[ Closed Started For - @bitterwxlf.bsky.social ]

The thick leather folder was flung onto the library table, the sound of paper slapping wood ringing out through the deserted corridors of the Bunker. Dean had been researching a series of Men of Letters unsolved cases from the late 1940s, +

The motel room was silent, save for the rhythmic scritch of a cleaning brush. Dean sat under the buzzing fluoresecent light, the familiar scent of gun oil grounding him. ​He worked the cloth over the chrome slide of his 1911 with obsessive precision, wiping away a fleck of dried blood. +

"...𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖨'𝗅𝗅 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗌𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖨 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍."