Hiii I love the way you write sam and dean's sister!
May I request a silly fic where adult youngest sister! reader adopts a cat and brings it to the bunker?
No fuss or dramatics, she just comes across a cat on the street during a grocery run or smth and immediately sweeps it into her coat pocket like on a whim without even telling her brothers or anything but it's not like she's hiding it from them either
And then after a week (or longer) when the boys finally realise there's a cat living with them now they're just like "???? Wtf when did this cat get in here"
Sam Winchester x little sister!reader
Dean Winchester x little sister!reader
Summary: The cat distribution system chose you so you couldn't say no and took the cat home. Who knew Sam and Dean would be so oblivious to a new member in the house... bunk.
Warnings: None! All fluff
You found him on a Tuesday, which was fitting because Tuesdays were trash days behind the Trader Joe's and this particular cat looked like he'd been personally victimized by at least three of them.
He was orangeâaggressively orange, the kind of marmalade color that demanded attentionâwith white paws, a white bib, and one ear that folded over at the tip like someone had dog-eared a page of him. His eyes were mismatched, one green and one amber, and he was crouched next to a dumpster eating something that might have been a chicken wing or possibly something that used to be alive. You didn't look too closely.
The parking lot shimmered with heat, that dead afternoon space where the world held its breath between lunch and dinner rushes. Your car was loaded with the weekly supply runâindustrial coffee, beer, bread, and enough deli meat to build a small meat tower. The usual Winchester survival kit.
You crouched down, grocery bags cutting circulation to your fingers. "Hey there."
The cat stopped mid-chew and looked at you. Really looked, with the kind of assessment that suggested he was calculating whether you were a threat or a potential food source. His tail flicked once. Twice.
"You look like you've had a rough week," you said, which felt like an understatement. The cat was skinny under all that fur, ribs visible, but there was something in his expressionâdignity, maybe, or just profound exhaustion with the whole street life situation.
You made a decision that would later be described by your brothers as "impulsive" and "completely irresponsible" and "very on-brand for you, actually."
The cat blinked slowly. It wasn't a no.
You scooped him up, and he went immediately limp in that boneless way cats have, like his skeleton had simply opted out. He was warm and vibratingâpurring, you realized with surprise. You tucked him into the oversized pocket of your canvas jacket, the one you'd stolen from Dean two years ago that still smelled faintly of gun oil and his cologne.
The cat settled into the pocket like he'd been living there his whole life.
"Cool," you said to no one in particular, and finished loading the groceries.
The drive back to the bunker took forty minutes through winding Kansas backroads. You'd moved the cat to the passenger seat after the first ten minutes because having a live animal in your pocket while operating a motor vehicle seemed irresponsible even by your standards. He didn't try to escape or yowl or do any of the things you'd expect from a street cat suddenly trapped in a car. He just curled up, tucked his paws under himself, and watched the scenery pass with the mild interest of a seasoned traveler.
Halfway through the drive, he meowed. Just once. A creaky, rusty sound like it had been a while since he'd had reason to use his voice.
"I know," you said, even though you had no idea what he was communicating. "Almost there."
Another meow, slightly more confident this time.
By the time you pulled up to the bunker, he'd meowed approximately seven more times, each one a little louder than the last, like he was remembering how his voice worked and deciding he quite liked using it.
The bunker had seventy-three rooms, give or takeâhonestly, you kept finding new closets and corridors, and you'd lived here for years. It was the kind of place where you could claim a storage closet on sublevel two and no one would notice for weeks.
So that's exactly what you did.
The closet was small but serviceable, wedged between the some archive room and a room full of cursed pottery that everyone pretended didn't exist. You set up what could generously be called "cat infrastructure": a litter box taken from the cleaning supply closet (Dean had bought seventeen during his brief "organization phase" and hadn't touched them since), two bowls borrowed from the kitchen (Dean had forty-three bowls; he'd survive), and a nest made from blankets you'd been meaning to wash but now served a higher purpose.
The cat explored his new home with the thoroughness of a health inspector, sniffing every corner, testing the blankets with his paws, and ultimately deeming the setup acceptable with a loud meow of approval.
