#little kitty footprints all over my work space

[stinkybrowndogs]

If u have been waiting on an order i apologize last night the kitties got silly in my craft area and destroyed several sticker orders 🤡👍 i must reprint everything and start over

They are not sorry

[snarksandkisses]

What I think about COVID-19 this morning - Malia Jones, PhD, MPH

What I think about COVID-19 this morning

March 5, 2020

 Maybe I'm the closest thing you personally know to an infectious disease epidemiologist. Maybe not--I'm not an expert on this virus by any stretch, but I have general knowledge and training from studying epidemics that is applicable, so here are my thoughts. 

 First and foremost: we are going to see a tremendous increase in the number of US cases of COVID-19 in the next week. This is not because of some new pattern in the spread of the disease, but rather due to a major change in the requirements to be tested. Until yesterday, if you had flulike illness but had not recently traveled to China, Italy, South Korea, or Iran, you could not be tested. This is just the way healthcare works, you get tested if you meet the case definition and the case definition included travel.

 As of yesterday, you can be tested if you are sick and have a doctor's order to be tested. So expect things to feel a lot more panicky all of a sudden. We will see hundreds or thousands of new cases as a result of testing increases.

 Second: is that panic legitimate? Sort of. This is not the zombie apocalypse. The death rate of 30 deaths per 1000 cases is probably a wild overestimate. (The denominator is almost certainly wrong because it is confirmed cases--and we only confirm cases when we test for them). That said, even at 3 per 1000 cases, this would be a big deal. A very big deal. By way of comparison, the death rate for influenza is between 1 and 2 in 1000 cases. So, yeah. Roughly 0x to 30x worse than a huge global flu pandemic? That's a problem.

 Unlike flu, COVID-19 is not *particularly* dangerous for children, so that’s some happy news. It is dangerous for older adults and those with lung conditions, so we need to be extra careful to protect those populations from exposure. 

Also, for millions of Americans, getting any serious illness requiring a hospitalization is a major problem because they can't pay for it. And our health care system is probably going to struggle to keep up with it all. And with China basically closed, our global economy is going to take a huge hit and we'll feel the shockwaves for years. Those are real concerns.

 What can we do? Our focus should be on *slowing down the spread* of this disease so that we have time to get caught up. Here is my advice:

 1. Wash. Your. Hands. Wash them so much.

The current best guess is that coronavirus is transmitted via close contact and surface contamination. A very small study came out yesterday suggesting that the virus causing COVID-19 is *mostly* transmitted via contact with contaminated surfaces.

I have started washing my hands each time I enter a new building and after being in shared spaces (classrooms especially), in addition to the standard practice of washing after using the bathroom and before eating. Soap and water. Hand sanitizer also kills this virus, as does rubbing alcohol (the main ingredient in hand sanitizer).

 There is no need to be obsessive about this. Just wash your hands. A little bit more effort here goes a long way. 

 2. Don’t pick your nose. Or put your fingers in your mouth, on your lips, or in your eyes. Surface contact works like this: you touch something dirty. Maybe it's an elevator button. Virus sticks to your hands. Then you rub your eye. Then you touch your sandwich, and put the sandwich in your mouth. Now there is virus in your eyes and mouth. See?

 You may be thinking, but I don’t pick my nose because I am an adult! An observational study found that people sitting at a desk working touched their eyes, nose, or lips between 3 and 50 times per hour. Perfectly normal grown-ups, not lowlifes like my friends.

 2a. There was one note that came out suggesting that face masks actually promote surface contamination because you're always adjusting them--i.e., touching your face. I don’t know if that’s true. But face masks should not be worn by the public right now, unless you are the person who is sick and you're on your way to or actually at the doctor's office. The mask’s function is to prevent spit from flying out of your mouth and landing on things when you cough or sneeze. It flies out of your mouth and is caught in the mask instead. If you are the person who is sick and not on the way to the doctor, go home. Let the people who really need them have the masks. Like doctors.

 [ETA on 3/6/2020 honestly people I am getting so much push back on the mask recommendation!! The world is running low on masks. If everyone wants a mask so they can feel ok about keeping their Daytona Beach Spring Break plans and then hospitals in India can't buy them anymore, shame on us.]

 Coronavirus does not appear to be airborne in the sense that doesn't remain floating around freely in the air for a long time, like measles does. You are probably not going to breathe it in, unless someone is coughing in front of you. If someone is coughing in your face, feel free to tell them to get their ass home and move 6 feet away from them. (Yeah I know, if you have a toddler, you're screwed.)

