Title: Transformation (preservation)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Rowena MacLeod, Original Character
Rating: Teen
Length: 3,126 words
Content notes: Contains swearwords, threats/mild violence as an interrogation technique, animal transformation
Author notes: Playing in a fandom I haven't visited in a few years; hello old friends who haven't been in my head for a while!
Summary: Dean would really like to know where the hell his brother is. God help anyone who stands in his way.

“Where,” Dean bites out through gritted teeth, “the fuck is my brother?”

His face must be a fucking picture, he thinks, because the kid – this fucking wannabe Harry Potter - blanches, all his colour draining away, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s just pissed in his pants, if the smell is anything to go by. He tugs ineffectually against the iron grip Dean’s got on his biceps, and Dean bares his teeth in a vicious mockery of a grin, digs in harder with his fingers until he’s pretty sure he can feel bone, and shakes until the kid’s teeth rattle.

He’s dimly aware that Sam wouldn’t approve of his tactics; there’s a quiet, disapproving murmur at the back of his head that sounds a lot like his brother, but Dean’s got three shots of whiskey buzzing in his veins, the bitching mother of all hangovers pounding under his skull, and Sam’s missing, so he’s not fucking listening. He knows from bitter experience that the sour (terrified) taste on his tongue and the frenetic itch under his skin don’t gel with Sam’s brand of slow, studied caution, so to hell with it. Dean prefers the direct approach anyway.

The way he sees it, if Sam wants to object, he needs to get his lanky ass back here and do it himself.

The kid hisses in his next breath with a wince, and Dean tastes a savage satisfaction that he might never tell Sam about. It helps, soothing that burning urge to find Sammy nownownownownow enough that he can function, and what his brother doesn’t know about won’t result in Dean enduring a few hundred miles of reproachful looks and disapproving sighs. Everybody wins.

Apart from this kid, if he doesn’t start fucking talking. Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, and the kid visibly swallows

“Look, look,” he says desperately, “I swear, it wasn’t meant to go down like this. I had it all planned out, no-one was gonna get hurt, but that guy- “

“Sam,” Dean growls, with another shake for punctuation and the kid nods fervently, his eyes wide.

“Right, right, Sam showed up and, and…” He stutters, stumbling over his words and broadcasting reluctance loud and proud, and, really, how did Sam ever think this kid was anything other than suspicious as fuck. Dean wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him, because his expression speaks volumes, and whatever happened next, he clearly does not want to tell Dean about it.

Dean’s not Sam. He does not have the patience for this shit. “And what?”

The kid grimaces. “I messed it up,” he says, helplessly. “The incantation, I don’t even know what happened. I… just, like, the words, I got them wrong, and there was this flash and then- ” He jerks his chin toward the other side of the room.

Dean doesn’t even waste the effort on a glance. He isn’t fucking new; he already knows what the room looks like, he’d scoped it when he broke down the door. “My brother was gone.”

The words come out flat, ugly with an accusation that Dean’s not even trying to hide, and the kid’s eyes widen perceptibly. He shakes his head, hard enough that Dean wonders if he’s going to give himself brain damage. Or maybe that should be more brain damage; the way he figures it someone would have to be pretty messed up in the head to start dicking around with magic in the first place. “No,” the kid says, with a shade more urgency than seems warranted. “I mean, yeah, but, the cat.”

Dean had seen the cat. Big fucking thing, tabby brown, curled up on the dresser like it didn’t have a care in the world. It hadn’t even reacted when Dean had bust the door lock with his boot, beyond a lazy tail twitch. “What about it?”

“Your brother was gone, and the cat was there,” the kid says meaningfully, and Dean scowls, the irritation that’s buzzing in his veins probably bleeding out into his expression, but he really doesn’t give a rat’s ass. He hates this evasive bullshit; whatever this asshole is trying to say, he needs to just say it. Dean’s got shit to do that doesn’t involve hand-holding his way through story time. Like finding Sam.

