The roar of the Colosseum was deafening, the crowd on its feet as Dean Winchester delivered the final blow to his opponent. Bloodied but victorious, he stood tall in the center of the arena, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. His expression was stoic, unbothered by the chants of his name echoing through the stone walls. Dean didn’t fight for the glory—they all knew that. He fought because he had to, and he was damn good at it.

From the imperial box, you watched him closely. There was something about the way he moved, the way he fought with precision and control, that made it impossible to look away. Unlike the others, Dean didn’t play to the crowd, didn’t bask in their adoration. He carried himself with an air of defiance, even under the emperor’s gaze.

Your father leaned back in his throne, clearly satisfied. “Winchester remains unmatched,” he declared to his advisors, as if Dean were nothing more than a prized possession.

But to you, he wasn’t just a gladiator. There was something in his piercing green eyes, in the way he refused to be broken by his circumstances, that intrigued you. And as Dean’s gaze flicked upward, landing briefly on yours, you wondered if he had noticed your interest—or worse, if he would dare return it.