Slight AU.

Grimm takes places after episode 16, season 3. There is no Adalind, Nick killed her, so therefore there is no baby Renard.

Post Fourth War in Naruto. Sasuke returned to Konoha but Naruto isn't Hokage yet.

Supernatural takes place after episode 2, season 9.

Also, disclaimer, I only own the three homeless dudes and Larry the witness. The cover was made on demand through a guy my friend knows and I payed for it as a commission. Which I guess means I own that. All characters belong to their rightful owners and I make no money posting this.

And So The Beast Came Forth


The crushed lights of wrecked lamp-posts sucked the life out of everything in Portland. It sucked out the light of drunken people and lit bonfires in dark alleys. It sucked the life out of the usual gang of homeless people, fingers drawn from their ragged pockets as they tried to warm their frozen limbs by the fire. They had assembled themselves around the orange lightsource, pretending the cold light from the lamp-posts were nothing more than the shine of the waning moon.

"Morty, you got anything good?" Asked one man, his scruffy scarf dangling from his trembling shoulders.

Another, younger, man shook his head and attempted to warm up his fingers by grinding them together and blowing on the appendages. His gloves were missing their tips and the digits poking through the rough material were glowing blue in the light of the fire.

"Sorry, Allan, no good rum these days," he said, his voice sounding lopsided as he started coughing, his body curling in on itself as he sunk into a sitting position on the ground, cradling his stomach.

"Gotta' keep up them spirits," answered Allan and took a swig from a bottle hidden beneath the thin layers of his cloak. A trickle of liquid slid down his chin and he wiped away the stray drop. Allan grunted and looked through the top of his bottle, his nose twitching as the foul smell from the bottle seeped through the air.

"I'm all out of vodka here …" he said and threw the transparent glass against a wall. The bottle broke and shards flew, shimmering in the orange glow and reflecting the tired gazes surrounding the bonfire.

A third man started laughing, clapping his hand as Allan began gathering their empty bottles and flinging them against the wall. "Way to go, Allan!" Croaked the man and hiccuped, his gaunt face red with drunkenness.

"Shut up and join in, Tim," said Allan and howled with laughter.

All three of the men, young and old, took discarded items stowed away in the belly of a container and chucked it at a badly drawn chalk circle on the wall; courtesy of Morty.

Tim grabbed a pack of rotten tomatoes and spotted a black cat some few feet away, drawn to the fire like a moth, its yellow eyes trained to the dancing flames. The men roared and Tim threw the tomatoes at the others' request. The vegetables flew through the air, hitting the frightened cat square between the eyes. The animal wailed as the rotten food exploded upon impact.

"Bullseye!" Said Tim and did a victory lap around the fire, his cheeks gaining colour despite not being able to drink.

"Ain't no damn cat gonna' steal our stash," said Allan and settled down beside the huffing Tim. Said man had seated himself on the cold ground, his lungs gasping for breath and his body shaking with exhaustion. Morty sat opposite the two of them, eyes covered by a hoodie way too big for his thin frame.

One of the glass shards in the far end of the alley cracked under applied pressure. Morty turned his head and slowly he counted the men around the fire.

"One, two, three …" he said and scratched his scalp.

"Wait, if everyone is here-" he turned his head again, staring at the mouth of the alley, darkened by the sick glow of the lamp-post. "Then who is out there?"

Allan shook his head and Tim shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe that cat came back. Couldn't get enough tomatoes," said Allan and patted Tim on the back. They snickered together, their blue noses cold and their feet covered by shoes as full of holes as an emmental. Morty kept his eyes lingering for a moment longer before he turned back to the warm fire and pulled out a flask.

"That whiskey?" Asked Allan and made a grab for the small flask but Morty swung out of the way as he took a swig.

"Not if you are going to drink it," said Morty and stood up, walking further away from the bonfire and Allan's grubby hands. He waved the flask and laughed at Allan's dejected face as he stepped further back to the mouth of the alley, encouraging the older man to follow like a dog begging for a treat.

"Come on now, Allan. You want the whiskey, don't ya'?" Asked Morty and stepped towards the main street.

Allan's answer was cut short as Morty grunted in pain.

"Whazza' matter?" Asked Allan, and Tim turned his head to survey the situation.

"Stepped on a piece of glass," he grunted and hobbled over to the lamp-post, one hand reaching out to steady himself. Morty raised his foot and winced as he tried to remove the thick shard from his sore skin.

"Need some help?"

