Windom, Minnesota
January 2002
Adam Milligan was twelve when he decided he was ready to hunt monsters.
After some consideration, he thought it was time for his first hunt, fueled by his growing confidence and curiosity.
Two years had passed since his past memories had crashed into his brain like a meteor. Two years of preparation, of careful study, of slowly transforming himself from a normal kid into something that could survive.
He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, assessing the changes. He was taller now, the baby fat melting away from his face. His hair was cut short—practical, like Dean's. The bruise under his left eye was fading to yellow, a souvenir from a fight last week. Some eighth-grader had been picking on Tommy Wilson, and Adam had stepped in. The bully had gotten in one good hit before Adam took him down with a sweep kick he'd been practicing for months.
The principal had called Kate, of course.
"Fighting?" she'd asked in the car afterward, her voice tight. "This isn't like you."
"He was hurting Tommy," Adam had replied simply.
Kate had sighed. "I'm proud you stood up for your friend, but there are other ways to handle bullies."
Adam hadn't argued. She was right—there were other ways. But he needed to test himself against real opponents, not just imaginary monsters. And he'd won, hadn't he? That was the important part.
His journal had doubled in size over the past two years, filled with neat, cramped handwriting. Supernatural creatures categorized by type. Weaknesses and strengths listed in color-coded charts. Newspaper clippings of strange deaths or disappearances from three states.
During school breaks, he'd convinced Kate to take "educational trips" to places like the Sioux Falls Library (hoping to run into Bobby Singer) and Lawrence, Kansas (to see the Winchester house, though he didn't tell her that part). He'd even talked her into a weekend in Blue Earth, Minnesota, where he'd sat in Pastor Jim Murphy's congregation, just watching. None of them had recognized him, of course. Why would they? He didn't exist to them yet—not in any way that mattered.
There had been no sign of John Winchester. Adam had checked every hunting season, every Father's Day. Part of him had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that his father might show up.
Adam splashed water on his face and headed to his room. The walls were covered with star charts and sports posters—normal kid stuff, carefully curated as camouflage. The real Adam lived in the hidden compartment he'd built into the bottom of his desk drawer, where he kept his hunter's journal and the growing collection of "weird stuff" he'd accumulated.
His prize possession was a silver knife he'd bought with saved allowance money, telling the pawn shop owner it was for his "dad's collection." He'd practiced throwing it at trees in the woods for months until his aim was decent. Not great, but decent.
"The convergence of similar protection rituals across disparate cultures suggests a universal human response to perceived supernatural threats," Dr. Eleanor Reed said, sliding a book across her desk toward Adam. "This text explores parallels between Eastern European vampire lore and similar creatures in Filipino mythology."
Adam eagerly took the university-level book. "Thanks, Dr. Reed. This is perfect for my... project."
Dr. Reed smiled, adjusting her glasses. "You know, most twelve-year-olds would rather be playing video games than reading comparative mythology texts."
"I'm not most twelve-year-olds," Adam replied, already flipping through the pages.
"That," Dr. Reed said dryly, "is abundantly clear."
Over the past two years, Dr. Reed had become something close to a mentor. She still thought his interest was purely academic—a peculiar hobby for a precocious child. Adam had carefully cultivated what he called his "cover story": that he was fascinated by the psychological aspects of monster myths, how different cultures processed fear through storytelling.
Dr. Reed ate it up. She'd introduced him to colleagues, helped him access texts well beyond his grade level, and even let him catalog some of the artifacts in her small folklore museum.
"I've been thinking about your theory," Adam said carefully, "about iron as a universal protective element. It appears in almost every culture with metallurgy, right?"
"Indeed," Dr. Reed nodded. "From horseshoes in Western traditions to iron daggers in Thai funeral rites. The consistency is remarkable."
"So... hypothetically speaking," Adam ventured, "if these myths were based on real encounters with... something, then iron would actually repel certain supernatural entities?"
Dr. Reed's eyes twinkled. "Are we speaking hypothetically or are we planning for the zombie apocalypse?"
Adam forced a laugh. "Just hypothetically. For my paper."
"Well then, hypothetically speaking," she tapped her chin thoughtfully, "if I were facing a supernatural threat, I'd trust centuries of consistent folklore over modern skepticism. Humans are remarkably good at pattern recognition. If iron worked against certain phenomena consistently enough to make it into multiple cultural traditions, I'd have an iron bar in my hand when investigating bumps in the night."
Adam nodded thoughtfully. This was why he valued Dr. Reed—she never outright said she believed, but she never fully dismissed the possibility either. She lived comfortably in the gray area between skepticism and belief.
"By the way," she added, "I came across something you might find interesting." She slid a newspaper clipping his way. "Animal attacks outside town. Three in the past month. Probably just a wolf, but the pattern reminded me of your research."
Adam's heart skipped a beat as he scanned the article. Three attacks. The latest victim was a farmer's cow, found with its insides removed and strange marks on the remaining hide.
