The Impala's tires crunched over gravel as we pulled into Bobby's junkyard. My hands still ached from the fight—not pain, exactly, but a weird, deep itch in my bones, like they were rearranging themselves under my skin. I flexed my fingers in the passenger seat, watching the knuckles ripple unnaturally beneath the skin.
Dean killed the engine and shot me a look. "You good?"
I nodded, still fascinated by the subtle movement beneath my flesh. "Peachy."
"You look like crap," he said, grabbing his duffel from the back seat.
"Says the guy who got thrown into a tree," I countered.
Dean's face darkened. "That thing knew your name, Marcus. It called you out specifically."
I knew. That was the part that kept replaying in my head—the Flesh Weaver's distorted voice rasping my name as its body twisted and reformed. Marcus Hale. My master sends his regards.
"Let's just get inside," I muttered. "Sam's probably driving Bobby crazy with research by now."
Inside, the scene was exactly what I expected: Bobby and Sam hunched over a mountain of books, coffee cups littering the table, Lena curled up in an armchair pretending to read some dusty lore tome. She looked up the second we walked in, her stone-heart—the crystalline artifact embedded in her chest—pulsing faintly under her shirt.
Bobby didn't even glance up. "You boys get eaten?"
"Almost," Dean said, flopping onto the couch. "Turns out, Montana's got a new tourist attraction—Flesh Weavers. Five stars, would not recommend."
That got Bobby's attention. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing at me. "A Flesh Weaver? You sure?"
"Pretty hard to mistake," I said. "What with the whole 'body made of stitched-together parts' thing."
"You kill it?" Bobby asked, setting his book aside.
I held up my hand—and willed the bones to shift.
Crack. Snick.
A six-inch bone blade slid out from between my knuckles.
Lena dropped her book.
Sam's jaw tightened. "Jesus, Marcus."
I retracted the blade, feeling it slide back beneath my skin with an odd sensation that wasn't quite pain. "Yeah. I killed it. And got a souvenir. Kharon sent it. Called me by name."
Bobby's chair screeched as he stood. "Goddamn it, boy! You're playin' with fire!"
"I didn't exactly have a choice," I shot back. "It was trying to carve me up into spare parts."
"That's not what I meant and you know it." Bobby's eyes were hard beneath his trucker cap. "These powers you keep collectin'—first the Wendigo strength, then the vampire senses, now this. There's always a price."
I shrugged, trying to ignore the weight of everyone's stares. "And winning."
Lena stood suddenly. "Train me."
Silence fell across the room.
Dean blinked. "Uh, what now?"
Lena's fingers hovered over her stone heart—the ancient artifact that marked her as a vessel for powers we still didn't fully understand. "If I'm a vessel, I need to fight. Teach me."
I studied her—the set of her jaw, the way her hands didn't shake. Kid had spine. She'd been through hell since we found her a few days ago, she was experimented by Hess. But she'd stayed tough.
"Sure," I said. "But first, I gotta figure out my own new toys."
"Marcus—" Sam started.
"Don't 'Marcus' me," I cut him off. "She's right. We can't just keep her locked up here forever."
Dean looked between us, then sighed. "Fine. But no one's training anyone tonight. I need a shower and about twelve hours of sleep."
"And I need to figure out what exactly a Flesh Weaver is doing in Montana," Bobby added. "And why Kharon's sendin' 'em after you specifically."
I nodded, but I already knew I wouldn't be sleeping. Not with this new power buzzing under my skin like a live wire.
The junkyard at dusk was my kind of gym. Rusted car hulks created a maze of metal, the setting sun painting everything in shades of orange and red. Perfect place to test dangerous new abilities without damaging anything important.
I focused, feeling that strange new power coil under my skin.
Crack. Snick.
Bone claws erupted from my fingertips—three inches, curved, razor-sharp. They gleamed white in the fading light.
Dean whistled from where he leaned against a rusted pickup. "Well damn. We got ourselves a discount Wolverine."
I flipped him off—then extended the middle claw another inch.
"Classy," Dean deadpanned.
I grinned and turned to a wrecked sedan. The claws sliced through the door like butter, sending metal ribbons curling to the dirt.
