If you weren't careful, it took its chance, wrapping slick and bony fingers around your ankle, yanking you through sea foam, until you pulled back into the ocean along with the riptide.
It used to only strike at night, but as time went on, it grew greedier. Bolder. The lucky ones were those who went unconscious immediately, or maybe even died on the spot. The unlucky ones stayed aware. Some survivors, those who caught a glimpse of spindly gray fingers before their friend was snatched, claimed they heard screaming for ages, miles and miles out, before crashing waves swallowed the sound.
Still, some didn't believe the stories, just blew them off as myths and legends. Legend or not, numbers dwindled. The beach turned into a wasteland. Shops closed up on the boardwalk, abandoned overnight, until the town transformed into something resembling a post-apocalyptic scene from a movie.
Still, the creature struck, grabbing disbelieving locals, unsuspecting tourists, whoever happened to be in the right place at the worst time.
One second you were there, the next you were bound by its claws.
And it was dragging you under.
#
Her eyes, earthy brown, were the only bright spots in the endless ocean.
"No!" She screamed. "Sam!"
Dean's body warred with itself, the upper half jerking toward her, his legs rooted in the sand.
"Sam," she repeated. She slammed the butt of her gun against the shriveled arm tugging on her ankles. It was a valiant effort, and she hadn't yet succumbed to the tides. "Him first! Come back for me."
Dean obeyed her command, forcing his feet to move. They slapped against the wet sand, splashed in the semi-shallow water. Salt air filled his nostrils as his soaked clothing clung to him like many sagging layers of skin.
Dean fell to his knees in his haste to leap forward and clutch Sam's wrist. His fingers slipped on slick skin, Sam's own fingers twitching like frantic spider legs. Each time one wave crashed down, the riptide carried him out farther. The water lapped at Dean's legs, weighing him down. Somehow Sam's gigantic frame wasn't enough to fend off the gray claws.
Dean stumbled to his feet and dug his heels in the sand, but the forceful tide that now came up to his thighs threw him off balance. Sam flailed and shouted and struggled.
"Stand still!" Dean commanded.
Though it meant fighting all natural instinct, Sam went still. Dean spotted the slippery arm that held Sam, then fired his gun. The hand released Sam, who swam forward in the water now rapidly staining crimson. Dean couldn't tell if the color was due to the creature's injuries or Sam's.
Dean dragged Sam to shore and Sam collapsed, inspecting his foot. He'd lost his shoes and socks, and his ankle was encircled by angry welts.
"Go," Sam gasped between heavy breaths.
Dean ventured back into the water. It wasn't until he was knee-deep in murky ocean that he realized she was nowhere to be seen.
"No," he murmured to himself. "No, no, no . . . where are you?"
Come back for me.
A hand broke the surface.
Dean charged out, paying no mind to anything else, not even the looming wave. He didn't have time to move out of the way. It crashed over him, slamming him to the ground. He tumbled underwater like a load of laundry.
When he broke the surface, choking and retching and stumbling deeper into the ocean, he called her name. Over and over again.
Come back for me.
He was so deep, he was treading water now. This was a suicide mission. Any deeper and he'd be begging to be taken, too.
A distant shrieked pierced the air, echoed, caused seagulls to call back.
Something twisted in Dean's chest, squeezed his heart so tight, drawing in air was nearly impossible.
Come back for me.
"Dean."
Come back for me.
"Dean!"
A hand rested on Dean's shoulders. He whipped around, brandishing his pistol with one trembling hand.
Sam gently pried the gun away.
"Dean, she's gone."
Come back for me.
#
Dean woke to the sound of clattering dishes, a yelp, and the smell of frying bacon. He knew he ought to get up, but it was so much easier to let gravity do its job in keeping him prisoner to his mattress. He rolled over, pressed his pillow over his ears, hoping to drown out her voice. But it was clearer than ever.
Come back for me.
Glass shattered downstairs.
Dean groaned. "I'm up," he announced to the empty room, and got dressed.
The coffee shop below Dean's apartment was hustling and bustling, despite the fact it wouldn't open for another ten minutes. All these months later, and it still amazed Dean how much commotion this one woman could cause.
"Hey, Dean!" The short, perky, inky black-haired woman chirped. She flew from the stove, where she flipped the bacon, to the broom propped against the wall, which she used to sweep up the glass on the floor. "Broke another cup. You can take it out of my paycheck."
"No need," Dean said, even though he was losing more money than he was making these days. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "You good?"
"No blood, bruises, or concussions. I'm gonna go ahead and call that a victory. We have so few, after all."
Dean snorted. "Well, congratulations on an injury-free morning, Izzy."
Izzy took a bow that involved many flourishes and caused her to sweep an entire carton of eggs off the counter. Several cracked, sunshine yolks splattering the tile floor. Dean didn't the energy to be angry.
