And I'll be the one to protect you (Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester)
Title: And I'll be the one to protect you
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4278
Disclaimer: Tragically untrue.
Summary: Sammy gets a new pet.
Dad had stashed them in a town just a couple over from where he'd be hunting, not too far but far enough away that he wouldn't spend the couple of hours every night he'd find for sleep worrying about whether Sam or Dean would be next on the monster of the week's list.
It's only a motel because it's a pretty routine case, from what Dad has figured. A place set back from the highway, surrounded by kudzu and ivy and so run down that at first glance, it seems abandoned. Sam showers immediately just to wash all of the possible diseases he'd caught between the car and the shower. He takes his time, scrubbing over his skin with the bar of soap he keeps in a ziplock bag in his duffel, a bag that is sticky with dried soap bubbles and damp from where he always shoves the soap back and zips it up imperfectly in his hurry to get back on the road. He sighs as he steps out and grabs for the scratchy towel lazily folded on the back of the toilet, gritting his teeth as it scratches over his skin, taking only some of the water with it. He steps out of the bathroom to find Dean standing at the foot of one of the beds, a can of Lysol aimed at the ceiling and misting out some artificially clean scent all over the place, the whole room hazy and perfumed with half the can's contents already. Sam coughs as he sucks a healthy lungful in, drawing Dean's attention over to Sam, Dean's face a mask of guilt and embarrassment.
"What?" Dean's shoulders hunch up defensively and he tosses the mostly empty bottle on the bed before turning his back to Sam and rifling through his bag. "It smelled like a whore's crotch in here."
Dean is fifteen and looks eighteen, maybe nineteen after a couple of days of not shaving, and Sam knows for a fact that he's had girls at least that old. But he highly doubts that Dean's ever had to pay anyone for anything sexual and is hardly an expert on what whores smell like anywhere. He lets it go and doesn't needle him because he doesn't want to start their unnamed amount of time here off with a bitchfest. Sam changes into a fresh pair of clothes that still faintly smell clean from the laundromat he and Dean had hit a couple of days before and that feel warm from being in his bag in the warm backseat of the car. He drags his fingers through his floppy hair and turns just in time to see Dean tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it back at Sam.
"Shower!" He calls needlessly and shuts the bathroom door, leaving Sam alone in the main room. He sighs and flops down on the bed, hair falling damp in his eyes as he turns on the TV and flips through the channels with no intention of stopping on any of them. At first when he hears the tiny sound, he thinks it's coming from the television speakers. He mashes his thumb down on the mute button and sits silently, hearing nothing but the faint rush of the shower and Dean's muffled singing of some song he'd be embarrassed to let Sam or anyone know that he knew. He's about to give up and keep channel hopping when he hears it again, more clearly this time, coming from outside the room, just outside the door. A tiny prrowing sound, an unmistakable sound. He flips the power off on the TV, his eyes on the door in narrowed, green slits as he slinks closer and closer, seeing the tiny shadow underneath the bottom of the door, backlit by the sinking sun. He unlocks the door without a sound and slowly, slowly turns the knob, his heart about to beat out of his chest. He gets it open just enough to stick his head out and he does, inch by inch, his eyes sliding down to the walkway and sure enough there it is, just exactly what he'd thought.
Its eyes are big and green, just as needy and desperate as his own can get when he's hungry and he wonders if this is the look that Dean is so used to being on the receiving end of, the one he sighs about every time he gives in because he always gives in. It's just a regular looking cat, a brownish grayish tabby with black stripes and a pink nose and a tail that hooks toward its head in a sort of question mark that matches the sounds it's making. It arches up its back as it rubs against the door frame and then toddles over to rub around the wrought-iron beam supporting the awning, its eyes darting back to Sam from time to time. He steps outside cautiously, looking around the parking lot and seeing nothing, no one, not even a car. He closes the door behind him and kneels down on the rough, ancient doormat, making a shy little 'c'mere' sound meant for domestic animals everywhere, one ingrained in all people, it seems. The cat, just barely a cat, newly not a kitten anyway, immediately starts to purr and hurries back toward Sam, its meows more insistent now and followed by at least two question marks. It meets his eyes and Sam reaches out a hand, an unsure one with slightly curled fingers and the cat seems undeterred by Sam's lack of familiarity with furry creatures that don't try to rip his heart out and it rubs its face all over Sam's fingers and knuckles, its purr so loud that it's all Sam can hear.
He smiles to himself, smiles for the first time in what feels like weeks and he plops down on his butt right there, both of his hands out in earnest as he strokes the cat's back and scritches over its cheeks. They are immediate and true best friends.
He hears a rustle in the room, muted sounds and the growl of Dean's voice and before he can even react Dean is ripping the front door open, panic in his voice as he barks out "Sammy!" and is nearly tripping over the boy he's envisioning stolen and eaten and. God.