 3. Sanitize the objects you and lots of other people touch, especially people outside your family--like door handles, shared keyboards at schools (brrr), salad bar tongs, etc. Best guesses are that the virus can live on surfaces for 2-48 hours, maybe even longer, depending on the surface, temperature, and humidity.

 Many common household cleaning products will kill this virus. However, white vinegar solution does not. You can make your own inexpensive antimicrobial spray by mixing 1 part household bleach to 99 parts cold tap water. Spray this on surfaces and leave for 10-30 minutes. Note: this is bleach. It will ruin your sofa.

 4. "Social distancing." You're going to get so sick of this phrase. This means keeping people apart from one another (preferably 6 feet apart, and sanitizing shared objects). This public health strategy is our next line of defense, and its implementation is what will lead to flights and events cancelled, borders closed, and schools closed.

 For now, you could limit face-to-face meetings, especially large ones. Zoom is an excellent videoconferencing option. If you spend time in shared spaces, see #1. Ask your child's school about their hygiene plan, if they haven't already told you what it is. If I were in charge of a school setting, I'd be hand sanitizing the s*** out of the kids' hands, including in and out of each space, and taking temperatures at the door. I am planning to email our school nurse right after this to ask if they need my volunteer help cleaning surfaces.

 If you can telecommute, do that a little more. If you are someone's boss and they could do their job remotely, encourage them to do that. 

 Avoid large gatherings of people if at all possible, especially if they are in an area with cases OR places that lots of people travel to. If you attend group events and start to feel even a little bit sick within 2 to 14 days, you need to self isolate immediately. Like for a tiny tickle in your throat.

 5. All your travel plans are about to get screwed up. If you are considering booking flights right now, get refundable tickets. ETA: most trip insurance will not cover cancellations due to a pandemic. Look for "cancel for any reason" trip insurance. 

 Considerations for risks related to that trip you’re planning: how bad would it be if you got stuck where you are going for 3 to 6 weeks? How bad would it be to be isolated at home for 2-3 weeks upon your return? Do you have direct contact with people who are over 70 and/or have lung conditions? If those seem really bad to you, rethink your trip, especially if it is to a location where there are confirmed cases. 

 6. If you are sick, stay home. Please! For the love of all that is holy. Stay at home. Your contributions to the world are really just not that important.

 7. There is a good chance some communities will see school cancelled and asked to limit non-essential movement. If someone in your family gets sick your family will almost certainly be isolated for 2-3 weeks (asked to stay at home). You could start stocking up with essentials for that scenario, but don't run out and buy a years' worth of toilet paper. Again, not the apocalypse. 2 weeks' worth of essential items. Refill any prescriptions, check your supply of coffee, kitty litter, and jigsaw puzzles.

 8. I do want to remind everyone that when public health works, the result is the least newsworthy thing ever: nothing happens. If this all fizzles out and you start feeling like ‘Wah, all that fuss for nothing??’ Then send a thank-you note to your local department of public health for a job well done. Fingers crossed for that outcome.

 9. Look, I think there are some positives here. All this handwashing could stop flu season in its tracks! We have an opportunity to reduce our global carbon footprint by telecommuting more, flying less, and understanding where our stuff comes from. We can use this to think about the problems with our healthcare system. We can use this to reflect on our positions of privilege and implicit biases. We can start greeting each other using jazz hands. I'm genuinely excited about those opportunities.

 There is a lot we don't yet know about this virus. It didn't even exist 90 days ago. So stay tuned, it is an evolving situation. The WHO website has a decent FAQ. Free to email or text with questions, and you can forward this to others if you think it's useful.

 May the force be with you. 

 Malia Jones, PhD, MPH

maliajones@gmail.com

 I’m an Assistant Scientist in Health Geography at the Applied Population Laboratory at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. I study social contact of humans, and spatial patterns of infectious disease, among other things. 

   P.S. The number one question I am getting is, did you really write this? Yes. I wrote this. 

 I didn't write it for professional purposes, so I didn't put my work email on it. It was really just meant to be an email to my friends and family in advance of what I expect to be an escalation in the panic level. But it was apparently welcome information and went viral on FB. I've decided not to edit out the swears, even though I wrote this with a much smaller audience in mind. 

 Thanks for checking your facts! Go science! 

