Work Text:
The smell of smoke is thick in the night air. The second floor on the south side of the house is flaring up in 20 foot flames. The north side, around the back of the house is waterlogged and covered in moss and mold, too wet for the fire to catch. The house is burning unevenly, but it won't be long before the heat of the fire dries it out enough for the whole thing to burn. This case was a nasty one, the old floorboards of the house were soaked in so much innocent blood that they had to salt and burn the whole damn thing to make sure all the spirits were laid to rest. So Dean stands next to Sam as they watch the house burn.
It's not a bad way to spend a night, standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam and watching the red and gold light of the fire slowly consume the house, the smoke and ash rising in plumes against the star-filled sky. Dean's just about to suggest they either grab a couple of beers or hit the road when Sam startles beside him.
"Did you see that?" Sam says, pointing to the bushes on the far side of the overgrown driveway. Dean catches a flash of movement in the underbrush, then a low shadow streaks across the ground toward the back of the house where the flames have yet to spread.
"Oh no," Sam says and sprints toward the house.
"Sam!" Dean yells and follows hard on Sam's heels, nearly crashing into Sam when he skids to a halt. Sam is bent over his knees, peering into the shrubs where the shadow came from.
"Oh no," Sam says again, voice strained with urgency, and bolts to the backdoor of the house – the house that they just doused in salt and gasoline and set ablaze.
Dean's brain refuses to process the key facts of the situation, namely Sam running full tilt into a burning building, and during the second his thoughts stutter over Sam and fire and Sam running into fire, Deans eyes fall on a small black shape squirming in the underbrush. A kitten. Which means the shadow they saw was probably the mother cat trying to get her kittens out of the house. And that means that Sam just ran into a burning house to rescue a fucking cat.
All at once Dean's body kicks into overdrive. He scoops up the small black cat, shoves it in his coat pocket, and races to the back door. He crashes into the rotten wood so hard, he knocks it off its hinges and goes careening into the smoke filled kitchen.
The flames aren't so bad here, just beginning to eat through the far wall and along the open doorway leading into the living room.
"Sam! Where the hell are you," Dean calls ducking down to stay below the acrid black smoke pouring in through the doorway.
"Here," Sam calls.
Dean follows his voice into the next room. Sam is crouched over his coat where it is spread on the ground next to a two foot wide break in the floorboards. Sam is shoulder deep in the hole, feeling around blindly.
The mother cat hovers near Sam, pacing anxiously. She has a small gray kitten between her jaws, held by the nape of the neck. She seems caught in indecision, unsure if she should take the kitten she has to safety or if she should stay and guard over the whole litter.
"It's okay," Sam is murmuring to her as he pulls another gray kitten from the floor, "I've got them. You go ahead. It's okay, sweetheart."
Dean's heart clenches in his chest even as he moves into the room. The mother cat's head snaps up when Dean draws close, and she darts from the room, mind made up to save the one kitten she can.
"Get a move on, Sam." Dean says as he starts gathering up Sam's coat and the meowing kitten that tries to scamper out of it.
"Last one," Sam says. The fire has crept along the far wall and the room is hot and getting smokier every second.
"Gotcha!" Sam says, coughing into his shoulder. He pulls out another kitten and slips it into the coat that Dean is holding. Dean shoves the hole bundle into Sam's arms, hauls him to his feet by his elbows and pushes him out of the room.
They have to crouch going through the doorway to avoid the flames eating at the doorframe and licking holes into the ceiling. Dean glances up, catches a glimpse through one of the holes and sees that the entire second story of the house is engulfed in flames.
"Go, Sam, go." Dean shouts and hustles Sam through the kitchen to the back door.
The mother cat is there, trying to get back into the house. Quick as lightning Sam shifts his bundled coat to one arm, catches her just underneath her front legs and scoops her up. She dangles gracelessly from his arm, but he manages to hold her long enough to get outside and across the driveway where the kitten the mother cat carried out is waiting in the gravel.
Sam sets the whole bundle down, but keeps a grip on the mother cat who is twisting and squirming to try and get out of Sam's arms.
“It's okay,” Sam says, “It's okay. Hang on.”
Sam waits until he's got the coat spread on the ground and has wrangled the third kitten onto the fabric before he releases the mother cat. She rushes to her kittens, nosing at each in turn.
