She's our newly adopted almost 5 month old kitten. We adopted her September 2nd.
Mourning Bob has been very hard for both my fiance and I. Sending him over the rainbow road was the most difficult decision either of us ever met. What neither of us expected was how lonely it was going to be. Bob was our only pet. We lost our other cat MJ back in 2020, so it truly had been just the 3 of us for 5 years. We couldn't bare coming home to an empty house any longer. The silence was deafening.
So we visited a couple local animal shelters. My fiance kept saying he just wanted to look and see what cats are out there. That's how we found Maggie. We were getting ready to leave after seeing all the adult cats. Then we were informed of the kitty room upstairs. Maggie (formerly Sam Puckett) was in a corner cage by herself. She was immediately affectionate, okay with being held, and loved love. My fiance, who told me several times we weren't getting a cat that day, melted. He fell in love with her. I did too. She was a perfect match for us.
Maggie is getting used to our bedroom and gaining confidence. We'll let her explore more as she continues warming up. But she's perfect. Achingly so. She is her own cat, of course, but she has traits from both Bob and MJ that just make me so happy. We really love her.
We're still grieving Bob. Still miss him so much it hurts. Are still reminded daily that he's gone. But I'm grateful. Grateful for my fiance and Maggie and Bob and MJ. Grateful that we're able to give Maggie a loving home she deserves.
(And, yes, she's a dork rolling around in her litter box. She had the zoomies her first night. She's perfectly healthy.)
Bob, you are the best baby in the entire universe. It's such an immense pleasure and gift to be your parents. I'm endlessly proud of your spunk and courage. I'm going to miss you sitting outside on the porch for hours at a time, soaking in sunlight. I'm going to miss you chittering at all my sneezes. I'm going to miss your meows and cuddles and stinky breath and love of blankets.
I'm going to miss every single thing about you. But I know you're at peace, surrounded by your favorite beans and blissful in the sun. I know your sister is there to guide you through heaven. I'll miss you until the end of time.
No amount of warm baths or bedtime stories or Gummi Bears reruns or calamine lotion will sooth him. Dean knows all the ways in the universe to make his baby brother feel better, but nothing is working anymore, and he doesn’t know what to do because Sammy just keeps crying, and it’s tearing him apart. He used to think he was a good at everything Sammy needed him to be good at, but he isn’t so sure anymore, not when Sammy is looking up at him with big brown eyes, his nose running and cheeks red with fever, expecting him to fix everything.
Dean doesn’t know how to fix this. He’s good at fixing the sink when it clogs up and fixing Sammy’s breakfast just the way he likes it and fixing the lock on the motel door when it breaks. But he’s eight now, and he’s supposed to be able to fix more. All of that is just kid stuff that anyone can do. What’s the point of getting older if he can’t help make his brother feel better? Sammy always makes him feel better, no matter what’s wrong.
Sammy’s rubbing his arms raw from scratching, even though he’s wearing his Spider-Man gloves to not leave scars. His messy hair splays across his fevered forehead. He sucks his thumb, something Dean has been trying so hard to get him to stop doing since Dad says Sammy isn’t a baby anymore, and curls into a tight ball in the middle of the queen-sized mattress. Tears stream down his cheeks, silent sobs shaking his entire body like an earthquake. Dean scratches the back of his head and then his neck before crawling into bed next to Sammy.
Dean rubs Sammy’s stomach gently with the tips of his fingers. His chest and belly are the worst, where the red dots have all but taken over. Some of them are bleeding, just a little bit, beneath Scooby Doo BandAids and antibiotic ointment. Dean palms Sammy’s forehead too, heart sinking once he realizes this is the warmest he’s felt. He checked an hour ago, and Sammy was sitting at 102.6, which is already way too high, but it’s worse now. This fever is bad. Dean’s pulse throbs. Butterflies, the nervous ones he used to get when Dad left them alone, dance in his stomach.
He needs to find a way to help him, but they’re out of kids cold medicine. Sammy’s too little to take anything else. Dean takes Tylenol when he hurts, but Sammy can’t until he’s bigger.
