The weight bar bent under Bruce's grip. Custom steel. Reinforced core. He'd commissioned it specifically after the cosmic exposure. Standard gym equipment snapped now. This one held, barely.
He pressed upward. Muscles screamed. Good. The hunger was constant, fifty thousand calories a day, but the strength was real. His body was still changing. Still settling.
The terminal on the wall chimed. Alfred's voice, calm through the speaker.
"Master Bruce, a call is coming through. Your cousin, Dean Winchester."
Bruce racked the weight. The bar clanged, metal groaning. He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and walked toward the study. "Put him through in here."
---
The study smelled of old books and his father's cologne. Thomas Wayne's desk was neat, organized. Bruce sat in the leather chair and activated the terminal.
Dean's face flickered onto the screen. He looked tired. Jaw tight. The usual sarcasm was thin, strained.
"Bruce." No greeting. No joke.
"What's wrong?"
"Dad's been missing for months. No calls. No texts. Nothing. I need help finding him."
Bruce leaned forward. "Why not call Sam?"
Dean's expression flickered. Something guarded. "He's at school. Got a girlfriend. Normal life. I'm not dragging him back into this."
"Into what?"
Dean hesitated. "Hunting. Monsters. The family business." His mouth twisted. "Look, you've got money. Contacts. Investigators. I figured maybe you could track him."
Bruce held his gaze a beat. Then nodded. "I'll be there."
Dean blinked. "Just like that."
"Just like that." Bruce stood. "Send me the details. I'm leaving today."
"Okay." Dean's voice roughened, just slightly. "Okay. Thanks." The screen went dark.
Bruce pressed the comm. "Alfred. Prep the jet. Kansas airstrip. And patch me through to the team."
"At once, Master Bruce."
---
The team assembled in the basement briefing room. Deadpool slouched in a chair, mask pushed up just enough to eat a chimichanga. Flint Marko stood by the wall, arms crossed, solid but relaxed. Peter Parker sat forward, attentive.
Bruce pulled up a holographic display. Oscorp Tower schematics. Employee profiles.
"Harry Osborn is hosting a demonstration today. Dr. Otto Octavius has a new experiment. Fusion power. Four robotic arms controlled by a neural interface. The demonstration is public."
Peter nodded. "Octavius is brilliant. But fusion at that scale..."
"Unstable," Bruce said. "And if it goes wrong, people die." He tapped the display. A woman's photo appeared. Rosalie Octavius. "Your priority is her. If the experiment fails, get her out. Then destroy the machine completely. Peter, you have a replacement control chip. Implant it before you shut the arms down."
Peter's eyes widened. "You want me to hack the neural interface?"
"You can."
"Yeah. Yeah, I can." Peter took a breath. "But we're also recruiting him?"
"If something goes wrong, Octavius loses everything. His reputation. His funding. Maybe his wife. He'll need a new path." Bruce looked at the three of them. "Give him one. Wayne Enterprises has a research wing. He belongs there."
Deadpool raised a gloved hand. "Quick question. If the experiment goes right? No explosions? No tentacle rampage?"
"Then you do nothing. Observe. Return." Bruce met his eyes—what was visible of them. "But Wade. When does an Oscorp experiment ever go right?"
Deadpool grinned. "Never. Got it."
Flint pushed off the wall. "We'll handle it. You focus on your cousin."
Bruce nodded. "Wheels up in thirty."
---
The Gulfstream G650 cut through the Kansas sky, Alfred Pennyworth at the controls. Bruce sat in the cabin, a half-eaten protein bar on the table, watching fields scroll beneath him.
A chime in his ear. Alfred's voice, calm and dry.
"Master Bruce, we are twenty minutes from the airstrip. One vehicle parked at the end of the runway. Single occupant. Standing outside."
Bruce chewed. Swallowed. "That'll be him."
"Shall I remain on comms?"
"Yes. Keep the Men of Letters machine-map running. When we get closer to the case location, I want data."
"Very good, sir."
---
The jet touched down smooth. Bruce descended the steps alone. Kansas wind, cold and dry, carrying the smell of asphalt and distant rain.
Dean Winchester leaned against the black Impala. Leather jacket. Worn boots. He pushed off the car and walked forward. No smile. Just a quick, appraising look.
"You actually came." Flat tone. Not ungrateful. Surprised.
"You called."
"Yeah, well." Dean glanced past him at the jet, then back. "Nice plane." He turned toward the driver's side. "Come on. I'm starving."
They clasped hands. Firm. Brief. Dean's grip was hard, calloused. Then he walked away without looking back.
Bruce grabbed his bag pack and climbed in. The Impala smelled of old leather and gunpowder. Zeppelin was already queued. Dean cranked the engine and pulled out fast, tires crunching gravel.
---
The burger shop was a dive off the highway. Neon sign flickering. Parking lot cracked. They took a booth near the window. Dean ordered a double bacon cheeseburger. Bruce ordered three.
