First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
Two weeks.
That's all it took for my body to start feeling like it belonged to someone else.
I stood in front of the cracked mirror in Bobby's bathroom, flexing. My arms, once lean and unremarkable, now carried defined muscle. My reflexes? Sharp enough that I'd caught a knife Bobby "accidentally" dropped mid-air yesterday. And my stamina? Let's just say running laps around the junkyard didn't leave me wheezing anymore.
Reincarnation perks. Gotta love 'em.
A knock rattled the door.
"You done preening in there, or do I gotta charge you rent for mirror time?" Bobby's voice was dry as dust.
I yanked the door open, grinning. "Jealous of my gains, old man?"
Bobby's eyes flicked over me, lingering on my shoulders like he was seeing them for the first time. His frown deepened. "Kid, you been sneaking steroids?"
"What? No!"
"Then how the hell are you—" He gestured vaguely at me. "—this after two weeks?"
I shrugged. "Good genes?"
"Try bullshit." He crossed his arms. "You healing fast was one thing. But this? Ain't natural."
Because I'm not from this world, I thought. But saying that would get me a one-way ticket to a padded room.
So I went for deflection. "Maybe you're just a really good teacher."
Bobby wasn't buying it. "Marcus—"
A car engine roared outside, cutting him off.
We both froze.
Bobby's head snapped toward the window. "That's the Impala."
My stomach dropped. No way.
Then came the voices.
"Damn it, Bobby, you better not be out of beer—"
Dean Winchester.
I was about to meet the Winchesters.
---
I'd imagined this moment a hundred times. Played out cool introductions, witty one-liners, maybe a dramatic handshake.
Reality?
I was sitting on Bobby's couch, buried in Monsters of the Midwest Vol. 3, when the door slammed open.
Two figures strode in—one tall, brooding, with shaggy hair; the other shorter, broader, with a smirk that screamed trouble.
Sam and Dean Winchester. In the flesh.
Dean's eyes locked onto me first. "Uh. Who's the nerd?"
I snapped the book shut. "Marcus Hale. Professional nerd, amateur ghostbuster. You must be Dean." I nodded to Sam. "And you're the one who actually reads the manuals."
Sam blinked. Dean's smirk twitched.
Bobby sighed like he was already regretting everything. "Boys, this is Marcus. Marcus, these are—"
"The Winchesters," I finished. "Yeah, I've heard stories."
Dean's grin turned sharp. "Oh? What kind of stories?"
"The kind that usually end with property damage."
Sam snorted. Dean looked weirdly pleased.
Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ, this is gonna be a long week."
Turns out, the Winchesters weren't just dropping by for a social call.
"Dad's phone," Dean said, tossing a burner onto Bobby's table. "Got a ton of encrypted voicemails. Need a week to crack 'em."
Sam shot me a sidelong glance. "You hunt?"
I shrugged. "Still in training. Bobby's teaching me the basics."
"Basics?" Dean scoffed. "Like what? How to salt a burger?"
I smirked. "Nah, that's your specialty. Bobby's got me on the real stuff—like how to stab a werewolf without getting my face ripped off."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "And how's that going?"
I grabbed the nearest knife off the table and flipped it in my hand—a move I'd practiced relentlessly. "Wanna see?"
Dean's grin turned competitive. "Oh, this I gotta watch."
Bobby groaned. "No knife tricks in the house."
---
Later, after the Winchesters had commandeered Bobby's kitchen (and his whiskey), I found myself under subtle interrogation.
Sam, ever the investigator, leaned against the bookshelf. "So. Bobby just found you?"
"Yep. Hospital, no memory, fast healer." I shrugged. "Guess I won the weird-lottery."
Dean, halfway through a beer, squinted at me. "And you just happened to wanna hunt?"
"Better than flipping burgers."
"He's got you there," Sam muttered.
Dean ignored him. "You're strong for a newbie."
I tensed. Here we go. "Gym membership?"
"Try impossible," Dean said. "Two weeks ago, Bobby said you could barely lift a shotgun. Now you're handling blades like you were born with 'em."
Bobby, from the corner, didn't deny it.
I kept my voice light. "What can I say? I'm a fast learner."
Sam and Dean exchanged a look.
Yeah. They don't buy it.
That night, lying on Bobby's couch, I stared at the ceiling.
The Winchesters were here. In the same house. And they were suspicious.
Not that I blamed them.
I flexed my hand in the dark, watching the muscles shift.
Two weeks. That's all it took to go from zero to… whatever this was. Faster reflexes. Sharper instincts. A body that shouldn't be this strong, this fast.
