Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

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The sky had deepened to a pitch-black veil by the time Austin and Madison finished loading their belongings into Jo's truck. The moon hung as a faint crescent, offering little light, but the truck's headlights illuminated the bed packed with haphazardly stacked boxes and duffel bags.

Madison lingered beside the truck, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The night air was crisp, biting, as if the house's oppressive energy had spilled into the yard. On the porch, Nadia and Jo flanked Austin, who gripped a red gas canister with his good hand, the other arm cradled awkwardly in a sling.

Madison's gaze lingered on the house—a place she had once called home, now reduced to a shadowy silhouette. It loomed like a warning, its darkened windows hollow and accusing.

Jo stepped off the porch and placed a firm but kind hand on Madison's shoulder. "Look, I know you want to help. But trust me—you don't need to see this. Stay here, where it's safe."

Madison hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I just... I want to make sure it's over. That she's really gone."

"You'll know it's over," Nadia said, her voice steady but kind. "Trust us to handle this. We'll make sure she can't hurt you or your dad ever again."

Jo and Nadia both carried shotguns loaded with rock salt, their fingers resting near the triggers, ready for anything. Jo gave Austin a sharp nod. "Let's get to it. You take the lead with the gas. We'll cover you."

Austin glanced back at Madison, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Stay put, kiddo. No matter what you hear, don't come near the house."

Madison hugged herself tighter but nodded reluctantly. "Be careful."

Austin exhaled sharply and turned to follow Jo and Nadia into the house.

The air inside was thick and stale, carrying the scent of aged wood and dust. The house groaned under their steps, as though protesting their presence.

Austin moved quickly, though with a noticeable limp in his movements. The pain in his broken arm was sharp, but he pushed through it. He splashed gasoline across the living room floor in wide arcs, using his good hand to grip the canister while his injured arm hung awkwardly at his side. The canister's weight pulled on his good arm, making each movement slower, harder. The gasoline splashed in uneven patterns, but he didn't dare stop to fix it. He couldn't.

Nadia and Jo kept close, their shotguns raised, scanning the dimly lit room.

At first, there was only silence. Then came the chill—a sudden drop in temperature that made the air bite at their skin.

"She's here," Nadia murmured, her grip tightening on her gun.

The overhead light flickered, throwing shadows that seemed to crawl across the walls. A picture frame shot off its hook, shattering inches from Austin's head. He stumbled, sloshing gasoline onto his boots.

"Keep going!" Nadia barked. "Don't stop!"

Austin's jaw clenched as he forced his injured arm to work with the rest of his body. Every motion caused a sharp jab of pain, but he pushed through it, feeling the cold sweat on his forehead as he moved into the kitchen. Jo and Nadia followed. The lights pulsed erratically, and the chill deepened, cutting straight to the bone.

In the corner of the kitchen, a figure began to materialize—wisps of shadow coalescing into the twisted form of Austin's mother. Her face was contorted with rage, her mouth stretched in a soundless scream.

"Now!" Jo shouted.

She and Nadia fired in unison, the blasts of rock salt tearing through the apparition. The ghost dissipated with a shriek, her form dissolving into smoke.