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John Winchester gripped the steering wheel of his '67 Impala, the engine rumbling like a caged beast as he cruised down a rain-slicked highway outside Chicago.
It was 1995, and the world was still a mess of demons, vamps, and worse. But bills didn't pay themselves, and holy water didn't buy ammo.
That's why he'd started taking side jobs—mercenary work for the kind of lowlifes who thought their problems were purely human.
His latest tip came from a greasy informant in a dive bar: a crime lord named Victor Russo was offering 50 grand to take out his rival, Marco "The Bull" Santini.
Russo figured it was a simple mob hit—Santini had been muscling in on his territory, leaving bodies in his wake.
But John's hunter instincts pinged hard when he dug deeper. Santini's victims weren't just shot or stabbed; they were drained dry, throats torn like a wild animal had gotten to them first. Classic vamp signs. If he was going to stake the bastard anyway, why not collect the bounty?
John parked in the shadows of Santini's warehouse on the docks, the air thick with the stench of fish and fear.
He checked his gear: Colt .45 loaded with bullets covered in dead man's blood, a machete, and a fake ID courtesy of a forger he’d saved from a werewolf pack last month.
Merc work had its perks—better weapons, intel from underground networks, even a burner phone that didn't have to be switched out frequently.
Slipping inside, he moved like a ghost, avoiding the goons patrolling the perimeter. Santini was in the back office, surrounded by muscle, laughing over a card game.
But John spotted the tells: pale skin, fangs glinting under the fluorescent lights when the guy smirked too wide. Definitely a vamp, and an old one, judging by the way his eyes flicked to the shadows like he sensed something off.
The hit went down fast. John burst in, unloading bullets into the guards—humans, unfortunately, but they drew first.
Santini lunged, supernaturally quick, but John was ready. He dodged, swung the machete in a clean arc, and took the vamp's head. Blood sprayed, black and foul, confirming the kill.
As the body crumpled, John rifled through Santini's desk: ledgers of illicit deals, a stash of cash, and—jackpot—a journal hinting at a nest in the sewers.
More hunts meant more jobs; word would spread in the underworld that Santini was "handled," and Russo would pay up without knowing the supernatural angle.
Back in the Impala, John counted the payout—enough for a month's worth of gas, motels, and following leads on the Yellow-Eyed Demon. But as he drove off, his phone buzzed.
Another contact: a cartel boss down south needed a "problem" eliminated. Rumors said the target shape-shifted. Perfect. Hunting wasn't just vengeance anymore. It was good business.