Finally, Nadia and the boys had a lead. Luther Garland was the key to curing Dean. All they had to do was find his body, burn the bones, and call it a case closed.

With only a few hours of daylight left, and knowing Dean was in no condition to contribute, Nadia suited up to accompany Sam to the sheriff's office.

They hoped to find a file on Garland that included a detailed report on what had happened to him and a list of family members who could point them to where he was buried. Worst-case scenario, he was cremated, and they'd have to come up with another plan.

Nadia was ready, but Dean was a different story. He'd spent the entire drive sitting in the back seat, clutching the edge of his seat with a death grip, his eyes wide with fear as if Sam was driving recklessly.

Sam caught his brother's expression in the rearview mirror and couldn't help but shake his head, a mix of annoyance and concern. He wasn't used to seeing Dean this way—scared, even to the point of being ridiculous. It was irritating, but he appreciated that Nadia was there to display the kind of patience that Sam didn't have the luxury of.

"Maybe we should have left him at the hotel," Sam muttered, pulling into a parking spot on the street.

Nadia closed the visor and adjusted her blazer, glancing back at Dean with a raised eyebrow. "And leave him with his own thoughts? I don't think so. He's better with us. Right, Dean?" she asked, her tone gentle but still playful.

Dean wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, his nerves almost palpable. "Oh, yeah, yeah," he said quickly, trying to sound fine. "I mean, aside from Sam's horrible driving, I'm feelin' great."

Sam rolled his eyes as he cut the engine. He could barely suppress a smile at his brother's antics.

"We won't be long," Nadia told him, already opening the door. "Stay in the car."

"Oh trust me, I will," Dean gripped the seatbelt like it might save him from the apocalypse.

Nadia turned on the radio, leaving it set to rock hits that might help calm Dean's nerves. Sam and Nadia crossed the street, and Sam shot her a sidelong glance. "How are you so patient with him?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"How could you not be?" Nadia replied with a soft sigh, adjusting her dreads in the wind. "As this sickness gets worse, Dean's going to start remembering more—and maybe even hallucinating about Hell. Or worse, he might already be doing that."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sam stopped her in her tracks, furrowing his brow. "He said he didn't remember Hell."

Nadia scoffed, her lips curling into a skeptical smile. "You believed him?"

"I mean... I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt," Sam shrugged, though he was clearly uncertain. "But it seems like you've already come to a resolution."

"I'm not saying I'm right," Nadia answered quietly, her tone turning more serious. "But leaving a place like Hell and not remembering any second of it? That's... unlikely. At least to me. Then again, what do I know? I've never been." She paused for a moment, scanning the street ahead. "Come on, we're losing daylight."

Sam grabbed her arm gently, stopping her again. "Hold on, let's say he wasn't telling the truth. That makes him a hypocrite. He can lie to me about Hell, but I can't lie to him about Ruby? How's that fair?"

Nadia's expression shifted, her eyes hardening into a glare. She didn't need to raise her voice for the firmness in her words to come through. "Have you lost your mind?" she asked softly, but the challenge in her voice made Sam gulp.

"Are you really comparing your lie to his?" she continued, voice steady but intense. "If Dean lied about Hell, it's not because he's afraid to tell you. It's because he doesn't want to talk about it. Any normal human being would not want to relive the horrors of that place. You ever think that maybe Dean doesn't want his little brother—the one he souled his soul and went to Hell for—to know that, while he doesn't regret doing it, it's left scars on him that may never heal?"

Sam stood still, absorbing the weight of her words. He nodded slowly, his gaze drifting downward. "Y-you're right. I just want to help him," he muttered, a touch of regret creeping into his voice.

"Do you?" Nadia asked, her voice softening but still carrying a weight that Sam couldn't ignore.

Her words hit him harder than he expected. He thought he understood what Nadia meant, but hearing her say it aloud made him feel something he hadn't fully processed yet: He had been so consumed with his own need for redemption, he hadn't fully considered how much Dean might be suffering.

Nadia's expression softened as she saw the shift in him. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, her eyes widening in realization. "I know you care about Dean. I didn't mean to question that. I shouldn't have—" She paused, then shook her head. "I should stay out of it. I don't want to pick sides. This is between you and Dean. I'm just a tag-along."

