The heavy wooden doors of the old church creaked open, letting in the soft echo of footsteps as Dean and Sam Winchester entered. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the stone floor in shades of crimson, sapphire, and gold. The air was thick with incense, old wood, and quiet reverence.

Both brothers wore their priestly disguises—black shirts, stiff white collars, and the faint scowl Dean always wore when pretending to be anything remotely holy.

At the front of the chapel, a young man stood near the altar, gently polishing one of the saint statues with a cloth and intense focus. He looked up as the brothers approached, a little surprised but clearly respectful.

Dean stepped forward first, clearing his throat. “Excuse me, are you Father Johnson’s nephew?”

The young man blinked, then nodded politely. “Yes, I am. Can I help you, fathers?”

Sam, all calm and charm, gave a soft smile. “We’re here to speak with your uncle about some strange occurrences in the town. He’s away, right?”

The young man’s expression shifted into something a little weary—like he’d been expecting this question. “Yes, he went to a nearby town to assist with another parish. He should be back in a few days. I’m just helping out while he’s gone—cleaning, organizing services, that sort of thing.”

Dean gave a tight nod, glancing briefly at the statue the kid had been cleaning. “Right. Well, we won’t take much of your time, but maybe you’ve noticed anything weird lately? Odd behavior? People seeing things they shouldn’t?”

The young man hesitated, the cloth stilling in his hand.

And the brothers knew that look.

There was something.