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webcricket · 7 years

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Don’t Let It Bring You Down

Characters: Hinted CastielXReader, Bobby Singer, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Word Count: 3248

A/N: One-shot written for @writingthingsisdifficult / Syn’s Monster Challenge / monster #12, the Utbard (ghost of a child who died a violent death in the forest – forces you to carry it on your back, demanding to be taken to the nearest graveyard – it gets heavier with each step you take, driving you into the ground until you die of exhaustion). Story is set during the end of season 6, after Castiel’s betrayal of the Winchesters, but before he breaks Sam’s Lucifer wall down and goes all Godstiel.

The Beginning of the End

Bobby Singer considered himself a proud man. Wringing a well-worn navy trucker’s hat between gnarled fingers, eyes rimmed red and wet, he studied the pallid body laid out on the couch in his study – barely recognizable as the vivacious and lively hunter he’d mentored in recent months.

Chest raggedly rising and falling, breath shallow and rattling – each gasp this last half an hour sounded as though it might very well be your last. Bobby believed anyone else would have succumbed hours ago, but you stubbornly fought on - obstinately clinging to life in the belief your friends would find a way to save you. A spasm racked your body, followed by a long stillness before your labored respirations resumed.

The seizure triggered a harsh sniffle from the nose of the old hunter. He’d give anything to be in your place. He’d been the one to send you out into the woods alone chasing a werewolf while he was too busy aiding the Winchesters with their angelic woes to do it himself. Focus drifting up to the red warding sigils he’d ineffectively painted on the glass panes of the window, Bobby Singer downed a shot of whisky direct from the bottle and decided he wasn’t too proud a man to beg. “Castiel, if you’re listening, we need your help. It’s life or death. If you…”

“I’m here.” The familiar faint flutter of angelic feathers filled the air. Castiel strode forward, suspiciously scanning the room, distrusting the motives of his so-called friends after the incident with the holy fire. “Where are Sam and Dean?”

“They ain’t here.” Bobby spun on the trench coat clad seraph, failing to fully quell the flare of heated anger in his voice. The knowledge that Cas deceived them about Crowley’s death, that he’d gone so far as to spy on them, and was working with the demon to open purgatory the whole time despite the dangers was difficult to overlook, let alone understand, never mind forgive. Bobby paused, sucking in a sharp breath, reminding himself of the dire circumstances – reminding himself that now was not the time to be selfish – he had plenty of time to go wandering down that road, you did not. “And if they knew I was even thinking of calling you I’d be more like to be bound, gagged, and knocked on the noggin’ than standing upright.”

The angel’s blue eyes narrowed, jaw setting irascibly - he did not have the patience for games. “What do you want?”

“Like I said, your help.” Bobby stepped aside, gesturing toward your lifeless form. “Don’t look so surprised. It don’t make me happy, but I’ve got enough regrets and no more options. I’ll be damned what Sam and Dean say. I’m willing to swallow my pride if there’s a chance you can save her. She’s dyin’ and I know it ain’t her time.”

Castiel’s cool regard shifted from the aged hunter to rest upon you.

Bobby impatiently threw his hands up in the air, smashing the wadded hat cock-eyed onto his head. “You gonna make me say please?”

The angel stirred, rolling his eyes, crossing the room to hunch over the couch to examine you. Though the light of your soul faded with each beleaguered breath, Castiel clearly saw your innocence - trapped by circumstances outside your control. He understood his present predicament with the Winchesters and the old hunter could hold no bearing on his decision to help you. He placed a rough palm to your forehead, immediately sensing his inability to heal you in your present state. Nonetheless, he tried - squinting in confusion when his grace dissipated into the space around you, failing to do anything at all. “Tell me what happened.”

Bobby peered over the angel’s shoulder. “Closest we can guess is a kind of ghost sickness. She called for help yesterday, and we found her like this, collapsed. Knees sunk in the ground and half-buried.”

Cas removed his hand from your clammy skin. “Where?”

“By her car.” Bobby frowned at the obvious lack of healing success.

The angel straightened up, pivoting to sternly contemplate the hunter, seeking greater clarity. “No. Where?”

“Near a Potter’s field.” Bobby rolled his shoulders, turning away from the icy scrutiny of the angel to pour a shot of whisky into a glass.

“A graveyard?” Cas spoke with urgency, attempting to winnow down the potential causes of your plight.

Bobby held the glass to his lips and hesitated. “Yeah, is that important?”

The angel’s blue eyes again drifted to your limp figure. “When she called. What did she say?”

Want of alcohol forgotten in a glimmer of hopefulness, the hunter clanked the glass to the desk. “She said she got ambushed trying to help some kid.”

Cas’ tone edged in frustration at the hunter’s lack of specificity – the conventions of human speech patterns forever a tedious navigational task. “I need to know the exact words.”

“She said she couldn’t get him off her back.” Bobby offered. “Only Sam and Dean couldn’t find signs of anyone else out there.”

“What else?” The angel practically growled as he observed the dimming flicker of your soul.

“That she needed them to help her bury him. Something about being too heavy to carry.” Bobby’s speech rose to match the angel’s irritated tone. “They’ve been out all day retracing her steps. There ain’t no one or nothin’ out there to bury!”

Cas did not allow the hunter to see the sadness soften his aspect when he recognized what ailed you. The angel experienced a shared sympathy – both of you having tried to do the right thing only to be weighed down by the consequences of the wrong choice, unable to escape it no matter where you turned or who you trusted. “You should have called sooner.”

“You ain’t exactly on speed dial these days.” Bobby grabbed his briefly neglected glass and emptied it.

“It may be too late. But her will to live…she’s stronger than she appears.” The angel crouched, weaving his arms beneath your body. With a grunt incongruous to the enormity of his angelic strength, he lifted you into his arms, laying your head against his chest.

“What is it?” Bobby pressed a hand to his shoulder, hindering the angel’s planned flight.

“Utbard.” Cas strained to speak, knees threatening to buckle under an unobservable burden. “Call Sam and Dean. Tell them to get out of there. If I cannot save her, they risk suffering the same fate.”

Bobby stood motionless, mouth gaping.

“Now!” Cas commanded through gritted teeth, beads of sweat surfacing across his furrowed brow.

The hunter jumped, hand slipping from the angel’s shoulder as he fumbled at the buttons of his phone. “Where are you taking her?”

“To bury him.” Frame trembling in exertion, Castiel collapsed to one knee and vanished.

The Beginning

You hated the woods. You hated running through the woods. You hated fucking werewolves running through the fucking woods. Yet another unseen twig whipped across your face, leaving a raised red welt in its wake. “Dammit!” You stopped, stomping your foot. An involuntary tear rolled down your cheek, salt stinging the freshly abraded skin. A growl a few feet ahead drew your ire. Raising your gun, steadying the grip, you squeezed the trigger – a panged yelp indicated the silver bullet found its mark. You approached the naked man cautiously, nudging his side with your foot to roll him over. The fact that he’d transformed from wolf to man told you he was dead, or at least grievously injured. But experience and a certain curmudgeonly old hunter taught you to never fully trust monsters to act as expected. Squatting over the body, his skin illuminated milky white in the full moon, blood oozing black, you inspected the bullet wound through the heart and chided the lifeless being. “You couldn’t decide to face me like 3 or 4 miles ago and save a needless romp through the woods, could you? Fucking werewolves.” At least you didn’t have to bury him way the hell out here in the middle of no-man’s land - nature would take care of the clean-up for you. Not that you would have tromped the 3 or 4 miles back to your car for a shovel anyway.

