Books, tomes, scrolls, and a beautifully crafted backdoor into digital archives all around had Sam feeling like he was in some sort of heaven. A weird one, but definitely one.
"The church website had a history on it," Sam brought up as Rachael passed him an old history book of the town. "Do you think there might be some information there worth getting?"
"No, no, I don't," Rachael denied bluntly while plopping down in her chair with the desk separating her from the Winchester. "History is typically written by the winner."
"Wouldn't that imply an enemy? A war?"
"Hm," Rachael hummed before opening the bottom drawer of her old oak desk. She pulled out an even older handmade leather book. Carefully, the Marine flipped through the pages before handing it over to Sam. They both froze when his hand accidentally covered her hand with his own before they both pulled away quickly with a huff
A diary.
Before he read the pages, Sam glanced at the inside cover to see the cursive Chaplain Jeremiah Abel neatly written inside. He wanted to ask how she had the journal, but judging by the contents of the room, that was a stupid question.
21 December 1944
In the midst of this chaos, my role feels insufficient. I offer prayers and words of solace, yet they seem frail against the backdrop of war. Each passing day brings new challenges, new losses, more fear and hopelessness. I find myself grappling with doubts, questioning the fairness of it all. Today, I was confronted with the stark reality of war as I administered last rites to soldiers from different faiths within the span of a few harrowing minutes.
First, a young Jewish soldier of just 19, his life slipping away amidst the chaos of battle. A bullet in his skull, and it was a miracle he was still just a hint aware. I recited the prayers, my voice trembling with the weight of his final moments.
Barely had I finished when I was called to another bedside, this time a Catholic, his face contorted in pain due to the lack of legs and morphine. I offered what comfort I could, but my heart ached with the knowledge that I couldn't save them.
The day before, it was a Muslim man, his faith guiding him through his final moments and my own slipping through my fingers with each labored breath.
As I reflect upon these experiences in the solitude of my diary with distant artillery in the cold night, I can't help but question if God truly walks among us in this hellish landscape, or if He has abandoned us to the cruelty of war. The suffering I witness daily tests my faith to its very core, and I find myself searching for answers in the midst of the devastation—
Sam looked up from the journal in confusion. The pages were dirty and withered, and he wondered if the dark spots were his blood or maybe another's. A preacher man who lost his faith in battle wasn't uncommon.
"That's my grandfather's war journal," Rachael pointed out, and Sam skimmed through it politely. "It's the story of how he lost his faith." She pulled out another journal of lighter color with a blood-red 'A' on top. "This is what he called his Journey Journal from when he lived out in the wilderness and 'reclaimed his faith'."
"I thought you believed in God?" Sam questioned the mocking words as he took the second journal.
"You know, believin' in somethin' and trustin' are two separate concepts."
June 12, 1950
Tonight, as I sat by the crackling fire, a fellow traveler joins me in my attempts to find tranquility, drawn by the warmth and the quiet of the night. presence is a welcome interruption, a chance for connection in a world often marked by isolation. We talk of the war, of faith, of the fragility of life, and the inevitability of death.
There is a kindness in his eyes, a depth of understanding born from his own experiences, though vastly different from mine. He listens with empathy as I share fragments of my journey, the doubts, and the struggles that have plagued me since the war's end. In return, offers words of wisdom, simple yet profound, like ripples spreading across the surface of a pond—
The man's name had been scratched out messily from the book, and Sam flipped to months later and noticed a bunch of meticulously scratched-out portions of writings.
2 December 1954
A few months have passed since that fateful night by the fire, and the presence of in my life has been nothing short of transformative. Together, we have embarked on a journey of the construction of a church. 's vision is clear – a sanctuary for those seeking refuge, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in darkness.
Yet, as we lay the foundations of our church, I can sense my wife's hesitation, She worries about the risks, the sacrifices, the uncertainty of it all. While I understand her fears, I cannot help but feel a sense of excitement.
For me, this church represents more than just bricks and mortar; And with by my side, I am confident that together, we can build something truly extraordinary – a sanctuary for the soul, a haven for those in need of solace and salvation.
