Winchester

The Impala idled at the curb, engine ticking softly as it cooled. Dean leaned back against the hood, arms crossed, eyes on the quiet suburban house in front of them. White siding. Perfectly manicured lawn. An American flag on the porch, bleached pale from sunlight. Normal enough to make his skin itch.

“I’m just saying,” Dean muttered, glancing sideways at his brother, “guy drops dead in his living room, no signs of forced entry, no witnesses. Could be a stroke. Could be his wife poisoned him. Doesn’t automatically scream ‘monster.’”

Sam shut the car door a little harder than necessary and adjusted his jacket. “Except this is the third guy to die of an 'aneurysm' in this town in the last two weeks. And the neighbors heard screaming before everything went quiet.”

Dean snorted. “People scream all the time. Ever been to a karaoke bar?”

Sam shot him a look. “Dean.”

“Fine,” Dean said, pushing off the car. “But if this turns out to be a local company poisoning the water or something, I’m blaming you. Again.”

They walked up the path together. The house felt wrong up close; too still, like it was holding its breath. Dean took the lead, knocking firmly on the door, then flashing a badge the second footsteps approached from inside.

“Federal agents,” Dean said smoothly when the door cracked open. “We’re sorry to bother you, but we just have a few questions about the recent death of Mr Miller.”

Behind him, Sam’s expression softened, voice quieter, steadier. “We know this is a hard time. We’ll try to be quick.”

Dean glanced sideways at Sam. Yeah. Empathy. Sam had that covered.

The Delaware River rolled black and sluggish beneath the pier lights, water lapping softly against rotting pylons. Police tape fluttered in the breeze, the third crime scene this week carved into the same stretch of waterfront. Dean stepped over a chalk outline that had already half-faded, jaw tight, eyes tracking the shadows between shipping containers.

“Three bodies,” he said, low. “Same location, same damage. Claws, not knives. Tell me again how this is just some guy with a hobby.”

Sam crouched near the edge of the pier, studying gouges in the wood. “I’m not saying it’s human,” he replied. “I’m saying we don’t know what it is yet, so you can't assume it's a siren. Could be territorial. Could be feeding. Whatever it is, it’s escalating.”

Dean straightened. “Great. Love escalation.”

They were heading back toward the car when the smell hit them. Sharp, metallic, wrong. All too familiar to men in their line of work. Dean froze mid-step.

“You smell that?” he asked.

Sam nodded, already moving. They rounded the corner of a warehouse and found the body sprawled half in shadow, half in the glow of a broken streetlamp. Fresh. Too fresh. Blood still dark and wet against the pavement.

“This is... recent,” Sam murmured. “No police yet, but there will be.”

Dean’s hand drifted toward the gun at his back. “So whatever did this left in a hurry. Or--”

Footsteps interrupted his words. Fast. Uneven.

Both brothers snapped their heads up, just in time to see someone disappearing into the shadows of the alley nearby.

Dean bolted first, boots slapping against concrete. “Hey!” he shouted, voice cutting through the night. “Stop!”

He was already disappearing around a corner into the maze of narrow streets away from the pier before Sam could tell him to slow down, though Sam didn’t hesitate to follow. “Dean!”

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 warm, loud, and dim in that comforting, end-of-nowhere way; sticky floors, low music humming through bad speakers, and the smell of beer soaked into the wood. Snow clung to boots near the door as locals drifted in and out, shaking off the cold.

Sam had already claimed a table in the corner, laptop open, half a dozen printed articles spread around it like he was building a conspiracy board instead of ordering a drink. He sipped his beer absently, eyes flicking between the screen and a yellowed newspaper clipping.

“I’m just saying,” he said, without looking up, “the timeline lines up way too well. Disappearances every winter, same stretch of highway, same kind of injuries. That’s not coincidence.”

Dean slid into the chair opposite him, dropping a duffel at his feet. “It’s also not proof,” he replied. “It’s cold, people get drunk, wander off, freeze. Tragic, but depressingly normal.”

Sam frowned. “You didn’t even read--”

Dean was already halfway out of his seat, gaze drifting toward the bar. “I will. Eventually. After I gather some… local intel.”

Sam followed his line of sight and sighed. “Dean.”

“What?” Dean grinned, smoothing down his jacket. “I’m multitasking. You research. I ask around. Everybody wins.”

“Flirting is not asking around.”

Dean paused, then shrugged. “Agree to disagree.”

He wandered up to the bar, leaning his elbows against the counter like he belonged there; posture easy, expression open. He glanced back once, catching Sam’s look of long-suffering disbelief, and smirked.

Sam shook his head, muttering under his breath as he turned back to his notes.

Dean waited at the bar, drumming his fingers lightly against the wood, eyes flicking up as someone approached. “Long night, huh?” he said easily, flashing a crooked smile as he leaned a little closer to the bar.