~*****~

"You sure you know how to fix cars?" A middle-aged customer inquiries as I peer in the hood of his crappy SSR.

I groan irritably and lean up slightly, my hands gripping onto the edge of the frame. "Listen, buddy-- I may not have a set of sweaty ass balls hanging between my perfect legs, but after a lifetime of fixing up way better cars-- unlike this piece of crap you've been haulin' around for god knows how long-- I'm pretty sure your problem is the fuckin' transmission. The damn thing's smoother than my kid's ass." The man is red in the face as he glares at me. "It'll cost a pretty penny to fix, but hey, you want to pay more, by all means, go visit my buddy up the street-- I'll give him a call and let him know you're coming."

"Just fix my fucking car." The man spat before going to sit out on the porch.

"Fuckin' bastard." I hiss as I begin to work on the crap car. Just as I manage to pry the bitch out of the hood compartment, I hear the chime of my front door. I groan and step away from the car, and step behind my counter. "Can I help you?"

The man is fidgeting with his bag nervously. "Are you, uh, are you Carlotta Bellway?" He asks.

"Who's asking?"

"I heard she's the person to come to for... strange problems..." He mentions and sets a bag on the table. I recognize the stench immediately.

I peer around him, gazing at the hateful ornery old man sitting on the porch, passed out. He's snoring loudly, and I take a moment to gaze into the bag. "Who's head is this?"

"I was attacked, and when I woke up afterwards, this guy-- he tried feeding me some... pig heart or something." His face scrunches up, and I worry that he might vomit over the counter. "I don't know what happened... I blacked out and next thing I knew, I had his head in my hands..."

"And... you brought it here?" He nods pathetically. I hum and discretely reach for the gun strapped under the counter. "How long ago was the attack?"

The man gazed at me skeptically. "About a week ago."

"Listen, buddy... I don't have time to give you the whole she-bang about monsters in the dark, and how they're very real, but you're infected. And I don't think there's a cure." I say softly. "Get out of my shop."

"No wait, please, please--" He says urgently. I grasp my gun as he moves and aim. The man holds his hands up. "Look, I have no one else to turn to... Every person I asked said you'd find something-- anything to help me."

"There's no cure for a werewolf bite. None that I heard of, anyway." I explain. "I can... Get you some silver bullets."

"What good would that do me?"

I shrug. "Listen, it's not pretty, but when that full moon hits, you will turn, and you will eat the heart of a human. The transformation will be complete, and you'll spend the rest of your life waiting desperately for that moon to be full again. A bullet to the heart is the only known cure. I'm sorry."

The man shudders and grasps onto the counter. "Please... Please, just help me..."

I purse my lips. "I can try... but I'll need to contain you. You'll be locked up, and when that full moon hits, make sure you stay awake. The transformations are triggered during your sleep cycle during the peak of the lunar cycle."

The man nods wildly. "Thank you--"

"Don't thank me. The moment you become dangerous to my child, I'll put a bullet in your heart myself." I say coldly. "Follow me. And grab... that thing." I say as I gesture to the head bag. He grabs it hastily and follows after me. I lead him into the panic room. "Stay in this room. This is going to hurt like a bitch, but I have to chain you up. With silver chains."

The man swallows softly and nods. Red welts cover the skin that presses against the chains, but he's nonetheless calm.

"What's your name? You got any family I should send word to just in case this goes south?" I ask after a moment of staring.

"Zack. My name is Zack Toussaint. My family's from the French Quarter is Louisiana. They're not there anymore." He says softly. "I have no one left."

I purse my lips and grasp at the edge of the door. "Try not panic. You're going to be in here a long time, Werewolf Virgin."

My lip quirks up at his offended expression.

~*****~

"So there's nothing in any of the lore?" I ask as Bobby paces in my library. "Nothing that can cure a werewolf, or hell, even stall the transformation just a little?"

"Not that I've heard of... You think your blood could heal it? Like an antiviral?" Bobby asks.

I sigh. "No, blood's useless when it's out of my body." I explain. I rub at my temples irritably. "Why the hell'd he bring his head?"

Bobby rubbed at his chin. "Even if there ain't no lore on a cure, every damn book says killing the sire werewolf can cure a recently bit, but he's got the whole nine yards. Fangs, claws, enhanced body-- I took a gander into his life, and that boy was a buck fifty soaking wet." I hum in surprise.

I gaze at the rotted head on my desk. "I'm worried... This heads completely fucked, I doubt the blood will be any good if we use it in a potion... Let me call a guy I know."

Bobby nods and scratches at his face. "I'll take care of sunshine out there. He's been howling about his crap car ever since I showed up. Bastard."

I snort and nod. I pick up my phone and dial up a foreign code. My lip quirks up when I hear his English clipped tone echo out. "Hello, you've reach Mick--"

"Mick, it's Carlotta." I retort playfully.

"Well, hello darling, it's been ages since I've heard from you." Mick greets in the same teasing tone he always used with me. "Have you reconsidered my offer?"

"Yeah, I'm kinda engaged and I have a kid," I laugh. "That's not why I called anyway. You're pretty in the know about all shit Supernatural, so I was wondering if you know anything about a werewolf cure."

I hear a chortle. "One of your friends get himself bit? Honestly, the company you keep."

"Mick," I say in a warning tone.

Mick laughs. "Don't get so testy, darling. I'm sorry to say, any cure we've attempted doesn't seem to work. The human's we've tested it on all died from the process. It's quite different when we're testing on rats."

"Send over the research." I hum. "I've got a guy down in my cellar who all but kissed my feet for help."

"Am I going to receive any thanks for this?" Mick teases. "Those late-night phone calls we used to share were the highlight of my evenings."

I snort. "Yes, a pen pal who happened to have a hard on for the girl who had no filter for her curses. I'll treat you to a fancy meal if you're in the states again."

"It's a date, darling." Mick chirps. "If your friend dies, don't feel too bad. If I couldn't get it right, then there's absolutely no hope for a yank like yourself."

"Yeah, this yank still helped you out of a few scrapes with my own know-how." I laugh before ending the call.