Reborn as Sam Winchester in Supernatural TV

Columbus, Ohio -- 1997 (Three Weeks After the Roadhouse)

The pattern started showing up in Dad's journal three days ago. Cattle deaths, electrical storms, temperature drops - classic demon signs. But this one was sloppy, leaving obvious trails that even rookie hunters could spot.

"Look at this," Dad spread out newspaper clippings across our motel room table. "Three deaths in two weeks. Each victim found with sulfur residue."

I watched him piece it together, my hand unconsciously drifting to the sword Pastor Jim had given me. Ever since we left the Roadhouse, it felt more... alive somehow. More purposeful.

"Demon?" I asked, trying to hide my mix of excitement and nervousness. No more salt-and-burns or wendigos, but a demon. My first real demon hunt- well, the typical one. The Oni doesn't count. 

"Yeah," Dad confirmed, his expression grim. "Low-level by the looks of it. Probably got lucky during a gate fluctuation. These newer ones, they're not as careful. Make mistakes."

From his spot by the window, Sam looked up from his book, face pale. He might be smart, but demons were different from the lore he usually studied.

Though deep down, something was telling me that was not it.

"You sure we're ready for this?" I tried to keep my voice steady. The sword hummed softly under its wrappings, almost like it was answering for me.

"You are," Dad said with unexpected certainty. "But Sam stays back on this one. Observation only."

Sam just nodded, returning to his research with unusual focus. Probably nervous about his first demon hunt, even if he was just watching.

The next two days were all research and preparation. Dad drilled us on Latin exorcisms until my tongue felt tied in knots. Sam, for once, didn't argue about having to stay back - guess even he knew demons were different from our usual hunts.

"Again," Dad ordered, pacing our motel room. "From the beginning."

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..." I recited for what felt like the hundredth time. The sword at my side hummed with each word, like it recognized the power in them.

"Faster," Dad pushed. "Demons won't give you time to stumble over words."

Sam sat cross-legged on his bed, mouthing the words along with me while drawing devil's traps in his notebook. Practice, Dad said. Get the symbols perfect or they're useless.

"What about the victims?" I asked during a break, throat raw from Latin. "Any connection?"

Dad pinned another article to our makeshift evidence board. "Random. That's what makes this one sloppy. No pattern, no purpose. Just violence for violence's sake."

"Typical black-eyes," Bobby's voice crackled through Dad's phone on speaker. "Probably fresh out. Still drunk on being topside."

"Makes it dangerous," Dad added, checking our holy water supplies again. "But predictable."

I nodded, trying to focus on the tactical advantage rather than the growing knot in my stomach. The sword's steady hum helped, like it knew something I didn't.

"One more time," Dad said. "The exorcism. Both of you."

As Sam and I started the Latin again, I caught my reflection in the motel mirror - eighteen years old, trying to look ready for my first demon. The sword's wrappings gleamed slightly in the dim light.

I just hoped I was as prepared as Dad thought I was.

The factory came up in our research yesterday. Three of the victims worked there before it shut down last month. Dad thinks the demon's using it as a base - lots of space, no witnesses, easy exits.

"Run through the plan again," Dad says as we gear up in the Impala's trunk.

"Holy water first," I recite, checking my flask. "Get it in position for the devil's trap. Start the exorcism. Don't stop no matter what it says."

The sword feels warm against my side, even through its wrappings. Pastor Jim said it was old, blessed. Wonder if it's ever faced a demon before.

"And?" Dad prompts.

"And Sam stays by the car with the backup supplies." I glance at my brother, expecting an eye roll or protest. But he just nods, checking his own holy water.

"Dean." Dad's voice gets that serious tone that means pay attention. "These aren't like the spirits or monsters we usually hunt. Demons... they get in your head. They'll say anything, use anything against you."

"Yes, sir."

The sun's setting now, painting the factory windows blood-red. Perfect timing for a demon hunt, I guess. My palms are sweating, but the sword's steady hum keeps me grounded.

"Ready?" Dad asks, but he's not really asking. We've prepared. We've trained. Time to put it into practice.

