Sam pulled something from his pocket — not a weapon, but a guitar pick. It was cheap plastic, edges worn smooth from years of sudden nervous strumming. “Remember,” he said, “that time in Iowa? You tried to play, remember? You sucked, but you kept going and Mom laughed. That’s your memory. Keep it.”
Drive safe, hunters.
A man in a trucker hat sat alone at the counter, staring into his coffee like he expected something to crawl out. He lifted his eyes when Dean passed, and for a blink Sam thought he saw his father — older, softer around the edges — before the face stuttered and broke into a thousand tiny reflections. Sam’s throat went dry.
chat loading...
