Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

yellow ғever;pαrт ғιve

As she hoped, Nadia was in and out of the donut shop in under ten minutes. By the time she stepped outside, she was already biting into a warm, glazed donut, the sweetness melting in her mouth. Her feet carried her with an easy pace, and she hummed a soft tune as she walked next door to the hotel.

But as she neared the entrance, she froze. The Sheriff's car was parked out front.

Her brow furrowed as she recalled Linus's words earlier: "Um, he's out sick today."

If he was sick, then why was he here? Why was he at their hotel?

A knot of dread twisted in her stomach. Dean popped into her mind, and with it came a sudden, overwhelming feeling of unease.

She dropped the donuts and ran into the hotel, the chill of the night air biting at her skin. She sprinted up the stairs, her mind racing. When she reached the door to their room, she swung it open, her breath catching in her throat.

Sheriff Britton was standing over Dean, his revolver aimed squarely at him.

"Why are you looking into Luther Garland's death?" The sheriff's voice was low, strained, his breathing shallow.

Nadia's heart skipped a beat as she recognized the panic and exhaustion in his tone.

"Sheriff Britton," Nadia called out, her voice firm and calm.

He whipped around in a blur of movement, the gun swinging toward her. His face was pale, and blood was seeping through the fabric of his uniform at his forearm. Nadia's pulse quickened, and she realized the blood looked eerily similar to what she'd heard earlier—Dean's self-inflicted scratches. The same thing was happening to Britton. He was infected. Just like Dean.

"You're sick. You're sick like Dean," Nadia said, her voice unwavering as she stepped forward.

The sheriff panted, his eyes wild with fear. "Who the hell are you?" he growled, his grip tightening on the gun.

"I'm someone who can help you," Nadia said, her gaze steady. "But first, you have to calm down. Then I'll explain everything."

"Calm down?!" The sheriff's voice cracked with desperation. He grabbed Nadia by the back of the head and yanked her further inside the room.

"Hey, hey, hey," Nadia said, trying to keep her voice soothing. She could see Dean's eyes wide with terror. He was paralyzed, not knowing whether to help or run. But she couldn't let fear take over. She needed them both to stay calm.

"Frank O'Brien was my friend," Britton spat, his eyes flicking from Dean to Nadia. "So he made a mistake. So I didn't bust him. So what? And you're gonna bring me down over that?!" His voice trembled with a mix of guilt and rage. "No, sir."

Dean, shaking, could barely move. His hands hovered near his sides, ready to defend himself, but he was too terrified to react properly. Finally, the fear overcame him, and he swatted the revolver out of the sheriff's hand, sending it skittering across the floor.

In the chaos, the sheriff threw Nadia to the ground with a force that knocked the wind from her chest. He slammed Dean against the wall, his elbow pressing into Dean's neck with vicious intent.

Dean struggled beneath the weight, pushing back with all his strength. His face twisted in desperation, his body fighting for air, but his eyes were clouded with confusion—he wasn't just fighting Britton anymore. He was fighting the hallucinations.

"Guys!" Nadia scrambled to her feet, her voice desperate. "You have to calm down!"

Her father had always told her never to get in the middle of two men fighting, but this was different. This was life or death.