The motel sign buzzed in the dark. VACANCY. The neon flickered like a dying heartbeat against the Colorado sky.
Dean killed the engine and stretched. "I don't know about you, but I need a bed and about twelve hours of nothing."
Bruce grabbed his bag pack and rubbed his stomach and said "Food first."
"Didn't you eat three burgers, whole 3 chicken and 4 cake?"
"That was hours ago."
Dean stared at him. "You're not human."
"Getting there."
---
The motel sat beside a roadside diner. The diner's windows were steamed. A chalkboard sign outside read: MEGA PLATE CHALLENGE — FEED THE BEAST — 10LB MEAL — FINISH SOLO, EAT FREE.
Dean saw the sign. Looked at Bruce. Grinned.
"No way."
Bruce walked inside.
The diner was warm. Truckers at the counter. A jukebox playing old rock. The bartender, a woman with red hair and a sharp smile, glanced up as they entered.
Dean's posture changed instantly. Shoulders back. Smirk in place. "Evening."
"Evening yourself," she said.
Bruce kept walking toward an empty booth. He didn't need to watch Dean work.
A waitress approached. "What can I get you?"
"The challenge," Bruce said.
Her eyebrows rose. "That's ten pounds. Steak, ribs, fries, onion rings, cornbread, chili, pie."
"Yes."
"You alone?"
"Yes."
She looked at him — his frame, his stillness — and pulled out her notepad. "You got it, honey."
---
The crowd gathered slowly. A table was cleared.
The platter arrived — a mountain of meat and starch gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The cook came out to watch. Truckers turned on their stools.
Bruce ate.
Steak first. Methodical cuts. Chew. Swallow. Ribs next, meat pulling clean from the bone. Fries by the handful.
A trucker started clapping. Others joined. A chant rose. "Eat! Eat! Eat!"
Dean appeared at Bruce's side, a beer in hand, face caught between horror and amusement. "Dude. You're going to die."
Bruce didn't answer. He was on the chili now.
The bartender leaned over the counter, watching. Dean followed her gaze. "He does this a lot."
"I don't think anyone does this a lot," she said.
Dean grinned. "What's your name?"
"Ellie."
"Ellie. I'm Dean. That's my cousin"
Bruce finished the pie. Licked the fork clean. Set it down.
The platter was empty.
The diner erupted. Truckers cheered. The cook shook his head, laughing. The waitress took a photo with her phone. Bruce stood, calm, and placed a hundred-dollar bill on the table.
"That covers the drinks too," he said.
Dean was still at the counter, leaning toward Ellie. "So, Ellie. What time do you get off?"
She smiled. "Late."
"I'm good with late."
Bruce walked over. "We have work."
Dean shot him a look. "I'm working right now."
"Different work."
Ellie laughed. Dean sighed, grabbed his beer, and pushed off the counter. "Rain check?"
"Maybe."
---
The motel room was small. Two beds. Peeling wallpaper. Dean kicked off his boots and sprawled on the mattress, remote in hand. Bruce unzipped his bag pack.
"So," Dean said, "tomorrow we hit the ranger station, ask around. I've got my FBI suit."
Bruce pulled out a suit of his own. Black. Crisp. FBI badge in a leather holder.
Dean sat up. "You have one."
"Yes."
"How?"
"I came prepared."
Dean stared. Then shook his head."
---
Morning. Evergreen, Colorado. The sheriff's station was a squat brick building with a flagpole and a dying lawn. Dean parked the Impala out front.
They walked in together. Suits. Badges. Dean took the lead, his posture changing into something authoritative, believable.
"Agent Ford. This is Agent Hamill. We're here about the missing hikers."
The deputy behind the desk was young. Nervous. "Uh. Yes. Tommy Collins. Matthew. There's been a few over the years."
"We'd like the latest files," Bruce said.
The deputy nodded, scrambled for documents.
Soon they had addresses. Last known coordinates. The Collins family home was twenty minutes outside town.
---
The Collins house was small. Wooden porch. A truck rusting in the yard. A young woman answered the door — Haley Collins. Mid-twenties. Hard eyes. Exhausted.
"We're with the FBI," Dean said. "We have questions about your brother."
"I already told the sheriff everything."
"We'd like to hear it from you."
She let them in. The house was tidy. Photos on the wall. Tommy — a young man with a wide smile.
Inside, a younger boy sat at the kitchen table. Ben. He looked up with wary eyes.
Haley crossed her arms. "Tommy went camping. He called me from the woods. Said he heard something. Voices."
"Voices?" Bruce asked.
"Calling his name. Sounded like me. Sounded like Mom. But I wasn't there. Mom's been dead three years." Her voice cracked. "He said it was pulling him deeper. Then the line went dead."
