Bruce's hand was already on the phone before the thought finished forming. The Batcave's screens blazed with the live feed from the plaza—Clark on his knees, Diana's sword flashing, Hawkgirl's mace burning through smoke. The hellfire fissures were spreading.
He dialed.
Dean picked up on the second ring. "Bruce? Kind of in the middle of—"
"I found Yellow Eyes."
Silence. Then Dean's voice, stripped of every layer of sarcasm. "Say that again."
"Yellow Eyes. The demon that killed your mother. He's here. He's possessing Homelander. I need the Colt. Your father has it. Get it and meet me."
"The Colt." Dean breathed the word like a curse. "The Colt. The one thing that can kill anything. That Colt."
"Yes."
"He's really here? The son of a bitch who—"
"Dean. Focus. Get the Colt. Get your father. I'm sending a jet."
A third voice came through the line. Sam. "We're coming."
Bruce was already pulling up flight logistics on the secondary screen. "Should I book a private jet?"
"It's up to you."
"The jet will be at the Lebanon airstrip in ninety minutes. Be on it."
"We will."
The line went dead.
---
In the Men of Letters bunker, Dean set the phone down. His face was pale. Sam was already moving toward the armory.
"Dean. Dad. Now."
John Winchester was in the war room, maps spread before him, tracking something he hadn't shared yet. He looked up as his sons entered. "What?"
Dean's voice was hoarse. "Yellow Eyes. He's here. On television. Right now."
John's face went slack. Dean grabbed the remote and killed the news feed. The battle was on every channel. Homelander—but not Homelander—stood in a plaza of fire, black smoke pouring from his eyes, beating Superman into the ground.
John stared. "That's him."
"Bruce confirmed it. He needs the Colt."
"The Colt." John's hand went to his jacket, where the worn grip of the ancient revolver had rested for years. "He wants to use it."
"He wants to kill it."
John was already walking toward the arsenal. "Then we bring it to him."
---
The Batcave was cold. Bruce was already in his armor, the black plating clicking into place, servos humming as the suit calibrated. The Iron Man schematics Lucas Fox had built into the chestpiece glowed blue—an arc reactor derivative, smaller, more efficient. Vibranium weave throughout. Absorbing kinetic energy with every movement.
Thomas Wayne stood at the base of the stairs. "Bruce."
Bruce turned. His father was holding something. A book page, old page.
"I found this in the bunker archives," Thomas said. ". In the fourteenth century by budhist monk, this incantation was made, he spent fighting demons, because his body was perfect for demons to possess, he chanted this mantra repeatedly made demons ran to hell " He held it out. "Take it."
"You're about to fight a demon wearing the strongest body on Earth. I wasn't letting you go in without back-up."
Bruce sheathed the blade across his back. "Where's Alfred?"
"Here, Master Bruce." Alfred descended the stairs, carrying a helmet and hole suit.
Not the cowl. Something new. Sleek. Black with silver threading. The faceplate was retracted, showing the interior wiring. "Mr. Fox sends his regards. He wishes he could be here. He also wishes you would stop giving him impossible deadlines."
"The suit?"
"Vibranium composite. Arc reactor power core. Repulsor nodes in the palms and chest. Flight stabilizers in the boots. Impact dampening throughout. And one additional feature Mr. Fox insisted upon." Alfred handed him the helmet. "The internal systems are linked to Mystic. She will be with you the entire time."
Bruce pulled the helmet on. The HUD flickered to life. Tactical overlay. Vital signs. Suit integrity. Threat analysis. And in the corner, Mystic's calm voice.
"Systems online, Master Bruce. Suit integrity at one hundred percent. All weapons primed. Flight path to target location calculated."
"How fast?"
"Maximum sustained thrust. You will arrive in fourteen minutes."
"Good."
Thomas put a hand on his son's shoulder. The metal was cold under his palm. " Bruce, if you can't win , you can run, but i know you will not run, defeat this son of bijch"
"I will."
Thomas nodded. Stepped back. Alfred stood at attention, his face unreadable but his eyes holding something old and fierce.
"Full speed, Mystic," Bruce said.
"Yes, sir."
