and realizes that no, it isn’t quiet. In the bed next to him, Dean is speaking in a low murmur.
He turns his head just enough to see, moving with care so as to not be spotted by his brother. He strains his ears as he does, working to make out exactly what is being said.
Dean is sitting up in his bed, his sheets falling loosely around him. His head is bent and his expression hidden because of the angle, but even if it wasn’t, the shadows of the room make it impossible for Sam to see much beyond his outline.
He can see Catsiel on Dean’s bed, though. He’s sitting there and purring quietly as Dean strokes him. His tail curves perfectly around his body, the tip of it twitching just slightly when Dean pets him.
“I bet I’m going back there,” he hears Dean say, and he realizes that it’s Catsiel that Dean is talking to. Dean is honestly holding a conversation with a cat, and that’s so unlike him that Sam listens all the more.
“Angels lie, man. Angels are dicks. Well, ‘cept for your namesake. Most of the time.” Dean pauses, and Sam can picture his half-smile perfectly. “But Cas is the exception. The only angel who knows how not to lie. So even if they tell me that it’ll guarantee me a spot above? It probably won’t. No, I know it’s not gonna. Just like I know what it’s gonna come down to.”
Sam thinks that his breath hitches right there, and he feels a lump form in his own throat. He doesn’t swallow or anything though, because he knows that if Dean knew he was awake, he’d freeze up instantly and deny this moment forever.
“It’s going to end with me having to say yes to Michael. And Sam taking on Lucifer. We both know it. I mean, we’re just pushing back the inevitable now.” Dean’s hand stays on the cat’s head as he stops speaking. Catsiel looks up at him and meows questioningly.
Dean laughs softly and starts petting him again. “Must be nice to not have to worry about the apocalypse, right, Catsiel? Or about how you’re gonna end up back in Hell after all this. Back on the rack. Or maybe not; maybe they’re gonna make me pick up where I left off…” Dean’s voice fades, and Sam thinks that he’s said everything that he’s going to, but then he continues, “Wish I didn’t dream about it, anyway. I mean, I’ll be there soon enough. How come I’ve gotta dream about it here too, huh?”
Catsiel gives a small, plaintive meow and butts his head against Dean, rubbing comfortingly against him, like he can really understand what Dean is saying. Dean makes a noise that could pass as a laugh or a sob.
Sam looks away, feeling like he’s violating his brother’s privacy by actually watching this. Even so, he lies still until the first ray of sun creeps through the thin blinds, listening. Dean doesn’t say anything more, though. At some point he must lie down and go back to sleep, because his breathing eventually falls into the even pattern saved solely for the slumbering. And though he doesn’t look, Sam knows that Catsiel stays with him through the night: there’s no telltale thump of him jumping down to the carpet.
When he finally gives in and glances over as he stretches and gets up, knowing that he won’t get anymore sleep for the night, he sees that Catsiel is lying against Dean’s back. Somehow he looks like he’s guarding Dean, protecting him from those nightmares that Dean refuses to talk to Sam about.
After that night Sam can’t bring himself to suggest to Dean that they find Catsiel a new home. Not even jokingly. Because the slew of problems that having a cat can result in are nothing compared to seeing his brother find some semblance of comfort after a nightmare, have something to be there as things slowly get worse. That’s priceless, and Sam wouldn’t ever deny him that.
Part II