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𝗝𝗨𝗟𝗬 𝟭𝟱, 𝟮𝟬𝟬𝟲 𝖭𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺'𝗌 𝖯𝖮𝖵
𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 he's got something to prove, the Impala's engine rumbling louder than the storm in my head. Every mile, every state line we cross, feels like another step closer to something we can't quite catch. Meg's small bits of intel about John and Issac's whereabouts led us here, to Missouri, but the trail feels like it's cooling by the second. We've been parked near the train tracks for a while now, the Impala sitting like a sentinel off the road. Dean, Sam, and I are gathered around her like she's the only thing keeping us tethered. Luck's been running thin lately, and none of us are saying it, but we all feel it.
Sam leans against the roof of the car, flipping through the Key of Solomon like the answers are going to jump off the page and punch him in the face. I'm by the trunk with Dean, loading up the duffel bag with everything we've got—blades, shotguns, salt rounds. The weight of it in my hands doesn't bother me as much as the silence. It's thick, pressing, and louder than any words could be. Dean hasn't said much since we left Bobby's, and it's starting to wear on me. He's never quiet without reason, and when Dean Winchester goes silent, it's not just because he's tired.
