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Supernatural: A Collection of Summaries

Series

“Yes.”

Turns out, the Supernatural universe isn’t as forgiving as fans make it out to be, and you’re about to learn the hard way. Forced into the world of the Winchesters, you struggle to juggle the looming threats of the things that put you there, survive a large misunderstanding with the Winchesters, and find a way back home.

One-shots/Imagines:

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Original Works:

Poetry

Of Daydreams and Realities

Chapter 13: Second Chances

The next time you woke up, you were in significantly less pain. Your thoughts were clearer, and you had some alone time to assess your state and location. After a few days of nothing, you began to believe your therapist. Maybe you had imagined it. You'd dreamed everything up in your coma and had convinced yourself it was real.

There was still that black mark though, which could not be explained.

The harsh reality of never understanding what that had meant, what you had seen, would live with you forever. You knew you would always watch now, careful to see that TARDIS from the corner of your eye, or the 1967 Chevy Impala cruising down the street.

You were so deep in thoughts that you didn't notice your visitor. He sighed and straightened his trenchcoat.

You did a double take. "Castiel?" you asked. "You—you stayed? Where's everyone else?"

"Time travel, remember?" The Doctor said, coming up from behind Castiel with his hands in his pocket. "I'm sorry to leave you so long, but everyone agreed you needed time to sort things out. Including… well, nevermind."

"Yeah." You bit your lip. "Hey, I just… I mean… what happened? Why are you still here? How did I survive a gunshot to the head?"

"I healed you," Castiel intoned. "The Doctor brought us back in time."

"You went into a coma. Probably my fault," the Doctor told you. "You know, with the rip in time and all that. A lady was kind enough to call emergency services, as we have no phones ourselves."

You blinked. "Wow. So you guys had been watching over me all that time and I hadn't even known about it?"

The Doctor pondered on that. "I wouldn't strain yourself thinking about it. But if you must know, yes. We were intervening before anything even happened in your timeline."

He made his way to your bedside, "Would you like to see the others?"

You sat up and hugged him, ignoring the soreness of your chest and the ache in your arms as the little action wore away at your energy. "I would really really love that."

///

Sam and Dean Winchester welcomed you with open arms when you entered the TARDIS.

"Hey, kiddo!" Dean pulled you in for a hug.

"I thought you guys left me!" you said.

"Well, technically, we've only been gone, like, five minutes," Sam said, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry we left you to wait so long."

"I think that was needed," you said, laughing into Sam's chest.

You then pulled away, barely catching the look that the Doctor and Dean were giving each other, like they were both agreeing about something.

The Doctor sighed and clasped both hands together, carefully choosing his words; which was not something the Doctor often did. "I have a proposition," he said. "It's only if you want to. Dean said that you said you were flunking in college. I could take you back in time to try again. Perhaps you would be more motivated? I believe you deserve a second chance after all you went through. It's the least I can do."

That had not been what you were expecting. "Well, I mean, yeah. That would be really great!"

The Doctor beamed at you and played with the control board.

Sam looked happy for you. "What are you thinking of doing?"

You smiled, thinking to yourself. You hummed. "I don't know. Really, anything. It's like a second chance."

///

They dropped you off where you could see your house a block away. It was almost cleaner, in a way. Nicer. Calmer. Happier. You waved them goodbye, tearing up again at the thought of them disappearing from your life forever. No, you told yourself, they would always be there in your heart. As if that wasn't the cheesiest thing you've ever thought.

You walked up to your home, feeling a little odd. Why did it feel so new? As you walked past the mowed lawn and the new paint of the fence, you felt wary.

The door was thrown open and you stared. Just stared, face to face with your mother, who looked twenty years younger than she should have.

///

You prayed for Castiel until your throat was hoarse. Your mother found you panicking in the middle of the sidewalk, pacing and generally freaking out.

She offered you tea, and you nervously accepted.

You froze solid at the doorway when you saw your younger self, stacking Lincoln Logs and rapping the toy cowboy on the hardwood floor.

