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At the Roadhouse, they say that little Sammy was the first one to get bitten and that Dean had captured him, tied him down, and had had the machete ready. Then, they say, when Sam begged for Dean to end it, even as the bloodlust slowly took him and savaged his mind – Dean just couldn’t do it.
They say that Sam turned his brother and that they moved up into the mountains, hunting deer and bear and Wendigo.
You ask if anyone’s ever Hunted them.
None that’ve ever come back, says the old Hunter as he throws back what’s left of his whiskey and stands.
You shake your head and that night you sharpen your knives and fill needles with dead man's blood.
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Hazel eyes follow your movements; they’re accompanied by green a few seconds later and you’ve never felt so terrified in your whole life as you stare down the double barrel. Sam's eyes, full of rage and agony and betrayal; Dean's filled with nothing.
And just as the gun goes off – that old Hunter’s words echo in your ears.
None that’ve ever come back.
And you die right there, high up in the mountains and under the shining sun.
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End.