"Okay, but firstâbath time."
The look he gave you suggested betrayal of the highest order.
You filled your bathroom sink with warm water and discovered that beneath the street grime, he was actually beautiful. The orange of his fur was rich and warm, like marmalade in sunlight, and he was solidânot fat exactly, but substantial. Well-fed for a street cat, which suggested he'd been someone's pet once, or at least knew how to work a neighborhood for handouts.
He tolerated the bath with the resigned dignity of someone who understood that indoor living required certain sacrifices. He meowed throughoutânot distressed, just opinionated, a running commentary on the temperature of the water (too warm), your bathing technique (too rough), and the general indignity of the situation (unacceptable).
"You're very vocal," you observed, working shampoo through his fur.
When you wrapped him in a towel, he looked simultaneously pathetic and royal, like a tiny orange emperor who'd been caught in a rainstorm. He meowed, probably demanding to speak to a manager.
"You know what?" you said, studying him. "You look like a Garfield."
The catâGarfieldâblinked his mismatched eyes slowly. Then he meowed, which you chose to interpret as approval.
It fit perfectly. Orange, food-motivated (you'd already seen him try to stick his face in the deli meat bag), and clearly opinionated. The universe had a sense of humor.
You set him up in his closet with food, water, and a clean litter box. "I'll be back later. Try not to summon any demons or whatever."
Garfield meowed, making no promises, and began grooming himself with the focus of someone who took personal hygiene very seriously.
Garfield had figured out the bunker's layout with impressive speed. You'd propped his closet door open on day two, and he'd ventured out cautiously, explored the immediate hallway with his tail high and his bell jingling softly, and returned to his base. By day three, he'd claimed your bedroom as an extension of his territory.
You woke up to find him sleeping on your feet, a warm, purring weight pinning down the blankets. Your door had definitely been closed when you went to sleep.
"How did youâ" You stared at him. He stared back, yawned widely enough to show all his teeth, and meowed. "You know what, I don't want to know."
He meowed again, this one clearly meaning "good, because I wasn't going to tell you anyway."
The bunker had weird drafts and mysterious gaps. It was entirely possible there was a cat-sized network of passages you'd never noticed. You decided to file it under "bunker mysteries" and move on.
By day four, Garfield had integrated himself into your routine so seamlessly it felt like he'd always been there. He appeared in the library during your research sessions, jumping into your lap without struggle and settling there like he was entitled to the space. Which, apparently, he was.
You were deep in a stack of books about vengeful spiritsâa murdered prom queen, very originalâwhen Garfield made his entrance. He circled exactly three times in your lap, kneaded your thighs with his paws (his claws needed trimming, ow), and then loafed, tucking his paws beneath himself with a satisfied meow.
"Hello to you too," you murmured, adjusting your laptop so you could still see the screen.
He purred, a sound like a small motor, and meowed once more as if to say "you may continue working now."
Twenty minutes later, Sam wandered in, still in his pajamas despite it being 2 PM, making a beeline for the ancient coffee maker that lived on the library's side table.
"Hey," he mumbled, pouring coffee that could probably strip paint. "Find anything?"
You had a cat in your lap. An orange, purring, occasionally meowing cat. Sam was approximately six feet away.
"Yeah, actually. Rebecca Walsh, 1997, but she didn't die at promâshe died two weeks after in a car accident."
"Right, on the way to confront her cheating boyfriend." Sam took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "God, when did we make this?"
"Disgusting." He took another sip anyway. "I'm making fresh. Want some?"
Garfield shifted in your lap, stretched one paw out, and meowed. Sam walked past, close enough that his flannel pajama pants brushed the edge of the table.
He didn't even glance down.
You watched him shuffle out, heard the distant sounds of him puttering in the kitchen, and looked at Garfield.
"Did he seriously justâ"
Garfield meowed, whiskers twitching in what might have been amusement.
"That's weird. That's genuinely weird."
Another meow, unbothered.
Sam returned with two mugs, set one by your laptop, and leaned over to look at your screen. His hair nearly touched your shoulder. Garfield was directly in his line of sight, an orange beacon of feline presence.
