The preacher spoke of sin like it was weather; inevitable, seasonal, rolling in whether you invited it or not. People here believed in hell with the same certainty they believed in harvests. They believed evil had claws and horns and glowing eyes. They never imagined it might look like a girl buying coffee at the diner, nodding politely, hands folded as if in prayer.

That’s why you don’t stay long in places like this, and that’s why it surprises you when you do.

They call it animal attacks at first.

Livestock torn apart in the early hours before dawn. Then a drifter found near the railroad tracks, ribcage opened like a hymnal, meat missing with surgical neatness but no knife wounds to explain it. No paw prints, no tire tracks, just blood soaked deep into the dirt and bones shining pale in the moonlight.

The papers say ritualistic, the sheriff says sick individual and the preacher says the devil walks among us.

Two days later, a waitress from the diner disappears on her way home.

After that, the word no one wants to say begins to creep through town like rot under floorboards: cannibal. It isn’t spoken aloud at first—it’s breathed behind cupped hands in grocery aisles, muttered over rotary phones late at night, written off as hysteria the moment it leaves someone’s mouth. But the evidence refuses to soften itself into something easier. The bodies, when they’re found at all, are wrong in a way that no animal could manage; flesh removed with deliberation, organs taken clean, bones left like pale offerings under open sky. Whatever is doing this isn’t wild. It isn’t mindless… It is choosing.

Men begin walking their wives to their cars after late shifts. Porch lights that once flickered lazily now burn until dawn, as if illumination alone could ward off something so intimate. Parents call their children inside before sunset, voices tight and brittle. The town shortens its hours; the diner closes earlier, the feed store installs a lock it hasn’t needed in twenty years. Every stranger becomes suspect. Every quiet neighbor suddenly looks different under scrutiny. The fear is not loud—it is constant, low, thrumming beneath conversations like a second heartbeat.

Sunday sermons swell in volume and urgency. The preacher speaks of Sodom, of wolves in sheep’s clothing, of flesh and consequence. He dabs sweat from his brow while the congregation nods, clutching Bibles like shields. They want it to be something supernatural, something with horns and fire and a name that can be cast out in prayer. What terrifies them more than the gore, more than the empty bedrooms and unanswered calls, is the possibility that the thing devouring their own might kneel beside them in the pews. That it might look like them, speak like them, bleed like them.

That’s when the black car pulls into town.

The engine of the Impala growls low and familiar as it rolls past the church and toward the sheriff’s office. Inside, Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes scanning the sleepy storefronts with a predator’s ease.

They hadn’t meant to pick up the case at all. It started as a blip in a police scanner thread, then a local news clipping buried three pages deep online: Rural Authorities Baffled by Livestock Mutilations. Sam had noticed the phrasing first; not attacks, not maulings but mutilations. He’d dug deeper from a library computer in Indiana while Dean refueled the car, pulling archived coroner summaries and sheriff’s statements that didn’t make it into print. 

No claw marks, no sulfur, no EMF spikes reported by any curious amateur ghost hunters in the area. Just flesh missing in specific patterns and a rising body count that felt purposeful. By the time Sam called Dean over to the screen, his voice had that edge it only gets when something is wrong in a way he can’t categorize.

“Ohio,” he mutters while driving, eyes on the never ending road. “Why is it always Ohio?” Beside him, Sam flips another page in the thin stack of printed articles of John’s journal on his lap. His brow is furrowed in that deep, thoughtful way that means something isn’t fitting right. “It’s not an animal,” Sam says quietly.

“No kidding.”

“There are no defensive wounds. No tearing. It’s… deliberate.” He swallows slightly. “I’m talking organs removed, muscle tissue consumed but not randomly.”

Dean glances over for a second, almost scoffing. “You saying we’ve got a gourmet werewolf?”

“I’m saying it doesn’t match anything I’ve read.”

Dean smirks. “Great, love when you say that.”

They’d thrown theories at it on the drive east. Wendigo—but there were no signs of prolonged isolation or cannibalistic frenzy, no half-eaten remains dragged into the woods. Ghoul—but ghouls preferred the dead, grave dirt under their nails and carrion on their breath. Werewolf—too surgical, and wrong moon cycle. Demon—no sulfur, no possession symptoms in town reports. 

Dean even suggested some backwoods cult, but the lack of ritual markings and the precision of the missing tissue dismantled that fast. Every option ended the same way: a dead end. Which meant either something new had crawled out of the dark or something old had never been given a name.

They don’t know you yet but you’ve been here your whole life.

This town isn’t a stop along the way; it’s the place that raised you, baptized you, watched you grow tall and quiet beneath its steeple shadow. You know every cracked sidewalk and sagging porch, you know which houses keep their lights on past midnight and which fields flood first in spring, you learned to ride a bike on these roads. 

Learned your Bible verses in that white church with the leaning cross, learned how to bow your head and pretend you were normal while something inside you stirred.

Your childhood bedroom still faces the cornfields—the wallpaper peeled when you were seventeen, curling at the corners like dried skin, and your father never fixed it. He doesn’t fix much anymore. The house smells like old coffee, of your mom’s perfume, sawdust and the faint copper tang you swear no one else can detect. You still sleep there some nights, staring at the ceiling while the porch light hums outside and trucks groan down the highway in the distance. You tell yourself that staying means you aren’t running, that staying means you’re braver than whatever lives inside your ribs.

The hunger has been worse lately.

Not wild, not rabid, oh no. That would almost be easier. No, it’s steady—reverent. Like a hymn sung too low to interrupt but too constant to ignore. It hums under your skin during Sunday service while the preacher speaks of flesh and sin. It coils tighter when hands join in prayer, when warmth presses shoulder to shoulder in the pew. You feel it most when the congregation says body and blood in unison, when communion wafers dissolve on tongues and the word sacrifice hangs heavy in the air. The irony does not escape you.

Three nights ago, it all became unbearable.

You told yourself you would drive: just drive until the feeling thinned. But you didn’t make it past the railroad tracks and he was already there—a drifter with a backpack and hollow eyes, someone no one in town would claim. The hunger isn’t violent at first; it’s intimate, it moves through you like a prayer answered wrong. When it finally took control, it was not frenzy but inevitability. It was flesh parted beneath your hands, warmth spilled over your skin, the smell of iron filled your lungs like incense. You didn’t stop until the ache quieted and the world fell silent again.

