Dean Winchester didn’t believe in faith healers.

He didn’t buy into the televangelist crap about miracles and laying hands and being saved by divine light. God hadn’t answered a single damn prayer in his life—not when his mom died, not when his dad went off the rails, and sure as hell not when he needed Him most. So no, he didn’t believe in God’s messengers. Angels were bedtime stories and stained glass—nice and quiet and conveniently absent.

That’s why this place crawled under his skin.

The church was too still. Too clean. Air thick with candle smoke and that old-wood, centuries-of-prayer kind of smell. Dean stood alone in the nave, surrounded by rows of empty pews, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. High above him, carved from cold marble, a massive statue loomed—an angel, probably. Wings stretched wide behind a robed figure, face half-shadowed by the vaulted ceiling’s dim light.

Dean eyed it with thinly veiled suspicion. The eyes were lifeless, but the way the stone was carved, it looked like it was watching him.

He shifted his weight, uncomfortable. Sam had insisted he come. Said this “faith healer” was legit, that something wasn’t right with Dean’s health. Dean figured it was just the flu, a bad cold at worst. But Sammy had looked at him with that same goddamn worried expression that always made him cave.

So here he was. Alone. Waiting.

Then—footsteps. Behind him.

Dean stiffened. The church doors hadn’t creaked open, no hinges moaned, no warning at all—just the soft, deliberate tap tap tap of shoes on old stone. He turned slowly, instinct prickling at the back of his neck. A hand ghosted toward the pistol tucked into his jacket, just in case.

The figure stood maybe ten feet away. A man—tall, still as a statue, dressed in an old, dark coat that looked too clean for someone who belonged in a place like this. His face was calm. Too calm. Like he was waiting for something. Watching Dean with eyes that didn’t blink, didn’t waver.

Dean frowned. There was something off about him. Something just outside the bounds of normal, something wrong he couldn’t name.

“Uh… hello?” Dean said cautiously, voice echoing slightly in the empty space. “Can I help ya?”

The man didn’t answer right away. Just kept staring, like a predator sizing up its prey. Dean didn’t like the look in his eyes—there was no emotion there. No soul.

Dean’s fingers twitched near his sidearm.

He didn’t believe in angels.

But suddenly… he wasn’t so sure they didn’t believe in him.