As Sam scanned the pages with some closer than others, he noticed an increase in scratches and a few torn-out pages. It was as if someone had angrily gone through years of their life to erase someone from it entirely. Someone who had been so much a part of Chaplain Jeremiah's life that he mentioned them more than his own wife and kids.
And then... brutally scratched him from existence.
"It's strange, ain't it?" Rachel spoke up with a pen in her hand. "People used to think the two were hiding hand-holding and such behind closed doors."
"But the website doesn't mention..." Sam trailed off for a name, but Rachel only shrugged.
"I have no idea who my Papa was talking about. Papa gave me these journals the day he died. It was the first time he stood up in over a year, and he had gotten them from the attic," Rachel smiled a little at the memory, but the smile quickly fell into a saddened stare down at another journal on her desk. "But instead of happiness, he looked... scared. His last words..."
"Oh God, Rachel. I'm so sorry."
"Papa? What are you doing-?"
"He's comin'," the frail man whispered fearfully with trembling arms. He limped to the window of his room while Rachel set down the box of journals he has nearly thrown at her on the table. "He's comin'."
"Who? Papa, who's comin'?" It wasn't abnormal for her grandfather to have flashbacks, but she hoped he wouldn't at his vulnerable age. She grabbed a journal. "Why don't we read some memories together-?"
"No!" Jeremiah roared out and turned to his granddaughter viciously who dropped the book in surprise. "You take those damned stories of mine and you burn 'em and run. That there is a-a collection of stories leading to the story of the end!"
With a gasp of breath, Jeremiah sat down on his rocking chair in front of the large window and stared at the church. It seemed to stare back at them, and suddenly Rachel felt dark, greasy. The building she was staring at was unveiled to her with each silent rock from her grandfather beside her.
"Run, Rachel. He's comin'." Her grandfather choked out as if a hand held his lungs in a fist. "And hell's comin' with him."
"...and I ran." Rachel ended quietly with folded hands over her desk and stared at the awards on her wall. "I ran all the way to the bus station and took the first bus to Oklahoma City. Ran all the way to the enlistment office. Papa died the moment I left the house."
Sam took in the story with a deep breath, feeling more puzzle pieces coming in but no connections anywhere. He almost wished he was dealing with the crabby teen and the horses outside.
"Any idea who your grandfather would be talking about?"
"Whoever is in his journal."
"Why?"
Another journal was handed over to him. It was smaller and newer with more blank pages at the end. All the others had every single page filled, but this one had neat pages. No scratches, nothing missing. Mostly about the church, his family, a drastic change in writing that could have been explained with age.
Except, the final entry.
18 April 1998
I once thought demons were Nazis until .
I am not deserving of redemption or forgiveness. I am a flawed vessel, a broken soul teetering on the precipice of damnation, never destined to face the light of God or the embrace of His angels.
And yet, as I gasp for breath in the darkness, I cannot help but wonder if it was my meeting with that set me on this downward spiral. His presence in my life, once a beacon of hope, now feels like a curse.
If I were a sword, with a mighty hilt and a blade forged of righteousness, then surely my insides would be cracked, my very essence tainted by sin and regret. And with every swing, I fear that I may be the cause of my own downfall, the instrument of my own destruction.
Oh dear Lord, protect them. For they do not know of the sins of my life. My everlasting sin to be borne by generations. For he is coming, and he has promised the flames eternal to be brought with him. A wicked evil and a desperate despair to follow—
"Delightfully cryptic..." Sam muttered out as he reread the text twice more for any clues. "Maybe it's less supernatural and more... human vengeance?"
"My grandfather was aware of the shadows of the night." Rachel gestured lightly to the shelves around her. "The journals and the shelves of research start with him."
"...I need to talk to Dean."
They were back in the hotel by noon, and both brothers had a lot to bring to the table. After a shower each, some sandwiches, and a new change of clothes, Sam showed Dean the photocopied journal entries, and Dean gave Jezebel's story.
"Did she say they had black eyes?" Sam asked.