You never enjoy it. There is no thrill, no ecstasy, only relief so profound it feels holy. Like kneeling at an altar and finally being absolved. The gore doesn’t shock you anymore—the slick weight of muscle, the fragile crack of bone, the way the human body opens with terrible simplicity. What devastates you is the aftermath: the knowledge that you have taken something God once breathed into.

Afterward, you went to the creek like you did when you were a teenager, when it first started and you didn’t understand why your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You knelt in the mud and scrubbed at your skin until it burned, watching pink water swirl downstream, you whispered apologies into the dark—to Him, to your parents sleeping down the road, to the town that taught you about heaven and hell in equal measure. You asked for forgiveness the way other girls asked for love.

You don’t see yourself as a monster, because monsters are loud, obvious, they snarl and bare their teeth.

You are quiet, you bow your head in church, you say ma’am and sir, you hold doors open, you sit in the third pew from the front and sing hymns with a voice that never trembles.

You are not evil, just wrong.

The Winchester brothers roll into town just after noon, the Impala’s black frame cutting through the quiet like a bad omen. The church bell is ringing when they pass it—slow, heavy tolls that seem to press down on the air itself. Dean notices the way curtains shift in windows as they drive by, the way conversations on the sidewalk stall. Small towns always react like that: suspicion first and hospitality second.

By the time they park outside the sheriff’s office, Sam has already read every article twice.

Inside, the office smells like burnt coffee and old paper, a mounted deer head stares blankly from one wall. Sheriff Grady is thick-necked, red-faced, and exhausted in a way that suggests he hasn’t slept properly in days. Dean flashes a badge—federal, polished, convincing—and starts talking livestock patterns and possible animal migration. Sam fills in the blanks, calm and methodical, asking for autopsy photos, timelines, witness statements. The sheriff hesitates before handing over the file.

“You boys ever seen anything like this?” he asks, voice low.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “We’ve seen strange.”

The sheriff studies them like he’s weighing how much to believe, then finally mutters, “You’re just in time, we found another one this morning.”

The crime scene sits just beyond the cemetery fence, tall grass bending in the wind like it’s trying to look away. A coroner’s van idles nearby and flies swarm thick and greedy in the humid air. Sam and Dean step under the yellow tape, gloves snapping tight over their hands.

The smell hits immediately: copper-heavy blood baked under the sun, layered with the sweet-sick rot of exposed viscera. It clings to the back of the throat, almost making them gag. Dean exhales through his nose. “Okay, that’s new.”

The body lies on its back, head tilted unnaturally toward the church steeple as if in accusation. The ribcage has been opened with disturbing neatness; not hacked, not torn, but parted. The sternum split clean, flesh stripped from the ribs in long, deliberate sections, muscles missing in symmetrical patterns along the thighs and abdomen. The cavity gapes open, empty where organs should rest and the heart is gone… so are portions of the liver.

No ragged edges, no scattered chunks, but just absence: long and heavy.

Flies crawl along exposed bone, dipping into dark hollows where warmth once lived. Blood has pooled beneath the spine and dried in thick, almost black sheets beneath him. “No sulfur,” Dean notes quietly, scanning with an EMF meter more out of habit than hope. “No claw marks,” Sam replies, crouching lower. He studies the edges of the wounds, fingertips hovering but not touching. “No tearing at connective tissue. It’s clean.”

Dean circles the body, boots flattening grass sticky with blood. “You ever see a wolf do this?” he mutters. “Because I haven’t.”

Sam doesn’t answer immediately but his jaw tightens slightly as he observes the way muscle has been separated from bone—not in frenzy, but with intention. The way joints were dislocated efficiently or the way nothing was wasted in certain areas.

Dean crouches beside him, lowering his voice. “Wendigo?”

Sam shakes his head faintly. “Wendigos tear, they hoard and they drag remains back to a nest. There’s no feeding pattern like that here.” Dean studies the open chest cavity again, grimacing. “Werewolf without the whole moonlight aesthetic?”

“No bite marks, no saliva traces.” Sam swallows, eyes tracing the precision again. “It’s almost… surgical.”

Dean straightens slowly, gaze drifting toward the church looming nearby, white paint glowing harsh against blue sky.

“Almost like it knew exactly what it wanted,” he mutters back at his brother. Sam stands too, staring out at the cornfields stretching endless and silent beyond the cemetery. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, he doesn’t say the cuts don’t look animal. He doesn’t say the removal patterns resemble something disturbingly deliberate, he doesn’t say that whatever did this wasn’t frenzied—it was controlled.

Instead, murmurs, “Whatever it is… it’s not sloppy.”

Dean glances at him. “You’re holding back.”

Sam’s expression shutters slightly. “I’m thinking.”

Dean studies the body one more time, jaw set hard. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Me too.”

The bell above the diner door jingles sometime after the lunch rush has thinned, and you barely look up at first. The place smells like burnt coffee, fryer grease, and lemon disinfectant; familiar, comforting in a way that almost makes you forget the tension coiled beneath your ribs. You’re tucked into your usual booth by the window, cardigan sleeves pushed over your hands, a plate of untouched pie softening in front of you. You come here more out of habit than hunger, real hunger is something else entirely.

When you finally glance toward the door, you notice them immediately: they don’t fit in.

One of them moves like he owns whatever space he steps into. Broad-shouldered, leather jacket despite the heat, boots that look worn in rather than decorative. The other is taller, quieter, his hair falling into his eyes as he scans the room with something sharper than curiosity. They aren’t dressed like locals, they aren’t passing through on farm business, there’s a weight to them, like they carry more than duffel bags in the trunk of their car.

You think city, you think temporary, you think they won’t stay long.

They slide into a booth near the counter. The older one—the louder one—flashes the waitress an easy grin and orders pie before he’s even fully seated. The taller one asks for coffee and thanks her in a voice low and careful.

You find yourself watching them without meaning to.

It’s not attraction exactly, not yet… It’s curiosity; the same kind you feel when a storm rolls in unexpectedly, something different in the air, something alive.

