Welcome to The Secret Life of Frankie: a collection of tales following the events of Two and a Half Winchesters.
An Important Announcement: while this is not technically a sequel, it takes place after and references events that have occurred in the story Two and a Half Winchesters. I would advise those who have not read that story to do so before beginning this series as you may be confused and will be spoiled if you intend to read the main story. But to those daring souls that care not for continuity, I salute you and welcome you with open arms.
Nightmare on Cedar Street
Frankie is beginning her new life and identity away from her family alongside her best friend, Castiel. She has a new job, a new apartment, and intends to live as normal a life as she can, but she hits a rather massive roadblock when she is forced to live with the trauma of her recent escape from Hell.
Warning: Nightmare on Cedar Street contains graphic depictions of violence and torture that may be unsettling for some readers.
"HELP ME!"
It was all futile. Her agonized pleas fell on deaf ears down here. Though, one pair welcomed the noise, used it as encouragement.
"GOD, PLEASE, HELP ME! GAH, AH, PLEASE!"
That laugh – hoarse, metallic, like a bag of nickels shaking in her face – grated from the silhouetted figure above her. It vibrated through the shriveling muscles, the constricting joints. His joyous hums swam into the holes her ears had sheltered, miraculously not melted over.
"Sing, my angel of music."
Her dried throat crackled an elongated groan, a bellow to rival humpback whales. The flames were chewing away at the fat leaking from deep in her skin. Her body flailed on its own volition, scratching away at the blaze. Her fingers, charred bone, only tore bubbling skin from her skeleton as if it were silly putty.
The skin of her cheeks was heavy as it sagged from her skull. Her eyes, as wet and vital as they were the day she died, pointed high above her, through the flashing lightning of Hell, through the chains dangling fellow tortured souls like garland.
The sight darkened, becoming shadowed until the hanging souls were gone. At last. The brief moment of nothingness that awaited her after he had his way. At last, bliss.
The blackness split open, two orbs of incandescent white shining above her. The brightness poured into her eyes, sinking to the back of her skull, imbedding the white into her mind until white was all she could see. The rings of light slanted with the tilt of his head, squinting at the revving chortle building in his chest.
"Sing for me!"
Frankie squealed and lashed out, slamming her hand into the wall, painfully popping her knuckles.
She swallowed a noisy breath as her eyes snapped open. Her hand curled into her chest before it fully noticed the fresh throb on her reddening skin.
Skin. Not putty.
Frankie stilled, breath and all, before she rolled over onto her back and released the air in her lungs into a relieved sigh.
She ignored her frantic heartbeat as it calmed itself down and pointed her eyes out the window above her bed. Soft morning light beamed through the glass and shaded her eggshell walls a pastel yellow.
She began her meditation, using the soothing sight to ground her to reality. A deep breath in – the screams – and a long breath out. A lengthy inhale – sweltering heat – a heavy exhale. A moment to herself, breathing air when she once couldn't, when air was once a fantasy. Now she had all she could ever want. She was alive. In a bed and alive.
Welp. Time to start the day.
She stepped across the room with a yawn and opened the drawer to her dresser. Eyes closed from lingering sleepiness, she blindly grasped at a white long-sleeve shirt and a pair of blue floral underwear and tossed it onto her tussled comforter.
She let out an elongated moan while scratching her tangled hair, her feet taking her into the bathroom to start the shower. As the room gradually warmed, filling with steam, she inched her shorts and panties down with her thumb, alternating sides to lower them evenly until they pooled around her ankles.
Next came her tank top. Easier than her shorts, she simply shrugged the straps off her shoulders and lifted the bottom seam up and over her head, slinging it back into the bedroom.
The list of things that Frankie took for granted when she had two hands was near endless. Taking a shower was high up on that list. Setting the temperature was easy enough – though she decided on an ice cold stream following the nightmare she'd just escaped from – but when it came to squirting shampoo onto her hand… well, she'd have to get used to using her feet for more than just walking.
Drying off was a new feat. Oh, if she could go back and tell her past self to appreciate tucking a towel around her body with no strain. Without her right hand, she could only hold the ratty towel over her front to shield her goods and hope Cas didn't pop in for an early checkup.
She poked her head into the bedroom, her hair dripping quietly onto the floor. The coast being clear, she hurriedly tiptoed over to the bed and dropped the towel to her feet. She slowly dressed herself in her undergarments, keeping her ears alert in case she heard any fluttering wings.
Bras had become enemies, but she had taken to fastening them before putting them on to make it less of a struggle. But a struggle it remained. She did think herself lucky, however, that her arm stopped halfway down her forearm so that there was a little bit of control, even if just for dressing herself. It gave her just enough to shimmy into the garment and slide them over her breasts.
Next came the long-sleeve shirt, a new addition to her wardrobe. She wouldn't have chosen them for daily use if not for the need of covering her nub. She didn't necessarily despise the way it looked, but the looks on other people's faces when their eyes narrowed on it…
She had elected to tying the right sleeves into knots to keep the loose end from interfering with her work. It also helped to make the area feel a little more compact, snug. Safe. Especially as she slid the arm into place.
Her uniform came last. There wouldn't be a day when she didn't grimace at the glaring purple color of the polo shirt and matching trousers hanging on the door of her open closet. The small, blue company logo on the upper left of the shirt mocked her. She slowly shuffled into the uniform with a tired scowl resting easily on her face.
She quickly brushed her hair back. She put the brush down on the sink, and turned away. Though she made a double take at the sight of more hair than usual on the brush. She pressed her lips together and looked at herself in the mirror.
Hm… maybe she should put on some makeup. Take care of those bags, bring life back into her cheeks. Eh, who was she trying to impress? Her hair looked fine and that was all that mattered. To the back of her mind it went.
She raked a headband over her bangs. Her ear was displayed for the whole world to see, but since being brought up from Hell, Frankie didn't give as much a damn about it. Besides, foreign eyes were attracted to her missing hand rather than her chewed up ear.
She stepped into her black work sneakers and headed for the door. The back of her neck was cold as her wet hair slapped against her skin, sending stray droplets down the back of her shirt. She gave her small apartment a half-assed farewell as she grabbed her backpack and slung it over one shoulder, closing the door and locking it behind her.
She blinked hard to sooth the sting of her eyes. Her frustrated grunt lightly echoed over the tiled floor as she gave the sponge a squeeze, suds oozing between the fingers of her glove.