“Dee…” Sammy whimpers, clinging onto Dean’s t-shirt with the force of a thousand tiny dragons. Sam likes stories about dragons, the huge red ones because red’s his favorite color, but Dean knows Sammy doesn’t like anything right now. “Don’t feel good.” The crying picks up again, and suddenly these dragon-sized tears flow down Sammy’s cheeks, and Dean can’t stand it. He can’t stand seeing his baby brother hurt like this.
“I know, Sammy. I know,” he sooths. “How about another bath?”
Sammy shakes his head.
“C’mon. It’ll make you feel less gross.”
Sammy scowls. But he holds his arms out anyway. Dean picks him up carefully, Sammy slinging his tiny legs around Dean’s waist and burying his face in his neck. Tears soak his skin. He sighs and kisses the top of Sammy’s head. The toddler refuses to let go as Dean runs some more lukewarm water, getting his fifth bath of the afternoon ready. He adds the last of the bubbles in for good measure and helps Sammy out of his gloves and underwear. His baby brother cries out once he’s in the tub, scratching almost violently at his skin.
“Dee…” Sammy itches at his belly so hard a sore busts open and starts to bleed.
Sammy won’t stop crying.
His fever is way too high.
They’re out of medicine.
Dad says never to call when he’s on a hunt unless it’s an emergency. Dean goes back and forth in his own head, trying to determine if this is an emergency while he shampoos Sammy’s hair. The nearest gas station is about a mile down the road, but Dean can’t take Sammy there like this. It’s snowing a lot. The wind is bad. And he can’t leave Sammy alone here while he swipes medicine from the store, not when he’s this sick. Something bad could happen.
It’s a big deal to call Dad. Dean’s supposed to be big enough now to handle Sammy on his own, has been since he was six. Sammy’s his to take care of, to keep warm and fed and safe. Right now, he can’t do any of those things, and he can’t shake the awful, guilty feeling swallowing him whole. What if he doesn’t call Dad and Sammy gets worse? What then? He can’t call 911. No one is supposed to know they exist here in this motel room by themselves.
He doesn’t want to call Dad. He really doesn’t want to.
But what choice does he have?
Dean sighs and scratches his cheek. The butterflies are back and feel like they’re eating him alive.
“I’ll be right back,” Dean says.
Sammy sits up immediately. “Dee! No!”
Dean grabs the brick of a phone off the dresser and scurries back into the bathroom before his brother can really start throwing a fit. Not that Dean blames him though. The kid’s sick, and he isn’t getting better, and Dean can’t stand it anymore. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly as he dials Dad’s phone number.
Dad answers on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Sammy’s sick,” Dean blurts out the moment he hears his father’s voice. “He’s got chickenpox. A-And I know you said never to call, but it’s an emergency, and he’s out of medicine, and I’m doing my best to take care of him. I really am. But I don’t know what to do, and he won’t stop crying, and some of spots are bleeding, and –”
“Dammit, Dean.”
Dean sniffles and wipes his nose on his palm and inhales shakily. He hiccups.
He didn’t realize how scared he was until now.
“You’re not supposed to call,” Dad says. He sounds mad.
“But Sammy’s sick,” Dean repeats. Tears swell in his eyes, and Sammy looks at him with fright, but Dean can’t look away because Sammy is everything to him, and he’s sick, and if he looks away now Sammy could drown because his fever is too high, and there’s nothing left to help.
“I heard you. You’re gonna have to wait til I can come home.”
Dean’s bottom lip trembles. “How long?”
“I can be back by morning.”
Dean shuffles his socked feet, staring down at the floor. He’s glad Dad can’t see him crying. He wants to shout, to scream that Sammy needs him now, to come quick, to drop everything and run, but he can’t. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth.
“Did you hear me?”
He stands straighter. “Yes, sir.”
“You shouldn’t have called. You know how busy I am. How important this job is.,” Dad says. “I’m really disappointed in you, Dean.”
Dad hangs up without another word.
Dean sits on the edge of the bathtub. He feels numb.
