FIC: Cat Scratch Fever (R)

[unamaga]

Title: Cat Scratch Fever
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,500 words
Notes: This is all Kate's fault. She dared me to! She said, "Do it, do it, make Dean a slutty cat!" except maybe not in those exact words. There might have been bribing involved, because then she wrote a quasi-sequel wherein Sam is a cat, which can be found here. No actual cat-human sex in EITHER of these, don't worry. Thanks to Jules and Robin for being fabulous and not stoning me. I love this fandom.

Dean fucks a witch in Indiana, then burns her house to the ground with the rest of her coven still inside. It’s probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done, and Sam’s really beginning to wonder who the hell up there likes his brother enough to let him off this easy when, instead of dropping dead on the spot like the witch intended, Dean turns into a cat.

The witch stomps her foot, nearly stepping on Dean’s tail, and runs off to resurrect her sisters by calling on Hecate. Sam sighs and bends down, gathering Dean into his jacket and heading for the Impala.

He hates Wednesdays. They’re always so weird.

-

So it turns out that Dean as a cat is a slut. Not that Sam’s surprised, since Dean as a human is pretty much the same, but the behavior’s a little more disturbing from a fluffy, pale-colored kitten that’s about as big as Sam’s cupped hand. Not that he’s cooing over his brother’s cat form or anything. He just can’t help but notice that Dean’s really tiny and cute and also a slut. Did he forget to mention that part?

“Dean, that’s kinda gross, man.” Obliviously, the kitten continues to hump Sam’s wrist with the kind of determination that makes Sam want to check for energizer batteries. “Um, dude. There’s a pillow right there. Could you – could you, I don’t know, not?”

He pushes at Dean’s fuzzy side with two fingers and Dean topples off of him, landing belly up and gifting Sam with a very, um. View. A very um view. Sam swallows and looks back at his computer screen. Latin chants. They’re important. Yes.

In fact, they’re so important and so entrancing, that Sam doesn’t even notice Dean struggling up onto his lap again, tiny claws digging into his jeans like Dean’s making footholds in a mountain. It isn’t until Dean’s little head is trying to nuzzle Sam’s cock through the denim of his pants that Sam realizes exactly what’s going on and freaks the fuck out.

-

There’s another low whine from the bathroom, a paw peeking out under the door to scratch and try fruitlessly to gain Sam’s attention.

“You’re not coming out of there until you’ve calmed down,” Sam tells the door sternly. He shifts uncomfortably on the wooden chair he’s placed next to it, pushing his laptop further down on his thighs and trying to focus on it instead of the pitiful sounds Dean is making just feet away. It’s damn difficult. Dean may be a sluttish cat who’s just scarred Sam for life, but he’s still Sam’s brother, and he sounds in pain, he’s so tiny, how can Sam live with himself?

He lasts through the rest of the whimpering and pleading, but once Dean goes silent, his little kitten feet pulling back into the bathroom like he’s been defeated – that’s the last straw for Sam.

He opens up the bathroom door, expecting to find Dean curled morosely up into himself, tail to nose. Instead, he finds Dean humping against the filthy bathroom rug, little mewling pants puffing out and fogging up the sort-of-shiny tile.

“Oh my god,” Sam says and slams the bathroom door shut again because that is so much worse than walking in on his father getting off with the maid. He sits and stares blankly at the wall until he hears Dean’s sharp little mews fade off, more disturbed than he has ever before been in his entire life.

Dean’s claws start scratching at the door again, but at least this time he sounds annoyed rather than desperately horny and pathetic. That reassures Sam enough that he gathers up his courage and eases open the bathroom door again. Dean’s little blue eyes – what’s up with that, anyway? Dean’s never had blue eyes before – are glaring up at him expectantly. It only takes a few agonizing minutes for Sam to catch on.