Your hunger stirs faintly at the edges, confused more than awakened. Not because of them specifically, but because newness has a scent all its own. You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and focus on your coffee instead, breathing slow.

At their booth, Dean leans back and stretches his arms along the vinyl seat, surveying the diner like it’s just another stop on a long, endless road. “Small town charm,” he mutters, glancing at a faded photo of the high school football team from 1998 framed crooked on the wall. “You can practically taste the cholesterol.”

Sam doesn’t smile because he’s already scanning faces subtly; farmers in seed caps, an elderly couple sharing fries, a teenage girl refilling napkin dispensers. He isn’t looking for anyone specific yet but just patterns and tells.

“Let’s eat first,” Dean says, lowering his voice once the waitress walks away. “Then we ask about the drifter. See who gets twitchy.” Sam nods, fingers tapping lightly against his mug. “Sheriff said he used to hang around here, someone might’ve noticed something.”

Dean shrugs. “Or someone’s lying.”

Their food arrives, and for a moment they look like exactly what they’re pretending to be: two road-weary men passing through, arguing lightly over who gets the last fry. Dean makes a show of enjoying the pie and Sam drinks his coffee black and watches the room over the rim of his cup.

His gaze passes over you once; not lingering, not even suspicious, simply cataloging everyone around.

You drop your eyes quickly anyway, heat creeping up your neck for reasons you don’t examine too closely. You’re used to being invisible here, so used to blending into wood-paneled walls and soft country radio playing overhead. But something about them makes the diner feel smaller.

Dean wipes his mouth with a napkin and nods subtly toward the counter. “After this, we’ll ask if anyone’s seen strangers around the railroad tracks.”

Sam hums in agreement. “Keep it casual.”

“Hey! I always do.”

Neither of them are looking at you now: you’re just another quiet girl in a cardigan, nursing cold coffee and staring out at cornfields through streaked glass.

You finish your drink and slide out of the booth, leaving a few crumpled bills beneath the plate. As you walk toward the door, you pass their table close enough to catch the scent of leather and gun oil beneath cheap motel soap. Dean glances up automatically, offering a brief, easy smile—reflexive charm. You give a small nod in return, smile on your face, the kind of acknowledgment small towns are built on.

The bell jingles again as you step back into the afternoon heat. Inside, Sam watches the door swing shut, then looks back down at his coffee. Outside, you stand for a moment on the sidewalk, sunlight pressing warm against your skin. The hunger is quiet for now, just a distant hum, vibrating under your skin and bones.

That night, you dream of teeth.

Not just your own—rows and rows of them, white and endless, lining the pews of the church like a congregation. They chatter softly in place of prayer, clicking together in rhythm with the tolling bell overhead. The sound is deafening. You’re standing barefoot in the aisle, dress hem soaked dark and heavy, and when you look down, blood is spreading from beneath your feet in slow, deliberate rivers. It creeps between the wooden boards, thick and warm, carrying the copper scent of communion turned rancid.

The altar is wrong: the cross above it drips steadily, red tracing the carved ribs of Christ’s body as if they’ve been split open fresh. His painted chest gapes, ribs pried apart like shutters, muscle exposed in glistening strands. You can see the cavity inside Him—empty, simply hollow. The organ meant to rest there gone. The congregation doesn’t scream but they kneel and they bow their heads as if this is expected, as if sacrifice has simply changed shape.

Then the floor shifts beneath you: bones push up through the wood like roots; femurs and vertebrae twisting together into something cathedral-like and obscene. Rot clings to them, sweet and suffocating, clotted pieces of muscle still attached in stringy ribbons. Hands reach up from the blood at your ankles, not to drag you down, but to hold you in place. Their fingers are slick, their palms warm against your skin. The faces attached to them are familiar: the drifter by the tracks, the stranger near the cornfield, shadows of others you never let yourself name. They don’t look angry, they look disappointed.

Church bells keep ringing, louder, louder and louder. Until the sound becomes a heartbeat—your heartbeat—pounding so hard you can taste it. The hunger pulses with it, a living thing inside your chest, pressing outward as if it wants to split you open the same way. You feel your own ribs part in the dream, feel fingers hook beneath bone and pull. Not to kill you but to look inside, to see what’s wrong.

You wake before dawn with the hunger clawing at your ribs.

Your sheets are damp with sweat; the room smells faintly metallic, though you know that’s in your head. Your jaw aches from clenching and for a split second, you swear you can still feel warmth coating your hands, something sticky beneath your nails.

It’s too soon.

You press your palm to your mouth and breathe through it, inhaling slowly, exhaling slower, like the preacher taught during long sermons when panic tried to creep in. The sky outside your window is still ink-dark, the world holding its breath before morning.

Not again, not yet.

Please.

You lie awake staring at the ceiling while the porch light hums outside your bedroom window and the house settles around you in tired creaks. Your parent’s door is closed down the hall. The clock on your nightstand blinks 3:17 a.m. in dull red numbers. The hunger has been building, low and patient, like something sharpening its teeth in the dark.

You try to pray.

You press your hands together, tug on the silver cross at your neck, bow your head, whisper words you’ve known since childhood—deliver us from evil, forgive us our trespasses—but the phrases feel thin tonight. Paper shields against something ancient and gnawing. The hunger doesn’t rage, it doesn’t scream, but God, it beckons.

By 3:43, you are sitting up.

By 3:51, you are pulling on your boots.

You don’t turn on any lights as you move through the house, you don’t look at the family photos lining the hallway, you don’t let yourself hesitate at the door. The screen creaks softly when you push it open, and the night air wraps around you thick and damp, heavy with the smell of soil and corn and distant fertilizer.

The fields are endless in the dark, silvered by moonlight and whispering prayers. You walk toward them like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Because you have.

The gravel crunches beneath your boots, crickets pause and resume their chorus. Somewhere far off, a dog barks once and then falls silent. Your pulse is steady, but your mouth floods with that familiar metallic tang; your gums ache, your fingers flex at your sides as if remembering something they were made to do.

You don’t know how long you walk before you hear him.

A laugh—sloppy, off-balance. Followed by the crunch of someone stumbling through the outer edge of the cornfield. You pause, body going still as prey. He emerges from between the stalks, swaying. Mid-thirties maybe, a shirt half untucked and a bottle dangling loose from his fingers. He smells like cheap beer and sweat and something sour beneath it.