'One more. Just finish one more and you can lay down in the broom closet.'
Frankie ignored the dark bags under her eyes that glared back at her in the toilet's reflection. She lightly smacked the water, the ripples momentarily erasing the reminder of her exhaustion from view.
Her shift was nearly over. In… three hours. But maybe she could clock out early. Say she wasn't feeling well. It wasn't a lie! She could go home and sleep, this time with the lights on. Maybe then he wouldn't…
Oh, who was she kidding. She needed the money. Every penny counted. She'd just have to hold out until then.
Felling so, so tired.
For three more hours.
Not able to keep eyes open.
Just gotta keep scrubbing! Keep moving that sponge. Get the work done. Faster she does the work, sooner she can go home.
Home to her bed. Her warm sheets.
Her soft pillow.
Just needing to rest her head for a second, just a second.
A second.
A second…
Her elbow sank in something icy cold, firing a jolt up her spine. She was too late to jump back before her arm slipped, drenched, water scooping into her glove and flooding her fingers. She leaned back onto her butt, growling at her dripping arm.
Fucking superb. She was falling asleep in toilets now?
She threw the sponge back into the bucket with a heavy squelch. She smacked the toilet seat so that it clanged against the porcelain, not caring how loud it echoed through the restroom.
It was cool, it was fine. The company didn't have to know. Not that she cared if they did.
She ignored her contradicting conscience as she put her tools onto the cleaning cart. She actually did care. Cleaning cleared her mind. It helped her to relax. That is, when that white-eyed fucker wasn't haunting her. Plus, it was one of the few jobs she could do with one hand. So, lucky for her, no one in the building witnessed her snooze on the john.
She pushed the cart into the last stall and worked away, straining against the overbearing need to shut her eyes.
She finished quickly, and wheeled her tools out of the restroom. She headed down the hallway, paying no mind to her still wet hand dripping onto the carpet. The janitor's closet was on the other side of the building, so she looked at the decorations on the walls to pass the time.
Posters of well-known shows and framed pictures of cast and crew of play's past adorned the stretching hallway. Prints of Oklahoma!, Godspell, and other performances were spaced out like yard lines on a football field. Photos in black and white of old actors watched over her like Mona Lisa's eyes, always following her.
Frankie had been working at the community center as a custodian for a little over a week, and she still felt creeped out walking through the place. It was an old building, in business since the turn of the century or so. It started out as a drama school, then became an actual theater, and then it became a private school for boys, then it became a theater again until the community started using the empty spaces for other activities.
So… she did her research. She did learn a few things from living with Bobby.
Every now and then she would wonder if there was something going on with the building. Something supernatural. There were cold spots and the lights would flicker with little explanation, but about the time when she would begin to indulge in her curiosity, some understudy would empty their stomach all over the stage and she'd have to clean it up.
It was probably for the best that she didn't go down that path. She was trying to get away from the hunter life. Though the desire to investigate a real haunting and log her findings down in a journal was a powerful one, she had a new identity, one that didn't involve chasing ghosts.
She wheeled her cart through the spacious lobby. Ladders and open toolboxes scattered the floor. The double doors leading into the theater's auditorium were wide open. Frankie peaked in as she walked by, flicking her eyes over the large space, red seats peppering the room like a sea of cushioning.
There were two men on the stage. One was rolling up cables upstage and the other stood at the top of a tall ladder, fiddling with a lighting fixture. Frankie slowed her cart, curious at the sight of a wobble on the ladder. She was a bit worried that the man might fall.
'There's a dude there to help. It's not your business, Frankie. Mind your own.'
Frankie tore her head away from the room and pushed the cart forward, but concern weighed her feet down. What if the man didn't catch him?
And what happened if she got involved? She could get yelled at. She might even lose her job. Yes, best to mind her business.
But if he were to get hurt… he was really high up-
'It's not. Your. Business. Now march.'
Since coming back to life, Frankie knew she needed to reevaluate how she handled certain situations. One of her biggest flaws was that she threw herself into circumstances she knew little about in a vain attempt to help. It got her into incredible amounts of trouble. Hell, it led her to… well, Hell. As much as it irked her, she had to mind her business, or else she'd mess up again. No matter how trivial the situation.
"W-Woah!"
Frankie stopped and snapped her head to the stage, the quick halt jostling the contents of the cart. The ladder was swaying. The man at the top was trying to steady himself by holding onto two light fixtures as the other guy grasped the ladder's legs to balance it.
The two light fixtures twisted, throwing the lighting off the stage and right into Frankie's eyes. She squinted and flinched against the harsh lights glaring back at her.
The two white lights. Glaring back at her.
Frankie's throat tightened, her body quivering. Her eyes bulged and her jaw clenched, a monsoon of fear crushing her like a soda can.
She turned around forcing the image away.
Every time she blinked, they were there. Two blinding white orbs, staring back at her. Above her, below her, to the left and right, everywhere she darted her eyes. Following her.
Her heart hammered in her chest, pumping fear into every muscle. Her feet took her forward, hurrying down the hall, no known destination.
She closed her eyes. They were there, pulsing, wriggling in the darkness.
"No, no, no, no, no," she whispered. She slithered shaking fingers into her hair.
Her eyes were wide open, refusing to blink, to reignite them. But they still followed her, haunted her, blinded her wherever she looked.
"Not real. Not here, not here," she whimpered, lips slick with fresh tears.
Her breath quivered, pants turning into gasping. Her chest was on fire, bruising with every beat of her pounding heart. Her throat closed, hot and tight, nearly gagging her. Her eyes stung against the cool air.
A muffled whine clawed out of the tautness of her throat. Her legs hardened to stone as fear trickled down to her toes, slowing her. Her body softly thudded against the wall. She sank to the floor, clutching her arm.
"He's not he-… h-he's not…," she gasped, voice squeaking.
She blinked.
The orbs were faded. Faded. Gone.
Her heart quickened. Her throat squeezed. Tears fell heavily onto her knees. Her fingers constricted around her arm, nails digging into skin. Gasping was manual, couldn't be stopped. The fire in her chest was snuffed, icy cold, freezing over, stunting her lungs.
She couldn't breathe.
Couldn't breathe.
Needed to breathe.
"Excuse me?"
She flinched violently, her elbow hitting the wall.