I nod, hand resting on the sword's hilt. First demon hunt. Time to prove I can handle more than just salt-and-burns.

"Let's go kill this son of a bitch."

The factory's main floor is exactly what you'd expect - broken machinery, scattered papers, shadows that seem to move in the fading sunlight. The sulfur smell gets stronger as we move deeper inside.

Dad takes point, holy water ready. I follow, the sword's hum growing more intense with each step. Something about this place feels wrong, but not in the usual haunted building way. More... personal. Like the air itself is tainted.

A crash echoes from the east wing. Dad signals - two fingers, split up. I nod, breaking left while he goes right. Basic flanking maneuver, just like with werewolves or shifters.

Except this isn't a werewolf.

"Well, well..." a voice drawls from the shadows. "John Winchester's boy, all grown up."

My grip tightens on the sword. The demon steps into view - middle-aged guy in a factory uniform, but his eyes are solid black. Just like Dad described.

"And carrying a gift from your daddy? Daddy's special sword?" Its head tilts, studying me. "No... not Daddy's. Something else. Something older."

"Exorcizamus te," I start, but it waves a hand and my throat closes up.

"Now, now. Let's talk first." It grins, all teeth and malice. "Been a while since I met a Winchester. Your kind's getting quite the reputation downstairs."

The demon's grin shifts into something older, more calculating as it gets closer. "That sword... I haven't seen one like that since 1958. The Men of Letters had quite the collection before we burned their little clubhouse down."

My throat's still closed, but the sword's energy pulses stronger, fighting against the demon's hold.

"You're quite young. I suppose with the Men of Letters gone, you're ignorant hunters now," it muses, black eyes reflecting the blade's light.

"Though, at least you got the look down. Your grandfather Henry had that same stubborn look. Right before he..." It chuckles. "Well, that's a story for another time."

The pressure on my throat eases slightly - not from weakness, I realize, but because it's toying with me. This thing isn't some fresh-from-the-pit rookie.

The messy kills, the obvious trails... it was all bait. Its hunting hunters.

"Dad!" I try to shout, but the demon's power slams me against a wall.

"John's a bit busy with my friends at the moment," it says casually. "Amazing what a few centuries of experience can teach you about strategy. Your father assumed I was alone. Sloppy." Its smile turns cruel. "Just like Henry."

The sword blazes in my grip, sacred energy fighting against infernal power. The demon steps back, eyes narrowing.

"Now that's interesting," it says. "That's not just any blessed blade, is it? No... that's something much different. Something that shouldn't be in a child's hands."

I hear fighting from somewhere else in the factory - Dad dealing with who knows how many more demons. We walked right into their trap, thinking this was a simple rookie hunt.

But the sword... the sword feels different now. Like it's been waiting for exactly this moment.

And suddenly I understand - this isn't just my first demon hunt.

It's my first real test.

The demon moves like centuries of experience, but the sword moves faster. When it tries to slam me again, blessed steel cuts through its power like sunlight through fog.

"Well," it hisses, genuine surprise in those black eyes. "Someone's been practicing."

Truth is, I haven't. The sword's moving almost on its own, like it remembers fighting things like this. Like it's teaching me with each swing.

"Your grandfather had weapons too," the demon taunts, circling now. "Blessed blades, holy relics... didn't save him in the end."

"Exorcizamus te," I start again, the Latin flowing easier with the sword's energy backing it.

This time when it tries to choke me, the blade flares bright. The demon's power breaks against it like waves on rock.

"Omnis immundus spiritus," I continue, advancing. Each word makes the demon flinch now, the sword's light growing stronger.

Crashes and shouts echo from deeper in the factory. Dad's voice rises above it all - more Latin, more exorcisms. But there's an edge of desperation in his tone that turns my blood cold.

The demon before me grins. "Sounds like your father's learning about family history the hard way. How many of my friends do you think he can handle? Five? Ten?"

I need to reach Dad. Need to help. But this ancient thing isn't going to just let me pass.