[sidhewrites]

Untitled #7

Inspired by this writing prompt, by @write-it-motherfuckers​. Approx 1350 words.  Warnings for violence and blood and a frustrating lack of dumb cats.

I’m late. The bus is overcrowded. It’s raining outside, and I barely slept last night, thank you Barley and your dumb, stinky little kitty feet. I shuffle my work things around, trying to find a comfortable way to carry it all, but there’s not much that can be done to help. 

At least people aren’t leering today. In fact, it looks like they’re going out of their way to avoid looking at me. They even shuffle out of my way as I get off at my stop. Weird, but I’m not complaining. Small graces and all that, right?

The metropolitan sounds of the city’s business district follow me into the office building, as do the small puddles and footprints I leave on the marble floor. Morris watches me from the receptionist’s desk, probably about to say something, but decides against it. He’s in no mood for the day’s bullshit either. 

At least the elevator ride is easy. My arms are full, so a coworker, Cindy, holds the door open as I shuffle in, and tells me all about the girl she went out with yesterday. She doesn’t even stop to ask if I need help carrying my things, but I don’t think she even noticed. Cindy talks with her hands, waving them about like she’s casting some kind of magic spell. It’s enough to give me a bit of hope for the coming day, since her obliviousness and ever-present joy always manages to bring a bit of sunlight into miserable, drudgery-filled days like this one.

Apparently, the girl kissed Cindy on the cheek when they met up, and opened doors for her, and wore a suit with suspenders. 

She’s smitten. “So you see?” she finishes, with a flourish. “Chivalry isn’t dead.”

The elevator, however, is. It jolts and shakes, and Cindy clings to me with a yelp as the lights flicker. 

“What’s going on?” she asks, looking around. “Are we stuck? Is it broken?”

“We’re fine. I think.” I press the emergency call on the panel, and the lights go out. “Mmhm, totally fine.” We’re not fine. I think.

“Okay. Cool, that’s great. Because, you know, I read about these people that break elevators on purpose. They want to, I don’t know. They want to turn it into a liminal space and summon things from other planes of existence, I think. Or maybe steal our money.”

Yeah, we’re definitely not fine. Not if Cindy’s already coming up with conspiracy theories. It usually takes a good ten minutes of trouble before she gets that bad. I sigh, and nudge up against her, since my hands are still too full to offer a proper hug. “Then it’s a good thing this isn’t a bank building, right?”

“Right, yeah, right. Good thing.” She shuffles closer, just barely taller than my shoulder, and shaking already. Only when my armful of supplies pokes her in the face does she stop to take it in. “Is that an ax?”

“Yup.” A good, two-foot-long ax, with an iron head and a handsomely engraved handle. I’m pretty happy with it.

“Why the fuck are you bringing an ax to work?”

“They had a special on office supplies.”

I think it’s enough to distract her from our imminent doom, since she stares at the ax for a good long moment before she manages to find her voice: “What?”

“I said--”

A ceiling panel falls at our feet. Cindy yelps and hides behind me, and I look up. Glowing pairs of eyes leer down at us through the hole in the elevator. A large, dark shape fills up the space, and slithers into the elevator with a wet hissing sound. It’s slightly humanoid -- but only slightly.

“What’s that?”

I frown. “I don’t know.”

But it doesn’t care whether we know what it is or not. Eyes open up all over this thing’s body, yellowed and bloodshot and all looking at us. 

Cindy whimpers. “Do you think they summoned that thing? Do you think it’s from some other plane of existence? I knew it. I told you I knew it.”

“Okay, you told me. You were right. What do we do now?”

“Well I don’t know! I--”

The thing roars. It doesn’t open its mouth -- maybe doesn’t have a mouth -- but it roars all the same, loud enough to shake the elevator and us in it. I stumble, dropping my things, as Cindy falls backwards against the wall to scream.

“Quiet!” I shout. I bend down, unable to get my footing solid. It’ll do us no good if she’s doing nothing but drawing its attention.

The thing takes a step towards us. 

Cindy screams again.

I whip up to my feet, dragging the ax up through its torso. It tears open, and roars again. This time, it makes a lunge towards me. The ax’s momentum drags me a step backwards, almost into Cindy, and I just barely avoid getting torn open by massive claws that weren’t there a second ago.

The thing hisses again, swipes at me. I grab hold of Cindy with my free hand and drag us both out of the way. We crash into the other side of the elevator, falling against a few buttons that don’t light up. Cindy slides to her knees in fear, pressed up against the door. I step to the far corner, standing behind the thing, and raise my ax again.

