Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

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Nadia stepped off the last creaking stair and into the foyer of Bobby's house, the cool air of the early spring morning faintly seeping through the old walls. She tugged at the hem of her red lace-trimmed top and adjusted the cuffs of her sleeves. Her worn boots made soft, rhythmic clicks against the wooden floor as she moved.

The house was unnervingly quiet, carrying the kind of heavy stillness that only came when something bad was about to happen. It wasn't the peaceful kind of silence but the kind that lingered, weighing on your chest, reminding you that trouble was near.

Walking down the short hallway toward Bobby's study, she caught sight of him at his desk. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a single lamp casting long shadows over the cluttered desk piled high with books and papers. Bobby sat hunched over one of the tomes, his hands resting motionless on the open pages. His eyes weren't scanning the words; they were distant, unfocused, heavy with worry.

"Where is he?" Nadia asked, her voice quiet but steady.

Bobby glanced up briefly, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired sigh. "Outside," he said, his voice low, almost distracted.

Nadia nodded, pulling her jacket from the couch. As she slipped it on and stepped outside, the chill of the May morning hit her. The air was sharp, carrying the faint scents of dew, oil from the Impala, and the earthy remnants of winter.

Dean stood leaning against the hood of the Impala, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. His posture was rigid, his gaze fixed on the sky with an intensity that suggested he was seeing far more than just the pale, cloud-streaked horizon. Nadia could feel the turmoil radiating from him even before she was close—waves of anger, guilt, and fear coiling tightly around him like a vise.

She approached slowly, the crunch of gravel under her boots the only sound between them. He didn't acknowledge her until she stood directly in front of him. Even then, he didn't speak. His eyes, hollow and heavy with emotion, met hers briefly before darting away again. The space between them filled with the weight of everything he couldn't bring himself to say.

Nadia reached up, her hand trembling slightly as she cupped his cheek. The softness of his face and the warmth of his skin beneath her palm grounded her as much as it did him. She could see it—the fractures in his resolve, the cracks in the armor he wore so well. Dean Winchester, the man who carried the weight of the world, looked like he might crumble under it.

Dean closed his eyes, leaning into her touch as if it were the only thing tethering him to solid ground. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he allowed himself to let go. She stepped closer, slipping her arms around him, and he pulled her into a desperate embrace.

He held her tightly, his arms wrapping around her with a ferocity that said he was afraid to let go. His face pressed against her hair, and his shoulders trembled just enough for her to feel it. There were no words between them, only the silent exchange of shared pain, comfort, and understanding.

The moment stretched, the world beyond them fading away. When he finally loosened his hold, it was with a sharp exhale, like he'd been holding his breath for far too long.

Nadia stayed close, her hand slipping into his as they turned and walked back toward the house. The warmth inside Bobby's study was a sharp contrast to the cold outside, but the tension remained, an unshakable presence hanging heavy in the air.

"So, is Castiel back?" Nadia asked, breaking the silence. "Did you save his wife and daughter?"

"Yeah, he's back," Dean replied, his tone distant but tinged with something darker. "He was gonna stay in Jimmy's daughter, but Jimmy begged him to take him instead. Something's different about him, though. Castiel, I mean."