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A modern love story, set in Scotland, with kilts, and whisky, and weddings, and porn.
Funerals and weddings, Jensen thinks. The only times he wears a kilt is to attend funerals or weddings. He tugs at his tie, looks in the mirror, tugs again, stares sadly at the squint knot staring back at him; it does at least match the uneven slant of his kilt and his twisted kilt socks. If only Jared were here.
It was just a regular black dog hunt, or so Sam and Dean thought, yet somehow they ended up tracking a unicorn through the woods, and then Dean may or may not have spotted a jackalope. After that things really took a turn for the weird!
"A unicorn? A freaking unicorn, Sam?" Dean repeats for the fourth time in fewer minutes. He looks down at the arsenal of weapons in Baby's trunk, twitchy fingered and wild eyed. "How the hell are we supposed to kill a goddamn unicorn?"
We're not gonna kill it," Sam snaps, elbowing Dean sharply in the ribs when he picks up a flame thrower.