Dawn painted Bobby's junkyard in rusty gold, the rising sun slipping through twisted heaps of chrome like an artist's final stroke across a battlefield. I sat cross-legged on the stripped hood of a '58 Cadillac—half buried, rust-gutted, and perfect for introspection. With a can of lukewarm beer in one hand and my other flexing idly, I took mental inventory of the freak-show arsenal I'd crammed into my DNA over the past year.
Let's see...
Ghost Telekinesis: Can lift about 700 kilos if I focus. Fine control's sharp enough to thread a needle from fifty yards or juggle knives midair if I'm feeling dramatic.
Wendigo Boost: Strength and speed jacked up to the point I could outrun a Corvette in short bursts. Haven't timed it lately, but I'm pretty sure the Flash would at least raise an eyebrow.
Vamp Senses: I can hear a mouse fart in Kansas City from here in Sioux Falls. Sight? Crisp as HDTV. Smell? Let's just say I've learned to avoid morgues unless I'm wearing three layers of Vicks under my nose.
Fleshweaver Bones: Turn my fingers into scalpels or shoot rib shards like buckshot. Definitely not FDA approved. Bonus: I can repair minor wounds or re-fuse bones—but overuse? Hello, temporary osteoporosis.
Dragon Package: Wings currently retracted—because come on, where would I put them? Fire breath's on standby. Not exactly subtle, but effective as hell in bar fights or exorcisms.
Kharon's Creepy Gifts: Bloodbending that'd make a Waterbender need therapy. Five minutes of full intangibility per hour—think ghost mode, but angrier.
And Regenaration. Not only I can regenerate for myself but also I can healing others
Not bad for a guy who once died doing a backflip off his dorm roof trying to impress a girl.
I flexed my hand, watching my blood swirl under the skin like crimson ink, alive and pulsing with stolen power. No corruption. No side effects. No deals with devils.
Just raw, unapologetic might.
Take that, comic book morality.
A beer bottle shattered against the Caddy's hood with a crack.
"Quit brooding, Terminator," Dean called from the porch, shirtless and scowling like he hadn't had his coffee yet. "Some of us need beauty sleep."
I didn't even look—just yanked the other bottle from his hand telekinetically and floated it into mine. Cracked the cap with a flick of my thumb. "Pretty sure you passed the point of no return in '98, Winchester."
He grumbled something about sass and cheekbones, but I tuned him out as the crunch of gravel announced Sam's approach—laptop tucked under one arm like it was sacred scripture.
"You calculating your threat level again?" he asked, giving the blood tendrils I was absentmindedly weaving into a braid a cautious glance.
"Just figuring out who could still kick my ass," I said with a shrug.
"Any contenders?"
"Upper-tier demons like the Princes of Hell would be a coin toss. Might be a fun Tuesday. Seraphs? I'd lose, sure—but they'd walk away limping."
Sam adjusted his laptop, curious. "And archangels?"
Before I could answer, Dean cut in with a snort. "Ever seen a bug hit a windshield?"
I gave a mock-salute. "Cool, cool. So we avoid cosmic entities. Noted."
Dean wandered over and stole his beer back with a grunt. "Honestly? Not even sure angels exist. No proof. So, technically, you're probably the strongest guy we've got."
"Aww, Dean." I fluttered my eyelashes. "That's the nicest thing you've ever—"
He flipped me off.
Lena's voice cut through the morning air from the kitchen window: "If you boys are done measuring dicks, breakfast is burning!"
Dean perked up. "She's making pancakes?"
"Burning," Sam corrected.
We sprinted toward the house like we were being chased by a hellhound.
Post-pancake damage control (slightly charred but salvaged with syrup), I dragged Lena out to the yard.
"New rules," I said, cracking my neck. "No holding back. None. I want to see what your new tricks look like when you're pissed."
She arched a brow. "You sure? My bloodbending's been juiced since we cracked that Heartstone."
"Positive."
She didn't even get the word okay out before I misted—reappearing behind her in a wisp of shadow, bone dagger pressed to her neck.
"Dead," I whispered.
She didn't flinch. Just smirked.
Then her aura flared. Like a sunspot detonating beneath her skin.
My blood froze. Literally.
"Cheater," I croaked as ice crystals bloomed beneath my skin.
She grinned. "No holding back, right?"
Fair.
I roared dragonfire from my lungs, shattering the frost in a gout of heat, and lunged.
What followed was pure chaos.
Lena sent iron particles in my blood veering left, throwing my balance off mid-leap.
I phased through her seismic pulse just in time, flickering ghost-like across the gravel.
She followed with a telekinetic whip of compacted aura, carving a trench through the ground that narrowly missed decapitating the junked Impala next to us.
I responded by shooting bone shrapnel from my forearm—white-hot and serrated. She blocked it with a kinetic shield shaped like a blooming lotus.
Bobby's shout cut through the mayhem: "Y'all better not be wrecking my damn salvage again!"
We both shouted back, "Sorry!" as we launched into the air—me sprouting scaled wings, Lena riding a disc of solidified aura.
She crashed into me midair, tackling us into the crumpled hood of a Ford Bronco. Metal shrieked.
I caught her leg, flipped her, but she landed in a crouch and snapped her fingers.
Every drop of sweat on my skin crystallized into thin razors.
"Okay!" I gasped, rolling to dodge a downward strike. "You win for creativity—"
"Shut up and fight, Hale!"
We collided again. Thunder cracked from the impact.
By sunset, we collapsed against the hood of the real Impala—sore, bruised, and coated in dust, smoke, and a ridiculous sense of accomplishment.
"Not bad, Park," I wheezed, healing a fractured rib with a thought. "Remind me not to piss you off on laundry day."
She flicked my nose. "Not bad yourself. For an old man."
I raised an eyebrow. "Kharon's heartstone's gone. No more magic armor. You've got aura powers now. You're basically a cheat code."
She crossed her arms and puffed, "Look in a mirror before throwing that accusation, blood mage dragon bone-gun vampire freak."
I chuckled. Couldn't argue with that. I mean, who was I kidding? My whole existence was one big power-stealing cheat code.
Still... "Old," I muttered, shaking my head. "You know I'm technically twenty, right?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Technically?"
"Vampiric aging. It's slow," I covered quickly. "Time's weird for people like us."
Some truths stayed buried. Like how I was actually a dead guy reincarnated from another world. But Lena didn't need to know that.
No one did.
The shower ran hot, fogging the mirror as I washed the grime from my skin. My reflection stared back—scarred, muscled, and a little too tired behind the eyes.
Not bad for a former college dropout turned monster battery.
The door creaked open. Lena slipped in, towel around her waist, eyes bright from our fight.
"Think fast," she said, flicking water from my hair into a hovering orb.
I retaliated by shaping the droplets into a floating middle finger.
She laughed, stepping under the spray. "Showoff."
"Takes one to know one."
Later, tangled in sheets, she traced the newest scar above my heart. Her voice was soft. "We're gonna be okay, right?"
Outside, wind howled through the salvage yard. Somewhere out there, monsters still hunted. Gods still plotted. And the shadows were growing longer.
I kissed her forehead.
"Yeah," I whispered. "We'll be okay."
For now, that was enough.