Dean and Bruce exchanged a look.
"Where was this?" Dean asked.
"Lost Creek trail. North side of the ridge. I can show you on a map."
---
They left the house with a marked trail and a warning from Haley. "Whatever's out there, it's been taking people for years. Please find my brother."
Ben followed them to the door. "He's still alive. I know he is."
Bruce looked at the boy. "We'll find him."
---
The woods were dense. Sunlight filtered through pine needles. The air smelled of earth and old growth.
Dean checked his shotgun. Silver rounds loaded. Flare gun on his hip. Bruce wore a dark tactical vest over a fitted shirt. In his hand, a collapsible blade — custom sachet mix alloy, dense and sharp, engineered to cut through materials far tougher than bone.
They hiked in silence. The trail grew narrower. The forest thickened.
Bruce's spider-sense pulsed. Faint. Not danger yet. Awareness.
He stopped.
Dean froze. "What?"
Bruce tilted his head. Behind them. Footsteps. Too irregular to be an animal. Too light to be a ranger.
He signalled Dean with two fingers. Someone's following.
Dean's jaw set. He raised the shotgun and fired into the air. The blast echoed through the trees. Birds scattered.
"Come out of the woods! Now!"
Silence. Then rustling. Two figures emerged, dirty and tired.
Haley. And Ben.
Dean lowered the gun. "What the hell are you doing?"
"We're coming with you," Haley said. "He's our brother."
"No. No way. You're going back."
"We're not asking."
Dean opened his mouth to argue—
And the forest exploded.
A shape burst from the trees. Grey skin. Emaciated. Limbs too long. Eyes sunken and yellow. It moved like a blur, too fast for human eyes.
It grabbed Ben.
Bruce moved.
Spider-sense screamed down his spine. The world sharpened. He saw the creature's trajectory, the arc of its claws, the boy's face frozen in terror. His body responded before thought.
The alloy blade flashed. Bruce's arm cut in a precise, brutal arc. The creature's right hand separated at the wrist. Black ichor sprayed.
The monster howled.
Bruce reversed grip, grabbed its throat, and drove it into the ground. His knee slammed onto its chest. The impact cratered the soil.
The creature thrashed. Bruce punched it. Once. The skull cracked against the earth. Twice. The yellow eyes went unfocused.
The forest fell silent.
Haley was screaming. Ben was on the ground, scrambling backward, covered in black blood. Dean stood frozen, shotgun half-raised, mouth open.
Bruce held the monster pinned. His knee pressed into its sternum. The blade rested against its throat.
"Dean."
Dean blinked. "What."
"How do I kill it?"
Dean shook himself. Raised the shotgun. "Fire. Burn it alive. Scatter the ashes. Works on everything."
"Got it."
Dean stepped forward. The shotgun roared. Once. Twice. Three times. The creature convulsed with each blast.
Bruce pulled the flare gun from Dean's belt. Aimed at the creature's chest. Fired.
White heat engulfed the body. The monster shrieked — a sound that was almost human, but not quite. Flames crawled over grey skin, blackened, consumed. The shriek died into a hiss. Then silence.
The fire burned hot and clean. In five minutes, the body was ash.
Dean gathered what remained. Scattered it into the wind.
Haley was crying. Ben was shaking. Dean knelt beside them. "It's dead. Tommy — there might be a cave. Where it kept them."
"There's a cave system," Haley whispered. "North ridge."
---
They found the cave before sunset.
Inside, a dozen people. Thin. Hollow-eyed. Alive. Tommy Collins was among them, weak but breathing. Some had been there for years. The creature had kept them like a larder.
Bruce carried two out at a time. Dean radioed the ranger station. By nightfall, helicopters were lifting survivors to the hospital.
The case was closed.
---
Kansas.
The apartment was dark. Sam Winchester sat on the floor, back against the couch. The television flickered with old reruns. Sound off.
Jessica's face was still behind his eyes. The ceiling. The fire. The blood.
He'd tried calling Dean. Twenty times. Thirty. No answer.
His hand found the laptop on the coffee table.
Dean's laptop. Except Dean didn't own a laptop. Dean barely knew how to use email.
Sam opened it.
The screen glowed to life instantly. Sleek. Thin. A model he'd never seen before. Not a brand he recognized. The processing speed was impossible for a machine this size. The operating system was clean, custom, unlike anything on the market.
Sam stared.
The cursor blinked in the search bar.
He closed it. Opened it again. Checked the hardware specs through the system menu.
His heart beat faster.
This laptop didn't belong in 2005. It barely belonged in a military research lab. From what he heard these are very expensive and rare to get.
Where the hell did Dean get this?
Sam picked up his phone. Dialled again.