Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

lαzαrυѕ rιѕιɴɢ;pαrт oɴe

Nadia Turner welcomed the wind blowing through her window as she drove down the sun-scorched highway in Pontiac, Illinois—the heart of Route 66. Though it was September, summer clung stubbornly to the air, unwilling to relinquish its hold as fall waited in the wings.

The sun beat down relentlessly, making the air thick and heavy with humidity. Nadia kept swiping at the sweat collecting on her forehead, trying to find any reprieve. The wind coming through the window was a small mercy, the only thing that prevented her from sweating through her clothes. But it wasn't enough to stop her body from rebelling against the oppressive heat.

It always seemed to be a hot day when the job involved digging up an unmarked grave. As much as she loved fall, this wasn't the season for it—yet a job was a job, and she couldn't avoid it.

One hand on the wheel, Nadia traced a route on the Pontiac map, eyes scanning for her destination. Four more miles, and she'd reach the edge of the city, where a patch of untamed forest sat waiting, untouched and thick with mystery. The unmarked grave, the reason for her trip, lay just on the outskirts.

She parked her car on the shoulder of the road, cursing the sun and the heat as she got out. The air clung to her, hot and sticky, as she grabbed her duffle bag full of supplies and a shotgun loaded with rock salt. A twinge of annoyance sparked inside her. For as long as she could remember, she'd hated cases like this. Spirit hunting, vengeful spirits... she never understood the appeal. It wasn't the work that bothered her; it was the victims. There was always something about them that felt deserved.

Who kills someone, then buries their body where no one will ever think to look? Someone who deserves to be hunted, she thought bitterly.

Her boots crunched against the dry ground with every step as she ventured into the forest. The sticks snapped underfoot, and her palm began to sweat around the shotgun handle. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, her fingers slick with perspiration.

Her destination wasn't far now. She'd been given specific details: the grave would be just a few feet away from a long-abandoned campsite beneath a tree with a crude cross carved into its trunk.

She walked for what felt like forever, the dense woods feeling more claustrophobic by the second. The heat wasn't letting up, but Nadia pushed on, determination in every step. When she finally spotted the campsite, her instincts kicked in. Animal tracks marred the dirt, leading in and out of the area. The remnants of a torn tent, a tarnished fire pit, and abandoned cans littered the ground. It felt wrong. Deserted places always put her on edge.

Gripping the shotgun tighter, she performed a quick 360-degree scan, looking for any sign of life. Nothing. The only thing she saw was the weathered tree with the cross carved into its trunk—the spot.

"Bingo," she muttered under her breath, dropping the duffle bag and getting to work.

The digging was harder than she expected. The dirt was thick, packed down by time, and it took her longer than she cared to admit to break through the layers. Sweat dripped down her face, but Nadia didn't stop. She was too close to finish now.

Two hours later, she hit paydirt. Her shovel clanged against bone. She stopped, panting for breath, her body shaking from exhaustion. Covered in dirt from head to toe, she felt a wave of satisfaction—until she remembered she'd worn shorts. What an idiot.

Tossing the shovel aside, she dug with her hands, tearing away dirt in handfuls, until she uncovered every bone, every part of the body buried here. She climbed out of the grave, her muscles protesting, and drenched the corpse in salt and gasoline.

"Well," she muttered, pulling out a match, "it's been fun."

Just as she was about to strike the match, the air around her grew colder. A presence materialized, and she didn't have to look to know what it was. She could feel it, like a dark cloud rolling in over her skin.