Dean Winchester had never really believed the stories.
He had grown up hearing them — late at night, the faint clink of half-empty bottles in his father's hand, Sam's low, reverent voice.
Your uncle was the bravest man I ever knew.
That's what Sam always said.
But to Dean, those words had always sounded like bedtime tales, distant legends, meant to make children shiver and smile at the same time. Monsters weren't real. Angels didn't watch from the sky. Hell? Just a word people used when things went wrong.
He had built his life around that belief. College, a part-time mechanic job, long nights spent working on his 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback, inherited from his grandfather and restored piece by piece with his father. Every detail of the car reminded him of hours spent in the family garage: the engine roaring when he wanted it to, the tires squealing on the wet gravel, the smell of new leather mixed with oil and grease. This car was his pride, his world.
Until the phone rang.
Unknown number.
Dean almost ignored it. Almost.
"Dean Winchester."
Static crackled, then a voice — old, rough, almost metallic.
"If you're hearing this, it means the house is unguarded."
Dean frowned.
"House… what house?" he murmured aloud, almost to reassure himself.
"Bobby Singer's place. Sioux Falls. South Dakota."
His stomach tightened.
He knew that name. Everyone in his family knew that name.
"You've got your father's eyes," the voice continued, weaker now, almost a whisper."It's time you understood why that matters."
Then silence.
No callback. No traceable number. Just the lingering weight of a warning.
Three hours later, Dean's Mustang rolled along a deserted dirt road under a sky heavy with clouds. The air was damp, carrying the smell of earlier rain, mixed with the scent of earth and hot metal from the engine. His hands gripped the wheel tighter than he thought possible. Something was off. Something familiar, like a memory he hadn't lived but somehow knew.
Ben Braeden hadn't slept properly in years.
Ever since the dreams had started: burning ceilings, gunshots in the dark, a black car waiting under flickering streetlights. He had dismissed them as imagination until the day he found an old newspaper clipping tucked in a box his mother had kept hidden:
Dean Winchester — Local Hero Dies Saving Two Children
The face staring back at him felt oddly familiar. Too familiar.
And lately… the dreams had become more vivid. More real.
That night, Ben's phone rang too. Unknown number.
"You've been asleep long enough, Ben. Go to Sioux Falls. Bobby Singer's house."
Click.
Night had fallen by the time Dean's Mustang finally stopped.
The house loomed ahead, dark and silent, weathered by decades of wind, snow, and rain. The porch boards creaked softly under the weight of time. A faded wooden sign near the fence read: SINGER AUTO.
Dean stepped out, his boots crunching on the damp gravel. The air was cool, heavy with moisture, and carried an indefinable scent — a smell of memory, of old stories, maybe even blood.
A second car rolled to a stop behind him, headlights cutting through the darkness. A man stepped out, brown hair falling over his eyes, shoulders tense, face unfamiliar yet strangely familiar.
"You got a call too?" the stranger asked.
Dean hesitated.
"…Yeah."
"Bobby Singer's place?"
Dean's heart raced.
"Yeah."
The stranger exhaled shakily.
"Name's Ben."
Dean nodded slowly. That name, somehow, felt familiar.
Before either could speak again, the front door of the house creaked open slowly.
The lights inside flickered, weak and wavering.
And something moved.
Not human.
Too tall. Too thin. A shadow stretching unnaturally across the walls.
Dean swallowed.
"This is completely insane," he whispered.
Ben instinctively stepped back.
"We should leave."
Dean didn't move. He didn't know why. Maybe it was the stories, maybe pride, maybe something else.
"Do you have a weapon?" Dean asked quietly.
Ben blinked.
"No. Do you?"
Dean didn't answer. He reached into the trunk of his Mustang.
His father's shotgun. A box of salt shells.
He remembered Sam's words, faint as a whisper in his mind:
"Just in case."
Dean checked the weapon, hands trembling but determined, heart pounding.
The front door slammed violently. The lights inside exploded, glass shattered. The shadow moved closer, a deep growl vibrating through the floorboards.
Ben's voice shook.
"Tell me what to do!"
Dean raised the shotgun, eyes narrowing.
"Aim. Don't let it touch you. And remember — salt burns most things that aren't supposed to be here."
Ben's eyes widened.
"Most things?!"
Dean didn't answer. The creature lunged.
The hunt had begun.