“So?” he says, impatiently.

The kid shoots a wary look over Dean’s shoulder again. “Dude, I don’t have a cat.”

Dean pauses, confusion slicing through his urgency like a knife through butter, because, okay, not the answer he had been expecting. He releases his grip on the kid’s arms and lets his hands fall to his sides, taking a step back. The kid reaches up to rub at the spot Dean had been holding with a resentful look and, yeah, based on his wince, Dean’s pretty sure that’s going to bruise. Not that that’s really his priority. “Come again?”

“I don’t have a cat,” the kid repeats, shifting uncomfortably on his feet and making a sterling effort to not meet Dean’s eye. “I think, I think your brother is the cat.”

Dean can’t help it, he just stares disbelievingly at the kid. Seriously, who does he think he’s trying to kid? “Bullshit,” he says. “Transformation spells are a bastard. You’re trying to tell me that you pulled one out of your ass?”

The kid shrugs. “Not on purpose,” he stresses, and Dean fixes him with a pointed glare that makes him visibly squirm, his expression caught halfway between abject terror (which feels kind of satisfying, Dean’s not gonna lie) and shamed guilt.

None of that comes as a surprise, but no matter how hard Dean looks, he can’t see any of the usual signs that he’s being lied to. Sure, the kid’s twitchy as fuck, but then Dean has just burst into his room like the raging hordes of hell and scared the shit out of him. He’d be pissed if the kid wasn’t twitchy. But, that’s a problem. Because, if the kid’s telling the truth (or, at least, thinks he is, because Dean is not sold on his I’m-just-so-good-I-cast-complex-magic-by-mistake crap), then that means…

He turns slowly, careful to keep the kid in his peripheral vision (because he’s not actually a fucking idiot, thanks), and takes his first proper look at the cat. It hasn’t moved, still curled up on that same spot on the dresser, and it looks right back at him, its eyes wide and intent in that coolly collected way that cats have, as its tail sweeps back and forth in a slow, deliberate flick. It looks… exactly like every other cat Dean has ever seen, and, come on, this kid has got to be yanking his chain. Dean’s got half a mind to punch him in the balls and see if that knocks some honesty into him.

Except, there’s something wrong with the cat’s eyes and they keep snagging on his attention. They’re… out of place; shaped more oval than round, with pupils that spread too wide for a cat, and, they don’t fit. It’s creepy, the overall effect something that looks like a cat but out of sync, with all the angles of its face off-kilter. God, if Dean had to describe it, he’d almost say they look human and that’s enough to make dread coil hot and heavy in his gut. Worse than that, though, they look familiar, hazel flecked with gold in a shade that Dean is closely, intimately acquainted with. He stares at the cat, his stomach sinking into his boots even as a shaky relief floods through him, the combination enough to leave him lightheaded and dizzy in a way that normally only a really good night would, and the cat flicks an ear at him imperiously.

“Sammy?” he ventures, cautiously, and the cat narrows its eyes. It uncurls with a long, languid stretch, before it jumps easily down to the floor and saunters across the room, smoothly relaxed. It glances up at Dean, smug as fuck, before it winds itself sinuously around his legs and starts to purr, with a low, deep, satisfied-sounding rumble.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

“I told you,” the kid says, because he clearly has the self-preservation instincts of a lemming, and Dean whirls on his heel, jabbing his finger hard enough into the kid’s chest that it hurts.

“Fix. This.” he bites out, and the kid whimpers, pressing himself back against the wall so hard that he might as well be trying to merge with the plasterboard. It is not as satisfying as it should be.

“I don’t know how.” It’s more of a wail than a protest, and Dean barely holds back the urge to smack some backbone into this kid, fucking Christ. “I told you; it was an accident.”

“Quit bitching and start thinking,” Dean says warningly, “Or my fist is gonna have an accident all over your face.”