"When I asked, she said 'they just looked kinda dark?' But she didn't seem sure about it since it was still dark or whatever," Dean frowned and shook his head. "And great-grandpa bats for the other team...?"
"No, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes and pointed to some scratched-out sentences. "But grandpa definitely is hiding something."
"I think another meeting with the preacher is in the cards," Dean cracked his neck and glared at his muddy shoes. "And we'll drop off the laundry on the way."
Back in their suits - a cleaner one - the brothers took a moment to examine the outside of the church and the big home that leered in the distance. Sam wasn't sure if it was the story from the morning, but there did seem to be something about the build that felt... just like what Rachel said.
Greasy.
"A few cars, a few bikes," Dean looked over at the trucks, cars, and bikes that parked in the field beside the church. He looked at his watch. "Must be girl's night."
"Think Jezebel's here?"
"We here to interview the girls or the pastor?"
"I'm thinking both," Sam muttered as they made it up the wooden steps to the front doors. "Maybe we can—"
"Oh God, why are you guys everywhere."
They turned to the familiar whine of Jezebel in her hoodie and jeans, skateboard already leaning against the railing. She knew better than to bring the board inside. Immediately Dean perked up and went over to the girl, who immediately narrowed her eyes in suspicion.
"Jezebel, can you do us... a favor?"
"...they're under 18, you freak-!"
"No, no!" Dean shushed the girl violently and turned to his brother for a moment of reprieve. "No, listen! Just... you're going to Bible study or whatever, right?"
"Kinda. I usually just sit and draw stick figures fightin' and dyin' violent deaths on the worksheet."
"...and you're surprised people think you're weird?" At Jezebel's shrug, Sam scoffed. But Dean shook his head and pulled out a flask. "They have drinks there, right? Probably some kind of big bowl or something?"
Jezebel eyed the flask distrustfully and crossed her arms. "Are you seriously askin' me to spike everyone's drink? You're like twice their age!"
"Look, just... go in there and pour this into the drink—"
"Sounds like spiking—"
"Okay yes! You're spiking the drink!" Dean hissed out and thrust the flask to the girl. "It's Holy Water."
Jezebel carefully took the flask between two fingers and examined the silver bottle. "For... demons, yeah?" She asked with eyes on the bottle.
"...yes," Sam spoke up, finally catching on to what Dean wanted to test. He moved to stand beside his brother and pointed to his arm. "The flask is silver too. If you can touch as many people with it as you can, we can—"
"-Test for shapeshifters, yeah my aunt used to tell me stories." Jezebel finished with a smirk on her face. When she finally returned her gaze to the brothers, she slipped the flask into her hoodie with a chuckle at the blinking faces before. "Just adds to the witch/demon/trouble child frame if I get caught."
"...right," Dean cleared his throat. "We'll be talking to your dad, hopefully mother-"
"Unfortunate for you," Jezebel muttered under her breath. "Anything else you want me to do? Light a fire? Do a dance? Draw random symbols in the blood of a goat?"
"Maybe later, kid." Dean bit back and unceremoniously pushed the girl over to the door. "Alright, now go be a good kid and spike the teens' drinks."
Jezebel looked at Sam, and the younger brother could smile sheepishly with a shrug because only Dean could call spiking teens at a church function a good kid thing to do.
"What if there is a monster?"
Dean paused for a moment and seemed to heavily think about it before—
He shuffled through his pocket and pulled out a small silver pocket knife, showed her once how to open it and made Jezebel open it a couple of times, even made her stab the air a few more times before having her hide the weapon into her pocket.
"There, now you're semi-protected. Now, go be a good spitfire and spike the drinks. Scream real loud if there's a demon."
"What if it's a shapeshifter? Should I start to laugh- ow!"
"Smartass."
"At least I'm not a dumbass!"
"Debatable, hothead." Dean forced the teen through the doors. When the doors shut, he looked over at his brother, who stared with an annoying look on his face. "What—? You know what, no. Shut up." The eldest started down the stairs towards the office building, and Sam followed with a snicker.
"I didn't say anything."
"Yeah, you should try that more often."