"Excuse me, are you okay? Do you need help?"
A figure crouched in front of Frankie. She scooched closer to the wall, trying to get away from the creature.
She met its eyes.
Green.
Green… only white beyond the irises.
"Can you hear me?" the green-eyed, black haired woman asked, concerned painted over her soft features.
Frankie tried to swallow once, twice before she relearned how to. She took in a short trembling breath before nodding.
"Okay. You're the new custodian, right? My name is Esme, I'm a stage manager here?" Frankie silently swallowed. "How can I help?"
The beat of her heart drew back. Her throat opened a little with every slowed breath. The tears kept falling.
Her damp lips parted, a long breath filling her lungs.
"I-I-I need to go home."
She sat at the table, her head in her hand. The steam of her mystery meat microwave meal warmed her face, disguising the heat of shame on her cheeks.
For a week and a half, she strived to remain inconspicuous. She tried to fly under the radar, to be anonymous. Invisible. And one flash memory of that monster was enough to completely ruin any chance of passing as a functioning adult.
It was bad enough he haunted her dreams. What gave him the right to follow her to work?
God, what that stage manager chick must think of her now. She might go to extreme lengths to avoid making eye contact with her. Frankie wouldn't be surprised if she never saw her again. That was for the best, she thought. The idea of seeing her after that display darkened her pink cheeks.
Three knocks lightly rapped on the apartment door. Frankie's head lifted, her hand dragging her tired face as her eyes found the door. "Come in," she said with a sniff, and leaned back to appear as if she had just began eating.
Castiel walked into the apartment, nodding to the girl at the kitchen table. "Hello, Frankie."
"Hey," Frankie muttered with a brief lift of her mouth's corner. "Up to anything cool today?"
"No." He crossed the room, his feet almost heavy.
Frankie put her fork down beside her tray, her brows furrowing. "Oh. Sorry 'bout that."
Cas slowed to stand in front of the table, looking down at the girl. His eyes fell for a moment, deepening Frankie's curiosity.
"I was with Sam and Dean."
Frankie sat straighter. Her throat swallowed without command.
"They needed my help with a case."
Her nails picked at the old wood of the table as she eased a deep breath down her lungs. She quietly cleared her throat.
"How are they?"
Cas looked off to the side. "They're keeping busy."
Frankie slowly nodded her head. She picked off a small chunk from the table.
"Did you tell them?"
"No."
Frankie's shoulders fell with a short sigh. Her fingers flattened over the table's surface. Her voice steadied.
"The longer you wait, the worse the reaction." She dryly snorted. "If anyone knows that it's me."
"They're not ready. They…" Cas pressed his lips together, brows narrowing as he searched for the right words. "That night is still affecting them. They aren't fighting, but… it might be better if they were."
Frankie winced. She was glad that they were miles apart, that she didn't have to see their sorrow up close.
"I fear that telling them now would result in hunting you down, despite me informing them of your wishes. I would rather wait until they've become more accustomed to your death."
Frankie picked up her fork and stabbed a chunk of the gray meat on her tray. "Who knows when that'll be? I doubt Chuck's written that far ahead," she bitterly spat, waving her fork beside her head.
Cas nodded. His eyes hovered over her face as she turned the fork in her fingers, examining the morsel. "How are you?" Frankie shrugged, lifting her lips into a smile for less than a second. "Has your arm been hurting?"
Frankie looked down at the nub at the end of her right arm. "Sometimes. Feels like my hand's cramping up when there's no hand. Lotta burning. I read about stuff like that before. It never lasts long. My leg's actually been hurting more than my arm."
Cas nodded again, drifting into silence. Frankie tightened her lips into a dull smile and went back to poking the lumpy mashed potatoes.
"Uh, how is work? Did you have a good day?"
The fork plopped into gravy as the utensil went slack in her hand. She heavily sighed, pink shame coloring her cheeks once more.
"No. Today was pretty shitty."
"What happened?" Cas asked, leaning closer in his chair.
'I panicked. Thought I was back in Hell. Or maybe it was that Hell found me again. Made a scene. Now some stranger thinks I'm crazy. Y'know, the usual stuff.'
"It doesn't matter. The day's over." She lifted her cup of sweet tea. "Here's to hoping tomorrow is less shitty." She took a swig.
"You can talk to me about it." Frankie lowered her cup, meeting eyes with the angel across from her. "It will make you feel better. I will try to understand."
"I… uh…," Frankie stuttered. She closed her eyes and sighed. She stood from the table and carried her tray and cup to the kitchen. "It's alright, Cas. I don't wanna discuss it." She shrugged one shoulder, forcing a smile on her face. "I'm fine."
She looked away before seeing the concerned frown on Castiel's face.
"I'm, uh… I'm gunna try to catch some Z's. If you could just lock up before you fly off, you'd be my hero." She threw away her tray and tossed her cup on top of the pots and plates piled in the sink. "Night, Cas."
She walked into her bedroom and pushed on her door.
"Goodnight, Frankie," he said just before it shut behind her.
Blowing out a long breath, she leaned against the door, waiting for the sound of fluttering wings, which came minutes later.
Muffled whimpers vibrated against her skin. Salt and blood settled disgustingly on her tongue. A force orchestrated her to shove her arm further down her throat.
The corners of her mouth split open with wet pops, slickening the skin of the severed arm with blood, easing it further down her gullet. She felt the hefty mass slither through her esophagus and into her stomach like a fat eel, settling heavily in her belly, along with her other arm.
Her lips quivered, tear glossed. She tightened her muscles, fighting against the powerful force lifting her detached leg into her gaping mouth. Her jaw clenched against her protest and crunched onto toes like baby carrots. Down her throat the digits fell, joining her limbs in her distended gut.
She desperately looked to the red sky, pleading for mercy. There was no mercy there. Only a silhouetted figure with two luminous bulbs in its skull, a hoarse chuckle clanging out of its mouth.
The force pushed the leg down her throat despite the lack of room. The force pushed despite the tightening of her stomach. The force pushed despite the tearing behind her bellybutton.
Her eyes widened.
A rupturing squelch.
Frankie jerked with a wheezy gasp. Her eyes were wide in her skull, staring ahead at the eggshell wall. She flinched at a shuffling sound behind her – at Gamigin, right behind her. She snapped her head to her shoulder, looking back. No demon. Though she determined it must have been the dirty, unfolded clothes that used to be at the end of the bed and now scattered the floor.
