Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

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Typically, the Winchesters went in as FBI agents when investigating a case. But for the Bedford one, they were pretending to be lawyers—an unusual choice, but the only way they could gain access to the latest killer, who was already locked up and awaiting sentencing.

They'd hoped that the man might be desperate for legal counsel, but he was anything but. Despite the fact that he'd been free just days ago, he looked like someone who had been in prison for years. His once sharp features were now drawn, his face pale, and his eyes dimmed with a sadness that didn't seem to belong to someone who was even remotely interested in fighting for their freedom. He sat slumped in his chair, his posture defeated.

"Why does the PD keep sending you guys? I already said I don't want a lawyer," he muttered, voice low and resigned.

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, then spoke with a blunt edge to his tone. "They're lining up the firing squad."

"I'm pleading guilty," Benson replied with an air of finality, his eyes glassy.

Sam gave Dean a silent, warning look, then focused on the prisoner. "All right, look, you don't want us to represent you, that's fine. In fact, it's probably not a bad idea, between you and me," Dean said, dropping his sarcasm for just a moment.

Sam cleared his throat, nudging Dean with a soft glare. His voice softened as he continued, trying to navigate the delicate line between pushing for information and being empathetic. "We just wanna understand what happened, that's all."

"Mr. Benson. Please," Sam added gently, leaning in slightly to show his sincerity.

Benson's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he wrestled with the truth. He finally spoke, his words clipped and reluctant. "What happened was, I killed my wife. You wanna know why? Because she made plans without asking me."

Dean blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion, but the words hit him like a slap. He looked down at his hands, his usual quick wit swallowed up by the coldness of the confession. He didn't have a reply.

Sam pressed on, trying to make sense of it. "Now when it happened, how did you feel?" he asked. "Disoriented? Out of control?"

"Like something possessed you to do it?" Dean added, his voice tight with suspicion, his eyes scanning Benson's every movement.

Benson gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. "I knew exactly what I was doing," he said, an exhausted eye roll accompanying the words. "I was crystal clear."

"Then why'd you do it?" Dean pressed again, his voice hard.

"I don't know," Benson said, his voice cracking as the reality of his actions seemed to hit him. "I loved her. We were happy."

Dean glanced at Sam, sharing a moment of mutual understanding, but both men remained silent as they watched the man unravel in front of them.

Benson's eyes filled with unshed tears. "I didn't mean to do it," he whispered. "I just... I don't know what happened."

Sam nodded at Dean, signaling for him to move forward. Dean reached into his briefcase, pulling out a printed bill and setting it on the table in front of Benson with a deliberate motion.

Benson's eyes snapped to the bill, his expression turning serious. He knew exactly what it meant.

"Nine G's," Dean said, pointing to the bill with the end of his pen. "That's a hefty bill."

"Where did you get that?" Benson asked, his voice tight, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Doesn't matter. We have it," Dean replied coolly, his gaze unwavering.