tarotgal

3.

At the time, he’d been sure it was the right thing to do. He’d always tried to be a man about it and look after his little brother, making any sacrifice that was needed. But, looking back on it now—and hindsight was 20/20; he knew that—it was the worst decision he’d made all week.

“Hn’Khshhmmm! Kihshmmm!” Sam sneezed, his hands steepled around Dean’s bandanna, covering the lower half of his face and muffling Sam’s massive sneezes.

At the time, raising himself up in the seat, sliding his bandanna out of his back pocket, and handing it over to his younger brother, just returned from Stanford, had seemed like an easy decision. Sam was trying to hide it, but the guy was obviously coming down with a pretty bad head cold. Dean didn’t really want to catch that, so he offered over what he had so that Sam could keep his sneezes and germs to himself.

And then he wound up with it anyway. Of course he did. They’d been cooped up in the Impala, breathing the same air, for three days straight now. There was no way the bug wouldn’t get him. Except now Sam had a lovely, thick, soft bandanna to sneeze and sniffle into and all Dean had was a pocket full of tissues he’d grabbed out of the box at the motel room they’d crashed at last night.

Normally, Dean would have driven straight through, but he’d felt tired and achy and Sam wasn’t in any state to take a turn behind the wheel. So they’d been forced to find a room.

Dean had pretended to be frustrated about it, but secretly he wanted to dive under the covers and blow his nose until he felt asleep, same as Sam did. Problem was, he’d woken up feeling twice as bad and having to get back on the road at dawn. Two cups of black sludge that claimed to be coffee were, Dean was finding out the hard way, not nearly as good for a cold as a bottle of Dayquil.

But Sam had finished that up this morning, and they hadn’t stopped for gas yet in order to raid a convenient store for more supplies. But it was okay. Winchester men made do with what they had… even if what they had was a pocket of tissues, horrible coffee, and a terrible head cold.

“huhh-Tihshhhhh! H’TIHShhhh! Huh-EHHShhhhh!” Dean’s grip on the steering wheel was tight as he snapped forward with sneezes, not wanting to jerk the car off the road. But he pried one hand free to get another tissue out of his pocket. His nose was sniffly and runny and he knew the sneeze he felt coming on was going to be a wet one. But as his hand slid into his pocket, he found nothing but the cotton lining there. He felt around, fingers stretching, but his pocket was most definitely empty.

And he was most definitely going to sneeze. “ehhh.. hnnghhh!” Dean tried to hold the sneeze in. “Nnggh!” But this urge to sneeze was just too strong. And he was just too damn tired to fight it. “HUH-EHSHHHTTTTT!” He sprayed his hands. And the steering wheel. And the dashboard. And his lap. Basically, absolutely everything directly in front of him.

“Ew.” Sam snuffled into the bandanna—Dean’s bandanna—while frowning. “Did you really have to—”

“Yeah,” Dean croaked, sniffling. He dragged the side of his hand, then the side of his wrist, then the side of his sleeve under his nose. “This is your cold in my nose. Your cold that made me do that. So I don’t want to hear another word about… abohh… abbeehhhhh-hehhh!” He pressed his hand hard to his nose, trying to drive the next sneeze away. But all he succeeded in doing was soaking his hand. “Hhh-HIHSHhhhhh!”

Silence fell between them again, apart from both men sniffling. A sign listing gas stations available at the next exit passed by the passenger side window. Sam spoke softly. “Hey, ah, I thidk I gotta take a leak.”

And Dean, trying to catch the runs in his nose against the back of his hand, used his free hand to flip the turn signal then slide the car right two lanes in time to catch the exit.


4.

Bobby frowned at the small decal stuck to the inside of the storm door. Fireman, please rescue my cats! it read. He straightened his tie in the reflection of the glass and looked up at Dean, who was doing the same. “Maybe we should split up? I’ll take this house and you hit the next one?”

Dean shook his head. “And you’re, what, just going to roll down those three stairs on your own?” Dean said, gesturing behind them to the concrete steps he’d just pulled Bobby’s wheelchair up. “Let’s just get this interview done fast. I’ll be fine.”

“Dean... there are cats…”

“I can handle it,” Dean insisted. Bobby looked doubtful. “No, really, I can. I’m tougher than I look, and I’m prepared. I’ve got tissues. I’ve even got…” He reached into an inner suit jacket pocket and pulled out a small blister pack of Benadryl tablets. “I started carrying these around for cases just like this. So don’t worry about me. I’ve got it covered.”

When the home owner—an older woman in a plush track suit—opened the door and invited them in, Dean was still confident he had it covered. He didn’t see the telltale signs of cat ownership anywhere in the living room. There were no climbing structures made of wood, rope, and shag carpeting. There were no toy mice on the coffee table. There was no cat hair on the couch cushions. Maybe the sign on the door was old? Or maybe they were basement cats who never came into the living room? Bobby rolled over to the couch where Dean sat on one end and the woman sat on the other, angled for conversation.

