Winchester

The Impala sat crooked at the edge of the road, headlights off, engine still running like Dean hadn’t trusted himself to kill it yet. Cicadas buzzed in the trees, loud enough to feel invasive.

Sam leaned forward in the passenger seat, elbows braced on his knees, breathing slow but deliberate. His knuckles were white where his fingers gripped the fabric of his jeans.

Dean watched him from the driver’s side, jaw tight. He hadn’t said anything for a full two minutes, which -- by Dean’s standards -- was practically heroic restraint.

“So,” Dean finally said, breaking the silence, “you wanna tell me why you just screamed like you got tased by the hand of God?”

Sam didn’t look up right away. When he did, his eyes were unfocused, like he was still halfway somewhere else.

“It was a person,” Sam said quietly. "I couldn't make out any details, just felt… terrified. Kept backing away from something I couldn’t see at first.”

Dean’s humor didn’t surface this time. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Sam.”

“The walls were bleeding,” Sam continued, swallowing hard. “Not literally... more like shadows. Moving wrong. And then--” He shook his head once, sharp. “Something grabbed them. Right here.” Sam touched his own throat, fingers trembling. “Their neck snapped. I felt it.”

Dean exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. “Okay. Where?”

“Here,” Sam said immediately, nodding toward the quiet stretch of houses ahead. “Same street. Couldn't tell you which house, but one of them.”

Dean’s gaze snapped up, locking onto the houses in front of them. They looked boringly suburban, spotless, painfully normal.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered.

Sam finally pushed the door open and stepped out, the cool night air doing little to steady him. “Dean, I didn’t ask for this,” he said, softer now, preemptive. “But if I’m right... someone might already be dead. Or about to be.”

Dean moved fast then, closing the small distance between them, hands landing firm on Sam’s shoulders. Protective. Grounding. Maybe a little desperate.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but solid. “I know. We’re not walking away. It'll be okay.”

Sam met his eyes. There was fear there—but also resolve.

Dean straightened, turning toward the house again. The itch under his skin was back, worse now.

“Congratulations,” Dean said grimly, pushing open the car door. “Looks like we’re officially in freaky psychic murder territory.”

The bar was everything Dean loved and Sam tolerated.

Low ceiling, sticky floor, neon beer signs buzzing like they were on life support. Classic rock hummed through battered speakers, just loud enough to blur the edges of the day. Dean sat at the bar with a half-empty bottle in front of him, boot hooked around the rung of the stool, posture loose in a way that suggested relaxed but meant watching everything.

Sam slid onto the stool beside him, setting down his own beer. “You know, if we stay here long enough, someone’s going to ask what we do for a living.”

Dean took a sip. “We lie. Like always.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Dean said, smirking. “Federal agents. Antique dealers. Drifters. Pick one. Chicks love mystery.”

Sam snorted despite himself and took a drink. For a few minutes, it almost felt normal. No research. No blood. No demons. Just cheap beer and the illusion of a night off.

Dean was halfway through telling a story about a hunt in Arizona -- one Sam had definitely heard before -- when the TV over the bar cut to a local news segment. The sound was low, but the headline scrolled bright and unavoidable.

MAN FOUND DEAD IN HOME — POLICE BAFFLED

Dean trailed off mid-sentence.

Sam’s eyes flicked up automatically, the familiar hunter instinct kicking in before he could stop it.

“…Don’t,” Dean said without looking at him.

Sam frowned. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” Dean glanced at the screen now, jaw tightening. “We are not working. This is called downtime.”

The reporter’s voice carried just enough to be annoying.

“No signs of forced entry. Neighbors report hearing shouting shortly before—”

Sam sighed, already reaching for his phone. “Dean.”

“Nope.”

“Three unexplained deaths in the same town in under a month.”

Dean turned slowly on his stool. “You’re ruining beer.”

“And you’re ignoring a pattern.”

They stared at each other, the way they always did at moments like this: Dean stubborn and defensive, Sam steady and quietly insistent.

Finally, Dean grabbed his bottle and drained it. He slapped some cash on the bar and stood.

“I hate you,” he muttered.

Sam was already on his feet, jacket in hand. “No, you don’t.”

Dean paused, then smirked. “Yeah. I kinda do. But fine. One look. If this turns out to be stress-induced heart failure or some suburban soap opera nonsense, I’m dragging you back here.”

Sam smirked. “Deal.”

Snow crunched under their boots as the Winchester brothers moved through the trees, breath fogging in the cold air. The forest was dense and quiet in the way only deep winter could allow, the cold swallowing any sound. The perfect white carpet was broken by deep, uneven tracks that definitely weren’t animal.

Dean slowed, crouching to inspect them. “That’s not a bear,” he said, straightening. “Too long in the stride. And whatever it is? It’s not dragging prey. If it has something, it's carrying it.”

Sam pulled his scarf higher against the wind, scanning the treeline with a flashlight. “Disappearances started three weeks ago. Locals say they hear screaming at night, then nothing. Bodies show up days later, torn apart.” He hesitated. “Or they don’t show up at all.”

Dean grimaced. “Remote woods, extreme cold, missing hikers.” He glanced toward the dark silhouette of the hunting cabin they'd shacked up in a few hundred yards away, half-buried in snow. “Checks every box.”

They’d left the Impala miles back on the access road and continued on foot, following reports of footprints and blood leading into the forest. Wendigos didn’t like roads. They liked places where people vanished quietly.

Sam stopped suddenly, light fixed on a shape ahead. “Dean.”

A figure lay crumpled in the snow near the tree line, half-covered, coat dark with frozen blood. Human.

Dean swore under his breath and hurried forward, dropping to one knee. “Hey. Hey, can you hear me?”

The bar was the kind of place that smelled like spilled beer, old wood, and bad decisions. Neon signs flickered like they were on their last legs, and the jukebox was locked in an eternal loop of classic rock that Dean swore was “art” and Sam privately categorized as “auditory assault.”

Dean lounged at the bar like he owned it -- elbow propped on the counter, boot hooked on the rung, beer already halfway gone. He was mid-rant.

“I’m telling you, man, if a place serves peanuts in a bowl everyone’s touched, that’s just nature’s way of thinning the herd.”

Sam took a sip of his drink. “You ate them anyway.”

“Because I’m brave,” Dean said. “And because I’m hungry.”

Sam shook his head, amused despite himself. For a few precious minutes, there was no hunt, no research, no parent-murdering-demon. Just cheap beer and background noise.