Anyway! As I was working on Indoctrination, I tossed all my self respect outta window and wrote this for Chaz.
Rating: PG - Gen - Humor
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Winchesters vs. Newborn Kittens.
Dean liked the feel of an unmade bed.
Nothing tucked in or neatly folded, just a warm mass of badly interacting blankets and a twisted rogue sheet that were left in the haphazard wad you'd left it in when you had gotten up that morning. Or afternoon. Or evening...
Dean stuffed a pillow under the back of his head. With one hand he found the TV remote and with the other he found the lukewarm bottle of beer on his nightstand.
The Knicks were leading the Bulls by the horns so to speak. He had put some money down at the local bar and thought about how nice it would be to show up tomorrow and just walk right in there to collect. Laying back he took a swig of beer and watched the incomparable David Lee work the baseline. This must be what people meant when they said they enjoyed working from home—
“Stop.” Dean mumbled.
Sam was sitting opposite him in a chair beside his own bed. The beige comforter was completely covered with their well used arsenal of firearms, blades, wards and other various things that Dean would be hard pressed to categorize. There was even a half peeled banana in there but Dean was fairly certain that was what was passing for his brother’s dinner.
“If you wanna clean and oil up all these suckers be my freakin’ guest.” Sam snapped back irritably.
Dean looked over at the daunting pile of work that Sam was doing all by himself and sighed. Opening another beer on the edge of his nightstand he just shrugged.
“I do it every other night thanks.”
The television signal flickered and settled into a pitched whine. The picture began to fade into snow, the pass and intercept flowing surely to nothing but net was cruelly whited out into a blank screeen of nothing at all.
Dean tossed his pillow aside and crawled to the end of the bed. The rabbit ears of the ancient set did not thing but bring the roar of dead air more firmly in tune. He slumped back in defeat, looking out dismally at the snow that blew sideways past the windows, slowly but surely coating and burying everything it touched.
With a sigh he realized he'd have to go out there eventually. They couldn’t last on one banana and half a bag of star bursts for the rest of the night. At least he couldn't. Even though it was about 100 degrees warmer in their motel room than it was outside, he was imagining a hot meatloaf sandwich, with lettuce and tomato, on really thick toasted bread. And some cake. Definitely some cake. If that diner down the road had one he'd buy the entire thing and just shove his face into it.
"That's cute." Dean grumbled as he looked around and found one of his boots. "You know what? It's more than cute, it's enchanting."
"Your freakin' face is enchanting." Sam said curtly as he slammed the barrel of one of the shotguns back into place.
"Look, you draw the short straw you get the job," Dean shook his head as he peered under his bed. "Hey, have you seen my other boot?"
"The job doesn't usually include cleaning an entire inventory of stuff that marinated for about a night in a disgusting swamp that’s filled with sewage run off and," Sam paused to point. "...I know you rigged that draw, I don’t know how you did it but I know—"
Sam blinked back.
Dean cleared his throat. “I thought that was you.”
“I thought it was you!”
Dean left his boot laces undone and looked at his brother square in the eye. “Why the hell would I—“
They both stopped what they were doing and looked around cautiously. Sam carefully lifted a freshly sharpened bowie knife and stood.
“Better safe than sorry?” Dean asked idly as he backed up slowly into the middle of the room.
Ignoring him, Sam clicked on a flashlight and leaned down and made a pass under both of their beds. “Found your boot.” He kicked it out from under the mattress.
“Oh, thanks.” Dean took a seat and pulled it on. “I dunno Sam, maybe we’re havin’ I dunno, one of those things…”
“Do you know how rare a dual auditory hallucination is?”
“I have a really sick feeling that yer about to tell me—“
“SHHhhhH!” Sam had his hands out, one up against Dean’s mouth and the other brandishing the knife.
Without speaking, his brother indicated the far corner of the room. There was a squat formica dresser that was shoved between a yellow floor lamp and the pinging heater that was going full blast. Blade set firmly between his teeth, Sam slowly pulled the dresser out away from the wall and looked behind it.
“Huh.” He said.
Dean finished lacing up both boots and went to join him.
“Ugh.” Dean groaned.
Sam pocketed the knife and crossed his arms.
Dean dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. “Wh-what the hell do we do with that?”
Sam smiled and squatted down.
The reclining black and white cat watched him warily. But she wasn’t doing much to get away. Not with half a dozen kittens laying in a row suckling her milk.
“They look about a day old.” Sam gingerly picked one up.
“What the fuck are you doin!” Dean asked wide eyed. “That beast is going to rip your face off!”
“No,” Sam carefully palmed the tiny creature with its pink minuscule paws, smiling a little bit more when it let out an indignant meep. “Mama’s okay, look, she’s just fine. Aren’t you? Yeah... She knows we aren’t gonna hurt her kittoons…”
Dean looked sideways at his brother who had started talking in some weird tone of voice that grown adults usually used when they wanted to make idiots out of themselves with children.
“Yeah, yeah, sorry, we didn’t know this room was taken…” Dean glanced over his shoulder at the snow storming outside. “Can’t exactly well, kick you out…”
His gaze went to the yellow pages. They could call some kind of Kitten-Be-Gone place tomorrow. They’d find some lady that wore huge flowered hats and liked to sneeze. Put this ying-yang cat mom and its kids in a cardboard box and that would be the end of it.
Dean eyed the almost continental like patterns on the monochrome feline.
“That cat kinda looks like a cow.” He thoughtfully observed.
“Then I’m naming this one Holstein.” Sam said, using one finger to stroke its pink and fuzzy white belly.
Dean shrugged on his jacket and checked the pockets for his gloves.
“Name one Renaldo Balkman.” He suggested. “I want the Knicks to make me some gas money tonight.”
A fit of mewin’ and meepin’ made Dean turn back towards the dresser.
“Don’t fuck with ‘em Sammy, they’re tryin’ to eat.”
“I’m not.” His brother insisted even as he made to pick up another one.
“So, what? Sandwich?” Dean asked.
“Fine.” Sam answered absently, too distracted by the animalcule in his hand. “Whatever.”
“Sandwich it is.” Dean mumbled to himself as he checked for his keys.
Wishing he had a hood, he slammed the stiff frozen door closed behind him. Stomping his feet twice on the snow choked door mat he hunkered down into the wind and started walking briskly towards the neon lights that glowed warm and promising just half a block down the street.
While he was out here picking up dinner he might as well pick up something else a little extra.
Tuna. On white and hold the pickles ought to cover it.