A thin voice drifted through the night air, caressing your ears.

“Hello?” You called out into the dense trees in the general direction of the sound.

“Mom? Mommy?” It was a child’s voice.

The frightened intonation tugged at the strings of your heart - no wonder the werewolf ran - he was keeping fresh meat out here. “Fucking werewolves.” You muttered again before shouting. “It’s okay, you’re safe now. Tell me where you are.”

“Help, please.” The voice answered, desperate.

“Yes, I’m here. Where are you?” Always wary of trickery, you held out your gun defensively as you entered the dense thicket.

“The river. The water. It’s so cold. Please, please, help me.” The melancholy voice mixed with the gentle murmur of moving water beyond the trees.

Emerging onto a steep muddy embankment in the bright glow of the moon, you saw a small huddled figure by the shore below. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Tucking the gun into your jeans, you knelt down, reaching for the child. “I’ll take you home.”

The tiny figure hissed when you touched it, swiftly using your offered limb as leverage to clamber up the bank, alighting upon your back. Sinewy arms wrapped firmly about your neck, stealing your breath.

Falling backward, you clawed at your neck, unable to break the death grip.

“Help me, please.” The voice persisted in your ear, sickly sweet. “Mommy left me. Left me under the water.”

You made choked gasps in reply, gripped by pure terror, helpless in its clutches. The white moonlight darkened. The night going pitch black.

The End of the Beginning

You awoke face down in sticky red clay mud. Scrambling to your feet, fingers reflexively palpated the bruising of your neck, thanking no one in particular that somehow you lived. The little boy, the thing, whatever it was, must have left you after it thought you dead. Mind racing with possibilities, you plunged into the thicket, feet pounding almost soundlessly on the leaf strewn dewy forest floor. After only a couple hundred yards, you doubled over panting, calves and thighs burning. Frantically glancing around to determine if you’d been followed, quivering fingers retrieved the phone in your pocket. “Come on, come on.” You willed there to be a signal out here - one bar. Whatever this thing was required the most serious kind of backup you could muster. And since you knew they were in town working some big case with Bobby, you called Sam and Dean Winchester.

“Hey, sweetheart! Long time no see!” Dean’s jovial voice boomed over the speaker.

“Dean, I was ambushed. I need help. There’s a kid.” You pressed your lips to the phone, not wasting precious time on niceties.

“Where are you?” The elder Winchester’s tone dropped, leaden with concern.

“Woods, off I-29, Dell Rapids. North of Bobby’s. I…” A cold pressure squeezed your shoulders, icy breath brushing your ear. An immense weight on your back driving you groaning to your knees.

“Hey, Y/N. We got you. Hold on, we’re on our way.” Sam’s voice reassured you from the speaker. “Y/N?”

“Help me, or die.” The child’s voice whispered gravely. “I’m so tired. So, so tired. Put me to sleep in the hallowed ground.”

“Oh my God, Sam, Dean. He’s on me, right on my back.” You pushed to your feet, stumbling a few steps before again sinking to your knees. “I can’t get away. So heavy, too heavy. Need to bury him. Please, hurry!” Your heart sank, realizing the signal was lost when the phone beeped. Veins surging with renewed adrenaline-fueled strength, you lurched forward - the momentum carrying you to your feet, careening through the woods as fast as your aching legs would carry you.

The Middle

Being resourceful, diligent, overly protective, and somewhat paranoid hunters, Sam and Dean low-jacked the GPS on your phone months ago when you met up with the brothers for dinner at Bobby Singer’s place.

If you’d been conscious when they used it to locate you, finding you half-buried in the dirt road beside your car twenty paces from an old graveyard, you’d have been equals parts pissed and grateful. Being unconscious, however, you had nothing to offer in the way of comments regarding the matter, let alone the power to tell the brothers you were mere feet from salvation and though well-meaning in intention, they now dragged you off to certain death.

With combined effort and a good bit of worried bickering about your current state, the brothers managed to hoist you into the Impala and drive to Bobby’s place. It required all three men to move you from the backseat to the couch in Bobby’s study.

“I know none of us is getting any younger, but what the hell?” Dean huffed, stepping away from the couch to clutch at his spasming lower back. “It’s like she’s filled with lead. That’s not normal.”

Sam stooped to gingerly settle your arms by your sides, holding the back of his hand to your forehead before tucking you beneath a few blankets to preserve warmth. He stood, brow fretfully lined. “Guys, she’s cold as death.”

The three men exchanged wordless apprehensive glances.

Bobby’s expression screwed up, mouth twisting in contemplation of seeking heavenly intervention.

Dean’s glittering jewel green eyes tapered to focus warningly on the old hunter, anticipating his thought because he also had the same first instinct. “Bobby, no. I know what you’re thinking, and don’t. We’ve already got red in the ledger on that account.”

“Yeah, we got this.” Sam knew what his brother and Bobby were considering. They couldn’t ask Castiel for assistance, not after everything that had gone down and was actively going down with Crowley and purgatory.

“What kind of a shmuck do you boys think I am?” Bobby groused, disappearing into the hall, returning a moment later with an armful of dusty books to drop on the desk. “You idjits get back out there. You said she said something wanted burying, so find it! Salt and burn it for good measure. I’ll see what I can suss up in the literature.” Bobby plopped heavily into his chair, shooing the boys out. “Get!”

“Call if you find anything.” Sam followed his brother out the door.

Bobby grumbled mockingly, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Call if you find anything. Like I wouldn’t call. Idjits.”

Of course, you and the wrathful creature clinging to your weakening body both understood there would be nothing in the woods for Sam and Dean to discover save the crow-picked maggot-infested corpse of a recently slain werewolf. The Utbard’s flesh and bones melted, bleached and washed down stream long ago to be chewed to unsalvageable bits by scavengers, leaving behind only a spiteful unsettled spirit to wait upon the shore where his mother drowned him long ago, having given birth out of wedlock - loving her reputation more than she loved her own flesh and blood.

The End

Castiel crash landed just outside the gates of the Potter’s field. He cushioned you as well as he could with his body, both of you crumpling into a heap of tan cloth and tangled limbs the instant his feet touched ground. In the infinitesimal period of time which passed between Bobby’s study and teleportation to the graveyard, you’d ceased to breath. He leaned to hover a stubbly cheek over your parted lips. The faintest hint of warmth caressed his skin, instilling him with the vigor to carry on. Unable to lift you in his arms again, he began to drag you with great effort across the mossy soil. “I am sorry about this.” Reaching the edge of a freshly dug plot, his features knitted sorrowfully as he rolled your lifeless body into the earth. Gaze lifting, he warningly eyed the reaper cautiously approaching from the edge of the graveyard.

Recognizing the fallen angel as a potential complication to completing the task at hand, the reaper halted, peering up at the starlit sky to call for backup.

Cas grabbed a shovel, heaving moist soil to cover your body, quickly burying you beneath a mound of dirt.