He checked the locations mentioned in the article—all near wooded areas, within a certain range. Classic wendigo territory and behavior. In his memories, wendigos were known for starting with animals before moving to human prey. They were fast, strong, but ultimately straightforward to kill: burn them with fire.
Perfect, he thought. A wendigo. Simple weakness, clean kill, in and out. The ideal first hunt for a beginner.
"Thanks," he said, folding the clipping carefully. "This is perfect."
Adam began tracking the attacks that night, marking locations on a map pinned inside his closet door. Three points forming a rough triangle around the outskirts of Windom. All near old forest service trails and abandoned hunting cabins—exactly where a wendigo might establish a feeding ground.
The sheriff told the local paper it was probably a wolf driven south by hunger, maybe rabid. Locals were keeping pets indoors and carrying rifles when checking their livestock.
But Adam knew better. The wound patterns described in the articles didn't match wolf attacks. Too precise. Too targeted. Plus, wendigos were known to hoard parts of their victims. It all fit the pattern.
He needed more information. He borrowed his mom's digital camera, claiming it was for a school project, and rode his bike out to the Thompson farm where the latest attack had occurred. Mr. Thompson was at the feed store—Adam had overheard him telling the cashier at the grocery—which gave him a narrow window to investigate.
The cow had been found in the north pasture, according to the article. Adam leaned his bike against the fence and walked along the perimeter until he found the police tape still fluttering from a fence post. He ducked under it, scanning the ground.
The grass was trampled in a wide circle, dark stains still visible despite recent rain. Adam knelt, examining the dirt. Large prints—not human, not fully animal either. Something in between. He took photos, careful to include objects for scale.
"It's definitely a wendigo," Adam told himself, dismissing his doubts. "The location, the feeding pattern, everything matches."
Adam flipped back to the wendigo section, confident in his assessment. His first hunt needed to be something manageable. Fire kills wendigos—simple, direct, straightforward. Even in his memories, Sam and Dean had handled one early in their reunion.
That night, he packed a small backpack: salt in a plastic container (effective against spirits), a silver-plated letter opener (just in case), and most importantly, three small glass bottles filled with gasoline with cloth wicks pushed into the tops—homemade Molotov cocktails. The perfect wendigo-killers. He added a basic first-aid kit stolen from under the bathroom sink, a flashlight, and his digital camera.
He waited until his mom night shift at the hospital, leaving a note saying he was sleeping over at Tommy Wilson's house. He'd already called Tommy, securing his alibi with promises of letting him copy Adam's math homework for a week.
This was reckless. He knew it. Everything he'd learned from his past memories and from Carrigan's journal warned against hunting alone. But he wasn't planning to engage just yet—purely observe, gather information, maybe set up some trail cameras he'd bought with his savings. Reconnaissance, not combat.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Because deep down he knows, he have that deep curiosity, this world that suppose to be a TV show in his past life, the world he live now that are full of Supernatural creature, Demon, Angel, Chuck.
Besides, it was just a wendigo. The most straightforward monster in the hunting playbook—hit it with fire, watch it burn. If he ran into trouble, he'd retreat. No heroics. Just a simple first outing to get his feet wet.
The full moon hung like a spotlight as Adam made his way through the woods at the edge of the Thompson property. The night was crisp, his breath fogging in little clouds. He'd dressed in layers—dark clothes, hood pulled up, face smeared with mud to break up his silhouette.
He moved carefully, placing each foot deliberately to minimize noise. He'd been practicing this too, walking through the dry leaves behind his house until he could move almost silently. Almost.
He reached the pasture where the cow had been killed and crouched at the tree line, surveying the open ground. Nothing moved except the tall grass, swaying in the light breeze. Across the field, the Thompson farmhouse stood dark and quiet.
Adam checked his watch: 11:42 PM. From what he remembered, wendigos hunted primarily at night. He settled in to wait, back against a tree, one of his Molotov cocktails ready in his right hand.
The minutes crawled by. Midnight came and went. Adam fought to stay alert, scanning the field methodically. Nothing.
By 1:30 AM, his legs were cramping and doubt was creeping in. Maybe it wasn't a wendigo after all. Maybe the sheriff was right about a rogue wolf. Maybe—
A twig snapped to his left.
Adam froze, not even breathing. His eyes strained in the darkness.
Another sound—something moving through the underbrush. Not carelessly like a deer, but with purpose. Stalking.
Adam turned his head slowly toward the sound, finger on his flashlight switch but not turning it on yet. The moonlight cast long shadows between the trees, playing tricks on his eyes.
There. Twenty yards away. A figure, hunched and moving on all fours, but not quite like an animal. More like a human pretending to be one. It paused, lifting its head to scent the air.
Adam's heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. This was real. All his preparation, all his research—suddenly crystallized in this moment. Monsters existed. He wasn't crazy.