He doesn’t see you at first. When he does, he squints. “Jesus,” he slurs. “You scared the hell outta me.” You say nothing but recognize him as one of the regulars of the diner. The hunger tightens, sharp now and the warmth of him hits you like a wave. Alive… So alive. “You lost?” he asks, taking a step closer. “You shouldn’t be out here alone, it’s late.”

The irony almost makes you laugh.

He steps closer again, close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, close enough that you can hear his heart under the slur of his breathing. You feel something inside you give way.

You move before you consciously decide to. One second there’s space between you; the next your hands are in his shirt, fingers fisted tight. He yelps in surprise, bottle dropping and shattering at your feet. For half a heartbeat, there’s confusion on his face. Then your teeth sink in. Hot.  That’s what you always forget.

How hot blood is when it spills fresh: it floods your mouth in a rush, copper-rich and thick, coating your tongue, sliding down your throat before you can even swallow properly. He screams—a wet, choking sound—and tries to push you away, but you’re stronger now. Stronger than you look, stronger than you ever want to be.

You pull him down into the grass.

The corn stalks sway above you like witnesses turning their backs.

Your hands work without hesitation, without doubt. You know where to press, where to tear: skin parts beneath your fingers with a resistance that gives way in sudden, awful bursts, muscle stretches and snaps in fibrous strands and warmth pours over your wrists, slick and alive. His movements grow weaker quickly—shock, blood loss, the body surrendering to something it cannot understand.

You don’t look at his face. You focus on the hunger because it guides you. It makes you forget about anything else.

Ribs crack beneath your grip with a muffled, splintering sound, the cavity opens under your hands, steam rising faintly in the cool night air, the smell is overwhelming; iron and salt and something almost sweet beneath it. You reach inside and feel the frantic flutter of a heart still trying. For a moment, just one, your hands hesitate.

When it’s over, the field is quiet again. Crickets resume their song and the moon watches without judgment.

You kneel back on your heels, chest heaving, blood soaking into your jeans, sticky and cooling against your skin. Your mouth is stained red, your hands tremble as the hunger recedes, as the roaring in your ears fades to a low hum. But as always, there’s tears running down your cheeks, mixing with the wet blood.

Relief settles over you like a heavy blanket.

You sit there longer than you should, staring at what remains. Pale bone catching moonlight, torn muscle exposed to open air, skin shredded apart. The earth is drinking what it’s been given. Your stomach twists—not with nausea, but with something far worse. Guilt. It crashes in once the silence returns, once the hunger is sated and you are left alone with yourself again.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into the dark. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.” You don’t know who you’re apologizing to. The man in pieces at your knees? The God hanging in the church down the road? Your parents asleep in his bed, unaware that their daughter has slipped out into the night again?

You wipe your hands on the grass, but the blood doesn’t really leave.

By the time you walk back toward the house, dawn is just beginning to bruise the horizon. The porch light is still humming and you step inside quietly, boots left by the door, and move down the hallway like a ghost returning to her grave. In your bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed and stare at your hands until the shaking stops.

The hunger is quiet now, but just for a little while.

Morning in town arrives pale and merciless.

By seven, the rumor had already outrun the sun: a farmer found him, half-hidden in the corn like something the earth tried to swallow and couldn’t finish. The sheriff calls it in with a voice stretched thin, and word travels fast—faster than it should in a place this small. Another body, worse than the others.

Dean’s phone vibrates while he’s still nursing motel coffee that tastes like burnt pennies. He answers on the second ring, jaw tightening as he listens.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “We’re on our way.”

Sam is already grabbing his jacket.

The field looks different in daylight. Cruel, blood-soaked, poison from the divine.

Yellow tape cuts across the green like a wound that won’t close, police cruisers idle along the dirt road and a small cluster of townspeople gathers at a distance despite orders to stay back—drawn by horror the same way people are drawn to open flame.

The smell carries farther this time. It’s all thick, metallic and sweet in a way that makes the stomach revolt. Dean ducks under the tape first, flashing the same federal badge as before. Sam follows, eyes already scanning the ground, the stalks bent and broken where struggle turned into collapse.

The body lies on its side this time, twisted into the grass.

Or what remains of it does.

The throat is ruined—torn open, not ragged but decisively breached. Dried blood cakes the collar of his clothes in dark, stiff layers. His abdomen has been opened wider than the previous victim, ribs forced apart at unnatural angles, cartilage snapped clean. Portions of muscle are missing from the thighs and shoulders, removed in long, deliberate strips. The cavity of his chest gapes toward the sky, organs absent in select, intentional places.

Flies swarm thick over exposed bone again. Dean swears under his breath. “Jesus.”

Sam crouches slowly, taking it in piece by piece; the soil beneath the body is blackened with blood that soaked deep overnight, there are no animal tracks circling the perimeter, no dragging marks leading away. Just impressions from a struggle that ended quickly. “He was alive when it started,” Sam murmurs, mostly to himself.

Dean glances at him. “Yeah?”

“Defensive abrasions on his forearms, bruises, like he tried to push it off.” Sam swallows slightly, eyes tracing the precision again. Dean straightens, scanning the edge of the field. Behind them, the murmur of townspeople grows louder.

That’s when Sam sees you. You didn’t mean to come, you told yourself you wouldn’t but guilt has a gravity of its own.

You stand at the edge of the crowd, cardigan pulled tight around you despite the rising heat. Your face is pale—more than usual—and your eyes are fixed on the yellow tape as if you can see through it. Gone is the smile, the bright eyes and the politeness everyone knows of you.

You can’t stop picturing it: the way his breath hitched, the sound of ribs giving way, the warmth on your hands. Your stomach twists violently, not with hunger this time but with shame. The relief from last night is gone, replaced by a hollow ache that spreads through your chest like frost.

You don’t notice Sam watching you, not at first.

He remembers you from the diner: the quiet girl with the cardigan and the tired eyes, the one who left without finishing her coffee. You don’t look like someone who belongs at a crime scene. But you’re here. He nudges Dean lightly. “I’ll be back.”

Dean arches a brow but doesn’t argue.

