The sedan hummed through the Kansas night, headlights sweeping across empty fields. Alfred drove with steady hands, Bruce silent in the passenger seat. The hunt was behind them. The Winchesters had their bunker, their bracelet, their coordinates. Bruce had done what he could.
His spider-sense prickled.
Not danger yet. Something approaching. Fast.
"Alfred."
"Sir?"
"Something's—"
Headlights exploded in the rearview mirror. A car slammed into them from behind. Metal screamed. The sedan fishtailed. Alfred's hands whipped the wheel, foot dancing on the brake. The car spun twice, tires smoking on asphalt, and stopped facing sideways across the road.
Silence. Steam rose from the crumpled trunk.
Alfred exhaled. "I believe we've been hit, Master Bruce."
Bruce was already unclipping his seatbelt. "Stay in the car."
"I rather think not, sir." Alfred reached into the back seat, unzipped Bruce's bag pack, and pulled out the collapsible alloy blade. He pressed it into Bruce's hand. "Your knife."
Bruce took it. "Lock the doors."
The other car had stopped fifty feet back. Two figures stepped out and walked forward. No stagger. No confusion. Their movements were too smooth. Too deliberate.
Their eyes were black.
Bruce stepped out of the sedan. The night was cold. The engine ticked. The two figures stopped ten feet away. A man and a woman. Middle-aged. Ordinary clothes. The woman spoke first, her voice layered with something that was not hers.
"You've been meddling with the master's destiny."
The man's head tilted. Too far. "You must be eliminated."
Bruce snapped the blade open. "Who sent you?"
"The master sees everything. The Winchester bloodline. The hunter's spawn. And now you, little spider, poking into things you don't understand."
The woman smiled. Her teeth were human. Her eyes were not. "We'll enjoy wearing your skin."
They moved.
The man rushed first. Fast for a human, slow for Bruce. Bruce sidestepped, drove the alloy blade into the man's shoulder. Black smoke hissed from the wound. The demon screamed, a sound that split the night, and swung a fist. Bruce ducked, swept the legs. The body hit asphalt hard.
The woman came from behind. Bruce's spider-sense flared. He spun, caught her wrist mid-strike, twisted. Bone cracked. The demon inside laughed.
"That won't stop me."
She threw him. Telekinetic force slammed into Bruce's chest, launching him backward. He hit the sedan's hood, rolled, landed on his feet. The metal had dented where he struck.
Alfred watched through the windshield. His expression was calm. His knuckles white on the wheel.
Bruce straightened. Both demons were advancing now, black smoke leaking from the man's shoulder wound. The bodies were breaking down. The demons would ride them until the flesh failed.
He could kill the hosts. Two innocent people. The demons would just escape the corpses and find new vessels.
Or he could send them back to hell.
Bruce closed his eyes. The Men of Letters archives scrolled through his memory. Pages on exorcism. Rituals in Latin. Rituals in Sumerian. One spell. Seven lines. Burned into his mind during long nights at the bunker.
He opened his eyes and began to speak.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas."
The demons stopped.
The woman's face twisted. "No—"
"Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio."
The man doubled over, hands clutching his head. Black smoke rippled beneath his skin.
"Audite et tremble, hostes inferni."
The woman screamed. A sound no human throat could make. Black smoke poured from her mouth, her eyes, swirling upward into the night. The man followed, his body convulsing, smoke erupting from every pore. The smoke twisted, shrieking, and then plunged downward into the earth.
Silence.
The two bodies collapsed. Unconscious. Breathing. Human again.
Bruce lowered the blade. His pulse was steady. His voice had not shaken.
The sedan door opened. Alfred stepped out, surveying the damaged trunk, the unconscious hosts, the dented hood. "Shall I call a tow, sir, or shall we leave the pleasantries for later?"
Bruce pulled out his phone. "Later. I need to call Dean."
---
The phone rang twice.
"Bruce?" Dean's voice was alert. "It's three in the morning."
"We were attacked. Demons. Two of them."
Dean was silent for a beat. "Are you—"
"I'm fine. They're gone. Exorcised." Bruce looked at the two unconscious bodies. "They said I was meddling with the master's destiny. Your family bloodline was mentioned. They know about you and Sam."
"We're at the bunker."
"Good. Stay there. But you need to prepare. Demons won't stop coming. Learn everything in that laptop. Exorcisms. Devil's traps. Holy water rituals. Right now."
Dean's voice hardened. "Yeah. Okay. Sam's already on it."
"Put him on."
A shuffle. Sam's voice, tense. "Bruce?"
"The exorcism I used tonight is in the database. Latin incantation. Seven lines. Memorize it. Both of you. Before anything else."
"Got it."
"Sam. The thing that killed Jessica. It's connected to this. The 'master' they mentioned. Prepare like your life depends on it. Because it does."
Sam didn't answer for a moment. "We will."
The call ended.
Inside the bunker, Dean watched Sam open the laptop. The screen glowed. Files upon files. Exorcisms. Sigils. Warding rituals. Sam began to read, lips moving, memorizing.
---