The Ellwood tunnels weren't on any modern map.
Roy drove them out in silence. The road narrowed the farther they got—blacktop turned to gravel, gravel turned to cracked dirt. The tree line thickened. Fog rolled low between the branches.
Adam stared out the window, Elizabeth's journal open on his lap, the pendant clutched in his hand. The symbol seemed to pulse with subtle warmth, growing stronger as they approached Ellwood. Not imagination—something real. Something in his blood responding to... whatever waited ahead.
"You sure about this?" Roy asked, breaking the silence. "Your mom know where you are?"
"Left a note saying I was studying at Tommy's," Adam replied. The lies came easier these days. "We'll be back before she gets off her shift."
Roy grunted, unconvinced. "And if we find something nasty down there?"
"Then we deal with it." Adam's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "That's what hunters do."
The older hunter shot him a sideways glance. "You're fifteen, kid."
"Almost sixteen." As if that made a difference. As if any of it mattered when he carried memories of a future that shouldn't exist, when he'd fought monsters even Dean Winchester hadn't faced yet.
They parked beside the remnants of an old lumber mill. Nothing but collapsed beams and rusted rails leading into the trees.
Winter was retreating, but barely. The undergrowth was still dormant, skeletal branches reaching like gnarled fingers through patches of lingering snow. The air smelled of wet earth and rotting wood.
Adam carried the map. Roy carried the salt and iron.
And both carried enough weapons to start a small war—silver knives, iron crowbars, shotguns loaded with rock salt. Hunting 101: Never enter unknown territory unprepared.
They followed Elizabeth's map through what had once been the main street of Ellwood. Nature had reclaimed most of it—concrete cracked by tree roots, storefronts collapsed into piles of weathered timber. The fog thickened as they moved deeper into the ghost town, muffling their footsteps, limiting visibility to twenty yards at most.
"Place gives me the creeps," Roy muttered, shotgun ready as they passed the hollowed-out remains of what might have been a general store.
Adam didn't respond. He was focused on the pendant, which now seemed to vibrate slightly, pulling him forward like a compass needle seeking north.
The symbol on Elizabeth's pendant matched a marking half-buried in moss on a slab of stone near the entrance of what looked like a sealed mine shaft.
"Look at this," Roy muttered, brushing dirt away.
Faded sigils. Not demonic. Not angelic. Older. Defensive.
The markings encircled what appeared to be an entrance—not a mine shaft as it had first appeared, but something more deliberate. A constructed doorway, disguised to look like part of the natural rock face. The stones fit together with precision that spoke of skilled craftsmanship, not miners hastily shoring up a tunnel.
Mechanical locks rusted shut.
It took them forty minutes to force it open—turning a heavy crank system and shifting a counterbalance that dropped a steel hatch downward with a slow, grinding moan.
Behind it, a narrow tunnel descended into the dark.
"Someone went to a hell of a lot of trouble to hide this," Roy said, shining his flashlight into the opening. The beam revealed stone steps leading downward, disappearing into blackness.
Adam checked his weapons one last time. "Or to keep something in."
Roy's expression hardened. "You know, most kids your age would be running the other direction right about now."
"I'm not most kids." Adam took a deep breath and started down the steps.
Inside, the air was cold and still.
Their flashlights cut through dust and cobwebs, revealing a stone corridor reinforced with old steel beams. The walls were lined with the same symbols from the pendant and Elizabeth's journal—protective sigils, intricate and precisely carved. Some seemed to shimmer faintly when the light passed over them, as if responding to their presence.
At the end was a door—reinforced with brass fittings, a sigil etched into the center, now worn smooth with time.
Adam hesitated, hand hovering over the symbol. In his dreams, this was always where the woman with the lantern stood—at the threshold of something important. Something dangerous.
"You recognize this?" Roy asked, studying the door.
Adam nodded slowly. "From my dreams. Exact same door."
Roy's eyebrows rose. "Dreams that started after you messed with a demon's plans. Dreams about a place your great grandmother knew. You sure you want to keep going?"
Instead of answering, Adam placed his hand directly on the symbol. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a faint blue glow spread from beneath his palm, tracing the lines of the sigil like liquid light. There was a click, and the door swung inward on surprisingly well-oiled hinges.
They opened it and stepped inside.
Adam's breath caught.
The he remember something from the show, the Men of Letter.
It wasn't a bunker like Lebanon. Not nearly as large. But it wasn't just a basement, either.
It was a Men of Letters outpost.
A forgotten relay station—built sometime before the organization's fall in 1958. Functional. Sealed. Preserved.
"This is... insane," Adam whispered.
In his "past life" memories—the ones from watching Supernatural—he knew about the Men of Letters. The secret organization that cataloged the supernatural, that trained generations of hunters and scholars before being wiped out by Abaddon. The legacy that Sam and Dean would eventually inherit.
But this outpost? This connection to his maternal bloodline? That wasn't in any episode he remembered.
This was new.
