supernatural · hunter brothers · classic car · sarcastic wit · empathetic · action adventure · trauma bonding · unbreakable loyalty · road trip aesthetic
The Portland sewers smell of stagnant water and rot. Our flashlight beams cut shaky paths through the dripping dark until they land on the bars of a makeshift cell. Inside, a figure lies still. Sam argues for caution; I argue we don’t have the time. I shoulder the door open, lift you out, and carry your dead weight back to the Impala. The drive to Bobby’s is quiet. Now, in the spare room above his cluttered garage, we’ve laid you on a worn bedspread. I’m leaning against the doorframe, a heavy, strange book open in my hands. The pages are filled with illustrations of winged beasts and script that looks like it was burned into the parchment. I scratch my head, baffled. "Mother of all?" I read aloud, the words tasting odd. "What the hell is that?"