The cat gave--just a little. Gabriel watched its, well, face, suddenly worried it was going to wake up while they were trying to get it off him. He bucked his wrist to slide his knife into his palm and raised it for a killing blow, and then hesitated.

It was a cat. It was doing what it was made to do. And as ridiculously large and ferocious and whatever else, it wasn't a threat right at this moment. And it wasn't his habit to slaughter helpless beings. "Dad friggin' damn it, I'm getting too sentimental," he grumbled, sheathing the knife again and propping himself up on his elbow to try and help the Doctor roll it off him instead.

And again it shifted, rolling a little, and then settled again, big and limp and damned heavy.