"Dean! I'm okay. Look!" Sam lifts the cat that is now in his lap up by its front to show it to Dean. The cat, docile and sweet with all the attention it's getting blinks lazily up at Dean, its front legs straight out in front of it from the way Sam is holding it and it doesn't seem like it could care less. Sam beams at him proudly. "A kitty!"
"Uh-huh," is all Dean replies and he glares at the cat, his mind racing back through the pages of his Dad's journal, digging mentally through lore for a creature that lures young boys in with purrs and pink noses only to chew through their chests in the dead of night to get to their hearts. When he comes up with nothing, he kneels behind Sam and stares at the cat that has gone back to cuddle with Sam, that is headbutting Sammy's chest now and Sam is curled up around it with a happy sigh.
"His name is Tommy. Like the White Ranger!" Sam informs him and Dean almost smiles, secretly glad that Sam is still at the age where he names things after superheroes, even if they're superheroes as lame as the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.
"No. His name is cat that lives at the worst motel in Iowa and is therefore not our problem. C'mon, get up before you catch something I can't cure." He hooks his hands under Sam's arms much like Sam had done to Tom--that cat's earlier and he tries to heft him up. Sam clings to the cat in his arms and scrambles to his feet, turning to look at Dean with the most heartbreakingly imploring face he's ever seen and it's completely earnest. Dean sucks in a deep breath and prepares for battle even as he feels his resolve breaking bit by bit.
"Dean," Sam says softly, his eyes bright with tears before he pushes his face down into Tommy's soft fur. "He's got nobody. He doesn't even have a big brother. He's hungry. And it's gonna get cold tonight. Please? Can't we just let him in for a little bit?"
Dean grits his teeth and glares out at the parkinglot, at the world that has abandoned this cat and driven it up to their doorstep and at the world that lets his sweet-hearted baby brother identify with such a pathetic creature. "Fine," he rasps, making his voice as grudging as possible but his eyes are soft as Sam hurries past him into the room again, Tommy in tow. He sets the cat down gingerly on the bed and Tommy hops down immediately, staring up at Dean like it's correctly identified him as the source of income here and therefore the one in charge and it gives him that same adorable little prrrow of sound that it had given Sam earlier. He sighs again, his shoulders slumping.
"I'm gonna walk back down the highway a bit. I saw a gas station that had a diner attached. I'm starved." He grabs his jacket and shoves his wallet into his backpocket, waiting for Sam to respond but Sam is digging around through his bag until he comes up with a small plastic bag, smiling proudly. He fishes out a half-eaten Slim Jim and tears a piece off, setting it down in front of Tommy who sniffs at it curiously and then lifts a paw to bat at it, not trusting it as food. Dean shakes his head. "I'll be back, kid."
Sam doesn't even look up, his eyes focused and soft on his new pet. Dean closes the door and starts the long walk up the empty road.
--
When Dean returns he finds Sam at the foot of his bed watching Home Improvement, laying on his belly, elbows dug in the mattress, chin in his hands, his scrawny legs bent at the knee, bare feet swinging in the air. There, settled into the small of his back like it was born to be just there, is Tommy curled up, sleeping peacefully. Dean plunks the bags, some plastic and some paper, on the tiny table in the corner and the sound startles Tommy, makes him dig his nails into Sam's back as he jumps and hides under the bed. Sam is on the ground in seconds, lifting the blanket and trying to coax him out.
"It's okay, baby. It's okay! It's just Dean. Dean's our brother. He's the one that protects us. He won't hurt you. Come out, okay?"
"I am not that cat's brother, got it?" Dean pulls out french fries and styrofoam containers of BLTs and fat juicy burgers from the white bags and a couple of big bottles of water, some hand soap and a small bag of cat food from the plastic ones. Sam finally looks up at Dean and sees the bag of Friskies immediately, his face softening into something that is only ever meant for Dean, always. He crosses the room quickly and wraps his arms around Dean's waist, burying his face into Dean's chest. Dean umpfs at the right time and rests a hand on Sam's back, rubbing it with a little smile on his face. "Well. Couldn't let the little fuzzball live on Slim Jims, could I? Don't want him to turn out lookin' like you."
"Thank you, Dean." Sam lifts his head, chin digging into Dean's chest and his eyes are bright and happy and Dean feels like he did something amazing, something great, just like he always does when he earns that look from Sammy. He swipes a hand through Sam's thick hair, moving it back from his forehead before he untangles himself from his monkey of a baby brother, peeling his jacket off his now sweaty body.
"Just put down a little pile for him on the floor. I'll get him some water." He wanders around the motel room, looking for anything that would substitute as a bowl when he snaps his fingers, his eyes lighting up. He tears off the lid from the box containing his burger and fills it with water from the sink, carrying it oh-so-carefully across the room and setting it down slowly next to the little pile of food Sammy put on a napkin--damnit, why is that kid so fucking cute?-- on the floor next to Sam's bed. Tommy waits until Sam and Dean are sitting at the table with their own food before he ventures out from under the bed, all the delicious smells in the room drawing him out and he finds the food. He starts in on it immediately, sharp little teeth cracking into the hard bits quickly and Dean has to admit that his heart warms when he hears the sound of the little thing purring from all the way across the room. Sam grins at Tommy and then up at Dean, so pleased with himself and with all the world at the moment and he takes a big happy bite out of his BLT. Dean feels like he's just solved world hunger.
