First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
A week of training had turned my telekinesis from a flailing party trick into something useful.
I stood in Bobby's yard, focusing on a rusted engine block—roughly 35 kilos of dead weight. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I pushed, my mind wrapping around the metal like invisible hands.
The block shuddered.
Then, inch by inch, it lifted.
I grinned, holding it steady for three whole seconds before my nose started bleeding.
Damn.
I let it drop with a clang, wiping my face with my sleeve. Progress, but not perfect. Still, being able to yeet a small car's worth of metal wasn't nothing.
"You done showboating?" Bobby's voice cut through my triumph. He stood on the porch, arms crossed, looking equal parts annoyed and—was that pride?
I smirked. "What, not impressed?"
"Impressed you ain't crushed yourself yet."
"Your faith in me is touching."
Bobby grunted, jerking his chin toward the house. "Get your crap. You're burning daylight."
Right. Today was the day.
---
My duffel was packed—salt, silver, ammo, and a truly irresponsible amount of beef jerky. I slung it over my shoulder, taking one last look at the couch that had been my bed for months.
Bobby waited by the door, holding out a set of keys. "Don't wreck it."
I took them, feigning offense. "You gave me the car, old man. It's mine now."
"Like hell it is. That's a loan."
"Semantics."
Bobby's glare lacked heat. Then, abruptly, he said, "Don't die."
I blinked. "Uh. Not planning on it?"
He scowled, looking everywhere but at me. "You're a pain in my ass, but you're my pain in the ass. So. Don't die."
My chest tightened. Damn it, Bobby.
I grinned to cover it. "Aw. Is this your version of a heartfelt goodbye?"
"Shut up and get out of my house."
I laughed, but as I turned to leave, I threw over my shoulder, "Love you too, Dad."
Bobby's middle finger was the last thing I saw before the door slammed behind me.
---
The Nissan purred under me as I hit the highway, windows down, classic rock blaring. Freedom tasted like gasoline and cheap coffee.
I'd spent the drive testing my telekinesis in small ways—flipping road signs, levitating my phone, once accidentally yeeting a soda can into a ditch. (RIP, Dr Pepper.)
By the time I pulled into the gravel lot of Harvelle's Roadhouse, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in oranges and reds.
The place looked exactly like the show—rustic, weathered, and packed with hunters' cars.
I took a deep breath.
Showtime.
---
The bar's interior was all dim lighting, scarred wood, and the low hum of conversation. A dozen rough-looking patrons glanced up when I entered, their stares weighing me like they were deciding if I was food or foe.
I sauntered up to the bar where a blonde woman was wiping down glasses. Ellen Harvelle.
She didn't look up. "What'll it be?"
"Whiskey. And a case file, if you've got one."
That got her attention. Her eyes—sharp as a hawk's—scanned me. "You a hunter?"
"Marcus Hale. Friend of Bobby's." I grinned. "And the Winchesters."
A glass clinked behind me. I turned to see a younger woman—Jo, had to be—leaning against the counter, arms crossed. "You know Sam and Dean?"
"Unfortunately."
Jo smirked. Ellen sighed. "Great. Another wiseass."
I pressed a hand to my chest. "I prefer the term charmingly sarcastic."
Ellen rolled her eyes but slid a whiskey across the bar. "Bobby vouch for you?"
"More or less."
"Less," Jo muttered.
I toasted her. "You've met Bobby. 'Less' is high praise."
Ellen's lips twitched. Then she reached under the bar and slapped a file in front of me. "Wendigo. Blackwater Falls, West Virginia. Two hikers gone missing, one found half-eaten."
I flipped it open. "Cheery."
"You want cheery, try Disneyland."
I snorted. "Pass. I'll take the man-eating monster."
Jo leaned in. "So what's your deal, Marcus Hale? How'd a guy like you end up hunting?"
I took a sip of whiskey, buying time. The truth? I got reincarnated into a TV show and now I steal monsters' powers.
What I said: "Same as everyone else. Survival."
Ellen studied me. "Most hunters start 'cause they lose someone."
I met her gaze. "I didn't have anyone to lose."
A beat of silence. Then Ellen nodded, like I'd passed some test. "Wendigo's fast. Strong. You'll need more than a pretty face to take it down."
I smirked. "Good thing I've got both."
Jo groaned. "Ugh. You're exactly like Dean."
"I'm worse."
An hour later, I was tucked into a corner booth, pouring over the wendigo file.
Fast. Strong. Vulnerable to fire.
And if I killed it… what would I get? Super speed? Enhanced strength?
The possibilities sent a thrill down my spine.
A shadow fell over the table. Jo slid into the seat across from me, two beers in hand. "You're really gonna go after this thing alone?"
I took the beer. "Unless you're offering to babysit."
She rolled her eyes. "Please. I've bagged three wendigos."
"Three? Show-off."