Dean watches the whole proceedings silently, feeling his dissipating fear feed his frustration until he can't keep it in anymore.
“Seriously, Sam? Seriously? You just ran into a fucking burning building to save a cat. Are you insane?”
Sam looks up at him from where he's kneeling in the gravel, hands hovering over the nest of kittens. His eyes are liquid dark, open wide and earnest, “What was I supposed to do? I couldn't just leave them there.”
Dean scrubs both hands down his face, looking at Sam's big puppy eyes through his fingers. He should be immune to this look, but he isn't. Never has been."Christ, Sam," he sighs.
The kitten in his coat pocket chooses that moment to start squirming around and remind Dean that he can be just as much of a sap as Sam. Dean sheepishly fishes the wriggling kitten out of his pocket. It's little claws prick into his palm as he holds it out to Sam. "From the bushes," he says by way of explanation.
Sam's face splits into a wide grin, and he kneels up to take the little black fur-ball from Dean's hands. He sets it down in front of the mother cat who sniffs at this last arrival, circles the coat one more time, and finally seems to settle. She's still watching Sam carefully, but she isn't trying to grab her kittens and run away, so Dean counts it as a win.
Behind them there's a loud crack as the roof of the house collapses in an explosion of sparks. Sam doesn't even flinch, he just looks down at the family of cats, indulgent smile lit a warm and dancing orange. Dean takes a moment to soak it in, feeling the heat of the fire on his back and a warmth settle in his gut.
***
"We can't keep them," Dean says for the tenth time. He glances into the rear-view mirror. The cardboard box Sam found in the trunk sits innocuously on the back seat, the tips of the mother cat's ears just visible over the rim.
"It's 2:00am on Sunday morning, Dean. There isn't anywhere to take them right now. Besides," Sam says, pulling out his reasonable voice – Dean fucking hates that voice – "they're our responsibility now."
"How exactly are they our problem?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because we burnt down their home.” It's amazing how quickly Sam drops the responsible adult voice and jumps straight to bitchy younger brother. He sounds just like 16 year-old Sam arguing for the right to finish out the last month of the school year in the same town. “I'm not saying we keep them forever. I'm saying we keep them until we can get them to a shelter."
"You're serious." Dean glances over at Sam, sees the determined set of his jaw.
"I am," Sam says.
"Fine, but you're paying for them,” Dean says under his breath.
"With our fake credit cards?” Sam says, and settles back into the seat, tension leaving his shoulders now that he has won the argument. “It's not even our money." Which is a fair point, but Sam doesn't need to know that Dean thinks so.
***
When they get back to the bunker that night, Sam takes the makeshift cat carrier straight to the little family room they set-up at his insistence.
“If Mom or Cas visits, we could have a place to hang out and watch a movie or something, instead of cramming into one of our rooms,” Sam had said.
Dean had put on a show of being annoyed, but he'd agreed, happy that Sam was making the bunker into the home he wanted. They chose the bedroom closest to the war room for the entertainment room, or family room as Sam stubbornly calls it. They found a couch long enough for Sam to lie down on, and two overstuffed recliners at a used furniture shop. Dean found the low ottoman that doubles as a coffee table at a thrift shop in town. All in all, it's a pretty comfortable set-up.
Sam sets the carrier in the corner, behind one of the recliners to give the cats some space.
“They're going to claw up the furniture,” Dean says. He has no idea if they actually will. The only cat he has ever spent time with was Cassie's and Simba was a giant, lazy beast, but Dean has heard that scratching up sofas is something they do.
“Oh no,” Sam deadpans, “our beautiful furniture will be ruined.” He makes an expansive gesture taking in the mismatched brown and blue upholstery of the chairs and the green striped sofa. “Listen, it'll be fine. I'll spend the night in here with them just to be sure.” Sam ducks his head as he says it. Dean can see the start of a blush staining his cheeks and knows Sam was planning on doing that anyway.
“Yeah, you do that princess,” Dean says, but he can't help smiling a little at his giant brother fawning over a box of kittens. Dean leaves Sam to it and heads to bed.
***
When Dean wakes up the next morning, he heads to the family room and cracks open the door. Sam is sitting on the couch with his long legs propped up on the ottoman. He's got his cell pressed to his ear in one hand and the other is navigating his laptop. The box of kittens is on the couch beside him. All three gray kittens are asleep, but the little black one is busy gnawing on the mother's tail.