The waitress blinked. "Three?"
"Three," Bruce confirmed.
Dean raised an eyebrow but waited until she left. "You always eat this much?"
"Lately."
"Okay." Dean didn't push. He drummed his fingers on the table, eyes scanning the room. Habit.
Bruce leaned back. "You said you needed help. Tell me about your father."
Dean's jaw tightened. "Dad's been missing for months. No calls. No texts. Just vanished. I didn't want to drag Sam into it—he's at school, got a girlfriend, normal life. I figured you, with Wayne money and contacts…" He shrugged. "Maybe you could find something."
"Already started. My investigators tracked him."
Dean froze. "And?"
Bruce unzipped his bag pack, removed two photographs. Slid them across the table.
Dean grabbed them. First photo—John Winchester at a gas station. Grainy. Nebraska. Second—outside a library. Sioux Falls. His face harder. More grey.
"He's alive," Dean said quietly.
"He's tracking something. Moving through the Midwest. No contact with anyone."
Dean stared at the photos a long moment. Then he tucked them into his jacket. Something in his posture shifted. Relief and new weight, both at once.
Bruce let the silence hold.
Then Dean leaned forward. "You move like someone trained. Like a hunter. You going to tell me about that?"
Bruce met his eyes. "After my first visit to your family, I searched my grandfather's things, Patrick Winchester and Henry winchenster.He was a Men of Letters."
"Men of what?"
"Men of Letters. Scholars. Hunters. Researchers. They studied the supernatural for generations. Your grandfather, Henry Winchester, was a member. He vanished in 1958. The organization was wiped out by something."
Dean's expression flickered. "My dad never talked about any of this."
"He probably didn't know. Henry disappeared when John was a child. Your father became a hunter alone , may be by fate or chance."
Bruce said "he books I sent you after my visit—those came from there. A fraction of what's inside."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "And you're just telling me this now?"
"I didn't understand what it was then. Now I do."
Dean dragged a hand through his hair. "Okay. Okay." A breath. "So you're rich, you're trained, and you've got a secret bunker full of monster books."
"Yes."
Dean grabbed his smoothie, drank deep. Then he set it down. "All right. Dad left his journal. Coordinates. Cases. There's a place in Colorado—Blackwater Ridge. Near a town called Evergreen. Hikers keep vanishing. Every year. Same month. Something's out there."
"You want to pick up where he left off."
"Yeah." Dean's eyes met his. "You in?"
Bruce nodded. "I'm in."
He focused. The spoon on Dean's tray trembled. Rose. Hovered at eye level.
Dean shot to his feet. The table jolted. Ketchup bottle tipped. "What the—"
The spoon clattered down. Heads turned. Waitress stared. Cook peered through the service window.
Dean's hand twitched toward his waistband before he caught himself. His eyes were wide, locked on Bruce. "What the hell was that?"
Bruce dropped bills on the table and stood. "Car. I'll explain."
---
The Impala roared onto the highway. Dean's knuckles were white on the wheel. Jaw clamped. Breathing hard through his nose. A full minute of silence.
Then he spoke through gritted teeth. "Talk. Now."
"Long story short. Radioactive spider bit me. Later, I went to space. Cosmic radiation. Now I can do things."
Dean's head snapped toward him. "You went to space."
"Yes."
"That's bullshit."
Dean laughed—sharp, humorless. "You're telling me you're some kind of—" He stopped. Brake tapped. The Impala lurched slightly before he corrected. "Wait. A year ago. That alien invasion. The black suits. That team of various heros, Saved the world and some remained and some disappeared."
Bruce met his eyes.
Dean stared. Then he pulled the car off the highway onto a gravel overlook. Killed the engine.
The silence was heavy.
"It was you." Dean's voice was flat. "You were one of them."
"Yes."
Dean sat motionless. Then he let out a breath that was almost a curse. " Are you joking with me, My cousin is a freakin' superhero."
"Something like that."
"This is nuts." Dean rubbed his face with both hands. "This is absolutely nuts. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Okay." Dean turned the key. Engine rumbled back. "Okay. We're going to Colorado. We're hunting whatever's in those woods. And you—" He jabbed a finger toward Bruce. "You are telling me everything before we get there."
"Deal."
They drove. Kansas plains gave way to darker hills. The sky deepened toward dusk.
A soft chime in Bruce's ear. Alfred's voice.
"Master Bruce, the Men of Letters machine-map has updated. There is one supernatural signature in the region you are heading toward. A single creature. Forested. Blackwater Ridge. The pattern is old. This thing has been there a very long time."
Bruce touched the earpiece. "Understood. Keep monitoring."
Dean glanced over. "Who are you talking to?"
"My friend. He's on comms."
"Your friend is running intel for you."
"Yes."
The Impala drove on into the dark. Ahead, Colorado. Blackwater Ridge. And something in those woods that had been hunting for twelve years.
---