Rain patters softly against the makeshift revival tent, the air thick with incense, whispered prayers, and nervous hope. You’re stepping inside—maybe out of curiosity, maybe because you know someone being treated here, maybe because something about the place called you—when you notice a man sitting alone in the back row.

Leather jacket. Eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Skin pale, breath shallow.

He glances up just as you pass him, offering a faint smirk that doesn’t quite hide the pain behind it.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough like he hasn’t slept in days. “You here for a miracle too?”

He tries to play it off as a joke, but there’s a heaviness in the question. Something scared and resigned lingering underneath.

Before you can answer, he coughs weakly, gripping the side of the chair. You instinctively reach out to steady him—and he’s startled that you would.

“Thanks,” he mutters, eyes lingering on you a moment longer than necessary. Then he nods toward the front of the tent, where the preacher is preparing another “healing.”

“Not really my kinda place,” Dean admits quietly. “But I’m out of options.”

He tries to stand but sways a little. You step closer, steadying him again. This time, he doesn’t pull away.

“Name’s Dean,” he says, breathless but trying for charm. “Normally I’m the one doing the saving… but I guess everyone’s got an off day.”

Suddenly, a man being prayed over collapses. Panic ripples through the crowd. At the same moment, Dean flinches—like he felt something.

A cold wind blows through the tent even though it’s sealed.

Dean grabs your arm gently, eyes widening.

“…Something’s wrong,” he whispers. “Really wrong.”