I want to hold the hand inside you
 I want to take a breath that's true
 I look to you, and I see nothing
 I look to you to see the truth

You live your life, you go in shadows
You'll come apart, and you'll go blind
Some kind of night into your darkness
Colors your eyes with what's not there
…

A stranger's light comes on slowly
A stranger's heart without a home
You put your hands into your head
And then its smiles cover your heart
…

Fade into you
 Strange you never knew
 Fade into you
 I think it's strange you never knew

Mazzy Star — Fade Into You

Pure white walls surrounded me; stark linoleum floors squeaked beneath my feet. How did they manage to keep them so clean? And when exactly did they do it? I'd spent my fair share of time in hospitals and could never recall anyone ever cleaning floors. Somehow, they were always pristine, sparkling under fluorescent lights. If you caught it at a certain angle, the shine almost looked wet—serving as reminders of what a nightmare tonight turned out to be.

It was supposed to be a simple hunt. In and out, no big deal.

Rawheads, misshapen, leather-faced humanoid creatures lurked in abandoned houses and prayed upon little kids. We caught wind of one just a state over and hurriedly took the job. Unconventional methods of killing a monster, like fire—or, in this case, electricity—always posed a more significant risk than others, but it's not like we hadn't done it before. The two small children trapped in a closet were unharmed, physically, anyway. Sam led them to safety while Dean and I hunted the monster down. Outside, the weather was warming up, but the concrete basement was freezing—water leaked from pipes, coating the floor. He and I had split up, each taking a side of the unexpectedly large room. Hearing a splashing thud and a pulse of electricity, I hurried around the corner to find Dean lying unconscious in inches of water with the dead Rawhead at his feet. The fact Dean had been shocked didn't register. I sprinted over anyway.

Kneeling in that pool, soaked to the bone, with him unresponsive in my lap… I've never felt so helpless.

"I'm so sorry to ask. There doesn't seem to be any insurance on file," a nurse's voice broke me out of the trance I wanted desperately to remain lost in. The brunette behind the desk had kind, sympathetic eyes. I'm sure she'd been through this dozens of times. I wondered if it ever got easier.

"Oh. Right." Sam, who seemed equally as dazed as I was, fished out his wallet and handed her one of the many cards inside. Each clack of the keyboard, as she typed in the information, strummed my already thin nerves. Behind us, two cops who arrived on the scene lingered. I'm sure they had dozens of questions, none of which I had the energy to answer. Typically, calling them while on a hunt was a no-go, but we had no choice this time. I stayed with Dean as Sam removed the Rawhead's body before the officer arrived. I had no idea how he did it—especially so fast. If I were being honest, I didn't care. Not right now.

The taller, apparently more perceptive cop was nice enough to offer to finish this up later. Sam declined and retold the "story." While taking a shortcut through the neighborhood, the windows were down, and we heard screaming inside the house and ran in. Found the kids in the basement. "Thank God you were there," commented the other cop.

Thank God we were there, I thought cynically. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy those kids are safe, and the monster is dead, but at what cost?

Down the hall, Dean's doctor approached, clipboard in hand. I broke from the cops without a word. Sam politely excused himself. The tall, stoic doctor's expression rarely changed. I couldn't read him well at all, certainly not from a distance. I cleared my throat, swallowing the thick emotion accumulating there. "Is he…?"

"He's resting," Dr. Codrington said.

My relief was short-lived when Sam fished for more information. "And? What happened?"

"The electrocution triggered a heart attack. Pretty massive, I'm afraid. His heart… it's damaged."

Sam's shoulders squared while mine drooped. "How damaged?" he asked.

"We've done all we can. We can try and keep him comfortable at this point. But I'd give him a couple weeks—at most. Maybe a month."

All the jumbled voices of nurses, patients, and visiting loved ones turned to incoherent chatter. They passed in slow motion. I couldn't blink or breathe; air lodged in my throat. This life was dangerous. Hunters usually didn't live long, but this was not how it was supposed to be.

"There's gotta be something you can do," Sam demanded. "Some kind of treatment."

Dr. Codrington shook his head. To my surprise, his eyes softened. "We can't work miracles–"

"It shouldn't need to be a miracle!" I snapped. "Isn't this what you're here for?"

"I really am sorry," he said sincerely. "You can go see him—"

I scoffed, moving past the man before he could finish his sentence. I didn't want to hear it. My anger-fueled quick pace slowed the closer I got to Dean's room. For the first time in my life, I was scared to see him—to face a reality I simply wasn't ready to accept. Sam easily caught up to me. Tears welled in his eyes, brightening their blue hues, all while sadness and anger weighed down their amber depths. I couldn't imagine how he felt, but he somehow pushed aside the emotion and stepped into the hospital room. The yellow-tinted glow fanned across it, coating it in a warmth I couldn't feel; I was cold. Dean lay on the hospital bed, connected to multiple machines and IVs. Heavy lids hung over his tired eyes, and deep purple bruises marred the skin below them. An invisible force prevented my legs from carrying me further inside. The linoleum beneath me had turned to quicksand. Every attempt to break free only pulled me further down. He didn't look like that this morning—sick… frail. How fast could this happen? The Doctor said a month at most, but at this rate, would we even get a week?

"Have you ever actually watched daytime TV? It's terrible," Dean chuckled weakly, clutching the TV remote with fingers so pale they looked coated in frost. I wanted to hold them—to try and warm them up—but his voice caught me off guard and stopped me from moving. It was faint, quiet. Nothing like the strong and assertive tone I was very much used to.

Sam, too, faltered slightly at his brother's voice but forcibly continued his trek to the foot of the bed. I was still frozen in the doorway, watching Dean from a distance like a wild animal. "We talked to your doctor," Sam announced.

"That fabric softener teddy bear," Dean ignored him, "oh, I'm gonna hunt that little bitch down."

"Dean."

"Yeah. Alright," he grumbled and turned off the TV. Dean pulled in a ragged breath, glancing over at me before settling his eyes on Sam. "Well, looks like you two are gonna leave town without me." In a feeble attempt to stop the breath that flew out of my lungs, I wrapped my arms around myself. It didn't work. It was like I got kicked in the gut.

Sam scoffed, "What are you talking about? We're not gonna leave you here."

"You better take care of that car," Dean said, again ignoring his brother's tearful words. "Or, I swear, I'll haunt your asses." My chest ached like its contents were slowly being chipped away until I became a hollow shell. I shut my eyes, trying to control my rattled emotions and wobbly legs.

"That's not funny," Sam argued adamantly.

"Oh, come on, it's a little funny," Dean said with a weak smile that looked like it could break any moment. He was trying to be brave for us, but instead of his nothing bothers me, not even dying attitude making me feel better, it just made me angry. Eventually, Dean released a wheezing sigh. "Look, what can I say, man? It's a dangerous gig. I drew the short straw. That's it, end of story."

"Why are you acting like this?" my voice flew out without my permission, piercing through the thick air in the room like an arrow.

"Like what?" Dean asked casually. He kept his eyes locked on mine for the first time since we'd been here, and the look of fear within them betrayed his carefree attitude.

"We still have options," Sam asserted.

"What options? Oh, yeah," Dean flashed his eyebrows, "burial or cremation."

"Don't say that," I pleaded, trying to hide how my voice trembled.

"Look, I know it's not easy… but I'm gonna die. And you can't stop it."

Anybody else could utter those words, and it wouldn't make a difference, but hearing Dean say it—hearing him give up—made it real and rushed a surge of anger through me that alone should've been enough to make me argue with his claim. However, the constant battle against despondent grief took all my energy. I'd rather be angry and have the charge to fight, but sorrow began to consume everything. This ever-shrinking hallway was suffocating; every breath I attempted to take filled with a sickeningly sterile scent, and I couldn't choke it down. Ignoring how Dean's face fell when I turned on my heel, I left the confining hospital walls. On my way out, I kept my eyes straight ahead, fearing that I'd accidentally peer into a room and see someone in a similar situation—struggling to say goodbye to someone they weren't ready to let go of.

The nurse Sam had been speaking to perked up when she saw me, probably about to ask if I needed anything. I didn't slow my pace. I didn't want to be away from Dean longer than necessary, but I just wanted—no, I needed—to be out of here for at least a minute or two. When I exited the hallway, the wind swiped across my face, leaving bitter bites in its wake that the midday sun's heat quickly replaced with warmth. My hair kept blowing in my eyes. Purely out of frustration, I roughly pushed my long bangs behind my ears, accidentally scratching my neck as I did so.

Cars flew down the busy suburban street in front of the hospital, going about their lives as they passed. I doubt they even bothered to think of what could be happening inside the walls behind me. Why would they? I didn't.

Nowhere near as observant as I should have been, a hand clamping down on my shoulder made me jump about ten feet in the air. "Sorry," Sam uttered through a tight-lipped smile that never reached his eyes. Insurmountable misery took them over. I brought him into a hug that we both desperately needed. "I'm gonna figure something out, okay?"

