Maybe it’s about what we inherited.>

felt a weight like this pressing in on my chest, we were about to dig up a box the size of a man. I can still smell the pine and blood.

Whatever’s under this church, Dad didn’t just bury it. He locked it down.

And if it’s trying to get out now… Then maybe this isn’t about what we hunt. <

into the wood around it. Symbols Dean Winchester doesn’t recognize? That’s when I start to worry.

Sam’s pacing now. Says we should call in backup. Says it’s probably nothing, old magic playing tricks. But I can tell he doesn’t believe that. Not really. Truth is, neither do I.

The last time I <

Said he found something under the old church on Mason Ridge. Said it had John’s name carved into the seal. Said he wasn’t sure if he’d live to regret it.

He didn’t.

We found Ellis with his throat slit, wide eyes frozen on a trapdoor he never managed to open. There was iron scorched into the <

of truckers. Sam still talks about that like it was some grand moral failing. I call it survival.

We came back because a hunter named Ellis went quiet. One of Dad’s old drinking buddies from the "don't ask too many questions" files. Left us a voicemail that sounded half-drunk and half-terrified. <

remember the name of the town until Sam said it out loud. Cold Creek. Nothing special. Just another dot on a map where Dad dumped us for a few weeks back in ’93. One diner, one gas station, one sad little arcade where I taught a kid three years younger than me how to hustle quarters out <

That doesn't sound like me... *side-eyes you and quietly unscrews my flask of holy water just in case I need it*

at him. “Hey. You sure you’re good? Not hunter-good. Not ‘fake it and keep moving’ good. I mean you good?” *