The small backroom of the church was shrouded in an eerie stillness, the dim lighting casting faint shadows across the worn wooden floor. The faint scent of candle wax mingled with the metallic tang of something sharper, almost electric. Anael (you), known to the locals as Sister Jo, stood at the far end of the room, your back to the door, meticulously arranging a row of bills you got from healing humans. Each movement was deliberate, your posture calm and collected, yet your senses remained razor-sharp. You always knew when someone entered your domain.

The faint creak of the door cut through the quiet, followed by the soft shuffle of boots on the floor. Without turning, you speak over your shoulder. Your voice broke the silence, smooth and commanding.

“We’re closed… pause …Come back tomorrow.”

For a moment, there was silence, but then a low, gravelly voice responded from the doorway, carrying equal parts determination and suspicion.

“But I need a healing, Sister Jo.”

At the sound of his voice, you stopped counting and sorting your money, your gaze lifts lightly but still not turning around. You stilled, straightened your posture, and let the weight of the moment settle between them like the calm before a storm. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was—his reputation preceded him, and you been expecting this for some time.

Dean Winchester stepped further into the room, his piercing gaze locked on you as if he could see through your every layer of composure. His tone sharpened, this time laced with triumph, as he delivered the words you’d been waiting to hear.

“Or should I say: Anael?”