Just a random little one-shot where Dean thinks that Sam has been turned into a cat. Let the cat puns abound!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sam, Dean, or Supernatural. Obviously.

I fully acknowledge the randomness of this story.

This—

Ahh…

Could not—

Ahhhh…

Be happening.

AAAHHCHOOO!

Dean's eyes squeezed shut on the sneeze. He sniffed. Maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe he was seeing things. Oh, God, yes, Dean begged. Please let me be hallucinating.

He opened his eyes. The horrific, the unthinkable, the furry, impossibility was still gazing up at him.

It meowed.

No. No way. Dean rubbed his nose. He refused to believe it. No. Friggin. Way.

The cat cocked its head.

Dean all but cringed. He hated what he was about to ask. Hated that that cat was staring up at him as though waiting for him to put two and two together. Hated that his life was this freaking weird. He grimaced and forced the question out.

"Sam?"

The cat meowed solemnly.

"Dxmn it!" Dean swore. His fear was confirmed.

Sam was a cat.

Dean felt insane just thinking it. But it was the only thing that made sense. Sam had disappeared into the archives earlier, saying he was going to dig through some of the files and artifacts the Men of Letters had collected. Dean hadn't seen him since. He'd been holed up in his room blasting his eardrums with rock music while using Sam's computer to look for a case. Several hours of boredom later, he emerged to tell his brother he was running out to grab dinner. He hadn't been able to find him. What he had found was this cat, trapped in one of the storerooms and meowing like its tail was on fire.

At first Dean had thought it was just a stray that had snuck into the bunker somehow. He ignored it, planning to find Sam and get him to deal with it since he was the animal lover. But as he continued his search with no success, he'd begun to worry. The cat had followed him from room to room, yowling at his heels in a demand for attention. When Dean circled back for a quadruple-check of Sam's room, the cat refused to leave. One of Sam's flannel shirts was laying in the middle of the floor as though dropped on the way to the laundry, and the cat plopped itself down on it and wouldn't budge, no matter how many times Dean threatened it. It stared up at him pointedly until slowly, allergy acting up and dread mounting, Dean came to the only conclusion that explained why his brother was nowhere to be found.

"Dxmn it, Sam," Dean muttered. "What the hxll happened?"

The cat just blinked.

Dean shook his head. This was just too ridiculous. He looked around, hoping that answers would materialize out of thin air. Or better yet, that this was all just a prank and Sam was about to jump out, yell Gotcha! and snap a picture of him talking to a cat.

No such luck.

He looked back at the cat. "This has to be a curse, right?" Dean asked it. He wracked his brain for an explanation. "You found something witchy in the archives, didn't you? Like a cursed ball of yarn or something?"

The cat, being a cat, offered no response. Dean had to shrug away the feeling that he was being a complete idiot. It was the automatic response to having a serious conversation with a cat, he supposed, but this wasn't just a cat. This was—cringe—his brother.

"I know the Men of Letters left some pretty messed up crap laying around," Dean went on. "But you'd think they'd put a warning label on anything that could do this."

He waved a hand at the animal. The cat meowed in sorrowful agreement.

Dean knelt in front of it—him—Sam—and looked him straight in the slit-pupil eyes. There wasn't even a shred of Sammy-ness in them. It was all…cat.

"Jeez, Sammy," he said softly. "Whatever did this, it got you good."

He sneezed again. Sam-cat swished his fluffy tail, waiting for him to recover.

"Don't worry, man," Dean sniffed, voice thick with congestion. "We'll figure this out. There's gotta be something that can reverse this. Like a spell. Or maybe we can just burn whatever did this to you. Do you remember what it was?"

Sam flicked his pointy ears.

"Right, I guess you can't answer that," Dean said. "Can you show me, then?"

The cat just stared at him.

"Come on, Sam. Take me to whatever did this. It was probably the last thing you touched before you got cat-ified."

Not even a meow.

Dean raised an eyebrow wryly. "What'sa matter? Cat got your tongue?" He immediately cringed inwardly. Cat puns. Please, anything but cat puns.

He sighed. "You gotta work with me here, man. You want to stay a cat forever?"

Sam settled down on the shirt. He blinked lazily and started purring.

"Seriously?" Dean stared incredulously. Sam's only response was more purring. "Okay, I'm just gonna say I'm reading this wrong. No brother of mine wants to be stuck as a freakin' feline. And cut that out. It's creepy."

The purr deepened.

"Alright. That's it." Dean rolled his eyes and stood. "You stay here and cat-nap or whatever. I'll just go figure this out myself."

But as he turned to leave, Sam sprang up and followed at his heels. In fact, he slipped around Dean and ghosted ahead. He paused at the end of the hall, checked to make sure Dean was following, then slipped around the corner.

