The second the words "I think I do" left my mouth, three sets of hunter eyes locked on me like I'd just announced I was marrying a demon.
Dean crossed his arms. "Oh, this oughta be good."
I ignored him—half because I was focused, half because arguing with Dean is like trying to out-stubborn a boulder. "Hess called Lena the second key. That rock in her chest? It's not just keeping her alive. It's connected to Kharon. Maybe even a piece of him."
Sam's brow furrowed. "You think we can trace him through it?"
"That's the idea. Her blood's probably marinating in whatever freaky essence that thing's pumping into her. If we can isolate the signature, maybe we can trace it back to its source."
Bobby grunted. "Big if. And a dangerous one. If she's connected to Kharon, there's a good chance he can find her just as easily."
Lena, still wrapped in a blanket, didn't flinch. She met Bobby's stare with more fire than I expected. "I don't care. If it helps stop that thing, then use me."
Dean let out a low whistle. "Damn. Kid's got more guts than most hunters I know."
I gave her a nod. "Alright, then. Bobby, you and Sam dig through every spell, hex bag, and dark corner of that library for a tracking ritual that won't get us all fried. Dean and I'll handle the legwork."
Sam looked skeptical. "What kind of legwork?"
Dean grinned. "The fun kind."
I shot him a look. "We'll check out active cases. If Kharon's moving pieces on the board, he's not the only one stirring up trouble. Plus," I glanced at Lena, "we can't keep her locked up forever. We need to know what this stone is really doing to her."
She nodded, face pale but set. "And if it gets worse?"
I shrugged. "Then we adapt."
But what I didn't say—what I couldn't say—was the thought gnawing at me from the inside:
If that thing's changing her...what happens when she stops being Lena?
The next morning, I was elbow-deep in Bobby's weapons locker when he tossed a manila folder onto the rickety table.
"Got a case. Thought you boys might like this one."
Dean snatched it before I could. "Let's see here... Ohio. Middle-aged husband found torn to shreds. Wife says she doesn't remember a thing." He looked up, grin widening. "Possessed housewife. Love it."
I leaned over his shoulder. "Churchgoing, quiet, whole nine yards. Cops called it a psychotic break."
Bobby sipped his coffee. "Yeah. And I call it a demon."
Dean tossed me a sawed-off. "Let's go test that theory."
I hesitated. "Problem. We don't have anything that kills demons. No Colt, no demon knife, no fancy blade tucked under the seat."
Dean clapped me on the back. "We'll kick it old school. Latin, salt, and grit. You in?"
"Am I in? Dude, I'm hoping it tries to gut me so I can gut it back."
Truth was... I wasn't just in.
I needed this.
Demons were a different class. I'd taken on wendigos, ghosts, a shadow monster—but demons especially the prince of hell? They had speed, strength, firepower. If I could take one down and absorb its powers... I could finally even the playing field. Especially against someone like Kharon.
Five hours into the drive, I was one classic rock ballad away from bashing Dean's stereo with a crowbar.
"Dude, if I have to listen to 'Back in Black' one more time—"
Dean turned it up. "Shotgun rides don't make the rules. I do."
Sam didn't even look up from his laptop. "I learned to stop arguing back in middle school."
"Coward," I muttered.
He smirked.
Still, I sat back, staring out the window, my fingers drumming against my knee. The hunt felt...off. Not the case. Me. My mind kept drifting—Lena, the stone, the word "vessel," the way Kharon kept orbiting around me like a shark in bloodied water.
What was I really? What had I become since waking up in this world?
And more importantly—how long until Kharon decided to collect?
Dean's voice cut in. "You're doing the creepy thinking thing again."
"Better than your creepy singing thing," I shot back.
He gave me that shit-eating grin. "You love it."
I flipped him off without looking.
The wife—Martha—answered the door looking like a Hallmark card. Polka dot dress, perfect hair, smile that could cut glass.
"Can I help you boys?"
Dean flashed the fake FBI badge like a pro. "Just a few questions about your husband, ma'am."
She didn't even blink. "Of course. Come on in."
The second we stepped inside, the air shifted.
Cold. Dense.
Something ancient pressed against my skin like static.
Sam felt it too. He tensed, fingers twitching toward his pocket.
Martha led us to the living room, walls packed with family portraits. Her voice was light, almost cheerful. "It's been hard, of course. Harold and I were married twenty years. Then one day... I black out. Wake up with him... gone."
Dean nodded like he was buying it, but I could see the glint in his eyes. He wasn't.
Neither was I.
I leaned forward. "You ever mess with anything weird? Ouija boards? Dream journals? Haunted thrift stores?"
Martha laughed, low and rehearsed. "Oh no, dear. I'm a devout woman."
Then her eyes flashed solid black.
Bingo.
I ducked easily as the teapot launched across the room like a missile. Sam caught it to the face. Dean went flying from a single kick.
"Another one!" she sang, grabbing a knife from thin air like a magic trick. "And this one smells... delicious."
I dodged again, grabbing a fireplace poker. "Sorry, lady. No soul on the menu today."
She lunged. I parried. Dean staggered to his feet, Latin already spilling from his lips. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…"
Sam was bleeding. Dean was chanting. I was dodging like a maniac while Demon Martha slashed at me with the kind of glee serial killers dream of.
Then—an opening.
I stabbed the poker into her thigh.
She shrieked, twisting away.
The Latin grew louder.
Walls shook.
Black smoke burst from her mouth and spiraled toward the ceiling, screeching as it went.
And just like that—
Silence.
Martha collapsed, breathing shallow, unconscious.
Dean wiped a smear of blood from his nose. "Well, that could've gone worse."
Sam glared, blood trickling down his temple. "You have the worst scale for 'worse.'"
I didn't say anything.
I just stared at the spot where the demon had gone.
No corpse. No absorption.
No power.
Damn it.
Back in the Impala, Dean tossed me a beer like it was a medal. "Come on, man. We saved the lady. Call it a win."
I cracked it open but didn't drink. "Yeah. We saved her. And let the demon go."
Sam sighed from the back seat. "We need better tools. We're swinging baseball bats in a war zone."
Dean nodded. "Time to find ourselves a demon-killing knife."
I leaned against the window, letting the beer rest in my lap.
Demons. Kharon. Lena.
Too many pieces on the board. Not enough leverage.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow might be different.
Another hunt.
Another shot.
Another monster between me and becoming strong enough to tear Kharon apart.
I took a slow sip.
"Bring it on."