"Wendigos," Dean muttered, hands gripping the wheel of the Impala as it rumbled along the cracked road. "Always with the claws, the shrieking, and the cannibalism. Honestly? Negative Stars, would not recommend.."
Sam looked up from the laptop in his lap. "Bobby said the town went dark a week ago. No power, no comms. Last reports mentioned missing hikers and weird animal sounds—then nothing."
Dean smirked. "So, classic horror setup. Remote town, radio silence, hungry forest monsters. What's next, creepy kids and a haunted cornfield?"
"Be serious. Bobby thinks this might be a nest. Not just one or two—maybe a dozen."
Dean glanced over. "Twelve wendigos? You sure you didn't accidentally grab the apocalypse file again?"
Sam shook his head. "No seals, no omens—just a weird spike in EMF and a lot of bad luck. Still... it feels off."
Dean didn't say anything for a while. Just stared out at the road ahead.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Off sounds about right."
---
They rolled into Grayfall just as the sun dipped below the tree line, the sky burning orange behind silhouetted rooftops. The town was dead quiet—too quiet. No dogs barking. No wind chimes. No distant hum of streetlights or cars. The air reeked of copper and rot.
Dean shut off the engine and stepped out. "Well, it's got that 'everyone died here' vibe down pat."
Sam followed, shotgun in hand. "Let's sweep the main road. If it's a nest, they'll be somewhere dark and deep. Cellars, maybe the sewers."
They didn't get ten steps before they found the first body.
It was unmistakably a wendigo. Pale, stretched skin. Elongated limbs. Teeth like broken glass. But the chest cavity? Caved in. Ribs shattered inward like someone dropped a car engine on it.
Dean whistled low. "Damn. You see this?"
Sam crouched beside it, studying the remains. "Something hit it from above. Hard. You don't get this kind of trauma from normal weapons."
Dean's gaze swept across the road—and stopped. "Oh, you're gonna want to see this."
Sam looked up. There were more bodies—dozens of them. Scattered across the street, the sidewalks, even halfway through walls. Some had clean, surgical cuts—long, deliberate slashes. Others were stabbed multiple times in vital points with precision. But the majority?
Crushed.
Some had been slammed into the pavement so hard that cracks spiderwebbed out beneath them. Others were flung through walls, embedded in brick and concrete like dolls.
Dean walked up to one of the carved-up corpses and frowned. "These cuts are clean—long, like a sword. But this one here," he gestured to another, "knife wounds. Close, quick, efficient."
Sam stood, face tight. "Two different weapons. Maybe two attackers."
"Or one monster with a lot of hobbies."
They followed the trail of bodies to the edge of the forest. That's where they found it—the Alpha.
The massive wendigo was twice the size of the others. Antlers branching like dead trees from its skull. The air around it still felt... heavy.
It lay sprawled in a crater, face down, a jagged dent in the earth beneath it.
Dean stepped closer and let out a low breath. "Holy crap."
Sam approached slowly, eyes narrowing. "Its spine's cracked. Skull fractured. That's a kill-blow."
"With one hit," Dean added, voice low. "Thing this big shouldn't go down that easy. It's the Alpha. They usually need fire, traps, and about five of us with a plan."
Sam was silent a moment, then said, "There's no burn marks. No bullets. Just brute force."
Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay, so what are we looking at? Troll? Ogre?"
Sam shook his head. "Nothing that big moves this fast. Did you see how far some of those bodies were thrown?"
Dean gave a humorless chuckle. "Well unless Bigfoot's been hitting the gym…"
"…maybe it wasn't a monster."
Dean looked over. "You saying human did this?"
"I'm saying," Sam said carefully, "maybe not human exactly. A mutant, maybe. Some kind of X-gene situation. You know like Juggernaut"
Dean gave a low whistle. "Great. First angels and demons, now we're adding super-powered cannibal crushers to the guest list?"
He looked back at the Alpha. "Whoever—or whatever—did this didn't just kill them. They wiped the floor with them. Fast. Precise. No hesitation."
Sam bent down, brushing some soil near the impact crater. "There's no sign of ritual magic. No salt, no sigils. Nothing supernatural."
