Lebanon, Ohio had been a blur of neon lights and greasy menus, the kind of town you passed through without meaning to remember.

Sam sat across from Dean in the booth, coffee gone cold between his hands, exhaustion settling deep into his bones after the last case. It had been straightforward, too straightforward, which always made Sam uneasy. Still, they ate in silence, the hum of the diner wrapping around them like static, until the air inside felt too thick to breathe.

Sam pushed out of the booth and stepped outside, the bell over the door chiming softly behind him. Night pressed in close, the parking lot lit by a single flickering lamp and the distant rush of cars on the highway. He leaned against the brick wall, dragged in a slow breath, and tried to quiet the noise in his head.

That was when he smelled it—iron and salt, sharp and unmistakable, carried on the cold air from the side of the building.

At first, Sam thought he was imagining things. Fatigue could do that, turn shadows into threats, sounds into warnings. He took a step forward, then another, boots crunching softly on gravel as he rounded the corner behind the diner. The darkness back there was thicker, the kind that swallowed detail whole, but his eyes adjusted enough to catch movement.

A figure crouched low near the dumpsters, shoulders hunched, hands slick and shaking. Another body lay half-hidden beneath them, too still, wrong in a way Sam recognized instantly. His heart slammed into his ribs.

Sam didn’t reach for his gun, not yet. He stayed frozen, mind racing through lore, through half-forgotten stories whispered between hunters and dismissed as urban legends. Eaters. Humans who fed on humans, not out of cruelty or ritual, but hunger; biological, relentless, cursed in a way no spell had ever fully explained.

Sam had read about them once, late at night, files buried under unconfirmed and probably bullshit. He had laughed then but he wasn’t laughing now.

You lifted your head suddenly, eyes catching the dim light, and Sam felt the moment lock into place. You didn’t look monstrous, you looked terrified. Blood stained your mouth, your hands, your clothes, but your expression wasn’t triumph; it was panic, guilt, something raw and human that twisted painfully in his chest. Sam swallowed hard, every belief he’d ever held about good and evil crashing into each other all at once.

This wasn’t a demon, this wasn’t a shapeshifter or a ghoul wearing someone else’s skin. This was a person doing something unforgivable because they didn’t know how not to.

Sam stepped fully into view, hands raised just enough to show he wasn’t attacking, voice low and careful as if sudden movement might shatter what little control either of you had left. “Let's calm down, alright. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise.”

“You're... an eater, right? I've heard about your kind before.”

He waited, pulse roaring in his ears, knowing that whatever you did next would decide whether this night ended in blood… or something far more complicated.