"Letterman jacket," you said, pointing. "She's wearing his jacket in four different photos. Class of '97."
"Good catch." Sam straightened up. "I'll call Dean."
He left, already pulling out his phone. Garfield watched him go, then turned his mismatched eyes to you and meowed.
"I don't know what's happening either," you told him.
He purred and went back to sleep.
The kitchen was your sanctuaryâa vast industrial space with a six-burner stove from the 1950s that still worked perfectly, miles of counter space, and a refrigerator large enough to hide a body in. Not that you'd tried. Recently.
You were making chicken pot pie from scratch, your mom's recipe, the real deal with butter pastry and a roux-based sauce. Dean and Sam were researching their next case in the libraryâsomething about missing hikers in Oregonâand you had the kitchen to yourself.
Garfield appeared silently, as cats do, and began weaving figure-eights around your ankles. His purr was loud enough to compete with the stove fan, and he meowed every few seconds, a running commentary on your cooking process.
"Hey, buddy. You hungry?"
Meow. Obviously, he was always hungry. The name Garfield had never been more appropriate.
"Okay, but you gotta move. Can't have you underfoot while I'mâ"
Garfield shifted exactly two inches to the left and sat down, now beside your foot rather than around it. He meowed, clearly pleased with this compromise.
You went back to working the pie dough, cutting cold butter into flour until it resembled coarse meal. Garfield watched with the intensity of a food critic, his tail swishing occasionally. Every so often, he'd meow, either commenting on your technique or simply reminding you of his presence.
The kitchen was isolated enough that people rarely wandered through unless they specifically needed something, which was why you nearly dropped your pastry cutter when Dean walked in, went straight to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and walked out.
He passed within two feet of Garfield.
Garfield meowedânot loudly, but audibly.
You stared at the doorway. Then at Garfield. Then back at the doorway.
"What the fuck?" you whispered.
Garfield meowed, equally baffled.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam appeared, nose-deep in a book about Native American folklore. He walked to the coffee makerâthe kitchen had its own because there were three in the bunker and you still somehow ran outâand poured himself a cup.
Garfield was directly in his path. Sam stepped around him without looking up, eyes glued to his book.
"Smells good," Sam said absently. "What're you making?"
"Chicken pot pie." Your voice sounded strangled even to your own ears.
"Nice. Let me know when it's ready?"
He left, still reading. Garfield stared after him, then up at you, and meowed plaintively.
"I don't know," you said. "I really, really don't know."
By day ten, you'd documented seventeen separate instances of your brothers failing to notice Garfield. Sam had stepped over him twice. Dean had sat on the couch where Garfield was sleeping and somehow ended up with the cat behind his head without noting his presence. Sam had eaten breakfast while Garfield sat on the table, meowing, two feet from his cereal bowl.
It was starting to feel less like obliviousness and more like a cosmic joke.
You were having dinnerâleftover pot pieâwhen Dean joined you at the kitchen table, serving himself a massive portion.
"This is incredible," he said around a mouthful. "Seriously. You should make this weekly."
"It's like four hours of work, Dean."
"Worth it." He shoveled in another bite. "Sam said Oregon's probably a wendigo."
"Yeah, the pattern fits."
Garfield jumped onto the table between you and sat down, his bell jingling. He looked at your plate, then at you, and meowed. The "I'm starving to death" meow. You knew it well by now.
Dean continued eating, completely uninterrupted. "We're heading out tomorrow. You good here alone?"
Garfield walked directly in front of Dean's plate and meowed louder.
"Cool. Don't burn the place down."
"Still counts." Dean finished his pot pie, actually washed his plate (miracles), and left.
Garfield remained on the table, staring at you with an expression that clearly said "are you seeing this shit?"
"I'm seeing it," you confirmed. "I just don't understand it."
Garfield meowed, flopped onto his side dramatically, and began grooming his paw as if the entire situation was beneath him. Which, to be fair, it probably was.
Two weeks. Fourteen complete days of Garfield living in the bunker, meowing his opinions about everything, and your brothers remaining blissfully unaware of his existence.