"I'll get the mop," Izzy said.
"You do that."
Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Dean left the kitchen to double check that all the tables and chairs were in place, and they were. Izzy was clumsy, but she was a hard worker, and Dean couldn't ask for a better person to distract him these days. A perfect stranger, that's what he needed. Well, not a stranger; he'd known Izzy too long now to call her that. But she didn't know a blessed thing about him, other than he liked his bacon dripping with grease and his coffee black. Izzy probably had her suspicions about him having a dark, secret past, but she never asked and Dean never told her. He didn't know anything about her life, either, just that she was always there in the morning to give him a smile and sweep up the broken pieces.
No smile compared to hers, though.
"You look way too much like a gothic love interest over there," Izzy called out from behind the counter, pulling Dean out of his spiraling thoughts. "Staring out a window, brooding over your cup of coffee as you contemplate life's infinite pain whilst staring out at the stormy sea."
Dean turned to her, raising an eyebrow. "Did you just say 'whilst?'"
Izzy flapped a hand, which Dean noticed was now decorated with floral band-aids. What she'd done to herself now he had no idea. "It sounded more British. Should we open up?"
"Yeah . . . Yeah, we should." Dean flipped the open sign so it was facing out, welcoming all customers inside. Of course, all up and down the boardwalk, there wasn't a soul in sight.
Dean heard a heavy sigh from behind him. "Another slow morning?"
"Looks that way."
Something small but hard hit him on the back of the head. He spun around, fists raised, ready to fight.
Izzy laughed and held up her own hands, palms out in a defensive position. "Whoa there, cowboy. I was just wondering if you wanted a rematch. Win some of your money back."
Dean's gaze dropped to the floor where the projectile now laid. A deck of cards, held together by a rubber band. "Oh."
"Jumpy much?"
"Excuse me if I don't appreciate being assaulted by playing cards."
Izzy left to get the poker chips.
Dean had only been left alone for ten seconds when he heard her screams, clearer than a flashback or a nightmare, though he knew that's all it was. He covered his face with a hand, rubbing hard, as if that could solve the problem. But the shrieks persisted. And grew louder.
Dean dropped his hand and raced back to the window. It was coming from outside.
"Julie!"
Her name, fresh on his lips, gave Dean all the adrenaline he needed to yank the pistol from the waistband of his jeans and race out the door.
He was halfway down the street when he heard the screams again. Higher-pitched. Closer. And yet, there was still no one. The ocean loomed in the distance, larger than life under the overcast sky. Maybe she was there. Maybe she survived. Maybe the creature was back for more. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity for Dean to finally finish what he'd started.
But the screams came from an alleyway just up ahead, and when Dean rounded the corner, he came across two little girls, shrieking and playing tag next to a table where their mother sat, scrolling through her phone. It wasn't until the girls stopped and looked up at Dean, eyes wide, that he realized he still held his gun.
The mother shifted her attention from her phone to Dean. It took all of two seconds for her to take stock of what was happening and leap from the table to pull her kids to her chest.
"Don't hurt us!" She shouted, voice trembling. "Please! Here, you can have it."
She tossed her wallet at Dean's feet.
"Oh, God, no. No, no." Dean tucked his gun back into his jeans, feeling dizzy and sick and confused. He just wanted to go back to bed. It wasn't like the shop was going to get any customers today. "I'm not—"
"That's all I have, I swear." The woman's eyes glistened with unshed tears and one of the little girls started to cry in earnest. "Please."
"This was a huge misunderstanding—"
"Dean!"
Izzy stood at the end of the alleyway, and Dean welcomed the sight of her, apologizing to the woman under his breath before he left to see what Izzy wanted.
"Where the hell did you go running off to?" She demanded, hands on her hips in an attempt to seem taller than she actually was. Dean still towered over her, and he used this to his advantage to walk ahead of her back to the shop. "I came back and heard you calling after some girl."
"Some girl?" Dean repeated, more confused than ever. He kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting to see someone else behind him.
"Yeah. Julie. Whoever she is."
Hearing her name spoken by someone else, by someone other than himself, was like sticking his finger into an electrical socket. He stopped in front of the coffee shop door, blocking Izzy's path.
"No one," Dean said. Dousing an open wound in lemon juice would've hurt less than this. "I just—thought I saw someone I knew. An old friend."
Izzy didn't look convinced, but she didn't say anything else about the matter, either. Dean stepped out of her way and waited until she was inside, shuffling the deck of cards at one of the tables. Lingering in the doorway, Dean cast his gaze back toward the ocean.
The beach was deserted as ever, not even a lone seagull cutting an arc across the cloudy sky. He took a deep breath, inhaling salty air that tasted sour on his tongue.
She was gone.
A/N: If you liked the chapter, please leave a review! :) -Izzy