Sam, Dean, and Henry paid a visit to Scott Carey's father, posing as old friends from high school who hadn't heard about what happened.
Mr. Carey looked tired in a way that went deeper than grief. When Sam gently asked about Scott, the man hesitated before answering.
"He changed," Mr. Carey said quietly. "About a year ago. It started with headaches. Bad ones. Then nightmares. He said someone was watching him."
Dean exchanged a brief look with Sam.
"He got paranoid after that," Mr. Carey continued. "Depressed. We tried getting him help. Therapy, medication. He refused most of it. Locked himself in his room for days at a time."
Sam nodded sympathetically. "Mind if we take a look at his room?"
After a moment's hesitation, Mr. Carey agreed.
Upstairs, Scott's room felt frozen in time. Clothes half-folded. Curtains drawn. The air stale.
Sam walked to the dresser and picked up three pill bottles lined up neatly. He read the labels—antidepressants, sleep aids, something for anxiety. He slipped one into his pocket.
Dean moved toward the closet and pushed aside a row of hanging shirts.
Behind them, taped directly to the wall, was a collage.
Dozens of pictures.
All the same.
Yellow eyes.
Layered, overlapping, staring out from newspaper clippings, printed photos, hand-drawn sketches.
Sam stared at it, his jaw tightening.
"He knew," Sam said quietly. "He was connected."
Dean looked at the wall and let out a low breath. "Okay. Creepy. And definitely strange."
Meanwhile, Henry was outside in the car, fiddling awkwardly with the handgun Dean had handed him for self-defense. It was a fairly standard 2006 semi-automatic pistol, nothing fancy, just reliable.
He checked the safety again.
"I probably should've mentioned I don't actually know how to shoot," Henry muttered to himself with a faint smile. But he hadn't said anything earlier. Who says no when someone offers them a gun in a world full of demons?
He adjusted his grip, trying to look like he belonged.
Then—
Crack.
A sharp sound sliced through the quiet street.
Glass shattered somewhere nearby.
Henry's head snapped up.
The first-floor window of Scott's house had exploded inward.
"Huh?"
He pushed the car door open and stepped out, scanning instinctively.
Then another sound followed.
Bang.
That wasn't glass.
That was a gunshot.
Henry's stomach dropped.
"Damn it… that psychopath's here," he muttered.
Across the street, on the roof of a building facing the house, he spotted movement—a figure prone behind a sniper rifle, lined up with the shattered window.
Gordon.
Henry swallowed and raised his handgun toward the rooftop. The distance was terrible for a pistol. His hands weren't perfectly steady.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered.
He squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
The shot rang out.
It didn't hit.
"Yeah… I suck at aiming," he muttered, already moving.
He shoved the gun back into his waistband and scanned fast. Across the street. Rooftop. Angle.
He spotted a rock near the curb and snatched it up without thinking.
No time to overanalyze.
He stepped forward, feet planting hard against the pavement. His body twisted slightly at the waist like a pitcher winding up.
He pulled his arm back.
Activated the Super strength of the Cursed T-shirt.
His muscles tightened instantly, forearm locking, shoulder loaded with power.
Then he threw.
His whole body moved with it—hips snapping forward, shoulder driving through, wrist cracking at the last second to give it spin.
The rock tore through the air.
Then—
Clang!
It smashed into the sniper rifle with a violent metallic crack. The impact jolted the barrel off-line, the shot going wide as the weapon jerked sideways.
On the rooftop, Gordon reacted instantly. He rolled back from the ledge, disappearing from sight in one smooth, disciplined motion.
***
Dean and Sam rushed out of the house, Dean visibly pissed.
"I told you we shouldn't have come," Dean snapped, scanning the rooftops automatically.
They stopped when they saw Henry standing near the car, looking around cautiously.
Dean walked up fast. "Tell me you saw who fired at us."
Henry nodded. "Yeah. Black guy. Almost bald. Looked steady. Not random. Moved like a hunter."
Dean and Sam exchanged a look immediately.
They both knew exactly who fit that description.
Dean's jaw tightened. "Gordon."
Sam didn't argue.
Gordon stormed back into his motel room, furious.
He had almost killed that abomination. Almost ended the threat before it grew worse. But he hadn't expected someone else outside the house. Another shooter. Another variable.
If that kid hadn't fired back, Sam Winchester would be dead.
Gordon removed his jacket, still irritated.
Then—
A fist slammed into his face.
His head snapped sideways.
"Hi, Gordon."
Everything went black.
When Gordon came to, he was tied to a chair.
Dean stood in front of him. Sam was off to the side.
Henry moved to the table with quiet efficiency.
He pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand before touching anything. One by one, he lifted the confiscated weapons and placed them down in plain view—careful, deliberate, not tossing but not fussing either.
The handgun. The knife. Spare rounds. Then the separated sniper components, arranged clearly so nothing was hidden.
Gordon blinked once, then smiled faintly.
"Sam. Dean."
Dean didn't return the smile.
His fist launched forward and smashed into Gordon's face.
"You son of a bitch," Dean growled, grabbing his collar. "You tried to kill us. You that desperate you can't let go of one damn case?"
Gordon wiped blood from his lip, still smiling. "I didn't come to kill you, Dean. I came to kill your brother."
Sam stiffened. "Me? Why?"
"Don't play innocent," Gordon said, eyes locking onto him. "I know what you are. Psychic. Just like the others. A demon's little projects."
"That's bullshit," Dean snapped.
"Call it whatever you want," Gordon replied evenly. "I hunt monsters. All of them. The psychic kids? They're connected. Demons don't hand out gifts for free."
Sam's voice hardened. "So you killed Scott."
"Yes," Gordon answered without hesitation. "That freak could electrocute someone just by touching them. You think that ends well? You think he would've lived a normal life?"
"He hadn't killed anyone," Sam shot back.
"And you want me to wait until he does?" Gordon fired back. "You nip it in the bud. Same goes for you, Sam. I would've put you down already if not for your new friend out there."
Henry said nothing.
Dean tightened his grip on Gordon's collar. "You don't get to decide who lives and who dies."
Gordon's smile returned, colder this time.
"That's exactly what hunters do, Dean."
*****
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