She glanced down at her stomach. Unswollen, and it was protected by her arm, wrapped around her abdomen like an eel.
'No, no. Not that. Like a… a snake. A worm.' She squeezed her eyes against the lingering memory of the nightmare.
The window was dark. It was early. Just before sunrise. Frankie massaged her eye sockets with her thumb and middle finger until the pain there dimmed.
God-fucking-damnit, she was tired. She relaxed her head on her pillow, hoping to catch a few more extra hours of sleep.
Her eyelids were bright. Two luminescent bulbs, blinding her.
And she was up. Feet on the carpet, picking her uniform up from the floor, extra sleep out the window.
Ready to start the day.
Frankie pushed the cart down the hallway, counting in her head to a hundred. Her steps were heavy, head nodding. Eyelids sinking, sinking, sinking until her chin hit her chest and jerked herself awake.
'Seventy-two!'
The day was stretching into a full week. Seconds turning into minutes, minutes into hours, hours to days. She had five hours to go until she could go home, and she didn't think she'd make it one without passing out in another toilet.
'Eighty. Eighty-one. Eighty-two. Eighty-three.'
She had to take the day one task at a time. At least that was what she was telling herself. If she could stay awake – and not run into that chick from yesterday – she would get through the day as painless as possible.
'C'mon, Frankie. You gotta stay awake. Eighty-seven. You need this job. Eighty-eight.'
She may not have wanted it, but she did need the job. Providing for herself was only the bare minimum of it.
Life with only a left hand was a shitty one. Especially since it was her right one that she used for everything. Getting groceries, opening her front door, even using the bathroom filled her new life with challenges.
What did she do to deserve this fate? What did she do to deserve being raised from Hell? That angel hadn't shown its face since giving her life, and the only proof she had of its involvement in said life was the nub at the end of her arm. She was supposed to be learning some lesson, but all she was learning was that this life was not worth it.
It was a common occurrence for her to lie awake in between nightmares wondering what she could do to end the cycle, the cycle of sleepless nights, stressful obligations, disgusted stares, and shame.
Killing herself was out of the question. The chance of going back to Hell was too high. And who was to say that angel wouldn't just bring her back to life, only without any hands. No, she couldn't kill herself.
Maybe she could jump from the top of the community center feet first and break her spine, paralyzing herself. Or hire an underground physician to give her a lobotomy, no questions asked. Maybe she could do something so sinful that not even her prestigious position in Heaven could save her from angelic ire.
And then in those restless nights in between bad dreams, the Frankie of old would make a brief appearance.
'Do you hear yourself?' she would ask. 'This isn't right! You're talking about crippling yourself! This is sick! It hasn't come to that kind of talk. Not yet. What would Sam and Dean think about this? What about Cas?'
Alas, the old Frankie was only a cameo in the new Frankie's story. Those thoughts came too often in the beginning, but once she got her job at the center and worked herself to exhaustion, the thoughts began to become less common. Cleaning all day cleared her mind, leaving nothing for the intrusive thoughts to cling to.
The only downside was that a clear mind made room for him to come in. The nightmares got worse. Vivid. Less dreams and more memories. But as long as she wasn't eyeing the fourth story window of her bedroom with a too calm mind anymore, she could handle it.
The cart shook in her hand the same moment a crash opened her heavy eyes. She noisily gasped, watching as rolls of papers towels tumbled off the cart and bounced across the carpeted hallways.
"Shit!" she squeaked. Oh, now this wouldn't look good.
"Oh, hey, are you okay?"
Frankie's jaw closed with a quiet clacking of her teeth. Her cheeks flared pink. She quickly thawed her feet and dove for the fallen rolls.
"Here, let me help you out."
"No! N-No, I'm okay, really."
Frankie scooped two rolls into her arm. She reached for a third, and the paper towels shifted against her chest, tumbling to the floor.
"Don't be silly. I'll help."
She must look stupid. One-armed girl, trying to do a simple task. Can't do shit. Useless. Incompetent. She must look stupid.
"I don't want help. I'm fine."
One roll. Two. Three. Four- no rolls. All over the floor.
Can't do shit. Gunna lose this job. Useless. Gunna lose the job.
"I don't mind. I wanna help you."
Can't lose this job. Not useless. Don't need help. Can't lose the job.
"No, I don't need help."
She hurriedly reached for a roll. Her fingertips jabbed it, sending it barreling down the hall. The woman next to her huffed a small chuckle as she leaned forward and snatched it.
Laughing. Laughing at her. Laughing at the one-armed girl. Useless. Incompetent.
Frankie's fingers gripped the roll in the girl's hand, ripping the paper. She yanked the roll to her chest, throwing heated eyes into the stranger.
"I don't want your fucking help!"
The young blonde girl stared back behind her thick glasses, dark brown eyes wide in shock. Her brows cinched together, an all too familiar look of fright painting her face.
Frankie's snarling lips relaxed, her own furrowed brows loosening. The realization of her words finally pushed passed those intrusive thoughts, slackening her grip on the paper towel roll.
"I'm sorry," the blonde girl quietly muttered. She slowly stood up and walked away without a second glance.
Frankie's eyes followed her until they landed on a cluster of peering faces in the lobby, not looking away even as the girl hurried passed them. The heat on Frankie's cheeks could have seared a sirloin.
She tore her head away, picking up the rolls one by one and placing them back on the cart. She could still feel their eyes on her. She could feel the thoughts radiating off them. She could hear the faint muttering, birthing gossip.
Her lip quivered. Tears warmed her eyes, but she brought her hand to her mouth. She steadied her breath through her nose.
'Save it. Not here. Do not cry here.'
She pulled herself up by the cart and carried on her daily duties, avoiding humans like the plague until all five hours passed.
Her feet thudded against the linoleum as she entered her apartment. The door shut behind her, rattling as she leaned against it. Her head hit the wood, echoing a thump through the room.
She was done for. Word of her outburst would spread through the theater like a virus. The company would hear about the cranky cripple down at the community center hogging all the paper towels and pull her from work. Probably fire her on the spot. "We can reference you to other companies," they'll say, but they never will. It was hard enough getting this job, and it wasn't a big town. Gossip would reach other businesses and then she'd never get hired anywhere. Her landlord might kick her to the curb. She was done for.
