Mythical Love

Reaper

We step into the motel room, and there's Sam, hunched over the battered old computer, his face twisted in a frown that makes my heart sink. Dean walks in slowly, stripping off his leather jacket, his movements tense, every fiber of him bracing for what he fears is coming. I move over to Sam, glancing at the messy notes scrawled across the pages beside him, each word feeling heavier than the last.

"Did you find anything out?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, but I can feel the fear threading through every syllable. I tuck my hair behind my ear, squinting at the news articles on the screen. Sam won't meet my eyes, his expression clouded with guilt, his shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice thick and ragged.

Dean's gaze hardens. "Sorry about what?" His voice cuts through the air, sharp and tense, as he glares at Sam, his patience worn thin.

"Marshall Hall died at 4:17," Sam mutters, looking down at his hands, the weight of his words crashing over us. My stomach twists as the realization sinks in. 4:17. The exact time Dean was healed. I look up at Dean, his face a mask of fury and pain, his eyes closing as if to push it all away. He'd felt it, that wrongness, and now it's crashing over him.

"So I put together a list of everyone Roy's healed—six people in the past year," Sam continues, his voice faltering. "Every time someone was healed, someone else died, and each time, the victim died of the same condition Roy was healing." His words linger, and he braces himself for Dean's reaction.

"So someone gets healed of cancer... someone else dies of cancer?" Dean's voice is flat, as if he's still trying to process the horror of it all.

"He's trading a life for a life," I murmur, feeling a shiver run through me. The air in the room feels stifling, charged with something dark and unforgiving.

Dean scoffs, throwing up a hand in disbelief. "Wait, wait—Marshall Hall died to save me?" His voice cracks, the fury barely contained as it pours through every word.

"Dean... the guy probably would've died anyway." Sam's tone is soft, almost pleading, but it does nothing to soothe Dean's anger. He only grows more tense, his hands running through his hair in frustration.

"You never should have brought me here," Dean spits, turning his back on Sam as he paces the room, his anger palpable, rippling through the air.

"I was trying to save your life," Sam says, his voice weak, remorse thick in his words, as if he's barely holding himself together.

Dean whirls around, his face contorted in anger and grief. "Some guy is dead now because of me!" His voice booms, his fury almost too much to contain. Sam winces, the guilt flooding his eyes, making him look small and vulnerable.

"I didn't know," he whispers, his eyes pleading, looking up at Dean with those big, sorrowful eyes, the kind that seems to cut right to Dean's heart. I watch as Dean's face softens, just a little, the edges of his rage dulling, though the anger still simmers beneath."I don't understand how he's doing it," Sam says, his voice full of defeat, like he's lost in a labyrinth with no way out.

"He's not. Something else is doing it for him," Dean says, sighing heavily, a look of knowing crossing his face. "The old man I saw on stage," he mutters, almost to himself. "I didn't want to believe it, but deep down... I knew."

Sam frowns, confused, his mouth open slightly as he tries to grasp what Dean's saying. "There's only one thing that can give and take life like that," Dean says, his voice low, like he's finally admitting something dark that he's kept hidden. He leans on the table, his face a mask of conviction.

"A reaper," I whisper, the word sending a chill down my spine as I remember the cold, creeping feeling from the stage.

"The Grim Reaper?" Sam's fingers fly over the keyboard, searching for any lore he can pull up, his eyes fixed on the screen with growing urgency.