The room was lined with metal cabinets and filing systems. A dusty rotary carousel of journals stood in the center, still turning slowly from their entrance. A microfilm reader sat covered in a plastic sheet. One wall was covered with maps—faded, but legible. Pins and colored thread connected cities, countries, continents.
Each path labeled by hand: Beast Migration Patterns Demonic Disturbance Flow Celestial Fluctuations Hunter Deployment Routes
Roy whistled low. "This was surveillance. Intel. Coordination."
"Elizabeth knew about this," Adam muttered. "She used this."
He moved to one of the cabinets, carefully pulling open a drawer. Inside were alphabetically organized folders, each containing detailed reports on supernatural incidents across the region. Some dated back to the 1920s.
He found her initials in one of the leather logbooks: E.M. Reports from the 1940s. Notes on skinwalker outbreaks in Saskatchewan. Siren rituals in the Upper Peninsula.
"She was a regional affiliate," Adam said. "Not a full member. But they trusted her."
Roy wiped his hand across a shelf and pulled back dust to reveal a brass plate: Men of Letters – Northern Relay Node #7
He looked around, cautious now. "They would've abandoned this when the main order got wiped out in '58."
Adam nodded. "They never came back."
According to Sam and Dean's future discoveries, Abaddon had killed nearly all the American Men of Letters in a single night. The few who survived went underground or fled the country. This outpost—remote, hidden, secretive—must have been forgotten in the chaos.
"Your grandmother knew about this place," Roy said. "She was working with them. But why leave you breadcrumbs? Why not just tell your grandma, or even your mom?"
Adam thought about Elizabeth's journal entry: "The children must never know—must never be drawn into this life. But if the blood awakens, if the dreams begin..."
"She was protecting them," Adam replied. "Until someone in the family showed signs of... whatever this is." He held up the pendant. "The Old Blood. The dreams. The abilities."
"You think that's you."
It wasn't a question, but Adam nodded anyway. "maybe"
Roy's expression was guarded, but not dismissive. He'd seen too much of Adam's unusual abilities—the accelerated healing, the reflexes, the instincts that seemed too developed for a teenager with only a few years of hunting experience.
In the far corner of the room, a small metal case was half-buried beneath boxes. Adam pulled it out and opened it carefully.
Inside was a broken crystal recording device, cracked along one edge. An old reel-to-reel unit sat beside it, tangled in ancient tape. A label barely clung to the front:
Elizabeth Milligan – Authorized Access
He and Roy exchanged a look.
"I need to hear this," Adam said.
Roy frowned. "It could be corrupted. Could be cursed."
Adam just adjusted the power dial. "Then stand back."
To his surprise, the machine hummed to life. The outpost must have its own power source—something that had lasted decades without maintenance. Men of Letters technology. The tape began to turn, slowly at first, then steadier.
The old machine crackled to life, static whining through the air. The recording clicked.
Then a voice—calm, clipped, but unmistakably hers.
"This is Field Affiliate Elizabeth Milligan, badge proxy #41-92-GRMM. Outpost 7 secure. Threat level: elevated. Regional threat includes Class Two cryptid activity and Old Blood stirrings in the Minnesota corridor. I have witnessed new sigil drift in my dreams—unknown origin. Will submit sketches…"
The audio warped, faded, then snapped off entirely.
Silence.
Roy cleared his throat. "She knew. Even back then, she knew something was coming."
Adam sat down slowly, processing.
The dreams. The pendant. The warded entrance. The lore buried in his bloodline.
"I thought this started with John," he said quietly.
All this time, he'd believed his connection to the supernatural began with John Winchester—with the father who didn't know him, with the brothers who had never met him, with the yellow-eyed demon who had never marked him.
But it was more complicated than that. His mother's bloodline carried its own secrets, its own power.
Roy didn't speak.
Adam turned toward the map wall. Pins led from Minnesota to the Dakotas. To Ohio. One route headed west toward Lebanon, Kansas—and stopped cold in 1958.
The Lebanon bunker—the one Sam and Dean would eventually inherit, according to his "memories" of the show. The main headquarters of the Men of Letters. These pins showed communication routes, reporting channels. The network that had once connected all these secret outposts.
"She wasn't just a hunter," Adam said. "She was part of something bigger."
And now, so was he.
He'd been focusing so hard on the Winchester legacy—on demons and angels and apocalypses—that he'd missed an entire half of his heritage. His mother's blood. Great Grandmother Elizabeth's secrets.
Did this change his plans for Azazel? For saving his family? He wasn't sure yet. But it gave him something he desperately needed: context. Understanding.
A piece of himself he hadn't known was missing.
Roy stepped beside him and looked toward the sealed hallway that led deeper into the outpost.
"No way this is the only room," he muttered.
Adam looked down at the cracked pendant in his hand—its symbol glowing faintly under their flashlight.
Whatever this "Old Blood" was, whatever abilities it gave him, it was neither demonic nor angelic. It was something else. Something older. Something that might give him an edge against Azazel.
Something that might help him save everyone.
He took a breath.
"Let's find out what she was trying to protect."