She chuckled lightly, trying to ease the tension she'd unintentionally created.

Sam smiled, but it wasn't a genuine one. Nadia could see it. It was the same smile she'd seen in him that night they discovered his abilities. There was something more behind it—a quiet, simmering passion, a fervor that burned beneath the surface. It was a hunger for redemption.

Redemption for Dean's trip to Hell.

Redemption for everything Sam had lost: his parents, the love of his life, and the life he'd once believed he was meant to lead.

Redemption for the destiny that the Yellow-eyed demon had forced upon him, a future he had never asked for.

Sam may have stopped using his abilities, but Nadia knew that the internal battle between who he was raised to be, who he wanted to be, and who he feared becoming was far from over. She had a feeling Sam would relapse. It was a matter of when, not if. And most likely sooner than later.

"Come on," Sam said, heading inside the office.

Nadia glanced across the street to see Dean doing air drums, his head thrown back and his eyes closed as he moved in time with the music. A small smile tugged at her lips, but underneath it was a quiet concern. She followed Sam inside, pulling herself away from the sight of her friend trying to maintain his usual bravado, despite his inner turmoil.

"My partner had a family emergency. This is Agent Thorne. She'll be filling in for him," Sam introduced Nadia to Linus, the young sheriff's deputy manning the front desk.

"Agent," Linus greeted, giving a small, awkward bow of his head. He might have done it properly if he hadn't been too mesmerized by Nadia, his wide eyes never leaving hers. He wasn't even blinking.

"Deputy," Nadia replied with a smile, clearly flattered by the attention, though she noticed it with mild amusement.

Poor Linus was so enthralled that he forgot to ask why they were there.

Sam cleared his throat, trying to snap him out of his trance.

"Oh, um, sorry," Linus chuckled nervously, adjusting his uniform. "What can I do for you?"

"Do you happen to have a file on Luther Garland? If so, can you get it for us?" Sam asked.

Before Sam even finished the question, Linus was staring again, utterly lost in the sight of Nadia.

"Please?" Nadia added with a playful grin, raising her eyebrows and adding a touch of charm.

"Oh, yes, y-yes ma'am. Sure. I just need to go look." Linus stammered, still transfixed by her.

"We'll be here," Nadia said, offering a friendly nod as he scrambled from behind the desk, never once breaking eye contact.

"Right, right, okay," Linus mumbled, fumbling over himself. "Be right back."

Sam rolled his eyes, though it wasn't at Nadia. It was the familiar feeling of nostalgia that hit him, watching the young deputy react the way he did. Dean was always a chick magnet, and it'd made his brother's head swell from time to time. Sam thought back to the countless times he'd seen it, then realized that Nadia, too, had that same effect. She drew attention without even trying, yet it never seemed to faze her. Most of the time, she didn't even seem to notice.

Now that he thought about it, Nadia and Dean shared a lot in common. Both were headstrong, family-oriented, and devoted to the hunt. They had the same taste in music and a similar sense of humor. The difference was that Nadia was quieter, softer, more patient—traits that Dean, for all his charisma, didn't often display. She was, in a way, the quieter, gentler version of his older brother, a yin to Dean's yang.

"Do you hear that?" Nadia's voice broke through Sam's thoughts, and he turned to her.

He paused, listening. "Hear what?"

"That scraping sound?" She looked toward the sheriff's office door, her brow furrowing slightly. She closed her eyes for a moment, focusing. The noise wasn't as painful as it had been when she first experienced super-hearing, but it was still nagging, persistent. It was like a low hum of discomfort that she couldn't ignore.

"Got it, right here," Linus returned, holding a manila folder in his hands and handing it to Sam. "This is the Garland file."

As Sam began reading, Nadia kept her attention on the sheriff's office, her gaze narrowing. Linus, oblivious to her sudden shift in focus, continued to stare at her, his eyes wide and entranced.

"Deputy, according to this, Luther Garland's cause of death was physical trauma. What does that mean?" Nadia asked, her voice calm but firm.

"The guy died twenty years ago, before my time," Linus explained with an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, I can't be much help."

