If you feel like it, could you please continue to cling to canon and give us more of Sam and Dean and George the cat? Dean + cat is a perennial weakness of mine and I swooned over that little canon-compliant snippet.
It takes about three months of George living in the bunker before Dean fully capitulates. He doesn’t say anything, of course. No discussion about whether or not they’re keeping the damn cat. It’s just, one day as they sit working in the library, there comes the faint scratching sound from the electrical room as George covers up his mess in the half-a-cardboard-box with dirt in it that they’d rigged up, and Dean says, finally, not looking up from his laptop, “We ought to pick up a real litter box, that thing’s a pain in the ass,” and Sam blinks at him for a few seconds and says, “I could get one on Amazon,” and Dean grunts and keeps reading whatever he’s reading, and–well, that’s it. Sam puts a scratching post and a little cat bed in his basket, too. Red plaid flannel, soft-looking. Might as well keep George on theme, he thinks.
George never uses the bed, of course. He sleeps curled up on the classic cars in the garage and on the leather armchairs in the library and directly on top of Sam’s laptop (never Dean’s, and Sam’s starting to get suspicious about that). He shreds the scratching post in about three weeks, scattering little carpet tufts all over the kitchen floor. Dean props his hands on his hips and sighs, gives the cat a hard look where he’s sprawled on the table, but George only tucks his paws under his chest and starts up that contented rumbling purr, and so Dean can’t do much but sweep up. He makes Sam buy one of those weird ones made out of cardboard after that, though, leaning over Sam’s shoulder as they bicker about whether to order the one with the climbing tower or not (I’m not having a cat coming at me at head height, Dean says, and Sam thinks that Dean just doesn’t want to once again be the shortest person in the bunker, but he keeps that to himself).
They don’t sleep together every night, though they do more often than not. Another thing they don’t really talk about, not that they need to. They used to keep the door closed, too, until George came to stay. That first night, Sam picked his head up around two in the morning to insistent tiny screeches over metal, and Dean sighed into the pillow, and Sam scrubbed his hand over his face and said, if we give in once–, and Dean sighed and said, story of my life, and so it was left to Sam to get up and shuffle across the cold concrete and crack the door, and then a silvery little shadow coiled around his ankles in the dark and made a soft mrr, which Sam was going to pretend was an apology, and by the time Sam made it back to bed there was a fuzzy lump tucked in against Dean’s warm side, purring contentedly. No, Sam said, but when he took his spot back George just walked spiky circles around both of their legs and then turned into a loaf on the small of Dean’s back and started purring even louder. Dean sighed again, mumbled, this is your fault, and Sam rolled his eyes, but he scritched behind George’s ear, too. He’s a very soft cat.
Tonight, Sam wakes up with a start, heart pounding in the back of his throat as he tries to gulp down air. It takes him a moment–but no, he’s in the bunker. Four in the morning, six years after he got away, and it was just a nightmare. Everything’s as fine as it always is. He scrubs a hand over his face, laying there alone in the dark. He went to bed early, not long after dinner, and it turns out Dean didn’t join him. No big deal, though at the moment he kind of wishes–but, no. Doesn’t matter. He’s just cold, that’s all, and he didn’t work his brain hard enough before bed. Might as well get up now, though, even if he’s groggy, because–well, because.
He trips on the cat immediately, soft fur stretched out in front of his bedroom door. “God–” he says, and there’s a skitter as George bolts away, his tail probably trod on, “goddamn it, cat.” A little sharper than he meant, a little louder, something trembling weirdly under his skin. Fuck.
He’s sitting in the library, just one of the lamps on, holding his coffee against his chest. The warm of it, the smell, it’s–good. He breathes. Wonders how long it’ll be until Dean gets up. He could go for a run, kill some time, only it’s raining outside, enough that he can hear it even down here, and it just sounds so… miserable. He’s staring, at nothing, and he has no idea how long it’s been when there’s a nudge against his shin, and then George hops up onto his lap, needle-claws sinking immediately through his pajama pants. He hisses, but he still feels bad about earlier, and he just stays still, trying not to wince, while he’s kneaded into submission. It’s only a minute or so before apparently he’s the right consistency and George winds himself into a circle, all twenty pounds and plumy tail wrapped up neatly with his heavy little head tucked against Sam’s knee. Sam lays a hand on his wide soft back. “Hey, cat,” he says, quiet, and George starts up a steady rumble in response, warm and constant as one of those stupid Magic Fingers mattresses Dean always used to love.
When Dean finds them, later, Sam has finished the coffee and is just sitting, content to be a cat pillow, at least for now. Dean squints at the two of them. Sam tries to smile at the pretty epic bedhead Dean’s rocking, but Dean obviously sees something a little different because his expression changes. He comes over and runs a hand through Sam’s hair, eyes narrow. Sam shrugs, then lifts his face up. Dean kisses him, close-mouthed and obedient, and he smells good, familiar. When Dean pulls back he runs a strong calloused thumb around behind Sam’s ear, and then he crouches and scratches the back of George’s neck, his fingers brushing against Sam’s where he hasn’t moved his hand. “Hey, cat,” Dean says, voice scratchy, and Sam smiles, for real that time. “You wanna give up my brother?”
“Nah,” Sam says, propping his head on his free hand. “I’m leaving you. George and I are gonna travel the country, taking care of–uh, mouse hauntings, or something.”
“Oh, okay,” Dean says, and stands up, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I guess you don’t want another cup of coffee, then. Or, I’m thinking maybe some bacon.”
“Hm,” Sam says, and picks George up with a discontented mrr. “Throw in some pancakes and I’m in.”
Dean rolls his eyes and scoops the cat out of Sam’s hands, tucking him under his arm football-style to carry him out to the kitchen for breakfast. “This is what I have to deal with,” he says, apparently to the cat. “What kind of man can’t live on bacon alone? I gotta make little cakes, too? Come on.”
Sam grins, and brushes the cat hair off his legs, or tries to. It’s going to be that kind of morning, he thinks, and then goes to stop Dean from feeding their cat Sam‘s share of the bacon.
