Chapter Text
The ringtone shrieks through the apartment like a blade, shrill and unwanted. You don’t even have to check who it is. You’ve been dreading this call all week. Still, you swipe the screen and press it to your ear.
“Yeah?”
Your boss’s voice comes through, cool and flat, like he’s already moved on to his next problem.
“Hey, (Y/N). I wanted to talk about what happened with the Johnson account.”
You sink deeper into the couch, one hand gripping your mug of cold coffee.
“What about it? I already told you she couldn’t make the payment. I just…”
“You covered it,” he interrupts, his voice harsh. “Out of your own pocket.”
You stare at the wall. The sound of the refrigerator humming faintly in the background.
“Yeah, I did. She’s a single mom, the company was about to shut her utilities off. It was fifty bucks.”
“Company policy doesn’t care if it’s five or fifty,” he says. “You can’t do that, (Y/N). You made the company liable, and accounting flagged it.”
A bitter laugh catches in your throat.
“So what, I get punished for helping someone?”
There is a pause. The kind of silence that means you already know the answer.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “You’ve been a good employee, but we have to let you go. Effective immediately.”
You feel your pulse drum behind your eyes.
“You’re firing me for helping someone?”
“Rules are rules,” he replies too calmly. “HR will email you the paperwork.”
You close your eyes, jaw tightening.
“Yeah. Of course they will.”
The line goes dead. Just like that. No warning, no thank you, no nothing. Your life has been stripped down to the sound of a dial tone.
You let the phone slip from your hand and land somewhere between the couch cushions. The apartment suddenly feels cold and quiet.
For a moment, you sit there, staring at the reflection of the city lights reflecting on your black TV screen. Then the weight of it hits. The years of work, the exhaustion, the blind loyalty. All of it for nothing.
You laugh, sharp and bitter, until it cracks into something closer to a sob.
“Guess I really outdid myself this time,” you mutter.
The laugh echoes off the walls.
You spend the next hour doing nothing but existing. Scrolling aimlessly, staring into space, your mind spinning with every possible version of what now? Rent. Bills. Groceries. You don’t have savings. You don’t even have a backup plan.
Eventually, you drag yourself into the kitchen, pour a splash of whiskey into the same mug that had once held coffee, and stare down at the amber liquid.
At least now you can train again. Compete.
You’ve told yourself that a thousand times — once the job calms down, I’ll go back.
Now you don't have an excuse. Just… no income either.
You take a long swallow. It burns going down your throat.
“Maybe this is the universe telling me to start over,” you say to no one.
Or maybe, you think, it is just another cruel joke.
When the sky outside begins to dim, you reach for the remote. Your thumb hover for a second before muscle memory takes over. The familiar logo flashes across the screen - Supernatural. The one thing that still can make you feel something other than dread.
You’ve seen every season, every hunt, every heartbreak more than once. You know the Winchesters better than you know most real people - their dark humor, their stupid bravery, their endless cycle of saving everyone but themselves.
Tonight, it feels like coming home.
You stretch out on the couch, curling up under a blanket, eyes tracing the flicker of the TV. Dean’s voice fills the room - that gravelly, teasing drawl that somehow makes the world a little less miserable.
You smile faintly.
“At least you guys get to fight your problems.”
The whiskey is starting to make you sleepy. Somewhere between episodes, your thoughts blur. The hum of the TV softens, your eyelids sink, and your breathing falls into rhythm with the low rumble of Baby’s engine.
For a fleeting second before sleep swallows you, you whisper a half-joke, half-plea into the dark.
“If there’s anything out there listening… just, I don’t know. Take me somewhere else. Anywhere but here.”
And maybe something is.
Because as the screen flickers with static and the Impala’s headlights cut through the dark Kansas night, the world around you begins to hum - a low, vibrating sound, like power lines on the verge of bursting.
You don’t see the screen flicker, register the sound or hear the last lines of dialogue. You don’t notice the air shift, the room tilt, the light bend.
You’re already gone, fast asleep.
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The smell hits first - dust, old wood, and something faintly metallic, like dried blood under the floorboards. Your throat burns when you swallow.
You open one eye. Then the other.
Light filters through cracks in the walls, thin and sickly, spilling over warped planks and a half-collapsed chair. The place looks abandoned. No electricity, no sound but the wind wheezing through the boards.
You blink up at a sagging ceiling.
It takes a few seconds before the rest of it sinks in.
You’re lying on a narrow cot. An itchy blanket clings to your skin. The edges are speckled with mold.