"Is that even possible?" I asked tentatively.

"I'll make it possible," he insisted vehemently. I nodded weakly. "I will." Sam held the tops of my arms. "I promise you; I will."

Getting our hopes up was futile. You can't cheat death. I didn't want to crush him more than he already was and relented. "If anyone could, it'd be you."

"Are you gonna go back up?"

"Yeah, I'm not gonna leave him."

Sam handed me the keys to the Impala. "Here. I called a cab."

Regardless of what the doctors said—regardless of what Dean said—if Sam found a way to keep him alive, I'd take it no matter the cost. Was that selfish of me? Maybe. Did I care? Well, I couldn't fathom life without him, so… no.

Nearing the room, I forced myself to keep the same even gait that I'd used the entire way up. My reaction, storming off the way I did, was unacceptable. Perhaps I needed the moment, but knowing that didn't quell the shame. Dean didn't need to see me crumble or break, not right now. I had to be strong. He had turned the TV back on but ignored it completely, staring blankly out of the window. I tapped on the door lightly, and his eyes snapped to me, filled with relieved surprise. To think he figured I wouldn't come back stung.

"Mind if I come in?" I asked timidly.

"No, of course not," he replied quickly. Dragging a chair along with me, I placed it between his bed and the wall.

"Dean, I shouldn't have left like that," I admitted. "I just– I got upset. And I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," he apologized. "Tor, I know Sam thinks he can change this, but I don't want you to get your hopes up. We gotta be realistic here."

"I know," I whispered, blinking away the tears prickling my eyes.

"We knew this was gonna happen sooner or later."

I bit my lip to stop it from trembling. "I was hoping for later."

"Yeah, me too, Cherry Pie…" he trailed off contemplatively. "Listen, I want you to promise me something."

"Depends on what it is," I said wearily.

"Just promise me."

"Tell me first, and I'll think about it."

"Go find somebody else," he finally said, albeit reluctantly. I was mentally knocked back a few steps. "Stop hunting. Have a couple kids. Just try not to forget about me, okay?" Dean requested playfully to disguise his pain.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I questioned, tampering down the heat that his words surged through me. "You can't possibly think I'd just move on like," I snapped my fingers, "that."

"Hey, I'm giving you permission." He forced a withering smile. "Go live the life you were supposed to."

I scoffed. "Isn't that a little dramatic?"

"No. I held you back. You deserve more than I could ever give you."

"Everything I've done has been because I wanted it. I wanted you. I still do; I always will. I don't need any of that other stuff."

Dean sighed, "Just because my life is over doesn't mean yours has to be, too. You're too young to give up like that."

"I don't want all those things if I can't have them with you!" I declared. I don't know what more I could do to make him understand. Could I ever?

"Tor, I just want you to be happy," he mumbled regretfully. "I need to know you're gonna be okay."

"I'll be fine," I lied. Alone, I added in my head. The thought of being with anybody else after him was impossible to fathom.

A few beats of heavy silence passed us until he scooted over a bit. "Come here," he offered, holding an arm out.

I glanced down at the sliver of space beside him. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not? What, are the nurses gonna yell at me? I'm dy–" Dean stopped mid-word as my entire face fell, "Injured. Sick," he corrected quickly with a sheepish, apologetic smile. "That's what I was gonna say."

"Right." I didn't want to tell him how fragile he looked. I'm sure he felt it. "It's not that, Dean."

"Well, then, what is it?"

I played with my fingers, debating how to say it. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Well, unless you gained a few extra pounds…" he trailed off jokingly.

"Hey!" I scolded and pursed my lips to fight off a smile. "Uncalled for."

There was a tiny spark of joy in his otherwise tired eyes. "Come on," he repeated, waving me over. I cautiously sat on the very edge of the bed, nearly slipping off the cotton-covered plastic mattress. I could almost hear his eyes rolling around in his head. "Really?"

"What?" I asked, feigning ignorance.

"Don't make me drag you over here." Dean raised a challenging eyebrow when I didn't move. I internally disputed telling him no flat out, but I couldn't force myself to do it.

"Alright, alright." Moving carefully, I lay in his arms and lightly rested my head on his chest.

"See? I'm fine," he encouraged, kissing the top of my head and rubbing my back. As I suspected, his skin was cold, piercing through my thick sweater. "Even better."

Beneath me, Dean's chest rose and fell with steady breaths, and I found myself synching my own with his—trying to find peace in this exceptionally turbulent time. Any sense of calm I began developing was washed away in mere seconds because I could hear his heart beating directly below my ear. It wasn't pumping in the strong rhythm I was used to. Instead, it was slow and unsteady, thumping sluggish at a bare minimum—just enough to keep him alive. My throat tightened, and fear settled over me. Sobs threatened to wrack through my body. Somehow, I held them back. He didn't need the extra stress; he didn't need to see me cry. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on that—at least for now—he was here. He was with me. Everything would be okay if I held onto that.

As night fell, I suggested I sleep on the reclining chair a couple of nurses brought in for me, but Dean insisted I stay with him. That would've been more than okay, except I feared every move I made would hurt him. Needless to say, I didn't get much rest. Dean did, though, and that's really what matters. No matter how often I told myself I wouldn't look as they checked Dean over, I still did. His blood pressure was well below normal. His heart rate barely ever reached sixty-five. Reality continuously crushed down on me. No matter how hard I tried to fight, I knew, eventually, I would break under its weight.

When the morning nurse came in to check his vitals, I got up and disregarded how numb the whole left side of my body was from lying in the same position all night. I decided to shower, hoping the hot water could wash away some of my troubles. I needed a few things from the trunk first. Sam was probably awake by now, so I decided to give him a call on the way down to the car.

"Hey," Dean called as I neared the door. I stopped so fast that my boots skidded on the floor, the screech it made echoing throughout the hall. A passing nurse shot me a dirty look that I returned with one of my own before peering back into the room.

"What's up?"

"Can you get some clothes for me?"

Most likely, the nurses and doctors wouldn't let him put them on, but I wasn't about to tell him no. "Sure, yeah."

"Oh, and we should get breakfast."

"They're gonna bring you breakfast."

"No, I mean, like actual food. Like a burger or something. There's a place a few miles back–"

"You want a burger?" I balked, my eyes nearly bugging out of my head. "Dean, it's like eight in the morning."

He shrugged, wincing slightly at the movement. "So?"

My response to that was to leave the room. I was more than willing to give anything he wanted right now, but providing him with greasy food would be akin to me going out back and digging a grave. In the elevator, I fidgeted with the keys while waiting for Sam to pick up. He answered practically on the first ring. "Everything okay?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yeah, everything is fine," I reassured. "Sorry if I scared you."

"No, no, it's okay. I got worried, I guess. How is he?"

"Well, he's not okay, but he's–"

"Still alive?" Sam finished with a sad chuckle. In the waiting room was an elderly couple with congratulatory balloons for a new mother. I passed quietly, unwilling to make eye contact and force a polite, happy smile. It wouldn't be sincere.

"Sam, have you–"

"Not yet," he mumbled the reply so fast like he'd been waiting for me to ask. "But I'm waiting to hear back from a couple of people."

I unlocked the truck and dug through for an empty duffel bag to fill with our clothes and toiletries. "Anybody I know of?"

"This guy Joshua was one of them. An old friend of Dad's." Sam cleared his throat. "I, uh, called him, too, by the way."

By the tone of his voice, I already knew the answer but still felt the need to ask, "Who?"

"Dad." Bitterness coated his voice as he continued. "He didn't call back. Didn't even bother to text. I mean, Dean is–" Sam stopped, avoiding the word we both dreaded to hear. "I just don't understand."

"I don't think it matters," I told him honestly.

"It doesn't?"

"Sam, we've made it this far without him." I debated whether or not to say what I truly felt. No part of me wanted to upset Sam, but if anyone were to understand, it should be him. "If John doesn't want to face reality, there's nothing I can do. Nothing any of us can do. It's up to him. I can't care about that right now. I have more important things to worry about."

A short break of silence fell over us before Sam spoke again. "Yeah, you're right," he agreed. "I'm gonna hit the books. Keep me posted, okay?"

"Of course," I slung the bag over my shoulder and locked the trunk, "love you."

"Love you, too."

"That was quick," Dean commented as I entered the room.

"How long was it supposed to take?" I asked, setting the bag on the chair. I caught his expectant eyes and rolled mine. "I didn't get burgers, Dean. You just had a major heart attack. The last thing you need is red meat topped with fried bacon and cheese."

"Hey, if I'm gonna go out, I might as well do it with a bacon cheeseburger. Can't think of a better way," he quipped with a smirk. Dean's eyes darkened as they trailed down my body. "Well, maybe I could…"

"Yeah," I scoffed out a laugh. "That is so not happening."

"Why not?"