Would this be like Doctor Who? If you neared too close to your past self, would  you combust, cease to exist, or cause another tear in time?

If anything like that was meant to happen, it never did. Your mother, completely unknowing of her future daughter right in front of her, was happy to chat with you.

"I haven't had the chance to catch your name."

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, eyeing the toddler in the kitchen as she stomped around playfully. "Um… I'm Rose. Rose Winchester."

///

Looking back on the past twenty years was like a dream. You had gone to college, got your degree, got a real job. Your mother was a great supporter.

It was… strange. You and your mother had never gotten along. You, younger you, broke off ties with your mother by the time you were eighteen.

To your surprise, your mother took it hard. Your teenage mind must have misunderstood. Now-you took it harder, knowing that your stupid choices in the past had caused her so much pain.

That was four years ago, that stunt.

And your friends? The Doctor, the Winchesters, Sherlock and John; they remained in the shadows of your dreams. Twenty years was a long time. By now, it was just a bedtime story.

Then, one afternoon, you saw a woman. At first, you hadn't taken notice. It wasn't abnormal to see a woman on a public sidewalk in the afternoon. But then you saw her features, and the way she walked, and the way she held herself, and you realized it was you. Younger you.

You were deathly pale, with thick bags around your eyes. Just two blocks from the hospital. It was when you were having nightmares.

How surreal was this?

You wondered what your life would be if you intervened. If you stopped her and asked her if she was alright, asked her not to walk that road. It was even weirder knowing that all this had happened and future-you had been watching and wondering this.

Ironically, you would have been a hollow shell of a girl if you hadn't been mugged and shot that day. You would have been a lonely girl with a bleak future in front of her, paved by poor life choices.

So you didn't intervene.

You watched though, watched as you were mugged and shot in the forehead. You looked away as the shot rang, not keen on seeing your own brains splatter the pavement and brick walls.

Two men, both in trenchcoats, one brown, one beige, pushed past you.

Castiel and the Doctor.

You inched closer to the crime scene, and as Castiel healed you, the Doctor looked you straight in the eyes. You weren't quite ready for it. That old, familiar intense look that you would never forget.

His mouth gaped. "You—"

"Doctor," you greeted. It was funny knowing that all this had really happened, that you weren't imagining it, and you were now reliving it. As if that wasn't crazy enough. "You dropped me off at the wrong time, you know."

"You've aged."

"Yes. That is generally what happens," you pointed out.

He nodded. "You look good. Happy."

"I am," you told him. "So, about younger-me, here… can you just give her—me, some space and time to think? I won't be too rational when I first wake up. I'll be grieving and lost. And, um, can you still make that mistake? I mean can you still send me twenty-some years back? I'm really proud of what I've done here and what I've accomplished."

The Doctor beamed, brilliant and stunning. "Yes. I can do that for you." He then paused. "Listen, if you touch your younger self right now, this is where it all starts. This is how the dimension tears. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I do." You nodded, crouching down and reaching out to place your finger on her glabella, noting the black dot that marks where your skin touched. You then pulled out your phone from you pocket, giving the Doctor a smile, and dialed 911, knowing the beautiful future you had in store for your younger self. 

The End

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Masterlist

(No NSFW Content)

Advice

Lovely Conversation: How to get to the climax of a story.

Top Fanfic Pet Peaves

Series

“Yes.”

One-shots/Imagines:

General Fics:

Original Works:

Poetry

Masterlist

Masterlist

(No NSFW Content)

Advice

Lovely Conversation: How to get to the climax of a story.

Top Fanfic Pet Peaves

Series

One-shots/Imagines:

General Fics (Not Reader Inserts):

Original Works:

Artwork:

Poetry

Of Daydreams and Realities

Chapter 12: Vengeful

You shouted and cursed them as they approached comatose-you. The anger you'd been feeling was ten times that of the hate from before, which was a pitiful excuse for power.

You were becoming a vengeful ghost.

You screamed and shoved your companions so they flew several feet back. Looks of utter shock crossed their face as they saw you, almost completely opaque and incredibly angry.