Dean tilted his head. "Just a really pissed-off superhuman."
They both stood in silence for a moment, staring at the devastation.
Then Dean turned and started walking back toward the car.
"Where are you going?" Sam asked.
"To the motel. I need beer and at least seven hours of pretending I didn't just see Wendigo Hulk in action."
Sam blinked. "You're not curious who did this?"
"Oh, I'm very curious. But I'd also like to stay alive long enough to be curious again tomorrow."
Sam sighed and followed him, but didn't get in the car.
"Dean, wait."
Dean groaned. "Please don't give me the puppy eyes, Sammy. I already got a year's worth of trauma and zero caffeine."
"I'm serious. Something this strong doesn't just disappear. If it's still in the area—and Bobby hears we walked away—he's gonna tan both our hides."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure Bobby won't be beating up a recently dead guy."
"Yeah? Beating up dead people is our job Dean." Sam pointed to the convenience store across the street. "Security camera's still blinking. Maybe we get lucky."
Dean muttered something about blackmail footage and trudged after him.
---
Inside the store, the place was ransacked. Shelves overturned. Broken glass everywhere. The security system, however, was miraculously still online—flickering, but alive.
Sam got to work behind the counter, fast-forwarding through hours of empty footage. Then he stopped.
"Whoa. Got something."
Dean leaned in. "Please be the guy. Please don't be another Wendigo taking a joyride in someone's hoodie."
The grainy camera showed the edge of the parking lot. A Wendigo—already wounded—stumbled into view. A few seconds later, something huge and muscular stepped into frame.
"Holy crap," Dean muttered.
The figure—scaled, bare-chested, and aquatic—struck the Wendigo once. Just once. Its fist connected with the creature's skull, and the thing collapsed like a dropped puppet. No flair. No drama. Just gone.
Dean leaned forward. "That wasn't just strong. That was disrespectful."
Then, three more figures entered frame—two teenagers and a satyr.
"Wait," Sam said, pointing. "Pause. That girl's got a knife. Look at the way she's holding it. She's trained."
"And him," Dean added, nodding to the kid with black hair and a bronze blade. "Definitely not normal. That stance is textbook warrior stuff."
"Clothes are torn, they've been fighting," Sam said. "But check out the symbol on the boy's shirt. That's Ancient Greek."
Dean squinted. "A Greek symbol? Out here? That's weird."
Sam nodded slowly. "Hunters usually avoid those signs. Too much godly interference. But if they're showing it openly, they're probably not hunters at all. They might be—"
"Demigods," Dean finished. "Like Hercules-type stuff."
They watched as the trio cautiously interacted with the sea monster—speaking to him briefly before veering off in a different direction. The big guy didn't follow. Instead, he turned and sprinted straight toward the town Dean and Sam had just come from.
Dean scratched his head. "Okay, so the murder-fish isn't with the kids. They were wary of him."
Sam leaned back. "They split directions. Means they don't trust him either."
Dean exhaled through his nose. "So we've got some teenage myth warriors and a punch-happy sea monster who takes out Alpha Wendigos like he's swatting flies."
Sam looked over. "Dean, we can't let that thing just roam free. Not if he's that strong."
Dean groaned, rubbing his face. "I was really hoping to sleep tonight."
"You still can," Sam said. "In the car. While we tail the giant sushi roll."
Dean paused. "Alright. Fine. But if this turns into a Greek myth meets Godzilla crossover? I'm blaming you."
He grabbed his keys and turned toward the door.
Sam smirked. "That's fair."
Dean opened the driver's side door and muttered, "Let's go see what kind of freakshow is hiding in the next town over."
The next town over was, to Dean's disappointment, aggressively normal.
No ominous clouds. No mysterious power outages. Not a single claw mark or sulfur stain in sight.
Just small-town America doing its thing—lawn sprinklers, sleepy diners, and one very faded "Welcome to Woodland Heights" sign hanging crooked on Main Street.
Dean pulled the Impala into the lot of a two-star motel that was somehow proud of its "Color TV" sign. "Well, either Mr. Punchzilla didn't come this way," he muttered, "or he's damn good at pretending to be a tourist."
