Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

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"From crappy home to crappy home," Dean muttered under his breath, his fingers wrapping around the key to unlock the door to their room for the night. He shoved the door open, and with a groan, he tossed his bag on the nearest bed. Sam had driven so fast that they'd made it to Cheyenne in record time. What should have been a long haul had turned into a quick trip, and they still had to meet up with Ruby in the morning.

That was fine, though. The couple wasn't exactly thrilled about working with Ruby. Sure, she'd helped them with Anna, but that didn't change their feelings: she was a liability. No matter what she did, she still couldn't be trusted.

As Dean unpacked, Nadia quietly closed the door behind them. The click of the lock echoed in the otherwise still room. She flicked on the light, the low buzz of the bulb filling the space. But there was something else—something off. She froze, her senses sharp. She might have felt it first, but Dean saw them first.

There, standing in the middle of the room as if they'd been waiting for them, were Uriel and Castiel.

"Great," Dean muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he dropped his bag on the bed.

Uriel's smirk was almost palpable as he casually slipped his hands into his suit pockets. "Nadia and Winchester," he greeted with a nod, his voice clipped and too calm.

Castiel stood quietly off to the side, his hands tucked into his long trench coat. His gaze was distant, his face unreadable as always.

"Oh, come on," Dean groaned, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation.

Nadia stiffened at the sight of Uriel, the last person she wanted to deal with right now. Her jaw clenched, but she remained composed, not letting him see how much he irritated her. "What do you want?" she asked coldly, her arms folding across her chest.

"We need him," Uriel said simply, his voice smooth as he spoke like this was just another casual request.

Nadia scoffed. "Of course you do."

Dean's temper flared, his hands curling into fists. "We just got back from dealing with heaven's mess," he snapped, voice laced with frustration. "And you come barging in—again!"

Uriel's expression darkened, the casualness replaced with an edge. "Now, you mind your tone with me, Winchester."

Dean's eyes flared with anger. "No," he shot back, his voice a growl. "You mind your damn tone with us."

Dean started moving toward Uriel, fists ready to fly, but Nadia stepped in front of him, her arm raised to stop him. "We just got back from Pamela's funeral," she said, her voice steady but carrying the weight of their loss.

"Pamela," Dean reminded them, his words dripping with venom. "You remember Pamela, right? Psychic Pamela?" He glanced over at Castiel, who stood in the background, his eyes downcast. Nadia's gaze shifted to the angel, and she saw the flicker of guilt flash across his face before it was quickly masked. Uriel, on the other hand, didn't seem to care in the least.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You remember her. You burned her eyes out—remember that? Good times. Then she died saving one of your precious seals. So maybe, just maybe, you could stop treating us like chess pieces for five freakin' minutes!"

Uriel's tone remained eerily calm as he spoke, his voice oozing menace and indifference. "We raised you out of Hell for our purposes."

Dean scoffed, stepping closer to Uriel, his fists twitching at his sides. "Yeah? What purposes were those again?" he demanded. "What exactly did you want from me?"

Uriel's eyes gleamed with something darker than indifference as he answered. "Start with gratitude."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, a short, bitter laugh escaping him. "Gratitude?" he echoed incredulously, his hands balling into fists. "Oh -"