"Then can we talk to the sheriff?" Nadia asked, pointing toward the back office.

Instantly, Linus stiffened, his gaze flickering uneasily. "Um, he's out sick today."

"Right," Nadia replied, her tone flat. She wasn't surprised. It felt off, but they didn't have time to dwell on it—not with Dean's life ticking away.

Sam gave her a sidelong glance but didn't argue. "Well, if you see him, will you have him call us? We're staying at the Bluebird," he said, holding up the file. "Mind if we take this?"

Linus nodded, but his gaze lingered a little too long on Nadia as they turned to leave. He waved them off with a lingering look, and Sam caught the faintest hint of a grin from the younger man.

Once outside, Nadia couldn't help but glance back toward the office. There, pinned to a bulletin board, was a photo of Sheriff Al Britton. It was a subtle thing, but the unease stirred within her again.

"He was definitely in there," she said, her tone thoughtful as they made their way to the car. "You saw how tense the kid got?"

"Yup," Sam said, his mind working. "Maybe the sheriff's just busy?"

Nadia stopped walking and turned to face him. Her expression sharpened. "But why lie about it and say he's sick? Why be here at all? Did anything feel weird to you when you spoke to him?"

Sam winced. "Other than him making us take off our shoes before we walked in and lathering his hands with half a bottle of hand sanitizer?"

"Half a bottle?" Nadia frowned, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "Came off as a total germaphobe. But other than that, he was polite, answered all our questions." He shrugged. "Think we should look into him?"

Nadia looked back at the building for a long moment, considering it. "Maybe not. Let's focus on Garland. Where to next?"

Sam handed her the file, and they resumed walking. "File doesn't have much on the how. But he's got a brother. We can call around, see if we can find him."

Nadia nodded, the weight of the case still pressing on her. With Dean's life in the balance, they couldn't afford to waste any more time.

Luther Garland had a brother, and he lived in an assisted living facility on the outskirts of town. Though the sun had long set and visiting hours were over, the agents' FBI badges got them past the front desk without issue.

A nurse led them down a narrow hallway, and soon, they found themselves in a dimly lit cafeteria where Mr. Garland was sitting alone at a table, his eyes closed as he savored the stillness of the evening.

"Mr. Garland," Sam said, his voice careful, not wanting to disturb the peace. "Hi, uh, I'm Agent Tyler. This is Agent Thorne. FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your brother, Luther."

The scruffy, long-haired man opened his eyes slowly, his gaze flickering between them. He looked hesitant, skeptical even, but Nadia's soft smile seemed to work its usual magic. His shoulders relaxed.

"If we could just take a few minutes of your time," Nadia added, her voice gentle but firm. She pulled her badge from her jacket, and Sam followed suit, showing his.

"It's all right," Mr. Garland said, surprising Sam with the calmness of his tone. He was often the one who reasoned with people, but Nadia had this natural ability to put others at ease. She had a presence, a quiet power.

"Thank you," Nadia said, sitting down across from him. Sam remained standing beside her, holding the file. He handed it over to her as she began to read.

"So, according to this, your brother Luther died of physical trauma," she said, her voice steady.

Mr. Garland scoffed at the words, his eyes narrowing.

Nadia crossed her arms over her chest, one leg crossed over the other as she leaned back slightly in her chair. "And you don't agree?"

"No, I don't," Mr. Garland muttered.

"Well then, what would you call it?" Sam asked, pressing.

"Doesn't matter what an old man thinks," he grumbled, his voice tinged with bitterness.

"It matters to us," Nadia replied, her voice softer, laced with empathy. She felt his grief, a deep well of it that nearly choked her up. If she let herself, she could easily picture losing Ben like this—disconnected from him, not knowing the full story of his fate.

Mr. Garland leaned forward, picking up a worn ID badge that looked to belong to Luther. His eyes dimmed as memories flooded him. "Everybody was scared of Luther. They called him a monster. He was too big, too mean-looking. Just too different. Didn't matter he was the kindest man I ever knew. Didn't matter he'd never hurt nobody."

His voice cracked slightly as the weight of his past seemed to settle back in.