You'd taken him to the vetâDr. Vast in a town thirty miles away, far enough to avoid anyone who knew the Winchesters. She'd pronounced him healthy, given him his shots, and estimated his age at three years old.
"He's very food-motivated," Dr. Vast had said, laughing as Garfield tried to eat her pen. "You'll want to monitor his weight. But he's sweet. Great personality."
"He's very vocal," you'd said.
"Oh, some cats are just chatty! It's part of their charm."
Garfield had meowed in agreement, and Dr. Vast had melted.
You'd also bought him a proper collarâorange with a bell and a tag engraved with "GARFIELD" and your phone numberâplus an actual cat bed that he immediately ignored in favor of your pillow.
Now it was 2 AM on what might have been Sunday, and you were making a midnight sandwich when Dean appeared, also in search of food, also clearly unable to sleep.
"Can't sleep?" you asked.
Garfield was sitting on the counter, grooming himself. Right there. In plain sight. His bell jingling with each movement of his head.
Dean opened the fridge, grabbed a beer, and leaned against the counter approximately eight inches from where Garfield sat.
"You ever think about getting a pet?" you asked, unable to help yourself.
Dean snorted. "A pet? In the bunker? What would we evenâ"
"A cat." Dean opened his beer. "Can you imagine? It'd knock over every hex bag we have. Cats are assholes."
Garfield stopped grooming and turned to stare at Dean with a look of pure offense. Then he meowed. Loudly. Directly at Dean's face.
Dean took a sip of beer, completely oblivious.
You bit your cheek so hard you tasted blood.
"I don't know," you managed. "Some cats are chill."
"Maybe. But it'd be a pain. Who'd take care of it when we're gone? What if it got out?" Dean shook his head. "Too much responsibility."
Garfield stood up, stretched, meowed one more time for good measure, and then deliberately walked across the counter, directly through Dean's line of sight, his bell jingling with every step.
Dean continued drinking his beer.
"I'm gonna go to bed," you said, grabbing your sandwich and fleeing before you started laughing.
Garfield trotted after you, meowing all the way down the hallway, probably complaining about Dean's assessment of cats as "assholes."
2:14 AM. You were dead asleep when Dean's shout jolted you awake with all the subtlety of a car crash.
You were out of bed, knife in hand, running toward the kitchen in your pajama shorts before your brain fully came online. Training.
Garfield sprinted ahead of you, his bell jingling frantically, like he knew the jig was finally up.
You rounded the corner to find Dean frozen in the kitchen doorway, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, staring at the counter with the expression of a man whose understanding of reality had just shattered.
Garfield sat on the counter, casual as anything, eating what was left of Dean's turkey sandwich. When he saw Dean staring, he paused, made direct eye contact, and meowed. Then went back to eating.
"SAM!" Dean bellowed again, his voice cracking.
Sam appeared from the opposite hallway, gun drawn, hair catastrophic, wearing those ridiculous moose pajama pants. He took in the sceneâno demons, no monsters, just Dean pointing at the counter with a shaking handâand slowly lowered his gun.
"Cat," Dean managed. "There's a cat. Right there. On the counter. In our bunker. There is a cat in the bunker, Sam."
"THERE." Dean's finger jabbed toward Garfield. "Cat. Orange. Eating my sandwich. How is there a cat in the bunker, Sam?!"
Garfield meowed, as if introducing himself, and took another bite of sandwich.
Sam stared. His brain was clearly trying to process the information and failing. "How did a cat get into the bunker?"
"I don't know! You're the smart one! Maybe it crawled through the vents? Maybe we have breaches? Sam, we could have breaches!"
"Dean, cats can't justâ"
Garfield finished the sandwich, licked his chops, and began grooming his paw with complete unconcern. Then he meowed, loud and clear, like he was commenting on the conversation.
"It's eating my food," Dean said, sounding genuinely betrayed. "The cat is eating my sandwich."
"I can see that," Sam said faintly.
"Where did it come from?!"
"Is it a shapeshifter? A familiar? Some kind of demon cat?"