Okay. Cool.
I remembered the Flesh Weaver in the forest, how it had fired bone shards from its palms like bullets. Worth a try.
I retracted the claws, rolled my shoulders, and focused—
CRACK.
A bone bullet shot from my palm, embedding in a fridge thirty yards away with a metallic thunk.
Dean's eyebrows hit his hairline. "Okay, that's just cheating."
I frowned at my hand. "Only works from my palms. Tried elbows, knees—nada."
"Still busted," Dean said, taking a swig from the beer he'd brought out. "You realize how much money we could make if we monetized your freaky abilities? Monster Gladiator, pay-per-view."
I snorted. "Because that wouldn't attract any attention at all."
Lena, watching from the porch, called out, "Can you heal with it?"
I paused. Hadn't thought of that. The Flesh Weaver had regenerated parts of itself during our fight.
"Worth a try," I muttered.
I dragged the claw across my forearm, drawing blood. Then I pressed my other palm to the wound and willed it—
The flesh knitted shut in seconds, leaving only a faint white line that faded even as I watched.
"Huh."
Dean fake-gagged. "That's disgusting. I love it."
By midnight, I'd mastered:
Extending and retracting blades in under a second.
Firing bone bullets with decent accuracy (I'd destroyed a mannequin head Bobby had lying around).
And the healing thing—which worked best when I actually exposed bone to the injury. Weird, but effective.
Lena had retired hours ago, but occasionally I caught the curtains moving in the upstairs window. Kid was determined, I'd give her that.
I sat on the hood of a junked Chevy, testing my claws under the moonlight. The new power hummed under my skin, restless. Different from the others.
The Wendigo strength had been raw fury—primal and savage. The vampire senses—sharp and predatory, heightening everything to an almost painful degree. But this? This was creative. Like my body was clay I could reshape.
A shadow moved at the edge of the yard.
I tensed—
"Relax, it's me." Sam stepped into the light, holding two beers. "Figured you could use this."
I took one. "Bobby send you to lecture me?"
Sam leaned against the car. "Nah. Just...checking in. You sure you're okay? Absorbing something that was sent by Kharon..."
"I'm fine," I said, popping the cap with a claw.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"You know," Sam said carefully, "for a guy with monster powers, you're a terrible liar."
I chuckled, staring out at the rows of junked cars. "Yeah, well. We can't all be Winchester-level drama queens."
Silence settled between us, comfortable. Crickets chirped. Somewhere, an owl hooted.
Then—
"You think we can really stop Kharon?" Sam asked quietly.
I thought about it. Kharon—an entity so ancient the lore barely mentioned it. Something that collected powerful beings across dimensions. Something that had apparently sent a monster specifically to test me.
I flexed my claws. "I killed a primordial flesh monster today. I'm gonna say yes."
Sam smiled. "Good enough for me."
We drank in silence for a while, the night air cool against my skin. I'd never told Sam or Dean about my reincarnation—about the memories of my past life that still surfaced sometimes. A normal life. A boring job. Death by a blackflip... that's emberassing. Then... waking up in this world, twenty years old, with the strange ability to absorb monster powers.
Some secrets stayed buried. Even from friends.
"Dean thinks we should head to Minnesota tomorrow," Sam said eventually. "There's a pattern of strange drownings."
"Let me guess—women with red hair?"
Sam nodded. "How'd you know?"
"Lucky guess. Classic water spirit pattern."
"Bobby wants us to take Lena."
That surprised me. "On a hunt? Already?"
"She can't stay here forever," Sam said, echoing my earlier words. "And Bobby's got other hunters coming through. Better she's with us."
I nodded slowly. "She's got guts."
"Like someone else I know," Sam said pointedly.
I grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't necessarily meant as one." But Sam was smiling too.
Far away—somewhere beyond wards, beyond sight—something watched.
Kharon felt the Weaver's death like a snapped thread. Felt the power shift to its chosen vessel.
The wards around Singer's scrap yard prickled against his awareness, blocking his view. No matter.
Let the boy play with his new toys.
Soon, Marcus Hale would come to him.
Soon, that magnificent, stolen power would be his.
Kharon's laughter echoed through the void—a sound like breaking bones.