In churches, trials, harsh crises,
The people cry upon their knees,
To heaven's kind and gen'rous will,
(They think that it can save them still)
While driving down the road unseen,
In tiny diners, dark motels,
And up all night, with glowing screens,
To sling their guns and knives at hell,
These brothers and their story told,
Through lies and cards to save the sick,
Afflicted by the ghosts with cold,
And terror. There's no benefit,
To trekking all the country wide,
While losing sleep and gaining scars,
And all that they have left is pride,
Each other too, and home a car.
The devil and the saints take aim.
The brothers merely take the blame,
For every man's alleged sins,
And for the trouble, neither wins,
Save death, and from the death, rebirth,
So tired that they'd wish the end,
But while they walk upon the earth,
They'd never sell their soul, or bend,
Their will to faith and heaven's gates,
To paradise while mortals burn.
To earth they run, and heaven waits,
And doubts the Winchesters' return.
They'll take the sin and take the pain,
The weariness of patient life,
Than justice by the sinners slain—
Their family is worth the strife.
Abused by heaven, used by hell,
And none besides themselves to tell.
Regarded by the world so low,
And yet they guard it. Still they go,
To hunt the shadows in the night,
And vanquish haunted victim's dreams,
No thanks, no pay for doing right,
No clemency for their good deeds,
Their destiny and changing time,
Has taken all that it could take,
Except the souls they won't resign,
The spirits demons couldn't break.
The real saints are these mortal men.
The unsung angels drink their shot,
And with this they can be content,
While holding on to what they've got.
And now the world is on its knees,
It cries in darkness, "Save us, please!"
But, broken hearted, hardened still,
The brothers come, and save they will.