Her inhale stuttered on its way down. She squeezed her eyes shut against the onset of shame, tears billowing down her cheeks.
Where was that angel? When does the real work start? When can she start feeling useful again?
Three knocks vibrated against her back.
Wrong angel. Fuck.
Frankie pushed off the door and frantically pressed her sleeve to her eyes, drying her eyelashes and cheeks. Cas couldn't see her all crying and shit. He'd worry. Ask too many questions she didn't want to answer.
"U-uh… Yeah, uh, come on in."
She hurried into the kitchen and opened the nearly empty refrigerator, sticking her head in. The cool breeze instantly chilled her hot, sticky skin. The front door opened, and his footsteps grew closer. She pretended to rummage through the bags of shredded cheese and jars of pickles and olives.
"Hello, Frankie."
"Hey, Cas."
She felt his eyes on the back of her neck. The hairs there bristled.
"Was today less, um… 'unpleasant'?"
Frankie's jaw tensed. She closed a drawer of the fridge, staring at the open carton of orange juice across from her.
"No."
Castiel was quiet, simply standing behind her. She gnawed at the inner lining of her cheeks, hoping he would go away. Not fly away – no, she didn't want to be alone – but she wanted him to turn around. Go to the couch and turn on the TV. Watch Wheel of Fortune. Anything but stand menacingly behind her and scrutinize every move she made.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Another breath came in stutters. "No."
"Are you sure? It may help you feel better."
Frankie bit her lip, gaining a sting from the cut on the chapped skin. He meant well. He really did.
"I think it'll make it worse, Cas," she said, voice small. "I'm fine."
The fridge beeped a shrill alert from being open for so long. Frankie softly shut her eyes along with the refrigerator door. She quietly sniffed, hiding the subtle motion of her hand against her cheeks to wipe away the last of her tears.
Cas quietly hummed. "You're not making dinner?"
"Eh, well, um… I'm not hungry."
A disquieting air hung over the two. Frankie lowered her hand onto the kitchen counter, lightly tapping her fingers on its surface.
"What did you eat for lunch?"
Frankie restrained a frustrated huff.
"A thing of peanut butter crackers," she lied.
"You'll be hungry in the morning. You don't typically eat a heavy breakfast."
Dammit. He checks on her before work once and then he's got her whole routine pegged.
"I will this time," she shrugged.
"You favor sleeping until the last possible minute. You're likely to miss breakfast if you don't wake up in time to prepare it." Frankie inched her head to her shoulder, nearly looking over it. "It would be easier to eat dinner."
"I don't want dinner, Cas," she answered slowly. "I'll wake up early tomorrow. I've made scrambled eggs tons of times. I'll be fine."
"I'll help you. It may be difficult for you with one-"
"I can make it fine, Cas," she snapped, glaring at him over her shoulder.
His brows pinched together over apprehensive eyes.
"You've been crying."
Frankie clenched her jaw, stifling a sigh of defeat. She should've just hidden in her room.
"I was," she admitted, turning around. She leaned against the counter, her eyes pointing to the floor.
"Why?"
Frankie opened her mouth and shrugged. She shook her head, muttering a few guttural attempts at speaking before words formed.
"I saw a dog get hit by a car on the way home. Messed me up. It was… it was pretty gruesome. Bloody. I don't wanna talk about it."
Cas tilted his head. Frankie pursed her lips, flicking her eyes between him and the linoleum beneath her feet.
"A dog. Hm." Cas rigidly stood just outside the kitchen in silence. Frankie could only count the beats of her heart as she avoided his dissecting gaze. After too long a moment, his head straightened out, offering a single nod before stepping over to the dining table. "Was this dog targeted? Or rather, was it an accidental happenstance that was simply not the fault of the driver?"
Frankie flicked her eyes up, sheltered by befuddled brows. Her lips twitched as she searched for a response.
"I-… An accident, I guess."
"Then you shouldn't cry over it. It was out of anyone's control. And if this tragedy wasn't a preemptive attack, the driver should not be blamed for having injured the dog."
Frankie swallowed passed a hard lump. Her shoulders straightened, realizing his point.
"It's still upsetting, Cas," she answered, watching as he slowly paced through the room. "It still messed me up."
"Such accidents can be upsetting to experience, no matter who you are: the dog or the driver. It might remain an upsetting memory for some time. But it's important to know that these things happen too often to dwell on." Cas's feet stilled. He lifted his gaze to her, forcing their eyes to connect. "Accidents happen, Frankie."
Frankie tightened her jaw so hard that a headache throbbed in her temples. Her hand reached back, grasping the edge of the counter she leaned on.
"How was your day, Cas?" she asked with a steely voice.
Cas's eyes lost a bit of their shine. He broke their gaze, looking off to the side as his demeaner weakened. "It was uneventful."
"The search for God still not going well?" Frankie asked. Cas softly shook his head, his eyes falling. Frankie pressed her lips together as she glanced over his defeated form. "Eh, well, look on the bright side. You got plenty of time to look for him. With Lucifer dead, the world isn't on the brink of crumbling anymore." Cas turned his head away from Frankie. "Maybe He'll show up on his own terms. Put things back together. You just gotta think positive."
Cas lifted his eyes to the girl, his blue irises flitting over her face. "That hasn't helped me so far."
Frankie's head lightly jerked back, curious of his off-putting tone.
He blinked, and then he continued pacing throughout the room. "Though, perhaps I should wait a little longer. I have hope that things will get better. Soon."
Frankie nodded. Her mind replayed her episodes from the last few days. She internally cringed. "Me, too."
"I will admit, it is relieving to have another being to discuss my disquiets with." Cas's pacing dropped him in front of Frankie. He looked down at her with a softness in his gaze. "I'm sorry if hearing about my plights distresses you."
Frankie smiled up at the angel. She lightly shook her head. Typical Cas.
"It could never. You can tell me anything. Just forgive me if I have a little trouble understanding what you go through. I can't say I've been in your shoes before."
"Nor can I." His eyes fell, landing on her handless arm dangling by her side. The soft look in them dimmed. "You possess your share of harrowing experiences. Ones I cannot share with you. However, I will do my best to understand." Frankie's smile collapsed. "That is, when you decide to trust me."