“Castiel, we do not wish trouble with you.” The reaper stood squarely across from the angel, three of his associates standing as backup beyond. “This human’s soul is none of your concern.”

Cas grumbled, tossing the shovel aside, staring expectantly into the grave. “Isn’t it?”

“If you insist on interfering…” The reaper trailed off, feeling a child’s hand tightly grasp his own, noting the subtle swirling of dirt within the grave - filthy fingers suddenly jutting upward to grasp desperately at the air above.

“You were saying?” Castiel’s expression grew smug, eyes flashing to the vacant space the reaper had occupied. The angel knelt, plunging his hands into the loose earth to yank you blind, coughing and sputtering from the grave. Easing you to sit upright against a marker stone, he tenderly wiped the mud-caked hair from your face, settling a palm over your stinging eyes.

Tingling warmth surged throughout your body, delicate tendrils of angelic grace soothing your muscles, restoring your strength, clearing your eyes and lungs, healing even the most miniscule scrapes, bumps, and bruises. The gentle hand fell, and opening your eyes, you found kind sky blue ones sparkling curiously back at you.

“He’s gone.” The man’s voice rumbled softly. “And he won’t hurt anyone else.”

Tongue bobbing thick in your mouth, your throat cracked dryly, hand reflexively rising to pat his chest. “Thank you.”

He nodded, the smallest of smiles playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m Y/N.” You reflected and amplified his smile.

“Y/N.” He hummed, realizing he hadn’t learned your name until now. “I’m…” He faltered, the all-to familiar sound of the Impala’s tires on the gravel road disturbing the quiet evening air. His aspect glazed resignedly, chin dropping to his chest when the sweep of headlights signaled the car had turned into the cemetery gate. His eyes, churning with regret, rose to meet yours. “I’m certain your friends will explain everything.”

When you blinked, he was gone.

“Y/N! Dean, she’s here!” Sam jogged up to your side, bending to squeeze your shoulder. “You okay? What the hell happened?”

You steadily regarded the unoccupied ground in front of you. “I-I’m not sure. There was a man, he saved me.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam quirked an eyebrow.

“He had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.” You turned to the younger Winchester, pointing at the ground for emphasis. “He was just there, and then not.”

“Castiel.” Sam muttered under his breath, smacking the grave stone with his fist. “Dammit Bobby.”

“Castiel.” You tried the name on your tongue.

“What about Castiel?” Dean ambled up behind Sam, tone menacing.

“He saved me. Who is he?” You implored.

“Dangerous.” Dean grumbled darkly. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from him and any other angels that cross your path.”

“Come on.” Sam wound an arm around your waist, raising you to your feet and guiding you toward the waiting Impala. “Let’s get out of here.”

Dean crossed his arms, lips curling into a scowl, affect seething with anger – his limited human perception not discerning the dejected angel sulking just beyond the grave marker.

#castiel x reader #castiel x you #castiel reader insert #synsmonsterchallenge #cas x reader #castielxreader #casxreader #spn reader insert #castiel oneshot #cas oneshot #spn oneshot #supernatural oneshot #bobby singer #dean winchester #sam winchester #cricket writes cas

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schwarzwaelder-kirschtorte · 7 years

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Bark at the Moon

A Supernatural story for @writingthingsisdifficult‘s 1000 Follower Celebration! Woot!

Details: First-person Reader-insert, Reader x Dean

Monster: Garm, the four-eyed, blood-stained [wolf]hound of Hel whose howl drives people insane.

Word Count: 8163 (Yeah, you read that right. I just...couldn’t...stop.)

Warnings: Mentions of suicide (and violence pertaining to the methods)

*****

I finish my shift at nine at night, instead of three in the afternoon, bike home in the dark—which I hate doing—and nuke some of last night’s lasagna while I change out of my work-smock and into something more comfortable. Burning my mouth on the leftovers at the bar of my micro-apartment’s kitchenette, I glower at the calendar pinned to the fridge by a daisy magnet.

I covered Ross’ shift on Sunday too, and here I was, trading with him again two days later because he had an inescapable engagement. There’s always the possibility that he’s a superhero, but it’s much more likely that he’s just a douche. And he is just the type of guy who would prefer to be anywhere else than working. I mean, so would I, but at least I keep it to myself. The rest of our coworkers know better than to get involved with him, but he knows that he can always depend on me—not because I like him or anything, but because I’m a pushover at work. The others take advantage of this too—if I’m already at the store, they take it as a given that I’m ready and willing to just keep on working—but theirs are real emergencies. Or at least I think they are.

The lasagna iss supposed to be my dinner tonight anyway—and the next night...and the next—but eating it this late just makes me angry. I put its Tupperware container back into the fridge—waste not, want not—and pull the plastic cake server across the counter. I serve myself a thick slice of carrot cake and lick every crumb and dab of frosting from my plate as I watch an old sitcom on Netflix.

In the shower afterward, I think about my day off tomorrow. I have laundry to do, library books to return, and serving lunch at the soup kitchen downtown, which is the highlight of my week, to be honest. I’m always making too much food—thank goodness for Tupperware—but this isn’t a problem when feeding 150 hungry people. Some have a roof over their heads but can’t afford to feed themselves. Some come just to break bread with other human beings. Some are passing through, looking for work. And some have been living on the street since before I was born. A lot of them are veterans. A lot have mental health issues. All of them are victims of a broken system.

I make sure they get enough to eat and that they will be warm that night, and then I come home and eat my leftovers and fall asleep to Netflix or a good book. I always think I can be doing more. I’ve tried to get hired in to some administrative position, but with no formal schooling and being deathly afraid of telephone conversations, I’m only qualified for volunteer work in the cafeteria. But as much as I think a free meal is small-fries compared to what I could be doing for the homeless and impoverished community around town, I know that what the soup kitchen provides is important, a staple, a foundation.

And with my unsatisfied altruism at least sated for the time being, I curl up on my daybed with a hot cup of cinnamon spice tea and the last book in the stack I’m taking back tomorrow evening. My eyelids droop as I savor the last few pages again a short time later, and as I turn off the lamp and burrow into my nest of blankets, I think I hear howling in the distance. I take it for a coyote and slip smoothly into slumber.

*****

I’m passing out extra-large rolls when one of my friends pauses in front of me at the end of the cafeteria counter.

“Hi, Ben,” I sign, pulling a B down my cheekbone to represent his facial hair. “Roll?” I spell out.

“Yes,” he replies. “Thank you,” after I hand him his full tray.

“Where’s Don?” I ask, tapping a D on my shoulder to represent the captain epaulettes on his service uniform. The two men are socks, gloves, turtle doves—they came in a pair. They even bunked next to each other in a secluded copse of trees by the old bridge out of town.

“I don’t know. He went to bed last night, but he was gone this morning.”

This has me a little worried, as Don hasn’t wandered off since July 4th, when some assholes were tossing M-80s into the river and triggered a flashback. Fortunately, he had found his way to the war memorial in front of the library—hopefully he’s there again.

“I’ll help you look for him after you eat,” I tell Ben, to reassure him and to move him along gently, since a line was building up behind him.

“Thank you,” he signs again, taking a seat at his usual table in the corner.