Sam slips back under the tape and makes his way through the onlookers, flashing his badge when necessary. You feel him before you see him, there’s a shift in the air, a presence stepping into your orbit. “Ma’am,” he says gently. You turn to face him. Up close, he looks taller than you remembered, broader and his expression isn’t accusatory— it’s careful. Concerned, almost.

“Agent Elsher,” he starts, offering the fake last name smoothly. “I saw you yesterday at the diner, right? Can I ask what you’re doing out here?” Your throat feels dry, your muscles aching inside your body.

“I live here,” you manage to voice back at him. “Everyone does.”

He nods once. “You know the victim?” You shake your head quickly. Too quickly. “I’ve seen him around.” Your eyes flick past him, toward the field, you can smell it even from here; the blood drying in the heat, the faint sweetness of opened flesh, the rot just beginning to whisper at the edges.

Your pulse stutters and the hunger stirs once more. It shouldn’t—you fed.

But it does, not because of the body, but because of him.

Sam watches the way your pupils shift, the way your breathing changes almost imperceptibly. Something in his gut tightens, not in suspicion yet, but in awareness. “You okay?” he asks quietly and you nod at him. Lie. Being this close to him feels wrong… It feels different. Your hunger has always been drawn to vulnerability—drifters, loners, men already slipping. Sam is none of those things; he is steady and strong. 

Your body reacts anyway as heat creeps up your spine, your gums ache faintly. You clench your jaw, forcing your teeth together. You don’t want to look at his throat but God, you do. “Did you hear anything last night?” he continued, voice calm. “Any shouting? Cars?”

You swallow, the memory flashes vivid and brutal—the scream cut short, the crack of bone under your hands. “No, I didn’t hear anything,” you whisper. Sam studies you for a moment longer than is comfortable.

Behind him, Dean calls out something to the sheriff, frustration lacing his tone. Your gaze flickers to the field again. The man’s ribcage is visible even from this distance—pale arcs through broken grass. A smear of darkened blood marks the earth like a signature.

Your stomach churns. “I’m sorry,” you murmur suddenly.

Sam blinks at those words. “For what?” You realize what you’ve said and shake your head quickly. “For… what’s happening. It’s—” Your voice falters. “It’s awful.” He watches you carefully. Up close, he notices the faint tremor in your hands, the exhaustion carved into your features and the way you look not frightened but burdened.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says softly. “You shouldn’t.”

Your eyes meet his and for one dangerous second, the world narrows. The hunger hums louder—not violent, not overwhelming, but curious, intrigued. It presses toward him like a compass needle seeking north. You take a step back instinctively, scared of yourself.

“I should go,” you whisper. Sam nods slowly. “If you remember anything, anything at all, come by the sheriff’s office.” You nod again.

You turn away before the pull becomes unbearable.

Sam watches you retreat through the thinning crowd, cardigan swaying around your waist, shoulders drawn tight as if you’re holding yourself together by force alone. Dean approaches him moments later. “Friend of yours?” Dean asks lightly, joking in his tone. Sam shakes his head, still watching the spot where you disappeared. “No.” But something about the way you stood there—too close, too still—lingers in his mind.

Back in the field, the body lies open to the sky, bones gleaming under harsh morning sun. And somewhere in your house, you press your back against your bedroom door and slide down to the floor, shaking.

The hunger isn’t gone at all.

Two days pass in a blur of church bells and sirens.

The town tries to fold the horror into itself the way it always does; with casseroles and whispered prayers and the steady hum of gossip behind drawn curtains. The body found by the cornfield is spoken about in lowered voices now. No one says what the coroner actually saw: the precision of torn muscle, the absence of certain organs, the way the ribs had been split like a butcher’s offering.

You know what he saw, you know because your teeth still damn ache.

You don’t sleep much or when you do, it’s shallow and fevered. You see bone under moonlight, you feel warm blood running over your wrists again. You wake with the phantom taste of iron coating your tongue and the echo of tearing flesh in your ears, nightmares and dreams mixing together.

And beneath the guilt, the crushing, nauseating guilt, there is still the hunger you know so well. It is quieter now, sated for the moment, but it hums like something coiled.

Waiting.

Sam can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t say it like that, doesn’t even let it sound personal but Dean notices the way his brother circles back to the same detail in conversation. “The coroner said the tissue removal was… deliberate,” Sam mutters from the passenger seat of the Impala, case file open on his lap. “Not random scavenging.”

Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “You think we’re dealing with a ghoul?”

“Maybe.” Sam hesitates. “Or something pretending to be one.”

“And the girl from the diner?” Dean asks lightly, but there’s a thread of curiosity under it. Sam stares out the window at the passing fields. “I don’t know, she was at the scene the next morning. She looked—” He searches for the word. “Not shocked. Just… wrecked.”

“People get wrecked seeing a body split open like that,” Dean says. “Doesn’t make them monsters.”

“I know.”

But Sam doesn’t sound convinced.

You don’t want to go back to the diner, it feels like stepping into a confession booth.

But routine is safety, routine is invisibility. So you pull on your soft cardigan, smooth your long dress, and walk through town like you always do. The bell above the diner door chimes as you step inside. The smell hits you first; it’s grease, coffee, sugar. And underneath it all—salt, sweat, warmth.

You see them immediately.

They’re seated in the same booth as before. The older one—Dean, you overheard the waitress call him—leans back with easy confidence, jacket slung over the vinyl seat. The taller one sits straighter, hands folded loosely around a mug like he’s trying to ground himself. Sam. The hunger reacts before you do, it lifts its head inside your chest like a scenting animal.

Not because they are weak but because they are strong. Because something in them feels different, denser, almost bright. It makes your mouth flood, it makes your pulse stutter. You nearly turn around and run out, trying to escape the feeling inside your chest.

But Dean sees you first, he flashes you that same easy smile. “Hey. Corner booth, right?”

You swallow, smile back at him and try to be as polite as you normally is. “Yeah, that’s me.” Your voice sounds normal, well, you think. Sam’s eyes are on you again, but not accusatory. Dean gestures to the empty seat at their table. “We were just talking about how small towns always have the best pie. You’re local, right? Any recommendations?”

