You start your own journal, fill it with monsters. Aswangs in Walpole and chupacabras outside of Reno: you think maybe this is how Dean felt when you were in Stanford. This is what he was doing. Blood and ichor on his hands, staining his clothes, motel rooms with just one bed. An empty passenger seat. This was his everyday, and this is your penance. You drive across America haunting your brother's old life, and it's only fitting. Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam.
no subject
Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam.
(By which I mean: you break my heart.)