"So, Sammy, you alright?" Dean asked as he slid into the driver's seat, eyes flicking over him while turning the key. "That demon didn't mess with you, did it?"
Sam shut the passenger door and leaned back for a second before answering. "No… I'm okay," he said, shifting slightly as his ribs protested.
Bobby and Henry climbed into the back, the doors shutting almost in sync as the Impala pulled onto the road.
A second later, Bobby pulled out a flask.
Before Henry could react, cold water splashed straight across his face.
Henry blinked, then slowly turned, completely deadpan. "Really? Was that necessary?" he asked, wiping the water from his eyes.
"Better safe than sorry," Bobby said.
He leaned forward and splashed Sam next.
Sam jerked back. "Bobby—!"
"Demons can wear anyone," Bobby cut in. "I ain't taking chances."
"Give me that—I'll check too," Henry said, taking the bottle.
Before Bobby could react, Henry tipped it and poured the entire thing straight over his head.
Water ran down Bobby's face.
Henry nodded, completely serious. "Alright. Now I'm relieved—you're not a demon."
Bobby didn't move for a second.
Water dripped from his hair, down his face, soaking into his collar.
Then his eyes slowly lifted to Henry.
"…You just dumped my holy water on me."
Henry shrugged lightly. "Had to be sure."
Bobby's jaw tightened. "That was a full flask."
"Worth it," Henry said without hesitation.
Bobby stared at him another second, then wiped his face with his sleeve, still glaring. "Boy, you better hope you don't actually run into a demon in the next five minutes."
Dean smirked, glancing at the rearview mirror, clearly entertained by the chaos in the back.
"So, Sam… good to see nothing weird happened to you," he said.
Sam didn't answer right away. He kept his eyes on the road ahead, expression steady—holding back the rest of the story.
Not the yellow-eyed demon standing over his crib when he was a baby. Not what it had done—why it had killed his mother. It hadn't been random. That had never been the point.
The point had been him.
Blood dripped into his mouth. The reason he had these abilities at all—demon blood, put inside him before he could even understand what it meant.
He kept all of that buried.
Dean already worried too much—about the visions, about what they meant. If he knew this, he wouldn't sleep at all. And Sam… he wasn't ready for anyone to look at him like he was something wrong.
Like there was something inside him that shouldn't be there.
In the back seat, Henry relaxed—he'd already changed something major.
Sam was alive.
In the original chain of events, Sam would have died here. Dean would have broken after that—no hesitation, no second thought—and made a deal to bring him back. That deal wasn't just about Sam. It came with a price.
Dean's soul.
One year, and then Hell.
That was where it started.
The first seal.
In the plan to free Lucifer, there were sixty-six seals. Each one had to break, one after another, but the first mattered more than the rest. Without it, nothing else could begin.
And that's where the first seal came in.
Not just a righteous man in Hell.
A righteous man breaking.
The first seal was broken when a righteous man shed blood in Hell—when Dean, after holding out, finally gave in and started torturing souls.
That was the trigger.
Once that happened, the rest of the sixty-six seals followed, one after another, and once it started, there was no stopping the chain.
'I have prevented a major mess,' thought Henry, but the thought didn't sit right. Azazel was still out there, and the Colt was still with him. That alone meant the Devil's Gate can still be opened.
"That's the problem with knowing what's coming," he thought, eyes half-closed as he leaned back. "You don't get a break. You just get more things to worry about."
***
The next morning,
Bobby's scrapyard was quiet in that usual way—wind moving through rusted metal, the low creak of old frames shifting. Inside the house, it was calm enough that Henry had taken over the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, half-asleep.
The door opened harder than usual.
"Boys, we got a problem," Bobby said, stepping in without slowing, his tone already serious enough to wake anyone paying attention.
Dean and Sam looked up immediately.
Henry didn't.
"Madison… let me sleep," he muttered, still caught somewhere between sleep and awareness.
Dean didn't bother trying again with words. He grabbed a water bottle from the table and tossed it straight at him.
Henry's hand came up without him even opening his eyes, catching it clean mid-air.
That got one eye open.
"Dean," he said, pushing himself up slowly and rubbing the back of his neck, "you see someone sleeping and your first thought is to throw stuff?"
Dean leaned back against the table, arms crossed, not even a little apologetic. "Yeah, because you don't wake up otherwise. And we don't have time for you to finish your beauty sleep."
Henry exhaled, sitting upright now, the last of the drowsiness fading as he looked between them. "Alright," he said, voice steadier, "what's the problem?"
Bobby stepped forward, already in work mode. "Demonic activity's spiking," he said. "Wyoming. Not small-time stuff either—numbers we haven't seen before."
"How sudden?"
"Overnight," Bobby replied. "Nothing, then all of a sudden—multiple signs, possessions, omens. Calls started coming in late last night."
*****
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