Coda

George hardly grew at all as she matured, but she made the yard her domain, seeing off would be feline interlopers more than twice her size. Sometimes she would disappear for weeks at a time, then come strolling back into Bobby's kitchen as if she'd never been away, occasionally with a new battle scar.

Much to the amusement of Bobby and Sam, George sometimes decided to make herself at home in the Winchesters' room when they stayed at Casa Singer, curling up with Jimi, or, if it was particularly chilly, waiting until Dean was too asleep to do more than mumble a token protest before worming her way into his bed.

Sometimes, though, she would turn her nose to the night air, and dart off into the darkness without a backward glance. Such is the nature of cats. Bobby let her come and go as she pleased, because that too is the nature of cats, and the nature of Persons of Knowledge.

Jimi tried to follow her once or twice as she prowled the boundaries of the yard, an anxious expression on his big earnest face, but she firmly rebuffed him, because cats are completely capable of looking after themselves, and do not like to be observed when they are about their business. Their methods are not dogs' methods: they are not pack animals, they are not team players. Secrecy, stealth and solitude are their very nature. Only those with dishonourable intent ever encountered George as she spun her toils and worked her spells, and invariably, they lived – or died – to regret it.

If it's true that all dogs go to Heaven, then it's equally true that, ever their opposites, all cats are born with at least two paws in Hell; some come into this mortal world with all four grounded in The Pit. But they all get to choose which way they face, and George had made her choice well before she found the salvage yard - otherwise, how could she consent, in any reality, to being an angel's vessel?

For years after George arrived at Singer Salvage, occasionally she would slink into Dean's bed to lick her wounds, sometimes with a faint whiff of sulphur drifting off her fur. He would give her a small smile and stroke her ears until they both drifted off to sleep.

THE END

Aaaaaand... wait for it...

SQUELCH

Ta-dah! Another plot bunny stomped. And so we say goodbye to Monty-Fred, the alternative reality (and now very flat) plot bunny. Perhaps now Jackie-Joy, the diva bunny dictating 'Old Dogs, Old Tricks' will deign to speak up again. After that, the plot bunny pen is empty, but you know what they're like, just when you least expect it, whammo, another one of the little... darlings sinks its teeth into your leg. Then off we go, twirling onwards to freedom once more. I rather like TBO's expression of 'twirling onwards to freedom'. It suggests music. And tassles.

And now I suppose The Denizens will be agitating for a Special Bonus Feature. Le sigh...