“Don’t worry, Sammy. Dad will be here soon.”
~
Sammy’s fever is 103.4.
The crying has stopped.
Sammy lays in his stomach, head buried beneath a pillow as he restlessly kicks his bare legs up and down with his thumb tucked in his mouth. He does this a lot when he’s tired. Dean can’t imagine how exhausted he is. But he’s quiet, and Dean’s got a fan he found stashed under the bed pointed at him and cold washcloths on his neck and back. Dean reads him story after story in hopes that something, anything, he does will help.
Useless. He’s useless.
It’s almost seven in the morning, and a winter sun is just getting ready to come out. It seems like it could be a good day, but it isn’t.
Dean itches the back of his head and looks down at his arms. The little red dots are angry from all his scratching. Many are bleeding, but it doesn’t matter. His bumps showed up two days after Sammy’s, but he can take Tylenol, and Sammy can’t. It’s not fair. Tears swell in his eyes again. Dammit. He’s eight now. He shouldn’t be crying like he’s just some little kid. He isn’t little, and he isn’t small, and he isn’t anything other than Sammy’s big brother who can’t do anything right.
He jumps when the door unlocks.
Dad bursts in, a whirlwind of chaos that Dean can barely follow.
Sammy cries, and Dad immediately scoops him up in his arms, pressing kisses to his neck, his cheek, his hair. Dean looks down. Listens as Dad murmurs about getting Sammy fixed up and feeling better in no time. He sinks further into the mattress, trying his best to dissolve and disappear completely.
Time passes, but Dean isn’t sure how much. His eyes are heavy, and his head hurts.
Sammy is fast asleep in Dad’s bed. Good. The little guy needs to rest.
Dean is nearly asleep too when he’s yanked out of bed and dragged into the bathroom. He stares at the ground, too ashamed, too embarrassed, to even look at his dad. He already knows what’s coming anyway. And he feels stupid. So so so stupid. Why would he call his father in the middle of a hunt? He lost control of his emotions and let Sammy and Dad down.
“How many times have I told you never to do that?”
“A few, sir,” Dean answers, voice small. “I’m really sorry.”
Dad scoffs. “You’re sorry? Well, you’ll be really sorry one day when that phone ringing gets me killed. You know what kinds of things are out there, Dean, and yet you continue to defy me. Why is that?”
Dean shrugs.
“Answer me when I’m talking to you.”
“I… I was worried about…” he stops himself. “I-I don’t know, sir.”
“Y’know, I was really starting to think I could trust you more. You’re getting older, but you’re not getting any smarter. You gotta start using your head.”
Dean nods. He stares at the floor. He does not cry.
He will not cry.
“Do you ever think about how much I do for you? For both of you? Do you know what I’ve sacrificed to keep this family together?”
Dean nods. He thinks about it all the time.
“You don’t act like it.”
Dean gulps, twisting his hands together in front of his waist. He chews his bottom lip so hard he tastes blood.
He shrinks back when Dad kneels down in front of him, grabbing his arms and forcing his hands apart.
“Stop that. You’re not a little kid anymore,” he says.
But then something changes.
Dad looks at his arms for a second and then gently lifts up his t-shirt. He rubs his fingers over Dean’s dots and lets out a big breath of air. He taps Dean’s chin and forces him to look up, to make eye contact, something Dean hates more than anything when it comes to his father.
“Listen, bud. I’m sorry. It’s just been… I’ve had a long day. Can we forget about this?”
Dean’s eyebrows furrow.
But he definitely isn’t going to say anything else, especially when Dad’s letting him off the hook.
He nods. “Yes, sir. I really am sorry, sir.”
“I know, Deano,” Dad says.
Dad wraps him up in a hug. Dean stiffens and pats his father’s back.
~
Sammy’s up and bouncing around in two days.
Dean’s just happy his brother feels better. Dean doesn’t feel good, not really anyway, but none of that matters.
Dad is home, Sammy isn’t sick anymore, and Dean goes on like normal. He cooks breakfast, lunch, and dinner for his brother and father. He cleans the motel and bathroom from top to bottom without missing a single nook or cranny. He washes the dishes and keeps Sammy quiet and happy.