Dean shook his head at Sam's sudden change of heart. Apparently his brother was even moodier in cat form. But at least we're getting somewhere.

Sam led him through the bunker and came to a stop outside one of the many storerooms. This one was hardly more than a closet. A few shelves lined the walls, loaded with cardboard boxes of who-knew-what. It was dim, dusty, and not looking like it held a solution to their cat problem.

"You sure this is it?" Dean asked, peering around skeptically. "Don't you think we should be checking the room you were in when you got turned?"

He looked down at Sam, only to find him swiping a paw over his ears.

Dean was horrified. "Don't you dare start licking yourself," he warned. The cat paused with one paw halfway to its mouth, tongue sticking out and eyes gazing up at Dean. "Don't do it, man…" he said.

Sam licked his paw.

"Oh great." Dean threw his hands up. "Now that's seared into my brain forever."

Sam started purring again, still washing his ears. Dean honestly couldn't tell if Sam was just messing with him, or if some irresistible cat urge was forcing his brother to do this. Either way, it was just plain wrong.

Dean nudged him with the toe of his boot. "Dude. Just stop. You have no idea how disgusting that is."

Sam skittered back from his foot and glared up at him reproachfully.

"Yeah, well, right back at you. I don't want to watch you give yourself a tongue bath." Dean shuddered. "Anyway, we have more important things to worry about than cleanliness. So are you gonna help me or what?"

He didn't wait for an answer—he wasn't going to get one—and started going through boxes.

Clouds of dust billowed up as he worked, not doing his already stuffy nose any favors. For the most part all he found were various odds and ends, nothing obviously useful for turning a little brother human again. It didn't take long to realize that this was a bust.

"Okay, any other bright ideas?" Dean asked.

He turned to find Sam crouched in the doorway. The cat's eyes were fixed on one corner of the storeroom as he crept forward, tail flicking.

Dean's brow furrowed. "What're you…"

Sam pounced. There was a scrabble of claws and a tiny squeal, then Dean jumped back as a dust bunny went racing past him. It wasn't until the thing had streaked out the door that Dean realized it was a mouse.

Thankfully, Sam didn't humiliate himself further by giving chase. He was too busy sneezing the cobwebs off his whiskers in the corner.

"Really, Sam?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "We've hunted werewolves and wendigos, but you can't kill a mouse?"

Sam looked away in shame.

"Ah, don't sweat it," Dean said, softening. He stooped to brush a clump of dust off Sam's back. "Tom could never get Jerry, either. Try the lead pipe next time."

The cat huffed.

"Yeah, I know it sucks," Dean said, interpreting. "But we'll have you back to your normal, freakishly tall, no-less-hairy self in no time. What say we check out the room you were in when you turned catty?"

Sam gave him what Dean thought was a grateful look before brushing against his leg on his way out of the closet.

"I'll take that as a yes," Dean said, following.

-CAT-

Dean sneezed for the billionth time and slammed the drawer shut with a little more force than necessary. Which of course sent up even more dust, eliciting the billion-and-first, second, and third sneezes.

Dean rubbed his watering eyes and sniffed miserably. "Would it have killed the Men of Letters to hire a maid service?" he muttered.

The snarky response about the Men of Letters already being too dead to hire anyone never came, and Dean sighed. He glanced up at Sam, who was hunkered down atop an empty set of shelves, peering down lazily and watching as Dean rifled through junk drawers.

Dean sighed again, this time in exasperation. "You know, you could be helping."

Sam closed his eyes and settled down more comfortably.

"Seriously, man. I will leave you like this."

A purr.

Dean rolled his eyes. Sure, Sam might not be able to read in his present form, but he could at least act interested in the quest to turn him human again.

Choosing to ignore the cat, Dean glanced hopelessly around the room. Between finding nothing that seemed even remotely helpful and Sam doing nothing more productive than keeping the shelves warm, Dean was ready to admit defeat. He wasn't even sure what Sam had been doing in here to begin with, but it was obvious that whatever had turned him hadn't been in this room. Whatever had done it must've had a time-delay, so with Sam unable to tell him where he'd been, Dean had no way of knowing where to even start looking.

Which meant he was going to have to search every room in the bunker.

Dean groaned. And sneezed.

At this point his eyes were tearing up so bad that they were raw from him constantly wiping at them, his nose was too stuffed to even sneeze effectively, and his head was throbbing dully. His memory foam mattress was starting to look like the eighth wonder of the world right about now.

He couldn't possibly sleep with his brother the way he was, but maybe he could take a break…

Sam started washing his paws again.

Yep, Dean was definitely taking a break.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean said, already heading for the door.

He heard the thump of Sam hitting the floor, and the cat appeared in front of him, eyes wide in what Dean assumed was alarm.