"You know why not." I rested my hands on my hips. "Heart. Blood. I don't think I should have to spell it out for you."

"You're no fun," he mumbled playfully, bunching up and tossing aside part of the blanket that covered his chest.

"Actually, I think it'd be you that would be no fun," I teased. Dean chuckled and let his head fall back on the pillow with a quiet puff.

We spent the rest of the day watching mindless TV. It passed in a blur, as did the days following. Each check-in with Dean's doctor only served to disappoint. He wasn't improving, and their expectancy was still the same—three weeks. I found myself watching him more closely, listening to him more intently. Even when he was going on about stupid old western movies or debating what songs qualify as classic rock. Memorizing him and every little thing he did became my priority because whether I wanted to accept it or not, this would all be gone in the blink of an eye.

This afternoon, he'd finally fallen asleep after complaining to me on and off for hours about being holed up in this dumbass hospital. It'd only been three days, and Dean was already done with the place. I wished he didn't put so much unnecessary stress on himself. While he was asleep, I took the time to wallow. My sense of self always came easily, but so much of my world is wrapped in him; who would I even be when he's gone?

Tears slicked down my neck, pooling uncomfortably at the collar of my shirt. Carefully, I pushed up from the squeaky leather chair to try and minimize the noise. I kissed Dean's temple softly to not wake him up before grabbing my bag and heading into the bathroom. Although I attempted to avoid the mirror at all costs, my eyes locked onto it, and I couldn't remove them. My regularly crystal blue irises were muddy and withdrawn, surrounded by irritated, swollen eyelids. Stains appeared embedded in my cheeks from crying. My lips were puffy and red. I tore myself from the reflective surface and stepped under the hot water. I didn't want to be away from Dean for too long, so I took a quick shower and tossed on a pair of jeans and a blue V-neck t-shirt. I gently opened the bathroom door, trying to keep the popping of the lock to a minimum, just in case he was still asleep. While tip-toeing out, I nearly stumbled over my own feet in shock. Dean was no longer sleeping—or even lying down—instead, he sat fully dressed on the edge of the mattress, pulling on a hoodie. Beside him at the foot of the bed was today's nurse, waiting with a wheelchair.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked.

Dean glanced up at me as he straightened out the sweatshirt. "I checked myself out," he replied simply.

"You did what?!" I yelped. There's no way I heard him correctly. He wasn't that stupid. Dean ignored me, staring down at his feet. I closed the gap between us and gently grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at me. "What did you do?"

"I checked myself out."

"Dammit, Dean," I dropped my hand, "why?"

"I'm not spending my last few days—or hours—or whatever, in a hospital," he stated plainly and stood up quickly as though to make a point, immediately wobbling. I grabbed his arms to steady him.

"This is ridiculous," I told the nurse, who sported an indifferent expression. "You're just gonna let him leave like this?"

"He's allowed to check himself out," she mumbled and shrugged her way through it.

"That's idiotic; he can barely even stand on his own!"

"Actually–" Dean interjected, holding up a weak finger.

"Shut up," I snapped at him and squared my shoulders, returning my attention to the nurse. "Then I'll just check him back in."

"You can't do that," she droned.

I was not in the mood to put up with her bitchy attitude. "Why not?"

"He's over eighteen, and it's what he wants. You'd have to be immediate family, and he'd have to be mentally unstable."

"He just had a massive heart attack and wants to leave the hospital. That strikes you as someone who's mentally sound?"

"Hey," Dean chided with narrowed eyes. The nurse pursed her lips and shook her head again, opting not to speak this time, which was good for her sake. Dean squeezed my arm to call my glare away from the redhead. "Come on, Cherry Pie–"

"No. Don't Cherry Pie me. You're staying."

"Tor, I just want to go," he pleaded, giving me that little pout he knew I was a sucker for. "It doesn't matter where I am; the same shit's gonna go down. I'd rather it not happen here."

As much as I wanted to, I couldn't find it within myself to argue. "Fine." I relented with an unhappy huff. "You are insane—but fine."

Miss Attitude opened the wheelchair in front of the bed, holding onto it as I helped Dean sit. Gesturing for her to get out of the way, I wheeled him out of the room. The entire way outside, I remained silent. I unlocked the Impala and brought him around to the passenger side. "No, wait, I'll drive," he said as I reached for the handle.

My jaw locked, face contorting an expression of complete and total aggravation. It was one thing to let him leave the hospital. At the end of the day, I knew he was right. Whatever would happen to him inside those walls could happen anywhere. But I was not, under any circumstances, going to chance something happening behind the wheel of a vehicle. Certainly not the Impala. I couldn't let anything happen to her, too. Her, I rolled my eyes at myself.

"You can't even walk, and you want to drive?" I asked.

"I can walk!"

"Great." I opened the passenger door and gestured inside. "Go ahead. Walk."

Dean flashed an arrogant eyebrow and pushed up from the wheelchair with an irritated puff, visibly straining as he stood. Fear washed over me, replacing any irritation as my mind bombarded me with images of this being the moment his heart gave out right in front of me. I reached to help him, but he swatted my hand away like a cat. "I'm good," he insisted and sat in the car. I shut the passenger door more forcefully than necessary and turned to the sour-faced nurse, rolling the wheelchair to her before rounding the back of the car and slipping into the driver's seat.

On autopilot, I started the engine and was about to look over my shoulder to pull out of the parking space when a fear I never had crossed my mind. "Put on your seatbelt," I instructed Dean.

He laughed, "Sure, yeah. We can get the booster seat out of the trunk while we're at it."

My expression remained unchanging. "I'm not joking."

"Who cares? It's not a long drive–"

"Put on the seatbelt, Dean, or so help me God, I will–!"

Dean's eyes rounded, and he held his palms up in surrender. "Alright, alright," he said, reaching for the restraint. From the squeak it made, I'm not sure they'd been used before today. We never even thought about them; it was like they weren't there—but the sound of it clicking into place gave an unexplainable sense of relief.

"Thank you," I breathed sincerely. He had to think I was overreacting, and maybe I was, but I was not about to risk losing him before our already short amount of allotted time was up. "Sam is gonna kill me for this," I mumbled, backing out of the spot.

"No, he won't. It's not your fault."

"Yeah, I know that." I put the Impala in drive and headed for the main road. "Why would you pull a move like that, huh?"

"I told you why."

"I get it, I do." I readjusted my grip on the steering wheel, trying to ignore how the rest of his life now meant so little time. "I just wish you would've told me first."

"I knew you'd try and talk me out of it." He placed a hand on my jean-covered thigh. "And I knew you'd be able to."

"Oh, yeah? How?"

"Because you're the only one who can stop me from doing stupid shit," Dean chuckled.

"Not this time," I complained.

"Yeah, not this time."

Dean filled the relatively short fifteen-minute drive to the motel with Led Zepplin blasting through the speakers and him singing along. I momentarily forgot about the daunting walls closing in on us momentarily and got lost in normalcy. But when we reached our destination, and Dean's knees buckled as soon as he stood, everything came crashing into me like a wrecking ball. I ignored his claims that he didn't need help and wrapped an arm around his midsection. He was trying not to lean on me, even though he needed to. Knocking on the door sent Sam's scrambled footsteps rushing to answer. His cried-out eyes widened when he saw us, a myriad of expressions flittering across his face until he settled on confusion.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

"Geez, way to make a guy feel welcome," Dean grumbled, trying to break away from me to enter the room.

I held him still and explained, "He checked himself out."

"What, are you crazy?" Sam asked, slinging Dean's free arm around his shoulders to assist me in getting him over the threshold.

"Well, I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot," Dean joked, tossing a wink my way. I disregarded the comment, concentrating on getting him to one of the chairs.

Sam huffed out a laugh and shut the door. "You know, this whole I-laugh-in-the-face-of-death thing? It's crap. I can see right through it."

"Yeah, whatever, dude." Dean gave his brother a once-over. "Have you even slept? You look worse than me."

"I've been scouring the internet for the last three days. Calling every contact in Dad's journal." When Sam said he would figure it out, I had faith he would try, but he went above and beyond. The trash bin was piled high with empty cans of energy drinks and coffee grounds. Even if he wanted to, there was no available place to sleep because the beds were covered in several books worth of pages.

"For what?"

"For a way to help you. One of Dad's friends—Joshua." Sam glanced at me. I nodded in remembrance, and he continued, "Well, he called me back. Told me about a guy in Nebraska. A specialist." That speck of hope I'd been trying so hard to beat down started to grow again.

"Really?" I asked. Sam confirmed with a buoyant nod.

Dean's spine curved downward, and his face fell. "You're not gonna let me die in peace, are you?" he asked tiredly.

"I'm not gonna let you die, period," Sam told him adamantly. "We're going. Right, Tori?"