The thrusters ignited. The Batcave fell away. The sky opened. Bruce punched through the cloud layer at Mach 3 and accelerating. Below him, the world blurred. Ahead, the smoke and fire of the plaza rose like a wound on the earth.
---
The plaza was a furnace.
Clark was on his back. Azazel's boot pressed into his chest. The demon was monologuing—something about the Winchester bloodline, about how many he'd killed, about how enjoyable it was—when the air split open and a black shape hit him like a meteor.
Bruce's fist connected with Azazel's chin at Mach 4. The sonic boom shattered every remaining window for six blocks. The demon's head snapped back. His feet left the ground. He traveled forty feet through the air and hit a collapsed wall with enough force to send dust spiraling skyward.
Bruce landed between the demon and Superman. His armor hummed. His HUD painted Azazel in red threat analysis.
Clark looked up through his one open eye. "You came."
" Well, you were taking beating again and again, this wouldn't happen if you had listen to mez but never mind "
"Stay down. Heal faster."
Azazel rose from the rubble. His black eyes found Bruce. The smile returned.
"Oh. You came. The boss. The last Winchester."
"You're close enough. Your bloodline stinks of them. And now you've brought me a gift." His eyes flicked to the demon blade across Bruce's back. "I know that weapon. But it can't kill me now"
Bruce drew the blade. The edge gleamed silver-white. The demon's smile flickered—just slightly.
"I also brought words," Bruce said. "Mystic. The incantation."
"Reciting now."
The chant poured from the suit's external speakers. Latin. Old. The words were not the standard exorcism. These were older. Binding words. Words designed to hold a Prince of Hell for precious, critical seconds.
Azazel's body locked. The black smoke pouring from his eyes froze mid-swirl. His mouth opened but no sound came.
"How could you have this?" he rasped. "That incantation was destroyed. I destroyed it. I killed the monk who wrote it."
" You think everything is unde ryiur control, "
The demon strained against the binding. Cracks appeared in the air around him. The incantation was strong, but not permanent. Bruce could feel it fraying.
"But this can't hold me. I am unbeatable."
"Maybe." Bruce lunged.
The demon blade drove toward Azazel's throat. The edge cut through smoke and began to bite into flesh. The body of Homelander resisted—Kryptonian durability fighting back—but the blade was magic. It didn't care about durability. It cared about demons.
Before it could reach the spine, Azazel screamed. The binding shattered. A telekinetic wave erupted from his body, catching Bruce square in the chest. The black armor absorbed the impact but couldn't stop the flight. Bruce tumbled through the air, trailing sparks, and hit the ground rolling.
"Master Bruce. Are you alright?" Mystic's voice was steady.
Bruce pushed himself up. "It's okay. This suit is in quite good shape."
"Oh, I am going to enjoy this." Azazel's voice was thick with pleasure. "Winchester blood. I've killed so many of you. You can't imagine how many earth war i have participated."
He closed the distance in a heartbeat. His fist hit the chestplate. Bruce absorbed the blow but felt the force rattle through his ribs. The second punch came before he could counter. The third drove him to one knee.
"Mystic. Suit status?"
"Suit damage at one percent. Two percent. Three percent. Armor integrity holding but degrading. Vibranium absorption at maximum. Cannot sustain this rate indefinitely."
"Not asking it to."
Bruce caught the fourth punch. The gauntlet servos screamed. Azazel's smile widened.
"There you are. Still fighting. Still bleeding. Still about to die."
"We'll see."
The demon's other hand closed around Bruce's throat. Lifted him off the ground. The gauntlets sparked. The HUD flickered.
"Any last words, little Winchester?"
Bruce looked into the black eyes and saw nothing.
Bruce put all strength in his arms and free form his grip, his whole body was screaming even in armour.
Azazel's grip tightened.
"
He activated the repulsor nodes. Both palms fired point-blank into Azazel's face. The demon reeled back, grip breaking, and Bruce dropped to the ground, gasping.
"Suit damage at four percent. Five percent. Repulsors drained to forty percent capacity. Recommend strategic retreat."
"Not yet."
Azazel wiped his face. The skin was unbroken—
"You're going to die tired, little Winchester."
Incantation again
The demon charged. Bruce raised the blade.
---