“The adoption rate's that much lower for black cats?” Sam asks. His hand abandons his laptop and drifts over to the box beside him to scratch gently behind the mother cat's ears. Her eyes drift closed. The black kitten's eyes are tracking the motion of Sam's fingers, and Dean's pretty sure Sam is about to get pounced on.
“What about adult cats?” Sam's mouth turns down in a frown. The kitten launches itself at Sam's fingers, misses and lands flopped on its side just in front of his mom's nose. She takes advantage and starts cleaning his face, licking over one eye and up to his ear. Sam is watching the whole show with the softest look on his face. “I see. But the other ones should be fine?” Sam asks into his phone, “Ok, that's good.”
Dean takes in the rest of the room. There's a water dish on the floor in the Sam corner where Sam set the box last night. Dean can tell Sam slept on the couch from the way his hair is sticking up and the pile of pillows and blankets pushed onto the floor. Sam has a notebook beside him and Dean can see a shopping list that includes the words “litter box.” Dean shudders and slips back down the hallway, leaving Sam to his conversation with what Dean presumes to be the local pet shelter.
It isn't hard to see where this is going. It sounds like the mom and the black kitten might be hard to find homes for, and Sam is already deep in research mode. It won't be long before he comes to Dean with a freaking PowerPoint presentation's worth of arguments for keeping at least those two cats.
***
Twenty minutes later, Sam knocks on Dean's door. He's got his laptop balanced in one hand with what Dean is pretty sure is an actual PowerPoint up on the screen. Sam opens his mouth to start in on his no doubt well-prepared speech, but Dean raises a hand to forestall him.
“Just the mom and the black kitten, and just until we can find them a better home. Ok?”
Sam's mouth snaps closed and he blinks at Dean in confusion. “Ok,” he says. He glances at his computer screen and Dean swears he sees a flicker of disappointment cross Sam's face.
“Did you wanna,” Dean nods at the screen.
“What? Uh, no.” Sam says and closes the laptop. “We're gonna need some supplies.” He turns on his heel and walks out the door, fishing his shopping list out of his jeans pocket.
“You coming?” Sam calls from down the hall, but Dean is already grabbing his jacket and following Sam out of the room.
***
It turns out the kittens need about another week with their mom before they can be safely weaned. Sam has a whole plan worked out with Chrissy from the shelter. In that time, the cats take over the makeshift family room, and spill out into the library. More often than not, Dean will find Sam sleeping on the couch, or leaving his room in the morning with an armful of cats.
All of the cats love Sam, but the mother has really taken a shine to him. When she isn't with her kittens, she follows him around, weaving in and out through his legs. She doesn't like to be held, but she likes to stay close to Sam. Whatever room he's in, there she'll be curled up within a few feet of him. Sam still calls her sweetheart and it gets to Dean in a way he can't describe. Dean throws around the word sweetheart all the time to waitresses and witnesses alike, but he can't recall a time when Sam has said it. It hints at a side of Sam that Dean has never seen before – something softly possessive.
Dean gets along with the cats pretty well but he's developed a soft spot for the little black one in particular. Ever since he snapped the cap of his beer off on the edge of the kitchen counter and the little fuzzball went careening after it, he's been pretty much in love with it. He's taken to shooting rubber bands at Sam and watching as the kitten crashes into him or claws his way up Sam's legs to get at them.
Dean's busy sneaking bits of bacon under the table to his partner in crime when Sam finally suggests naming them.
Sam gestures at the three gray kittens currently engaged in a feeding frenzy around one bowl when there are two perfectly good unoccupied bowls beside them. “I was thinking we could name these guys Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”
Dean should have seen this coming. Sam's been reading a lot of Dumas lately. “And let me guess,” Dean leans down and scoops up the black kitten, “this guy is d'Artagnan.”
Sam's eyebrows climb to his hairline and Dean just rolls his eyes, “I read,” he says. “Ok, I can get behind those names, but only if you let me name the mom.”
Sam's lips pull into a frown, and Dean's eyes get stuck there for a long moment. “What are you going to name her?” he asks warily.
“Well,” Dean starts, “she's an old cat and she's always following you around. She reminds me of that cougar from back in Massachusetts, the one you took out for champagne and dancing. What was her name? Oh yeah, Gertrude.”