Was it the reincarnation? Some cosmic cheat code? Or was there something else going on?
And more importantly—how long until Sam and Dean dug too deep?
I exhaled, rolling over.
One problem at a time, Marcus. First, survive the Winchesters.
Then figure out what the hell I really was.
******
First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
A week with the Winchesters was like being trapped in a tornado of sarcasm, beer, and occasional moments of brotherly tenderness that they'd both rather die than admit to.
And honestly? I loved every damn second of it.
Dean was already in the kitchen by the time I stumbled in, bleary-eyed and half-awake. He stood by the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of focus usually reserved for disarming bombs.
I slumped into a chair. "You cook now?"
Dean didn't look up. "Someone's gotta save you heathens from Bobby's idea of 'breakfast.'"
"Hey," Bobby grumbled from the table, newspaper in hand. "My cooking's fine."
Sam, nursing a coffee like it was the only thing keeping him alive, snorted. "Bobby, last week you served us cereal with water because we were out of milk."
"Resourceful," I chimed in.
Dean slid a plate of pancakes in front of me. "Eat. Before I change my mind."
I took a bite and nearly moaned. "Holy hell, Dean. Marry me."
Dean smirked. "Sorry, sweetheart. I don't share a bed with anyone who can't field-strip a shotgun."
I pointed my fork at him. "Challenge accepted."
Sam groaned. "Please don't encourage him."
---
It happened on the sixth day.
Sam burst into the living room, laptop in hand, eyes alight with that *I-found-something* intensity. "Guys. Listen."
A crackling voicemail played—John Winchester's voice, rough and urgent.
"Boys… Harvelle's. There's a hunter there who knows about the Y—"
The message cut off.
Dean's face went deadly serious. "Harvelle's Roadhouse."
Bobby stiffened. "That's Ellen's place."
I stayed quiet, but my mind raced. *Yellow-Eyed Demon.* That's what John was going to say.
Sam snapped the laptop shut. "We need to go."
Dean was already grabbing his jacket. "Pack up. We leave in ten."
I exchanged a glance with Bobby. This was it—their next big lead. And my time as a Winchester houseguest was over.
---
The Impala's trunk slammed shut as Dean loaded the last of their gear. Sam hovered nearby, shifting impatiently.
I leaned against the porch railing. "So. This is it? No tearful farewells?"
Dean smirked. "Don't get mushy on me, Hale."
"Wouldn't dream of it." I tossed him a small, wrapped package.
He caught it, eyebrow raised. "What's this?"
"Open it and find out."
Dean unwrapped it to reveal a silver flask, engraved with 'Don't die. –M'
Sam laughed. Dean looked torn between touched and annoyed.
"Sentimental and practical," I said. "Just like you."
Dean shook his head but pocketed the flask. "You're a pain in my ass, you know that?"
"I try."
Sam clapped me on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Marcus."
"You too. And hey—don't let him do anything stupid." I jerked a thumb at Dean.
Sam smirked. "No promises."
With a final wave, they climbed into the Impala. The engine roared to life, and then they were gone—just like that.
Bobby exhaled beside me. "Well. House is quiet again."
I grinned. "Miss them already?"
"Like a damn toothache."
With the Winchesters gone, Bobby and I fell back into our routine—training, research, and the occasional argument over whether Led Zeppelin was overrated. (It was. Fight me.)
But something had shifted.
Bobby watched me closer now, not just as a teacher, but like he was trying to figure me out.
"You're quiet," he grunted one afternoon as we cleaned weapons.
I shrugged. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"The Winchesters. Ellen. All of it." I spun a silver knife absently. "This life… it's not easy."
Bobby's hands stilled. "No. It ain't."
I met his gaze. "Why do you do it?"
He didn't answer right away. Then, quietly: "Someone's gotta keep idiots like you alive."
I laughed, but there was warmth in it.
Because that was Bobby's version of 'I care.'
That night, as I lay on Bobby's couch, I stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling.
A week ago, the Winchesters had been strangers. Now? I'd miss their chaos.
And Bobby…
Bobby, who'd taken me in without hesitation. Who'd trained me, fed me, trusted me—even when he had every reason not to.
I'd never had a father figure before. Not in this life, not in my last one.
But if I had to pick one?
Yeah. Bobby Singer was it.
Down the hall, Bobby's voice carried from his study, gruff but unmistakably fond.
"Damn kid's gonna be the death of me."
I smiled into the dark.
Yeah. He cares.