There’s a sudden, burning pain on his calf; a bite like being stabbed with a handful of needles, and Dean hisses out a curse under his breath, jerking his leg away on instinct, or trying to. The pain follows him, sharp and insistent, and he glances down.

The cat – Sam, it’s fucking Sam – looks back at him unrepentantly, kneading its claws against the denim of his jeans, because his brother is apparently a dick regardless of form, and Dean inhales sharply at the corresponding sting.

“What?” he snaps. Sam just stares at him unblinkingly, his expression verging on reproachful and seriously, seriously, Dean did not sign up for this shit. He’s not being judged by Sam when Sam’s current perception on social propriety includes flashing his asshole and licking his own balls in public. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Sam flicks an ear disdainfully, with another pointed flex of his claws, and, fuck, are those things titanium or something? Dean’s going to have holes in his leg and he’s pretty sure they shouldn’t be piercing through his jeans quite so easily. He glares down at Sam, his jaw so tight from scowling that it almost aches. This, this, is exactly what he’s talking about, this soft-touch, hand-holding bullshit that isn’t going to get them anywhere, and that Sam is going to insist on regardless, and he makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Fine, fine.”

“Um,” the kid says, nervously, and how does he not know when to shut the fuck up? Dean genuinely has no idea how he has managed to survive this long. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Maybe,” Dean says, immediately darting to the side as Sam hisses and takes another swipe at his jeans. “Sammy, cut it the fuck out.”

“Look,” the kid says again, his voice gone a little reedy with desperation. “I’m sorry and I really don’t want you to kill me, or… anything else, but I’m not lying. I don’t know where to even start putting this right.” He hesitates, twisting his hands nervously in front of him, before adding in a rush, “Please don’t hurt me.”

And that’s just great, because now Dean has a kid begging and cowering against a wall and a cat who should be his brother judging him for his life choices, which all just leaves him with no goddam answers and feeling like an asshole. Judging by the smug look on Sam’s face, he knows it as well.

He should have just punched the kid as his opener.

“Fuck off, Sam,” he says, sourly, pressing the heel of his hand hard against his forehead. It doesn’t do much to ease the annoyed hum under his skin, and this is a mess and a half that Sam’s gotten them in to. “Goddammit.”

“Um,” the kid says, and Dean holds up his hand sharply to stop him, frustration sour in the back of his throat. If he has to listen to one more whining excuse about how this was an accident, then screw Sam’s sensibilities; he’s going to put his fist through a wall anyway. Or something softer. He can deal with Sam being a pissy bitch about it afterward.

“If it’s not useful, I don’t wanna hear it,” he warns, and the kid shakes his head.

“No, I was just thinking… maybe there’s someone I can call?” His voice raises uncertainly at the end, as though he’s not sure whether he’s making an offer or asking a question, and Dean lifts his eyebrows dubiously.

“You asking me or…” Dean stops, his sentence trailing off into nothing, as Sam sits bolt upright, his eyes impossibly wide as he stares unnervingly, first at the kid, and then at Dean, like he’s trying to communicate something purely through the medium of brainwaves.

Unfortunate that Dean’s not the psychic in the family, really, but then he doesn’t need to be for that look to make him wary. “What?”

Sam stretches up, bracing one of his front paws on Dean’s thigh for balance (with associated claws, Dean notes sourly, and if Sam thinks he’s letting that shit slide later, he’s got another thing coming). He reaches further up with the other paw to bat purposefully against Dean’s jacket. More specifically, Dean realises, against the pocket where he’d shoved his phone before letting himself in to this place.

Or breaking in, whatever. Dean doesn’t have time for semantics.

Dean frowns. “You want me… to call someone? Who?”

Sam just looks at the kid, which is about as helpful as a handgun in a hurricane. Dean shakes his head, bemusedly and Sam huffs out a breath, before he stalks across the room, past where the kid’s still pressed against the wall, to where the supplies for his ill-fated attempt at incantation are still stacked. Sam nudges at the stack with his nose, and then looks pointedly back at Dean’s pocket.