"Omnis satanica potestas," I press forward, the sword blazing brighter with each word. The demon retreats a step, then catches itself.

"Impressive," it admits. "But not enough to-"

Suddenly, the factory's shadows writhe like living things. Temperature plummets. The demon's eyes widen in genuine fear.

"No," it whispers. "That's not possible. You're too young to-"

I don't know what it sees behind me, but for the first time, that ancient confidence cracks.

And somewhere in the darkness, I hear my little brother's voice, steady and sure, finishing the exorcism I started.

The demon screams - not in pain, but in rage. "Winchester blood! Always interfering, always-"

But Sam's voice cuts through its rant, Latin perfect and sharp. The sword in my hands pulses in harmony with each word, like it's been waiting for this moment.

"You think this changes anything?" the demon snarls at me, its ancient face showing through the human mask. "Your bloodline's marked. Has been since-"

I don't let it finish. The sword moves like it's alive, blessed steel cutting through demonic defenses. At the same time, Sam's exorcism reaches its peak.

The demon throws its head back, black smoke erupting from its mouth. But instead of escaping upward, the smoke seems caught, like it's fighting against invisible chains.

"Now, Dean!" Sam shouts from somewhere in the shadows.

The sword knows what to do before I do. One slash through the trapped smoke, and the demon screams in a way I didn't know demons could scream. The black smoke ignites, burning away in sacred fire.

The possessed man collapses, but he's breathing. Alive.

"Dad," I remember suddenly, turning toward the sounds of fighting.

But it's already over. The factory floor is littered with unconscious bodies - other victims the demons had been using. And Dad... Dad's standing in the middle of it all, looking stunned.

"They just... started smoking out," he says as I reach him. "All at once. Like something scared them worse than the exorcism."

I look around for Sam, but he's nowhere to be seen. Just shadows that seem to move wrong and a lingering chill in the air.

The sword hums contentedly in my grip, its job done. But something tells me this wasn't just about my first demon kill.

This was about something bigger.

----------------------------------

Back at the Impala, Sam's leaning against the trunk like he never left his post. But something's different about him - he looks tired, paler than usual.

"You okay?" I ask him, still riding the adrenaline high of my first demon kill.

"Fine," he says, but there's a slight tremor in his voice. "Everyone alive?"

Dad's checking the victims we carried out, calling ambulances on a burner phone. Seven people total, all breathing, all free of possession.

"Yeah," I wrap the sword back up, but it's still humming, like it's pleased with itself. "But Sammy, that demon... it spoke about Grandpa Henry. About something called the Men of Letters."

Dad's expression tightened at my words, for a moment, as he was calling Bobby, telling him what happened. 

"We should research that," Sam says carefully. "Later." His expression didn't change, but something flickers in his eyes.

Dad finishes his calls and joins us, looking between me and Sam with an odd expression, his jaw still seemingly tight after hearing Grandpa's name.

"That was too easy," he mutters. "Those demons... something made them run."

"Dean's exorcism worked," Sam offers, but Dad shakes his head.

"No, this was different. They were ancient, powerful. Then suddenly..." He rubs his temples like one of his headaches is coming on. "Never mind. We'll figure it out later. Good work, Dean. That sword of yours..."

"Yeah," I look at the wrapped blade. "It's something else."

We pack up quickly, sirens already wailing in the distance. As we pull away, I catch Sam staring back at the factory, his face unreadable in the darkness.

The sword's humming fades to a contented pulse against my side. My first demon hunt. Should feel like a bigger victory, but something about it nags at me.

The way that ancient demon recognized our bloodline.

The way the shadows moved during the fight.

The way Sam looks completely exhausted despite staying by the car.

I know Sammy's special, but he couldn't have possibly been the reason near on a dozen demons ran with their tails between their legs... right?

I shake my head, as I reason that this can be thought of later. For, right now, I should be happy because everyone's alive. The demons are gone.

That's what matters.

Still... as we drive away, I can't shake the feeling that this hunt revealed more questions than answers.

About our family.

About that sword.

About Sam.

Questions that I don't know if I can ignore anymore.