They settle into a kind of happy domesticity for nearly two weeks, Tommy fattening slowly from the little piles of food that Sam keeps constantly by his bed and he circles and makes urgent little sounds by the door when he needs to go out and do his kitty business. He's Sam's shadow, his constant companion, just like a little dog or something, following him even into the bathroom where Sam claims he loves to watch the water when he flushes. The cat dozes on Sam's bed and plays with peppermints wrapped in cellophane from Sam and Dean's lunches from the diner up the road, batting them across the short carpet and flying after them, crashing into walls and the nightstand and doors to capture his prize. He watches Dean with bright green eyes that match Sam's almost exactly, watches him watching TV and wiggles his butt and pounces at Dean's socked toes as they move idly. Dean fights it and bitches but gives in almost too quickly and soon Tommy is sleeping on Dean's lap and Dean is giving him the mother of all kitty massages across his tiny neck and shoulders and Tommy is officially in love with Dean.
Dean finds Tommy and Sam joining him in his bed more often than not, Tommy coming first and then Sam following to be closer to his cat and Dean doesn't sleep well but he finds himself smiling at the two content creatures stretched across him, dead to the world and kept safe by him. He pets Sam just like he pets Tommy, scritching across his head and soft behind his ears and Sam has never ever looked so happy to be in a shithole in BFE.
Dad comes back unannounced at 1:37 on a Thursday afternoon, bursting in the door, smelling foreign, of the road and lightly of beer and not at all of the little haven they've dug out here, of kitty food and Lysol and bacon and Slim Jims. Sam stares at him in abject horror, as if the idea of Dad has been lurking in the back of his mind and now here he is, the culmination of his nightmares. Dean looks up from the comic book he's reading and immediately moves to sit up straight, back on the clock.
"Get your shit, boys. We're on the road in ten. Gotta be at Bobby's tomorrow night."
"Yessir." He stares at the door when Dad shuts it, leaving them alone again. Dean is still in his pajamas, his heart breaking like it always does when he has to pack up after having a few days with just him and Sammy. It always feels like he's built a mansion out of sand or out of Legos, a big one with windows and balconies and plaster moldings and Dad is asking him to kick it down, to tear it all apart and get a move on without even stopping to take a look at his handiwork, to tell Dean good job or to even give him a damn moment of silence for the loss of what he's had. He's naked and dressed in work clothes and halfway done packing before he hears Sam crying, just a very soft, apologetic sound across the room and he turns to find him with his face buried in Tommy's soft fur, thin arms clutching the poor, confused cat.
Dean's across the room in a shot, crouching down beside the bed with his hand on Sam's arm. "Sam. We gotta go. Come on, get your stuff."
"Dean." His voice is shaky, broken and watery and more thoroughly heartbroken than Dean has ever, ever heard it. He drops to his knees under the weight of the pain in his chest. He hears Sam kissing across Tommy's little head, his tiny kitten nose nudging Tommy's matching one. "I can't leave him here. I can't just leave him. He's so little. He needs me. He needs you."
"Sammy," he says, rough and pained and his hand moves up to pet Sam's hair. "Sammy, we gotta go. You knew this was gonna happen. You knew he couldn't come with us. There's no place in that car for a cat."
"But maybe. Maybe I can talk to Dad. Maybe we can take him to Uncle Bobby's. Uncle Bobby can take care of him. Right?" Sam's eyes are red-rimmed, unspeakably green and hopeful. Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him no.
"Maybe. Get dressed and get your stuff together. I'll." He looks back at the closed beige door, imagining their impatient father on the other side. "I'll go talk to Dad."
"Thank you." Sam's arms are around his neck, second hug in as many weeks and Dean returns it this time, just for a second.
"Don't thank me yet. Up'n at 'em, kid." He gives Sam a squeeze and stands up, looking down at Tommy faithfully perched on the bed beside Sam, staring up at Dean questioningly, his tail moving back and forth across the mattress. Dean scratches the top of his head and sucks in a sigh, keeping it in his chest as he grabs up his bag and shoulders out the front door, looking at his father's back as he drops his bag in the open trunk, trying to decipher his mood by the set of his shoulders. Tired and hungry and annoyed, if he guesses right.
"Uh. Hey, Dad. Can I talk to you real quick? Sammy'll be out in a minute."
Dad opens his eyes from where he had apparently been dozing as he leaned back on the driver's door and he raises his eyebrows at Dean. It's as much of a cue for Dean to speak as any.
Dean draws a deep breath and stands up straight, his hands shoved into his pockets. He tries to sound grown-up, responsible, like he's asking him a favor as a fellow man and not as his fifteen-year-old son with an aching heart for his little brother on the other side of that brick wall who wants so badly to keep something for himself, for once. "Listen, uh. This, um." He swallows. He already knows exactly how this is going to play out.