When I finish cleaning my station and say good-bye to the rest of the staff and a few other people, I walk my bicycle with a case of water in its basket while Ben tells me where he has already been to look earlier. He watches my face and reads my lips when I have questions, like if anything disrupted his own sleep or if he remembered anyone unusual hanging around that might have wanted to pick on a harmless veteran.

“Nothing,” he signs. “Nobody.”

We drop the water off at his camp, and I peek inside Don’s tent. The blankets are mussed, but things are still in their own kind of order. And Don would have put up a fight if someone came into his home.

“We’ll find him,” I tell Ben, pushing my bike beside him as we walked to the library—we don’t know how likely it is that Don went there, but we have to start somewhere.

He’s not outside, staring at the memorial like he had been doing six months ago, nor is he inside wandering among the stacks. The librarians haven’t seen him either—they know him, let him get a library card even without a permanent address.

I drop off my books because we’re there, and then we keep searching.

But by the time the sun starts to go down, we haven’t seen a sign of him, and those who know him haven’t seen him either.

“Sorry,” I tell Ben as I walk him back to their camp.

“We tried.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow and help you look more. And if he’s still missing tomorrow afternoon, we’ll go to the police.”

“Thanks.”

“Stay safe, Ben.”

“And you, Y/N,” he says, using the first letter of my name in his non-dominant hand as he signs the word aide.

*****

The library is on my route home, and I look at the structure as I ride past. I think about what could have happened to Don, whether something triggered another flashback or if malicious circumstances are at play. But who would want to hurt Don?

Something moves in the corner of my eye, and I turn just as a figure in what looks like a green jacket disappears around a corner of the building.

“Don?” I say out loud quietly to myself. “Don!” I call out without thinking.

A patron coming out of the library pauses and stares at me for a short moment and then continues on his way.

I turn my bike and pedal across the lawn after the figure I saw. But when I reach the other side of the building, whoever it was is gone. A small rear parking lot separates the library and a densely wooded area of the park. I wouldn’t go in there alone even in broad daylight, let alone dusk.

I pedal to my apartment quickly in the dark chill, questioning if I saw anything at all. I’ll have to ask the librarians again if Don showed up after Ben and I left. It’s not until I get inside and take off my coat that I realize how hungry I am, and no wonder—I only had cinnamon toast for breakfast.

I heat up some lasagna and watch Netflix on my laptop at the counter. I didn’t check out any new books today, so I have nothing to read, but the search for Don has left me exhausted—I can only imagine how Ben must feel.

After a quick, hot shower, I’m ready for bed. As I snuggle into my blankets, I hear a coyote howl again. But I’m more awake tonight than I was before, and it doesn’t actually sound like a coyote. A coyote’s call undulates much more than what I’ve heard. Rather than a coyote’s yips, this long, steady howling sounds like a wolf. A chill runs down my spine when I hear it again, and I pull a pillow over my ears, wondering what a wolf was doing so close to civilization.

*****

A buzzing wakes me the next morning, and I realize from the way the light falls through the windows that I overslept. But Ross is covering my shift because I covered for him on Sunday, so I forgive myself for forgetting to set my alarm.

The buzzing stops, and I recognize it as my phone. I stretch and reach for it on the coffee table and am confused when my caller ID shows my manager Toby’s name and number.

The phone starts buzzing again with a call from Toby, and a niggling pressure settles between my eyes.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Y/N, are you okay? Where are you? Why didn’t you come in? Or call in? You’re a half-hour late! If you don’t have a good reason for this, I’m gonna have to write you up!”

“I didn’t come in because I traded with Ross,” I explain, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of my daybed. “I worked his shift Sunday. And I worked it Tuesday, so I’m off Friday too.”

“No one told me!” Toby huffs. “And Ross isn’t here! It’s his day off. And you’re on the schedule! Y/N, you have to come in.”

“Call Ross,” I tell him. “I have an emergency to deal with today.”

“Come in and cover your shift until I can get in touch with Ross and figure out what’s going on,” he says.

“I just told you what’s going on. Toby, my friend is missing!” I practically shout. “I have to look for him.”

“I’m sorry about that, Y/N,” he soothes, “but I need you to come in. An hour tops.”

I hold a pillow against my face and groan into it. “Fine,” I snap. “An hour. Call Ross as soon as I hang up.”

“See you soon. Hurry.”

*****

The niggling pressure becomes a full-blown headache by the time I get to work across town. Toby meets me in the breakroom as I wheel in my bike, and I know from the look on his face that I’m screwed.

“Ross isn’t answering,” he says, and I seriously contemplate murder for the first time in my life. “I’ll let it go that you’re late because of the misunderstanding, but I need you to work your regular shift today. And maybe tomorrow.”

“It’s not a misunderstanding,” I try to say as calmly as I can. “I worked doubles Sunday and Tuesday. My time card proves it. If I work today and tomorrow—even if I just work today—I’ll go over 40 hours.”

“And I’ll look over your time card and consider approving the overtime.”

“What do you mean consider?” I ask. “If I’m working overtime, I’m getting paid for that overtime.”

“Then just work four hours today to bring your hours up to 40,” he tells me. “I’ll keep calling Ross. If he doesn’t pick up, I’ll ask someone else to cover your shift this afternoon and tomorrow.”

“Fine,” I say. I would rather eat glass than thank him for his shitty compromise.

“Okay. See you out there.”

When he’s back in his office, I call the assistant director of the soup kitchen and let her know that I won’t be in to help with lunch today after all. She’s much more sympathetic about the fiasco at work than Toby was about Don’s disappearance.

“If you see Ben, can you tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can?”

“No problem. I take it Don still hasn’t shown up?”

“No, not a sign of him.” I don’t mention the figure that may or may not have been him at the library, if there was even a figure there at all.

“Do you need more bodies? I can spare a few of the cleaning staff.”

“That’d be great. Thank you, Deena.”

“All right, I’ll see you later.”

“Yep. Bye.”

*****

Toby finds me as I’m clocking out. Ross finally picked up his phone. He completely forgot about today. Toby wrote him up, and he’s coming in to finish my shift and covering for me tomorrow.

“Fine,” I say again. The two men have just wasted four hours of my day, time I could have used to keep looking for Don. I’m not thanking Toby for giving me less than what I had coming to me.

I pop a couple of aspirin and bike back across town to the soup kitchen. Ben has already eaten and is ready to go. I have a short meeting with Deena and a handful volunteers for a search party. I tell them where Ben and I have already looked, but the places are worth trying again if he’s still on the move—if he isn’t hurt, or trapped somewhere, or somehow immobilized.

Ben and I look out for him on our way to the police station. Nothing.

I don’t know the exact model of the black classic car parked in one of the spots reserved for official business, but I allow myself the distraction of admitting what a beauty she is.

Over the desk sergeant’s counter, I have a clear view of the officers’ bullpen and two tall men in dark suits among the beige uniforms. They’re deep in conversation with what might be the sheriff himself.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” the desk sergeant asks.

“Yes, we’d like to report a missing person,” I reply, glancing over at Ben.

“I’ll get someone to help you with the paperwork,” she says, waving for an officer’s attention.