It’s harmless, casual conversation between two people. You sit before you can stop yourself. The vinyl seat sticks faintly to your thighs. You fold your hands in your lap to hide how they tremble. “Cherry,” you say. “They make it from scratch. Might be the best pie I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

“See?” Dean grins at Sam. “Told you.” But Sam doesn’t smile, he studies your face, and it makes something inside you twist. “We didn’t catch your name,” he says gently.

You give it, syllables rolling onto your tongue. He repeats it like he’s testing the shape of it. “You’ve lived here long?” Dean then asks you, hands crossing on the old diner table.

“Yes, all my life.” Is all you can reply to the question, because there’s nothing else to say.  “You knew the man who died?” Sam questions you. The words land like a stone dropped into a well. You picture him again—sprawled in the dirt, breath sour with alcohol, pulse fluttering weakly in his throat before your teeth found it. You remember the sound his ribs made when you pulled them apart. The way his blood soaked into the soil.

You keep your face soft. “I’ve seen him around,” you say. “He drank a lot.”

Dean nods. “Sheriff says animal attack. You buy that?” Your hunger shifts under your ribs at the sound of his voice, uneasy. You shrug. “There are coyotes sometimes.” Sam’s gaze sharpens just slightly. “Coyotes don’t usually remove organs that cleanly.”

Your heart slams once, hard enough you think they must hear it. “I wouldn’t know,” you reply. “I’ve never seen something like that before.”

It’s the truth, you’ve never seen yourself from the outside. Never met anyone like you before. Never saw the stain of blood, the color of mud on skin, the hunger in someone else's eyes. Dean leans back, studying you now too. He’s attentive, hazel eyes on your pretty face. “You were at the scene the other morning.”

You freeze. “I—” You lick your lips; they taste like salt and fear. “Everyone was.”

“Yeah,” Dean says easily. “You just looked like it hit you hard.”

Because it did. Because you tore into a human body under the moon like a starving animal and now the memory won’t leave your hands. “I don’t like blood,” you say quietly. The lie sits between you and Sam watches your throat when you swallow.

And then it happens; the hunger flares again. It’s so sudden, making you gasp under your breath. The feeling is violent like a thunderstorm, calling at your name and tearing at your stomach. It looks at Sam first—at the strong line of his neck, the steady pulse beneath the skin. It imagines breaking that skin, it imagines warmth flooding your mouth.

Then it turns to Dean—smaller, louder, confidence like spice on his skin. You imagine sinking your teeth into his shoulder, hearing him gasp in surprise before pain overtakes it. You flinch at the ideas and images.

“Hey,” Sam says softly. “You okay?” You realize you’ve gone pale, probably. “I just—” You push back from the table too quickly. “I need air.”

Dean stands halfway, instinctively. “You want us to—”

“No.” You steady yourself. “I’m fine.” But you’re not. Because for the first time, the hunger doesn’t feel satisfied by memory. It feels curious, it feels interested to those two men. It feels like it wants to know what hunters taste like; though you don’t know that word, don’t know what they are, only that something about them is dangerous and bright and unbearably tempting.

Sam doesn’t reach for you, but he looks like he wants to. And that look, that concern in his eyes, it’s worse than suspicion. As you step out into the afternoon light, heart hammering, you don’t know what frightens you more:

That Sam suspects you or that your hunger is starting to crave them both.

But the guilt has teeth.

It does not sit quietly in you like remorse should; no, it gnaws, it scrapes its way up your spine and settles behind your eyes so that even when you blink, you see red. You try to drown it in routine—washing dishes twice, folding laundry with trembling precision, standing in the shower until the water runs cold and your skin turns pink and raw but the smell never fully leaves you. It’s like iron, soil and something sweetly rotten beneath it.

You kneel at the foot of your bed and press your forehead to your clasped hands that night. “Please,” you whisper to a God you have never felt but have always feared. “Please don’t let me do it again.”

The room is dark except for the sliver of moonlight spilling across the floorboards like pale milk. The house creaks around you, settling. Outside, the town hums in its sleep with porch lights buzzing faintly, a dog barking once and then going quiet, wind moving through the cornfields in a slow, sighing hush. You try to pray properly and you try to imagine forgiveness descending like white light through stained glass. An angel caressing your forehead, promising a room for you to Heaven.

Instead, you imagine Sam.

You see him as clearly as if he’s standing at the edge of your bed, all tall with shoulders slightly hunched as though bracing against a cold no one else feels. You remember the way he said your name at the diner, gentle, careful, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile. You imagine that same mouth parting in shock, you imagine blood there. The thought makes your stomach twist so violently you gag.

“No,” you murmur to yourself, shaking your head. “No, no—”

Then Dean intrudes into your mind, that leather jacket creaking as he leans back in the booth, grin crooked and easy. There is something solid about him, something loud and alive. You imagine your hands fisting in that jacket, dragging him closer, you imagine the resistance in his muscles when you press him down.

The hunger responds to the thoughts like a struck match, it flares bright and hot, licking at the inside of your ribs. You double over on the floor, palms digging into the wood. Your pulse hammers in your ears like church bells ringing the hour. You tell yourself to stay, you try to crawl back into bed. But the hunger has already made its decision.

It rises through you like a tide, pulling your limbs with it. Your body moves before your mind consents. You don’t remember unlocking the door. You only remember the night air hitting your face—cool, damp, carrying the scent of soil and growing things and distant human breath.

You walk barefoot into the dark.

The Impala has been idling half a mile down the road for over an hour. Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel, jaw tight. “You saw her face, Sammy. That wasn’t normal. She knows something about this.” Sam’s gaze is fixed on your house in the distance, lights out, curtains still. He doesn’t reply for a moment, letting the silence eat everything around. “I know.”

“You think she’s our monster?” Dean asks, turning his head toward his brother, trying to see his expression. There’s something serious about the taller one, right now. Something that looks like concern. “I don’t know what she is,” Sam admits quietly. “But something’s wrong.”

Dean exhales sharply. “So we watch.” Sam simply nods at that.

So they watch, for minutes, for hours, until they see the front door open and they see you step out. Sam straightens immediately. “That’s her.” You move like someone sleepwalking—slow, deliberate, head slightly bowed. You don’t look left or right, you don’t see the car parked down the road with its lights off.

“Where’s she going?” Dean mutters, eyes squinting as he tries to follow the movements of your body. Sam’s voice is low. “Into the fields.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate, pushing the door of the driver seat of Baby. “Let’s go.”

