The motel room has fallen silent again—the kind of silence that hums beneath the cheap fluorescent light and the slow, uneven tick of an old wall clock. It’s not peaceful. It’s the kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, restless and alive, filled only by the rustle of pages and the scrape of chair legs across worn carpet.

Books are everywhere. Open on the table, stacked on the dresser, spilling off the bed like the aftermath of a storm made of paper and ink. Empty coffee cups crowd the windowsill, trophies from a battle you’re both too stubborn to lose.

A mess of red string and yellowing notes webs across the wall—names, dates, sigils, fragments of lore that refuse to align no matter how long you stare at them. It’s a mosaic of failure disguised as progress, the visual proof of sleepless nights and too much caffeine.

Sam’s been pacing for what feels like forever. He’s half-reading, half-muttering to himself, one hand buried in his hair, the other clutching a crumpled page like it might finally give up its secrets if he squeezes hard enough. There’s a smear of ink across his thumb and a dark shadow under his eyes that no amount of coffee can hide. Every few seconds he stops, scanning the board again, jaw tightening when nothing clicks.

“It’s here,” he mutters, voice rough and frayed from hours without rest. “It has to be here. We’re just missing something.”

You glance up from your own pile—a tangle of Latin texts, demonology references, and half-legible notes scribbled across napkins. The air conditioner kicks on, rattling against the window, sending a draft across the table. Pages flutter. A takeout box shifts. Somewhere beneath the clutter and exhaustion, there’s still that shared pulse—that relentless Winchester drive to finish the damn thing, no matter the cost.

But fatigue is setting in deep. The hunt’s stopped feeling like a chase and started feeling like a loop. Every line of text starts to blur. Every sigil looks the same. You’re both caught in the rhythm of obsession now, too far gone to notice the toll it’s taking.

Sam exhales sharply, the sound almost a laugh but too bitter to count as one. He drags a hand down his face, then looks over at you—really looks. His eyes are bloodshot, exhausted, but still bright in that way they always are when he’s chasing something just out of reach.

“Tell me I’m not crazy,” he says quietly.

The words hang there, trembling in the space between you. A plea disguised as a joke, but the edge in his voice gives it away.

You don’t answer. Not yet. The wall of lore stares back—strings and symbols and desperate handwriting bathed in the flicker of a dying lamp. You both know the truth. You crossed the line from dedication to obsession days ago. There’s no turning back.

Maybe the next page will be the one that makes it all click. Or maybe it’ll just drag you both a little further down.