A fill for ohsam's Birthday comment meme for this anon prompt: After two seasons of heavy drama, I'm ready for some fluff, preferably set in S8 or 9. Soooo: Sam gets cursed/hexed/whatever to turn into a kitten every time he gets upset/angry/whatever-emotion-you-choose.
Sam's inner cat
"How's that fair? Why aren't you sneezing and coming out in hives every time I turn? I thought you were supposed to be allergic to cats." Sam's face was a picture of huffiness, and Dean just couldn't get enough of this whole situation. It was fucking hairlarious, that's what it was. But he'd already over-used that particular joke since Sam fell foul of the crazy cat-lady witch yesterday, so he generously refrained from saying it again. Besides, he wasn't trying to wind Sam up right now. Even Dean was willing to give his little brother the occasional break from changing shape every time he got annoyed.
"I don't think that applies to were-kittens, Sammy," he says, trying to look studious and solemn, and failing utterly.
"Yeah, well, that sucks," Sam said, pouting like he used to when he was twelve and Dad just refused to let him go to the library. "There's no justice in this world."
Dean didn't bother dignifying that statement with an answer. After all, they were Winchesters and had learned that particular truism very early in life.
What was needed here was some scientific research to discover what exactly were Sam's triggers for turning into a tiny hissing little ball of tawny fluff. For once, this was a research task Dean was enthusiastic about.
"So obviously you change when you get annoyed. What we need to establish is what level on the angry scale will set you off. Is mild irritation enough?"
Sam just slumped down farther into one of the bunker's leather chairs, sulking. Dean tapped on the table-top with his fingernails, something he knew Sam hated, and watched Sam carefully. The frown deepened and Sam threw Dean look number 53, the one that said 'if you don't stop that shit I'm gonna whistle Dixie under my breath until you go insane' – but there was no sign of any extra fur appearing. Time to ramp it up a notch then. While Sam was still in the middle of his glare, Dean slowly and deliberately picked his nose, making a big deal out of inspecting the product of his excavation.
"Dean! That's disgusti…mreeaw!"
"Okay then. Bordering on extreme irritation, that one, I think," Dean mused, while Sam the Fluff Ball vented his anger by pouncing aggressively onto Dean's boot and chewing his laces. He bent down and scooped Sam up, ignoring the resulting indignant hissing as he carried Sam across the room, tiny pink paws flailing in a vain attempt to claw Dean's thumb to death.
"Come on, Catstello. You know I can't let you roam about when you are like this, not after that time you pooped in my bed…Besides, you don't want to nearly drown in the toilet again, do you? Nearly gave me a fucking heart attack, man."
Dean carefully placed Sam inside a large cardboard box he'd thoughtfully lined with a fleecy blanket last time Sam had morphed. Never let it be said that Dean didn't know how to look after his little brother, even when said little brother was a freakishly tiny were-kitten. The walls of the box were just high enough to stop the little critter from climbing out. Damn, but Sam the kitten was as ridiculously small as Sam the Man was large. As if the curse was inversely proportional or something.
Sam had given up on the hissy fit and was trying the old Puss in Boots from Shrek look instead. Dean had to harden his heart and it wasn't easy. Sam's new pathetic lost lonely kitty look was almost as effective as his normal sad pleading puppy expression.
"Don't look at me like that, it's for your own good. You know you won't change back until you calm down."
He reached a hand into the box and tentatively stroked Sam's tawny head. He hadn't tried this before, but Sam was so darned cute like this, he couldn't resist any longer. Dean grinned with delight when Sam began honest to god purring, and kneading the blanket into a nest with his teeny tiny paws. He should have recorded this on his cell for posterity.
Their moment of man-kitten bonding didn't last long, as Dean's prediction was correct. Seemingly kitty Sam found being stroked by his big brother soothing, as a few seconds later Dean found his fingers all tangled up in his all too human brother's hair. He pulled away like he'd been burned, while Sam let out a yelp – Dean probably ripped out a few strands in his hurry.
"Another reason to get a hair cut, dude," Dean said as he quickly backed away, averting his eyes from Sam's nakedness. Fuck. He was never going to get used to that part of the proceedings.
"I'll get your clothes."
Two days later and Sam was spending almost as much time as a kitten as he was a man, and Dean was starting to think that perhaps he and Sam should have a holiday from each other, as clearly Dean was a very irritating person. To Sam, at any rate. He was sure the girl in the Quickie Mart found him utterly charming. Most curses ran their course after a few days, so Dean wanted to milk this for all it was worth. Being able to effectively turn your little brother into a ridiculously cute ball of fluff merely by being your normal obnoxious self was just gold. It put all their prank wars of the past in the shade, and even better, this way, Dean always won. After all, there was a limit to the damage a two-ounce kitten with teeny tiny claws and teeny tiny teeth could do to a grown man. Not that kitty Sam didn't try, of course. Dean's scratched hands and arms were a testament to Sam's persistence.
So, Dean was enjoying getting a rise out of Sam, and even though it was becoming less and less challenging due to Sam's ever shortening fuse, this joke wasn't going to get old. At least as far as Dean was concerned.
That is, until Sam found them a hunt. It was local, just down the road from Lebanon, and looked like a routine haunting.
"Purrfect," Dean said, throwing Sam the bag full of spare salt rounds. Sam rolled his eyes but caught the bag deftly and stashed it in the Impala's trunk. Dean put up a hand; time to get serious.
"I'm not the one making cat jokes every hour of the day, Dean."
"Man, you are just too tempting a target. But no more joking around while we are on the case, okay?"