It strikes before I can. Another limb shoots out from its back, an eye on the palm of its new hand, and drags across my shoulder. I scream. Pain shoots down my arm, across my chest, through my head. It hurts. It hurts, and blood stains my shirt. My blood.

I howl, and swipe again, half blind, but the ax whistles through the air. The thing isn’t close enough for me to hit. I don’t think, don’t plan, just raise the ax, and run forward. As soon as I run into something, I strike.

I hit. Hard. My arm shakes as the ax slices through muscle and bone -- the shoulder. Its clavicle snaps. The thing roars, shaking the elevator again. But it falls under my blow, hissing, dark fluid leaking off its body and onto the ground, where it fades into nothing. 

Breathing is hard. I pant, and raise my good arm one more time, bringing the ax down onto its head. Into its skull. Its eyes go wild, rolling in their sockets. This time, I let the ax fall with the thing as it dissolves into a fine black mist, and then nothing. 

The lights go on. All is normal. The only sign of the fight is my ruined shoulder, and Cindy sobbing in the corner. The doors are pried open behind her. We’re between two floors, and the firemen reach in to help us out. 

“Get her out first,” I say. “I’m gonna need some help.”

They do. I’m left standing in the elevator alone, looking at the ceiling panel on the floor, the dents in my new ax. Everything hurts. My arm hurts, my lungs, my head. 

I take the ax with me before I let anyone help me out, and let Cindy tell them what happened, in her babbling, half-senseless way.

“You’re going to need the hospital,” someone said. “That looks deep.”

“I have work to do.” But it’s a half-hearted argument. I don’t mind the excuse to leave work, extreme as it is, and I’m already anticipating spending the next few days at home, recovering with a spoiled cat on my lap.

The firemen load me onto a gourney. I don’t know why. I can walk on my own, even if I’m dizzy. They ask if I need anything with me. I just tell Cindy to have someone get the rest of my supplies from the elevator, and leave it at that.

“Wait!” She holds a hand out before they take me away. “Why -- why would anyone count that as office supplies?”

For the first time that day, I manage to crack a smile. It’s a gruesome sight, I’m sure, but it doesn’t matter. I press a button on the handle of my ax, and  little metallic nib pops out of one side, shining and covered in ink. “It’s a really cool ballpoint pen.”

Tag List: @ambreeskyewriting@maitretmaitresse

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[soy-em]

New Weechesters Fic: Matagot

Title: Matagot

Pairing: Gen, Sam & Dean

Rating: G

Warnings: none

Words: 3968

Summary: At 10, Sam is far sneakier than Dean can cope with.

On A03

Sammy keeps sneaking out into the back yard. His over-the-top surreptitious actions set immediate alarm bells ringing in Dean’s head, but he won’t tell his big brother what he’s up to. He comes back in, traipsing mud, after half an hour or so out of Dean’s sight around the corner behind the tree, and Dean has no idea why his little brother would want to spend so much time outside in the freezing cold and frequent rain they’re currently experiencing.

Dean can’t bear it. At 14, his mind is a whirl of angry, confused thoughts he can’t quite pin down, making his emotions spiral out of control at a moment’s notice. But throughout all the chaos, one thought always shines through: Sammy.

Look after Sammy.

Make sure Sammy is warm and dry.

Make sure Sammy gets enough food, and gets food he likes.

Make sure Sammy is healthy and well.

Make sure Sammy is safe.

Know what Sammy is doing all the time

My Sammy.

He’s vaguely aware that it’s borderline unhealthy and that his investment in his little brother doesn’t reflect the way his peers feel about their siblings; but above all that is a huge big pile of who gives a shit. Sammy is his little brother, his to look after. Sammy is his.

And he doesn’t know what Sammy is doing.

***

Days pass, the weather gets worse and Dean still can’t work out what Sammy is up to. He tries sneaking out behind Sammy, watching behind him as his brother’s little feet pad across their scrawny yard. But Sammy is being well trained by their Dad and more often than not he realises that Dean’s behind him; and he thinks Dean has come out to play with him and starts up a game. Dean is powerless in the face of Sammy’s enthusiasm and inevitably, his attempt to find out what Sammy is up to is shelved. Sammy’s really into wizards at the moment, wants to pretend that he and Dean are rival wizards forced to battle together to save the earth, and who is Dean to say no to that?