"A lot of people failed Luther," he continued, his gaze drifting off as if lost in a memory. "I was one of them. I was a widower with three young 'uns. Told myself there was nothing I could do."

Nadia reached into her pocket and pulled out the drawing of Frank's wife, Jessie. She placed it gently on the table. "Do you know her?" she asked quietly.

"Jessie O'Brien," he answered almost immediately. "Her man, Frank, killed Luther."

"How do you know that?" Sam asked, surprised by the bluntness of his answer.

"Everybody knows," Mr. Garland replied, his voice almost wistful. "They just don't talk about it. Jessie was a receptionist at the mill. She was always real nice to Luther, and he had a crush on her. But Frank didn't like it. And when Jessie went missing, Frank was sure that Luther had done something to her. Turns out the old gal killed herself, but Frank didn't know that. They found Luther with a chain wrapped around his neck. He was dragged up and down the stretch outside that plant till he was past dead."

Nadia's eyes narrowed in disgust as she listened. "Let me guess, O'Brien was never arrested."

Mr. Garland's jaw tightened. "I screamed to every cop in town. They didn't want to look into Frank. He was a pillar of the community. My brother was just the town freak."

"You must have hated Frank O'Brien," Sam said, his tone careful.

Mr. Garland chuckled dryly. "I did for a long time, but life's too short for hate, son. And Frank wasn't thinking straight. His wife had vanished. He was terrified. A damn shame he had to put Luther through the same, but... that's fear. It spreads, and spreads."

Nadia and Sam exchanged a glance, both thinking of Dean. The way the ghost sickness was spreading inside him—how it had made him fearful of even sitting in the car for too long, how the fear was consuming him. It was the same kind of fear that had made Frank lash out.

"Thank you for your time," Nadia said as she gathered the papers, putting them back into the file.

"You really helped us," Sam added sincerely.

Mr. Garland nodded silently, his face unreadable. They expected him to ask why they were looking into Luther's death after all this time, but he didn't—he seemed at peace, content with his own version of the truth.

Once they were outside, Sam glanced at Nadia with a small, approving smile. "You did good back there," he said. "And at the sheriff's office too. The whole... feeling other people's emotions thing."

Nadia smirked. "Well, after kissing your brother, I figured I should probably get the empath thing under control—quick."

Sam froze, his brows furrowing. "You kissed Dean?"

"Hmmm, sort of. Technically... no?" Nadia replied, her tone teasing as she quickly continued walking, leaving Sam to follow, still processing her words.

They made their way outside to the car, where they found Dean pacing back and forth in the parking lot. He looked like a man on the edge.

"What happened to staying inside with the doors locked?" Nadia asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I was afraid I'd suffocate in there," Dean muttered, rubbing his chest in agitation.

"Right," Nadia said sympathetically, feeling a pang of empathy for him. She knew it was hard to be trapped in fear like this.

"Did you find out anything?" Dean asked, his voice tight with tension.

Sam began explaining the story they'd uncovered, recounting everything from the mill to Frank O'Brien's role in Luther's death. By the end, Dean was just as shocked by the tale as they were.

"Now we know what these are," Dean said, pointing to the road rash-like marks on his arm. "And I'm guessing Luther swallowed some wood chips when he was being dragged down that road."

"Makes sense," Sam nodded. "You're experiencing his death in slow motion."

"Yeah, well, not slow enough, huh?" Dean's eyes widened in desperation. "I say we burn some bones and get me healthy."

"Dean, it won't be that easy," Nadia said, her voice filled with a mix of sympathy and regret.

"No, no, it'll be that easy," Dean insisted, shaking his head. "Why wouldn't it be that easy?"

"Luther was road-hauled," Sam explained. "His body was ripped to pieces. He was probably scattered all over that road. There's no way we're going to find all the remains."

"You're kidding me," Dean's face crumpled in distress, the weight of it all sinking in.

Nadia put a hand on his shoulder, trying to offer comfort. "Look, we'll figure something out—"

Dean suddenly pulled back, his eyes wild with frustration. "You know what? Screw this." He began pacing again, muttering to himself.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Dean!" Sam called out, trying to reason with him.

