Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

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Sam and Dean arrived moments too late at Don's house. The stench of dark magic lingered in the basement as they discovered Tracy's lifeless body crumpled near the altar. Blood and ash stained the floor in chaotic patterns, and the faint echoes of Latin still seemed to hum in the air.

Sam knelt beside Tracy, grimacing at the clear signs of a struggle. Dean stood frozen, scanning the room as if expecting Nadia to step out from the shadows.

"She's not here," Dean muttered, his voice tight. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed her number again.

No answer.

"Damn it!" Dean barked, shoving the phone back into his jacket. His mind spun with worst-case scenarios. "She should've called us by now, Sam."

Sam stood slowly, glancing at the altar and the blood-streaked chalice. "Nadia has to be with Samhain," he said grimly.

"Yeah, but where the hell are we gonna find this mook?"

"Where would you go to raise other dark forces of the night?"

"A cemetery," Dean replied without hesitation, the irony of the answer not lost on him.

The brothers bolted out of the house and crossed the street to the Impala. Dean started the car, flooring the gas as they sped off down the darkened road.

"Why would he take her?" Dean muttered, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. He forced himself not to picture Nadia hurt—or worse.

"To do what all demons do: gloat," Sam offered, though his tone betrayed his own unease.

Dean slammed his hand against the steering wheel, his frustration boiling over. "Damn it, Robin, why'd you go in by yourself?"

"Nadia can handle herself. Don't worry," Sam said, trying to reassure him. But after a moment, he frowned, considering the power they were up against. "Still... this demon's pretty strong, Dean. Stronger than most we've faced."

Dean gave a knowing nod. "Yeah."

"Might take more than the usual weapons," Sam said cautiously, testing the waters for his next suggestion.

Dean's sharp gaze cut to his brother. "Sam, no. You're not using your psychic whatever."

"But—"

"Don't even think about it!" Dean snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Ruby's knife is enough."

"Why?" Sam challenged, his jaw tightening.

"Because the angels said so, for one—"

"I thought you said they were a bunch of fanatics."

"Well, they happen to be right about this one," Dean countered firmly.

Sam shook his head, his frustration mounting. "I don't know, Dean. It doesn't seem like they're right about much."

"Forget the angels, okay?" Dean's voice softened but carried weight. "You said it yourself, Sam. These powers—it's like playing with fire."

Dean picked up Ruby's knife from the seat and held it out to his brother. "Please."

Sam hesitated, but after a tense moment, he took the knife with a reluctant huff.

When they arrived at the cemetery, it was already a scene out of a horror movie. The moonlight illuminated chaos: graves burst open, skeletal hands clawing through the dirt as the undead stumbled into the night. Zombies and ghostly apparitions roamed the grounds, attacking anything that moved.