Sam leaned against the hood of the Impala, parked by a quiet lake, slowly brushing his teeth. The passenger door creaked open and Dean stumbled out, squinting against the morning sun.
"I'm starving," Dean grunted, stretching his back.
Sam spit a mouthful of foam onto the dirt. "We're two hours from anything. Check the backseat."
Dean grumbled and leaned into the car, digging through a pile of fast-food wrappers. Despite the lack of breakfast, he couldn't hide the smugness. His motel plan had worked perfectly.
When Lilith cornered Sam, Dean hadn't bothered charging in with the demon-killing knife. He'd just kicked the door open and shoved Chuck inside.
The moment the prophet hit the room, the building started shaking.
Windows blew out, pressure dropped, and the whole place vibrated with the incoming threat of an Archangel. Lilith didn't even hesitate — smoked right out of her meat suit and fled through the floorboards. Prophecy averted.
"So," Dean said, pulling a stale bag of jerky and ripping it open with his teeth. "You disappointed?"
Sam paused mid-brush. "About what?"
"You know," Dean smirked. "That you didn't get your shot at all that fiery demonic passion."
"Shut up, Dean," Sam muttered, tossing his toothbrush into his duffel. "I was five seconds from getting my throat ripped out."
"I'm just saying, she was a pretty hot dental hygienist. You could've at least gotten a free cleaning before we brought the wrath of Heaven down on her."
"It didn't even kill her," Sam pointed out, leaning against the car. "She just ran."
Before Dean could argue, a muffled ringing cut through the air.
He checked his pockets, frowning, then leaned back into the Impala and popped the glove compartment, pulling out a scratched flip phone — one of their dad's old burners that hadn't seen daylight in years.
He flipped it open. "Hello?"
"Is John there?" a young male voice asked.
Dean's eyes narrowed. He shot Sam a look. "He's not available. Can I help you?"
"My name is Adam Milligan," the voice said, desperate. "I really need to talk to John."
"John died over two years ago," Dean said flatly. "Who is this?"
The line went dead for a second.
"I'm his son."
***
Henry snapped his phone shut, staring at Call Failed. Both Sam's and Dean's numbers had gone straight to dead air.
"Don't tell me they're out in the woods hunting again," he muttered, sliding the phone into his jacket.
He leaned against the rusted metal of the bus stop bench.
Before he'd left the salvage yard, Bobby mentioned the brothers were last tracked heading somewhere in Ohio.
Henry could've used the Void Blade to tear a portal and step right to them, but after hacking his way through a sunless demon meat-grinder for so long, sitting quietly on a bus actually sounded like a vacation.
The screech of air brakes snapped him out of it. The doors hissed open, and he climbed aboard, taking a seat in the back.
As the bus rolled down the highway, he stared out the dirty window, his mind drifting to the apocalyptic clock hanging over the world.
He wondered how many of the 66 Seals Lilith had broken while he was off the board. A tap into Angel Radio would've been useful right about now — but he'd bet good money Lucifer's cage was already dangerously close to opening.
The worst part wasn't even the demons. It was the angels. Henry knew exactly what Heaven's upper management was playing at.
They didn't want to stop the Seals from breaking — they wanted the Apocalypse. The archangels were just waiting to draw Lucifer out so Michael could throw down, wipe the slate clean, and bring their own twisted version of paradise to Earth.
They didn't care how many human lives burned to make it happen.
He settled into the scratchy seat and pulled up his system interface. He liked to tell himself he'd finally beaten his gacha gambling problem, that he had it under control now. But four hours on a bus to Ohio was too much temptation to resist.
He checked his inventory: five Uncommon chances, three Rare, one Epic, one Legendary.
"Yeah, let's pull," he muttered, tapping through the five Uncommons first.
The system chimed. Five objects materialized under his jacket, dropping onto his lap. He inspected them one by one, deadpanning a little more with each.
[Used Dish of Zeus]
A cracked clay plate with crusty divine ambrosia stuck to the rim.
[Harry Potter Wand]
A literal wooden stick. Zero magical properties in this universe. Just a polished twig.
[Goblin's Left Sock]
A single, permanently damp wool sock reeking of stagnant swamp water and mold.
[Self-Stirring Spoon]
A cheap tin spoon that could stir a cup of diner coffee on its own — but only counter-clockwise.
[Holy Cup of Ramiel]
A massive, ruby-encrusted golden chalice. Drink from it and heal minor injuries.
Henry stared at the gaudy goblet sitting on his jeans, unimpressed.
"This cup is useless to me," he said, turning it over.
It had one practical use, sure, but between his restored grace and his own ether reserves, he already healed cuts and bruises fast enough on his own.
Worse, it was way too eye-catching to carry — walking into a roadside diner holding a massive jewel-encrusted holy relic was basically an invitation for every demon, angel, and petty thief on the highway to take notice.
He shoved it into his duffel and hoped the Rare pulls would give him something actually usable.
*****
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