Henry picked up one of the dropped weapons from the pavement, inspecting the heavy frame with a critical eye.
"This horseman's been busy. He even got this squad fully kitted out. FN SCAR-H assault rifles. High-end military hardware."
"Yeah, and this is just one small town," Sam said, looking uneasily at the scattered gear.
"What happens if this war guy increases his influence? What if he gets into the heads of the actual army? The National Guard?"
Dean and Henry both paused, picturing that.
"If that happens, you'd get World War III overnight," Henry said flatly. "The world would end itself before Lucifer even had to lift a finger."
Listening to Sam, Henry realized he shouldn't underestimate War.
In the TV show back in his old reality, War had just seemed like a creepy middle-aged man in a Mustang who liked watching people fight — a little underwhelming.
Standing here, surrounded by the bloody, heavily-armed aftermath of a town massacring itself, he realized this Horseman was a lot more dangerous than he'd thought.
Before he could process that further, a low, guttural sound vibrated through the Colorado air.
Grrrrr.
Like a massive dog, throat vibrating with hunger.
"Did you guys hear that?" Henry asked, head snapping up, scanning the empty street.
"Hear what?" Dean asked, confused.
"Some dog growls," Henry murmured, narrowing his eyes, trying to pinpoint the source.
"No, we didn't hear anything," Sam said.
"Okay." He focused his senses, peering past the veil of the physical world.
The growling amplified instantly — not one dog, a chorus of deep, vicious snarling echoing off the brick buildings. Then they materialized in his angelic vision.
About fifty yards down the street, stalking out from a narrow alley, was a pack of shadowy beasts — at least three feet tall at the shoulder, bodies of shifting black smoke, coarse wire-like fur, raw muscle.
Eyes burning like hot coals, thick saliva dripping from razor teeth, all locked on the group.
"Oh, fuck," Henry breathed, freezing.
Dean's combat instincts flared. He snapped his shotgun up, sweeping the barrel across the empty street, aiming where Henry was staring.
"What? Is there something there?"
"Yeah," Henry said, voice dropping tense. "A pack of Hellhounds. And they look like they want to eat everything alive."
"How many are there?" Sam asked, tight. He didn't wait for Dean to hand it over — reached inside his jacket and pulled out the Colt, checking the cylinder for the demon-killing bullets.
"At least fifteen," Henry said, glowing eyes tracking the beasts pacing the street.
"That's a lot of dogs," Dean muttered, raising his shotgun anyway, knowing buckshot wouldn't do a damn thing.
"Slowly take a step back. I'll deal with them."
Henry reached into his coat and pulled out a heavy metallic hilt. A flick of his wrist ignited the Void Blade — a humming length of dark celestial energy springing from the base.
The Hellhounds didn't wait. With a unified roar, the pack lunged, paws tearing up chunks of asphalt as they charged.
"Sam, shoot at eleven o'clock!" Henry barked.
Sam leveled the Colt at the empty air where Henry pointed and fired.
The crack of the gun echoed off the brick buildings. Mid-leap, an invisible weight took the bullet, screeching before slamming into the pavement with a sickening thud, black demonic blood pooling out of thin air.
Henry hurled the Void Blade like a boomerang. It carved an arc through the empty space; three shrieks split the air as invisible bodies were sliced apart, dropping to the street before the hilt snapped back into his hand.
The rest of the pack was closing in too fast, invisible jaws snapping just yards away.
Henry jammed the hilt into his belt and thrust his arm out. The air pressure dropped so hard it popped Dean's ears. A heavy lance materialized in his grip, crackling with arcs of celestial lightning. He reared back and threw it at the oncoming pack.
The lance broke the sound barrier with a shock-boom, struck the center of the invisible hounds, and detonated in a shockwave of kinetic force and electrical sparks.
"Get down!" Dean yelled, dragging Sam behind the steel frame of the mercenary jeep.
The street shook, the air filling with the metallic stench of ozone and burnt hair.
When it faded, Dean peeked over the hood, shotgun still raised. The street was scorched black, puddles of steaming invisible blood scattered across a crater in the pavement. No growling left.
In the center of the destruction, Henry leaned heavily against the twisted metal of a destroyed streetlamp, panting hard, the celestial light in his eyes flickering down to normal.
"Yeah," Henry gasped, wiping sweat from his forehead. "This is... too much for me. Continuously using my powers without a break drains the battery."
*****
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