Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

yellow ғever;pαrт тwo

October '08

Siona.

That was the name of my imaginary fairy friend. Or, at least, that's what I thought she was—some kind of make-believe creature who lived in the shadows of my childhood. But now... now, I know better. Siona was an angel.

I remember the day she showed me her wings. They were massive, shimmering like they were made of pure starlight, soft yet powerful—just like Castiel's when I first met him. I thought she was just playing along, like one of those games we used to play as kids, pretending to be someone we weren't. But no. Siona wasn't pretending. She was real.

I can't believe I've actually met an angel before. Well, more than one, I guess. Was she the same kind of angel as Castiel, or something different? I can't figure it out. It's still a blur, like trying to piece together a dream that slips away as soon as you wake up.

I don't understand how something I made up could feel so real. How was she so vivid, so... alive, in my mind? Was it the meds I was on? The constant fog of sleep and confusion that twisted everything around me? Or was I just convincing myself I was crazy, that everything was in my head?

Probably both. But honestly, that's not the part that keeps me up at night.

What bothers me—the thing I can't shake, the thing that gnaws at me like a slow, creeping chill—is that if I had a guardian angel... if she was supposed to protect me... how the hell did I end up kidnapped—twice?

Some guardian *she* turned out to be.

Where was Siona when I needed her? Where was she when the darkness came for me, when I was alone and terrified, stuck in places I couldn't escape, with no one but my own shaky thoughts to keep me company?

I can't remember the last time I saw her. I don't even know if she left or if something happened to her. Did she abandon me? Was it because I got older, or because I stopped believing?

Maybe she's dead.

Maybe she died trying to protect me.

Maybe...

Nadia puts down her pen and stretches her fingers, feeling the slight twinge of tension in her wrists. She rubs them absentmindedly before letting her arms fall to the table. Dean sat across from her, his gaze fixed on the wall clock like it was some sort of ticking time bomb. 

The seconds seemed to stretch on for hours, each tick a reminder of the weight of the situation. He was supposed to be studying up on ghost sickness—figuring out a way to stop whatever it was that was slowly eating away at him—but instead, he was just watching that clock, utterly captivated by its rhythmic sound.

Nadia couldn't focus on her writing with him like that. His anxiety was palpable, vibrating through the air like static. She could feel it curling inside her chest, pulling at her own nerves. It was like a shadow, always lingering just beneath the surface of her own thoughts, and it wasn't easy to push it away.

For Nadia, empathy was no gift. It was just another burden. She hadn't always been like this—able to feel what others felt with such intensity. It was something she had learned to live with, something that had crept up on her as she got older. It wasn't just hearing their words, but hearing their energy, too. She could feel the emotions of others—whether they were happy, angry, or scared—deep in her bones.