First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
I died doing a backflip.
Let that sink in for a second.
Out of all the ways to go—car crash, old age, heroic sacrifice—I, Marcus Hale, bit the dust because I thought I could stick a backflip off my buddy's porch after three beers. Spoiler alert: I couldn't.
The last thing I remembered was the horrified faces of my friends, the sickening crack of my neck, and then—black.
So imagine my surprise when I woke up in a hospital bed, very much not dead. Or, well, maybe technically dead, but alive again? Reincarnated? I didn't know yet. All I knew was that my head was pounding, my body ached, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nose.
I groaned, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights. "Ugh… what kind of afterlife is this? Did I get isekai'd into Grey's Anatomy?"
A nurse walking past my room paused, giving me a weird look before continuing on her way. Okay, so not a dream. Cool.
I took stock of myself—same face (thank God), same lanky build, though my hair felt shorter. I was wearing a hospital gown, and an IV was stuck in my arm. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, except for the fact that I should be a pancake on my friend's lawn right now.
Then I heard it.
Two voices arguing down the hall, loud enough to carry.
"—Dean, we can't just leave him here!"
"Sam, we don't have a choice. Dad's gone, and we've got demons crawling out of the woodwork. We don't have time to play babysitter."
My blood ran cold.
No. Freaking. Way.
I knew those names. I knew that argument.
Because I'd heard it before—in Season 2, Episode 1 of Supernatural.
I was in the Supernatural universe.
And John Winchester was dead.
I stayed perfectly still, listening as Sam and Dean's voices faded. My mind raced.
Okay. Okay, okay, okay.
First: I was reincarnated into a TV show about two brothers who hunted monsters. Not the worst fate, but definitely not the safest.
Second: If this was Season 2, that meant demons were about to become a big problem. Yellow Eyes was still out there, Lilith was lurking, and the Apocalypse was on the horizon.
Third: I knew all of this.
And that was dangerous.
If Sam and Dean found out I had meta-knowledge of their lives, they'd either think I was a prophet (bad), a psychic (worse), or a threat (deadly). And if demons found out? Yeah, no thanks. I wasn't about to become some hellhound's chew toy.
So, rule number one: Keep my mouth shut.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to relax. Alright, Marcus. Time to adapt.
---
A doctor came in an hour later, checking my vitals and asking if I remembered what happened. I played the amnesia card—classic, but effective.
"Car accident," he said, flipping through my chart. "You're lucky to be alive."
More like lucky to be reincarnated, I thought.
"Any family we can call?" he asked.
I shook my head. "No, it's just me."
He gave me a sympathetic nod before leaving.
Good. No attachments meant no complications.
Now, what was my next move?
I needed resources. Money, ID, a way to track the Winchesters without drawing attention. I also needed to figure out if I had any actual skills in this world—was I just some random guy, or did I have something useful? Hunting knowledge? Combat training?
I flexed my hands. No muscle memory of fighting. Dang.
But I did know the future. That was my advantage.
I closed my eyes, mentally running through the major plot points. Demon deals, the Colt, Ruby's knife, angels coming into play soon…
If I played this right, maybe I could help. Or at least not die (again).
---
Night fell, and the hospital grew quiet. I stared at the ceiling, exhaustion finally catching up to me.
This was insane. Absolutely insane.
But also… kind of awesome?
I smirked to myself. "Well, Marcus, guess you're a Winchester-world tourist now. Try not to get possessed."
With that comforting thought, I let myself drift off to sleep.
Tomorrow, the real work began.
******
First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
I woke up to sunlight streaming through the hospital window, my body feeling… weirdly good.
That shouldn't be possible.
I'd been here for three days, and according to the doctors, I'd been in a car accident bad enough to put me in a coma for a week before I "woke up" (or, more accurately, before I woke up in this body). Broken ribs, concussion, the whole nine yards.
Yet here I was, moving without pain, stretching like I hadn't just been hit by a truck.
Okay, that's not normal.
I poked at my ribs where the worst of the bruising had been. Nothing. Not even a twinge.
"Either I'm Wolverine, or reincarnation comes with perks," I muttered.
A nurse—Linda, according to her nametag—walked in with a clipboard and raised an eyebrow at me. "Talking to yourself already? That's either a good sign or a bad one."