Garfield meowed, clearly offended by the suggestion he was demonic.
"It has a collar," Dean continued, his voice climbing higher. "Look! A collar with a bell! What kind of supernatural entity wears a bell?!"
Sam squinted, leaning closer. "The tag says... 'Garfield.'"
"The name tag. It says 'Garfield.'"
Both brothers stared at the cat. Garfield stared back, blinked slowly, and meowed.
You decided to end their suffering.
"Hey." You leaned against the doorframe, still holding your knife. "You guys seen Garfield?"
Their heads swiveled toward you in perfect synchronization.
"Garfield?" Sam repeated slowly.
"Yeah, he usually sleeps on my bed, butâoh, there you are, buddy." You walked over and scooped him up. He went immediately limp, purring like a motorboat, and head-butted your chin affectionately. Then he meowed, pleased to see you. "Dude, we talked about stealing Dean's food."
The silence in the kitchen was profound. You could hear the ventilation system. The distant drip of the kitchen tap that Dean kept meaning to fix. Sam's breathing.
Then Dean's voice, very quietly: "Did you just say 'we talked about this'?"
"Yeah, like three days ago. When he ate your pie."
Garfield meowed in confirmation.
Dean's face went through a complicated series of expressionsâconfusion, realization, horror, and finally rage. "I THOUGHT SAM ATE MY PIE!"
"Why would I eat your pie?!" Sam demanded.
"YOU'RE ALWAYS ON A HEALTH KICK AND THEN YOU CHEAT!"
"I DON'Tâ" Sam stopped, turned to you. "The cat ate Dean's pie."
"THREE DAYS AGO?!" Dean's voice cracked again. "You're telling me there's been a cat living here for at leastâ"
"Week and a half," you said.
Garfield meowed, agreeing with your timeline.
"WEEK AND A HALF?!" Dean looked like he might have a stroke. "You've had a cat for a week and a half and didn't mention it?!"
You frowned, genuinely confused. "Why would I? He's pretty self-sufficient."
Garfield meowed, also confused by Dean's reaction.
Sam was pinching the bridge of his nose. "You found a random street cat and just... brought it home."
"Was I supposed to ask? You guys bring home cursed stuff all the time. Last month Dean brought back that sword that screamed at 3 AM."
"And Garfield is for morale."
Garfield meowed enthusiastically.
"Morale," Sam repeated flatly.
"Yeah. Cats lower blood pressure. There are studies." You scratched under Garfield's chin. He purred louder and meowed happily.
Dean looked lost. "How did we not see a cat? We've been here! In the bunker! For a week and a half!"
"I don't know. He's been everywhere. The library mostly. He sat behind your head two days ago."
"Yeah, you were watching TV. He climbed up, you started leaning back on him, you didn't even notice."
Garfield meowed, remembering the incident fondly.
Dean's mouth opened and closed silently.
"And Sam," you continued, "he sat next to your laptop while you were researching. Meowing the whole time."
"That'sâ" Sam looked at Dean. "That's impossible."
"He has a bell," Dean said weakly. "It jingles."
As if on cue, Garfield shifted in your arms and his bell chimed. He meowed.
"And he won't stop meowing!"
"He's chatty," you agreed. "Very opinionated."
Sam walked over to the counter, staring at Garfield's food bowlsâwhich had been sitting there in plain sight for a week and a half. "These are our bowls."
Garfield meowed, unrepentant.
"You borrowed our bowls. For the cat."
"We have forty bowls, Sam. I didn't think you'd miss two."
Dean ran both hands through his hair. "This is insane. This is completely insane."
You set Garfield down. He immediately went to Dean and began doing figure-eights around his ankles, purring and meowing for attention.
Dean looked down at him like he was a bomb that might detonate.
"He likes you," you said.
"I don't know. He's got good instincts?"
Garfield meowed, agreeing that his instincts were excellent.
Slowly, like he was approaching a wild animal, Dean crouched down. Garfield immediately head-butted his hand and purred louder, meowing happily.
Almost automatically, Dean started scratching behind his ears. "He's... really soft."
"I brush him twice a week."
