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I never cared much for birthdays. I mean, who really cares about the exact day you were born? In my last life, it was just another excuse for people to give me socks or overpriced cake. But this life? This one was different. Because here, birthdays meant another spin of that bizarre, mystical Wheel.
So, when I woke up that morning, I felt... curious. Not excited. Not dreading it either. Just curious.
Over the years, the Wheel gave me all kinds of things—some helpful, most useless. But the possibility, the randomness, the gamble—that was the part that made birthdays tolerable again. I found myself thinking back on it all. The socks. The taco keychain. The strength of Oliver Queen. Even the dumb stuff had its own kind of charm.
I rolled out of bed, stretched out my legs, cracked my neck, and got into my usual morning routine. A few pushups, some squats, stretches, and breathwork to clear my mind. Then came breakfast. I cooked like always—eggs perfect, toast just right. Mom and Dad sat at the table, sipping their coffee, and like they did every morning, they asked, "Anything new happen at school yesterday?"
I just looked at them, sighed, and gave the usual shrug. "It was fine."
Then came the small talk, the nodding, the pretending. And after that came the part of the day I was actually looking forward to: the forest.
It was my escape, my sanctuary. But today was different.
When I stepped out into the clearing where I usually spent hours just thinking or climbing or reading, my parents were already there. Smiling. Holding something behind their backs.
"Happy Birthday, Sam," Dad said, stepping forward with a wrapped bundle.
I opened it slowly and stared.
It was a bow. A real one—or, well, as close to real as a kid's practice set could get. No sharp arrows, just safe, padded tips.
I glanced up at them. Did they know? Had they seen my attempts—tying strings to branches, trying to shape wood with rocks, building something that resembled a bow and arrow with whatever I could find?
It didn't matter. They smiled like parents do, proud of something they didn't quite understand.
I nodded slowly, accepting the gift, and thanked them. A part of me felt warm. The other part—the one that always kept its guard up—filed this moment away for later analysis.
After the small birthday party—just cake, hugs, and a few photos—I went to bed.
And I woke up in the void.
The Wheel was waiting for me again.
I stared at it. It looked... bigger this time. Taller. Like it had grown.
I frowned. Maybe it just added more clothing items. The thing was starting to feel like a walking fashion catalog.
I laughed to myself. "Wow, I'm gonna end up with the most exclusive closet—lone socks and shirts from background extras. Very chic."
Still chuckling, I stepped closer. Tried to make out the options. But instead of items or names, all I saw were numbers—long strings of them, like computer code, lines of gibberish I couldn't make sense of.
I blinked. Tilted my head.
"Whatever," I muttered. "I don't really care. Let's just get my trash item for this year."
And I spun.
The Wheel groaned to life, clicking and turning and whirring until it slowed down... and landed on something strange.
A brain.
Before I could even react, I felt it—something entering my mind. Not slowly, not subtly. It was instant, electric. Even here in the void, my brain lit up like a storm.
Thoughts sharpened. Concepts reorganized themselves. It was overwhelming and fascinating all at once.
Then I knew.
I'd just gotten the IQ of Sam Winchester.
(I didn't want to make him to smart and thought it was funny to give him the iq of another Sam)
Not his memories or knowledge—just the capacity. The way he could process, analyze, break down everything he encountered. I never thought of him as particularly smart before, but damn... this was different.
Even in the void, I whispered, "Huh. This might actually help."
I started thinking about my new brain... and then I woke up.
Immediately.
Just like that, time moved on again. It was now six months later. And I'd gotten used to the new brain.
Things were clearer. More connected. The dots lined up faster. I saw inconsistencies in the world around me—tiny ones I used to overlook. I started realizing how many things didn't make sense, how much this world felt... off.
I was, admittedly, kinda dumb before. I thought I wanted the same life as before—same dull routine, same gray pace.
But I forgot I could do things differently.
Maybe it was the brain. Maybe it was the realization that I had a choice.
I started working on myself.
I still went to the forest—but not to hide. Not anymore.
Now, I went to get better.
I took the training wheels off the bow my parents gave me. Removed the childproof padding. I made a new one with stronger tension and actual arrow points—carefully filed, balanced, and real. Not toys. Tools.
I trained. I practiced.
I honed skills that might actually matter.
With my new mind, I didn't just survive—I strategized.
I studied animal behavior. I learned to follow tracks. I mapped the forest in my head. I worked on my grip, my stance, my aim.
And for the first time in a while, I felt like I was building toward something.
Survival.
Typical Winchester brain, I thought with a chuckle. Just survive, survive, survive.
My parents noticed the change. They thought I was finally becoming less introverted, finally engaging with the world again. They were happy.
But then... it happened.
It was a normal night. We were driving home. I was in the backseat, half-dreaming, half-thinking.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, something darted across the side of the road.
A blur. Fast.
Then—impact.
A massive elk slammed into the front of the car.
Metal crunched. Glass shattered. The car spun.
And then... nothing.
Black.
(Just a heads-up! In the next chapters, things are going to get more exciting as the main character heads to a new place and gets involved with some new, interesting characters. Can't wait for you to see what's coming next!)