"Hell, yes, we are," I said, much to Dean's dismay. If there was one thing I knew, Dean didn't want to die. He tried to act brave, to be strong, but it couldn't be further from the truth. Like me, he was scared to get his hopes up, but this felt like a real shot at saving him, and I wasn't about to let it slip by.

Behind the wheel, this time, was Sam, who had been driving for the latter half of the trip when he deemed I was getting too tired. I thought Dean's temperature might've returned to normal once we were out of that freezing hospital. Instead, his skin only became colder—tinted the slightest shade of blue due to lack of circulation. As hard as he tried to fight it, he dozed off and slept for about half the ten-hour trip. Sam took that time to tell me who we were really going to see: a reverend named Roy Le Grange. The man claimed to be a faith healer, and while I'd usually call instant bullshit, according to Joshua, he had quite a few accounts to back up his legitimacy. On any given day, I'd write it all off as insane. But this wasn't any given day, and I was willing to try damn near anything, even if it was ridiculous.

Thick, water-logged grey clouds drizzled icy rain down over the expansive land. A two-story home sat off to the side, surrounded by a fence. The gravel road lining the edges of the church's grounds was uneven and filled with muddy potholes. We weren't the only ones searching for a saving grace—people on crutches and walkers also ambled toward the tent. Here, the somber atmosphere seemed right, mirroring precisely how I felt inside.

Released a long and heavy sigh, Dean glared at the large white tent in the middle of the clearing as though the object had personally done something to him. Before he could open the back door himself, I trudged through muddy grass and did it. He mumbled something under his breath about me treating him like a girl. I elected to ignore that comment, too. Dean declined when Sam offered his help, his pride firmly stationed in the way. I refused to allow it to stay there and wrapped an arm around him, taking a good handful of his hoodie so I had a decent grip on him.

"Man, you are a lying bastard," Dean complained to his brother. "I thought you said we were going to see a doctor."

"I believe I said a specialist," Sam corrected with a smirk. Dean clenched his jaw, clearly not enjoying the wordplay. "Look, this guy's supposed to be the real deal."

"I can't believe you brought me here to see some guy who heals people out of a tent."

"I can't believe you're still complaining," I grumbled, gaining a sideways glare from Dean.

An older-looking woman with long gray hair passed by us, her umbrella almost smacking me in the face. "Reverend Le Grange is a great man," she asserted.

"Yeah, that's nice," Dean bit sarcastically. On our way to the tent, we passed by a disgruntled dark-haired man looking to be around our age who was arguing with a Sheriff about his right to protest. He believed Le Grange was a fraud, milking people out of their hard-earned money. The Sheriff not-so-gently led him off the church grounds. That was just about the last thing we needed to encounter right now—something to fuel Dean's fire of disbelief. "I take it he's not part of the flock," he commented.

"When people see something they can't explain, there's controversy," Sam reasoned.

"But come on, a faith healer?" Dean questioned with raised eyebrows and looked at me. "You don't believe in this bullshit any more than I do."

"Well, maybe I should," I argued. "Maybe that's the problem. Having a little faith couldn't hurt, Dean."

"You know what I've got faith in? Reality. Knowing what's really going on."

"How can you be a skeptic with the things we see every day?" Sam asked.

"Exactly," Dean said. "We see them; we know they're real."

"Dean, if you know evil's out there, how can you not believe good's out there, too?"

"Because I've seen what evil does to good people," he replied simply.

"How about this?" I prompted. "If it turns out to be B.S., you can boast about it all you want."

"Oh, I will," Dean agreed with a thin smile. "Every day for the rest of my life."

"Maybe God works in mysterious ways," a soft, feminine voice came from a short blonde woman looking to be around our age walking up behind Sam. Dean stopped dead in his tracks, which caused me to jerk backward.

"Maybe he does," he smiled charmingly at her. Even in this state, he didn't miss the opportunity to get under my skin.

She laughed lightly, seeing straight through him. "Yeah, I'm sure. I'm Layla."

"Dean," he introduced himself and us. "This is Sam and Tori." Sam gave her a short wave but looked as eager as I felt to slip into the tent and get on with this. I didn't want to be rude, so I returned Layla's friendly smile.

"So, if you're not a believer, then why are you here?" she asked Dean.

"Well, apparently, these two—" Dean gestured to Sam and me, "Believe enough for all of us."

"Well, we wouldn't have to if someone wasn't so hard-headed," I remarked.

Layla sent an encouraging smile my way. "All it takes is one person's faith to make a difference."

Another woman, who I assumed to be Layla's mother, came over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Come on, honey. It's about to start," she said, leading her into the tent.

"I bet you she can work in some mysterious ways," Dean commented to Sam, both of them watching Layla go.

"Just so you know, I'm letting all this slide, but when you get better, I'm gonna kick your ass," I threatened quietly.

Dean wore an apologetic smile. "There's not gonna be a when, Tor." His stream of pessimistic negativity was beginning to wear on me.

"There will be if I have anything to say about it."

By now, the tent was virtually full. Some people stood at the back, while others searched for a seat. Granted, they were much more frenzied here, but the crowd's excited whispers and fervent small talk reminded me of the church I attended with my parents. It felt like a lifetime ago. A gigantic banner hung above the stage, spanning its length. It read The Healing Church of MInister Roy Le Grange in big, bold letters. A pianist played light gospel that faintly rang a bell. On the stage was an extra seat, a podium in the front, and an altar at the back.

"Yeah, peace, love, and trust all over," Dean said, staring at the corner of the tent. Upon closer inspection, security cameras watched from every corner of the makeshift chapel.

"Nothing wrong with protecting yourself." I shrugged.

"You're really making excuses for these people?"

"Dean, please," I said tiredly. Was it so bad that I wanted to believe in something?

"Come on," Sam coaxed, gently pulling his brother from my grasp toward one of the front rows.

Dean jerked away and nodded to a few empty chairs near the tent's entrance. "Let's sit here."

Sam staunchly shook his head. "We're sitting up front."

"What? Why?"

"Just go," I instructed, gently pushing Dean to corporate.

"Oh, come on," he growled lowly, looking around in discomfort at the rows of people—none of which were paying attention to us, all too preoccupied with their own problems.

"You alright?" Sam asked, hands fluttering around his brother, prepared to catch him if he swayed.

"This is ridiculous," Dean complained, slapping Sam's hands away again. "I'm good, dude; get off me." We found some seats toward the front, just behind Layla and her mother, that Sam deemed perfect. Dean disagreed, and the sour look permanently stationed on his face told us loud and clear.

"You take the aisle," Sam instructed, slipping into the row first.

Dean hissed, "I don't want to."

While I wanted him to be front and center, I didn't want to cause him more stress than we already had, so I said, "Go ahead, I will," and slid back far enough that he could comfortably amble around me while remaining close so I could keep a hand to steady him.

Moments after we settled into our seats, an older man with thin, greying hair emerged from the curtains behind the stage dressed in a crisp white button-down, contrasting sharply with his narrow black tie. Upon his arrival, the congregation fell silent, waiting with bated breath. Reverend Le Grange sported a pair of blackout glasses and was assisted to the podium by a polished brunette in the same age range. Once he was situated, she sat behind him, legs crossed at the ankles and hands clasped in her pink-tweet-skirt-covered lap. A friendly smile sat on her lips as she inspected the sea of people.

"Each morning, my wife, Sue Ann," he gestured back to the polished brunette, "Reads me the news. Never seems good, does it?" he asked, and the crowd murmured quiet agreements. "Seems like there's always someone committing some immoral, unspeakable act. But, I say to you, God is watching. God rewards the good, and He punishes the corrupt," he said, and the tent erupted with cheers. "It is the Lord who does the healing here, friends. The Lord who guides me in choosing who to heal by helping me see into people's hearts."

Dean leaned into my side and commented quietly, "Yeah, or into their wallets."

"Dean," I scolded.

"You think so, young man?" Reverend Le Grange asked.

The tent fell so silent you could hear a pin drop. "Sorry," Dean apologized, averting his withdrawn gaze to the ground.

"No, no. Don't be. Just watch what you say around a blind man; we've got real sharp ears," Le Grange joked. "What's your name, son?"

"Uh—" his eyes darted to me, vibrating with nerves. "Dean," he finally answered.

"Dean… I want you to come up here with me."

My heart fell straight into my stomach for what felt like the thousandth time in the past ninety-six hours. But this time, it wasn't signaling oncoming doom or grief. It was optimistic. Sue Ann moved to the center of the stage with a hand extended and a gentle smile. Unexpectedly, Dean shrunk back in his seat, looking like he wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. "No, it's okay," he stated.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked annoyedly.

"You've come here to be healed, haven't you?" Reverend Le Grange asked in confusion.

"Well, yeah, but uh..." Dean hesitated again, even more now that the crowd started clapping and calling out words of encouragement. "Maybe you should just pick someone else."

"Oh, no. I didn't pick you, Dean. The Lord did." The crowd erupted with loud whoops of praise.