"No, no, I'm fine," said Morty. "Go back to the fire and get warmed up now that you can't steal my whiskey from me."

Allan left the young man alone and grudgingly stumbled back to Tim.

Morty pulled the shard out and flung it onto the sidewalk, content at seeing the normally busy streets of Portland deserted so late in the night. It made it easier for vagabonds to get the fire going without being arrested for pyromania.

Another piece of glass seemed to bend and explode under the pressure of something heavy and Morty leaned away from the mouth of the alley, favouring his right foot and barely touching the sidewalk with his left. He squinted his eyes in apparent confusion.

"Anybody there?" Called Morty and he heard Allan and Tim drop another empty bottle in surprise. If it was the cops, then the only fair thing to do was to give them a warning.

Morty couldn't see in the darkness of Portland and the lamp-post only provided a small ring of blue-ish light that stopped two tiles down the road.

Morty had trouble hearing Allan and Tim breathe and he had to wonder whether they dashed off at his first warning or was waiting for him to judge the situation further. No need to run if it was just that damned cat from before.

A young man stepped into the light. He seemed to be around Morty's age. Young, with a minimum amount of stubble that could only come from a lack of personal hygiene, and a face as pale as the light from the lamp-post. Morty raised an eyebrow and whistled, letting the others know that it was a false alarm. He could hear them rummaging through the container not a second later and he highly doubted they would have been able to run if it had been the cops. Alleys usually had dead ends, which was the very reason Morty now stood with a weird stranger beneath a lamp-post in Portland.

What struck Morty the most was the absurdly blonde hair and whisker-like marks on the man's cheeks. Three on each. He appeared to be a foreigner and Morty wasn't even sure the guy knew how to speak a word of english.

"Uh-" said Morty and continued to stare at the stranger.

The man was covered in beads of sweat and his t-shirt and slacks weren't doing much to keep him warm, yet he didn't look cold. Pale, yes, but tan and well fed instead of blue and lanky like himself.

"We got a bonfire going down in the alley. You should probably get some warmth, ya' know?" Morty jabbed his finger at the mouth of the alley where he could hear Allan and Tim argue over some unopened cans of pumpkin filling. The stranger nodded and Morty led him back to the small camp. The fire was still burning but it hissed whenever a gust of weak wind threatened to blow it out and Morty added a page of a newspaper they had scavenged earlier in the park. The flames spluttered but burned slightly brighter.

"Allan, Tim, meet a stranger," said Morty, sitting down on the pavement to study his injured foot up close. Allan had a strange grin on his face as he held out his hand for the stranger to take. The young man didn't shake the hand and Allan had the decency to look slightly offended at the rudeness.

"Ain't gonna' bite ya' know," said Allan and frowned, turning back to rummage through his container while Tim walked over to the strange man who had taken a seat next to Morty on the cold ground. Tim smirked and patted the man on his shoulder.

"Don't mind Mr Grumpy," he said. "You are welcome anytime. We vagabonds need to stick together," said Tim and raised his knuckles to the stranger. Morty was sceptical but the blonde man raised his own fist and bumped it together with Tim's.

"See, we're friendly," said Tim and ruffled the younger man's blonde hair in a friendly gesture.

The stranger threw up his hands in defence and scuttled back when he felt the hands in his hair, blue eyes wide like a trapped deer. Morty hadn't been able to see the guy's eyes out on the street - the lamp-posts could manage to turn just about anything blue - but the stranger had eyes like a wild ocean.

The young man's breath quickened and Tim held his hands palm up in mock defence.

"Not going to hurt you," he said and shared a glance with Morty. Poor guy must have gone through a lot to react that badly to a pat on the head. Allan didn't seem to react, the cold failing to sober up the old drunk man, and he mumbled every now and then when he found an empty bottle of liquor.

Tim and Morty watched the blonde man calm down, his breath steadying and slowly his hands came down from their protective position in front of his face. Tim grinned and elbowed Morty in the ribs, his way of saying told you he'd come around.

But Morty wasn't so sure.

The guy had slowed his breathing down so much he barely seemed to get any air into his lungs and his eyes had been closed from the minute they became visible from behind the wall of crossed arms. The man started to shake, new sweat replacing the old as his body shook violently.

"Are you okay?" Asked Morty, hesitating to scoot a step closer to the man in case he decided to bolt. The stranger didn't answer, neither shook or nodded his head, just kept sitting with his back against the wall with closed eyes and a calm breathing pattern.

