“I know it’s a little strange, for the guy who flies around like a bird to own a cat, but I found him setting off a perimeter alarm while on patrol. He was all thin and sick and, well… I got attached. And hell, I’m down for irony. So, yeah, the Falcon has a cat.”
Sam is a soft touch for poor, neglected creatures turning up on his doorstep. He lets the cat chase Redwing around for fun and exercise.
“This is ridiculous,” Dean mutters as he rolls out his mat, side-eyeing the fuck out of his brother. His sweatpants are already sticking to his legs with the heat of the room, and for the first time in his life, he wishes he’d worn shorts. “I’m gonna suffocate,” he declares. “I’m gonna die doing hot yoga and it’s gonna be embarrassing.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Would you calm down?”
“Ha!” Dean scoffs. “Easy for you to say. Look at you, with your goddamn hippie man bun and your short shorts and—”
“—These are regular shorts, Dean—”
“And with your fuckin’ tank top you’re in your natural habitat! Jesus, Sam, you’re like the king of the motherfucking granolas!”
“And you’re being a little bitch,” Sam counters, getting himself set up and sitting, cross-legged, to center himself. He closes his eyes. “The physio said this is the best thing for your shoulder, so we’re here. Now shut your trap and take it like a man.”