"Get up there!" Sam exclaimed with a big smile.

"Go, Dean," I murmured, gently nudging his arm. His eyes locked with mine, transferring his fear and skepticism of the unknown into me. I touched his jaw with my fingertips and kissed his cheek. "Please. Do it for me?"

"Alright," Dean agreed and slowly approached the stage. Sue Ann escorted him up the steps, placing him in front of Le Grange.

"You ready?" the Reverend asked.

"Look, no disrespect, but uh, I'm not exactly a believer," Dean said.

"You will be, son. You will be," he reassured. "Pray with me, friends," Le Grange requested from the crowd. Everyone lifted their arms and held hands with each other. My eyes were so fixated on the Reverend that I barely even registered Sam interlocking our palms. Le Grange raised a hand to the sky and placed the other on Dean's head, muttering something unintelligible. Despite trying to convince myself the entire time this was a good thing, I grew worried the longer they remained in the same position.

Dean's eyes fluttered to the back of his head. His legs wobbled, and he sank to his knees. In the blink of an eye, he collapsed. The sound of him hitting the hollow stage was quickly covered by the congregation furiously cheering. I shot out from our row, hitting and practically knocking over the folding chair with the back of my boot. Neither the Reverend nor Sue Ann looked concerned. They both appeared proud and content, but my mind spiraled. Coming here was a shot in the dark, but it was supposed to be a good thing—a bright spot in an otherwise seemingly bleak future.

When I reached Dean, I gently lifted his head from the stage. Sam skitted to a stop at his brother's other side, gripping the front of his hoodie. Abruptly, Dean's eyes snapped open, but instead of finding his brother or me, they glazed over and fixated behind the Reverend. Nothing was there, not that I could see, anyhow. "Baby, are you okay?" I asked, stroking his cheek with my thumb.

"I– I–" he stuttered, eyes finally landing on Le Grange. "What did you do?"

"Me? Nothing," the Reverend said. "God healed you."

Dean declined a trip to the hospital. Sam and I disagreed. Whether he liked it or not, we traveled to the nearest one we could find. They took us immediately since it was midday, and the emergency room was empty. Waiting for the test results to return was excruciating. Dean insisted he was fine—that he felt normal. He looked better than he had in days. Those dark, bruise-like rings under his eyes had all but disappeared, and his skin was returning to its normal color. Not to mention, Reverend Le Grange and his wife insisted that Dean had completely recovered. It wasn't that I didn't trust any of them, per se. It was that I knew Dean would lie to make us feel better, and I assumed the Le Grange and Sue Ann might do the same. So, right now, I needed concrete proof.

"So, you really feel okay?" Sam asked excitedly.

"I feel fine, Sam," Dean repeated for the third time. Since we left the church, his mood had soured.

The doctor, a woman with short, curled dark hair, entered the room, flipping through papers on a clipboard. "Well, according to all your tests, there's nothing wrong with your heart. No sign there ever was."

"Really?" I asked breathlessly. Relief and happiness weren't strong enough words for what I felt. My entire body became so light I used Dean's shoulder for support. He didn't mind, slinking an arm around my waist to hold me against him. It didn't feel like being strapped to a block of ice anymore; his heat was back.

"Really," she confirmed with a smile. "Everything is fine. Not that a man his age should be having heart trouble, but still, it's strange—it does happen."

"What do you mean, strange?" Dean poked at something he probably should've left untouched.

"Well, just this morning, a young guy like you, twenty-seven, athletic. Out of nowhere—heart attack."

I could practically hear the gears turning in Dean's head. "Thanks, Doc," he muttered.

"No problem." She gathered her things, told us to have a good day, and left.

"That's odd."

"Maybe it's a coincidence," Sam suggested. "People's hearts give out all the time, Dean."

"No, they don't."

"Look, do we really have to look this one in the mouth? Why can't we just be thankful that the guy saved your life and move on?"

"Because I can't shake this feeling, that's why," Dean argued, hopping off the exam table. I handed him his jacket.

"And what is this feeling you keep being vague about?" I wondered.

"When I was healed, I just– I felt wrong." He slipped the leather into place around his shoulders. "I felt cold."

"You already were," I confessed painfully. Dean shut his eyes for a moment and raked in a melancholic breath.

"I know," he conceded. "But this was different. And for a second… I saw someone. This old man. And I'm telling you, it was a spirit."

"But if there was something there, Dean, I think I would've seen it, too," Sam said. "I mean, I've been seeing an awful lot of things lately."

"Well, excuse me, psychic wonder. But you're just gonna need a little faith on this one," Dean said pointedly. "I've been hunting long enough to trust a feeling like this."

"Yeah, alright. So, what do you wanna do?"

"I want you to go check out the heart attack guy. We—" Dean nodded to me, "Are gonna visit the reverend."

A few people trickled out from the tent here and there, but other than the parked vehicles, it mainly was unobstructed, wide-open space. Roy and Sue Ann welcomed us into their home with open arms. The sun lingered in the sky, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Sue Ann filled glasses with iced tea, setting them before us on the coffee table. "Thank you," I told her.

"Of course," she smiled and sat in the armchair across from her husband's.

"So, Dean, how do you feel?" Roy asked.

"I feel great," he replied. "Just trying to, you know, make sense of what happened."

"A miracle is what happened," Sue Ann said, patting her husband's arm. "Well, miracles come so often around Roy."

"When did they start? The miracles."

"Woke up one morning, stone blind," Roy explained. "Doctors figured out I had cancer. Told me I had maybe a month. So, uh, we prayed for a miracle. I was weak, but I told Sue Ann, 'You just keep right on praying.' I went into a coma. Doctors said I wouldn't wake up, but I did. And the cancer was gone."

While it should've been easy to assume he'd gone through a lot, I was taken aback by his story. It certainly was a blessing, one Sue Ann looked incredibly grateful for. I resonated with her sorrow; even if our situations differed, that part felt the same. Having a loved one back you were faced with losing was enough to make you believe in miracles. Roy wore a slight grin as he pulled off his dark glasses, revealing white eyes. "If it wasn't for these eyes, no one would believe I'd ever had it."

"And when you woke up, you could heal people," I said, astonished.

"I discovered it afterward, yes. God's blessed me in many ways."

"And his flock just swelled overnight," Sue Ann added happily. "And this is just the beginning."

"Can I ask you one last question?" Dean asked.

"Of course, you can," Roy agreed cheerily, slipping his glasses back in place.

"Why me?" Dean's voice broke slightly. "Out of all the sick people, why save me?" Of all the things I figured he intended on grilling the Le Grange's about, that never even crossed my mind. Why would he question whether or not he was worthy of being saved?

"Well, like I said before, the Lord guides me," Roy said. "I looked into your heart, and you just stood out from all the rest."

"What did you see in my heart?"

"A young man with an important purpose. A job to do. And it isn't finished."

It wasn't long after that Sue Ann gently directed us to the door so the Reverend could get some much-needed rest. Saving a life, whether he thought he had much to do with it or not, seemed to take a lot out of him. We thanked them for speaking to us on such short notice and left. Each step I took was lighter than the one before it. For once, I didn't look too deeply beneath the surface. I simply took it for what it was; Dean's health was restored. That was the only thing that mattered. Well, to me, at least. Dean didn't seem to hold the same joy I did. Before I could get to the source of his sour mood, Layla rounded the bottom of the steps and greeted us on her way up the porch. I returned her smile, resting a hand on the paint-chipped banister.

Although she had troubles, her eyes filled with gentle concern for a stranger. "How are you feeling?" she asked Dean.

"I feel good," he replied. "Cured, I guess. What are you doing here?"

"My mom, she wanted to talk to the reverend."

Almost on cue, her Mother trudged up the steps toward the home. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Rourke," Sue Ann said regretfully. "Roy is resting. He won't be seeing anyone else right now."

"Sue Ann, please. This is our sixth time, he's got to see us," Mrs. Rourke pleaded.

"Roy is well aware of Layla's situation. And he very much wants to help just as soon as the Lord allows." Sue Ann touched her shoulder and said, "Have faith." Her reassurance seemed to do nothing but make Mrs. Rourke angrier. Without another word, Sue Ann returned to her home. I felt out of place, like we witnessed something we shouldn't have been privy to, and tugged Dean's jacket, silently telling him we should get going.

Layla's Mother turned toward us with narrowed eyes. "Why are you still even here?" she asked sharply. "You got what you wanted."

"I'm sorry?" I questioned, her sudden hostility catching me totally off guard.

"Mom," Layla called, "stop."

"No, Layla, this is too much. We've been to every single service. If Roy would stop choosing these strangers over you. Strangers who don't even believe," Mrs. Rourke spat. "I just can't pray any harder."

Dean averted his guilt-ridden eyes to the steps. "What's wrong?" he asked Layla, who hesitated to answer.

"I have this thing..." she trailed off.

