I do not own Supernatural or its characters. Enjoy!

The yellow-eyed demon known as Azazel had mostly heard, but also watched, everything that had happened ever since he "died." His first plan failed, but the second one was in action, and he had to wait patiently. He'd been waiting a lot of years, though, keeping his head low, avoiding detection from hunters, demons, and angels. Keeping his head low? That's an understatement.

He was a cat.

Azazel wasn't exactly sure how it happened. One moment Dean Winchester had been pointing the Colt at him and the next he was on all fours a thousand miles away in some black cat with white paws and yellow eyes. It could have been some sort of freaky reincarnation. After all, demons didn't go to purgatory when they died... So they became cats or worse? Either way, he hated licking himself, the whole humiliating process.

He couldn't get out of his current vessel, set houses on fire, push people against walls, or teleport, but he could talk. That had to be enough for now, until he could figure out how to get his other, vessel back, become King of Hell...again, and set Lucifer free...again. He needed to research information like that, and the only place he could think of that had loads of it was the old Men of Letters bunker. He had known about the Men of Letters since forever, but the new news on the street that he'd eavesdropped on said that the Winchesters were there.

Azazel had to act innocent and cute so people would give him rides from place to place. Being cute was not easy for a demon like Azazel, but he tried his best to be an actor. He didn't even have the power to kill them. There was a day when he was feared and respected by the residents of hell, but now people called him "kitty" all the time and spoke to him in a demeaning manner.

It was early evening as he arrived close to his destination. He was just crossing a street in Lebanon, Kansas—the town near the Men of Letters' bunker—when he was hit by a car. And not just any car; the '67 Impala.

Azazel didn't know whether he was lucky or not. Sure, his left lung was smashed in, but he found his target.

"Oh hell no!" Dean yelled, climbing out of the car. He bent over to examine Azazel's cat body. "Damn cat's still breathing. Don't worry, little fella, I'll put you out of your misery..."

Not good. Not good at all. Through the years and some misfortune, Azazel seemed to be an indestructible cat. He'd been stabbed in the throat by a punk-gangster-devil worshipper kid and survived—after ripping the dude's eyes out (an advantage to having claws). There were also the times when a brick hit him in the head, the rabid Doberman, bad tacos, and the paranoid preacher who put him in a sack and threw him in the river. But if he didn't die when Dean was going to put a bullet in his head, that would be trouble, and Dean would probably do something to make sure Azazel was dead this time.

"Meow," Azazel purred as Dean took out his gun, wishing he didn't have to act so pathetic. He looked up at the Winchester with big, sad, yellow eyes.

Dean hesitated. Why did he feel like this cat had a chance? Why did he feel like the cat shouldn't die? He thought of the Mark of Cain on his arm, how for once he might be able to save a life. He also happened to think of Sam when he hit the dog and met a girl those years ago. Dean could meet a girl—one that didn't require money or a pole—and then go to their place. Women love cats.

Azazel painfully meowed again, grabbing Dean's attention.

Dean put his gun away behind his back, picked Azazel up, got in the impala, and doubled the speed limit on the way to the veterinary clinic.

It's gonna be Hell to pay, Azazel thought.

Little did they know that things wouldn't work out like that.