“hehh-TSHHHH!” Dean’s hand snapped to his face fast but not fast enough. He turned, rubbing his nose and sniffling. Over the back of the couch, he saw a long-haired, white and gray fluffball with bright blue eyes staring at from the threshold of the living room him as if it was there to make him sneeze on purpose.

“We just have a couple questions,” Bobby said, trying to sound professional as he eyed Dean warily. “But before we get started, would it be possible to get some water?”

“Oh, of course!” the woman was up and out of the room.

“All right there?” Bobby asked.

Dean nodded and popped a Benadryl into his mouth, swallowing it dry. “I can handle one cat.”

But as soon as he said it, he turned to see another cat hop onto the coffee table in the middle of the living room. It was a pure white with bright blue eyes. It studied the newcomers then began to make a show of washing itself.

“Two cats,” Dean corrected. I can handle two cats. But already his nose felt a little itchy. He gave it a preemptive rub, which seemed to do the trick nicely.

The woman was back with water for each of them and one for herself as well. She tutted at her cat but made no move to usher it off the coffee table. She did, however, lean forward to speak softly, confidentially. “Don’t mind Snowy. He was born deaf and can’t hear anything we say.”

Dean shot Bobby a look, registering the level of crazy in this crazy cat lady they seemed to be dealing with here.

Then the woman burst out laughing. “Had you going for a moment there, didn’t I?” She relaxed back in her seat. “Now, what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Well, it’s about your neighbor,” Bobby began. “Mr. Thompson.”

“Ohhh, poor Mr. Thompson. But I suppose he’s in a better place now.” From out of nowhere, a striped orange tabby cat leapt into her lap. It stood on her thighs, kneading. Then it turned around and kneaded some more before settling onto her lap for a nap. She stroked it absentmindedly. “You know, that poor man didn’t sleep a wink since his wife died.”

Dean saw Bobby stiffen infinitesimally and take a quick sip of water. Dean decided it was his turn to jump into the conversation, even if there were three cats. He gave his nose another rub. “How—“ and he stopped to clear his throat. He was starting to get congested. “How long ago was it that she died?”

“Oh…” She looked thoughtful and glanced over to the roll top desk standing in the corner of the room. There was a wall calendar featuring a photo of kittens rolling around with a giant ball of yarn. There was also a smoky gray cat stretched out across the back of the desk Dean hadn’t noticed before. This made four cats. And it made his nose not only itch but tickle a little. No… a lot, actually. “Let’s see. It’s, what, April 23 right now? So that would make it… about seven and a half years.”

Bobby nearly spit out his water. “What?” He clapped his chest and coughed. “Are you sayin’ he didn’t sleep in over seven years?”

“That’s right.”

“And you don’t find that strange?” Bobby asked.

She shook her head. “No, it’s sad, certainly, but not strange. That’s just how it is around here. My Linus, for example…” she pointed to the bay window where there was a gray and black striped cat with green eyes, “He hasn’t eaten a thing in all of the twenty-seven years I’ve known him.” Five cats. Or, rather, four cats and a completely impossible something that looked like a cat. What cat lives to be twenty-seven years old and never eats?

Before Dean could even think what to ask about that, a black, white, and orange calico jumped onto the arm and then the back of the couch. It rubbed against Dean’s back from one shoulder to the next. And not even Benadryl could protect Dean from the presence of six cats. Feeling the intense urge to sneeze fill him, he reached into his pocket for the tissues he always kept there and found nothing.

It was then that panic seized him. Maybe he had taken them out the last time he got his suit cleaned? But then why was the medicine right where it should have been? None of this really mattered, especially when a Siamese—seventh cat—rubbed against his leg. Dean was beyond anything he could tolerate.

Eyes squeezing shut and both hands coming up to his face, Dean hunched over. “hihh-Chhh! ihhChhhh! Hihchhii! Hhchii!”

“Ah, thanks for your time,” Bobby said to the woman, angling his chair so he could sort of kick Dean’s shin with the foot rest. “If you, ah, see something weird, please let us know.” Bobby handed the woman his business card.

She pocketed without even glancing at it or the FBI logo on it. “Oh, I will. But I’m afraid that nothing weird ever happens in this town.”

“hihhhChihhh!” Dean got up and nearly tripped over a black cat now standing in front of the couch. Eight. “hehh-IHchih! Hihchhh! Hihshhh!” A cat yowled when he stepped on its tail for a moment, and the black and white tuxedo cat took off across the room. Nine. “hih-hih-hih-IHshhh!” Dean’s hands were dripping wet. His eyes were burning and itching. And all he wanted was to get out of the house immediately and away from all these cats. A far brown and black cat with a marbley pattern to its fur lay across the front door. Ten.

He flung the door open as Bobby thanked the woman one last time. Dean made it as far as the front step before he stumbled and sat down, burying his nose in the crook of his arm, not caring that this was going to mean dry cleaning his suit again. He didn’t have tissues, and this couldn’t be avoided. “IHshhh! Ihchihh! HIHshii! Ihhchii! Hihtchh!”

He heard Bobby clear his throat, and Dean looked behind him, eyes streaming, at Bobby at the top of the short set of stairs, obviously unable to get down without his help.