"Come on! No, I mean, come on, guys. What are we doing?" Dean shouted, his voice rising in pitch.

Nadia and Sam exchanged a look, both uncertain how to help him in this moment of panic.

"Hunting a ghost?" Nadia offered, her voice quiet.

"A ghost!" Dean threw his hands up. "Exactly! Who does that?"

Sam frowned. "Us."

"Us?" Dean scoffed, his face twisted with frustration. "Right. And that, guys, is exactly why our lives suck. I mean, come on, we hunt monsters! What the hell?! I mean, normal people, they see a monster, and they run. But not us—no, no, no—we search out things that want to kill us."

Dean laughed bitterly, as if realizing how insane their lives really were. "Yeah? Huh? Or eat us! You know who does that? CRAZY people! WE ARE INSANE!"

He threw his hands up in exasperation. "And then there's the bad diner food, and the skeevy motel rooms, and the truck-stop waitress with the bizarre rash. I mean, who wants this life, guys? Huh? Seriously? Do you actually like being stuck in a car with me eight hours a day, every single day? I don't think so!"

Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. "And you—you're gassy! You eat half a burrito, and you get toxic!"

"And you?" he pointed at Nadia, making her gesture to herself. "Yeah, you! We agreed to be friends, but every moment I'm around you, I get all fuzzy inside. Then I think about my crappy life and realize if I ever got the chance to be with you, I'd probably mess it up anyway. And you're so, so, SO FREAKING BEAUTIFUL. Like, who are you?!"

Hitting his breaking point, Dean tossed the keys to Sam, the action sharp and deliberate. "You can forget it." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and started walking away, leaving both Sam and Nadia standing there, stunned and unsure.

Nadia felt a pang of disbelief. Dean's outburst had rattled her more than she'd care to admit. The fear and anger in his eyes had been raw, almost too much to bear.

"Whoa, Dean," Sam called, jogging to catch up. "Where are you going?"

Dean didn't turn around. He was done. "Stay away from me, Sam, okay?" He swung around suddenly, pointing a finger at him. His voice was low but edged with frustration and pain.

"Dean—"

"You too, Nadia!" Dean snapped, the words coming out in a rush. "Cause I am done with it. I'm done with the monsters and—and—the hellhounds and the ghost sickness and the damn apocalypse. I'm out. I'm done. Quit."

Dean's voice cracked slightly, and he gave one last bitter look over his shoulder before continuing down the road, his figure growing smaller in the distance. He didn't glance back.

Sam stood frozen, a mixture of shock and helplessness on his face. "Is he serious?" he asked, flailing his arms in frustration, as if the world around him couldn't possibly make sense right now.

"He's sick, Sam," Nadia said quietly, her voice tinged with concern. She had felt the weight of Dean's panic, the same way she could feel his turmoil, but there was something else behind it too—something darker. The sickness was eating him up from the inside out.

"Yeah, I know." Sam ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "But we don't have time to chase him around. We need to find something of Garland's to cure him."

Nadia glanced at Sam, her thoughts already turning over the options in her mind. She knew there was no time to waste, and if she let Sam go after Dean, it would only end in more heartache. "Okay, I'll go after him," she decided. "You head back to the hotel. Call Bobby. He'll help you figure it out, all right?"

Sam hesitated, his brows furrowing. "You're just gonna go after him?" he asked, his tone incredulous.

Nadia met his gaze, her eyes soft but resolute. "You just want to leave him out there in the dark like that?"

Sam paused, his shoulders slumping as the weight of the situation hit him. He was torn between staying and helping Nadia with the ghost hunting and chasing down his brother, but he knew she was right. Dean needed someone who could keep him grounded, someone who understood the demons inside him.

"I'll bring him back to the motel. I promise." Nadia's voice held the certainty Sam needed to hear.

He nodded quietly, his expression a mix of gratitude and worry. He wasn't sure if they could really fix Dean's spiral, but right now, it was the only thing they could do.

Nadia turned on her heel, her boots clicking against the pavement as she walked away. Her mind raced with a thousand thoughts—where would she find Dean? How would she convince him to come back? The frustration and fear in him were palpable, but she couldn't let him be consumed by it.