"It's a brain tumor," her mother said through a tight throat. "It's inoperable. In six months, the doctors say..." Mrs. Rourke's dispaired voice cut off, looking down as Layla placed a comforting hand on her mother's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

Layla looked up at us, a sweet smile on her face. "It's okay."

"No. It isn't." Mrs. Rourke shot another harsher glare at Dean. "Why do you deserve to live more than my daughter?"

Biting my tongue prevented me from lashing out at her. It wasn't Dean's fault Le Grange hadn't done anything for Layla yet. I felt for both of them; I truly did, but why did she deserve life more than Dean? It wasn't a game of give or take. They both deserved it. Once in the safety and quiet of the Impala, I decided to address the elephant in the room. "Stop it," I said.

"Stop what?" Dean asked.

I folded my arms. "I know what you're thinking right now."

"You have no idea what I'm thinking."

"Oh, I don't? So, you're not replaying what Layla's Mom said like a broken record?"

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "No." I saw right through his lie.

"She was just upset. It's not true."

"Layla deserves to live."

"And so do you, Dean. You have nothing to feel guilty about, alright? I'm sure, in time, Layla will get the help she needs."

All he did was mutter, "Yeah," and nothing else.

Inside our motel room, Sam planted himself before the laptop at the table; his hand pressed against his mouth contemplatively. The peppy outlook he had was suddenly gone. We'd barely gotten a foot into the room before coming to a halt when he uttered, "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" I asked.

Sam's shame-filled eyes flickered to me before returning to the computer. "Marshall Hall died at four-seventeen."

"The exact time I was healed," Dean said. I avoided the stunned looks he kept sending my way, opting to keep my eyes trained on the hideous patterned carpet beneath my feet.

"I put together a list of everyone Roy's healed—six people over the past year, and I cross-checked them with the local obits," Sam continued, though I wished he would stop. "Every time someone was healed, someone else died. And each time, the victim died of the same symptom LeGrange was healing at the time."

Dean sat down heavily at the table. "Someone's healed of cancer, someone else dies of cancer?"

"Somehow. Le Grange is trading one life for another."

My head and heart played tug-of-war with my emotions, threatening to pull so tight I couldn't breathe. On the one hand, I felt terrible for backing this play and putting us in this position, but on the other, I struggled to fully give in to regret because I know in my soul that Dean would have been gone by now if we hadn't done something. "What's the point of healing someone just to kill a random person from the same thing?" I asked, hoping against all reason that Sam was incorrect about all of this.

"So Marshall Hall died," Dean jutted a finger onto the table, then to the center of his own chest, "to save me?"

"Dean, the guy probably would've died anyway," Sam tried to reason tearfully. "And someone else would've been healed."

"You never should've brought me here," Dean demanded, stalking across the room, only coming to a halt when I spoke.

"And what, let you die?" I questioned.

"Yes! Because now, some guy is dead because of me!" he gritted, accountability that wasn't his to carry getting the best of him.

"He's not dead because of you; he's dead because of Roy!"

"Dean, we didn't know," Sam implored sincerely. If there was one thing Dean had to believe out of all this, neither Sam nor I would knowingly put an innocent life in danger like that. He allowed his aggravation to fade. Of course, he was still upset, but not at us—at the root of the cause.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

"We need to figure out how Roy is doing this. How is he trading a life for a life."

"Oh, he's not doing it," Dean said. "Something else is doing it for him."

I tilted my head to the side. "How do you know that?"

"The old man I saw on stage. I didn't wanna believe it, but deep down, I knew. There's only one thing that can give and take life like that. We're dealing with a reaper."

"Like, The Grim Reaper?"

"No, not the reaper, a reaper," Dean explained. "There's reaper lore in pretty much every culture on earth. It goes by a hundred different names; it's possible that there's more than one of them."

"Well, that's a disturbing thought," I said, plopping on the edge of the bed. Unlike others, this mattress was so soft that I nearly sank into the bedframe.

"But you said you saw a dude in a suit," Sam said.

"What, you think he should've been working the whole black robe thing?" Dean rolled his eyes. "You said it yourself that the clock stopped, right? Reapers stop time. And you can only see them when they're coming at you, which is why I could see it and you guys couldn't. There's nothing else it could be. The real question is, how is Roy controlling the damn thing?"

"Some kind of magic?" I suggested.

"You think the good old Reverend moonlights as a witch?"

"I don't know what to think anymore," I said honestly.

"That cross," Sam muttered, reaching into the backpack on the floor beside his feet.

"What cross?"

"There was this cross at the church," he replied, sifting through a deck of embroidered cards. "I knew I'd seen it before, but I didn't remember where." Sam held out one of the cards. I got up and plucked the thin, laminated cardstock from his fingertips. The title of this particular card was The Magician.

"Tarot?" I asked, inspecting the image. A skull-faced figure wearing a crown and adored in a gold cloak sat before a small table containing a black candlestick and goblet. Just above its' left shoulder was a golden cross with a circle at its top encapsulating another, smaller cross. I vaguely remember seeing something similar on Le Grange's stage.

"It makes sense," Sam said. "Tarot dates back to the early Christian era, right? When some priests were still using magic, and a few of them veered into the dark stuff, necromancy and how to push death away… how to cause it."

"So, Roy is using black magic to bind this reaper," Dean said, taking the Tarot card I handed over.

"If he is, then he's riding a whirlwind. It's like putting a dog leash on a great white."

"Okay," he put the card face down on the table, "then we stop Roy."

"How the hell do we do that?" I wondered. "Ask him nicely?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Tor, you know how."

Sam piped up, "Wait, Dean, we can't kill Roy."

"The guys playing God. He's deciding who lives and who dies; that's a monster in my book." Dean looked at me and said, "You agree, don't you?"

This wasn't something we'd never done; it wasn't something I ever thought about having to do. Monsters took lives with little to no regard for their suffering, and killing them was simple. Humans could be just as bad—sometimes worse—so where did we draw the line? Even if Le Grange started this for all the right reasons, it turned bloody in the end. "I mean, he is killing people," I said, much to Sam's disappointment.

"Guys, if we kill him, we're no better than he is," he argued.

"Okay, we can't kill Roy; we can't kill death," Dean ticked off our impossible options, "any bright ideas, college boy?"

Sam ignored his brother's jab. "If Roy's using some kind of black spell on the reaper, we gotta figure out what it is. And how to break it."

"Oh, yeah, that's way easier than taking him out."

"What if killing him doesn't break the spell, Dean?" he challenged.

"Alright, listen. We'll try it your way first," I pointed to Sam. "But if that doesn't work, then… we don't have another choice."

Our arrival at the church grounds the following day came just in the nick of time—dozens of people flooded the area once again, awaiting healing without knowing the consequences. How many would continue to show up each day worshipping this man if they knew the truth?

The same protestor stood at the entrance, passing out fliers and protesting the Reverend. "Roy LeGrange is a fraud. He's no healer," he informed us, handing a leaflet to Sam. "Amen, Brother." Dean patted his shoulder and continued on his trek toward the tent.

"You keep up the good work," Sam praised, folding the paper and pushing it into his pocket. He broke away from us to search Le Grange's house for whatever he used to control the reaper while Dean and I filtered into the tent with the crowd. Fairly soon after we found our spot standing on the ride side of the tent, Sam called. Dean didn't put it on speaker. Instead, he held the phone low enough for me to hear Sam, who told us what he'd found. Roy had been choosing victims he saw as immoral. Based on the newspaper clipping stuffed into the notepad Sam found, he deduced who the next victim would be—the protestor out front. With a promise that we wouldn't, under any circumstance, allow Roy to heal anyone, Dean hung up.

There was no telling how soon into his sermon Le Grange would choose his next person, so we were prepared to do anything to stall or stop it completely. At least, we thought we were until he called Layla to the stage. Mrs. Rourke's eyes were flooded with grateful, happy tears, reflecting the ones in her daughter's as they embraced.

"Oh, come on," Dean griped quietly.

"What do we do?" I asked. It was wrong; we couldn't let it happen, and I knew that, but if he told me he wanted to let this one go, I wouldn't give it a second thought.

He released a hesitant puff of air. "We gotta stop her."

"How?"

As Layla neared us, Dean grasped her arm. "Layla, listen. You can't go up there."

"Why not?!" she cried, eyes darting between me and Dean for an answer. "We've waited for months!"

"I know it sounds horrible, but you can't let Roy heal you," I pleaded.

"I don't understand. Roy healed you, didn't he?" she asked Dean. "Why can't you let him try?"

"'Cause if you do, something bad is going to happen." He released his grip on her arm enough so no one, namely her mother, would react. "I can't explain. I just need you to believe us. Please."

