Sam and Dean hunkered down in their hunter’s blind, uncharacteristically wrapped in brand new down jackets, waterproof pants, and thick wool socks—pretty much everything new, and not even thrifted for a change. Still, it was colder than Lucifer’s cage, which Sam was definitely not going to bring up as a comparison, no sirree.
Their breath puffed out in white clouds, a visible reminder of warmth leaving their bodies. The moon rose, and they waited, questioning the life choices they’d made to bring them here to this island in Lake Winnipeg on Christmas Eve instead of drinking spiked eggnog in a motel room in Arizona or somewhere sane.
Dean sneezed, and Sam glared at him to be quiet. But the sneezes kept coming. Then they saw it, a cat the size of a house rising above the trees. It was magnificent: long, thick fur in ginger, white, and gray; huge eyes dilated black and shining in the moonlight.
“It’s like Godzilla!” Dean whispered as he rubbed his nose and gripped the crossbow with its iron bolt dipped in lamb’s blood.
The cat lazily slitted its eyes and licked its paw. It yawned, exposing sharp, white teeth and a pink tongue. Then it rubbed its massive head against a tree trunk and settled down for a nap.
Sam and Dean exchanged a look, and Dean lowered his crossbow.
Back at the cabin, Dean said, “It hasn’t actually killed anyone.”
Sam wondered aloud, “Maybe there’s no one to kill.”
“Well, the Jólakötturinn eats people who don’t have new clothes on Christmas Eve, right? Maybe that’s not, I don’t know, an issue anymore?”
“You mean unfettered consumerism is a good thing? The, uh, YOLO kitten won’t eat people who gorged on Black Friday sales?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Sam corrected. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to be the one to kill YOLO kitten.
For @stanfordsweater and @felisblanco, my new world and old world Icelandic buddies.
