The creature hit the ground hard.
Dean barely remembered pulling the trigger the second time. The recoil burned through his shoulder, but the sound was distant — muffled by adrenaline and the rushing thunder of his heartbeat.
The thing screamed.
Not like an animal.
Not like a human.
Something in between — layered, distorted, as if two voices were trapped inside the same throat.
Salt tore through its skin. Smoke rose from the wound. The smell was sharp and metallic, like burned wires and rotten meat.
Ben staggered backward, gripping the shovel so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"It's not dying!"
Dean forced himself to breathe.
"Shoot it again—"
"I don't have a gun!"
The creature's limbs twisted unnaturally as it tried to stand. Its head snapped sideways with a sickening crack. Hollow eyes locked onto Dean.
And then it spoke.
"Winchester…"
The word dragged across the air like a blade.
Dean felt something cold settle in his chest.
It knows me.
The creature lunged again.
Dean fired.
The blast tore through its skull at close range. Salt exploded outward in a violent burst of white and smoke.
The scream cut off instantly.
The body collapsed — not like flesh and bone, but like something hollow losing structure.
Then it began to crumble.
Skin splitting. Form breaking apart.
Until there was nothing left but black ash spreading across the gravel like spilled ink.
Silence fell heavily over the yard.
Only the wind remained.
Ben stared at the ground.
"…What the hell was that?"
Dean didn't answer immediately.
He was staring at the ashes.
They weren't blowing away.
They were moving.
Thin tendrils of black dust slid slowly across the ground — toward the open doorway of the house.
Like something was pulling them back inside.
Dean's stomach twisted.
"It's not over."
Ben looked at him.
"What do you mean not over? That thing just disintegrated!"
The porch light flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then steadied.
The front door, still hanging open, creaked softly — as if inviting them in.
Dean swallowed.
Every instinct told him to get back in the car.
Drive.
Forget this ever happened.
But the name still echoed in his head.
Winchester.
It hadn't said it randomly.
It had recognized him.
Ben ran a hand through his hair, pacing.
"Okay. Okay. We call the police. Or the FBI. Or someone who deals with… whatever this is."
Dean finally looked at him.
"And tell them what?"
Ben opened his mouth.
Closed it.
The truth sounded insane even in his own head.
Dean lowered the shotgun slightly.
His hands were steadier now.
Not because he was calm.
But because something inside him had shifted.
Like a door unlocking.
"We need answers."
Ben stared at the house.
The dark windows.
The silent hallway beyond the door.
"…In there?"
Dean nodded.
"If someone wanted us here, they knew this would happen."
Ben hesitated.
Then, quietly:
"I don't even know you."
Dean gave him a faint, humorless half-smile.
"Yeah. I'm starting to think that's not true."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Dean stepped onto the porch.
The wood groaned under his weight.
Ben followed.
Inside, the air was colder.
Not naturally cold.
Wrong cold.
The kind that settled into bones.
The hallway was cluttered with old tools, shelves lined with dusty books, maps pinned to the walls. Symbols carved into door frames. Burn marks along the floorboards.
This wasn't just a house.
It was a bunker.
A war room.
Dean's pulse quickened.
He stepped further in.
The door slammed shut behind them.
Both men spun around.
Locked.
No wind.
No explanation.
From somewhere deeper in the house—
A thud.
Slow.
Heavy.
Then another.
Ben's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Tell me that's just the house settling."
Dean tightened his grip on the shotgun.
His jaw clenched.
"Houses don't settle like that."
Another thud.
Closer this time.
Something was still here.
And whatever it was—
It had been waiting.