He always imagined death would be dramatic.
A last stand.
A speech about life and purpose.
Or Maybe a whole life flashing in front of your eye, then end of a story.
But real endings rarely care about theatrics.
Death came quietly.
Not like thunder―
like exhaling after a long day and realizing your bed is warm, the blanket is soft, and you don't need to wake up early tomorrow.
His name was Tirth Parmar, and his last moment was simple:
Warm bed.
Soft pillow.
Faint hum of AC.
A playlist of old anime openings running in the background because he fell asleep before turning it off.
Clean-ish room except the "creative clutter" corner: books, snacks, two unboxed figures, and a game controller tangled with headphones.
A life not special by story standards, but kind on the soul.
He didn't leave behind a legend.
He left behind quiet good.
Not the kind in headlines — the kind no one sees.
Small acts stacked over years:
He donated half his inheritance he got from his uncle to orphan food programs, bought blankets for homeless living in winter streets, left groceries at doors anonymously for needy elderly,
why??, not because if someone is begging for insulin, you don't debate morality — you help.
He called street animals "sir" and "madam" and carried emergency biscuits in his bag for them because you never knew when a hungry cat would come across in your life.
He wasn't trying to "be a hero."
He just… couldn't ignore suffering.
He didn't fix the world.
He just made a few corners softer.
And somehow, that was enough.
Never told a single friend.
Not even his parents knew.
So when his heart slowed, breath eased, and vision dimmed,
there was no fear.
Just warmth.
And then nothing.
And then—
Light.
Not divine.
Not blazing scripture.
Clean. Quiet. Intent.
Like a blank document waiting for words.
He wasn't standing, but he existed. Awareness without gravity, without lungs, without limbs — yet not lost.
A presence formed.
Not booming or holy.
Not golden glow or winged halo.
It felt like…
a calm admin who handles cosmic support tickets.
Not God the Judge.
God the HR manager.
"Your life was not perfect,"
the presence said, voice as soft as polished glass,
"but you lived with kindness."
Tirth blinked — or did the soul equivalent of blinking.
"…Thanks? I just… did what felt right."
"Precisely why it mattered."
No booming choir.
No dramatic pause.
Just acknowledgement — clean, objective, gentle.
Panels appeared around him.
Not scrolls.
Not ethereal symbols.
They looked like streaming thumbnails.
He almost laughed. Of course the universe ran on UI elements.
"You have three choices:"
Rest.
Return.
Reincarnate.
As if that was normal.
As if this was an after-session selection screen.
More thumbnails flickered on.
Worlds he knew.
Worlds he loved.
The Walking Dead — dread, survival, bleak skies.
Vampire Diaries — blood, love, grief, magic.
Resident Evil — nightmare science and bio-terror.
Naruto — bonds and battles and heartbreak.
One Piece — adventure, freedom, joy, pain, found family.
Marvel. DC. SAO. Bleach. Demon Slayer. Fate.
Fiction was not fiction here.
And then — headlights in the dark.
An old black Impala.
Two brothers arguing and laughing in the same breath.
A universe where monsters hid in corners of America,
and hope rode shotgun with grief.
Supernatural.
Dean and Sam.
The bunker.
The road.
Salt.
Holy water.
Bad coffee.
Angelic grace and demonic deals.
Family pulling each other out of hell — literally.
He remembered nights curled on bed, laptop open, whispering "please let them win, just this once," only to cry at sorrowful episodes.
He remembered laughing at Dean's sarcastic despair over pie.
Smiling at Sam's earnest stubbornness.
Feeling protective of Castiel's awkward devotion.
Grinning at Jack's innocence.
Hating and admiring Crowley at the same time.
He remembered mourning fictional deaths like funerals.
He remembered rewatching it again and again and again and again.
Because some stories become lodestones in the heart.
His chest warmed. Honest. Immediate.
The presence asked:
"Why this one?"
He didn't give a speech.
He didn't pretend noble intent.
He just spoke truth:
"Because I loved it and i wanted to have a bond like them and make their life happier especially Dean, He was my beloved and favorite character and he would definitely should have better ending."
The presence was silent, accepting the sincerity.
"A sincere answer."
A small cube of light appeared.
Clean. Minimalistic.
Like an app icon waiting for installation.
"You will not receive power. Only structure which will help you will master all your skill a bit easier and faster."