Okay, that message is pretty clear and Dean’s not an idiot; Sam wants him to call a witch, which in the context would kind of make sense. Set a thief to catch a thief, and all that jazz, except that Dean can see a slight hiccup in the plan. He’s not really the type of guy who regularly exchanges digits with witches.

“Kind of a shortage of appropriate candidates in my contacts, Sammy,” he points out and Sam meows, short and sharp, with an impatient flick of his tail.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he flicks to his contacts anyway, because he’s not having an argument where Sam’s contribution is limited to hissing and claws. His contacts list is a haphazard roadmap of all the years he’s been hunting; too many numbers that he’ll never call again, but can’t quite bring himself to erase, interspersed between a whole bundle more that he needed at the time, but never expects to hear from again. It’s a testimonial filled with one-night stands, damsels in distress and fallen comrades, a bunch of useless records that almost bury the few numbers he still has a need for, and okay, maybe Dean should clear it out a little more often, because this is depressing and… wait, what the hell was that?

Dean stops, and scrolls back, attention caught by a name that he knows for a fact he never added. He stares disbelievingly at the glowing letters on the screen’ apparently his claim that there aren’t any witches stored on his phone is a lie. A big, huge, incredibly welcome lie that should have been true, except that Dean’s brother is an asshole. He does not want this number. He does not even want the option to call this number and as soon as Sam’s back to being himself, Dean’s going to kick his ass. “No. No fucking way. Dude, why the hell would you put this in here?”

The look Sam gives him is unmistakeable.

“No,” Dean says, “I don’t have a better idea, but that doesn’t make this a good one. She’s a treacherous, two-faced bitch, Sam; we can’t trust her with this.”

He’s never seen a cat shrug before; Sam pulls it off with an appropriately eerie style.

The kid clears his throat and Dean shoots him a look that’s dark enough to have him cringing back against the wall. “Unless you have something useful to add, then don’t.”

The kid holds his hands up in the universal gesture for surrender, and Dean stares back down at the name on his screen. It’s a bad plan; he can feel it in his gut. It’s an insanely bad plan that Dean is prepared to bet will leave them fucked six ways to Sunday, and probably in a far worse position than they already are. Because Dean doesn’t doubt that Rowena – opportunistic harridan that she is – will agree to help them. What he doesn’t believe for one second is that she’ll do it from the goodness of her heart, and he and Sam have a shitty record when it comes to making deals.

Not that it matters, because whatever misgivings he’s got about this, he genuinely can’t think of another way out. It’s not as though the kid’s offer to call someone is any more appealing. If Dean has to deal with a devil, he’d rather it was a devil he knows.

Sam meows again, impatient this time, and Dean flips him off without breaking the scowling contest he has going with his phone. Rowena’s name glows up at him, brightly mocking, and he barely resists the urge to throw the fucking thing against the wall. He hates this, he hates when the universe pulls this shit, forcing him into the position of being the hunter who needs to call on the hunted for help again and the ignominy of it burns in his throat. His thumb hovers over the call icon, hesitant, and then quickly, before his rational mind can kick in and talk him the fuck out of this, he hits it with a vicious jab.

Don’t pick up, he thinks desperately, as the ring tone echoes in his ear, and he gets that it’s a stupid wish, but it crawls into his brain and lodges itself there anyway. There’s no way Rowena is going to let this end well, and if she doesn’t answer, maybe, just maybe, he can convince Sam that they need to find another way. Just, please, let it ring out.

He’s not that lucky.

“Dean Winchester,” It’s a hatefully familiar lilt and Dean closes his eyes, digging his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose hard enough to make his eyes water. It’s not enough to drown out the sound of her voice. “What an unpleasant surprise. To what do I owe this utterly distasteful displease?”

Yeah, Dean thinks sourly. This? Is gonna blow. “I need a favour,” he says.