The black car pulled up slow.
Too slow.
Dean had been working on the Impala's engine when he heard gravel crunch. He didn't look up immediately. Old habit. You don't react to sounds in hunting. You listen first.
Two car doors closed.
Synchronized. Professional.
Dean wiped his hands on a rag and turned.
Two men stood in the driveway. One in an expensive suit—dark hair, calm eyes, the kind of face that didn't show anything. The other older, silver-haired, dressed like he'd never broken a sweat in his life.
They were already walking toward the house.
"Dean Winchester?" the younger one called.
Dean's gut went cold.
"Yeah?"
"Federal Bureau of Investigation." The man pulled a badge. Held it up long enough to see the seal, then tucked it away. "I'm Agent Bruce. This is Agent Pennyworth. We need to talk to you about some recent activity."
Dean's mind raced. Hunting. They found out about hunting. No. They couldn't have. He was careful. He always was.
"What kind of activity?" Dean asked. He kept his voice steady. Casual. Like FBI showing up at his house was normal.
"The kind that gets people arrested," Agent Bruce said. He wasn't smiling. "Can we come inside?"
It wasn't a request.
Dean stepped back, opened the door wider.
The agents moved inside like they owned the place. Agent Bruce took the couch without being invited. Agent Pennyworth stood by the door, blocking the exit without seeming to.
"We've been monitoring your communications," Agent Bruce said. "Phone records, internet history, credit card transactions. A pattern emerged. One that's concerning. You are investigating murder poses as FBI, this federal crime to be pose as FBI, did you know that Dean Winchester"
Dean sat down slowly across from him.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" Agent Bruce leaned back. " Three murder cases, fabrication of your death, Financial irregularities. Movement across state lines. Staying in motels under assumed names. Purchasing weapons and explosives. Does any of that ring a bell?"
Dean's hands felt cold.
"I haven't done anything illegal."
"Then you won't mind explaining these." Agent Bruce pulled out a folder. Photos. Credit card statements. Names Dean recognized—towns he'd hunted in, covers he'd used.
The folder hit the coffee table between them.
"We have enough to arrest you right now," Agent Bruce said. His voice was calm. Professional. That made it worse. "But we're offering you an opportunity to cooperate instead. Tell us who you've been working with. Who's financing these operations. Who else is involved."
"I'm not working with anyone," Dean said. The lie came automatically.
"Really?" Agent Pennyworth spoke for the first time. His voice was precise. British. Cold. "Because we have financial records showing transfers from multiple sources. Payments for information. Payments for equipment. This isn't the work of one person."
"You're looking at this wrong," Dean said.
"Then explain it." Agent Bruce stood up. He walked to the window, looked outside. "We have federal agents surrounding this property. Twelve people. All armed. All authorized to use force if necessary. You have two choices. Cooperate now, or we take you in. And when you're in custody, we start asking questions about the people you're protecting."
Dean felt his jaw tighten.
He wanted to fight. Hunters didn't get arrested. Hunters didn't cooperate with federal anything. But his dad wasn't here. Sammy wasn't here. And if these guys were serious, if they actually had people outside...
"What do you want to know?" Dean asked quietly.
Agent Bruce turned back. "That's better. Let's start with your father. John Winchester. Where is he?"
"Out of town. Business."
"What kind of business?"
"I don't know exactly. He doesn't tell me everything."
Agent Pennyworth moved slightly closer. A subtle threat. Just enough.
Dean's hands were steady, but his heart wasn't.
"How often does he disappear?"
"Couple times a month."
Dean didn't answer.
Agent Bruce returned to the couch. He sat down like they had all the time in the world.
"Here's what we know," Agent Bruce said. "Your father operates with military precision. He's in and out of locations. He's careful. Too careful. Which means he knows we're watching. Which means he's good at what he does. So the question becomes—what exactly is John Winchester doing that requires this level of operational security?"
"I told you. I don't know."
"You're lying," Agent Pennyworth said. Flat. Not angry. Just stating fact.
Dean didn't respond.
Agent Bruce stood again. He walked toward the door, stopped. Turned back.
"You have forty-eight hours to contact your father," Agent Bruce said. "Tell him the FBI is closing in. Tell him cooperation is his only option. Tell him his charges can be cleared, but only if he comes in voluntarily. After that..." He shrugged. "We move to the next phase."
"What next phase?" Dean asked.
"The arrest phase," Agent Pennyworth said.
Agent Bruce walked to the door. Agent Pennyworth stepped aside. But before leaving, Bruce turned back one final time.
He placed an envelope on the coffee table.
"Your grandfather," Agent Bruce said quietly. "Henry Winchester. He was a good man. Your father knew him well."
Dean stared at the envelope.
"What are you talking about?"
But the agents were already leaving.
Dean stood up, walked to the window. The black car pulled out slowly. He watched it disappear down the road.
His hands were shaking.
He turned back to the envelope.
It was heavy. Expensive paper. Inside was a letter, a photograph, and something else.
The photograph showed three men. 1985. His grandfather Henry. His father John. And a third man Dean didn't recognize—dark hair, expensive clothes, the same calm eyes as the FBI agent.
The letter was handwritten. Precise. Formal.
Dean,
Forgive the theatrical introduction. It was necessary.
My name is Bruce Winchester. I am your cousin. Your grandfather Henry was my grandfather brother , my grandfather name was Patrick Winchester.
My father, Thomas Winchester (also called Thomas Wayne), suffered an accident in his youth.
He lost his memory—childhood, family, everything before the accident. But recently, fragments have returned. He remembers your grandfather. He remembers your father.
I don't know what your family does. I suspect you're careful about that. I respect it.
What matters is this: Your father's charges with federal authorities are being cleared as we speak. There are no agents surrounding your house. That was a... Prank Again, forgive it.
But what's real is the blood between us. What's real is that your grandfather mattered. What's real is that we are family, and we want to know you.
Call your father. Tell him Thomas Winchester remembers Henry Winchester. Tell him the truth.
Your cousin,
Bruce
Also in the envelope: a debit card. Black. Platinum level. And a note attached.
$10,000,000 USD. Consider it an apology for the fear. Consider it an introduction.
Dean read the letter three times.
Then he sat down.
And stared at the photograph.
His grandfather and other may be Patrick. His father was held by someone teenager, he may be thomas, father of bruce who claimed to be family.
He picked up his phone.
His father needed to know about this.