Frankie's fingers tightened on the counter. Her eyes fogged over with a dark gaze. A frown tugged on her gaunt cheeks.
"I do trust you, Cas."
Castiel's back straightened, his brows narrowing. He nearly winced at the surly sound to her voice.
"Goodnight."
She pushed off the counter and strutted passed the angel.
"Frankie." She grasped the doorknob to her bedroom. "Are you sleeping well?"
The door froze half-open. Her brain scolded her for pausing, for letting him stop her, but, true to her nature, she didn't listen. She turned her head to the side, speaking over her shoulder.
"Why do you ask?"
"I have noticed for some time now." Castiel's voice adopted its own morose tone. "I see the signs of exhaustion. I worry about the effects to come if your fatigue worsens."
Frankie gulped. She thought of many responses to him, not all of them spoken kindly. Choosing what to say, though, proved a strenuous task. "You don't need to worry. I'm alright," she finally declared, sharply.
"Forgive me. You're not." Frankie turned and scowled at him, her hand tightening on the doorknob. "I know that I am not supposed to do this, but I don't believe keeping it to myself is wise. I understand that you don't wish to discuss it, but I don't predict you carrying on in your state for much longer. I fear the worst."
Frankie's scowl deepened. "Cas, have you been reading my mind again?"
The muscles in his jaw twitched. He challenged her glare with his own. "I don't need to intrude your thoughts to know that you're sick. Altered sleeping habits or insomnia are common symptoms of experiencing traumatic events." Frankie's lips scrunched into an incensed frown as she tore her head away from the angel. "I can't understand what you've been through. Not without your help. And if I am going to help you, I am going to need to know how."
"You can't help me, Cas. Just drop it," Frankie growled through clenched teeth.
Castiel exhaled a long sigh.
"No."
Frankie blinked her glower back into the angel's gaze.
"I made a pledge to protect you. Your health is declining, and it is my self-appointed responsibility to ensure your safety. I'm here to help you, Frankie. Tell me what I need to do." He lifted his chin, leveling his glare to a softer expression of compromise. "Please."
"Goodnight, Cas."
Frankie turned around before she could see whatever mixture of emotions he was wearing. She slipped into her room and slammed the door shut behind her, the speed of the force blowing strands of hair against her cheeks.
She didn't wait to hear him fly away this time. He would respect her wishes. He would, or else he'd get a smack to the jaw. She yanked her uniform off in a huffy fit, throwing it off to the side. She shoved on sweatpants and burrowed herself in the sheets.
Lying in her side, facing the wall, she made several compelling attempts at convincing herself she made the right move.
"No! Wait, please!"
Their snarls ricocheted off her bones as they circled her, waiting for the command from their master. Once invisible, she could now see every detail of the hounds. Black. Huge. Currant eyes glaring over icicle-like teeth. Mutant bears more than primal wolves.
Their drool flapped off their quivering jowls, speckling her, seasoning her for their feast. She whimpered as she tugged on her shackled limbs, her only defense.
Their master strolled into view, hands behind their back. They glanced in approval over her bound form, sprawled out and ready. Their smirk was too wide. Unnatural. Bared teeth beaming from behind wispy golden hair.
Frankie gaped at the figure. Her lips trembled, tears dripping from them.
"Jo…"
A perfect copy of the girl stood over the bound Frankie. A perfect copy aside from the glowing whiteness in her eyes.
She rounded Frankie's body. With each step, a drop of blood bubbled from a manifesting slice of skin. The ends of her jeans stuck to her legs as they were colored black. Her shirt tore open. Four distinct rips, as that of a set of claws, revealed her mangled skin beneath, bursting with blood. Once she made her final round, stopping at Frankie's spread legs, she appeared to have but one eye, one eye shining brighter than two. The other a vacant, black hole.
"This wasn't meant to be." It used her voice so disrespectfully. A deep, scratchy tone, very much like the one she used the moment of her demise. "I wasn't supposed to die like this. I was supposed to go with dignity. I was supposed to save them."
"I-I… I-I'm sorry, Jo, I didn't mean to-to…"
"Yeah, I know you're sorry. Doesn't change the fact that I'm dead, does it?"
"I tried to save you-"
"You coulda tried harder. But did you? No. You screwed up. Again."
Frankie stopped herself, wriggling in her shackles to ground her back to her version of reality. She leaned her head back, shutting her eyes tight. "You're not her. Don't you put words in her mou-"
Words turned to whines as her shackles were yanked, pulling her limbs in opposing directions.
"Oh, boo. You're no fun." The disguised Gamigin strolled to her side, hands clasped behind his back. He leaned over her body, forcing her deep eye socket into view. "She was supposed to save them, you know. Had you stayed put, she would have been gutted by that hellhound you killed." The beasts circling her snarled. "Carried into that hardware store, nearly bleed out, and built a bomb to blow up the remaining hounds. Like you did. Only, Ellen, overcome with grief, would elect to stay behind so she didn't have to live without her daughter." Gamigin tilted his head, smirking with his pointed teeth. "And now she is doing just that. Oh, if you knew how often she thinks about ending her life to join dear Jo…"
"Fuck off!"
"Hm. No remorse. No respect. You belong down here, Francine." He stood straight, turned on his heels, and walked out of her view. "I hope you think about that as you get just what you deserve."
With a flick of his wrist, the hellhounds pounced on her like a game of musical chairs. Fangs jabbed into skin, eviscerating flesh, tugging on muscle with the sound of wet ripping impaling her ears.
She barely got a scream out when an ivory tooth lifted over her eye, spearing into her socket.
She clawed at the air, voice crackling like a burning log as a wail ripped out of her throat. She jumped from the sheets, kicking at the mattress until her back thudded against the wall.
Two hands lifted into view, reaching for her.
She curled her knees into her chest, throwing up her hand to guard her face from his attack. Her fingers blocked his burning blue eyes from tormenting her.
Her fingers twitched.
Blue.
Her hand lowered. His eyes were blue, and they weren't burning at all. They were twinkling with concern under dark brows.
"C-C-Cas?"
Castiel stood across from her, a few feet away from her bed. His hands were raised, slowly lowering to try and sooth the frantic girl.
Frankie's eyes darted around the room. Window, clothes on the floor, bathroom door, nightstand… no Gamigin, no hellhounds, no Jo.