Other times, Dean sneaks out successfully, but can only see Sammy pottering at the very end of their yard, no clue as to the secret that brings him out into the driving rain so frequently. He disappears occasionally behind the dilapidated old shed, missing half its roof and still only barely more habitable than the house Dad’s found for them; but the space there is tiny and Dean can’t follow without being seen. Dean’s own trips to the back of the shed, when Sammy’s nose is irretrievably buried in whatever book has caught his attention this week, are fruitless; there is nothing to see but old weeds and the vague smell of urine.

Safe to say, by the end of the second week that Dad has dumped them in this no-frills town, Dean is going stir-crazy.

***

Dad had refused to take Dean on this hunt, or even let him in on what he was seeking. It maddens Dean, that his Dad still didn’t trust him; didn’t see him as an adult or someone who could help. At his darkest times, he thinks that his Dad only found him useful as a nursemaid, or a babysitter, someone who could keep Sammy out of trouble while Dad did the real work of saving things. On those nights, Dean struggles; sitting quiet and pensive in a corner of the room while Sammy gets on with his evening; ignoring his brother’s requests to play games or watch movies together.

Other times, the distinction is clearer. Sam’s eyes shine up at him; his brother curled safe against his side while Dean helps with Sammy’s homework, encouraging his little brother through maths and science tasks that he himself struggles with. It’s not that Dad doesn’t trust Dean with hunting; it’s that Dad trusts Dean with Sammy, and that’s the biggest honour he could bestow, because Sammy is the most important thing in the world.

Those nights, Dean sleeps easier, safe in the knowledge that he is useful, that he has a purpose. Those nights he beams at his brother, teases him until Sam is red in the face and then pulls him in for rough hugs, disguised as play fighting. Those nights, Sam climbs into his bed in the darkest hours, explicitly disobeying orders; and those nights, Dean doesn’t have the heart to kick him out.

But still, even on those incandescent nights, when the Winchester boys are so in step with each other, Sammy still doesn’t talk about why he keeps sneaking out.

***

They’re deep into the third week, and even deeper into the first snowfall of the season, when Dean finally works out what Sammy is up to. It’s the snow that tells him, pristine whiteness leaving trails of Sam’s secret across the yard.

Sam’s footprints, tiny still compared to the imprints of Dean’s feet, are soon matched by even smaller tracks dancing around them behind the shed. A cat, Dean realises easily, the familiar shape reassuring him. Sammy has been visiting a cat.

Sammy’s always, always fallen in love with every dog they’ve ever seen, begging their Dad for a puppy and insisting it would be safe to take one on the road. But that doesn’t mean he loves dogs to the exclusion of all else, and Dean can easily imagine Sammy’s warm little heart bleeding over a poor abandoned kitty. No doubt his brother has been sneaking out to feed his new friend, sneaking the cat treats and bits of Sam’s dinner even when the Winchester boys were starting to feel the protracted absence of their father having an effect on their diet.

Something settles in his heart to know that he’s discovered Sam’s secrets; that everything is back to normal and there’s no part of Sammy he doesn’t know and understand. He knows that feeling is addictive and dangerous; that a time will soon come when Sammy doesn’t want to share everything, but he can’t help feeling a deep satisfaction anyway.

***

When Sam slips out that evening, Dean follows, no longer concerned with keeping himself hidden. He watches Sam skip carefree across the snow, and he thinks that had he still been trying to be sneaky, this might ironically have been the night he succeeded. Sammy doesn’t seen to have a care in the world as he rounds the corner of the shed.

So it’s safe to say that Dean is somewhat taken aback by what he sees.

While it’s clearly a cat, it’s the biggest damn cat Dean’s ever come across. Black fur glistens across a body that is easily four times the size of a domestic cat, though in every other feature it resembles a common cat, rather than a bobcat or a mountain lion. Its yellow eyes glint towards Sammy, fixed on where Sam’s got one hand secure in his pocket.

“Here, kitty kitty kitty.” Dean is astonished to hear Sammy crooning gently at the giant creature. As his brother crouches down in the snow, the cat is as high as Sam’s shoulder, and Dean shudders with fear as it stalks towards his little brother.

Sam doesn’t seem bothered though, just continues to mumble nonsense. “Here, kitty, got a nice treat for you today,” Sam says, oh so softly. “Just for you, something you’ll really, really like. Dean made a great dinner today, I saved you some kitty!”