“Dean, no.” Sam says, eyes comically wide. He couldn't look more scandalized if Dean had suggested naming the cat after Yellow-Eyes.
“Oh yes, Sammy boy. That's the deal. Right Gerty,” Dean says, looking over at the cat in question as she's taking her post breakfast bath.
“Fine. God, I hate you.”
“Gertrude it is,” Dean says, grinning wide.
Sam hunches over his breakfast, mutters “handsy,” to himself and pulls a face. Dean laughs so hard he nearly falls out of his chair.
***
When they take Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to the shelter, Chrissy assures them that they will find them good homes and promises to keep Sam updated. Her smile is edging steadily toward flirtatious as she gives Sam the number to her personal cell. Sam, of course, is oblivious, so Dean makes sure to stand so their shoulders are pressed together and he guides Sam out of the shelter with a hand in the small of his back. It's raining when they walk to the car, but Dean isn't entirely sure its enough to account for the wet shine of Sam's cheeks.
***
One week later they come back to the bunker loaded up with take-out to find Cas sitting at the war room table. He is hunched over, palms on the table, and staring silently into Gerty's eyes. Dean has a feeling this has probably been going on for the whole hour they've been gone.
Cas doesn't even acknowledge their presence until they make it down the stairs.
"I can see why you were so drawn to her, Sam. You are kindred spirits." Cas says, nodding his head with all the solemnity of a priest giving communion.
"Um," Sam says, looking to Dean for some kind of clarification, but Dean just shrugs and bites back a grin. "Thanks?"
"You are welcome." Cas stands, claps a hand to Sam's shoulder, and turns to Dean. "The small one reminds me of you. It is deeply invested in activities which are dangerous to its health."
"Hey!" Dean protests, but they both ignore him.
"Was he climbing the bookshelves again?" Sam asks as he heads to the kitchen. Cas follows in his wake, giving a full accounting of d'Artagnan's antics while they were gone.
“I am not invested in activities that are dangerous to my health,” Dean says to Gerty, but she just tilts her head at him before jumping off the table and trialing after Sam and Cas. Dean shrugs and follows along.
***
Dean grabs a beer and heads for the family room. Sam is stretched out on the couch, dead asleep. His laptop is balanced on his stomach, rising and falling with each breath, screen dark. Gerty and d'Artagnan are asleep on Sam's chest, bodies entwined in a black and gray yin yang. d'Artagnan's head is tucked right up underneath Sam's chin.
Dean sits down on the ottoman, and sets his beer on the floor. He carefully lifts the laptop from Sam's lap, closes the lid, and stows it under the sofa. These last few weeks have been good to Sam. He's sleeping better than he has in years and he laughs all the time. He still calls Gerty, sweetheart and baby and it still twists Dean up in the best ways to hear it. He'll never say it out loud, but he's so damn grateful that they kept them.
Dean reaches out and runs his fingers along d'Artagnan's side, his knuckles accidentally brushing Sam's chin. Sam, “hmms” quietly and his eyes blink open. They are a deep, sleep-warm green as he glances down to see Dean's fingers tangled in d'Artagnan's fur. A soft smile curves his pink lips.
“Hey,” Sam says and Dean's heart flips in his chest.
“Hey,” Dean answers, voice coming out hazy. He leans over Sam brushes his lips first against Gerty's head, then d'Artagnan's, and then – without letting himself over think it – he slips his hand into the hair at the nape of Sam's neck and kisses him.
Sam's lips part in soft gasp, and Dean angles in deeper. He tastes warm and sweet and Sam, and he knows he'll never get enough of it. Sam arches into Dean's hold, kisses him back and reaches up to cradle Dean's face in his hand. The movement dislodges both cats who scramble down Sam's body to avoid being dumped off the couch entirely. Dean could not care less, not when Sam is sucking on his tongue.
They break apart a minute later, and Sam opens his mouth to speak, but then his eyes flick down the couch and he laughs.
Both cats are staring at them unblinkingly. Dean gets the distinct impression that they are not happy about being woken up.
“Cats are so frigging weird,” Dean says.
“You love them,” Sam says and rubs his thumb along the line of Dean's jaw.
And yeah, Dean does, but he's not going to say it, so he rolls his eyes, says, “whatever,” and sets about learning the taste of Sam's mouth.