The Doctor, Sherlock, and John had enough common sense to withdraw behind the Winchesters.

A Shot in the Dark

The hallway was dimly lit. The luminosity was questionable; it forced you to squint your eyes and wonder if a shadow was a lurking foe or a fault in the bending of light. You were constantly at edge as you crept around the corridors of the abandoned hospital. You were timid, hesitating and doubting yourself at every suspicious figure. You had always been the type of child who turned off the light in the basement and scurried upstairs while picturing something behind you.

Of course, Sherlock insisted you split up.

You could chase a suspect across rooftops and fight a man twice your size, but you could not do so blindly. The assassins were waiting for one of you to peep around the corner, knife ready.

Of Daydreams and Realities

Chapter 11: Ugly Goodbyes

Dean held up his EMF meter, his mouth pinched into a grim line. You could tell he was thinking by the way his eyes looked at comatose-you, lost in his own mind.

You said aloud, “What are you thinking?” You stood before him, eye to eye, but he could not see or hear you.

Dean looked at Sam, who gave him a knowing look. “You know what I gotta do, Sammy.”

Sam only nodded, clearly reluctant, but it had to be done. Both hunters knew it.

The two doctors and the detective did not, however. John asked cautiously, “What?”

Dean gave a daring smile and said, “I’m going to have to die.” There was a strange twinkle in his smile.

Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John's Pain, and One Time He Couldn't

+1. Bullets   

Getting shot was nothing like the movies portray it to be. One myth John particularly disliked was too common in action movies: the protagonist taking a bullet for their friend or lover, which was a dangerous lesson, if you asked John.

Of course, no one ever asked John.

And John… John understood. He'd been to theaters; he'd watched action movies. He knew why the concept of self-sacrifice would tug at one's heartstrings or send thrills up one's spine. But he also understood that it was unrealistic.

John had been around guns enough to know there were ways to avoid this false cliche and have a similar outcome. You simply had to react before the trigger was pulled.

Easier said than done.

Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John, and One Time He Couldn't

5. Danger

Once in a blue moon, a case would land on the outside of society, where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would be left hiking through muddy hills and tripping over dampened sticks in search for their suspects.

While cases like this were rare, they were always unpleasant. John found that the icy wind would breathe through clothing, and that the path was never recognizable. Every tree was similar to the next. And while John couldn't navigate the forest, Sherlock definitely could. With his bizarre way of thinking, he could recall their location to the exact meter. So, of course, Sherlock wanted to split up.

"We'll cover more ground, John," Sherlock argued, eagerness bleeding into his tone. "It may even spare us a few hours!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, "You're excluding the hours you'll spend making sense of where I've gone! That is, if you don't forget me and leave with the suspects."

Sherlock gaped his mouth slightly, seemingly insulted and, if John hadn't known any better, hurt. "I would not." His lips flap for a moment, words dying before he repeats: "John, I would not."

John's lips clip together. "It wouldn't be the first time."

Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John, and One Time He Couldn't

4. Nightmares

After two years of mourning, Sherlock had finally returned. His arrival had left a sour taste the air, and John was too stubborn to accept it. Eventually, however, he did, and they were back on their feet to the addiction of solving crimes and exploring mysteries. The bitter memory lingered, however.

That day, John and Sherlock had wound up with a case of a man manipulating victims into becoming suicidal. It had gone over well for the most part; Sherlock deduced their next destination and they saved the person from commiting the permanent crime. They had been confident, yet, today, after failing to save a victim from jumping off a roof, John was frazzled and distraught. Nonetheless, he was a soldier, so he bandaged the wound and pretended it didn’t hurt. Although, he had kept to himself the rest of the day while resting in his chair with a silent grief. He replayed the image with self-loathing, helpless as he’d been with Sherlock.

John was not up for anything today.

“Flask, please.”

Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John, and One Time He Couldn't

3. PTSD

John was never sure of the extent of what the war had done to his mental health. At first, his therapist pinned it as post-traumatic stress disorder. After the battlefields and his scarring injuries, it seemed realistic. But then, John met the Holmes brothers, and they turned the soldier 180 degrees away from his therapist's claim. They told him that he missed the war and adrenaline. He was addicted to the action and the race.

John had no doubt both were true to an extent, yet he questioned both theories. As a doctor, self-diagnosis was his natural go-to. Perhaps that was how he coped, and maybe it helped to see himself as a client and not as a victim.

He had always been dependent on the adrenaline rushes. It's what had drawn him to the rank of an army doctor. He'd been in the medical field at the time, and the army seemed like a reasonable position. He definitely missed the war for the thrill and action.

Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John, and One Time He Couldn't

2. Drowning

The Thames River had always been a marvel of London to John. It mirrored the vibrancy of the city like a painting. At night, lit houses glittered like stars within the murky water. Cars zipping past sent streaks of white light rippling. Boats drifted along in serenity, blinking soft yellows and reds. John was no artist, but he appreciated Thames nonetheless.

John jabbed at his noodles, twirling the fork until they wrapped upward around the silverware. He had chosen to get a bite at a humble restaurant with a gorgeous view of Thames.

This entire week, Sherlock had been oddly tolerant of John's ‘dull’ need for a fulfilling dinner and satisfying rest. It pushed his more drawn out cases to nightfall, and shortened their daylight drastically. Sherlock had been oddly compliant all day, with not one word of opposition. Although an antsy tap of the detective's hyper fingers told John that today was another chase. John didn't know how the man did it, but when Sherlock longed for a criminal to hunt, they would flee like flighty fowl in the sight of a fox.

Five Times Sherlock Shrugged Off John, and One Time He Couldn't

1. Exhaustion

Christmastime in London was usually tame. Children scooped up clumpy snow and formed soggy, slouching snowmen. Uncovered noses and ears blushed at the crisp breezes that whispered along the town. Christmas trees seem out of place among melting snow clusters. The weather was rather sunny that Christmas Eve; Sherlock’s definition of a day for chasing down criminals.

These were the days Sherlock was at his finest. He was a child on Christmas morning, anxious for a new mystery to distract his busy, vast mind. Most nights, the violin sang hours before dawn, its tunes rapid and lively. John often awoke to the orchestral music, and by the intensity, he could assume when Sherlock was pining for a chase.

John already understood the equation: winter equaled early chases. There was no question.

Of Daydreams and Realities

Chapter 10: Figures

The next few days were terribly exhausting as a ghost. You found out that there was a range you could travel, just like ghosts are condemned in Supernatural. The object in which your soul clung onto, in this case your body, was your ultimate imprisonment. You were so bored and lonely that it was getting to you.

Thankfully, you had some company every once and a while. If you counted The Doctor checking your IV, or John reviewing your stats before wandering off, scratching his head. It was boring. So terribly boring.

Didn't these people know they should talk to people that are in comas?  You wanted to scream.

After the fourth day, you broke. Why, thou asks? You couldn't eat, couldn't explore, couldn't sit on the bed, couldn't sleep. You were stuck to pacing. All you did was pace and pace and pace and pace and pace. So, yeah, you snapped like a pencil. A pacing pencil.

You were going crazy.

Of Daydreams and Realities

Chapter 9: A Real Doctor

You were still dreaming when the perspective shifted.

John Watson had not expected to arrive home and be greeted by a giant TARDIS in his living room. His first thoughts were to Sherlock. For being a ‘consulting detective’, the blasted man never consulted John about anything!

But the more he thought on this, the more he doubted it. Why would Sherlock ever bring a TARDIS home? Of course, John did remember the ‘Daydreams and Realities’ case a week ago, but this was unlike Sherlock. Sherlock, while he was stubborn and pigheaded, was not obsessive.

Perhaps this box had come to attack their home. How? John did not know, but the thought made him get his gun regardless.

"Okay, you can do this," he said to himself, bounding on the balls of his feet. "You've got this." And with a mighty kick, John sent his foot to the door of the TARDIS.

It didn't land.