No cheat menu.
No plot armor.
No "Congratulations! Blessing of Destiny!"
Good.
He didn't want the shortcut, he loved to live a life with them as a person to be not a overly powered person because he would become detached from him.
And he played enough MMOs to know grinding built meaning.
Text appeared — crisp, sterile, logical:
SYSTEM INITIALIZING…
Mode: Structured Growth Support
Purpose: Discipline, learning, continuity
Cheats: None
Memory: Retained (requires use to preserve)
Base Parameters:
Strength........0.10
Constitution....0.10
Agility......0.10
Intelligence....0.10
Spirit (Innate)....15 // reborn soul; normal newborn = 10
Psychic Potential. Dormant
Fair.
Even.
Earned or nothing.
He nodded.
"No shortcuts."
"There will be suffering."
He smiled lightly. "There always is."
"And joy."
"That too."
"Memories may fade unless exercised."
"Like muscles," he murmured. "Good design."
The presence almost sounded amused.
Warmth gathered.
Not like fire — like memory.
His mother's voice telling him breakfast was ready.
His father falling asleep with newspaper balanced on stomach.
Rainwater falling from a pipe on the terrace.
His first console.
Chai at 2 AM.
A street cat meowing for biscuits.
An old shawl his grandmother knitted.
Laughing with friends in chat at stupid memes.
Screaming in fear during horror games at 3 AM.
Binge watching the whole anime series in single sitting
Crashing asleep mid-episode with chips scattered like fallen soldiers.
A life small in scale, but rich in texture.
He didn't need reincarnation to escape despair.
He had lived gently, and the world had been kind where it could.
No trauma origin story.
No bitterness.
Just a second chance because the first was lived honestly.
"Then you are ready."
He breathed — a habit, not a necessity — and whispered:
"Second chance huh. Let's do it right too."
Light folded like closing wings.
Warmth.
Pressure.
Heartbeat.
Skin.
Tiny lungs pulling air for the first time.
Then—
Life.
A cry punched out of his new lungs, forced by reflex, raw and wet and loud in a hospital room.
Fluorescent lights.
Sterile smell.
Warm blanket.
A soft gasp from a woman — his mother.
And beside him, another cry.
Louder. Fiercer. Familiar without memory.
Dean.
Not the Dean of the show, not yet — just a baby, new and bright and unaware of destiny.
Two births.
One moment.
Two souls starting a road they didn't know existed yet.
Tirth Parmar — now Miles Winchester — felt the name settle; not heavy, not forced.
A life ending.
A life beginning.
He didn't feel chosen.
He didn't feel destined.
Just… present.
A newborn body, a quiet mind, a gentle certainty:
He would not change the world by force.
He would not rewrite a story.
He would just live,
one breath, one choice, one small kindness at a time.
As nurses cooed and his mother pressed trembling lips to his head, he blinked open soft newborn eyes.
Not with grand purpose.
With quiet resolve.
This time, he would not watch the Winchesters.
He would be one.
And quietly, without thunder or fate's announcement, the story began.
Miles Winchester breathed his first breath.
And his journey rolled forward.
— End of Chapter 1
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STATUS
Age: Newborn (minutes old)
STATS
Strength........0.10
Constitution....0.10
Agility......0.10
Intelligence....0.10
Spirit.......15 (Innate; newborn special)
HP..........100%
MS..........100%
SKILLS
Observation.....Lv 0 (38%) // light, voice, warmth bias
Pattern Recognition.Lv 0 (12%) // earliest cause→effect seeds
Motor Control...Lv 0 (20%) // reflexive; intent forming
Psychic Potential. Dormant // no access, no feedback
Sub-Skills......None
Skill Glossary (Beginning State)
Observation — Lv 0 (38%): Baseline sensory intake; focuses on faces/light/voice.
Pattern Recognition — Lv 0 (12%): Proto cause-effect (footsteps→lift, bottle→comfort) as impressions, not logic.
Motor Control — Lv 0 (20%): Reflexive motion; grasp/neck strength not yet intentional.
Psychic Potential — Dormant: Spirit is high for a newborn (15), but no abilities active.
Lore lock in this Supernatural world: Normal newborn spirit = 10 → normal adult 20; hunters can reach 25–30; only psychics go >30. MC starts at 15 because of a reincarnated soul—will increase with life events later.