The living room looked like hygiene had packed a suitcase and quietly moved out.
Beer bottles lay scattered across the floor, some upright, most defeated. A pizza box sagged open on the coffee table, its contents long devoured, leaving behind a glossy map of grease as evidence.
The television droned on to an empty audience, canned laughter echoing faintly while thin strips of morning light slipped through the half-open blinds and illuminated the mess without mercy.
It wasn't just untidy. It was committed to the aesthetic.
On the couch, the architect of the disaster slept through it all.
He lay sprawled on his back, one arm dangling over the side, snoring softly. Brown hair stuck out in uneven angles, evidence of a restless night. His face was decent—above average, the kind that cleaned up well with minimal effort.
The only thing ruining the picture was his shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a slight curve of belly that spoke of convenience meals and a comfortable lack of urgency.
Outside, the day had started, and the sunlight fell straight across his face.
He groaned.
One hand shifted weakly, but it wasn't enough. He cracked one eye open.
Blue.
"Hmmm… good morning—" he muttered, stretching his arms overhead with a lazy yawn.
Then he froze.
He stared at the ceiling.
"…That isn't my room ceiling."
The words came out slow, confused. He blinked—blue eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of it. Once. Twice.
He sat up.
The room came into full view.
The mess. The bottles. The sitcom. The smell—stale beer and something faintly burned.
"What the hell?" he shouted, scrambling to his feet. "Whose house is this?!"
He turned in a slow circle, disbelief growing by the second. He did not live like this. Sure, he was lazy—but selectively lazy. The important things mattered. Objects had their places.
If something was one inch out of alignment, it bothered him. He couldn't sleep knowing a chair wasn't pushed in properly.
And garbage?
Garbage went outside.
Always.
So why was he standing in what looked like the aftermath of a week-long bender?
He glanced down—and stiffened.
The belly.
Small, but undeniable.
"…No," he muttered.
He tugged at the hem of the shirt, lifting it slightly, as if that would somehow make the problem disappear. It didn't.
"There is no way," he said flatly. "I did not have this yesterday."
One night. One single night. That's all it would've taken for this… upgrade?
Except he hadn't asked for this kind of upgrade. Who wants belly fat? It was ugly.
His arms felt off too. His shoulders heavier. His balance just a little wrong.
A prickling unease crawled up his spine.
Slowly, he scanned the room again—and then saw it.
A mirror, mounted on the far wall.
His breath caught.
He approached it cautiously, each step measured, like the reflection might lunge at him if he moved too fast. He stopped just short of the glass and stared.
The man staring back was not him.
Same general height. Same brown hair—though a bit messier than usual. Blue eyes, staring back at him with the same confusion and rising panic. But the face?
Wrong.
He raised a hand.
The reflection did the same.
He touched his cheek.
Solid. Real.
"Who the fuck did a plastic surgery on my face?" he shouted at the mirror.
His voice—his voice—was deeper than it should've been. Rough around the edges, like it had spent too many nights yelling over loud music or arguing with bartenders.
"This isn't my face," he snapped. "This isn't my body. And I know for a fact I don't wake up in pigsties."
***
After thirty minutes, he had gone through the usual states any human did when faced with something completely absurd—like waking up to find their body changed overnight.
First came denial. He convinced himself it was just a dream, a strangely detailed one, but a dream nonetheless. He pinched his arm, swore when it hurt, then lay back on the couch and shut his eyes, waiting for the world to reset.
It didn't. The ceiling stayed the same. The couch stayed uncomfortable.
When that excuse failed, despair followed. He sat on the floor with his back against the couch, hands tangled in his hair, staring at nothing. He checked the mirror again, as if it might finally blink and turn him back.
Finally, there was acceptance. Slow, unwilling, and bitter—but real.
He exhaled and looked around the room.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Shitty things happen."
He didn't sound angry. Just tired.
He'd read enough novels—and more than a few fanfictions—to recognize the pattern. Souls crossing worlds. Waking up in bodies that weren't theirs. Transmigration. Reincarnation. Different names for the same cruel joke.
He met his reflection's eyes again.
"So this is one of those," he murmured.
The thought settled in his chest, heavy and inescapable.
Whatever had happened, it wasn't temporary. It wasn't a dream.
It was real.
"So," he said, looking up at the ceiling, voice flat, "if you're listening—whoever did this—I'll take my cheat now."
He waited.
Nothing.
"I know the rules," he continued, rubbing his temples. "You don't send people back. Fine. I've accepted that part." He gestured vaguely around the room. "But you at least give something. A system. A treasure. Powers. Anything."
Silence.
"I don't care what it is," he added, irritation creeping in. "Just make it useful."
He let out a breath and muttered, "You already made me lose ten thousand dollars. I was saving that to fix my room and buy a gaming setup."
Still no response.
The room remained stubbornly quiet, offering him absolutely nothing in return.
He slowly knelt on the ground, the weight of it all finally pressing down on him.
"I'm screwed," he muttered.
New world. New body. No skills, no job, no money. From what he could tell, this version of him was a professional couch ornament with zero survival value.
After a minute of silent self-pity, he forced himself to stop.
If this was really happening, the least he could do was figure out who he was now.
Not that his previous life was worth clinging to anyway. A father rotting in jail from drug abuse. A gold-digger mother who vanished the moment things went south. Yeah—shitty pretty much covered it.
He checked his pockets, patting himself down for a wallet or an ID. Nothing.
Great.
He glanced around the living room again. The mess made his eye twitch. Finding anything useful in this dump was going to be a nightmare.
Then he noticed the photo frame on the wall.
He walked over and picked it up.
The first photo showed him—this body—as a kid, standing stiffly between a man and a woman. Mother and father, probably. Normal. Almost uncomfortable in how normal it looked.
The second photo made him pause.
The same man—his father—stood beside another man around the same age. They were close. Brothers, maybe.
He stared at the second man's face longer than necessary.
"…I've seen you before," he murmured.
The familiarity nagged at him.
He lowered the frame and resumed searching, growing more annoyed by the second. Couch. Drawers. Nothing. On a whim, he opened the fridge.
And there it was.
A wallet, sitting casually beside a row of beer bottles.
"…Of course."
He grabbed it and flipped it open.
Henry Winchester.
"…Winchester?"
His stomach dropped.
The name echoed in his head as he slowly turned back toward the photo frame. His eyes locked onto the second man's face again.
The realization hit like a punch.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"That's John Winchester."
Now it made sense. Too much sense.
His heart started racing. John Winchester wasn't just some guy—he was a character. A major one. From a show he knew very well.
He staggered back a step.
"Holy fuck… this is the Supernatural world."
Angels. Demons. Monsters. Ghosts. Apocalypses lined up like appointments. A world constantly on the edge of extinction.
And of all people—
He was a Winchester.
That thought alone was enough to make his chest tighten.
"Year," he said sharply. "What year is this?"
He searched the room again, this time more carefully, until he spotted a phone on the table. He picked it up, hands tense, and unlocked it.
2006. Late 2006.
His blood went cold.
"…Fuck," he whispered.
"I'm in Season Two."
*****
Author's Note: Chapters will be updated weekly, around two to three times a week. Each chapter will be between 1.3k and 1.6k words.
In the future, I may start a Patreon for advanced chapters, so please don't ask for extra updates beyond the schedule.
And no, I'm not planning to drop this novel midway. This story won't focus only on Supernatural—I'll also be including elements from other horror movies and universes for fun.
See you in the next chapter. I hope you enjoy the journey.