Morning came slowly.
Gray clouds still covered the sky as the Impala rolled into a nearly abandoned town somewhere off the highway.
The cracked windshield whistled softly with the wind.
Dean looked at it briefly.
Then sighed.
"Still hurts."
Ben glanced at him.
"You know normal people don't talk about cars like they're alive, right?"
Dean kept driving.
"Normal people also don't get attacked by shadow monsters."
Ben considered that.
"…Fair."
The town looked forgotten.
Closed stores.
Empty sidewalks.
Flickering traffic lights.
The kind of place hunters usually ended up in.
Dean turned into the parking lot of an old storage facility surrounded by rusted fences.
Ben frowned.
"Please tell me this isn't another haunted building."
Dean parked the Impala.
"No."
He grabbed the keys and stepped out.
"This one belongs to Bobby."
Ben blinked.
"Bobby had a storage unit?"
Dean smirked slightly.
"Apparently Bobby had everything."
They walked through rows of old metal lockers until Dean stopped in front of one near the back.
Unit 33.
A faded devil's trap symbol had been scratched into the door.
Ben looked impressed.
"Okay… that's actually kinda cool."
Dean pulled a small key from his pocket.
The one they had found hidden inside the Impala's trunk the night before.
He inserted it into the lock.
The metal clicked open.
Dean slowly pulled the door upward.
Dust drifted into the air.
Inside—
Shelves filled with old hunter equipment.
Weapons.
Books.
Boxes of records.
Newspapers pinned to the walls.
And in the center of the room—
A large wooden crate marked with a symbol Dean immediately recognized.
The Men of Letters.
Ben stepped inside carefully.
"How does one guy even collect all this?"
Dean looked around quietly.
"Years of hunting."
His eyes stopped on a desk in the corner.
There was an old tape recorder sitting on it.
And beside it—
A note.
Dean picked it up slowly.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Bobby Singer.
If you're opening this, things probably went bad.
Dean smirked faintly.
"Sounds like Bobby."
Ben walked toward the crate.
"Uh… Dean?"
Dean turned.
Ben pointed at the symbol burned into the wood.
"Please tell me you know what that means."
Dean's expression darkened slightly.
"Protection sigil."
Ben took a step back.
"Protection from what?"
Dean looked at the crate.
Then quietly:
"Something inside."
Silence filled the locker.
Then—
A loud metallic bang echoed outside.
Both men froze.
Another bang.
Closer.
Ben grabbed the shotgun immediately.
"Tell me shadow-Smokezilla didn't follow us."
Dean slowly reached for the lock on the crate.
His eyes narrowed.
"Too late."
The lights inside the storage building suddenly flickered.
Then went out completely.
Darkness swallowed the hallway outside.
And from somewhere in the shadows—
Something scratched against metal.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Waiting.
Ben whispered:
"…I hate everything about this."
Dean opened the crate.
Inside was an old revolver wrapped in cloth.
Black metal.
Ancient engravings.
And instantly recognizable.
The Colt.
Ben stared.
"No way."
Dean slowly lifted the weapon.
Heavy.
Cold.
Real.
A low growl echoed outside the locker.
The shadow creature had arrived.
Dean opened the cylinder.
Empty.
Ben's excitement instantly disappeared.
"…Please tell me there are bullets somewhere."
Dean looked deeper into the crate.
There were only three things left inside:
a small box of strange symbols an old map and a folded letter
Dean unfolded it quickly.
His eyes scanned the page.
Then he froze.
Ben noticed immediately.
"What?"
Dean slowly looked up.
His voice was low.
Almost disbelieving.
"Bobby knew how to make more bullets."
Outside—
The creature slammed violently against the metal door of the locker.
The entire room shook.
Ben raised the shotgun.
Dean gripped the Colt tightly.
And for the first time since this started—
The hunters finally had a chance to fight back.