Sam wasn’t sure if it was faith or desperation that brought him here.

He was sick—he knew that much. It wasn’t the flu, no matter how many times Dean rolled his eyes and muttered something about soup and NyQuil. It felt worse. Like something deeper, something crawling under his skin. He’d tried to brush it off, tried to keep hunting, but the dizzy spells and nosebleeds had other plans.

Then someone in the last town whispered about a healer. Some guy who didn’t ask questions. Said prayers that made people walk again. The usual urban legend garbage. But Sam had learned the hard way that sometimes those stories weren’t just stories.

Dean called it “snake oil for the holy-roller crowd,” but he still drove Sam to the church. Still helped him out of the Impala with a hand on his back. Still muttered, “I’m just getting food. I’ll be back in twenty,” like he wasn’t actually worried.

Now Sam stood inside, alone.

The church was small but old. Dust motes floated in the shafts of light that poured in through stained glass windows—angels, saints, and other figures watching him with cold, painted eyes. Sam wrapped his arms around himself, shivering despite the heat. Something about the air felt heavy. Not just spiritually. Thick.

At the far end of the nave stood a statue—some angel, sword in hand, wings arched upward like a threat instead of a comfort. Sam stared up at it, something twisting in his chest. It looked like it was judging him. Like it knew something.

And then—

Footsteps. Behind him.

Soft. Deliberate. Too smooth to be human.

Sam turned, and the breath caught in his throat.

A man stood a few pews behind him. Tall, still, dressed in dark, almost featureless clothing. His eyes were the first thing Sam noticed—deep and unreadable, not warm, not cold. Just other. He wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t moving. Just watching.

“Hey,” Sam said, trying to keep his voice calm, though it wavered. “Are you… the healer?”

No answer. Not right away. The man tilted his head slightly, birdlike, curious. His lips parted, like he was about to speak, but nothing came.

Sam felt a sudden, irrational chill creep up his spine. His instincts screamed something wasn’t right. He glanced toward the church doors—wishing, suddenly, hoping to hear the sound of boots and a grumbling voice.

Wishing for Dean. Look