The corn swallows you whole, stalks brush your shoulders and whisper secrets against your ears. The moon hangs low and swollen above you, pale and watchful. Your breath comes in shallow pulls, every sense sharpens until the world feels unbearably loud; the rustle of fabric, the crunch of dirt underfoot, the distant murmur of voices. Voices. You stop in your steps.

There, ahead and deeper in the field, a soft laugh. A girl’s voice, breathless and bright and then, a boy answering her in a low murmur. You close your eyes, you could turn back, you should go home. But the hunger presses forward, relentless, begging to be fed like an animal. So you step toward the sound.

Through a break in the stalks and near the clearing, you see them: a couple tangled together on a blanket, limbs bare in the moonlight. The boy is leaning over her, kissing her neck, she giggles and pushes at his shoulders playfully. They are so alive it hurts through the bones of your ribs. Your mouth floods, your nails dig crescents into your palms. “Don’t,” you whisper to yourself, but you are already moving.

The first scream is cut short; you hit him with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, the girl tumbles sideways, shrieking, scrambling backward through the dirt. “What the hell—?!” the boy gasps, trying to shove you off. Your hands are in his hair and your teeth find his throat too fast for him to do anything about it. It’s over before he can even think about it. 

Skin splits with a sickening ease, hot blood surges into your mouth, thick and metallic, and the sound he makes—that choked, bubbling cry—vibrates against your jaw. You press him down harder, knees digging into his ribs as he thrashes. The girl is screaming now, scrambling to her feet. “Get off him! Get off—!” You tear, you rip apart, you shred.

Your fingers hook beneath his shirt, dragging fabric and skin aside. You feel the delicate give of muscle under your nails, the slick slide of it when you pull. There is a crack; sharp and obscene as one of his ribs gives way beneath the pressure of your grip. He is still alive when you bite deeper because you feel the flutter of his pulse weaken against your tongue.

The girl runs away, her scream rips through the cornfield, high and hysterical.

“Dean—” Sam’s voice is tight through the darkness of the night. “Did you hear that?” They are already moving, pushing through the stalks toward the sound. Another scream, it’s closer now, more panicked. Dean draws his gun as they break into a clearing.

The flickering headlights from the road spill faintly through the gaps in the corn, illuminating you in flashes of white. Sam stops dead when he sees you, his brain not understanding the vision he has, for a second. It can’t be true, it can’t be that. “Jesus Christ.” He mutters quietly; you are kneeling over what used to be a boy, his chest is open.

Bones gleams wetly in the moonlight, jagged and wrong. Blood soaks into the earth beneath him, dark and spreading. Your hands are buried inside him, slick to the wrists, with your mouth red, chin dripping, eyes wide and glass-bright in the light. Your white nightdress is soaked with crimson blood, the smell of iron and copper sticking to the fabric. For a moment, you don’t even see them, you are too busy breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling, as if you’ve just surfaced from deep water.

Dean’s voice cuts through the night, sharp and electrifying. “Hey!” You flinch immediately, your head snaps toward the sound like a deer caught in headlights, pupils blown out, . Sam steps forward despite himself. “It’s her,” he breathes, horror and something heartbreakingly like recognition mixing in his tone. You stare at them, blood drips from your fingers back into the ruin of the boy’s chest. Your expression shifts—confusion, then shame, then something feral and starving that makes Dean’s grip tighten on his gun.

“Drop him,” Dean orders, voice rough. You look down at what you’re holding; at the torn flesh in your hands, at the open cavity where a heart used to beat. Your lips part, trembling, voice quiet. “I tried,” you whisper, though you don’t know if you’re speaking to them or to God. “I tried not to.”

Sam’s gaze locks with yours and for one terrible, suspended second, the hunger inside you turns toward him again. It recognizes him, it wants, it longs for the heart beating inside his chest. Dean sees the change in your eyes, the slightest of shifts. “Sam,” he warns softly.

You rise slowly from the body, blood sliding down your arms like dark sleeves and crimson ribbons. The girl’s screams are fading in the distance, forgotten for a moment. The cornfield is suddenly too small to contain what you are and Sam, standing there in the moonlight, realizes with a sickening certainty—they didn’t find the monster but the monster found them. 

For a long moment after the screaming stops, the world feels carved out of silence.

You are standing in the middle of it; in the trampled clearing, in the metallic fog of fresh blood, in the wreckage of a boy whose name you never learned. Your breath comes in ragged pulls. The night air is thick and damp, clinging to your skin where it isn’t already lacquered in red, it dries in stiffening streaks along your forearms, dark and almost black under the moon.

Dean’s gun is still pointed at you but it looks small compared to what you’ve done.

Sam steps closer despite it, boots sinking slightly into the churned dirt. His gaze moves over the scene with dawning horror—the torn sternum, the exposed cavity, the slick gleam of organs interrupted and handled and bitten. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, but he doesn’t look away from you for long. “What are you?” he asks again, but this time it’s clear bewilderment.

You don’t know how to answer without sounding insane.

Your teeth chatter once: not from cold, but from the comedown. The hunger that had roared through you minutes ago is quieter now, coiled and sated, licking its chops in the dark recesses of your ribs. It is pleased. It hums low and satisfied, like a choir after the final hymn. “I don’t have an official name for it,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’ve tried to find one, though.”

Dean’s eyes flick to the body and back to you. “You eat people,” he says flatly.

“Yes. I am an eater.” There is no point in softening it, no point of denying it anymore. The word lands heavy between you; it feels like kneeling in a confessional and admitting the worst thing you’ve ever done—except there is no absolution waiting behind a screen, only the cold mouth of a gun.

“I don’t hunt during the day,” you continue, because if you stop speaking you might collapse. “I don’t stalk children, I don’t break into houses, I wait until the hunger is so loud I can’t hear my own thoughts. And then I go somewhere empty, somewhere I think no one will notice.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, his eyes darkening. “Someone always notices.”

You nod, tears cutting pale tracks through the blood on your cheeks. “I know.”