Sam glanced at the buildings as they passed. "Or he's already moved on."
Dean parked and stretched, spine cracking. "Either way, I vote we get some shut-eye before playing Scooby-Doo tomorrow."
---
The next morning found the brothers halfway through a greasy breakfast at a local diner called Marge's Fork 'n' Fire. The smell of bacon and burnt toast filled the air. Dean was working on a stack of pancakes that could qualify as a minor hill, while Sam sipped black coffee and read the local paper.
It was shaping up to be a quiet morning—until Sam's eyes locked on someone walking past the window.
A young man, maybe twenty at most. Lean, short dark hair, hoodie and jeans—normal enough.
But on his wrist was a sleek, jet-black watch.
And right on the faceplate was the exact same symbol Sam had seen on the sea monster's chest yesterday. Stylized, alien. Something between a circuit and a crest.
Sam set down his mug slowly. "Dean."
"Mhm?" Dean replied mid-bite.
"Guy just walked past the window. Had that same symbol as yesterday—on his watch."
Dean blinked, swallowed, and turned to look casually over his shoulder. "You sure?"
"Positive."
They tossed some bills on the table and walked out just in time to see the young man turn down a side street. They followed at a casual pace, keeping distance.
"Okay, theory time," Dean muttered. "Cult? Worshipers of Punchy McGill?"
"Could be," Sam said. "Or he's a fanboy with bad taste in tattoos."
"He looked normal, though. No face paint. No chanting."
"Yeah, but if that thing from yesterday has followers… we might be looking at something bigger."
They turned another corner and found themselves in a narrow alley. Crates and trash bins lined the walls, a single fire escape overhead. The young man stood at the far end, hands in his hoodie pocket, like he'd been waiting.
Sam and Dean exchanged glances.
"Well," Dean said, fishing in his coat for their fake IDs. "Guess it's time for the ol' federal charm."
They stepped forward. Dean flashed his badge. "FBI. Mind if we ask you a couple questions?"
The young man raised an eyebrow, then glanced down at the badge—too quickly for someone actually reading it.
"Sure," he said, voice calm. "Agents…?"
"Dawson," Dean said. "This is Agent Smith."
Sam offered a nod, watching the man carefully.
"We're looking into an incident not far from here," Dean continued. "Series of strange deaths. Some folks saw weird symbols—like the one on your watch."
The young man held up his arm and looked at the device like he'd never noticed it before. "This? Oh. It's just a gift. You think it's related to a crime?"
Dean arched a brow. "Yeah, well, we've seen that exact symbol somewhere a whole lot messier."
The kid's brows furrowed slightly. "Messier how?"
"Dead bodies, claw marks, and a fish-faced nightmare crushing Wendigos with its fists," Dean replied. "That mess."
Nathan's expression tightened a fraction. "That... sounds intense."
Sam studied him. No twitch, no defensive posture. If he was lying, he was damn good at it. "You ever see that symbol anywhere else?" he asked.
Nathan shook his head, a touch of concern in his voice now. "No. I didn't know it meant anything. It just looked… cool, I guess."
Dean gave a skeptical grunt but didn't press further. "Look, if you remember anything—any weird people, symbols, sea-themed death gods—give us a call."
"Sure," Nathan said. "I'll keep an eye out."
He gave them a small, polite nod, then turned and walked away—not rushed, not smug, just calm and collected, like someone used to being careful.
Sam watched until he disappeared around the corner. "He didn't lie. Not exactly."
"Yeah," Dean muttered. "But he didn't tell the truth, either."
---
Back at the motel, Dean tossed his jacket onto the bed and grabbed his phone. "Calling Bobby."
Sam was already at his laptop, typing in keywords. "Symbol looks like a stylized H… maybe crossed with something circular."
Dean put the phone on speaker as it rang.
After a few seconds, Bobby's gruff voice answered. "Yeah?"
"Hey, we've got something weird. Real weird," Dean said. "Saw this guy today—normal-looking kid, but he had a watch with a symbol on it. Kinda looks like a hybrid of the letter H and, I don't know… a techno eye?"
"You send me a pic?" Bobby asked.
Sam turned his laptop toward Dean, showing a quick sketch he'd made in a paint program based on what they saw. Dean snapped a photo and texted it over.
Bobby was quiet for a moment, then whistled low. "Huh. That's not exact, but it's real close to the Plumbers' symbol."
Sam frowned. "Plumbers?"
"Not your neighborhood kind," Bobby replied. "Old alien hunter group— kind of underground. They usually show up when things out of Earth are involved, I do know a guy called Max there, want me to give him a call?"
Dean leaned back. "So you're telling me that kid might be involved with some X-Files-style alien task force?"
"Or their modern knock-off," Bobby said. "Could be nothing. But the fact you saw that thing on a walking seafood nightmare? That's something."
Sam looked thoughtful. "Could explain how that creature moved the way it did. It wasn't like any demon, ghost, or monster we've seen before."
"You think he's controlling it?" Dean asked.
"I don't know," Sam said. "But it looked like they were talking. Not attacking."
Bobby's voice cut in again. "Don't worry I'll give a call and find out about what's been going on at the plumber's side."
"Yeah," Dean said. "And maybe check if the real Plumbers are still around. Or if someone else is using their badge."
"Copy that," Bobby said. "Stay sharp, boys."
The line went dead.
Dean dropped the phone on the table and sighed. "Aliens. Of course it's aliens."
Sam glanced at him. "Better than zombie Wendigo gods."
Dean grunted. "Barely."
They sat in silence for a beat before Dean stood up and grabbed his coat.
"Where you going?" Sam asked.
Dean grabbed his keys. "That kid? He's too calm. Either he's been trained or he's not human. Either way, I wanna know where he sleeps at night."
Sam got up too. "You think he's dangerous?"
Dean opened the motel door and looked out at the street. "I think we're already in the deep end. Might as well swim."
On the other hand at Bobby's house.
The desk was a mess of papers, old tomes, and half-drunk coffee. Bobby squinted at the note he'd scrawled earlier: Max Tennyson – Plumbers – Alien Stuff.
He picked up the phone and dialed.
RING.
RING.
CLICK.
BEN (V.O.)
(gruff, guarded)
"Hello?"
Bobby frowned. "This Max Tennyson's phone?"
BEN (V.O.)
"Yeah, it is. Who's asking?"
BOBBY
"Name's Bobby Singer. Max and I worked together a few times—cases where your kinda weird mixed with mine. I'm lookin' for him."
A pause.
BEN
(slightly cautious)
"Max has been missing for a while now. We're trying to find him too."
Bobby let out a soft curse under his breath. "Figures."
BEN
"You said you worked with him?"
BOBBY
"Yeah, back when the lines between aliens and monsters got a little too blurry. Max knew how to handle it. Good man."
BEN
(sincerely)
"Yeah. He is."
BOBBY
"Listen, I might have somethin'. A couple hunters I trust just spotted someone wearin' a strange symbol—looks like a mash-up between an 'H' and that old Plumber badge your Grandpa used to flash around. Kid had it on some kinda watch. Didn't act hostile, but... he dropped a wendigo with one punch."
BEN
"...What?"
BOBBY
"Yeah. In Michigan. Abandoned town near the woods. The kid was talking to a group of Greek demigod types—don't ask, it's a whole other can of crazy. Point is, the symbol caught their eye, and mine too."
There was a sharp intake of breath from Ben's end.
BEN
"If someone's walkin' around with modified Plumber tech... they might know where Max is. Or be involved."
BOBBY
"Exactly what I thought."
BEN
"Do you have coordinates? Anything?"
BOBBY
"I'll send 'em over. I got a bad feeling about this, kid. Whoever this is... they're not just playin' dress-up."
BEN
"Then I'm going to Michigan."
BOBBY
"Figured you'd say that."
CLICK.
Bobby hung up the phone and muttered to himself, "Just once, I'd like a week without the damn apocalypse brewin'…"
He reached for a fresh post-it.
BEN TENNYSON – Inbound to Michigan.