Dean is suddenly furious that the dinner he’d worked hard over, had planned so carefully with the little money they have left, is feeding this monster of a cat rather than the scrawny little brother it was intended for. But it’s so typical of Sammy to give up his food to an animal, even a monster one.

The fury abates as soon as it had come, as Dean focuses on the much bigger problem of what the fuck the giant monster cat actually was. He curses internally; of course Sammy hasn’t made friends with a normal cat.

Abandoning any attempt at stealth, he says, “What the hell is that, Sammy?”

Sam visibly jumps, turning around to face Dean quickly. The cat hisses violently, tail standing upright and eyes changing to an even deeper yellow. It stands behind Sam, looking ready to attack if needed to protect the little boy.

“Dean!” Sam exclaims. “Look, this is my new friend. His name is Aslan. I met him a few days ago but I’m worried he doesn’t eat very much so I saved him some food.”

Sam looks worried about Dean’s reaction, because Dean is definitely no fan of cats.

“Sammy,” Dean replies slowly. “I really don’t think that cat is going short on food. Can you not see how big it is?” The cat hisses at him again, almost as if it understands.

“Aslan needs food, Dean. It’s so cold and he doesn’t have a family.” Sam’s big eyes are welling up a little now, and Dean forces himself to ignore it.

“I think Aslan,” Dean clenches his teeth against giving the monster cat a name, “Is just fine. Give him what you’ve got now and we’ll go inside.” All Dean wants right now is to get his precious little brother away from the cat; he can think about the implications later.

“But I wanted to play with Aslan, De, can’t we stay and play for a while?”

Dean hardens his heart against the nickname Sammy hardly ever uses any more. “Not today, Sammy. Time to go inside.” He infuses his voice with all the parental authority he’s picked up from their dad over the years, hoping it will be enough to get his little brother away. Luckily it works; Sam pouts but follows Dean back to the house after he hands over a crumbled handful of dry macaroni and cheese to the cat, and Dean breathes a little easier.

He finds a film for them to watch on the clapped-out tv and settles Sammy against his side, and then begins to think.

***

Two hours later, Dean has taken in none of the film and is still entirely baffled. Aslan clearly was not a normal cat; but on the other hand, he didn’t seem to be malevolent, at least not towards Sammy. Dean is more than willing to discount the cat’s negative reaction to himself; the feeling had been more than mutual.

He shifts awkwardly on the sofa, growing bones aching. Nothing to be done about it tonight, he thinks, tonight he needs to make dinner and make sure Sam’s homework is done and get everything ready for school tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow, if their Dad calls, he can ask for some advice. If not, he can maybe call Uncle Bobby, see if he has any thoughts.

***

The next morning brings no enlightenment, and no word from Dad. Dean dispatches Sammy to school when the big yellow bus pauses outside their house, fussing over his little brother to make sure he has hat, gloves and scarf and is wrapped up as warm as can be. He’s not bothered about going to school on time himself; it’s not like he’ll be staying in school much longer and this is far more important.

A quick call to Uncle Bobby brings no easy answers, but the promise of a research update later that evening.

“I don’t think it can be that evil if Sam’s been playing with it for the last couple of weeks,” Bobby reassures him gruffly, and Dean has to settle for that. “Its definitely odd and I’ll look into it, but don’t worry too much, Dean. Animals love Sammy.”

Dean tries his very hardest to believe that as he trudges through the snow to school.

***

Sam’s return from classes that afternoon starts a long, snippy row between them. Sam wants to go outside and make sure Aslan is fed and well, and then ideally play with his new friend all evening. Dean thinks that’s going to happen over his dead body.

“Dean!” Sam whines. “Aslan needs food. It’s cold, what if he starves. He needs me to bring him food!”

“Aslan is the biggest damn cat I’ve ever seen, Sammy. Aslan is not going hungry, believe me.”

“How do you know? You can’t know that.” Dean knows his little brother and has come up against his need for actual proof before, so he’s aware this is a fight he’s not going to win.

“Ok, fine,” he says sharply. “We can put some food out for Aslan, but you’re not staying out there to wait for him and you’re certainly not going to play with him.”

Sam’s lip trembles. “But he’s my friend, and he knows I come to play with him every evening, Dean. He’ll be so sad if I’m not there.”

Dean sets his teeth.

“It’s not a normal cat, Sammy. I don’t know what it is. But you can’t play with something that might be dangerous.”

“Aslan’s not dangerous!” Sam looks utterly indignant, chubby little cheeks flushing bright red with anger. “I’ve been playing with him for ages. He just wants to be friends.”

