Dawn found me standing in Bobby's junkyard, a hundred rusted car parts orbiting me like some demented halo. Sweat trickled down my spine, my arms trembling slightly with the strain. I was balancing three engine blocks midair while using a fourth to scratch out a crooked tic-tac-toe board in the dirt.
"Y'know," Dean called from the porch, sipping coffee like he wasn't witnessing mechanical telekinesis in action, "normal people start with tennis balls."
I didn't break focus, keeping my eyes locked on a floating muffler marking the next 'X' spot. "Normal people can't bench-press a semi, Dean."
The Impala's trunk slammed as Dean sauntered closer, handing me a steaming mug without even flinching at the spinning metal around us. "So what's today's lesson? 'How to redecorate a junkyard: apocalypse edition'?"
I smirked, snagging the coffee mid-air with a thought and taking a sip. "Precision meets creativity. Anime rules."
To emphasize the point, I sent a hubcap slicing through the air, cleanly shearing a beer bottle in half from twenty feet away.
Dean whistled low. "Okay, that was kinda badass."
"Kinda?" I arched a brow and, with a twist of my fingers, realigned the floating scrap into intricate geometric patterns overhead—a kaleidoscope of rusted death.
"Showoff," Dean muttered, though he couldn't hide the grin tugging at his mouth.
The screen door banged open. Bobby poked his head out, scowling like the world personally offended him this morning. "Stop screwin' around. We got bigger fish to fry."
Inside, Bobby's kitchen smelled like burnt toast and gun oil. Classic Bobby hospitality. Sam was already elbow-deep in lore books, dark circles under his eyes telling me he hadn't slept much. The table was a mess of open journals, photos, and salt shakers weighting down important papers.
Bobby thunked a battered map down between us, securing it with a grenade for dramatic flair.
Dean leaned back, sipping his coffee. "So what's the crisis today? Another stitched-up wolfman? Zombie rodeo?"
"Something worse," Sam muttered without looking up.
I floated a pancake off Dean's plate, grinning—until Dean casually snatched it mid-air and shoved it in his mouth.
"Get your own damn breakfast, Jedi."
Rolling my eyes, I focused back on the map. Dozens of red X's marked five states—places where Kharon's cultists had been sniffed out.
Sam tapped a photo pinned next to a particularly nasty looking sigil. "Same symbol carved into all the victims. Hess wasn't working alone."
I studied the photo carefully. The memory surged—Officer Loony's stolen knowledge sparking like static in the back of my mind.
"That's not just a summoning mark," I said slowly. "It's a bridge."
Three heads snapped toward me.
Bobby squinted over his glasses. "Bridge to what?"
"To a vessel," I said, tracing the sigil's looping lines midair. "This isn't about calling Kharon down. It's about building something that can hold him. A hybrid. Flesh stitched with magic."
Dean swore under his breath. "A goddamn meat suit for a blood god."
Sam looked grim. "Something that won't burn out the second Kharon steps inside."
My stomach turned. I knew exactly how much raw power Kharon carried. Even now, pieces of it whispered to me at night, teasing, promising.
"And they're using people like me as a blueprint," I said, forcing a casual shrug even as my guts twisted. "Lucky me."
No one laughed.
Day 7 of Training:
Magic buzzed under my skin like a live wire as I tested the newest addition to my growing arsenal: an arcane-infused telekinetic shield.
Bobby's old truck tires hurtled toward me at near-bullet speeds, hurled from a makeshift catapult we rigged together out of desperation (and duct tape).
The tires slammed against an invisible dome around me—cracking, splintering, disintegrating into rubbery confetti.
I whooped, pumping a fist. "Take that, physics!"
From the porch, Sam slow-clapped. "Impressive. But can you do this?"
He shot me with a silver bullet straight at my chest. Instinct took over—I snatched it mid-air with my mind.
But then something weird happened—the bullets kept coming, because Sam shot it every time.
I gritted my teeth, pushing back against Sam's barrage of bullet. Sparks flared where my telekinesis and Sam bullets clashed, hissing like angry snakes.
The bullets turns to dust.
We stared at the bullets that has been grind to dust, breathing hard.
Dean, who'd been spectating with a beer, let out a low whistle. "That's some Dragon Ball Z crap right there."
Bobby threw his hands up. "Great. Now my best silver's ruined and my best hunters are acting like a damn anime convention exploded."
**
Day 10
Bobby's dining table looked like a beautiful mind had a psychotic break. Maps. Police reports. Handwritten notes connected with angry red yarn.
Dean wandered by, chuckling. "Looks like we're about three steps from wearing tinfoil hats, boys."
I floated a beer over to Bobby without looking, using another to pin down a flapping corner of Missouri.
"Focus up," Bobby growled, stabbing the map. "Three labs. Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri. We hit 'em hard, hit 'em fast."
Dean frowned. "We splitting up?"
"Not ideal," Sam said, frowning. "But it's the only shot we got."
"And Missouri's a damn wild card," Bobby added. "No way to know how bad it is yet."
"Then that's mine," I said immediately.
Three sets of eyes landed on me.
"Marcus," Sam said carefully, "you don't have to—"
"I do," I interrupted, surprising even myself with how steady my voice sounded. "Kharon's already in my head. If anyone's gonna survive walking into his backyard, it's me."
Dean gave a reluctant nod. "Fair enough. But no hero crap. You find something you can't handle, you haul ass outta there."
Bobby barked a humorless laugh. "Like he's capable of anything else."
We hashed out the final plan—teams, timings, contingencies.
If we found the vessel, if we found Kharon...
No second chances.
We burn it all.
I stood alone in the yard, the moon bleeding silver over rusted wrecks.
Testing the limits, one last time.
Telekinesis + Arcane Shield = Force dome(Tested successfully. Dean's shotgun blasts bounced harmlessly off it. I still owed him a new box of shells.)
Vampire Speed + Kinetic Thrusters = Supersonic dashes(Accidentally left a six-foot trench across Bobby's lawn. He wasn't thrilled.)
Magic-Infused Strength = Hulk-level punches(Shattered an engine block like a rotted pumpkin. Dean actually mourned it.)
Sweat trickled down my back. Muscles screamed. But I felt ready.
The screen door creaked. Bobby ambled out, two glasses of whiskey clinking in his hands.
He passed me one without a word.
We stood there for a long moment, the night stretching wide around us.
"You ready for this, kid?" he asked gruffly.
I drained the whiskey in one swallow, feeling it sear down to my boots. "Born ready."
Bobby studied me with that sharp, unflinching gaze that saw more than I wanted anyone to see.
"This power you got... absorbing abilities. You ever wonder why you?"
The truth trembled on my tongue.
Because I'm not from here. Because this isn't even supposed to be my life. Because I was chosen.
I shrugged, masking the storm inside. "Guess I'm just lucky."
Bobby snorted. "Ain't no such thing." He clapped my shoulder hard enough to make my knees buckle. "Don't die, ya idjit."
Inside, I could hear Dean and Sam arguing over shotgun loadouts and whether or not Elvis was secretly a vampire. Normal. Familiar. Human.
And for the first time in a long damn time, I believed we could win.
Then Kharon's voice slid across my mind, oily and cold:
"Come, thief. Let's see what you can steal from a god."
I smiled into the night, fire humming in my blood.
Your throne, Kharon.
And maybe your damn soul for dessert.
******
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