Sam just huffed a bit and folded himself into the shotgun seat, but Dean smiled when after the Impala ate up couple of miles he could hear Sam humming along to the radio.
The abandoned haunted house looked every inch the part, all dark shadowed windows and ancient creaking trees outside, and Dean almost rubbed his hands at the thought of getting to grips with whatever fugly had been scaring the shit out of the local teenagers. Of course if it had stuck to the scaring part, the Winchesters wouldn't have bothered, but when it had moved on to killing kids, well. That was hasta la vista time, baby.
"Lock'n'load, Sammy boy," he said gleefully, and Sam grinned back. It was just like old times – before angels and demons fucked their lives up out of all recognition.
Of course, Dean should have known this was when everything was likely to turn to shit. Turns out this wasn't one ghost but two, and they were both mean, ornery critters who when they weren't fighting each other, were more than happy to turn their malignant attention on the human intruders. Dean had almost forgotten that being thrown around by a ghost hurt just as much as being chucked about by a demon.
It was when one of the ghosts started on Sam that everything went really wrong. Dean blasted it out of existence and Sam was busy reloading when Dean saw the furniture levitating. Sam was looking down as he hurried to fit the cartridges into the chamber, and Dean was out of options. Flinging his body into the path of the heavy old oak chair that was hurtling towards Sam's head was the only logical thing to do. Sam should appreciate that, Dean considered, as the chair smashed into him, knocking him to the floor.
Sam, it would seem, was less than happy with this development. Unfortunately, Sam being pissed at Dean had consequences these days. Sam shouldered the sawed off, blasted the ghost and turned on Dean where he was laying played out like a frog in dissection classes, gasping for breath.
"What the fuck, Dean? When are you going to stop…oh shi…," Sam's words were bitten off as he turned into a spitting angry kitten. Oh shit indeed.
If Dean hadn't been winded and nursing what were probably a couple of broken ribs, he'd have been the first to admit that his timing in upsetting Sam this time really, really sucked. What was worse, the two ghosts between them seemed to be stirring up a virtual tornado inside the old house. The thick dust and mouldy crap blowing around was bad enough, but the noise was drowning out Sam's faint cries, and worse, Dean had lost sight of his little brother with all the shit in his eyes.
"Sammy!" Yelling didn't help anything other than allowing the dust a free pass down his throat, causing a painful coughing fit. Dean crawled on his hands and knees, groping around blindly, hoping his fingers would find Sam's soft fur instead of bare wooden boards. Finally he was successful. His hand brushed something warm and yielding and very small. He scooped Sam up and cradling the tiny body in both hands Dean ran for the nearest exit. Fuck the ghosts and his ribs, and everything else and it's mother because Sam wasn't moving.
Dean burst out of the front door at full pelt, holding Sam's inert form close to his chest. He didn't stop until he reached the Impala. He wrenched the door open and grabbing the first aid kit, slid himself and Sam into the back seat so he could see the damage under his Baby's interior light.
Still coughing up dust, Dean gently ran his fingers (which looked so huge and clumsy dammit) over the kitten's limbs and torso, even pressing carefully on the little round belly, checking for any injuries. There was nothing apart from a small bloody cut above the kitten's right eye, so Dean swabbed that clean. There wasn't much else he could do; the cut bled like a bastard but there was no way Dean was risking stitching something that small. It would have to wait for Sam to change back. Dean just hoped Sam would change back, as he wasn't sure how this whole were-curse thing would work when the recipient was unconscious.
He lay back a little against the leather seat, moving gingerly due to the grating in his ribs, and settled Sam's tiny body onto his stomach. He was stroking Sam's fur when he drifted off. Perhaps he'd suffered a knock to the head himself. Huh, wouldn't that be the icing on the cake...
He might have started out dreaming happily about blueberry pie and cream, he really couldn't say, because the dream turned bad very quickly. Some witch was cackling while she piled giant pies on top of him until he couldn't breathe and fuck, after everything they'd survived, he was going to be suffocated by his favourite food.
Fucking ironic, that's what it was…
Dean may or may not have made some undignified spluttering noises as he came to and discovered that the unbearable pressure on his chest was not blueberry or any other flavour of pie, but down to 200lbs of very naked baby brother. And that the reason Sam hadn't moved to get off him was that it was broad daylight, and they were parked up in a busy residential street. Albeit at the quiet less inhabited end of the street, but still. Over Sam's bare shoulder Dean could see a young mom walking her kids to the school bus.
"Right, yeah. Um." Was Dean's initial less than coherent contribution.
It took a quite a few awkward minutes of painful manoeuvring to extricate Dean from under all that Sam flesh, and another several for Dean to sneak back into the empty house to track down and retrieve Sam's discarded clothing without attracting too much attention from the locals. By the time Dean made it back to the Impala and Sam undergone the tortuous contortions of getting dressed inside the car, Dean was feeling sore and chastened in equal measure.
He didn't even protest when Sam insisted on driving them home.
After making sure Sam's head injury was dealt with, Dean allowed Sam to admire the bruising that was already starting to show round Dean's ribs. There wasn't much to be done for the injuries, once Sam was satisfied that there was no chance of a lung puncture, it was just a case of dosing up on painkillers to ease the breathing, so Dean allowed Sam to fuss, just a little.
Safely settled on his memory foam, Dean watched Sam's broad back as he went towards the door.
"Hey. I get it, dude. I've been a dick. No more messing with your head, I promise. I'll do my best to lay off triggering your big fierce inner cat – at least until you are cured."
Dean grinned when his only reply was a flash of Sam's middle finger as the door closed behind him.