Sam Winchester’s Journal – Entry #74
The five-hour drive home was the kind of final journey nobody would wish on their loved ones. Dean’s corpse fell against me a couple of times, the jostling movement forcing the last bit of blood from his nose and mouth onto his jacket. The stench of dry blood and sweat made me crack a window. And the blanket insisted on falling at every bump, leaving me in constant fear that someone would notice “the dead guy on the front seat” at every traffic stop.
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