"Relax," Dean told him. "I'm just gonna grab something to eat, then we'll be right back at it."

Well, I will anyway, he thought ruefully. He stepped around the cat and into the hall. He took a deep breath of dust-free air. Yeah, he was gonna need at least a couple hours before he could even think about going back into another storeroom.

He headed for the kitchen, Sam slinking along unhappily behind him. Dean didn't feel even slightly guilty about putting off turning Sam human again. If Sam could take naps and chase mice while Dean was slaving away, then ditching the cat suit must not be too pressing of a matter for him.

Dean strode to the refrigerator and pulled it open. "So, what are you hungry for?" he threw over his shoulder. "Milk? Tuna? Lasagna?"

He glanced back at Sam, who had jumped up onto the stainless steel counter and was now glaring at him sourly.

"I'm just kidding, Sammy," Dean smirked, turning back to the fridge. The bare shelves reminded him why he had been planning to go out for dinner earlier—they really didn't have any food. He grabbed a sad-looking head of lettuce and held it up.

"Salad?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. He proffered it to the cat, who sniffed it and recoiled disdainfully.

Dean smirked again. "My thoughts exactly. Who'd have thought it would take you turning into a cat to have good taste in food?" He chucked the lettuce back into the fridge.

"Well Sammy, I think we're out of luck on dinner," he sighed. He grabbed a beer, shut the fridge, and turned back to the cat. "Takeout?" he suggested.

Sam, of course, did not answer, but Dean had already discarded the idea. He couldn't leave Sam here alone, and he really didn't want any cat hair in the Impala.

"Ah, well," Dean said. "We can hit the grocery store later. We'll just have to get you human first."

Sam's shoulders slumped in response. His whiskers drooped, and Dean thought he looked for all the world like the most miserable scrap of shag carpet on the face of the planet.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Dean said gently. "We'll have you back to normal before you know it." He pulled down a bowl and poured some beer into it. "Even if we can't find what did this, there's gotta be a spell that can reverse it. We'll figure this out."

Sam blinked up at him gratefully, then lowered his head to lap at the beer.

Dean took a swig from the bottle. "And who knows, if we can't fix this, maybe being a cat wouldn't be so bad. There's the whole nine lives thing, you know? As many times as you've died, you could certainly use a few of those."

He absently emptied the rest of the bottle into Sam's bowl, then opened a new one. "You could still hunt," he went on. "There's gotta be a demon mouse out there somewhere, right? Or a possessed laser pointer, or something. And you don't need to carry a weapon anymore, since you pretty much come with built-in razors. Dip those things in silver, and you're all set to take out a shape-shifter."

Sam glanced at him, and Dean could've sworn he saw a spark of amusement in his eyes. But maybe that was just the alcohol.

The warmth of his own drink was starting to seep into him, and Dean smiled comfortably. "This'll all work out, Sammy," he said meaningfully. "It'll still be me and you against the world. Even if we do have to get you a litter box."

Sam's eyes narrowed, and Dean could all but hear his brother's reply. Jerk.

Dean chuckled. "Bxtch." He ruffled Sam's head affectionately and took another swig.

-CAT-
Sam dumped the bag of diner food on the kitchen counter, nearly knocking an empty bowl over the edge. He caught it before it could fall and moved to set it in the sink, but the smell of beer stopped him mid-step. He glanced down and noticed the dregs slipping around in the bottom of the bowl.

Sam frowned. Beer in a bowl. That was a new one.

What the heck had Dean been doing?

Shrugging to himself, he dropped the bowl in the sink. "Dean!" he called. "Food's here!"

He listened, but wasn't surprised when he didn't get an answer. The walls were so thick that Dean wouldn't have heard him unless he was in the immediate vicinity, which he apparently was not.

Figuring he was probably in his room, Sam went to check. He pushed the door open, expecting to see his brother sprawled out on the bed either asleep or still listening to music, but the room was empty.

Huh, Sam thought, pulling the door closed. Dean wasn't in his room and he hadn't been in the kitchen—the two most likely places—so where was he? Maybe the library?

Yeah, right.

That left the shooting range and the garage, Dean's other most frequent haunts.

Sam mentally flipped a coin and headed for the shooting range, but stopped as he passed his bedroom. The door was cracked, the light was on, and the unmistakable sounds of a cheesy action movie were coming from within.

He opened the door and didn't know whether to bust out laughing or hunt down the trickster that had to be responsible for this.

Dean was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, tipping back the contents of a beer bottle into his mouth with one hand, while the other—and here Sam had to do a double-take—was absently petting a cat. A collection of empty bottles littered the nightstand, along with a suspiciously depleted bottle of jack. On the TV, a man-eating lion was in the process of taking down some bloodied villagers.

