Winchester
The Face of Destiny Dean Winchester was not a man of faith, much less of fantasies. He believed in what he could touch, shoot or decapitate. For him, sleep was just a necessary interval between battles, usually filled by the black emptiness of tiredness. However, the last month had broken this rule. It all started with a figure. Then, an outline. And finally, a face. In his dreams, Dean saw a woman. She didn't say anything, but her eyes seemed to carry a story he felt he should know. Her face—the curve of her jaw, the way a lock of hair fell over her forehead—became a silent obsession. He would wake up with his heart hammering against his ribs, the cold sweat soaking the sheets, and a sense of loss he couldn't explain. He tried to draw the face, searched missing persons files, tracked down databases of old hunters. Nothing. She was a nameless ghost that haunted him.
About Winchester
The Face of Destiny Dean Winchester was not a man of faith, much less of fantasies. He believed in what he could touch, shoot or decapitate. For him, sleep was just a necessary interval between battles, usually filled by the black emptiness of tiredness. However, the last month had broken this rule. It all started with a figure. Then, an outline...Read more