We’re taken through to a desk some feet away from the two strangers and the sheriff, and the officer starts asking for Don’s information. When he asks how long he’s been missing and I tell him since yesterday morning, he stops writing and sighs.

“Ma’am, we have to wait at least 48 hours before starting a missing-person investigation,” he explains.

I interpret for Ben, then wipe my hand down my face in near exasperation.

“You don’t understand,” I tell him. “Don is a very predictable man. He and Ben are practically joined at the hip. Something’s happened to him.”

“My hands are tied until it’s been 48 hours,” the officer—Preston—repeats.

“Listen, he’s a homeless veteran,” I say slowly. “He has mental-health issues. He has a routine, and he would not break it. He went to bed last night, just feet away from his friend, and he was gone yesterday morning. Something…is…wrong.”

“Excuse me.”

I look up and to my left and into the brightest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen.

“I’m Agent Osbourne from the CDC,” one of the suits says gruffly, but it’s because of the deep pitch of his voice and not the tone of it. He offers his hand, and I shake it as he nods to the even taller suit with dark shaggy hair. “This is my partner Agent Leonard.”

“Y/N,” I introduce. “This is my friend Ben Mayhew.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Osbourne says. “Excuse me for eavesdropping, but I understand a friend of yours has disappeared?”

“He’s more Ben’s friend,” I reply, continuing to interpret. “This officer is saying there’s nothing the police can do until it’s been 48 hours.”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” Agent Osbourne says, looking back and forth equally between me and Ben. Then he turns back to the sheriff. “Sheriff Bernard, may we move this interview into your office?”

“Uh, yeah. Of course.”

We congregate in the private room, Ben and I in the guests’ chairs, Bernard behind his desk, and Osbourne and Leonard in front of the window beside him.

“You said your friend went missing two nights ago?” Osbourne clarifies.

“We said good-night,” Ben signs as I interpret. “He likes to read before sleep. He has a lantern. I saw the light. I fell asleep. When I woke up, his tent was open and he was gone. I waited, cleaned up. He never came back.”

“And he has mental-health issues, you said?” Leonard recalls. “Schizophrenia?”

Ben shakes his head. “PTSD, anxiety. He’s a Vietnam veteran.”

“Has he ever done anything like this before?” Bernard asks me.

“Not often,” Ben answers. “He had a flashback July 4th. Some guys had loud fireworks near our camp. We found him in a few hours of knowing he was gone.”

Bernard regards me. “So, did you check the place where you found him last time?”

“Of course,” Ben signs. “That’s the first place we looked yesterday.”

“And is he known for being a danger to himself or others?” Bernard asks me.

“Sheriff Bernard, I’m just the interpreter,” I inform him. “Please direct your questioning toward Mr. Mayhew.”

“Oh.” He glances at Ben. “Sorry.” Then he leans forward and says loudly and slowly, “Is he dangerous?”

“Why is he talking like that?” Ben signs to me.

“Because he’s an asshole,” I only sign, forming an F with my hand, turning the circle of my thumb and finger up on top, and pushing it out from my chest toward Bernard with more than a little force.

Osbourne huffs out a soft laugh, Leonard elbows him in the ribs, and he covers with a pronounced cough. I blush when I realize that at least Osbourne understands some ASL.

“What did he say?” a clueless Bernard questions.

“He said he’s not dangerous,” I tell him tightly. “Don’s defensive and probably confused if he’s been triggered again. And if he’s not hurt already, he needs to see a familiar face before he does get hurt.”

“The way he was acting the past several days,” Leonard brings up to Ben. “Was it strange or unusual at all?”

“No, I don’t think so. Whatever happened to him, it happened quickly, while I was sleeping.”

“Miss Y/N, I don’t mean to pry,” Osbourne says to me, “but do you live anywhere near the two gentlemen’s camp?”

“About a mile away,” I answer.

“And did you happen to notice anything, hear anything, out of the ordinary two nights ago, or last night perhaps?”

“No, not really. I mean, I heard a wolf howling,” I recall. “I thought it was a coyote the first time. I remember thinking it sounded awfully close.”

The two agents exchange a look, and it dawns on me that they’re from the CDC, with diseases, and plagues, and outbreaks.

“Do you think there’s a wolf out there preying on people?” I ask them, looking briefly at Ben as I interpret for him.

“Wolf?” he repeats, and I nod.

“Like, is it rabid or something?” I go on. “Is that why you’re here? Is someone else missing?”

Their eyes meet again for just a second.

“They’re not missing anymore,” Leonard carefully phrases, and I catch enough from his grim tone to understand what he means by that.

“They died? Did the wolf maul them? Did it just bite them and pass on some kind of infection? There was no blood in Don’s tent, no struggle.”

“He could’ve gone off in the middle of the night to relieve himself,” Osbourne conjectures.

“Did it maul the other person, or people, or not? How many are there?” I demand.

“Three,” Leonard says.

“Your friend makes four,” Osbourne says. “Another homeless man in a city to the north, a hiker, and a bartender walking to her car after work. It didn’t maul them, but it infected them with something, some sickness, and they completely lost touch with reality.”

“What happened to them?” I want to know.

“There were a couple of days of odd behavior and mostly-incoherent rants,” Leonard tells us. “Then they committed suicide.”

“How?” Ben asks.

They exchange another look.

“How?” I repeat for myself.

“The bartender walked in front of a bus,” Leonard relates. “The hiker jumped from a window in his fifth-story walk-up. The homeless man was picked up for vagrancy and disturbing the peace and committed for a 72-hour hold in a county hospital.”

“He ran into a wall head first until he broke his neck,” Osbourne shares.

“Clearly not premeditated in any of the cases,” I remark.

“No,” Osbourne agrees. “That’s why we need to find your friend as soon as possible. He’s already susceptible to intrusive and irrational thoughts. We need to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“And you need to find that wolf,” I tell them. “Why isn’t the DNR helping you track the animal?”

The agents’ eyes meet again in that furtive way for the fourth time, and in that moment, if I didn’t know any better, I would swear that they’re related.

“Oh, they’re helping,” Leonard insists. “They’re…checking out where the wolf might’ve come from…and Agent Osbourne and I are checking out whether whatever the wolf is passing on isn’t contagious between humans.”

“Well, if there is a wolf, Don almost certainly came into contact with it himself,” I figure. “His and Ben’s camp is pretty secluded, and Don doesn’t take too well to strangers on a good day. And we’re wasting time when we could be looking for him.”

I stand, Ben gets to his feet, and the two agents straighten to attention while the sheriff pushes himself up stiffly behind his desk.

“We’ll walk you out,” Osbourne offers, a small smile on his lips.

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Sheriff,” Leonard says. “We’ll be in touch.”

Bernard tips his head. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.” He stares at Ben. “Sir.”

Ben and I both give him a cursory wave—I’m certainly not going to thank him—and follow the agents out into the chill of the late afternoon. Osbourne hands me a card with a handwritten number on it.

“This is where you can reach us, if you think of anything else,” he tells me. “Maybe we should get your information too, if we have any more questions.”

“Pen?” I request. “Paper?”

He produces a blank card with a flick of his wrist, a pen with another, and I write down my cell number for him. He flashes a smile when I give everything back to him, and I almost forget why he and his partner are here in the first place. Almost.