"A. A cat showed up here a little bit ago and. And we've been feeding it and Sammy loves it, Dad. Man, he pets it and he even gave it a bath with this flea shampoo and got all crazy scratched up because of it but he didn't get upset the whole time and he just. He loves this thing an--"
"No."
Dean stares up at him with an open mouth, knowing he should close it and stop his campaign and get in the damn car but he doesn't really know how. It's Sam.
"But Dad, I--"
"The answer's no, son. I'm sorry. There's no way we can have anything with us, ever. How could we keep a cat in that car?"
"Well." Dean looks around the parkinglot, squinting into the dying light, his fingers scratching over the back of his head. "Well, maybe we can just take it to Bobby's. Bobby has a big ol' house and I'm sure he wouldn't mind--"
"Dean. You have two minutes to get Sam out here and in the car or I'm going in."
"Dad--"
"Now, Dean!"
Dean startles at that, shocked back into himself and he hurries back toward the room, opening the door slowly and Sam is already dressed, already done packing, a tiny flicker of a hopeful smile on his face as he looks up at Dean. The cat food is in a bag hanging from Sam's hand, and Dean can see the outline of a few peppermints and the old shoestring that served as Tommy's toys. Sam's face falls when he sees the look on Dean's and his eyes overflow with tears. He lets out a sob that makes Dean feel like he's been shot in the chest and he reaches out uselessly for Sam.
"Sammy, I'm."
Sam breaks out into a run and pushes past Dean to get outside and Dean follows him, closing the door behind him so Tommy doesn't venture out.
"Dad, please you don't understand. Tommy's our family now too and he needs us to feed him and protect him and there's nothing else out here and he'll get hurt 'cause there's so many cars and he doesn't know any better and--"
Dad sighs, such a tired sound that Dean almost feels bad for him but he holds his ground behind Sam, a hand on his shoulder and his muscles tensed to protect him from Dad, if he needs to.
"I'm sorry, son. I really am. The cat's staying here and that's the end of the discussion. Now say your goodbyes and get in the car. That's an order."
"Daddy, please." Sam sobs again and Dean closes his eyes, hiding his own tears and he can only grip Sam's shoulder harder, gritting his teeth so hard he swears they're going to crack at any minute.
"Sam. Now. Get your bag. That's the last time I'm saying it."
"No." Sam's voice is trembling but he's in his fighting mode, Dean can hear it. He looks up at their dad who is stalking toward them now and he braces for impact, braces to move Sam behind him. "No, I'm not leaving without him. I'm not!"
"Like hell you're not. Sam, don't make me--"
"You can't make me leave! You can't make me!"
Dad's hand is making contact with Sam's cheek before Dean can even realize it, his calloused knuckles and the wide span of the back of his hand landing hard across Sam's tender, tear-stained cheek, the force of it snapping Sam's head to one side on his neck, the loud crack of the sound the ugliest sound Dean has ever heard. He springs into action then, turning his body and Sam's away from Dad, shielding him as he leans down over Sam and strokes his burning cheek, making soft, shushing sounds over Sam's quiet sobs.
"Sammy, go get your bag and say goodbye. Please. I'll go talk to the lady at the desk and tell her Tommy's in here, okay? She'll take care of him. I promise. Please go get your bag, okay?"
Sam nods just once and pushes into the hotel room where Dean can hear him let loose a loud, hurt sob that he wouldn't dare make in front of Dad, would never give him the satisfaction of hearing it. Dean is turning to face his dad as soon as the snick of the closing door hits his ears and his eyes are clear, focused and bright with fury.
"If you ever touch that boy again I'll kill you." He shoves John as hard as he can, his teeth gritted, eyes boring into his father's. "I'll kill you!"
He stands his ground, his shoulders back, daring John to come back at him, to say anything, to make a move. He knows he will get his ass handed to him by his father on any given day, on any normal day, but today is not normal. His protective anger alone would drive their dad down into the fucking gravel and he doesn't break eye contact until Dad is backing up and sinking down into the car. Dean stalks off toward the front desk, using all his charms as a boy and a man and his last fifty dollars to get Lydia at the desk to promise him she would take Tommy home and take care of him. He leaves the key and with her promise and by the time he gets back, Sam is already sitting in the backseat, his eyes down, tears still falling silently.
Dean climbs in next to him and wraps an arm around his neck, letting Sam curl up against him, letting him press his damp face into Dean's neck and he pets him just like he has been lately, feather-light strokes over his scalp and tucking his hair behind his ears. About half an hour on the road and Sam goes quiet against him, goes soft and breathing like he does when he's asleep and then and only then does Dean look up at his father, at John's reflection in the rearview. John's tired eyes meet his own. They lock and hold for just a few seconds before John lowers his gaze, the only apology either he or Sam will get.
Sam never brings up Tommy again and he stops watching the Power Rangers.
Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4278
Disclaimer: Tragically untrue.
Summary: Sammy gets a new pet.
Dad had stashed them in a town just a couple over from where he'd be hunting, not too far but far enough away that he wouldn't spend the couple of hours every night he'd find for sleep worrying about whether Sam or Dean would be next on the monster of the week's list.
It's only a motel because it's a pretty routine case, from what Dad has figured. A place set back from the highway, surrounded by kudzu and ivy and so run down that at first glance, it seems abandoned. Sam showers immediately just to wash all of the possible diseases he'd caught between the car and the shower. He takes his time, scrubbing over his skin with the bar of soap he keeps in a ziplock bag in his duffel, a bag that is sticky with dried soap bubbles and damp from where he always shoves the soap back and zips it up imperfectly in his hurry to get back on the road. He sighs as he steps out and grabs for the scratchy towel lazily folded on the back of the toilet, gritting his teeth as it scratches over his skin, taking only some of the water with it. He steps out of the bathroom to find Dean standing at the foot of one of the beds, a can of Lysol aimed at the ceiling and misting out some artificially clean scent all over the place, the whole room hazy and perfumed with half the can's contents already. Sam coughs as he sucks a healthy lungful in, drawing Dean's attention over to Sam, Dean's face a mask of guilt and embarrassment.
"What?" Dean's shoulders hunch up defensively and he tosses the mostly empty bottle on the bed before turning his back to Sam and rifling through his bag. "It smelled like a whore's crotch in here."
Dean is fifteen and looks eighteen, maybe nineteen after a couple of days of not shaving, and Sam knows for a fact that he's had girls at least that old. But he highly doubts that Dean's ever had to pay anyone for anything sexual and is hardly an expert on what whores smell like anywhere. He lets it go and doesn't needle him because he doesn't want to start their unnamed amount of time here off with a bitchfest. Sam changes into a fresh pair of clothes that still faintly smell clean from the laundromat he and Dean had hit a couple of days before and that feel warm from being in his bag in the warm backseat of the car. He drags his fingers through his floppy hair and turns just in time to see Dean tugging his shirt over his head and tossing it back at Sam.
"Shower!" He calls needlessly and shuts the bathroom door, leaving Sam alone in the main room. He sighs and flops down on the bed, hair falling damp in his eyes as he turns on the TV and flips through the channels with no intention of stopping on any of them. At first when he hears the tiny sound, he thinks it's coming from the television speakers. He mashes his thumb down on the mute button and sits silently, hearing nothing but the faint rush of the shower and Dean's muffled singing of some song he'd be embarrassed to let Sam or anyone know that he knew. He's about to give up and keep channel hopping when he hears it again, more clearly this time, coming from outside the room, just outside the door. A tiny prrowing sound, an unmistakable sound. He flips the power off on the TV, his eyes on the door in narrowed, green slits as he slinks closer and closer, seeing the tiny shadow underneath the bottom of the door, backlit by the sinking sun. He unlocks the door without a sound and slowly, slowly turns the knob, his heart about to beat out of his chest. He gets it open just enough to stick his head out and he does, inch by inch, his eyes sliding down to the walkway and sure enough there it is, just exactly what he'd thought.
Its eyes are big and green, just as needy and desperate as his own can get when he's hungry and he wonders if this is the look that Dean is so used to being on the receiving end of, the one he sighs about every time he gives in because he always gives in. It's just a regular looking cat, a brownish grayish tabby with black stripes and a pink nose and a tail that hooks toward its head in a sort of question mark that matches the sounds it's making. It arches up its back as it rubs against the door frame and then toddles over to rub around the wrought-iron beam supporting the awning, its eyes darting back to Sam from time to time. He steps outside cautiously, looking around the parking lot and seeing nothing, no one, not even a car. He closes the door behind him and kneels down on the rough, ancient doormat, making a shy little 'c'mere' sound meant for domestic animals everywhere, one ingrained in all people, it seems. The cat, just barely a cat, newly not a kitten anyway, immediately starts to purr and hurries back toward Sam, its meows more insistent now and followed by at least two question marks. It meets his eyes and Sam reaches out a hand, an unsure one with slightly curled fingers and the cat seems undeterred by Sam's lack of familiarity with furry creatures that don't try to rip his heart out and it rubs its face all over Sam's fingers and knuckles, its purr so loud that it's all Sam can hear.
He smiles to himself, smiles for the first time in what feels like weeks and he plops down on his butt right there, both of his hands out in earnest as he strokes the cat's back and scritches over its cheeks. They are immediate and true best friends.
He hears a rustle in the room, muted sounds and the growl of Dean's voice and before he can even react Dean is ripping the front door open, panic in his voice as he barks out "Sammy!" and is nearly tripping over the boy he's envisioning stolen and eaten and. God.