Jo grinned, but it faded fast. "Seriously, though. These things aren't jokes. They'll rip you apart before you blink."
I leaned back, tapping the file. "Good thing I don't plan on blinking."
She stared at me. Then, abruptly: "You're hiding something."
I froze. Damn. "Oh?"
"Yeah. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one guys get when they're about to do something stupid."
I laughed, but it came out strained. "Stupid's my middle name."
Jo didn't buy it. But she also didn't push. Just clinked her bottle against mine. "Don't die, hotshot."
I smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."
******
First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
Flashback
I was sitting in Bobby's living room, two days after the Eleanor hunt, trying to levitate a damn chair.
It wasn't working.
"Come on, you stubborn piece of—" I gritted my teeth, focusing until my head throbbed. The chair wobbled, lifting an inch off the ground before slamming back down.
Then the door creaked open.
Bobby stood there, a grocery bag in one hand, his eyes locked onto the chair like it had just sprouted wings.
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
I froze. Shit.
Bobby's voice was eerily calm. "What the hell was that?"
I forced a grin. "Uh… magic trick?"
He dropped the bag. Eggs cracked. "Try again."
The air between us thickened, tension coiling like a snake ready to strike. I could lie. I should lie. But Bobby's stare cut right through me, sharp as a silver blade.
I exhaled. "Okay. Fine."
I held out my hand, focusing on the chair. It lifted smoothly this time, hovering at waist height.
Bobby didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared.
I let the chair drop. "Surprise?"
Bobby moved slowly, like he was approaching a wild animal. He sank into his armchair, never taking his eyes off me. "Start talking."
I ran a hand through my hair. "Remember Eleanor? The ghost?"
"Yeah."
"After I salted her… something happened." I flexed my fingers. "I could move things. Without touching them."
Bobby's jaw tightened. "Telekinesis."
"Bingo."
"That ain't normal, kid."
I barked a laugh. "No shit."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You telling me killing a ghost gave you powers?"
"Looks that way."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken questions. Then, quietly: "Anything else?"
I hesitated. Do I tell him about the strength? The healing?
"I heal faster," I admitted. "And I'm stronger than I should be."
Bobby's eyes darkened. "Since when?"
"Since I woke up."
He exhaled hard, rubbing his face. "Damn it, Marcus."
I braced myself. "You gonna salt and burn me now?"
"What?"
"I mean, this is kinda demonic, right?" I forced a smirk, but my chest was tight. "Or maybe spiritual? Either way, I'm guessing it's not human."
Bobby's gaze turned razor-sharp. "You feel different? Hear voices? Crave raw meat?"
"Just beef jerky, but that's unrelated."
He didn't laugh. "This ain't a joke, kid."
I dropped the act. "I know."
---
Bobby stood abruptly, pacing the room like a caged wolf. "You're sure there's no side effects?"
Lies. Omissions. Secrets.
I swallowed. "Yeah."
He stopped, pinning me with a look. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Then what aren't you telling me?"
Everything.
I held his gaze. "Bobby, I don't know why this is happening. But I'm still me."
He studied me for a long moment, then sighed. "Damn fool kid."
Relief flooded me. He wasn't kicking me out. Wasn't reaching for the holy water.
Yet.
---
Bobby sank back into his chair, suddenly looking every one of his years. "You can't tell anyone about this."
"I know."
"I mean anyone, Marcus. Not the Winchesters. Not Ellen. No one."
I nodded. "Demons would skin me alive for it."
"Worse." Bobby's voice was grim. "They'd use you."
The weight of that settled over me like a lead blanket.
Because he was right.
This power? It wasn't just a weapon.
It was a target.
---
Later, after Bobby had retreated to his study with a bottle of whiskey, I lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
I hadn't told him the whole truth.
Not about the reincarnation.
Not about knowing this world before I'd even stepped into it.
That secret? It stayed buried.
Because some truths were too dangerous to share.
Even with family.
---
Now, sitting in the Roadhouse with the wendigo file in front of me, I traced the edge of the paper with my thumb.
Bobby knew.
And he hadn't turned on me.
That meant something.
Maybe everything.
Jo's voice snapped me back to the present. "You zoning out on me, hotshot?"
I shook off the memory, grinning. "Just plotting my heroic victory."
She rolled her eyes. "Try not to die."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
But as I glanced down at my hands, I couldn't help but wonder—
What would killing a wendigo give me?
And how far was I willing to go to find out?
Later, in the rented room above the Roadhouse, I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, I'd head to Blackwater Falls. Tomorrow, I'd face my first wendigo.
And if I was lucky?
Tomorrow, I'd walk away with something more.
I flexed my hand, focusing on the lamp across the room. It lifted smoothly, hovering in midair.
Stronger. Faster. Better.
I wasn't just a hunter anymore.
I was something new.
And I couldn't wait to see how far that would take me.