“Dean,” Dad calls from where he’s lying on the messy bed, sprawled out with his bare ankles crossed. The remote is in one hand; there’s a beer in the other.
He tiptoes past Sammy playing on the floor with his plastic dinosaurs.
“Yes, sir?”
“Can you get me another beer?”
Dean nods. “Yes, sir."
He throws away the empty bottle and replaces it with a new one.
Dad flashes him a smile, a token of thanks and appreciation.
How about a hurt/comfort fic where Luther gets out of prison and beats Mac up and Mac takes the bus to PennU and shows up on Dennis’ doorstep all sad and upset and in need of love 👀
Thank you for the prompt! I hope you like it!
~
April 24, 1996
Mac is half asleep when he hears the front door unlock.
He’s lounging in bed, a box fan pointed at his feet and an ashtray balanced on his chest. The mattress is bare except for the blanket he stole from Dennis before he left for UPenn. It’s soft and blue like Dennis’ eyes, and, if Mac focuses enough, he can still smell Dennis’ fancy cologne nestled in the fabric. A mostly smoked joint smolders between his lips as he stares up at the water-stained ceiling, an arm folded beneath his head. His only plan today is to get stoned out of his mind. It’s his day off from the construction site, and his whole body fucking hurts. It doesn’t help that he works six days a week – at least twelve hour days each – so he can keep up with all the bills, especially since Mom quit Jiffy Lube.
He just wants to spend the day at home in bed gorging himself on weed and, eventually, pizza.
But that doesn’t happen.
One second Mac is taking a hit, perfectly comfortable and wrapped in Dennis’ blanket. The next second he’s yanked out of bed so hard his brain spins. Stomach swimming near his toes, he inhales sharply and immediately notices who’s standing in front of him.
“Dad? What are you doing he–”
But he doesn’t get to finish the question.
Dad’s fist collides with his mouth, sucker punching the shit out of him. Mac stumbles back, bracing himself against the wall, panting. He shakes his head and tries to talk, tries to reason with this giant anger ball in front of him, but he can’t speak. It’s like his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth, and words just won’t come out. Dad gets closer and closer, until he’s breathing down Mac’s neck. His heart pounds, and his lips tremble, but he doesn’t make any movements. Maybe if he stays silent and still – the way his parents prefer him to be – then Dad will leave him alone.
“Son,” his dad starts, voice dangerously even and callous. “What the fuck did you do?”
Mac’s teeth chatter. He wavers uncertainly his spot. Dad must notice because he immediately puts his rough hands on his shoulders, rooting his socked feet further into the floor. Tears swell in his eyes, and he tries to blink them away, but he fails, and they stream over his cheeks, mixing with the blood coating his chin. But he doesn’t move. He can’t move. Crying isn’t his normal response when his dad – unexpectedly or not – acts like this, but it was a surprise, and Mac was half asleep, and he doesn’t need – doesn’t want – his dad to know that he scared him.
He's such a fucking baby. No wonder his parents hate him.
So why does he try so hard to please them?
“Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with you?” his dad asks.
He doesn’t say anything. He looks down at the ground and sniffles, wiping at his face and chin.
And of course he doesn’t say anything when Dad’s fist smashes into his stomach, causing him to double over and spit up blood on the tattered carpet. Dad forces him to stand upright, grabbing his cheek with is rough hand and pressing the back of his head against the wall.
“I asked you a question.”
Mac’s lips quiver. “I-I… I don’t know wh-what’s wrong with me…”
“No. Not that, you little shit,” Dad says. “You ratted me out, didn’t you?”
Mac’s eyes widen. He instantly shakes his head once, twice, three times. “I would n-never do that!”
Dad squeezes his neck and cheek harder, fingers digging into his flesh hard enough to leave bruises. “But you did.”
“No, I didn’t! I swear!”
“Tell me the truth, son.”