“No, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam begins again, and the argument continues. Dean takes Sammy out to put the food out, biting his tongue against the fact that the Winchester boys need the tin of tuna far more than the monster cat does. He makes Sam spaghettios for dinner, and after looking through the money left in the cookie tin, resigns himself to another night of cereal with a side of grumpy little brother.

Their update from Uncle Bobby comes as promised, but he has no news for them. “Haven’t found anything yet, Dean,” Bobby says gruffly. “Looked through my basic bestiaries. I’ll have to start on the advanced collection. Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure that it can’t just be a big cat?”

“Bobby, the thing was four times the size of a cat. It was almost as big as Sammy. Believe me, it was not a cat.” Dean’s certainly must come through in his voice, because Bobby sighs.

“Ok Dean, I’ll be in touch again tomorrow. Be careful, and try to keep Sam away from it.” Bobby’s chuckle suggests that he knows what a monumental task that might prove to be.

Although he often finds it annoying when he wants some privacy, tonight he’s glad that the rental they’re in has two twin beds side by side. Dean’s taken the one nearest the door, of course,  and given that the window’s been jammed since the snow started, Sam’s unlikely to be able to escape that way. He settles down to sleep content in the knowledge that they should have a quiet night.

***

A loud crash startles Dean awake, propelling him into full fight mode. He grabs at the gun under his pillow, jumping out of the bed and crouching under the window.

Sam sits up more slowly, rubbing at sleepy eyes. His little pyjamas have gotten all twisted in the night, and Dean ruthlessly suppresses the urge to straighten them. More important things are at hand. He gestures to Sammy to stay quiet, and Sam’s eyes widen with alarm.

Dean listens intently for further noise, wanting to know if he’d just heard a random thump - snow falling off a tree, perhaps - or if there was actually cause for concern. He can clearly hear someone moving about in the yard, and his gut tightens.

“Shush,” he gestures again at Sam, and makes him get down off the bed. “Under,” he whispers, directing his little brother under the bed, the nearest available safety he can think of at short notice.

Straightening, he peers out of the window, but there’s nothing to be seen. Steeling himself, he cocks the gun, slips his feet into the shoes that are always left at the end of the bed and moves out into the living room, scanning carefully as he’s been taught.

It’s immediately obvious that there’s no one in the house; whatever the danger is, it’s in the yard. Dean moves towards the back door and presses his face to the adjacent window. The garden is softly lit in the moonlight, but Dean still can’t see anything.

As quietly as he can, he opens the back door, thankful that he’d taken the time to oil the squeak earlier in the week. The pristine fall of new snow is marred by footprints, and Dean knows they aren’t either his or Sammy’s; too much snow has fallen and besides, they’re too big. Gun raised, he steps out across the snow, placing his feet into the footprints as soon as possible to hide his tracks. He quickly checks back to make sure he can’t see Sammy, and then he sets off.

The tracks lead him to the old shed, and Dean’s heart plummets. This can only be linked to the monster cat. He speeds up when he hears sounds of a struggle, rounding the corner quickly.

He’s absolutely astonished to see his father behind the shed, locked in a fight with an equally tall man. The monster cat stands just to one side, teeth bared and hackles raised, watching the two men intently.

“Dad!” Dean yells, and John looks back. Dean curses as that gives his father’s assailant the opportunity to land a punch on John’s face that sends him reeling backwards, but he keeps his head and aims.

The shot hits the man in the knee - exactly where Dean wanted it. His father might be in danger but he has no idea if this man deserves to die.

The man crumples, hitting the floor with a thud and John is on him in seconds; grabbing up a rock, he delivers a swift blow that knocks the man out cold. Dean sighs, relieved, eyes scanning his father for injury.

He barely registers when the cat hits him full force in the chest, claws digging into his skin sparking bright spots of pain behind his eyes. He tumbles over, landing flat on his back with the cat’s full weight on top of him. He yells, scrambling at the cat; but it’s got two claws embedded deep and is using the other two to rake at Dean’s arms and chest, and Dean is forced to let go to protect his face.  

His dad hits the cat with the same rock, and it drops from Dean’s body with a sickening thud. They stare at each other for a long moment, both panting with exertion, before John extends his hand to help his son off the floor.

“Nice shot, son,” he says, grim.

“What the hell’s going on, Dad?” Is all Dean can manage in response.

John’s about to answer when they hear the back door slam against the frame.

