I think I’ve changed my mind about Superwholock
Plot twist: an alien invasion isn’t how Eleven dies, it’s the Winchesters
This brings back my thesis that every fanfic — every fanfic on every subject in every fandom — can be improved by adding “And then the Winchesters shot them” to the last line.
Go on. Try it. I’ll wait.
If you insist.
"May the undeserved kindness of the Lord Jesus Christ be with the holy ones. And then the Winchesters shot them.” (Revelation 22:21)
The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded the corner. Harry’s hand was still raised in farewell.
"He’ll be alright" murmured Ginny.
As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absent-mindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead.
"I know he will".
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years.
All was well.
And then the Winchesters shot them.
I looked over at Augustus Waters, who looked back at me. You could almost see through his eyes they were so blue. “There will come a time,” I said, “when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this”—I gestured encompassingly—“will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organisms experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that’s what everyone else does.”
I’d learned this from my aforementioned third best friend, Peter Van Houten, the reclusive author of An Imperial Affliction, the book that was as close a thing as I had to a Bible. Peter Van Houten was the only person I’d ever come across who seemed to (a) understand what it’s like to be dying, and (b) not have died.
After I finished, there was quite a long period of silence as I watched a smile spread all the way across Augustus’s face—not the little crooked smile of the boy trying to be sexy while he stared at me, but his real smile, too big for his face. “Goddamn,” Augustus said quietly.
“Aren’t you something else.”
And then the Winchesters shot them