First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
I woke up to the sound of something heavy being dropped outside.
Thud.
Then silence.
Thud.
Then—
"Kid! You alive in there or do I gotta dump water on you?"
I groaned, rolling off Bobby's lumpy couch and onto the floor. "I've been here three days and you've already turned into a drill sergeant."
Bobby's voice carried through the door. "Up. Now. You wanna learn to hunt? Today's your lucky day."
That got me moving.
I stumbled outside, squinting against the sunlight. Bobby stood near a beat-up workbench, arms crossed, looking like a grizzled sensei from a bad martial arts movie.
"You look like hell," he said.
I rubbed my face. "You wake me up at the crack of dawn and expect me to be perky?"
"Sun's been up for two hours."
"Exactly. Dawn."
Bobby rolled his eyes and jerked his chin toward the table. On it lay an assortment of weapons—knives, a revolver, a sawed-off shotgun, and a jar of something that looked suspiciously like salt.
My exhaustion evaporated.
"No way. Are we doing actual training?"
Bobby smirked. "You gonna whine or you gonna pay attention?"
I mimed zipping my lips. "All ears, Boss."
Bobby held up the jar. "Ghosts hate this. Spirits, poltergeists, most low-level nasties—salt messes with their mojo. Line of salt in a doorway? They can't cross it."
I nodded. "So, what? I just chuck it at them like a kid at a snowball fight?"
Bobby sighed. "No. You aim. And you don't waste it." He tossed me the jar. "Try hitting that hubcap over there."
I squinted at the rusted car part leaning against a pile of scrap. "Seriously?"
"Less talking, more throwing."
I wound up and lobbed the salt like a grenade. It arced beautifully—then exploded in a white cloud two feet short of the target.
Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ."
I coughed, waving away the salt dust. "Okay, in my defense, I didn't know there was technique to throwing salt."
"There's technique to everything. Try again."
Bobby handed me a wicked-looking blade. "This is a silver knife. Works on werewolves, shapeshifters, some demons if you're desperate."
I tested the weight. "And the rule is…?"
"Stab first, ask questions never."
"Poetic."
He ignored me. "Most things in this world can be killed if you hit 'em right. Problem is, they're usually faster, stronger, and really pissed off."
I twirled the knife—then fumbled it. The blade hit the dirt between my feet.
Bobby stared. "…I take it back. Maybe you should ask questions first. At least then the monster might die laughing."
I scooped up the knife. "Hilarious. Got any actual tips?"
"Don't drop your damn weapon."
The revolver felt heavier than I expected.
Bobby crossed his arms. "Colt Python. .357 Magnum. Loaded with silver rounds for anything furry, iron for fae, and plain lead for idiots who don't listen."
I raised an eyebrow. "That last one a threat?"
"Promise."
I hefted the gun, aiming at a rusted sign across the yard. "So, just point and shoot?"
Bobby smacked the back of my head. "Safety's on."
"Right. That would've been good to know before I pulled the trigger."
"Hence the head smack."
I flipped the safety off, took a breath, and fired.
The recoil nearly dislocated my shoulder. The bullet missed the sign by a mile, kicking up dust somewhere near South Dakota.
Bobby didn't even blink. "Well. Now we know you're not a natural."
I rubbed my arm. "Gee, thanks."
"Luckily," he said, grabbing the gun, "you can learn."
By midday, my arms ached, my pride was in tatters, and I was pretty sure Bobby was rethinking his life choices.
But I was improving.
I hit the hubcap with salt three times out of five. I hadn't dropped the knife in ten minutes. And my last shot? Only missed the sign by a foot.
Bobby actually looked… mildly impressed. Or at least not actively disappointed.
"Not completely hopeless," he grunted.
I wiped sweat off my forehead. "Is that a compliment? From you?"
"Don't get used to it." He tossed me a water bottle. "Lunch. Then we're hitting the books."
I groaned. "More work?"
"You wanna hunt? You gotta know what you're hunting. Otherwise, you're just monster chow."
I sighed but nodded. Knowledge was power. And in this world, power kept you alive.
Bobby's library was a thing of beauty—ancient leather-bound journals, handwritten bestiaries, and enough lore to make a medieval scholar weep.
I whistled. "You've got your own Supernatural Wiki in here."
Bobby frowned. "A what?"
"Nothing." I grabbed the nearest book. "Demonic Omens and Portents? Cheery."
"Start reading. And take notes."
I flipped it open. "You're really leaning into the whole 'gruff mentor' thing, huh?"
Bobby ignored me, lighting a lamp. "Demons are tricky. They lie, they possess, and they love playing with their food. Rule one—never trust 'em. Rule two—never make deals."
I tapped the page. "Says here some demons can be bound with hex bags."
"Some. Most'll just rip your throat out."
"Noted."
We fell into a rhythm—Bobby explaining, me asking (too many) questions, and the occasional argument over whether vampires were scarier than werewolves. (Bobby said vamps. I said werewolves. We agreed to disagree.)
At one point, Bobby paused, studying me. "You're taking this awfully well."
I didn't look up from the book. "Taking what well?"
"All of it. Monsters. Demons. The fact that the world's a hell of a lot darker than most people know."
I shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a 'glass-half-full' kinda guy."
"Or you're hiding something."
I met his gaze. "Bobby, if I was hiding something, do you really think I'd be this bad at throwing salt?"
He snorted. "Fair point."
---
That night, lying on the couch, I stared at the ceiling, replaying the day.
I'd learned to salt a ghost, stab a werewolf, and shoot (poorly). I'd memorized omens, signs, and which monsters hated holy water.
And I'd survived Bobby Singer's training without getting shot. Win.
But beneath the excitement, nerves simmered.
This wasn't a TV show anymore. This was real.
Demons were out there. So were vampires, spirits, and things I hadn't even heard of yet.
And I? I was still just a guy who'd died doing a backflip.
But I wasn't helpless. Not anymore.
I grinned in the dark.
Bring it on, monsters.