"Dean! I'm okay. Look!" Sam lifts the cat that is now in his lap up by its front to show it to Dean. The cat, docile and sweet with all the attention it's getting blinks lazily up at Dean, its front legs straight out in front of it from the way Sam is holding it and it doesn't seem like it could care less. Sam beams at him proudly. "A kitty!"
"Uh-huh," is all Dean replies and he glares at the cat, his mind racing back through the pages of his Dad's journal, digging mentally through lore for a creature that lures young boys in with purrs and pink noses only to chew through their chests in the dead of night to get to their hearts. When he comes up with nothing, he kneels behind Sam and stares at the cat that has gone back to cuddle with Sam, that is headbutting Sammy's chest now and Sam is curled up around it with a happy sigh.
"His name is Tommy. Like the White Ranger!" Sam informs him and Dean almost smiles, secretly glad that Sam is still at the age where he names things after superheroes, even if they're superheroes as lame as the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.
"No. His name is cat that lives at the worst motel in Iowa and is therefore not our problem. C'mon, get up before you catch something I can't cure." He hooks his hands under Sam's arms much like Sam had done to Tom--that cat's earlier and he tries to heft him up. Sam clings to the cat in his arms and scrambles to his feet, turning to look at Dean with the most heartbreakingly imploring face he's ever seen and it's completely earnest. Dean sucks in a deep breath and prepares for battle even as he feels his resolve breaking bit by bit.
"Dean," Sam says softly, his eyes bright with tears before he pushes his face down into Tommy's soft fur. "He's got nobody. He doesn't even have a big brother. He's hungry. And it's gonna get cold tonight. Please? Can't we just let him in for a little bit?"
Dean grits his teeth and glares out at the parkinglot, at the world that has abandoned this cat and driven it up to their doorstep and at the world that lets his sweet-hearted baby brother identify with such a pathetic creature. "Fine," he rasps, making his voice as grudging as possible but his eyes are soft as Sam hurries past him into the room again, Tommy in tow. He sets the cat down gingerly on the bed and Tommy hops down immediately, staring up at Dean like it's correctly identified him as the source of income here and therefore the one in charge and it gives him that same adorable little prrrow of sound that it had given Sam earlier. He sighs again, his shoulders slumping.
"I'm gonna walk back down the highway a bit. I saw a gas station that had a diner attached. I'm starved." He grabs his jacket and shoves his wallet into his backpocket, waiting for Sam to respond but Sam is digging around through his bag until he comes up with a small plastic bag, smiling proudly. He fishes out a half-eaten Slim Jim and tears a piece off, setting it down in front of Tommy who sniffs at it curiously and then lifts a paw to bat at it, not trusting it as food. Dean shakes his head. "I'll be back, kid."
Sam doesn't even look up, his eyes focused and soft on his new pet. Dean closes the door and starts the long walk up the empty road.
--
When Dean returns he finds Sam at the foot of his bed watching Home Improvement, laying on his belly, elbows dug in the mattress, chin in his hands, his scrawny legs bent at the knee, bare feet swinging in the air. There, settled into the small of his back like it was born to be just there, is Tommy curled up, sleeping peacefully. Dean plunks the bags, some plastic and some paper, on the tiny table in the corner and the sound startles Tommy, makes him dig his nails into Sam's back as he jumps and hides under the bed. Sam is on the ground in seconds, lifting the blanket and trying to coax him out.
"It's okay, baby. It's okay! It's just Dean. Dean's our brother. He's the one that protects us. He won't hurt you. Come out, okay?"
"I am not that cat's brother, got it?" Dean pulls out french fries and styrofoam containers of BLTs and fat juicy burgers from the white bags and a couple of big bottles of water, some hand soap and a small bag of cat food from the plastic ones. Sam finally looks up at Dean and sees the bag of Friskies immediately, his face softening into something that is only ever meant for Dean, always. He crosses the room quickly and wraps his arms around Dean's waist, burying his face into Dean's chest. Dean umpfs at the right time and rests a hand on Sam's back, rubbing it with a little smile on his face. "Well. Couldn't let the little fuzzball live on Slim Jims, could I? Don't want him to turn out lookin' like you."
"Thank you, Dean." Sam lifts his head, chin digging into Dean's chest and his eyes are bright and happy and Dean feels like he did something amazing, something great, just like he always does when he earns that look from Sammy. He swipes a hand through Sam's thick hair, moving it back from his forehead before he untangles himself from his monkey of a baby brother, peeling his jacket off his now sweaty body.
"Just put down a little pile for him on the floor. I'll get him some water." He wanders around the motel room, looking for anything that would substitute as a bowl when he snaps his fingers, his eyes lighting up. He tears off the lid from the box containing his burger and fills it with water from the sink, carrying it oh-so-carefully across the room and setting it down slowly next to the little pile of food Sammy put on a napkin--damnit, why is that kid so fucking cute?-- on the floor next to Sam's bed. Tommy waits until Sam and Dean are sitting at the table with their own food before he ventures out from under the bed, all the delicious smells in the room drawing him out and he finds the food. He starts in on it immediately, sharp little teeth cracking into the hard bits quickly and Dean has to admit that his heart warms when he hears the sound of the little thing purring from all the way across the room. Sam grins at Tommy and then up at Dean, so pleased with himself and with all the world at the moment and he takes a big happy bite out of his BLT. Dean feels like he's just solved world hunger.
