Two hours later, Bobby's kitchen smelled like burnt toast, gun oil, and regret — same as always. I leaned back in my chair, cradling my fourth cup of coffee like it might whisper life secrets to me. Spoiler alert: it didn't. It just tasted like battery acid with a hint of despair.
The rumble of the Impala rolled up the gravel driveway, as familiar and comforting as a heartbeat. I didn't realize how much tension I was carrying until I heard it — and some of it finally unclenched.
Dean was the first through the door, looking like death warmed over and served with a side of sarcasm. His jacket was half unzipped, his hair a mess, and he had that thousand-yard stare that usually came after either too little sleep or too much hunting.
Sam followed, arms full of books thicker than my patience, and wearing the serious face that only meant bad news.
"You look like crap," Dean said in greeting, tossing me a cold beer with the casual accuracy of someone who could probably shoot the wings off a fly at fifty yards.
I caught it one-handed. "Missed you too, Dean. You're looking particularly homicide-chic yourself."
Dean smirked. "You know me. Always fashion-forward."
Bobby grunted from behind a pile of newspapers. "You idjits better have brought more than just your pretty faces."
Sam dropped his book haul onto the table. A cloud of dust exploded upward like it was personally offended by our existence.
"We have," Sam said, his voice grim. He flipped open an ancient-looking journal, careful not to tear the brittle pages. "But you're not gonna like it."
I popped the cap off my beer using the table edge. Smooth. "Let me guess—Kharon's got a summer home in the Pit and a loyalty punch card for apocalyptic cults?"
Sam didn't even crack a smile. "Third time's the charm."
I froze mid-sip. "Repeat that for the kids in the back?"
Sam turned the book around to show us. Faded ink sketches, half-burned notes, the whole nine yards. "Two other cases. Vampires performing blood rituals, trying to summon Kharon. Both groups ended up dead. Not killed by hunters — drained. Their blood was completely siphoned out. Like they'd been used and discarded."
Dean leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face darkening. "So either Kharon's got a really bad customer service policy, or he's fattening these guys up just to bleed them dry."
I set my beer down. The room felt suddenly colder, heavier, like the air itself knew we were in deep.
Bobby swore under his breath and rubbed his temples. "And now he's got Marcus's scent."
I caught Dean and Sam exchange a glance. They were worried. Not just regular monster-hunt worried — this is bigger than we can punch worried.
I leaned back in my chair, flashing them my cockiest grin. "Well, let him come. I could use the cardio."
Dean huffed a half-laugh. Bobby muttered something about idjits under his breath. Sam shook his head but — and this was the important part — he didn't argue.
Because he knew. They all knew.
This wasn't just bravado. It was who I was now. Marcus Hale — reincarnated, reborn. A hunter with monster powers in a world that would never fully understand him.
Midnight gave way to the witching hour.
Dean and Sam crashed in Bobby's spare rooms, probably dreaming about obscure Latin exorcisms and the world's most uncomfortable motel beds. Bobby stayed downstairs for a while longer, poring over lore books with a scowl carved deep into his features, but even he eventually trudged upstairs.
Which left me alone. Me, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and a head full of thoughts sharp enough to cut myself on.
I sat back in Bobby's creaky recliner, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
Time to take stock.
Eight vampires. Eight potential upgrades. The math checked out, but the details mattered.
I flexed my hand and focused.
First: Eyesight.
The far wall of the kitchen, normally a blur at this distance, snapped into crystal clarity. I could count the splinters in the wood. Hell, I could see the tiny spider hiding behind a mason jar on the top shelf.
Second: Dark Vision.
I flicked off the lamp. The darkness swallowed the room — then, like slow ink dispersing in water, the world came back into view. Grayscale, but sharp. Every corner, every crevice.
Third: Hearing.
Sam's soft breathing upstairs. The rustle of Dean shifting in bed. A raccoon scuffling around the trash cans outside.
"Jesus, I'm Batman," I muttered, grinning.
Fourth: Agility.
I stood, vaulted over the coffee table, and landed in a crouch with barely a sound. On a whim, I backflipped over the couch. Stuck the landing like a gold-medalist.
Fifth: Stamina.
No burn in my muscles. No tightness in my chest. Just a restless, buzzing energy under my skin.
Sixth: Regeneration.
The injuries from tonight's fight were already faded, pink ghost-marks against my skin.
Seventh: Immunity.
I took another swig of whiskey. Smooth. No buzz. No dulling. Just clear, cold focus.
Eighth: Slow Aging.
That one would take time. Years, decades maybe. But I could feel it — like my cells were... slower. Stronger.
Then there was the old gift. Telekinesis. Still humming under my skin, eager and wild.
I focused on Bobby's shotgun resting by the door.
It floated into the air, steady as a rock.
Damn.
Power. Real power.
And with power came—
I didn't get to finish that thought.
Sleep blindsided me, dragging me under.
The dream hit like a hammer.
Not a regular dream. Not the nonsense, memory-scrap dreams humans usually have.
This one was structured. Like someone designed for it for a grand reason.
A vast throne of bones loomed before me, ribcages and femurs fused together into grotesque art. Rivers of blood — actual rivers, flowing and pulsing — crisscrossed the black stone floor. The air smelled like iron and ancient death.
On the throne, a shadow moved.
It wasn't human. It wasn't even alive in the way we understand life.
"You take what is mine," the voice rumbled, shaking the very ground beneath me.
It wasn't sound. It was pressure. It crawled into my ears, my teeth, my bones.
I forced a grin. "Finders keepers."
The shadow leaned forward. Vague humanoid shape — but wrong. Angles where there should have been curves. Movements that hurt the eyes to watch.
"You will kneel," it said.
I straightened my spine. "Sorry. Old injury. Can't."
It laughed — and that was somehow worse than the threats. It sounded like glass breaking and flesh tearing and children screaming all at once.
"We shall see."
The dream shattered like a mirror struck by a hammer.
I woke with a violent jerk, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to break free.
Dawn light filtered through the old curtains.
I was drenched in sweat, hands trembling.
I sat there for a long moment, breathing hard, staring at my hands.
Not fear. No.
Anticipation.
Because Kharon wasn't just some ancient god playing puppet-master.
He was a predator.
And now, so was I.
I stood slowly, rolling my shoulders, feeling the strength thrumming in my blood.
He wanted a war?
He was gonna get one.
And I wasn't planning on losing.