Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

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"𝔅obby!" Dean burst through the door, shotgun in hand, with Sam and Nadia close behind. The silence that greeted them was heavy, suffocating. It wasn't the kind of quiet that offered safety—it was the kind of quiet that signaled something had gone horribly wrong.

At the foot of the stairs, Dean spotted an iron poker—tossed carelessly aside.

"Something went down here," Dean muttered under his breath. His gut twisted with unease. Bobby could be anywhere—between the house and the junkyard, it was anyone's guess. But Dean hoped, prayed, that Bobby was still alive.

"I'll go upstairs," Dean decided, his voice sharp with authority. "Sam, you check outside. Nadia, you stay down here."

There was a beat of silence before the team nodded in unison, and they dispersed—each of them heading in their own direction.

Nadia slowly scanned the house as she moved through the kitchen. Every shadow felt like it could be hiding something. When she crossed the threshold into the living room, the temperature suddenly plummeted. A sharp, biting chill cut through her, and her breath turned visible in the air. She wasn't alone.

A tingling sensation crawled up her spine as a presence seemed to materialize behind her. Without thinking, she tightened her grip on the shotgun, her finger hovering near the trigger. She spun around, ready to fire.

"Wait! Please, don't shoot!" The voice was familiar, pleading, and it froze her in her tracks.

Nadia's heart skipped a beat as she stared at the woman in front of her—her mother. Tears immediately welled up in Nadia's eyes, but her hand stayed steady on the weapon. She couldn't believe what she was seeing.

Her mother was dead. Nadia had mourned her. But here she was, standing in front of her, looking exactly the way she remembered—her scrubs stained in the same way they'd been on that fateful night. It was almost too much to process.

Nadia's thoughts were a storm of confusion, disbelief, and guilt. She could feel the shotgun tremble in her hands, but she couldn't pull the trigger. Part of her wanted to. A bigger part of her was terrified of what would happen if she did.

"No," Nadia whispered, her voice shaking. "N-n-no. This isn't happening."

"Don't shoot, baby. It's me," her mother said, her voice soft, almost comforting. "Mama."

The words shattered Nadia's resolve. "M-mom?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She took a step back, trying to remind herself that this wasn't real, that her mother had died long ago. The shotgun was still aimed at her—her finger ready to pull the trigger at any second.

"You're not real. You're dead. You're just a ghost," Nadia said, struggling to steady her breath and her resolve. She had to believe it. She had to.

But it felt real. The way her mother looked at her—the way she smelled like the lavender soap she used to use—it was all so painfully familiar.

"Come on, honey. Put the gun down," Vanessa said softly, as if coaxing a frightened child. She took a slow step forward and gently pried the shotgun from Nadia's trembling fingers. She set it down carefully on the floor. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

The warmth in her mother's voice made Nadia's stomach twist. She was still a little girl in this moment, overwhelmed by the closeness, the comfort she hadn't felt since that night.

But Nadia fought against it. "You're dead," she repeated, her voice thick with emotion. "You're dead, you're dead, you're dead." She couldn't stop saying it.

Her mother's expression faltered for a second, but then a thin smile returned to her lips. "Honey, relax." Her voice was syrupy sweet as she slowly pulled Nadia into an embrace. Nadia's body stiffened, her arms hanging at her sides, refusing to return the gesture.