“Well, we have to get back out there,” I tell him.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” he shares. “But somehow I think nothing short of tying you to the bed will stop you.”

“I…” I feel my cheeks warm. “Well, you’re not wrong. Bye, Agent Osbourne. Agent Leonard.”

Ben waves to them both with more amiability than he had for the sheriff.

Across the parking lot, I stop Ben and ask him, “Can you read their lips from here?”

He turns to check. They’re standing beside the black car I noticed on the way in. “Just one of them. Osbourne.”

“What’s he saying?”

Ben raises an eyebrow but watches them beside their car. “She’s smart. She put a lot of things together, and quick. I told you one of us should have been from the DNR.” He looks at me, confused. “Y/N, what’s going on?”

“Keep going,” I instruct him gently.

He turns his eyes back to Osbourne. “If he was still in town, his friends would’ve found him by now. There’s 30 acres of woods on the edge of the park that opens up to the county nature preserve. We’ll start there. If we get to him before he’s completely disconnected from reality, we may be able to get him help and reverse the effects.” He drops his hands and spins on his heels away from them.

I peek at the two men and see them watching us. “Shit. Let’s go.”

“Y/N, what’s happening?” Ben repeats as we wander back to his camp.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t think you should sleep by yourself for a while. I’m going to call Deena and try to get you a bed at the shelter—just for a few days.”

“I can’t leave. I have to be home if Don comes back.”

“It’s not safe!”

“I don’t care!”

I sigh at him, exasperated, and know that he’s just as stubborn as I am. “We have to keep looking for him. The agents—or whoever they are—mentioned the woods. I saw—or thought I saw—Don go into the woods behind the library on my way home last night.” I notice the gloom of the dying day and stop Ben. “It’ll be dark soon. I would never force you into a dangerous situation.”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “I have flashlights and a can of bear spray in my tent. Bear spray will work on a wolf, won’t it?”

I nod with a small smile. “Let’s go.”

*****

As we reach the hidden path down the embankment to their shelter of trees, I see a flash of movement halfway across the bridge. I look closer and pick out a form between the steel webs and the railing.

“I think it’s Don,” I share with Ben. “Walk with me. Steady. Don’t startle him.”

“He’s going to jump,” Ben says. “He’s going to kill himself, like the others.”

“Not if we can help it,” I tell him. “Come on.”

We cross the bridge slowly, staying in the middle so he can’t see our approach. When we get even to him, with only the webs between us, I squint my eyes against the sun lying just above the horizon and realize that Don is standing on the outside of the railing. His service jacket is splotched with dark mud, and one of the shoulder seams is ripped.

“Careful,” I tell Ben.

He nods.

I step closer. “Don?”

The familiar figure has been looking at the water 150 feet down, but his head shoots up at my voice.

“Don. Don Fletcher,” I say softly. “Do you know who I am? It’s Y/N.”

He keeps his hold on the railing tight as he cranes his head enough to the side to see me. His face is dirty, and his eyes are wide and unfocused.

“Don’t…don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t…”

“It’s okay, Don,” I tell him gently. “I’m your friend, remember? Y/N.”

“It’s coming,” he whispers. “It’s…it’s coming. It’s gonna….end… End it all.”

“It can’t hurt you, Don. You’re safe now.”

“It’s coming,” he repeats.

“What’s coming, Don? Talk to me. Come back over here and tell me about it.”

He looks down at the water again. I feel a hand on my arm and turn to Ben.

“Don,” I try again. “Ben’s here.”

His head comes up, but he keeps it forward toward the sunset.

“You remember Ben. He’s your best friend.”

“Ben,” Don says, so soft I barely hear it.

I think we’re getting through to him. I actually feel Ben’s and my hope.

“It’ll come for you too,” Don says clearly. Then he lets go of the railing.

I lunge forward as he falls and get my hands around his arm, but the weight of him and the drop nearly pull me over with him. Then Ben grabs my waist and the rail to hold me back. Don grips my wrist with one hand and scrabbles at my arms with the sharp fingers of his other. I see a fear in his big eyes—not that I won’t let him go, but that I will.

“No,” he gasps. “No!”

“I’ve got you,” I say, but I don’t know for how long. I don’t think I can pull him up even with Ben’s help, and I can’t hold onto him forever. “I’ve got you.”

“Don’t…don’t…”

I’m thinking of how I can get an arm free to grab his other wrist, or how I can make him understand that he has to swing his legs up somehow. Then another weight is behind me, wrapping its arms around me, and I turn to find Agent Osbourne, out of the suit and in a leather jacket and jeans. He meets my eye and the desperation he must see on my face is mirrored by the determination I see on his.

He works his way around me and Ben, hooks a leg in the middle railing, and leans over the top bar to grasp Don’s left arm.

“When I grab the waist of his pants,” he tells me, “pull.”

“Okay.”

He reaches down with his right arm and gets a fistful of fabric. “Now.”

With my adrenaline, his brute strength, and Ben as two more arms and legs, we manage to pull Don over onto the pedestrian walkway efficiently enough. Osbourne holds him down, though Don doesn’t appear to put up much of a struggle.

“It’s coming,” he sobs quietly. “It’s coming.”

“Call Sheriff Bernard,” Osbourne instructs me, catching his breath. “Tell him to send a cruiser, no sirens or lights.”

“Right.”

*****

We get Don to the psychiatric wing of the county hospital calmly enough, and a sedative upon admission is administered to keep him that way. Ben said he wouldn’t leave his side without a fight, and then they’d have to admit him anyway, so Osbourne and I have been watching them through the door of their room for the past fifteen minutes.

Don had clawed at my arms with such force that he ripped through my sleeve, shirt, and even my skin in some places, and a nurse cleaned and bandaged it while they were admitting him. But it was worth it—it had not been the actions of a man who wanted to die. With therapy and medication, Don has a chance. I updated Deena, told her about the rogue wolf, and asked her to find room for more beds for people at the shelter until it was captured.

“Who are you?” I finally ask the man I know isn’t any kind of federal agent, without looking away from Ben and Don. “Really.”

“Your friend did read our lips, didn’t he?” he evaded. “I knew it.”

“Who are you, and what the hell is going on around here?” I demand again.

He regards me from the corner of his eye and then sighs. “How much do you know about Norse mythology?”

“What?”

“Norse mythology. How much do you know?”

“I’m guessing you mean beyond the Marvel movies and comic books,” I reply mildly.

He huffs out a dry laugh. “There’s a legend about a wolf named Garm. Huge thing. Four eyes, blood-matted chest. A howl that drives people insane.”

“Are you serious?” I question.

He doesn’t say anything, but his expression is serious enough.

“It’s real?”

He tilts his head.

“Oh, my God.”

“He prefers Chuck.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Another time. Anyway, the research my brother and I have been able to compile—”

“Your brother? Who’s your—?” I cut myself off. “Agent Leonard. I knew it.”

“Sam, actually,” he shares.

“And you would be?”

“Dean.”

“Dean,” I repeat. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he grins.

“About this Garm,” I reintroduce.

“Right. Some of the tales confuse it with Fenrir, the wolf who will devour Odin during Ragnarök.”

