The Reed house smelled like old paper and gun oil, a scent Jonah had come to associate with safety or at least the illusion of it.
He sat on the living room floor with his legs crossed while staring at the clutter of journals and newspaper clippings Rebecca had spread out on the coffee table. His small hands fidgeted with the edge of a faded sketch, tracing the lines of a wendigo's claw marks.
The drawing was crude, but it sent a shiver down his spine.
'This is real', he reminded himself. 'It's Not a show. Not anymore.'
Rebecca sat across from him, her blonde hair was tied back and her eyes were sharp and patient. She was the family's lore keeper, the one who turned scraps of rumor into battle plans. "Alright, Jonah," she said while tapping the sketch. "What do you think made these marks?"
Jonah's mind worked quickly. He knew the basics from Supernatural; wendigos were fast, hungry and damn near impossible to kill without fire. But the details were fuzzy, like trying to recall a half-forgotten episode. "A wendigo?" he guessed, his voice came higher than he wanted it to be.
Rebecca nodded with a small smile tugging at her lips. "Good. And how do you kill it?"
"Fire," he said quickly. Too quickly.
Mary's eyebrow arched and he added, "I mean, I think that's what you said last time."
She chuckled, ruffling his hair. "You're a quick study, kiddo. But remember, getting close enough to torch one is tricky and very risky. They're fast and they don't play fair."
Jonah nodded, filing the information away. His adult mind screamed for more; specifics, strategies and anything to feel less helpless. But he was ten, and ten-year-olds didn't ask about flamethrower schematics. He just settled for, "So, how do you trap one?"
Rebecca's smile widened. "Now you're thinking like a hunter. Come on, let's dig into that."
They spent the next hour poring over journals with Rebecca explaining how to spot a wendigo's lair; remote forests, missing hikers, unnatural silence. Jonah soaked it up, his past-life knowledge flickering In and Out. He remembered the show's version, but this was different. This was tactile, urgent. 'If I screw this up, I'm dead.'
A shadow fell across the table and Eli looked up to see Thomas leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. His father's face was a map of scars and stubble, his eyes were hard but kind. "You two still at it?" he asked with his deep voice.
Rebecca glanced at the clock. "It's getting late, Tom. Maybe we should—"
"He needs to know this stuff," Thomas cut in though not harshly. "The world's not getting any safer."
Jonah felt the tension between them. Rebecca wanted to shield him while Thomas wanted to arm him. Both were right in their way. He wasn't just their son; he was their second chance, the one who had to survive where Sarah hadn't.
That unspoken truth weighed on him as heavily as the knife Thomas would soon hand him.
"Alright," Rebecca sighed and closed the journal. "But don't push him too hard."
Thomas grunted and nodded his head toward the back door. "Come on, kid. Time to get your hands dirty."
The backyard was patchy dirt and weeds, lit by a single floodlight that hummed constantly. Thomas had set up a straw dummy against the fence. He handed Jonah a training knife with a dulled edge. "Hold it firmly," Thomas said, adjusting Jonah's grip. "Now, stab—hard, and aim for the heart."
Jonah squared his shoulders and lunged. The knife barely hit the dummy, and he stumbled over his own feet. Thomas caught him by the elbow to steady him. "Plant your feet," he said. "Try again."
Jonah's face burned with embarrassment. In his past life, he'd been a mechanic with enough strength to lift engines. Now he was a skinny kid who could barely handle a knife. He gritted his teeth and stabbed again, harder. This time the blade sank into the straw, and Thomas nodded. "Better. Keep going."
For thirty minutes, Jonah attacked the dummy until his arms hurt and he was out of breath. He thought about Dean Winchester and how smoothly he moved in fights, and felt inadequate by comparison. He was no Dean Winchester. But Thomas's simple praise—"Not bad, kid"—made him feel a little proud. Maybe someday he could be good enough.
Later, Thomas pulled out an unloaded shotgun from a canvas bag. He offered it to Jonah, who took it carefully, surprised by its weight. "Safety first, always," Thomas instructed, showing him how to check if it was loaded. Jonah's small fingers fumbled, but he managed to open the chamber and see it was empty. He nodded, relieved.
Thomas watched him with an unusual gentleness. "You're doing good, Jonah. Really good."
Jonah's throat tightened. He wanted to believe it, but doubt nagged at him. Would he ever be strong enough? The straw dummy stood in the corner barely damaged, reminding him how far he had to go.
Back inside, the house was quiet except for the low sound of the TV. Rebecca was in the kitchen cooking stew, the smell of beef and onions filling the house. Thomas dropped onto the couch and opened a beer, while Jonah stood by the table still feeling restless from training.
Rebecca looked over at him. "Hungry?"
"Yeah," he said, sitting down. His muscles ached, but it was the good kind of pain that meant he was making progress. Still, he felt uneasy. He wasn't really a child; he was a grown man trapped in a child's body, carrying memories of another life they couldn't understand.
Thomas took a drink of his beer, watching him. "You did well out there, Jonah. But don't get overconfident. Hunting isn't a game."
"I know," Jonah said, too sharply. Rebecca looked up quickly and Thomas frowned. Jonah caught himself and forced a smile. "I mean, I'm trying, Dad."
Thomas's expression softened. "I know you are. Just be careful, okay?"
Jonah nodded, feeling the tension ease. Rebecca put bowls of stew on the table, and they ate quietly, just the sound of spoons against bowls between them. Halfway through the meal, Rebecca spoke up. "Tom, maybe tomorrow we can go over some ghost lore. Jonah's got a good memory for it."
Thomas grunted. "Lore matters, but he needs to learn to fight, Rebecca. You can't kill a vampire with research."
Rebecca's mouth tightened. "He's ten, Tom. He has time."
"And Sarah was six," Thomas said quietly, and the room went completely still.
Jonah stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Sarah; their daughter, his sister, the one taken by vampires. He'd heard about her, seen her pictures, but the pain was still raw in his parents' voices. He wasn't her, but he felt like a replacement, a fragile hope they couldn't stand to lose again.
Rebecca's eyes watered but she blinked it away. "I know," she whispered. "But Jonah's here now. And we'll keep him safe."
Thomas reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Yeah. We will."
Jonah stared down at his bowl, no longer hungry. He wasn't just their son; he was their second chance. That responsibility weighed on him as heavily as the weapons he was learning to use. He wasn't sure he could handle it, but he'd try; for them and for himself.
That night in bed, Jonah stared at the ceiling as the house made settling noises. He wondered if Chuck was somewhere out there, watching and manipulating events. Was he just a pawn in some cosmic game? The thought bothered him, but he pushed it away. He needed to focus on the present—the training, the knowledge and the family that loved him.
He closed his eyes, feeling the day's exertion in his sore muscles. Tomorrow he'd get up and do it all again. And again. Until he was strong enough and smart enough to survive whatever came his way. "I'll learn," he promised himself. "And I'll make it."
But in the darkness, doubt whispered back: "Will that be enough?"