And..
You freeze.
You’re naked.
“Why the fuck am I naked!?”
The words tear out before you can stop them, your voice hoarse and shaking. You clap a hand over your mouth immediately, heart hammering. You listen.
Nothing.
Just the whisper of wind and a distant creak, like the cabin itself is breathing.
You sit up slowly, clutching the blanket to your chest, scanning the room. It’s empty, except for a sagging table in one corner and a green, old shoulder bag slumped against the wall.
Your legs shake when you stand, the floorboards cold and gritty beneath your bare feet. The bag’s exterior feels stiff with age. You pull it open, desperate for anything and almost sob with relief when your fingers close around fabric.
Clothes.
Dark blue jeans, a black T-shirt, socks and an old red flannel shirt that smells faintly of smoke and gasoline.
You dress fast, wincing as the cold air licks your skin.
Inside the bag, you also find a wallet. It’s worn, the leather cracked, the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a thrift store bin.
But inside…
Several IDs. Your face. Different names.
One says Rebecca Moore — FBI.
Another: Kate Dawson — Coroner.
A third: Lisa Graham — Press.
All of them have the same photo, your photo, but none of the names are yours.
“What the hell…” you whisper, turning them over, hoping for some rational explanation.
There isn’t one.
A chill crawls up your spine. You look around the room again, at the dust, the ancient stove, the warped windowpane. For a wild moment, you almost laugh.
“This has to be a dream,” you tell yourself. “A really vivid, fucked-up dream.”
You close your eyes and slowly inhale. The air tastes like mildew and old wood.
Lucid dream, you decide. That’s it. My brain just decided to go full horror movie.
You slap your cheek, hard. The sting is painful and sharp, but the world doesn’t blur or bend or flicker back to your apartment.
Your pulse kicks faster as you slap your cheek again.
Nothing.
“Wake up. Wake up. Wake the hell up!” You hiss under your breath.
You draw in a ragged breath, then ball your hand into a fist. One last try. You punch yourself squarely in the jaw, a wild, desperate move.
The jolt snaps your head sideways, sending a metallic taste blooming across your tongue. You blink down at the smear of blood where you’ve bitten your lip.
“Great. Real classy.”
Your heart hammers like it’s trying to break out of your ribs.
This isn’t a dream.
This is happening.
“Okay. Calm down. Just… calm down.”
Your voice shakes as you talk to yourself, like you’re coaching a stranger out of a panic attack.
“One thing at a time. Breathe. Think.”
Your hands tremble as you shove the IDs back into the wallet, placing it back down into the green shoulder bag. The snap of the clasp sounds too loud in the dead cabin.
You glance at the kitchen — or what passes for one. An old fridge, a crooked stove and some shelves. Dust everywhere.
But thirst burns in your throat, so you cross the room, feet silent on the splintered floor.
The fridge door creaks when you open it, and a stench of rot hits you full in the face. You gag, slamming it shut again.
There’s a small pantry beside it, its door hanging crooked. Inside, glass jars furred with something that used to be food.
You spot one clear bottle in the corner.
Water. Sealed.
Your hand shoots out like a starving animal’s. The plastic crackles under your grip. You twist the cap open, sniff it.
Nothing. Clean.
You take a cautious sip, and water hits your throat like salvation. You almost laugh.
“That’s not food anymore,” you mutter, eyeing the decayed jars. “That’s Darwinism.”
The sound of your own Supernatural reference is weirdly comforting, like a reminder you’re still here, still you.
You sling the bag over your shoulder, fingers brushing the frayed strap.
One last glance around the cabin — the warped planks, the empty cot, the moldy blanket that still smells like someone else’s nightmare.
You find a pair of boots that’s a size too big, but fits ok, then you head for the door. The handle is rusted, the wood swollen from years of damp. It groans when you pull it.
The outside light slashes across your face, too bright, making your eyes water. You step out into air that tastes like pine and cold earth.
The cabin squats behind you like a forgotten grave marker, crooked and dark against the trees. Ahead, a gravel road cuts through the forest, a pale vein of stone and dirt leading away from the cabin.
You stand there for a second, bag slung over your shoulder, blood drying on your lip, shoes nervously shifting in the gravel. The trees creak faintly in the wind, their branches like claws against the sky.
“Alright,” you whisper to yourself. “Follow the creepy road. Why not? It’s not like this day could get any weirder.”
And you start walking, each step crunching softly, carrying you away from the cabin and into a world you don’t recognize.