At this point, Sue Ann had stepped off the stage and made her way to our side of the tent, her hand extended in the same gesture she held for Dean just yesterday. There was a flicker of something strange in her eye—an irritation of sorts, as though she were bothered by waiting. Layla looked between the hand of her potential savior and her mother, ultimately choosing to go with Sue Ann. Once again, the crowd exploded in howls of praise. We moved to the exit. I failed to ignore Mrs. Rourke's tear-soaked face. The sight alone made me want to leave and never come back. Dean looked like he wished he were anywhere else right now with every ounce of his being. He didn't want to do what we were about to do, but his moral code took over. With an unsteady breath, Dean shouted that there was a fire in the tent and everybody could evacuate. Mrs. Rourke begged the Reverend to continue, to heal her daughter, but his security whisked him away and guided her and Layla outside.

Once everyone was gone and we were the only two left, Dean pulled out his phone and dialed Sam. "We did it; we stopped Roy," he announced. My back was turned, so all I could hear was Dean's suddenly sharp intake of breath. I spun around, finding him wide-eyed. "What? That's impossible!"

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Sam said the reaper's still coming."

"There's no way," I argued until a thought crossed my mind. Le Grange wasn't here. It couldn't be him. It had to be someone else. "Roy isn't doing this."

"Then who the hell is?" Dean wondered aloud, scanning the room until he stopped. I followed his gaze to the left of the stage, where a figure stood with its back to us, partially shielded by one of the black curtains, whispering a rhythmic chant. Instantly recognizing who it was, I almost couldn't believe it. Informing Sam of the culprit, we rushed for Sue Ann and spun her around to face us. She gasped, clutching the charm hanging around her neck—one that looked identical to the cross on the tarot card.

Before we could do or say anything, Sue Ann began screaming bloody murder, frantically pleading for help as she tucked the cross back into her blouse. The tent doors whipped open, and two cops charged inside, roughly dragging Dean and me outside. Sue Ann followed along, looking to be the personification of innocence. "I just don't understand," she tutted. "After everything we've done for you. After Roy healed you, Dean, I'm very, very disappointed."

"You know what you did," I snapped, staring her down.

"Yes, I do. We saved the life of someone you love," Sue Ann said, a strange flicker of familiarity settling in her eyes before moving on like it was never there. "You should be more grateful."

"You two wanna get put in cuffs?" the cop clutching my arm asked jaggedly.

"Well, we normally don't do that with other people around," Dean retorted wryly. "So I'd say, probably not."

"Then shut up."

"You can let them go. I'm not gonna press charges," Sue Ann said softly, perfecting the holier-than-thou stare. "The Lord will deal with them as he sees fit."

Once she retreated into the tent, the cops continued their threats. "If we catch either of you around here again, we'll put the fear of God in you, understand?"

"Yes, sir. Fear of God," Dean repeated cynically. I'm surprised he fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Got it."

With far greater force than necessary, the cop shoved Dean, chunks of slippery mud flying into the air as he caught himself. After taking his arm to help steady him, I straightened out the sleeve the cop bunched with his iron grip. "So, back to square one," I complained.

"No, we're not. We know who it is now."

"What good does that do us when we can't come back here without getting shot?"

"We'll figure it out," he mumbled, eyes trained on something behind me. Layla stood nearby, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Dean went to her, and I followed. She barely looked up as we approached.

"Why would you do that?" she asked. "It could have been my only chance."

"He's not a healer," Dean attempted to explain without delving too deeply.

Layla wouldn't take his words for what they were. "He healed you."

"I know it doesn't seem fair, and I wish I could explain. But Roy is not the answer. I'm sorry."

"This wasn't against you, Layla. I hope you believe that. There's a much bigger picture here," I said. It wasn't fair. Nothing about it was… for anyone.

She thought I was bullshitting. Who wouldn't? "Goodbye," she said. "I wish you luck. I really do."

"Same to you," Dean said, eyes downcast. "You deserve it a lot more than me," he mumbled so low I could barely make out the words.

"What did you say?" I asked, expecting he'd confirm I misheard, but his eagerness to sweep it under the rug took my hope away instantly.

"Nothing. Let's go," he said, heading for the Impala. Dean wasn't a selfish person. He'd do anything for the people he truly cared about. Hell, he'd do it for people he didn't even know. But this newfound self-deprecation of his, the idea that he thought someone else's life was more valuable than his own, that he wasn't worth being saved, ripped through my chest like a jagged blade.

Back at the motel, we reconvened about the evidence gathered at the Le Grange's. We concluded that Roy genuinely believed he could perform miracles and was none the wiser to his wife's wrongdoing. Sam informed us of what he found in their home's library—a bible sitting next to a small, old journal bound in black leather. "It's ancient," he explained. "Written by a priest who went dark side. There's a binding spell in here for trapping a reaper."

Dean flipped through the booklet. "Must be a hell of a spell."

"You gotta build a black altar with seriously dark stuff. Bones, human blood. To cross a line like that, a preacher's wife. Black magic. Murder. Evil."

Of all the hardships Sue Ann has faced throughout her life, nothing seemed to affect her as deeply as her husband's near-death experience. Although the thought terrified me, connecting the dots came easy when I put myself in her shoes. I was willing to do nearly anything to save Dean mere days ago. Granted, I'd draw the line at murder. "She was desperate," I said, and two sets of confused eyes landed on me. "Her husband was dying, and she couldn't save him; she used the spell to keep the raper from him."

"Cheating death," Sam chuckled humourlessly. "Literally."

"Yeah, but Roy's alive, so why is she still using the spell?" Dean asked.

"To force the reaper to kill people she thinks are immoral."

Dean sighed, "May God save us from half the people who think they're doing God's work."

"We gotta break that binding spell."

"I wouldn't even know how to begin to do that," I said.

"Sue Ann had a Coptic cross like this." Dean pointed to a small picture in the book that matched the tarot, the necklace, and the stage cross. "When she dropped it, the reaper backed off."

"So you think we gotta find the cross or destroy the altar?" Sam asked.

"Maybe both." Closing the book with an audible snap, Dean tossed it aside. "I overheard Roy saying he would do a private session with Layla tonight. So, whatever we do, we better do it soon."

Well into nightfall, nearly the entire congregation had cleared out, save for a few camper vans and stray vehicles remaining on the grounds for their chance to be healed. Outside the tent, a police cruiser was parked next to Layla's car. Hoping we'd beat her here was too much to ask. "You know if Roy would've picked Layla instead of me, she wouldn't be here right now," Dean said, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror. "And if she's not healed tonight, she's gonna die in a couple of months."

"Dean, what's happening to Layla is not your fault," I said steadfastly. There was no good reason for him to believe that.

"She's right," Sam agreed. "And what are you gonna do? Let somebody else die to save her? You said it yourself, Dean, you can't play God."

Our words seemed to quell Dean's concerns for now, but each glimpse into his current state of mind only worsened mine.

Rather than the tent packed wall to wall like every other time we visited, there was only a small group of people corralled at the front of the stage, Mrs. Rourke being one of them. Layla stood beside Le Grange, anxiously waiting. My eyes darted around the room, not finding a trace of Sue Ann. Sam suggested she was in the house, so we broke from the church and headed toward the front porch. Just before we reached it, the two deputies from before turned the corner. "Go find Sue Ann. I'll catch up," Dean instructed.

"What are you gonna do?" I asked, afraid of the answer I already knew. Dean winked and gestured for Sam and me to duck behind a van.

"Hey!" he shouted, gaining the attention of the cops. "You gonna put the fear of God in me?"

Overgrown hedges blocked most of my vision; all I could make out were three figures darting by, one much faster than the others. Dean was damn lucky he could run. "He's insane," I whispered through gritted teeth,

"He's your boyfriend," Sam replied offhandedly, trekking toward the Le Grange's house.

"Yeah, well, he was your brother first," I retorted, annoyedly pushing the stray branches from my face. There were no gunshots, so unless our definition of putting the fear of God into someone was wildly different from the cops, it was safe to say Dean was okay.

Inside, the house was pitch black—not even so much as a table lamp was on—and not a single porch light was lit, making the building sink into the bleak background of the dark sky. While slinking around the perimeter of the two-story home, a flicker of soft, yellow light shining through cellar doors caught our attention. An open padlock hooked on one of its handles, hanging open. Sam lifted the door slowly, trying to avoid making the hinges squeak to the best of his ability. Sudden yelps and barks from a rather aggressive-sounding dog echoed in the distance, pulling my attention from the suspiciously illuminated basement. It wasn't until Sam's tall frame disappeared from my peripheral that I finally turned from the field and entered the cellar. The flickering, yellow lights came from several candles sitting on shelves lining the entrance.

Other than that, upon first glance, it seemed like an average basement—excess tools, some fishing equipment, a few stray boards, and extra chairs that matched the ones in the church tent. The smell of melting wax led us further behind a metal partition. All the everyday things flew out of the window when we arrived at an altar covered with occult objects. Multiple candles were lit, scattered around the space. Several animal corpses sat propped in various positions, and a bloody skull sat with another Coptic cross shoved through it. Even with that, my eyes landed on something I never expected to see. It struck dread through me like lighting a match—igniting and taking over completely in a fraction of a second. In the center of it all was a printed photo of Dean taken the first day we arrived before he was healed, an X slashed through his face with wet blood.