“The death of the gods and the end of the universe,” I recall. Something clicks in my brain. “It’s coming, Don said. It’s going to end it all. Garm’s howling—even if he’s a separate entity from Fenrir, if it showed Don and the others Ragnarök and they saw the destruction of the entire universe, that could be enough to drive someone insane.”

“Some sources do suggest that Garm is a herald of Ragnarök. And some say it guards the entrance to Hel itself.”

“If I saw Hel, I’d probably lose my mind too,” I admit. “In any case, we have to stop it.”

“You’re taking to this really well.” He almost sounds impressed.

“Well, one of my closest friends almost died,” I remind him. “It’s shock. It’ll wear off, and I’m probably going to scream and swear a lot.”

“No, I don’t think so. You were very perceptive, inquisitive, earlier. Do you do it professionally?”

“Professionally, I stock shelves in a dollar store,” I relate, turning back to the older men. “How do we get rid of it?”

“As I was saying, English translations of this stuff are pretty scarce, and my Old Norse is a little rusty.”

“You’re hilarious,” I deadpan.

“I try,” he smirks. “From what my brother and I have learned, we have to feed it something.”

“Any kind of something, or a specific something?”

“Specific something, but we’re still trying to figure out what.”

“Well, before we can feed it, we have to find it.”

“We, huh?”

“It almost killed my friend,” I tell him. “If that thing is a Hel-guardian, I’m going to help you send it back where it came from.”

He stares at me, considering, contemplating something. I stare right back.

“Let’s go to my motel room,” he says at last.

“What?” I choke out.

“Our books are there, our equipment.” He raises an eyebrow. “What did you think I meant?”

I bite my tongue to stop from embarrassing myself.

Dean grins at me—he can guess. “Believe me, sweetheart, you need to save your energy for hunting.”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t…” I release a long breath with my hands on my hips. “You don’t know—”

“Yes, I do,” he says simply, turning away toward the elevators. “Because I was thinking it too.”

*****

We walk in the night to the motel. Dean and Sam had set out on foot to track Garm and at least figure out if and where it’s bedding down to sleep, so that it will be easier to find it again when they know what they need to feed it. They had separated, but with a gun full of special bullets and mp3 players full of classic rock, they each felt safe from the thing’s howl and teeth.

“Are you hungry?” Dean asks as he lets us into his room.

My stomach growls in reply.

“Burgers okay?” he all but chuckles.

“Burgers are fine.”

“Coffeepot’s somewhere on the desk under all that paper,” he gestures. “There’s more books in Sam’s room—connecting door’s right there. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Okay.”

When I’m left alone, I look around at the clutter—old notebooks on half of the bed, leather-bound tomes piled five or six high on the round table in front of the window. Dean’s suit is hanging in a garment bag in the closet, but the rest of his clothes are spilling out of a duffel bag on a chair in the corner. Faded tee shirts, flannel shirts, jeans. I see the waistband of a pair of underwear and concentrate on making a pot of coffee.

I’m in the middle of a cup of sweetened black and an encyclopedia of Norse mythology when Dean returns with cheeseburgers and fries from a diner I’ve eaten at a few times.

“Anything?” he wonders, laying out the food.

“I’m cross-referencing Garm with Odin, Tyr, Thor, Loki. So far, nothing.” I bite into a cluster of fries. “Check in with your brother?”

“Yeah, his GPS says he’s somewhere on the edge of the park,” he says, tucking into a burger and another book. “He thinks he found some tracks, but it’s hard to tell if it’s Garm’s or just a plain old wolf’s.”

“Are they fresh?”

“He thinks so. He’ll text us when he knows for sure.”

“Us? You told him I’m helping you?”

“Yes…” he draws out. “Credit where credit’s due, right?”

“Right, yeah.” I turn back to my book.

“What is it, Y/N?” he asks.

“Nothing. I just want to send this thing back to Hel as soon as possible.” A light bulb goes on in my mind, and I gasp, nearly choking on a piece of greasy beef.

“Woah, hey, careful.” Dean leans around to smack my back. “Y’all right?”

I swallow the bite and wash it down with some coffee. “Yeah, yeah. Hel!”

“What’s wrong?”

“No, Hel—Loki’s daughter,” I explain. “Garm is a hound of Hel.” I flip through the pages of the encyclopedia until I get to Hel’s section. “She’s the half-dead ruler of the realm of the same name. And the entrance is guarded by a monstrous hound—Garm.” I skim the passages. “Here. For a living soul to enter Gnipa cave and Hel beyond, Garm may only be appeased by one who has served life to the Folk. Offer a Hel-cake to the hound and pass into the realm of the dead.” I look up at Dean. “What’s a Hel-cake?”

“And how specifically does a person have to serve life to the folk to fit that description?” he adds.

I shrug. “You do yours, and I’ll do mine.”

He shrugs too and goes back to reading.

Sometime later, our cartons of food and cups of coffee are empty, Dean has his laptop out, and I’m on Sam’s digging through recipe blogs.

“If I never see another Pinterest board after this,” I mutter, “it’ll be too soon.”

A small laugh leaves Dean in a soft huff. “Find anything?”

“Wait, I think…” I minimize several browser windows so that the thoughts in my head can follow a reasonable chain. “Okay, hear me out.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The only recipe I found for Hel-cake is from an Irish chef. Her Irish-ness has nothing to do with this, but apparently, hell is how you pronounce the Hebrew word for cardamom. I mean, the Norse word for cardamom is kardemomme, but if we transliterate the Hebrew word into the Roman alphabet, we get H-E-L. Transliteration is subjective up the wazoo, and I’m making some assumptions here that could be dangerous if I’m wrong—”

“It’s all we’ve got, Y/N. It’s worth a try,” Dean says kindly. “What’s the recipe?”

“It’s a cardamom sour-cream cake. We can bake it at my apartment.”

He closes his laptop lid. “All right, write down the ingredients and let’s go shopping.”

*****

As the cake bakes, Dean tells me that he didn’t get far with what Folk could mean beyond the genre of music or people in general.

“That probably means you,” I suggest from beside the oven, leaving him to sit alone on the other side of the counter. I had embarrassed myself earlier with an angry outburst when he had exclaimed Oh, Baby as he started the engine of his car—a ’67 Chevy Impala, I learned—but he hadn’t been talking to me when he said it. “You told me you and your brother are…hunters? That this isn’t the first monster to wreak havoc in small-town America. You serve the people by protecting them from all sorts of supernatural beasts and agendas. You preemptively save their lives.”

“Maybe. It’s worth a shot.”

With the cake out of the oven, I serve Dean the last slice of my carrot cake so that I can put the Hel-cake on the plastic server and into the freezer to cool faster.

“This is so good,” he praises with his mouth full. “Do you have any milk?”

I chuckle at him and pour a glass for each of us before making the icing.

As I drizzle the sour-cream icing over the top and sides of the single-layer cake, Dean rinses the dishes and sets them in the strainer and then comes up behind me and puts his hands on my waist. It startles me, but it’s a comfortable sensation.

“I can’t let you come with me, Y/N,” he breathes into my hair.

“No way,” I refuse, turning around in his arms. “I’ve helped you this far. I baked the freaking cake.”

