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."

Nadia frowned slightly. "In what way?"

"When I asked what he wanted to tell me in the dream, he said he'd learned his lesson while he was away. Said he doesn't serve man or me. Only Heaven. And then he just...left."

Nadia's brows furrowed. "Whoa. They must have done a number on him up there."

Dean nodded, a thoughtful but troubled look crossing his face. "Yeah."

It felt like something they'd need to remember, Nadia thought, but she kept the observation to herself as they continued into the house.

As they reached the study, Dean paused and turned to her. "I'll be back," he said softly, leaning down to brush a kiss against her cheek.

He released her hand and walked past Bobby, who gave him a brief, knowing nod as he made his way toward the basement.

The basement door creaked open as Dean descended the stairs. The faint smell of iron and oil hung in the air, mixing with the dampness of the concrete walls.

Sam was on his feet when Dean opened the barred window:

"Dean," he started, his voice firm but pleading. "Let me out. This isn't funny."

"Damn straight," Dean replied evenly, his tone giving nothing away.

Sam stepped closer to the door, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Come on, Dean. This is crazy."

Dean shook his head. "Not until you dry out."

Sam's lips parted in disbelief, his breath hitching. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you. Just open the door."

"You don't have to apologize," Dean said, his voice calm but cutting. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault that you lied to me over and over again. I get it now. You couldn't help it."

Sam's expression darkened, his voice rising. "I'm not some junkie."

"Really?" Dean tilted his head, his gaze hard. "Because I must've imagined how strung out you've been lately."

Sam let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair as he turned away. 

Sam spun back around, his tone sharp. "I'm drinking the demon blood to get strong enough to kill Lilith!"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Strong? Try desperate. Pathetic."

Sam's jaw clenched as Dean's words hit their mark, his voice dropping. "Killing Lilith is what matters. Or are you so busy being self-righteous you forgot about her?"

Dean chuckled quietly, his expression unflinching. "Oh, Lilith's gonna die. Bobby, Nadia, and I will kill her. But not with you."

"You're not serious," Sam said, his voice rising in disbelief.

The house was unnervingly quiet, except for the distant, muffled sound of Sam's screams echoing up from the panic room in the basement. His withdrawal was brutal, the blood high long gone, leaving him prey to horrifying hallucinations. Tonight, Alastair's phantom torment was the monster in his mind, and his anguished cries clawed their way into the upstairs living room.

Bobby sat at his desk, pouring whiskey with a steady hand, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the weight of the situation. 

A single desk lamp cast a warm but feeble glow, leaving much of the room swallowed in shadow. The darkness made the distant screams feel closer, like they could reach through the floor at any moment.

Dean stood nearby, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his head bowed. His silhouette was sharp in the low light, his face taut with worry that he didn't even try to hide. Nadia leaned against the front of the desk, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her posture casual but her eyes betraying a heavy unease.

Bobby slid a glass of whiskey toward Dean without a word. The older Winchester took it, wrapping his fingers around it absently, his gaze still distant as if staring through the floorboards to the nightmare below.

"How long is this gonna go on?" Dean asked finally, his voice low and hoarse, breaking the oppressive silence.

Bobby picked up another glass and held it out to Nadia, who shook her head in quiet refusal. With a shrug, he kept it for himself, taking a deep gulp before letting out a sigh.

"Here, let me look it up in my demon detox manual," he said, his tone heavy with sarcasm. He held up a random book from his desk before tossing it back down. "Oh, wait. No one ever wrote one."

Dean exhaled sharply, almost a scoff, though there was no humor in it. His shoulders slumped further.

"No telling how long it'll take," Bobby admitted, his voice grim as he leaned back in his chair. "Hell, or if Sam will even live through it."

Dean's head shot up, his sharp glare landing squarely on Bobby. Nadia stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line. The thought had crossed her mind too, but she hadn't dared say it aloud—not to Dean. 

The shrill ring of Bobby's house phone cut through the tension. With a grunt, Bobby leaned forward, snatching the receiver off its cradle. Dean turned his back to the desk, clearly retreating inward, while Nadia watched Bobby's expression shift.

Nadia didn't need to hear the voice on the other end to know who it was. Her eyebrows lifted slightly as her suspicions were confirmed by Bobby's biting response.

The line went dead with a sharp click as Bobby slammed the phone back into place.

Nadia shook her head, a faint smile of disbelief crossing her lips. "So, you guys are fighting again. What happened this time?"

"He knows," Bobby muttered, rubbing his forehead in irritation.

Dean turned back around, glass in hand, exchanging a look with Nadia. Neither said anything, but the shared glance spoke volumes. Dean tipped back his whiskey, draining it in one go.

The phone rang again. Bobby groaned, muttering under his breath before picking up once more. "I'm busy, you son of a bitch. This better be important."

Nadia didn't eavesdrop this time, though she didn't have to. She watched Bobby's brow furrow as he absorbed whatever Rufus was saying, his lips pressing into a tight line. There was an edge of unease in the way he straightened in his chair, the tension in his shoulders palpable.

After hanging up, Bobby wasted no time. He moved to the printer, the whir of the machine filling the air as Nadia and Dean exchanged another look. Moments later, Bobby slapped a stack of freshly printed articles onto the desk.

"The news," Bobby said, his voice grim. "The news ain't good."

Dean picked up the papers, scanning the headlines quickly. Nadia leaned in beside him, her eyes narrowing as she read aloud, "Key West sees ten species go extinct."

"Yep," Bobby confirmed, leaning back in his chair. "Plus Alaska. Fifteen-man fishing crew all stricken blind, cause unknown. New York, teacher goes postal, locks the door, kills exactly sixty-six kids. All this in a single day." He shook his head, frustration and dread lacing his voice. "I looked them up. There's no doubt about it. They're all seals. Breaking. Fast."

Nadia let out a slow breath, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as she processed the information. "How many are left?"

"Who knows?" Bobby shrugged, his tone resigned. "Can't be many. Where the hell are your angel pals?"

"Good question," Nadia murmured, her mind wandering to Anna.