The wind moves faintly through the corn again, making the stalks whisper around you. It sounds almost like prayer, like a congregation murmuring in the dark. “I tried to starve it out once,” you say quietly. “Locked myself in my room for five days, I thought if I prayed hard enough, if I didn’t move, if I made myself small enough, God would see me and fix it.”

Sam’s expression changes at that, something in it cracks, like he can understand a point of your story. “What happened?” he asks. You give a broken laugh. “I nearly tore my own arm open.” The confession hangs in the air.

“It’s not a taste,” you try to explain, pressing a shaking hand to your chest. “It’s pressure. It builds here, like something pushing out from the inside and it makes my bones feel hollow, my teeth ache, my skin feels too tight. And when I see someone—when I smell them—it’s like the bell rings.”

“Bell,” Dean repeats.

“Like church bells calling the faithful,” you whisper. “Only I’m not walking toward salvation, I’m walking directly toward slaughter.” Dean lowers the gun an inch without realizing he’s done it.

Sam looks at the dead boy again, at the violence of it; the split ribs like broken cathedral arches, the blood soaking into the roots of the corn. He has seen monsters before, all sorts. Ghouls, vampires, wendigos, spirits or things that delight in carnage. You do not look delighted, no, you look ruined. “You were at the diner,” Sam says slowly. “You felt it then.”

Your breath stutters. “Yes.”

“With us.” You can’t meet his eyes.

“It was louder,” you admit. “Stronger… I don’t know why, but it scared me.”

Dean lets out a humorless huff. “That’s comforting.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you say quickly, desperate. “That’s why I left. That’s why I went into the fields instead of staying in town.” Instead. The word is a knife. Dean drags a hand down his face. “So what, we’re supposed to give you points for picking random over personal?”

“No,” you whisper. “I’m not asking for points. I’m asking you to understand that I hate this.”

The night presses closer around you, heavy and intimate, blood continues to drip from your fingertips in slow, rhythmic taps. Sam studies you the way he studies lore: searching for pattern, for origin, for some line in some book that might explain you. “You were born like this?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“No bite, no ritual, no deal?”

“No.” You voice back at him, at them. Dean finally lowers the gun fully, though he keeps it in his hand. “Great,” he mutters. “A homegrown nightmare.” You flinch at the word nightmare, because that’s what it feels like; like you’ve been trapped in one since childhood, since the first time you stared too long at the pulse in someone’s throat and felt your mouth fill with saliva.

“Then maybe you should kill me,” you say, and your voice is steadier now than you expect. “Before it happens again.” The hunger reacts instantly, thrashing against the cage of your ribs, furious at the suggestion. Your knees weaken under the force of it and you sway. Sam moves forward without thinking but Dean’s hand shoots out to block him. “Careful.”

“I’m not going to attack him,” you say faintly. “If I was going to, I would have.” Dean doesn’t answer, he looks at the body, at you and finally, at Sam. They’ve made these decisions before in graveyards and barns and abandoned warehouses. Usually it’s clear. Usually the monster lunges, or laughs, or bares its teeth.

You just stand there, shaking, covered in evidence.

“She’s not possessed,” Sam says quietly. “She’s not turned, she’s not feeding for fun.”

“She’s still feeding,” Dean replies.

“And if we shoot her,” Sam continues, “we still don’t know what she is… or if there are more like her.” Dean’s mouth presses into a thin line.

You suddenly feel very small.

The town lies just beyond the fields: houses dark, porch lights humming, unaware that something ancient and wrong has been kneeling in its crops for years. The thought of staying makes your stomach churn.

“I can’t stay here,” you whisper. “The girl ran away… They’ll find this, they’ll start asking questions, and put me in jail. I’m not able to hide anymore.” Dean glances toward the road, toward the faint glint of the Impala through the stalks.

“You’re right about one thing,” he says. “You can’t stay.” You look up at him, startled. Sam’s eyes flick to his brother’s. “Dean.”

“We don’t know what she is, no idea if she’s truly human,” Dean repeats. “Which means we don’t know how to kill her or if we can—and I’m not big on shooting first and Googling later.” Despite everything, a hysterical sound escapes you. Dean meets your gaze fully for the first time since the gun went up; there’s no softness there, but there isn’t cruelty either.

“You’re coming with us,” he says. The words don’t make sense at first. “What?”

“You want to not kill people?” he continues. “Then you don’t get to sit in this town and wait for the next bell to ring. We figure out what you are, we figure out if there’s a cure or a leash.” Sam exhales slowly, tension easing just a fraction. “We can research, cross-reference. There has to be something.”

“And if there isn’t?” you ask, still not realizing that Dean isn’t going to kill you on the spot. Dean’s jaw tightens. “Then we’ll deal with that when we get there.”

It’s a stay of execution.

Your legs finally give out, you sink to your knees in the blood-soaked dirt, not in surrender but in exhaustion. The hunger is quiet now, full and drowsy but the guilt is louder, howling in the hollow space it left behind. It always is after you finish eating. It’s like a loud ringing in your ears.

Sam steps closer again, slower this time, giving you room to flinch away. “You need to clean up,” he says gently. You look down at yourself—at the red coating your skin, at the evidence of what you are.

You nod without replying.

They don’t let you wash in the boy’s bloodied clearing, they guide you back toward the road, keeping distance but not abandoning you. Dean walks slightly behind, watchful and Sam stays to your side, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. It makes the hunger stir faintly but you shove it down.

At the edge of the field, Dean shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it toward you. “Put that on.” It’s absurdly tender, the gesture. You slip your arms into it despite the blood, leather sticking to your skin.

The Impala waits like something patient and black beneath the moon. You hesitate before climbing in and behind you, the town sleeps on—unaware that one of its quiet daughters is leaving in the dead of night, stained red, riding shotgun with two hunters who haven’t decided whether she’s a case study or a future grave. Your parents are sleeping in the house, with the porch light flickering, moths attracted to it like flies to rot.

Sam gets into the back seat with you instead of the front as Dean starts the engine. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the road out of town.

As the fields fall away behind you and the small Ohio houses shrink into nothing, you press your forehead to the cool glass and close your eyes. You don’t know if this is salvation, you don’t know if it’s a longer road to the gallows. But for the first time in your life, you are not alone with the bell ringing inside your ribs.

And somewhere between the fading cornfields and the open highway, the hunger goes quiet.

For now.

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