Her arm dropped to her side, lightly bouncing on the mattress. Her chest painfully lifted with her large breath, feeling like Heaven as she blew out her lingering fear.
"You were having a nightmare."
She looked at Cas. He stood straighter, a little more relaxed, and wore a knowing, disturbed expression.
"Y-Yeah. Just a nightmare. I'm fine now."
"Was it Gamigin?"
Her jaw slowly slackened. Her heart made itself known in her ears as her confused stare turned into a scowl.
"What?"
"You were dreaming of Hell. Was Gamigin there?"
Frankie's back slowly aligned as she snarled through clenched teeth. "How… the fuck do you know that name?"
Cas's jaw tightened, his throat bobbing in a swallow.
"Were you in my head?"
"No," he answered immediately. "I haven't read your thoughts since our meeting in the woods behind Bobby Singer's house."
"Then how do you know that name?" Cas stood stiffly, clenching and unclenching his fists. Frankie leaned closer to him, fingers curling around the bedsheets, balling them into her palm. "Why are you here? Why are you in my room?! Answer me!"
Castiel lowered his head, eyes downcast. He heaved a quiet sigh through his nostrils. "I always come when you call."
Frankie's cinched brows loosened. Her lips gently parted as she repeated his somber words in her head.
"I know you don't like me interrupting you while you sleep, and you're not fond of me entering your dreams." Castiel lifted his eyes into hers. He righted his head, collecting himself. "I cannot ignore a single instance when you call my name in terror or pain. Any one of them could mean life or death." Cas stopped clenching his fists. He flattened his fingers parallel to his thighs as if he was restraining from the gesture. "But when I arrive and find you asleep… I stay for a few minutes, only a few. I want to make sure that you're safe."
Frankie forced her lips together. She searched for anything to look at other than the angel. "How often do I do that?"
Cas was quiet for a moment. He turned his head away from her. "Every night this week."
Frankie gripped the sheets tighter, pressing her lips harder together to prevent their incensed quiver.
"You have dreamt of Hell every night this week," Cas enunciated, voice hardening. "And you have been hiding it. It has kept you from sleep. It's preventing you from eating. Your hair has been falling out. Yes, I've noticed."
Frankie glanced down to her pillow. She hid her cringe at the sight of loose strands.
"You're losing weight and your cheeks are hollow. You told me not to worry about you, but I cannot do that."
"Well… you're gunna have to." She was glad she couldn't see the no-doubt indignant look on the angel's face. "Or you're at least gunna hafta hide it better. I… I went there, Cas. To that place. And now I'm back again, but…," she shut her eyes, steadying her quickening breath. "But it is, too. I can't will it away. All I can do is try to ignore it and hope it goes away."
"No. That isn't all." Cas stepped forward. Frankie refused to look up. "I can help you."
"How?" Frankie weakly snapped. "These aren't abstract visions created by fear and pain. These are memories from my time down there. Unless you can get rid of those, the best you can do for me is take me to the loony bin."
Cas was quiet, most likely trying to understand her meaning.
"There are other ways. Only angels can heal instantaneously. For humans, it is a long process. You aren't alone, Frankie. I am one of the few beings on this planet who can come close to understanding what you've been through."
"You're an angel, Cas, not a person. You've never been to Hell. You can't understand what I was put through!"
"You went through horrendous trauma, Frankie. But don't mistake yourself for the only one in this room that was tortured."
An agonizingly slow swallow travelled down Frankie's throat. She inched her gaze away from the bed, landing on the tails of his tan coat.
"It is still difficult for a human. Harder for humans that have no one to support them. That isn't you. I will refrain from making you a promise – I understand your feelings towards them – so I can only inform you that sharing your experience can help you to move on. Maybe not at once, but over time they will loosen their hold on you. You have my word. And the book said opening yourself up to-"
"Book?"
Frankie's brows tugged together, her eyes darkening. She lifted her head, glaring at Cas.
No. It wasn't possible.
"What book?" she deliberately growled.
'Uh… I-I can't give you a hint, no,' he had said, fidgeting with the microphone in his sweaty, shaking hands. 'B-But… I can tell you that you'll find out for yourselves very soon.' Chuck had stood on that stage, practically holding their fate in his greedy fucking hands. 'The next book will be on shelves next month.'
That had been roughly a month ago.
Frankie's teeth squeaked as the clenched her jaw tightly. "What book, Cas? Show me the fucking book!"
Castiel stood still, a stunned look in his eye. If he was human, she would have called the look guilty.
He lightly pressed his lips together, lowering his eyes at her glower. He peeled back the lapel of his coat and reached into the inner lining. He shuffled a paperback book out of a hidden pocket and held it out to Frankie. She read the bold blue letters illuminated by the moonlight.
The Healing Hand: A Practical Guide on Helping Others with PTSD and Trauma
Frankie couldn't have been able to count the amount of times she reread the book's title. Each time her eyes travelled back to the beginning, the sinking hole in her chest deepened.
He got a book. He was reading a book on how to help her. He probably read that thing cover to cover.
The corners of her mouth lightly twitched until they lifted into a faint smile. A quiet chuckle puffed out of her mouth as her eyes skimmed the contemporary design of the book's cover. Growing laughter tickled her stomach. Her smile grew, and with it the volume of her chortle.
She brought her hand up to her face, snickering through her fingers. Her laugh was raspy from lack of use. In between the giggles, she occasionally snorted like a hog, perplexing the angel before her. She shook her head, her eyes watering.
This whole time he was trying to find ways to help her. He set aside time from finding God and helping her brothers with cases to learn about human psychology and aiding people that went through traumatic events.
And she had been practically spitting in his face.
Castiel's head tilted at the sight of a falling tear. She coughed up more raspy chuckles, cutting off whatever he was about to say.
"Please tell me you didn't steal this."
"No. Of course not. I used money from Jimmy's wallet."
Oh god. Jimmy. She forgot about him. She really hoped he hadn't been conscious through any of this.
"Cas, I-…" She calmed herself down, softly crooning as the last of her giggles left her voice. "Wow, uh… it's been a while since I heard that sound."
"I believe that is the first time I have heard you laugh. At least while you were not intoxicated."
"Yeah. It only took an Angel of the Lord to play Freud to knock it outta me." She rubbed her swollen eyes, smearing tears over her cheekbones. "You have been a good friend, Cas, you know that? You've-you've been lookin' after me, been makin' sure I'm still alive… and-and you've been researchin' ways to keep me sane. What've I been doin' this whole time?" She huffed a dry chuckle. "I've been a horrible, horrible person."