Slowly, the man reopened his eyes and crawled closer to the fire. He didn't walk, but crawled on all four as if he was some kind of dog. Tim laughed at his antics but Morty shivered at the sight.

The blonde hair framed his face like golden fur and the whisker scars became thicker and stuck out from his face like real whiskers. Morty felt a rock land in his stomach.

The eyes had changed more than the man. Instead of the clear blue he had seen in the shimmer of the orange flames, they had turned into a disturbing red. Morty hadn't seen anything like it and the man suddenly seemed all that more feral.

Tim was still chuckling and Allan had his back turned on the three of them but Morty crawled closer to the fire. Perhaps his whiskey had turned bad. No, it just wasn't his usual brand, that was probably it. Tim wouldn't be laughing like that if he thought something was off.

"Why are your eyes red?" Asked Tim, clutching his stomach with one hand as he chuckled in good spirited mirth.

The stranger refrained from answering and chose to crawl closer to Tim.

In front of his eyes, the stranger started to turn into something different. Something different from a man. From how a usual stranger was supposed to be.

The blonde hair grew. Longer and longer until it covered his whole body like a coat of golden fur and his whisker scars popped out of his face as his mouth elongated and his pink nose turned darker in colour. He shed himself of the sweat drenched t-shirt and the slacks fell off his body as his hips cracked like broken bones, mending themselves like the hindlegs of a canine.

Tim had finally stopped laughing.

Allan was still scavenging the container for alcohol.

But no one could deny the large golden fox in the shade of the hissing fire.

Morty was sure his mouth was hanging open by now, jaw slack at the sight of Tim backing away and tripping over the bonfire. Tim screamed as the fox darted forward on two legs, its massive stature and nine swinging tails aiding the terrifying sight.

It was like the man had grown fur. Not like a werewolf, but like a werefox. Capable of walking on both two and four legs, clawed hands and pawed feet. It was surreal. Like a damn story from one of Poe's scary books.

Allan turned around, one hand stuck to a new bottle of something transparent and foul smelling. His eyes were unfocused at first, swimming in and out of awareness but Morty said nothing.

The fox had trapped Tim beneath its clawed hands and its head were inches away from Tim's own. Tim didn't breathe and he didn't try to defend himself when the fox closed its jaws around his throat. Morty could swear that if someone had asked him if Tim would suffer a silent death, he would have laughed in their face and called them maniacs. Somehow he had always believed Tim would die like he had been born. Squealing like a newborn piglet.

Truth and luck were assholes, Morty decided.

Neither he nor Allan had tried to get away while the fox held down the dying man, marvelling at the blood that seeped from the Tim's neck, staining the ground in a mosaic pattern.

Morty felt bile rise in his throat but held it down.

Allan vomited in his container.

The fox turned to Allan, and if Morty didn't know that animals had no knowledge of facial expressions, he would have guessed the fox was grinning. A wide smile that uncovered the reddened teeth beneath bloodstained gums. Its red eyes had overtaken what should have been the white area of the eye of a man. Like the fox had been a man before he killed Tim in cold blood.

It didn't even stalk up to Allan. It simply waltzed up to the older man on all fours, kicking aside the glass bottles the man had managed to salvage from between the mountains of garbage.

Its nine golden tails swung as if they danced to a silent sonata and tapped down on the earth every few seconds, creating a soft beat. Morty wondered if animals could hold a rhythm when they were busy trying to kill everyone around them.

The flames of the bonfire were eerie and the one way out of the alley was blocked by a creature that belonged to somebody else's nightmare.

Allan put his hand on the wall after he finished dry heaving, his back to the magnificent beast behind him. It watched with curious eyes as the man started to shake and slowly turn around.

It took less than a second for the canine to slam the man's head against the brick wall like a piece of toy. Like it was something that could be replaced as soon as it broke. Morty realized that it could. The fox sunk its teeth into Allan's warm stomach and ripped the skin from his bones, blood leaking through the thin coat the man had gotten himself last summer.

Morty cried.

For Tim and for Allan.

For himself.

For the stranger he had invited and had claimed the lives of his only two friends.

For the fox that now stood in front of him, tongue lolling from its strong jaws as the teeth came uncomfortably close to his head. Morty gasped and drew in a hasty breath, smelling the stench of blood and intestines on the wind.

Just like Tim, Morty didn't scream. He wasn't fast enough.

It only occurred to him that his foot didn't hurt nearly as much as his skull the moment it broke under the strenght of the fox's jaws.