The Red String of Fate | Hiatus

II. The Thread Between Worlds

The frigid water of the stream curled around my legs, its gentle currents swirling with icy tendrils. The sudden chill soaked through my clothes, making every nerve in my body prickle. I stood knee-deep in the water, the glimmering light of dawn turning the surface to molten silver. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew something was wrong. This wasn't the riverbank I'd been sitting by just moments ago. No, this place felt too crisp, too raw—like a dream made unnervingly real.

I blinked, trying to focus, hoping my eyes would clear the fog of disorientation. My gaze wandered beyond the stream, where a dirt path wound through a small clearing, bordered by towering trees whose gnarled branches looked like skeletal fingers, casting long shadows over the moss-covered ground. The scent of pine, wet earth, and something far older lingered in the air.

And there it was—nestled between the trees, as real as the chill that had sunk into my bones.

Bobby Singer's house.

The structure looked exactly as I'd seen it a hundred times on screen, right down to the faded blue paint peeling from the window shutters and the junkyard of old cars rusting quietly in the front yard. My chest tightened with the weight of recognition—and confusion. This can't be happening.

I took a shaky breath, my pulse quickening. "No, no, no. This is not real," I muttered under my breath, feeling the beginning of a rising panic claw at my insides. My legs moved automatically, pulling me out of the stream and onto the muddy bank. "It's not possible." I rubbed my arms as a cold breeze whipped through the trees, sending a shiver down my spine. "I've officially lost it. Gone nuts."

Bobby's house, my mind screamed. But Bobby isn't real. He's a TV character. This is all wrong.

I began to pace, each step sending ripples through the puddles beneath my boots. My mind raced, grasping at any logical explanation, but nothing made sense. I had been sitting by a riverbank, reading, thinking about Supernatural, of all things. And now I was...here.

"No, no, no. This isn't happening." I pinched the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut for a second. When I opened them again, the house remained. The dirt road. The forest. All of it. Real. Tangible. "I've gone mad. That's the only explanation. Either that or I've somehow stumbled into a parallel dimension."

"Oh, God," I groaned, rubbing my temples. "I've pulled a 'French Mistake'."

"How is this even possible? This is a TV show. Monsters, demons, angels, the Winchesters—it's not real." My hands raked through my hair, tugging at the ends, trying to ground myself in reality—or whatever this was.

Before I could spiral further into my bewilderment, the sound of boots crunching on gravel cut through the fog of my thoughts. My head snapped up, and my stomach dropped.

Standing not twenty feet away from me was a figure that I recognized immediately. The worn trucker cap, the flannel shirt, the grizzled, unshaven face. Bobby Singer.

And then, a voice. Rough, low, and unmistakably familiar.

"You always this chatty, or do you save the crazy talk for special occasions?"

My breath caught in my throat as he stared at me with narrowed eyes, suspicion etched deep into his weathered features. His hand hovered near the hem of his jacket—where I knew he kept a gun.

He wasn't speaking. Just standing there, assessing me with the kind of scrutiny that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The muscles in my stomach clenched, and my heart started pounding. This is happening.

I swallowed hard, raising my hands slowly in what I hoped was a non-threatening gesture. "Okay... uh, Bobby?"

His eyes flicked over me, cold and calculating. He didn't respond.