"See, Sammy," Dean was saying. He gestured clumsily at the screen, apparently forgetting the beer he was holding and nearly sloshing the stuff all over the bed. "Tha's how it's done. Preten' those villagers're vampires…you jus' bite their heads off, and i's all good." He sneezed violently, sniffed, and looked blearily down at the cat. "You shoul' be takin' notes, ya'know. That lion's got skill."

Completely bewildered, Sam realized that Dean was not only talking to the cat, but had also just called it Sammy. Sam stepped into the room, trying and failing to find an explanation for this. I leave for a couple of hours and he replaces me with a cat?

"'Course," Dean said, "We'll have you turned back b'fore you gotta eat any heads."

Fearing his brother had officially lost his mind, Sam said, "Dean, what the heck are you doing?"

Dean's head snapped up. It took him a few muddled seconds to recognize Sam, but when he did, his face lit up like Christmas had come early.

"Sammy!" he cried, and the next thing Sam knew he was being tackled in a sneezy, alcohol-scented bear hug.

"Whoa, there," Sam grunted, pushing Dean back. He kept a hold of one of Dean's arms to steady him and looked his obviously-hammered brother up and down. "You mind explaining what you're doing downing the entire liquor cabinet, in my room?" he said. He glanced at the furry form still curled up on his bed. "And where did you get a cat?"

Dean's delighted grin turned to a scowl. "He's not a cat, he's you," he said fervently.

Sam raised an eyebrow, waiting for the penny to drop. When it didn't, he raised the other eyebrow and said, "You want to run that by me one more time?"

Dean rolled his eyes, swayed as though the action made him dizzy, and glared at Sam. "I said, he's not a cat, he's…"

He trailed off as realization dawned, slow but sure, in his glazed eyes. He whirled and would've hit the ground had Sam not kept a firm grip on his arm. But Dean had apparently forgotten his presence as he glared down at the cat.

"You lied to me!" he accused. The cat turned a sleepy gaze on him.

Sam looked incredulously between Dean and the cat. "Wait, did you actually think I was a cat?" he asked. He watched as the cat's head listed to one side. It managed to hiccup a meow before falling back against the bed.

Sam's eyebrows shot up even further as his bewilderment skyrocketed. "Is that cat drunk?"

"'es a filthy stinkin' liar, 's what he is," Dean slurred angrily. "Th's 's why I don' like cats, Sam. They're jus' furry little demons thatcha can't exorcise." He started leaning forward and staggered to keep from toppling.

Sam caught him. "Okaaaay," he said, pulling one of Dean's arms around his shoulders. Much as he was dying to hear the story behind all of this, he could tell he wasn't going to be getting any coherent answers out of Dean tonight. "What say we deal with this in the morning, huh?"

Dean's head flopped back to look at Sam. He was sure Dean was going to protest and go back to drunkenly berating the cat, but instead he sighed and closed his eyes. "Mmmm…okay." he said reluctantly. "Bu'tomorrow, he's really gonna get it." His eyes snapped open and he glared at the cat one last time. "You hear that? You're no'gettin' off that easy…"

The cat, who was still passed out on Sam's bed, didn't hear a word he said.

"Okay, take it easy," Sam said lightly. "Let's just get you to bed, alright?"

Dean forgot his beef with the feline and sighed happily at the word 'bed.' Sam suddenly found himself supporting all of Dean's weight as his brother slumped into him. "Whoa, how 'bout you wait till we actually get there to fall over?"

Dean grumbled but straightened up so Sam didn't have to practically carry him, and they made their way down the hall to Dean's room. Sam pulled back the covers and Dean flopped down into bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes. Sam did it for him, then helped Dean pull up the covers.

Thinking he was already asleep, Sam turned to leave but stopped when Dean grabbed his hand. He looked back to see his brother peering up at him, his expression a comical mixture of seriousness and confusion as he tried to pin down whatever it was he wanted to say. Finally, he just smiled, his eyes sliding half-shut. "'m glad you're not a cat, Sammy." he whispered.

Sam grinned. He didn't know exactly what Dean had been up to this afternoon, but he'd gathered enough to have a pretty good idea, and as soon as Dean was sober enough, Sam was never going to let him live it down. But for now he just patted his brother's hand and said, "Me too, Dean."

Dean smiled, pulled his hand back, and was instantly asleep.

Sam shook his head fondly and went to the door. He flipped the light off and was pulling the door closed when something streaked past him into the room. It leapt unsteadily onto the bed, teetered at the edge, then curled up under Dean's arm.

Sam grinned as his brother shifted in his sleep to place a hand on the cat's body. Dean sneezed once but didn't wake up.

He's gonna hate me for this, Sam thought happily. He pulled out his phone, zoomed in on his brother snuggling with the cat, and snapped a picture.

But who could blame him? It was, after all, the purrfect opportunity.

The End