Dad inches closer. They’re breathing the same air. Only Mac isn’t just breathing; he’s close to hyperventilating. He doesn’t like being closed in, and he doesn’t like being manhandled, and he doesn’t like how horrifying his dad is being right now. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t do anything wrong. All he does is go to work, come home, and visit Dennis on his day off during the week. He barely speaks to Mom, and all she does is grunt in response when he does try to tell her something. This is the first time he’s seen his dad in over a year since his most recent parole violation that landed him back in prison.
“I swear. I didn’t do anything.”
There’s another blow to his stomach. Dad lets go and pushes him to the floor. Mac listens to his bootheels click as he walks away, waiting until he hears the front door slam shut before he starts coughing. Only there isn’t enough oxygen in the room for him now, and he curls up in a ball on the carpet, protectively holding his abdomen and fighting through tears. He has literally no idea what just happened, but it doesn’t take a rocket genius to know that his dad hates him and thinks he betrayed him, only he would never do that to his father. Knows how serious and important his business is, whether he’s in jail or not.
He lays on the floor for what feels like an eternity, poking at his stomach and busted lip. He is trying really hard to do that thing that Dennis does all the time, where he turns off his emotions and lets himself just exist. Only he doesn’t feel like existing right now, not really. The room feels hazy, and he feels numb, yet wants to bawl his eyes out, and he doesn’t understand where any of this came from or why his father hates his freaking guts. He’s never done anything other than try to be a good son, but he knows he sucks. Until he ratted out all the drug dealers in school, he couldn’t sell even a fourth of his weekly supply on his own. Yeah. That’s probably why Dad hates him. He’s useless.
That’s okay. It’s okay. He’s okay.
He’s okay there’s just something obviously wrong with him he can’t get his parents to love him even though he pays all the bills and cooks Mom dinner every night and does all the laundry and always makes sure there’s food in the house and cleans up after himself and is super duper quiet when he walks to the bathroom or kitchen and most of all he’s tried to tell them that he loves them that he wants to be around them and be a normal family but there’s nothing normal about what just happened and he knows that he knows that so why’s he still trying and why does it hurt so much he only wants to be a good son but he can’t ever do anything right and no one else in the world cares about him except Dennis and Charlie and maybe that bird Dee but they’re not here and he’s alone and Charlie is working at a diner as a janitor and Dee and Dennis are at school Dennis he misses Dennis Dennis always knows how to keep him calm and –
Dennis.
Mac wipes his eyes and tries to control his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Steady. It’s about precision, Dennis says. He has to be steady with his emotions.
He misses Dennis.
And even though he just saw the dude last week, the closest he feels to God is when he’s with Dennis.
Mac sits up. He winces at the uncomfortable twinge in his stomach and hiccups when he feels a slight bulge where his ribs are supposed to be securely in place. Okay. Not the best sign. But he’ll be okay. He can power through this. Dad didn’t mean to hurt him. He lost control a little bit, and Mac was in the way, as usual. You know what? He’ll apologize the next time he sees him. Yeah. He’ll say he’s sorry, and Dad will hug him and tell him it’s okay, and they’ll be father and son again. Maybe then they can go to the park and have a catch.
He pulls himself up, standing on a shaky legs and gripping his right side, where the bulge moves with each breath. He slides his feet into worn boots, grabs his wallet and keys, and sucks in a deep breath.
Outside, the sun is shining high in the sky. He breathes in the smell of freshly cut grass. He loves springtime, even if it does make Dennis’ allergies go totally insane. He loves how alive the earth feels. Maybe he can salvage today.
Maybe.
Mac walks to the bus stop and stands with his arms crossed, hand holding his side in place.
It takes fifteen minutes for the bus to come. By the time he gets on, sweat is beading on his temple and dripping from his hairline. The rest of his body feels like it’s slowly shutting down. He didn’t get home until six this morning, having got to work at noon the day before. He trudges to an open seat, watching as people stare at him like he’s a ghost or a demon dog or something. It’s probably his busted lip that they’re looking at. Or the dried blood on his chin. Either way, it’s pointless to stare.
“Mind your own business, bozos,” Mac mutters, nestling himself into a window seat.
