AN: Yupp I just realise that I just posted this chapter before blood in the water... oh fuck me
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Dawn painted Bobby's scrapyard in shades of gunmetal and rust when I woke, my body thrumming with restless energy. The others were still asleep—Sam's rhythmic snoring, Dean's occasional grumbles, and Bobby's old house settling around us like a tired watchdog.
I slipped outside, the morning air crisp against my skin. Time to test the new upgrades.
Enhanced vision made the world razor-sharp—I could count the individual threads on a spiderweb twenty feet away. Dark vision lingered even in the fading shadows, turning the pre-dawn gloom into grayscale clarity. When I focused, I heard the flutter of a sparrow's wings three trees over, the creak of Dean turning in bed upstairs, the gurgle of Bobby's ancient coffee maker starting its morning ritual.
Damn.
I grinned, flipping Bobby's old switchblade in my palm before sending it spinning into the air with a thought. Telekinesis hummed under my skin, smoother now, more precise. The blade hovered, then darted between trees like a metallic hummingbird, carving initials into bark with surgical accuracy.
"Jesus Christ, kid."
Bobby's voice made me jerk—the knife embedded itself in a nearby tire. He stood on the porch, squinting at me through the steam of his coffee mug, looking like a disgruntled bear woken too early.
"Morning, sunshine," I said, retrieving the knife with a flick of my wrist.
He grunted, trudging down the steps. "How many this time?"
"Eight new tricks." I rattled them off—eyesight, hearing, regeneration, the works.
Bobby's grip tightened on his mug. "And the side effects?"
"Aside from feeling like I chugged six energy drinks? Nothing yet."
He studied me over the rim of his coffee, eyes sharp. "Winchesters don't know?"
"About my little monster buffet? Nah." I spun the knife again. "Figured less people know, the better."
"Good." Bobby took a long sip. "Keep it that way."
I smirked. "What, worried they'll get jealous?"
"Worried they'll put a bullet in you," he said flatly. "Dean's trigger-happy on a good day."
The words hung between us, heavier than they should've been.
Bobby exhaled through his nose. "Any other surprises? Dreams? Visions?"
I hesitated. "Kharon paid me a visit last night. Real charming guy—if you're into throne rooms made of bones and existential threats."
Bobby's knuckles went white around his mug. "What'd he say?"
"Same old villain monologue. 'You will kneel,' 'I am your doom,' blah blah." I shrugged. "Standard Tuesday."
For a second, Bobby looked like he wanted to argue—or maybe lock me in a devil's trap for safekeeping. Then he just sighed. "You're a damn idjit."
"Your favorite idjit," I shot back, grinning.
The screen door slammed open. Dean staggered out, hair sticking up like he'd lost a fight with a tornado. "Who the hell's yelling at—" He blinked at us. "Oh. It's just you assholes."
Sam appeared behind him, already annoyingly alert. "We got pancakes?"
Breakfast was a chaotic symphony of clattering plates, stolen bacon, and Dean complaining about "healthy crap" as Sam drizzled honey instead of syrup.
"—so this psychic, Andy, could make people do whatever he wanted," Sam said around a mouthful of pancake. "Just by saying it."
Dean pointed his fork at him. "Dude convinced a cop he was Batman. Batman."
I raised an eyebrow. "And you're sure he wasn't just... really persuasive?"
Bobby snorted into his coffee.
Sam shook his head. "No, it was real. Felt like the same thing as my visions—same energy, same..." He trailed off, frowning. "Yellow Eyes made dozens of kids with powers. Andy was one. I was another."
The table went quiet. Dean's jaw worked like he was chewing on words he couldn't spit out.
Bobby broke the silence. "You think there's more out there?"
"Has to be," Sam said quietly. "And if they're popping up now..."
"Apocalypse bingo," Dean muttered.
I leaned back, studying them. Sam's powers, Andy's mind control, my... everything. Puzzle pieces clicking together in ways I didn't like.