The creature turned, and moonlight caught its face. Adam bit back a gasp. It looked almost human, but... wrong. The proportions were off, the skin mottled and stretched over too-sharp bones. Its eyes reflected the moonlight like an animal's.
Wait... this didn't look like the wendigos from his memories. Those were more emaciated, more corpse-like. This was... different.
Adam raised his camera slowly, zooming in as far as possible, and took a picture. The flash was off, but the camera made a soft click.
The creature's head snapped toward him, nostrils flaring.
Shit.
Adam scrambled backward, abandoning stealth for speed. He needed distance. The backpack slapped against his spine as he ran, dodging between trees. Behind him, he heard the creature moving—fast, much faster than he'd anticipated.
He risked a glance back and saw it gaining, no longer on all fours but running upright with an awkward, loping gait. Its mouth was open, revealing too many teeth.
This wasn't right. Wendigos didn't move like that. Didn't look like that. What had he gotten himself into?
Adam grabbed his container of salt and skidded to a stop, pouring a hasty line across the forest floor. He backed away, chest heaving, as the creature approached the line.
It slowed, sniffing curiously at the salt.
Then it stepped over the line without hesitation.
Not a ghost, then. Definitely not.
Adam fumbled for one of his Molotov cocktails, hands shaking as he tried to light the wick with a match. The creature was ten yards away now, moving more cautiously, studying him with unnervingly intelligent eyes.
The match struck, flared, and went out in the breeze.
Come on, come on.
Second match. This time the wick caught. Adam hurled the bottle at the creature's feet. It hit a rock, the glass shattering, the gasoline igniting in a whoosh of blue-orange flame.
The creature hissed, backing away from the fire but not fleeing. It circled, looking for a way past the flames.
"Stay back!" Adam's voice came out higher than he intended, cracking with fear. He pulled out the silver letter opener, holding it in front of him like a talisman. "I'm warning you!"
The creature tilted its head, almost curiously. Then it smiled—a terrible, knowing smile that didn't belong on something inhuman.
It lunged, not at Adam but to the side, flanking the fire. Adam slashed with the letter opener, catching it across the forearm. The creature didn't even flinch.
Not affected by silver either. Definitely not a wendigo. What the hell was this thing?
Cold panic washed over Adam. He'd been wrong. This wasn't the simple monster he'd expected. This was something else—something he wasn't prepared for.
Adam backed away, mind racing. Not a ghost. Not a wendigo. Not affected by silver. What was left? Skinwalker? What were their weaknesses?
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus," he began desperately, falling back on the exorcism rite he'd memorized. His Latin came out garbled with fear, words running together.
The creature paused, tilting its head again. Then it made a sound—a hoarse, rasping noise that took Adam a moment to recognize as laughter.
Adam turned and ran.
The forest blurred around him as he sprinted, branches whipping his face. He could hear the creature behind him, toying with him now, letting him run before cutting him off.
He broke through the trees into a small clearing, momentarily disoriented. Which way was the road? The farm? Anywhere with people?
A shape hurtled from the darkness, slamming into him from the side. Adam went down hard, the world spinning as he tumbled across the forest floor. He hit a tree trunk with a crack that rattled his teeth, tasting blood where he'd bitten his tongue.
The creature loomed over him, moonlight gleaming on its too-wide grin. This close, Adam could smell it—a sickly-sweet odor of rotting meat and something else, something chemical. Its eyes weren't just reflecting light, they were glowing with an internal fire, hungry and ancient.
Adam tried to scramble backward, but his body wouldn't cooperate. His vision swam. Concussion, probably.
The creature leaned closer. Its mouth opened, impossibly wide, jaw unhinging like a snake's.
Adam's hand closed around a rock. With the last of his strength, he swung it at the creature's temple. It connected with a satisfying crack, but the creature barely flinched.
It grabbed him by the throat, lifting him like he weighed nothing. Adam kicked, struggling, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision as his oxygen dwindled.
He was going to die here. Stupid, arrogant, and alone. No heroic sacrifice, no grand purpose. Just a kid who thought he knew more than he did. Who thought his first hunt would be simple. Who thought he was ready for a wendigo when he couldn't even properly identify what monster he was tracking.
The creature's face filled his vision, those glowing eyes studying him with terrible intelligence.
Then it spoke, its voice like gravel being crushed.
"Its you," it growled, the word barely recognizable as English.
Adam's blood turned to ice. It knew. Somehow, it knew who he was.
Its grip tightened. Adam couldn't breathe. The world narrowed to those burning eyes and the knowledge that he'd failed before he'd even really begun.
He tried one last, desperate move, driving his thumb toward the creature's eye.
It caught his wrist, squeezing until bones ground together. Adam screamed, the sound strangled by the grip on his throat.
The creature pulled him closer, its jaws opening wide enough to take his head. Adam squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the end.
In his final seconds, one thought cut through the terror:
I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry.
He felt the creature's breath, hot and rancid on his face. Then it lunged—
And everything went black.