Cas's brows pulled together, his eyes glistening with apprehension. "No." He stepped closer to her until he was a mere foot away. "Nothing you have said to me was your choice. You didn't yell at me because you were a bad person."
"Well, I can't blame it all on Gamigin, can I?"
"Yes. You can."
Cas sat down on the bed beside Frankie. The mattress dipped under his weight, shuffling her closer to him.
"When you climbed out of your grave, you told me that you were no longer sure who you were anymore. Do you think you are to blame for that? Were you the one to brutalize yourself until you lost all memory of who you once were? To work away at you until you were nothing? Did you reassemble yourself just so you could wear yourself down again? Were you the one who tortured you for years, tapping into every fear and insecurity you possessed since you were a child just because you took pleasure in watching your suffering?"
Frankie sniffed. Her tears fell onto her sweatpants, darkening the gray fabric.
"Do you think you deserve to be haunted by him despite being far away from his grasp?"
"No," she whispered. "But I can't shut it off. He won't go away. He's always there."
"He isn't, Frankie. Only his memory lingers." Cas's eyes flicked over her shining cheeks and puffy eyes. "Do you understand?"
After several seconds, Frankie nodded.
"Will you tell me that?"
She wet her lips with her tongue and took in a trembling breath. "He's just a memory."
"He can no longer hurt you."
"He can no longer hurt me."
"And if he makes so much as a minute attempt at laying a hand on you again, I will tear him apart on a molecular level until only atoms remain."
Frankie softly smiled. A quiet snort puffed from her nostrils. She lifted and turned her head towards Castiel. A corner of her lips twitched upwards.
"I understand that reliving your memories will be excruciating. It may take you some time to even begin considering sharing, but know that no matter what preoccupation I am involved with, be it with Sam and Dean or finding God, I will always come when you call. I will be here to listen whenever you need."
Castiel stood from the bed. He gazed down at Frankie. She narrowed her eyes on his lips. They were soft, the faintest bit turned upwards as he looked at her. He was smiling. Barely. But it was enough to fill the sinking hole in her chest.
He gave a small nod and turned to the door. Frankie leaned forward, grabbing his wrist.
"Cas?"
He turned back immediately, standing at attention. Frankie's mouth hung open for a moment, hesitation on her tongue.
"My… my dream just now… it was hellhounds."
Castiel's shoulders lowered. He hid his relief very well. She couldn't spot it on his face, but the faint lift and fall of his chest told her enough.
"Will you…," she pointed her eyes to the spot where he was sitting. He took the hint and sat back down next to her, his wrist still in her grasp.
He looked at her expectantly. Her mouth hung open, head sifting through words she had decided to purge herself of.
"I don't wanna talk about my dreams. Or my time in Hell. Not-Not yet. But I… you're right. It's hard for me to talk about… my feelings. Just mustering a single thought about Hell just pulls me right back down there."
She took in a long breath, closing her eyes. The faint screams of her hanging neighbors called out to her, pleading for mercy she couldn't provide. Pleading for the mercy she desired. She swallowed, letting her breath out, trying to quiet them down.
"I have been so… tired, Cas. I can't sleep. My work is suffering. I'm pretty sure I made a girl cry today because I lost myself. I don't-I don't like this 'me', Cas. I don't like who I am, who I've turned into. I'm bitter. I'm angry. Angry at myself, Heaven, Hell, I'm angry at Gamigin, I'm angry at having one hand, I'm angry about being so goddamn tired!"
She pressed her fist against her forehead, clenching at the headache underneath it. She hissed an unsteady breath.
"I'm away from him, but he still won. He's got me. Every time I close my eyes, he's there, mocking me. And I feel…," she sucked in a small, quivering breath. "I feel like he's a part of me now. Like he's ingrained himself into me and he'll always be there. He's another brand on my soul that won't come off. And I hate it!"
Her fist sprawled out across her face, covering her eyes as they leaked hot tears. Her shoulders shook with a silent sob.
A warm hand lightly grasped her shoulder. She leaned into the touch.
"I'm afraid, Cas. I don't wanna go to sleep. I know he's waiting for me."
The hand on her shoulder slid across her back, resting along her spine. The unnatural warmth radiating from his palm dizzied her head. The tenderness in the touch battled the screams in her mind for dominance.
"It is true. You might have another nightmare of Hell tonight."
The screams were winning. Wretched howls from sinners swirled behind her eyes.
"If you would like, I could enter your dream and destroy him."
Frankie coughed out a small laugh. Her smile briefly returned. "No. I don't wanna put you through all that mess. I don't want you to see me like that."
"Very well. Then… I will be here when you wake up."
Frankie turned to Cas, wet eyelashes twinkling in the moonlight like damp spider webs.
"When you are awakened from your nightmare, I will be here to provide comfort if it is needed. If you would like."
Her smile bloomed. "Actually, Cas… I would love that."
He didn't hide it this time. He formed an actual real smile, like a human being.
While she found herself in an utterly unlucky series of events, she did feel like she was granted one shred of luck in her dark world. To have a friend like Cas, who would put so much aside to fulfil his promises, to make sure she felt safe, it was the forklift she needed to lift her sorry ass out of the deep grave she buried herself in. Granted, there was still a mountain she needed to climb before she'd be classified as "functional," but one thing was for sure.
Cas would be by her side through all of it.
Frankie scooted back against the wall, making room for him. She laid on her side and bundled into the sheet, watching Cas try to find a comfortable position. He paused awkwardly, examining the length of the mattress. He hesitated before lifting his legs onto the bed, shoes and all, and leaning back on the headboard.
Frankie snorted at the stiffness of his position. He must have felt a bit uncomfortable, and she would normally tell him he could pull up a chair. But having him this close by, close enough to shield her from the attacker that haunted her, it made her feel protected. It made her feel safe.
She closed her eyes, sighing. "Thanks, Cas."
It could have been her overall exhaustion, or it could have been Cas himself lying right beside her, but for some reason her pillow felt softer than usual.
"Goodnight, Frankie."
She smiled, hoping that for once it would be a good one. But if it wasn't, at least her guardian angel would be right there for her when she woke up.
"Goodnight, Cas."