I grinned. "Depends on whether the voices answer back, right?"
She snorted, checking my vitals. "Well, your recovery is astonishingly fast. Doctor's gonna want to run a few more tests, but at this rate, you'll be out of here sooner than we thought."
"Sweet. No offense, but hospital food is a war crime."
Linda rolled her eyes. "You're not the first to say that." She scribbled something down. "Any pain? Dizziness?"
"Nope. Feel like I could run a marathon."
She gave me a skeptical look. "Let's not test that. But if you're really feeling that good, we might discharge you tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
That was my ticket out. Time to put my plans into motion.
After Linda left, I leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Alright, Marcus. Supernatural world. Fast healing. What's the game plan?
Step One: Don't Die (Again).
Easier said than done in a world where everything from vengeful spirits to archangels wanted you dead. I needed to train—hard. No way was I going up against monsters with just my charming personality and zero combat skills.
Step Two: Find Bobby Singer.
If anyone could teach me how to survive, it was him. Grumpy, knowledgeable, and the closest thing the Winchesters had to a father figure. Plus, he had books. Lots of them.
Step Three: Get Close to Sam and Dean.
Not too close—I wasn't stupid. They were paranoid, dangerous, and allergic to strangers knowing their business. But if I could earn their trust? That was a golden ticket to not getting stabbed (hopefully).
A knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Hey, you decent?"
A guy in scrubs—Jeremy, if I remembered right—leaned in.
"Depends on your definition of 'decent,'" I said.
He smirked. "Good enough. Doc wants to check on you before lunch. Also, you got a visitor."
"A visitor?" I blinked. Who the hell would visit me?
Jeremy shrugged. "Some guy. Says he's a friend of the family."
Oh, that's not suspicious at all.
Ten minutes later, a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and a worn-out flannel shirt walked in. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, and his eyes scanned the room like he expected something to jump out at him.
I didn't recognize him, but I knew him.
Bobby Singer.
What the hell is he doing here?
"Marcus Hale?" he asked, voice gruff.
I kept my face neutral. "That's me. And you are…?"
"Name's Bobby. Friend of your uncle's."
I didn't have an uncle.
Play along.
"Uh… which uncle?"
Bobby's eyes narrowed slightly. "Jim. Said you were in an accident. Asked me to check in."
Jim? As in Pastor Jim Murphy?
Oh, this is a test.
I forced a casual shrug. "Oh, right. That's… really nice of you. But I don't remember my uncle mentioning you."
Bobby studied me for a long second before sighing. "Kid, you're a terrible liar."
Well, crap.
I held up my hands. "Okay, fine. I have no idea who you are or why you're here. But if you're not a demon or a serial killer, I'm cool with chatting."
Bobby's expression didn't change, but something in his stance relaxed slightly. "Demons, huh? That's a weird thing to jump to."
"Stranger in a hospital room pretending to know my family? Yeah, I've seen enough horror movies to be suspicious."
He almost smiled at that. Almost. "Fair point." He pulled up a chair. "Truth is, I got a call about a John Doe with no memory and a real fast recovery. Thought I'd see for myself."
Called it.
I leaned back. "So what, you're a doctor?"
"Something like that."
I smirked. "Let me guess—you specialize in unusual cases?"
Bobby's eyes sharpened. "You know something."
Damn it, Marcus. Too much.
I feigned confusion. "Know what? That you're being weirdly cryptic? Yeah, I picked up on that."
He didn't buy it. "Kid, if you're mixed up in something dangerous, now's the time to say so."
I hesitated. This was my chance—Bobby was right here. But if I came on too strong, he'd bolt. Or worse, salt-and-burn me just in case.
So I went for honesty. Sort of.
"Look, I don't remember much. But I know I don't have family. And I know that something isn't right with me. If you're offering help, I'll take it."
Bobby stared at me for a long moment before nodding. "Alright. Get some rest. I'll be back tomorrow."
And just like that, he was gone.
The doctor came by later, confirming my discharge for tomorrow.
"Everything checks out," he said. "Just take it easy for a few days."
"Will do, Doc. No backflips off porches, I promise."
He gave me a weird look before leaving.
I exhaled, grinning.
Bobby Singer. I'm in.
Now I just had to survive long enough to make it count.