They settle into a kind of happy domesticity for nearly two weeks, Tommy fattening slowly from the little piles of food that Sam keeps constantly by his bed and he circles and makes urgent little sounds by the door when he needs to go out and do his kitty business. He's Sam's shadow, his constant companion, just like a little dog or something, following him even into the bathroom where Sam claims he loves to watch the water when he flushes. The cat dozes on Sam's bed and plays with peppermints wrapped in cellophane from Sam and Dean's lunches from the diner up the road, batting them across the short carpet and flying after them, crashing into walls and the nightstand and doors to capture his prize. He watches Dean with bright green eyes that match Sam's almost exactly, watches him watching TV and wiggles his butt and pounces at Dean's socked toes as they move idly. Dean fights it and bitches but gives in almost too quickly and soon Tommy is sleeping on Dean's lap and Dean is giving him the mother of all kitty massages across his tiny neck and shoulders and Tommy is officially in love with Dean.
Dean finds Tommy and Sam joining him in his bed more often than not, Tommy coming first and then Sam following to be closer to his cat and Dean doesn't sleep well but he finds himself smiling at the two content creatures stretched across him, dead to the world and kept safe by him. He pets Sam just like he pets Tommy, scritching across his head and soft behind his ears and Sam has never ever looked so happy to be in a shithole in BFE.
Dad comes back unannounced at 1:37 on a Thursday afternoon, bursting in the door, smelling foreign, of the road and lightly of beer and not at all of the little haven they've dug out here, of kitty food and Lysol and bacon and Slim Jims. Sam stares at him in abject horror, as if the idea of Dad has been lurking in the back of his mind and now here he is, the culmination of his nightmares. Dean looks up from the comic book he's reading and immediately moves to sit up straight, back on the clock.
"Get your shit, boys. We're on the road in ten. Gotta be at Bobby's tomorrow night."
"Yessir." He stares at the door when Dad shuts it, leaving them alone again. Dean is still in his pajamas, his heart breaking like it always does when he has to pack up after having a few days with just him and Sammy. It always feels like he's built a mansion out of sand or out of Legos, a big one with windows and balconies and plaster moldings and Dad is asking him to kick it down, to tear it all apart and get a move on without even stopping to take a look at his handiwork, to tell Dean good job or to even give him a damn moment of silence for the loss of what he's had. He's naked and dressed in work clothes and halfway done packing before he hears Sam crying, just a very soft, apologetic sound across the room and he turns to find him with his face buried in Tommy's soft fur, thin arms clutching the poor, confused cat.
Dean's across the room in a shot, crouching down beside the bed with his hand on Sam's arm. "Sam. We gotta go. Come on, get your stuff."
"Dean." His voice is shaky, broken and watery and more thoroughly heartbroken than Dean has ever, ever heard it. He drops to his knees under the weight of the pain in his chest. He hears Sam kissing across Tommy's little head, his tiny kitten nose nudging Tommy's matching one. "I can't leave him here. I can't just leave him. He's so little. He needs me. He needs you."
"Sammy," he says, rough and pained and his hand moves up to pet Sam's hair. "Sammy, we gotta go. You knew this was gonna happen. You knew he couldn't come with us. There's no place in that car for a cat."
"But maybe. Maybe I can talk to Dad. Maybe we can take him to Uncle Bobby's. Uncle Bobby can take care of him. Right?" Sam's eyes are red-rimmed, unspeakably green and hopeful. Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him no.
"Maybe. Get dressed and get your stuff together. I'll." He looks back at the closed beige door, imagining their impatient father on the other side. "I'll go talk to Dad."
"Thank you." Sam's arms are around his neck, second hug in as many weeks and Dean returns it this time, just for a second.
"Don't thank me yet. Up'n at 'em, kid." He gives Sam a squeeze and stands up, looking down at Tommy faithfully perched on the bed beside Sam, staring up at Dean questioningly, his tail moving back and forth across the mattress. Dean scratches the top of his head and sucks in a sigh, keeping it in his chest as he grabs up his bag and shoulders out the front door, looking at his father's back as he drops his bag in the open trunk, trying to decipher his mood by the set of his shoulders. Tired and hungry and annoyed, if he guesses right.
"Uh. Hey, Dad. Can I talk to you real quick? Sammy'll be out in a minute."
Dad opens his eyes from where he had apparently been dozing as he leaned back on the driver's door and he raises his eyebrows at Dean. It's as much of a cue for Dean to speak as any.
Dean draws a deep breath and stands up straight, his hands shoved into his pockets. He tries to sound grown-up, responsible, like he's asking him a favor as a fellow man and not as his fifteen-year-old son with an aching heart for his little brother on the other side of that brick wall who wants so badly to keep something for himself, for once. "Listen, uh. This, um." He swallows. He already knows exactly how this is going to play out.