“It’s too dangerous,” he insists. “If I can’t protect you—”

“I’ll protect myself, thank you very much,” I tell him.

“Have you ever shot a gun?” he asks.

“I went hunting with my dad when I still lived at home,” I share.

“Deer and turkeys are not hounds of Hel, or wendigos, or vampires,” he resists.

“That’s not what you asked,” I retort, pushing him away so I can get another one of my coats. “Like you said, short of tying me to the bed, nothing’s going to stop me.”

He secures the lid of the cake server with a sigh and pulls on his own jacket. “Do you have an mp3 player, earbuds?”

“In my coat pocket.”

He sighs again. “I’ll give you a gun when we get to the park.”

“Well, you can hand over the cake now,” I tell him. “Since you’re driving.”

*****

We meet Sam at the edge of the wooded area. He tracked Garm’s paw prints to a small cave just beyond the park and into the nature preserve and pinned the location on his phone’s GPS.

I trade Dean the cake for a pistol loaded with silver bullets. He gives me two extra clips just in case.

“Be careful,” he says over the blaring of music in our ears.

“Likewise,” I all but have to shout.

Sam leads us into the trees, I follow in the middle with the pistol’s safety off but my finger away from the trigger, and Dean brings up the rear.

The flashlights attached to our guns bob along the ground in front of us for what feels like forever in the cold darkness, but then Sam pauses and I stop short. I peer around him, and there is the cave.

A large wolf stands in front of its entrance, head down, hackles up, teeth bared. Its shoulders stand as tall as my waist—his head would probably be as tall as my chest, if not higher. Its black eyes glow menacingly at us—how black eyes can even glow is beyond me. Another set of eyes, smaller and glowing a milky gray, lie on its head between the first pair and its ears. Blood drips from its muzzle, and the fur on its chest is matted with the stuff.

Dean steps forward past me and Sam, already having removed the lid of the cake server. Garm’s attention moves to him as he slowly approaches the beast. As he crouches forward to set the platter on the ground as an offering, Garm snaps at him. Its powerful jaws are at least two feet short of its target, but the warning works. Dean backs up to us, and we keep an eye on it, guns at the ready, while we try to come up with a new plan.

“Obviously, I’ve never served the Folk,” Dean says loudly. “Sammy, something tells me you don’t fit either. Y/N.” He leans close. “Get behind us and start backing up nice and slow. Maybe the silver can immobilize it for now, while we find someone who can stop it, or maybe it can kill it outright. Reach into my right pocket,” he tells me.

I do, and pull out a set of keys.

“When the shooting starts,” he says, “run to the car.”

I shake my head. “No!”

“Now, Y/N,” he directs sternly.

“Stop telling me what to do!” I yell back. “I know I’m just some small-town stock-clerk, who volunteers at a soup kitchen so I don’t die from loneliness, but—” The angry words dissolve in my throat as the last puzzle piece locks into place. “Give me the cake.”

“Are you out of your mind!?”

“Thanks to Queen blasting in my ears, no. But it’s me. I’m the servant,” I realize. “The Folk aren’t just people—they’re ordinary people. Common people. And in the feudal system a thousand years ago, ordinary common people were the poor. And bread is a staple. The Bible even calls it the staff of life. I’m in charge of rolls at the kitchen. Don’t you see? I have to make the offering.”

From the look on Dean’s face, I think he would have preferred a gunfight to me figuring that out.

“Give me the cake, Dean.”

“Give it to her, Dean,” Sam tells his brother. “We got her covered.”

He hesitates but reluctantly passes me the platter. “The same goes—if the shooting starts, run.”

“Okay.”

Taking a step toward Garm, I see teeth, shiny in the lights from the firearms Dean and Sam have pointed at it, but it hasn’t moved closer. As I slowly approach, the cake server low so that the it can see the gift, it stops snarling and licks its chops. From the rippling of its jowls, though, it’s still growling, and the short fur on its back is still raised in warning.

I take one more small step and put the server on the forest floor, backing up until Dean grabs the back of my coat and pulls me to his side. Watching us, Garm creeps up to the cake, sniffs it, and devours it in a few massive mouthfuls.

“What if that wasn’t enough?” Sam asks.

“It said a Hel-cake,” I tell him.

“And technically, that was a Hel-cake,” Dean adds.

Garm licks its chops again and lies down, its great forepaws covering the cake server. It drops further, onto its side, panting. I almost can’t believe when its fur starts smoking—but until a few hours ago, I didn’t believe that all the monsters from my childhood bedtime stories actually exist.

The thick, gray cloud covers its body and seeps low over the ground toward us. I smell something like the most rotten of eggs and start to cough.

“Sulphur,” Dean says. “Cover your mouth. Watch out.”

We stand ready with our weapons, in case it has the strength to get up and attack us. But when the smoke dissipates a moment later, Garm is nothing but a pile of ashes.

I turn to Dean to ask him whether it’s over, and he’s already removing his earbuds, Black Sabbath resounding out until he cuts the music. Sam and I turn off our music and pocket our players too, and Sam steps forward with a vial in his hand.

“Stay back,” Dean tells me, keeping his arm around me. “He’s cleansing the remains.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t want to keep the cake server, did you?” he manages to joke.

“Definitely not.”

*****

Dean walks me to the front stoop after they drive me home.

“Interesting line of work you guys are in,” I remark as the eastern horizon begins to lighten.

“Who knows how much longer this case would’ve gone on without your help,” he tells me. “You were incredible.”

“It all feels like a dream,” I admit. “That could be the sleep deprivation talking.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to wake up.”

He holds my head in his hands and sets his forehead to mine. “Neither do I.”

“You don’t suppose…”

“What?”

“I’m one hell of a researcher,” I don’t mind mentioning. “I’m good with people. I bet I would’ve been good with that gun too, if I had to use it. And if I’m not, I can learn.”

His eyes light up with wary hope, but his smile is sad. “Y/N, you don’t know how much I would love…” He stops himself. “It may feel like a dream now, but sometimes…sometimes it’s a nightmare. And you can’t wake up. And there’s sleep deprivation, and exhaustion, and things that will make you question your entire existence…”

“You’re 0 for 3 trying to scare me off, Dean,” I point out.

“It’s not an easy life, Y/N.”

“This one hasn’t exactly been a peach,” I mutter. “And I’m not looking for easy. But I think I’ve been looking for you.”

He sighs and finally lets himself admit, “I think I’ve been looking for you too.”

He tilts his head to the side and presses his lips to mine, and I wrap my fingers around his wrists. When he draws away, his smile isn’t sad anymore.

“How long will it take you to pack?” he asks.

My breath leaves me in a giggly rush. “A day. It’s just my bed and a few tables, some dinnerware and linens. Almost everything but my clothes can go into storage.”

“Sam and I will come back and help after we crash for a few hours at the motel.”

“I have to make sure Ben and Don are going to be all right. And the most important thing of all.”

“What’s that?” Dean wonders.

“I have to call my manager and tell him I quit.”

*****

A/N: Like Dean mentions, information on Garm in English is hard to find. I did the best I could, and I made a lot of educated guesses. If I got something wrong, feel free to kindly let me know. This was so interesting to research and write. Congratulations, buddy! 😘

#SynsMonsterChallenge #supernatural #fanfic

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