Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

dυвoιѕ нollow;pαrт тwo

The journey into Louisiana felt like stepping into a different world entirely. April had wrapped the state in a thick, sultry blanket of warmth and humidity, the air heavy with the mingling scents of blooming magnolias, jasmine, and damp earth. Spanish moss hung like tattered curtains from the towering cypress trees, swaying gently with the occasional breeze.

Every now and then, the road meandered past sprawling swamps and bayous, where the still waters mirrored the green canopy above, making the landscape feel almost surreal. Birds called from the trees, their songs occasionally interrupted by the distant croak of bullfrogs. The overcast sky hung low, threatening rain, a typical springtime occurrence in Louisiana that could burst at any moment.

As Bobby's old truck rumbled down the dirt path leading to DuBois Hollow, the group found themselves surrounded by dense, moss-draped woods. The smell of pine and wet soil lingered in the air, and Nadia couldn't help but notice how the sunlight barely pierced the thick foliage, leaving the road with an almost eerie charm.

Finally, they reached a tall iron gate flanked by sturdy wooden posts, its rusted hinges creaking under the weight of time. A wooden sign hanging just below the arch read: DuBois Hollow.

Two guards stood on either side of the gate, rifles slung casually over their shoulders. One of them, a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a weathered face, straightened when he spotted the familiar truck. He waved them to a stop, his face breaking into a wide grin as Bobby rolled down the window.

"Bobby Singer," the guard drawled, his thick Louisiana accent carrying through the warm air. "Ain't seen your sorry hide in years. Thought maybe a rougarou gotcha."

Bobby chuckled, his rough voice gravelly with the warmth of familiarity. "Not yet, Jimmy. Walter's expectin' us."

Jimmy nodded, still smiling, and lifted his walkie-talkie to his mouth. "Walter, it's Jimmy. Bobby Singer's here with a group. You want me to let 'em through?"

A crackle came from the radio, followed by a gruff but welcoming voice. "Let 'em in."

With a nod, Jimmy pressed a button to open the gate, the sound of metal grinding against metal breaking the stillness. "Y'all head on up. Walter's waitin' for ya."

Nadia took a moment to glance around as they drove through the gate. The security was tight, and the land felt safe, though the dense woods still held an air of secrecy. The guards were well-armed, the gate sturdy, and the winding road ahead seemed to guard the place like a fortress. She nodded approvingly. "I gotta say, Bobby, this place takes its security seriously."

"As they should," Bobby replied, his eyes scanning the area with the careful gaze of someone who knew what lived in the shadows. "Walter's been in this life a long time. He knows what's out there."

The dirt road stretched on, flanked by rows of towering oaks draped in Spanish moss. As the trees slowly gave way, the scene opened up to reveal a sprawling property. At the end of the road stood a large, two-story Queen Anne Victorian house. Its pale blue exterior, weathered with time, was trimmed with white, and the wraparound porch held a few rocking chairs and hanging flower baskets swaying lazily in the breeze.

A rooster crowed from somewhere nearby, and Nadia noticed chickens pecking at the dirt near the house. Two Catahoula leopard dogs, their coats a patchwork of blues and grays, lay in the sun, clearly accustomed to the heat, their ears flicking lazily at flies.

At the end of the road, the path split off to the left and right, where a line of modest family homes stretched into the distance, nestled among thick trees. It was a quiet, almost forgotten part of the world.