"A. A cat showed up here a little bit ago and. And we've been feeding it and Sammy loves it, Dad. Man, he pets it and he even gave it a bath with this flea shampoo and got all crazy scratched up because of it but he didn't get upset the whole time and he just. He loves this thing an--"
"No."
Dean stares up at him with an open mouth, knowing he should close it and stop his campaign and get in the damn car but he doesn't really know how. It's Sam.
"But Dad, I--"
"The answer's no, son. I'm sorry. There's no way we can have anything with us, ever. How could we keep a cat in that car?"
"Well." Dean looks around the parkinglot, squinting into the dying light, his fingers scratching over the back of his head. "Well, maybe we can just take it to Bobby's. Bobby has a big ol' house and I'm sure he wouldn't mind--"
"Dean. You have two minutes to get Sam out here and in the car or I'm going in."
"Dad--"
"Now, Dean!"
Dean startles at that, shocked back into himself and he hurries back toward the room, opening the door slowly and Sam is already dressed, already done packing, a tiny flicker of a hopeful smile on his face as he looks up at Dean. The cat food is in a bag hanging from Sam's hand, and Dean can see the outline of a few peppermints and the old shoestring that served as Tommy's toys. Sam's face falls when he sees the look on Dean's and his eyes overflow with tears. He lets out a sob that makes Dean feel like he's been shot in the chest and he reaches out uselessly for Sam.
"Sammy, I'm."
Sam breaks out into a run and pushes past Dean to get outside and Dean follows him, closing the door behind him so Tommy doesn't venture out.
"Dad, please you don't understand. Tommy's our family now too and he needs us to feed him and protect him and there's nothing else out here and he'll get hurt 'cause there's so many cars and he doesn't know any better and--"
Dad sighs, such a tired sound that Dean almost feels bad for him but he holds his ground behind Sam, a hand on his shoulder and his muscles tensed to protect him from Dad, if he needs to.
"I'm sorry, son. I really am. The cat's staying here and that's the end of the discussion. Now say your goodbyes and get in the car. That's an order."
"Daddy, please." Sam sobs again and Dean closes his eyes, hiding his own tears and he can only grip Sam's shoulder harder, gritting his teeth so hard he swears they're going to crack at any minute.
"Sam. Now. Get your bag. That's the last time I'm saying it."
"No." Sam's voice is trembling but he's in his fighting mode, Dean can hear it. He looks up at their dad who is stalking toward them now and he braces for impact, braces to move Sam behind him. "No, I'm not leaving without him. I'm not!"
"Like hell you're not. Sam, don't make me--"
"You can't make me leave! You can't make me!"
Dad's hand is making contact with Sam's cheek before Dean can even realize it, his calloused knuckles and the wide span of the back of his hand landing hard across Sam's tender, tear-stained cheek, the force of it snapping Sam's head to one side on his neck, the loud crack of the sound the ugliest sound Dean has ever heard. He springs into action then, turning his body and Sam's away from Dad, shielding him as he leans down over Sam and strokes his burning cheek, making soft, shushing sounds over Sam's quiet sobs.
"Sammy, go get your bag and say goodbye. Please. I'll go talk to the lady at the desk and tell her Tommy's in here, okay? She'll take care of him. I promise. Please go get your bag, okay?"
Sam nods just once and pushes into the hotel room where Dean can hear him let loose a loud, hurt sob that he wouldn't dare make in front of Dad, would never give him the satisfaction of hearing it. Dean is turning to face his dad as soon as the snick of the closing door hits his ears and his eyes are clear, focused and bright with fury.
"If you ever touch that boy again I'll kill you." He shoves John as hard as he can, his teeth gritted, eyes boring into his father's. "I'll kill you!"
He stands his ground, his shoulders back, daring John to come back at him, to say anything, to make a move. He knows he will get his ass handed to him by his father on any given day, on any normal day, but today is not normal. His protective anger alone would drive their dad down into the fucking gravel and he doesn't break eye contact until Dad is backing up and sinking down into the car. Dean stalks off toward the front desk, using all his charms as a boy and a man and his last fifty dollars to get Lydia at the desk to promise him she would take Tommy home and take care of him. He leaves the key and with her promise and by the time he gets back, Sam is already sitting in the backseat, his eyes down, tears still falling silently.
Dean climbs in next to him and wraps an arm around his neck, letting Sam curl up against him, letting him press his damp face into Dean's neck and he pets him just like he has been lately, feather-light strokes over his scalp and tucking his hair behind his ears. About half an hour on the road and Sam goes quiet against him, goes soft and breathing like he does when he's asleep and then and only then does Dean look up at his father, at John's reflection in the rearview. John's tired eyes meet his own. They lock and hold for just a few seconds before John lowers his gaze, the only apology either he or Sam will get.
Sam never brings up Tommy again and he stops watching the Power Rangers.