Dean Winchester cruised down the empty highway in his black 1967 Chevy Impala, the notes of Led Zeppelin blasting from the car radio.
“Can you turn that down a bit?” His brother Sam asked from the passenger seat beside him, a laptop in his lap and a leather-bound book whose pages were yellowed with age propped on the dashboard.Read More »
The chalice lay toppled on the shelf, its contents dripping onto the desecrated crime scene. Crumpled in a heap below was the unsub, the white frothing at his mouth a stark contrast to the crimson pool in which he lay.
Floating in a perfect circle around him were the bones of his latest victim, bobbing in and out of the blood like rotten apples.
They expected a gruesome sight, but that didn’t prevent their stomachs from churning like they all rode the worst roller-coaster of their lives, the minute Agent Derek Morgan kicked down the suspect’s door.
The smell bombarded their senses, reeking of ripe feces and rotting flesh. Amputated limbs were strewn around the room like grotesque Lego blocks. The wooden floor was a sticky mass of blood, and the agents detected what looked like a wayward eyeball and squishy piles of intestines dispersed throughout.