"So what?" I said lightly. "We track down every gifted kid in the country?"
Dean shot me a look. "We save their asses before demons turn them into weapons."
Bobby pushed his plate away. "Speaking of tracking..." He reached for a stack of case files, tossing one my way. "Three bodies in Nebraska. Hearts ripped out. Clean cuts—no bite marks."
"Nebraska again?" I asked towards Bobby and bobby just shrugged his shoulders. After that i took the file and I flipped it open. Crime scene photos—a gas station clerk, a trucker, a college student. All chests cracked open like eggshells, all missing the same vital organ.
"Werewolf?" I guessed.
Bobby nodded. "But something's off. No full moon connection. No silver resistance either—local PD put one down last month with regular bullets."
Sam frowned. "That's not how werewolves work."
"Exactly." Bobby tapped the file. "Which means either we got a new breed, or someone's playing Frankenstein."
Dean whistled. "Hate those guys."
I closed the file, grinning. "Well, this sounds like a fun little road trip."
Bobby fixed me with a look. "Don't get cocky. These things killed three people in one night."
"Please." I stood, stretching. "After vampires? This'll be a cakewalk."
Bobby muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Famous last words."
As I headed for the door, Sam caught my arm. "You good to go solo?"
Dean smirked. "What, worried about him?"
Sam ignored him. "Something feels off about this."
I clapped him on the shoulder. "Relax, Moose. I'll bring back souvenirs."
Dean threw a napkin at my head. "Just don't get eaten."
"Promise nothing."
Bobby's sigh followed me out the door.
---
The Impala's low rumble faded behind me as I took off down the cracked two-lane highway, an old map riding shotgun and the Nebraska sun glaring through the windshield.
Solo hunt. Just like old times.
Well, sort of. Old times didn't include enhanced hearing that caught every rattling bolt under the hood or vision sharp enough to spot a hawk circling a field two miles away.
I rolled the window down, letting the wind whip through the cab and clear the last cobwebs of sleep from my brain. Bobby had wanted me to take the Nissan 350z parked out back but I chose another one and it was a bike instead—a battered '78 Harley with more personality than most people I knew.
Felt right to go in light. Mobile. Harder to pin down if things went sideways.
The town was called Ravenwood—a place so tiny it barely warranted a sign. Rows of sagging houses, one diner, two gas stations, and a main street that looked like it hadn't seen excitement since the eighties.
Perfect hunting ground.
I parked outside the sheriff's office, taking a moment to scan the place. No obvious demonic omens. No sulfur. Just the heavy weight of grief clinging to the building like cigarette smoke.
Inside, the receptionist—a tired-looking woman with a blonde ponytail and eyes that had seen too much—barely glanced up.
"Help you?"
I flashed a fake FBI badge. Thank you, Bobby, for the forged IDs.
"Agent Collins. Heard you had a string of murders. Hearts missing?"
That got her attention. She sat up, suspicion flickering across her face. "Feds already came and went. Didn't find much."
I smiled, easy and non-threatening. "We just want to make sure it's not part of something bigger. You know how it is. Red tape."
A beat passed. Then she sighed, grabbed a manila folder from a stack, and slid it across the counter.
"Knock yourself out, Agent."
I flipped it open right there. Photos, coroner reports, witness statements.
The first body—Mike Lawson, gas station clerk, heart carved out with surgical precision.
Second—Claire Yates, college senior home for the summer. Same M.O.
Third—Tommy Reynolds, long-haul trucker. No defensive wounds. No struggle.
Weird.
Werewolves usually left a mess. Blood, bite marks, claw gouges. This was clean. Almost... clinical.
A low thrumming started in the back of my skull. Instinct. Power. Something unnatural brushing against the edges of my senses.
I shut the file.
"Mind if I check out the crime scenes?"
The receptionist hesitated. Then, grudgingly, she handed me a set of keys and a map with three red Xs marked across it.
"Don't get yourself killed, Agent."
I smiled. "Story of my life."
******
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