Chapter 2: The hunter's spark
Landon Kirby didn't sleep much that night.
Not because of nightmares—though those had become normal—but because his mind wouldn't slow down. All the thoughts kept spinning: the dream, the ashes, the file. The name Winchester felt heavy in his chest, like it belonged to someone else. Someone stronger.
When the first light of morning peeked through the window, Landon was already dressed and outside.
The woods behind the Salvatore School were quiet, the trees tall and still. Landon had always liked coming out here. It made him feel grounded. Less like a mistake. More like… part of something.
He took a breath and looked at the small notebook he'd brought. Inside, he'd scribbled three words:
Hunter. Phoenix. Landon.
He didn't know how they fit together yet.
But he was going to find out.
---
Later that day, Landon knocked on Alaric's office door.
"Come in," came the reply.
Alaric looked up from his desk, eyebrows rising when he saw Landon.
"I want to start training," Landon said, no hesitation.
Alaric leaned back in his chair. "Training?"
"I've spent most of my life getting rescued by other people," Landon said. "I want to stop being the weak one. If I'm a Winchester—and a phoenix—I want to earn it."
Alaric studied him. "Training's not easy. Hunters go through years of physical and mental prep. You don't become Dean Winchester overnight."
"I don't need to be Dean," Landon said quietly. "I just want to be… useful."
Alaric smiled, then stood. "Okay, then. Let's start with the basics."
---
An hour later, Landon stood in the gym wearing sweatpants, a black T-shirt, and a very uncertain look.
Hope sat on the bleachers, watching with a supportive grin. "You'll be fine."
"You say that like I'm not about to get wrecked," Landon muttered.
"I have faith."
Alaric tossed him a wooden practice stake. "Today we're starting with hand-to-hand and weapon familiarity. You won't be going against real vampires yet. Just some dummies. Maybe Rafael, if he's feeling generous."
"Please not Rafael," Landon whispered.
Alaric gestured to a training dummy shaped like a torso. "Alright. First test—stab the heart. Clean and fast."
Landon stepped forward, took a deep breath, and jabbed the stake.
It bounced off the rubber chest.
Hope tried not to laugh.
Alaric didn't. "Again."
Landon adjusted his grip, then hit it harder. This time, the stake went in—but crooked.
"Good effort," Alaric said. "But your stance is off. You're relying on arm strength. Use your legs and shoulders, too."
The next hour was full of drills. Stabbing. Blocking. Rolling. Getting knocked over by soft training pads.
By the time Alaric called for a break, Landon's arms felt like noodles and his shirt was soaked in sweat.
Hope walked over, handed him a water bottle.
"You're not bad," she said.
"I feel like a giraffe trying to dance."
She laughed. "A brave giraffe, though."
He looked at her, grateful. "Thanks for being here."
Hope shrugged. "You'd do the same for me."
He hoped that was true.
---
That evening, Landon was back in his dorm, stretching sore muscles, when Rafael walked in.
"You look like death warmed over," Raf said, smirking.
"Thanks. That's encouraging."
"You training now?"
Landon nodded. "Trying."
Raf grabbed a protein bar from his drawer and tossed it to him. "Don't forget to eat after. That phoenix body of yours burns energy fast."
Landon caught the bar. "You always this supportive?"
"Only when I'm impressed."
Landon smiled to himself.
---
Later, he sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at the old Winchester file Alaric had given him. He traced his fingers over the photo clipped inside. A man with kind eyes and shaggy hair—Sam Winchester. And beside him, the one from his dream—Dean.
His uncles?
It was hard to believe. These men had faced angels, demons, monsters. And here he was, struggling with wooden dummies.
He flipped through the file again and noticed something he hadn't seen before.
A map.
Tucked in the back, it showed a spot in Kansas. Marked in red ink: Lebanon.
His heart skipped.
That's where the Winchesters kept their base—the Men of Letters Bunker. He'd read about it online once, after googling the name.
There was something about the place that called to him. Like a string pulling tight in his chest.
He needed to go there.
---
The next day, Landon went back to Alaric's office.
"I want to visit Lebanon."
Alaric looked up from his laptop. "Kansas?"
"I found a map. In the file. If I really am a Winchester, that place might have answers."
Alaric frowned. "That's a long trip."
"I'm not asking to go alone," Landon said. "Just… help me figure out how. Please."
Alaric rubbed his temples. "Let me make some calls. We'll do it safely."
Landon nodded. "Thank you."
---
That night, Landon dreamed again.
But this time, the man from before wasn't just standing beside the car.
He was talking.
"Name's Dean," he said. "You're probably wondering why all this is happening."
Landon tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Dean crossed his arms. "There's a lot you don't know. But you've got good people around you. Listen to them. Trust your gut."
He looked Landon in the eye.
"You're one of us. Blood doesn't lie. Now get ready. There's more coming."
Landon jolted awake, gasping.
His hand was glowing faintly gold.
Like a spark of flame.
But instead of burning, it was warm. Comforting.
He held it up and whispered, "I'm ready."
---
End of Chapter 2