-

“I swear to god we’re getting you fixed tomorrow morning if you don’t stop. I don’t care how good of a lay you usually are,” Sam threatens. He’s naked and this is weird, but he tried to fit Dean into the sink basin and that just ended badly, so the shower stall is really the only way to clean Dean up. God, Sam doesn’t want to think about what he’s cleaning Dean up because of.

For the fifth time in as many minutes, Dean tries to struggle down Sam’s body without slipping or clawing him up too badly, aiming for Sam’s crotch, and for the fifth time in as many minutes, Sam curses and grabs Dean by the scruff of the neck to keep him away. That only serves to make Dean worse, though, because of course endorphins are released and. Yeah.

Sam hates his life and there’s a kitten attempting to go down on him. What the hell.

Needless to say, the shower doesn’t go over well. By the time Sam’s finished soaping Dean up and scrubbing away the drying – stuff…Dean’s desperate all over again, pupils blown wide with want. Sam tries not to think about what’s going on when he turns Dean around in his hands and lets the water beat down to rinse him off.

-

Dean isn’t so much of a pest by the time nine o’clock rolls around. He’s too tuckered out, curling up on Sam’s thigh in front of the computer, letting the absent way Sam brushes his fingers over the fine fur between his ears and the soft, warm hum of the computer lull him to sleep.

By ten o’clock, Sam’s packing everything up and firmly telling himself it’s not because he wants a better angle to pet Dean from nose to tail. Not at all.

The kitten barely moves when Sam settles him on the comforter and sets about his nightly routine – brushing his teeth, changing out of his street clothes into the ratty t-shirt Dean keeps telling him to throw the hell away. It comes in handy, though, when Dean murbles at Sam lying down on the bed and climbs up onto Sam’s chest. He falls promptly back asleep with his head pressed behind Sam’s ear, his breath snuffling out and stirring the tiny hairs there.

Sam really does not find the little whistling noises Dean’s nose makes every time he breathes in adorable. He’s good at denial.

-

The second day goes something exactly like the first. Sam freaks out every twenty minutes, and Dean humps five entirely different parts of Sam’s body, including his kneecap; they manage to have a civil conversation over lunch, though. It goes like this:

“Hey, Dean, could you nose me that ketchup over there?”

”Mrowr.”

“Thanks, dude.”

Sam takes Dean into the shower again, letting him splash in the water that collects at the bottom of the stall and rub his wet neck against Sam’s ankle. It’s actually kind of cute. After Sam dries himself off and wraps Dean up in a couple of towels just to see if he can find his way out again – what? He’s a little brother, it’s allowed! – they curl up in the same position as the night before and drift off to sleep.

-

The third morning, Sam wakes up to a very human mouth wrapped around his stiff cock, sucking hard enough that his hips jolt up and Dean’s forearm has to anchor him to the bed. His mind is still muddled with sleep – it takes him far too long to figure out what the hell is going on – but he reaches down anyway, flipping the coverlet back so he can see Dean’s head between his legs, cheek flattened against the top of one thigh.

It’s barely a minute before Sam’s thumping his closed fist on the mattress and coming silently down Dean’s throat. When he gets his breath back, Dean’s quietly lapping at his stomach and then further up, leaving a trail of wet from Sam’s navel to his throat.

“I guess you’re back to normal,” Sam murmurs, wrapping one arm around Dean’s middle and tipping his head to the side so Dean can get at that spot right – “Oh.”

Even with the rough, worn edge to it and way it’s muffled by Sam’s skin, Dean’s voice sounds a little smug when he says, “Wanted to do that for the past two days, you prudish, huge bastard.”

Sam knows that he should probably be outraged or annoyed or something, but his body is still sluggish, and Dean is warm and heavy on top of him, back to his normal jackass self. “Wasn’t gonna fuck a cat, dude. That’s just wrong.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says, and, “Sure you weren’t.” His hips are already starting to roll against Sam’s thigh by the time Sam figures out what’s going on. Dean’s cock is long and hard, a hot line pressing all along Sam’s leg. “Still willing to fuck me, Sammy?”

Sam thinks about it. For three seconds. “Um, yes.”