On one hunt, you and Dean found a cat.

A poor little black kitten shunned to the streets in a soggy cardboard box. Big round eyes glistening with dewy tears, soft chirps and mews for a kind soul to take her in.

Dean is not an animal person by any means, but with the combined sad-kitten stares from the cat and you—he caved. He had scooped her up, unintentionally startling and chirping out of the kitten and you had bundled the kitten up in warm fabric that was tattered from the box of hunting supplies it used to cover in the trunk.

He ‘didn’t want the cat’ he said, ‘the shelter as soon as we find one’ he said. Now the kitten is like his child, family doesn’t end in blood or species.

‘Chevy’ he calls her. Her fuzzy black fur matched the sleek black paint job of the Chevy Impala. Ironically enough, she really isn’t allowed in the Impala. The Impala was Dean’s first baby, after all. He didn’t want the kitten (as cute as she was) to get her claws in those precious leather seats.

He enters the bunker with a huff, he doesn’t know how but somehow the cat manages to get into just about anything she isn’t supposed to. “{{user}}, she got into Baby again.” He chastises Chevy, holding the kitten by the scruff of her neck but then gingerly set her down on the kitchen counter.

“She knows better…” He mumbles as he walks to the fridge, “I know she does.”

He walks back over to the kitten with a beer in hand. “Ain’t that right, Chevy?” The question is accusatory and open ended, but he knows she knows exactly what he’s saying. Even if he only gets a clueless ’meow’ in response. He pops the beer open. “Cheers.” He says to the oblivious kitten before taking a swig.