Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

αғтer ѕcнool ѕpecιαl;pαrт ғoυr

The following day, Nadia and the boys made their way to the McGregor house to speak with Mr. McGregor. As they approached the weathered porch, they could feel the weight of the visit. Like most people they'd encountered in the town, Mr. McGregor was initially skeptical of the strangers standing at his door. But when he learned that they were friends with his late son, Dirk, his demeanor shifted, and he invited them in without much hesitation.

Mr. McGregor was an unassuming man—gentle, kind, with a softness that contrasted sharply with the harshness his son had shown. He had a quiet sadness in his blue eyes, a look that seemed to carry years of loss. He wasn't tall, nor was he particularly imposing. 

His house, old and plainly decorated, reflected the man's simple lifestyle. Dark green walls and brown accents made up the bulk of the furnishings. The place felt like it had seen better days, but there was something comforting about the space—a sense of old family warmth that had yet to dissipate despite the circumstances.

"So, you were friends with Dirk?" Mr. McGregor asked as he led them into the living room, his voice tinged with curiosity.

"Yes, sir, in high school," Sam answered, his gaze scanning the room, taking in the well-worn furniture and the faint smell of something long since cooked. It was a home built on memories, both good and bad, and Sam couldn't help but wonder how those memories shaped the man sitting across from him.

"I don't recall Dirk having many friends at Truman. Here, sit. Sit down," Mr. McGregor invited, gesturing toward the couch. The three of them settled, with Dean sitting between Nadia and Sam, all of them unsure of where this conversation would lead.

"So, when did Dirk pass?" Nadia asked, her voice gentle yet inquisitive. She leaned forward slightly, sensing the heaviness in the air around them.

"He was eighteen," Mr. McGregor replied softly. His words were measured, but there was an edge to them, a pain that could not be concealed.

"What happened to him?" Sam asked, his voice sincere, but there was a faint tremor in it as he recalled the troubled teenager he had once known.

Mr. McGregor let out a long, slow breath. "Well, there was, first, drinking, then drugs, and then too many drugs. And then he just slipped through my fingers." The sadness in his voice was palpable, and even Dean, usually hardened by years of hunting, felt the weight of it. The man wasn't just grieving the loss of his son—he was grieving his own failure to save him.

"It was my fault," Mr. McGregor continued, his voice cracking slightly. "I should have seen it coming, you know? Dirk, he... uh..." He trailed off, clearly struggling to find the words. "He had his troubles."

"What kind of troubles?" Dean asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied Mr. McGregor, trying to understand the full scope of the tragedy.

The older man paused for a long time, his gaze distant, as if the memories were painful to pull from the depths of his mind. "School was never easy for Dirk. We didn't have much money, and, well, you know, kids... they can be cruel," he said with a sigh. "They picked on him."

Sam frowned deeply, his brows knitting together in disbelief. "They picked on him?"

Mr. McGregor nodded, the grief in his expression growing heavier. "They called him poor and dirty and stupid. They even had a nickname for him: 'Dirk the Jerk.'"

Nadia could feel the tension radiating from Sam. His fists clenched, and she could see the regret in his eyes.

"And after what happened to his mother, he..." Mr. McGregor's voice faltered as he continued, the pain in his chest clearly affecting him.