Garfield meowed, appreciating the grooming routine.
"Yeah. Keeps his coat nice."
Sam crouched next to Dean. "Does he... do anything weird? Supernatural?"
"Besides you guys not noticing him for two weeks despite all the meowing? No. He's just a cat."
Garfield meowed, confirming he was indeed just a cat.
Sam reached out cautiously. Garfield allowed it for a moment, then rolled onto his back, exposing his belly. He meowed invitingly.
"Don'tâ" you started, but Sam had already gone for it.
Two pets. Then Garfield grabbed Sam's hand with his front paws and bunny-kicked, no claws, just a warning. And a meow.
Dean was still petting him, looking dazed. Garfield had rolled back over and was purring like a motorboat, meowing periodically. "We have a cat."
"We have a cat," you confirmed.
"He's orange, chunky, food-obsessed, and lazy. It fit."
Dean looked at Garfield, who meowed and blinked slowly at him. "That's... actually perfect."
Sam stood up. "I need coffee. Real coffee. Not thisâ" He gestured vaguely at everything. "I'll deal with the existential crisis after caffeine."
He left. You heard him muttering down the hallway.
Dean was still on the floor, Garfield now climbing into his lap. "You should've told us."
"Yeah. I know. I just..." You sat down next to him. "It felt like mine. Something just for me. And then it got weird to mention it, and then I wanted to see how long it would take you guys to notice."
Garfield meowed, as if saying "not my fault they're unobservant."
"We should've noticed," Dean said quietly. "That's on us."
"You guys have been busy."
"Still." He looked at Garfield, who was kneading his thighs, purring and meowing contentedly. "You really love this cat."
Garfield meowed, the feeling clearly mutual.
Dean sighed. "Then I guess we have a cat."
"Really. But you're cleaning the litter box."
Garfield meowed, also expecting you to clean his litter box.
"And if he knocks over any of my stuffâ"
"I'll talk to him about property respect."
"Cats don't understand that."
"You don't know that. Garfield's very smart."
Garfield meowed, extremely smart, actually.
Dean looked down at Garfield, who was trying to eat his pajama drawstring. "Debatable."
Garfield meowed around the drawstring.
You grinned. "Thanks, Dean."
"Yeah." He extracted his drawstring from Garfield's mouth. Garfield meowed in protest. "Does he have enough toys?"
"Just thinking... maybe a laser pointer? For enrichment?"
"Dean Winchester, are you planning to spoil my cat?"
Garfield meowed, very interested in this development.
"No. I'm being practical."
Garfield meowed, not buying it.
You stayed there on the kitchen floor, watching Dean fall completely in love with a cat while pretending he wasn't. Garfield purred and meowed and soaked up the attention like he'd orchestrated the entire thing.
Which, knowing cats, he probably had.
The bunker had been Garfield-ified.
You walked past the Dean Cave to find your brother watching Fast and Furious with Garfield sprawled across his lap, a plate of cat treats on the side table. Every time a car exploded on screen, Garfield would meow, as if providing commentary.
Dean didn't even look up. "He likes action movies. He's got taste."
Garfield meowed in agreement.
In the library, Sam was researching something while Garfield's catnip mouseâpurchased by Dean after "extensive research" into cat toysâsat on top of his reference books.
"He knocked over my coffee twice today," Sam said when you sat down.
"And then he meowed at me like it was my fault."
You grinned. "That sounds like him."
"Dean bought him a cat tree."
"It's being delivered Thursday. The deluxe model. With the carpeted platforms and the hanging toys."
Sam smiled despite himself. "I'm glad you brought him home. The place feels... warmer."
"Yeah. Plus watching Dean pretend he's not obsessed is hilarious."
From the Dean Cave: "Who's the handsomest boy? You are! Yes you are!"
Garfield's meow in response.
You both crept to the doorway and recorded Dean baby-talking Garfield, rubbing noses with him, completely oblivious to his audience. When he finally noticed you, he couldn't even muster real annoyance.
Garfield meowed, pleased with all the attention.
"Shut up," Dean muttered, but he was smiling.
Garfield meowed again, refusing.
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