"I gave him life, and I can take it away," an unexpected voice spoke. I spun around, finding Sue Ann.

With all the anger he could muster, Sam pushed over the altar, sending the wooden table and its contents clattering to the cement floor. Sue Ann took off for the exit, and I followed, almost reaching the cellar doors before slamming them shut. "What you're doing is wrong, you know that!" I shouted.

"Oh, honey, no. Can't you see?" she asked in a pandering tone. "The Lord chose me to reward the just and punish the wicked. And Dean is wicked. He deserves to die just as Layla deserves to live. It is God's will, and you cannot stop me."

"You're fucking psycho."

"You'll be next," Sue Ann gritted. "Goodbye."

While Sam searched for another way out, I did everything I could to get these doors open. I bashed them with my shoulder so many times my bones ached. Black and blue marks didn't bother me, not now. Running out of options, I reached for my gun, ready to shoot the doors until they opened. I didn't care if it called the cops' attention—none of that mattered. Glass shattered behind me, crumbling to the floor. "I got it," Sam puffed, reaching on his tiptoes to break a small window at the top of the basement.

"You can't fit through," I said, peeling off my jacket and nodding to the window. "Help me up?" With a boost up, I squeezed through the tight space and got to my feet. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me; go get Dean."

Navigating this God-forsaken place was like trying to find your way through a mirror maze. Nearly identical vans, cars, and RVs sat row after row. Dying campfires barely lit the way. Getting closer to the tent opened the area considerably. Moonlight shined across the pasture, highlighting the thick fog looming above the grass. All I could make out was Dean's silhouette, his back facing me. He appeared frozen, staring straight ahead at something unseen. Picking up my pace, I dug the toe of my boot into the soft dirt with each bound. I wanted to scream, to snap him out of whatever trance he was in. His knees gave way without warning, and he fell to the ground. Panic set in, thumping through my veins, but I convinced myself that Sam was right behind me and he would find Dean. So, as badly as I wanted to go to him, I knew it wouldn't change the outcome. There was only one thing that could do that. I began searching for Sue Ann, miraculously finding her standing beside the tent, hands clasped around her necklace in prayer.

With no time for weighing options—what was right or wrong, what would work or not—I ripped the cross from her neck and whipped it to the ground with enough force, ensuring the glass vial shattered and spilled its contents into the gravel.

"My God, what have you done!" she shrieked, hands hovering over the quickly absorbing blood.

"Stopped you," I sneered. Sue Ann's frantic movements ceased; she froze, staring fearfully at something I couldn't see. I knew what it was—the reaper. Sue Ann tried to scramble away but stopped short and fell, hair splaying like something had knocked her down. Veins popped from her neck; the color in her skin paled and washed away completely. She struggled for one last breath before collapsing to the ground. I'd unfortunately witnessed a few deaths in my lifetime, but never had I been so… unsure. Usually, it was a no-brainer. There was empathy and sadness for a life lost. But this time, those feelings were difficult to locate. Mostly, I felt terrible for Roy. If he were truly innocent in all of this, what would he do now?

When I returned, Sam was already there, helping a shaken Dean to his feet. The moment I got close enough, I wrapped my arms around Dean's torso. He didn't hesitate to reciprocate, holding me tightly.

"How did you–?" Sam began.

"She's dead," I replied, pulling back. The brothers shared a look. Sam held concern, while Dean was curious about what had taken Sue Ann's life. "I think that reaper was really tired of being on a leash."

"So it was the cross?"

"It was the cross," I confirmed. "Can we get out of here, please?"

Dean groaned as he took a step, allowing me to support some of his weight without any resistance. "Yeah, sounds good to me."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Hell of a week."

If you had asked Dean or me, we would've peeled out of this town when we got into the car, but we had to return to the motel and pack. None of us slept, focusing instead on getting the hell out of dodge. Ever since we left the church grounds, Dean had been withdrawn. He sat on the edge of the bed, flipping a pocketknife. If he thought he was hiding it well, he was utterly wrong, and that was proven when Sam asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing," Dean replied.

Sam looked at me over his brother's head and propped his hands on his hips. "Dean, what's the matter?"

"We did the right thing here, didn't we?" he caved.

"Of course we did."

"Didn't feel like it."

I gently massaged his shoulder. "Dean, we didn't have any other choice."

Knocking echoed through the thin, wooden door, filling the small room with its hollow sound. I had no clue who could be on the other side of the wall. Nobody came to mind. Sam told us he'd get it, and I returned to packing, assuming it was someone with the wrong room number. To my surprise, Sam greeted Layla, gesturing for her to enter. The blonde bowed her head in hello and came inside. A shocked Dean stood, tossing the knife onto the mattress behind him. I snatched it and tucked it into my waistband. Layla saw the entire interaction, but her polite grin never wavered.

"What are you doing here?" I wondered.

"Sam called," she explained. "He said you wanted to say goodbye."

"Oh, he did?" I asked. With his scheme exposed, Sam ducked his head and mumbled something about going to get a soda before slipping out of the room. Really subtle, I thought. However strange this was, it came from a good place. Sam wanted his brother to achieve some kind of closure—a way out of his guilt. I couldn't fault him for that.

"So, where are you going?" Layla asked.

"Don't know yet." Dean shrugged. "Our work kinda takes us all over."

She nodded, clasping her hands in front of her. "You know… I went back to see Roy."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. He laid his hands on my forehead, but nothing happened."

I briefly shut my eyes, not wanting to see her disappointment or the crushed look I knew Dean would be wearing. "I'm sorry it didn't work," he said.

"Me too," I added, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

Layla didn't respond to our apologies. Instead, she moved on. She seemed to be good at that. "Sue Ann, she's dead, you know? Stroke."

"We heard," I lied.

"Roy's a good man," Dean said. "He doesn't deserve what's happened."

"No, he didn't," she agreed.

"It must be rough…" he trailed off, trying to find the words. "To believe in something so much and have it disappoint you."

"You wanna hear something weird?" Layla asked. "I'm okay. Really. I guess if you're gonna have faith… you can't just have it when the miracles happen. You have to have it when they don't." Her words struck me, sounding all too similar to something my Dad used to say. Faith wasn't something you could touch. It wasn't something you could see. You simply had to believe. When I was a kid, I had a never-ending supply of it. As I got older and tragedy struck, it dwindled and returned with varying degrees of strength. It plummeted at the beginning of the week, but when we arrived here, that spark returned. Now it left again.

"So, what now?" Dean asked.

"God works in mysterious ways," Layla said, giving a genuine smile to Dean, then me, before muttering goodbye and heading for the door.

"Well, I'm not much of the praying type… but I'm gonna pray for you."

She turned, eyes glossy. "Well, there's a miracle right there."

One town over, our lack of sleep started catching up, and we stopped at a random motel somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I couldn't sleep but wasn't the only one lying awake, staring at the ceiling. Dean was in a similar position, hands clasped over his stomach, eyes half open. Even though we spoke to Layla, her predicament still weighed heavily on us. Talking to her made Dean feel a little better; he said so when I asked, and I believed him. I wished we could do more for her, but that desire was unrealistic. My mind ping-ponged between that and what I saw when the Reaper had Dean. Everyone it went for attempted to escape, but he didn't; he didn't even try. Although I wanted to let it go and play the ignorance card for the rest of my life, the nagging wouldn't go away.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Dean's pillow shifted as he nodded. "Sure."

"When that reaper came for you. You didn't do anything; you just stood there. Why?"

He rolled his head to the side to look at me with tucked, confused brows. "What was I supposed to do? Going down swinging didn't really apply."

"It didn't?"

"No."

"It applied to everybody else," I said, and Dean hesitated.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Tor."

"You don't have to say anything." I lay on my side, resting a hand on his chest, over his heart. I tried blinking away my tears, though it was useless. They dripped onto the fabric below. "I just want you to know how important you are to us—to me. I can't lose you, Dean."

"You won't," he said firmly, clutching my wrist. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Then fight back next time."

"I'm hoping there won't be a next time," Dean joked. He let his smile wash away and gave my arm a gentle squeeze of reassurance. "I will. I promise."

Most of the time, every claim he made, every word he spoke, I accepted. There was no reason for me to think he'd be lying other than to save me from heartache. I stared into his eyes, searching for any sign of deception—something that would tell me he lacked the desire to go on beneath those convincing words. The very idea paralyzed me. If he genuinely felt that way, what could I do to help him? My heart's frantic pitter calmed when I found nothing but the truth staring back at me. If it came down to it, Dean would fight, whether for himself or me—or both. Knowing that, with complete certainty, was all it took to replenish my faith.

Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm so happy you enjoy reading this, as much as I love writing it!

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