“Shit, Sam,” Dean exclaims, and runs full pelt back towards the house, desperate to make sure Sam doesn’t see the cat lying on the ground. He crashes into Sammy, scooping him up into his arms. Sam flails against him, little arms catching the cuts on Dean’s chest; but Dean perseveres and hauls Sammy into the house.

***

It takes a good half an hour for John to come back into the house, and Sam spends that time patting at Dean’s scratches, eyes wild. His little hands frame Dean’s face for a long few minutes, multicolored eyes boring into Dean’s with an intensity that makes Dean shake.

“Are you ok Dean?” Sammy finally whispers.

“I’m fine, Sammy. Just a couple of cuts. Wanna help me clean them up?”

Sammy brightens at the option to take positive action, and soon soft little fingers are tracing across Dean’s face, arms and chest with enormous care, helping to clean them with some of the whisky Dean found in the cupboard.

“Dad!” Sammy exclaims as the door crashes open again, snow swirling into the house behind their father’s broad shoulders.

“Heya Sammy,” John says, voice weary. “You ok, Dean?”

“I’m perfect, Dad, thanks to Sammy,” Dean replies, voice only wavering slightly. John just nods, and collapses onto the couch.

“What…” Dean’s not quite sure how to ask his questions with Sammy still perched next to him, head cocked with interest.

“In the morning,” John says firmly. “Everything is fine now. If you’re all cleaned up, I want you both in bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dean scoops up Sammy, trying to put his curiosity away. Sam is already starting to fall asleep again, head resting on Dean’s shoulder; and it only takes a couple of moments to tuck him in. He pauses, but ultimately, there’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep tonight until he knows what happened.

He pads back into the living room, and looks at where his father is already stretched out along the couch. John’s not asleep though, and he tilts his head to look at Dean, before sighing heavily.

“Witch,” he says shortly. “And a matagot. Never seen one before, it’s like a familiar only with its own powers as well - and bigger, obviously. They’ve been conning people all over the state, giving them money and then killing them when the conditions aren’t met.”

Dean shudders. He knew that cat wasn’t normal.

“I’ve been tracking them the last few weeks, but they were clever. Took me a while to find out where they were hiding out. Couldn’t believe it when they led me here.”

“Sam’s been playing with the cat, and feeding it,” he says slowly. “Gave it a name and everything.”

John rears up off the sofa at that. “Jesus christ, Dean! Could you not tell it was a monster?”

“Of course, but he’s been really secretive about it. Turns out he’s really good at being sneaky. I only saw it for the first time yesterday. It loved him, anyway.”

John suddenly looks very weary, wiping his hand across his face. “That boy and animals, shit.”

Dean feels the tension leave his body as realises that his father isn’t going to blame him for this. “I talked to Uncle Bobby about it,” he confesses, “but he didn’t know what it was.”

“I’m not surprised,” John replies. “They’re only native to France and Louisiana, no idea how one got all the way up here.”

There’s silence for a moment as the two Winchester men contemplate what could have happened. Finally John looks up and smiles at Dean.

“You did good tonight, Dean. That was some shot you made. Go on to bed now.”

***

Much to Dean’s surprise, Sammy is awake when Dean enters the bedroom. Sleepy eyes are peering up at him from where Sam’s propped against the headboard, trying to keep himself awake.

“I don’t like it when you get hurt, Dean,” he says as soon as Dean enters the room.

“Me neither, squirt,” Dean replies, yawning as he toes his shoes off.

“I really, really don’t like it,” Sam repeats through his own yawn.

“I’m ok though, Sammy,” Dean reassures. “Look, just a couple of scratches.” Dean pauses, reflecting on the fact that Sammy is so used to their dad traipsing in injured and offering no explanation that he hasn’t even questioned what’s happened.

“I still don’t like it,” Sam insists.

“I get it, Sammy,” Dean says laughing. He pulls back his covers, tugging them into place from where they’d gotten tangled when he was startled awake.

As soon as he’s in the bed, Sammy hops out of his and hurtles across the room, flinging himself against Dean’s side. He tucks himself into his usual place under Dean’s arm, little fist tangled in Dean’s tshirt.

Dean sighs. Their dad has been very clear about this, but surely this counts as an extenuating circumstance.

“Just tonight, Sammy,” he says as Sam’s eyelashes flutter closed.

“Sure, De,” Sammy replies, jaw cracking on a yawn. Dean doesn’t believe him for a minute.

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