The ride to UPenn typically doesn’t take long. It’s only, like, ten stops away. But today for some reason it takes forever, and Mac is so tired, and now his lip is starting to throb along with his side, where something is definitely dislocated. He sniffles and lays his head on the cool glass, letting his eyes flutter open and closed for what feels like an eternity.
Somehow he doesn’t miss his stop, which he’s grateful for. He can’t imagine turning around and going back home now.
The looming UPenn buildings look even more bigger than usual. Or maybe it’s just that he feels more smaller. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that Dennis understands how to make him feel better. Whenever he needs to escape, whenever he needs to get away from everything for a little while, he knows he can always go to Dennis, and he’ll be there. He’ll be there like he was when they shared blunts and cigarettes under the bleachers every single morning, lunch, and afternoon. He misses Dennis. He can’t wait for him to come home for the summer.
Mac ducks his head and trudges to Dennis’ dorm, narrowly avoiding making eye contact with anyone.
It’s 12:53 PM on a Wednesday, not his usual Saturday morning visit, when he knocks on the door to room 237.
The moment Dennis opens the door, Mac bursts into tears, hiding his face in his palms.
“What the hell happened to you?” Dennis asks.
Only his voice isn’t rough and oozing irritation – anger – like his dad’s.
No, Dennis’ voice is concerned and a little frantic.
Dennis ushers him inside, and Mac has never been more grateful for Dennis’ single suite than he is right now. Dennis guides Mac to his bed, and Mac hisses the moment he sits down, dropping his hands from his face in favor of grabbing his side instead. This makes the tears fall faster and harder, until he is fully sobbing. He pretends not to melt when he feels Dennis pull him close, allowing Mac to hide his snotty face in his neck. Mac hiccups and breathes in the smell of cinnamon and vanilla and Dennis.
And he could stay like this for the rest of his life.
If only his life were as simple as Dennis holding him.
“What happened?” Dennis whispers.
Mac splutters against warm skin. “H-He hates me…” he whispers.
“Who?”
“My d-dad.”
“Your dad? Is he the one who did this to you?”
Mac nods.
“He’s out of prison?”
Mac shrugs.
He hears Dennis sigh. “I’m gonna kick his fucking ass.”
Mac wants to laugh. Wants to throw his head back and cackle, but he doesn’t. Can’t. Isn’t sure he has the energy. But he does find it endearing – and sweet – that Dennis wants to take on his dad in a fight. Dennis may be a whole inch taller than him, but he’s half a foot shorter than his dad. Not to mention that Dennis is teeny tiny and his dad is crazy jacked.
“Are you okay?"
It’s a question that sucks the air out of his lungs.
Is he okay?
Is he okay?
“I…” his voice trails off. He sounds stuffed up. Everything hurts. “I dunno.”
“You need to lay down,” Dennis whispers. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then you can take a nap.”
Dennis gets to his feet, and Mac finds it hard to untangle himself from the comforting embrace. He lies down on the mattress – filled with all the blankets and pillows in the galaxy – and closes his eyes.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Dennis says, voice soft. “Here. Take these.”
He blearily opens his eyes. Sees Dennis standing there with a bottle of water and some pills. It takes all the effort in the world for him to prop up on his elbows. The water is cool on his throat.
“'s it?” he murmurs. He falls back against the pillows, wincing at the throb in his side.
“Tylenol.”
Then there’s something warm and wet dabbing his chin, carefully wiping away the dried blood. Something else touches his lip, and he hisses.
“Neosporin,” Dennis whispers. “Try not to lick it off.”
Mac nods.
And he wonders how he ended up here, being taken care of and feeling… wanted. Loved.
When he’s around Dennis, he can’t help but feel whole, like his place on this earth isn’t dictated by anyone or anything other than the two of them.
Dennis fusses around the dorm room. Mac listens to the pitter patter of his bare feet against the tile floor, half asleep. He hears a fan turn on. Feels it being pointed at him. Feels a comforter being draped over him. Mac nestles in, curling up the best he can.
Feels Dennis settling down beside him on the twin XL bed.
