The next morning, the Impala was parked outside a roadside diner.
Inside, the place smelled of coffee and fried bacon. A few truckers occupied the far booths, paying no attention to the three men at the corner table.
Henry sat across from Dean and Sam, halfway through his breakfast. He hadn't realized how hungry he actually was until the plate arrived.
Sam was quiet, staring at his coffee.
Dean noticed it first. "Don't tell me," he said, leaning back slightly. "You had another creepy vision."
Sam didn't deny it.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Last night."
Dean's expression tightened just a bit. "About what?"
Sam ran a hand through his hair, choosing his words carefully. "He was psychic. Like me. He could electrify things just by touching them. And something killed him."
Henry kept his eyes on his plate but listened closely.
Dean took a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly. "Wow. Creepy."
He tried to keep it casual, but there was tension under it. Every time Sam mentioned visions, it dragged up the same memory—his dad's warning. Save Sam… or kill him before it's too late.
"That's all you have to say?" Sam asked, frustration creeping into his voice.
"What do you want me to do, Sam?" Dean replied. "Light a candle and hold your hand?"
"This isn't a joke," Sam said, leaning forward. "He's like me. Psychic. And whatever killed him is coming after people like us. We need to figure out what's going on."
Dean's jaw tightened. "No, Sam."
Sam blinked. "No?"
"No," Dean repeated firmly. "We don't go chasing every psychic out there. We've got enough on our plates."
Sam's voice dropped. "This isn't random. I could feel it. It's connected."
Dean held his gaze. "Every time you get one of these visions, it leads back to the same thing. Yellow-eyed demon. Psychic kids. You think I don't see that?"
The tension between them thickened.
Henry stayed quiet, watching the argument build.
"That's exactly why we have to go," Sam said, voice tight. "Whatever killed him—how do you know it can't come after me next?"
Dean didn't answer immediately.
"How can you be sure I'm not next?" Sam pressed.
Dean looked away for a moment, jaw working, but Sam didn't back down. The tension stretched long enough that even Henry felt it.
Finally, Dean exhaled. "Fine," he said. "We check it out."
Sam nodded once.
"And if we're looking for psychics," Dean added, "we go somewhere that knows things."
Which meant one place.
The Roadhouse.
***
The trio walked into the dimly lit bar later that afternoon.
The familiar hum of low music and murmured conversations filled the space. Hunters sat at scattered tables, maps spread out, beer bottles half-empty.
Ellen looked up from behind the bar.
"Well, look who decided to show up," she said.
Dean gave a faint smirk. "Miss us?"
"Not particularly," Ellen replied, though there was no real heat in it.
Sam stepped forward. "Ellen… how's Jo?"
Ellen's expression shifted.
"She's gone," Ellen said. "After that job she ran with you two, she decided she wanted to keep hunting."
Dean stiffened slightly.
"I told her not under my roof," Ellen continued. "So she packed up and left. Haven't seen her in weeks. She sends a postcard now and then."
Sam's face tightened. "I'm sorry."
Dean nodded quietly. "Yeah. We didn't mean for—"
Ellen cut him off with a small shake of her head. "She made her choice."
Her eyes shifted past them, landing on Henry.
"And who might this be? New face?" Ellen asked.
Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Family."
Ellen raised a brow. "Oh?"
"Cousin," Sam clarified. "Dad's brother's son."
Ellen studied Henry for a long second, measuring him the way hunters did—posture, eyes, hands, whether he looked like he belonged or would bolt at the first ghost story.
Henry gave a small nod. "Henry."
"Ellen," she replied. "You hunt?"
Henry hesitated just enough. "Not officially."
Dean smirked faintly. "Working on it."
Ellen didn't smile. "If he's sticking around you two, he better learn fast."
Then they found Ash in the back room, surrounded by monitors, wires, and half-empty beer cans.
"We need a search," Sam said. "Nationwide. People our age. Psychic abilities. And their mothers died in nursery fires."
Ash spun slowly in his chair, blinking behind his glasses. "That's… specific."
"Yeah," Dean replied. "We're past general."
Ash started typing, fingers flying across the keyboard as screens filled with databases and cross-referenced records. "Alright, filtering for unexplained maternal deaths in house fires, roughly twenty-three years ago… cross-matching with current reports of unusual activity, psychic manifestations…"
A few minutes passed.
"Got something," Ash said finally.
Four names appeared on the screen.
"Sam Winchester," Ash read off casually.
Dean gave Sam a look. "Well, that tracks."
"Max Miller. Andy Gallagher. Scott Carey."
Sam leaned forward. "Address for Scott?"
Ash tapped a few keys. "You don't want an address. You want a headstone."
Sam's stomach tightened.
"Scott Carey," Ash continued. "Lafayette, Indiana. Died about a month ago. Stabbed in a parking lot."
Ash pulled up a photo attached to the report.
Sam stared at the screen.
The face.
That was him.
"That's him," Sam said quietly. "That's the guy from my vision."
Dean looked at him sideways. "So now you're seeing the past too?"
Henry, standing a little behind them, let out a silent sigh.
He had genuinely believed he'd nudged the timeline off course back in River Grove, that by interfering there he might have prevented the fallout between Sam and Dean.
Maybe even avoided crossing paths with that psychopath.
Gordon.
Or was it Garden? No. Gordon Walker. The self-righteous hunter who believed murdering psychic kids qualified as public service.
Henry rubbed his temple subtly.
'So we're doing this,' he thought.
The plot clearly didn't care about his attempts to be clever.
'I should really start working on a plan to put that psychopath in jail for life,' Henry thought.
Killing Gordon would solve the problem.
But prison?
That would be cleaner.
And far more irritating for someone like him.
*****
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