Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

love wιll вrιɴɢ yoυ нoмe; pαrт тwo

Nadia flips onto her back with a frustrated sigh, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. She runs her hands over her face, rubbing her eyes as if that might erase the thoughts that keep swirling in her mind. She pulls the vial of grace from inside her shirt.

She holds it in her hand now, watching the pure, swirling energy inside the vial, its glow faint in the dim light of her room. She watches it for a long time, mesmerized by its rhythm, wishing, more than anything, that Vanessa was there. Her mother. The one person who truly understood what it meant to hold this kind of power.

Nadia bites her lip, torn. Her family had offered their advice, and she'd appreciated it, but they didn't understand the weight of what she was considering. Vanessa would have. She would have known exactly what to say, exactly what to do. After all, her mother was an angel. She knew the intricacies of grace, of divinity, of what it meant to wield power like this.

Nadia's thoughts flicker to Anna. She'd thought about reaching, praying for guidance, but she knew it wasn't safe. Not yet.

Things were still too fresh, too raw. She couldn't trust her—couldn't trust herself around Anna after everything that had happened.

Nadia sits up, feeling the weight of indecision drag at her limbs. She flips the switch on the nightstand lamp, bathing the room in warm, amber light. The small, comforting glow does little to ease the turmoil inside her, but at least it provides some semblance of clarity in the otherwise dark room. 

Her gaze lands on the crate tucked away in the corner—an old, weathered thing that had once belonged to her mother. It had been sitting there for weeks now, full of things her mother had left behind in the attic, full of pieces of a life she didn't fully understand.

Nadia had promised herself she wouldn't look through it until after Thanksgiving, but the pull is too strong now. She stands, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. She barely even notices when her feet move on their own, taking her toward the crate without thought as if her body knew what her mind couldn't yet accept.

As she walks across the room, she hears voices from the other side of the door. She freezes for a moment, listening, instinctively pressing her ear to the wood.

"You really don't have to go through all the trouble," Dean's voice drifts through, soft but tinged with that familiar reluctance.

"Don't be ridiculous," Irene's voice follows, light but firm. "I married a hunter and helped raise one. Sleepless nights are normal around here. Sit, sit, sit. I'll make you my special drink. It'll put you right out."

Nadia smiles to herself. She knew exactly what that "special drink" was—chamomile tea with milk. Simple, yet always effective. It had worked wonders for her countless times, calming her nerves after long, sleepless nights. She rarely acknowledged how much Irene had taken care of her in those moments, the quiet support she provided. It had taken years for Nadia to accept that love, but now she could see it for what it was.

As a step-parent, it was never easy to fully embrace a child that wasn't your own. Nadia understood that. Still, Irene had never backed down, always there when she needed her—even when Nadia hadn't been ready to accept it.

Nadia's thoughts turn darker for a moment. She wonders how things might have been if she'd been more patient if she'd let go of the bitterness that had clouded her judgment for so long. But she couldn't change the past, and she knew that Irene, like her, had suffered her own brand of grief.

Shaking her head to clear the thoughts, Nadia pushes aside the guilt that threatens to weigh her down. She drops down onto the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of the crate. The lid creaks as she opens it, the smell of old paper and leather filling the air.