Disclaimer: I own nothing or no-one, because that would be wrong and people would complain.

Okay explanations - a long time ago I got bit by a bad plot bunny and wrote a supernatural crossover story (Dog Diner Afternoon and it's on this site somewhere in all its unbeta'd glory). Long and short of it, I finished it and a few people read it and I thought I might as well write a prequel to it, so people have an idea how it all evolved in my head and this is how it turned out.

So here it is, the story of how Dean Forester went from mild mannered construction worker to being forced to spend time in the company of two 'out there' brothers.

A/N This is set after the Gilmore Girls finished and during the third series of Supernatural, so Dean Winchester hasn't been to hell just yet and Ruby when she appears is the blonde mark one version

A/N 2: I will warn people this is the story of how Dean Forester found himself in the world of the Winchesters so there isn't actually a lot of appearances from the Gilmores and co. They are there it is just well, but Rory isn't going to come round the corner to ride off into the sunset with Dean Forester. I'm sorry if people want that but it means the other story won't make any sense.

A/N 3: Last one I promise. Warning there is naughty words, people (all of age) doing some naughty things, and well someone being hurt a lot

Well here is the first part and thanks to Miguel51 for reading this bit, I hope I have changed Dean enough to make him sound less whiny.


"Okay, so you're saying that the Pistons were unlucky when they lost to the Knicks?" a man asked, as he took off his hard hat to wipe his brow.

"Damn straight I am," came the reply from the large guy, over by the pneumatic drill.

"Dude, did you watch the same game we did?" another member of the crew asked.

"Sure I did!" the man protested before he turned his head to the guy sitting in corner with a sketching pad. "Hey Deano, gimme a hand here, tell these guys to blow it out their asses – it would've been a cake walk for the Pistons on Sunday if Crawford hadn't shown up for the Knicks."

He looked up from his pad for a moment, "You told me to take a break, Frank."

"Come on, give your old buddy Frank a hand here, kid," Came the reply.

"Yeah, Dean, get off the fence," one of the construction crew yelled. "Tell him the Pistons suck!"

"I've always been more into hockey," Dean Forester said as he turned his attention back to his note pad.

"Hockey? That isn't a game," Frank exclaimed. "Just a bunch of in-the-closet wannabe Canadians with sticks who get paid to prance around on the ice. If they didn't have all that protective equipment on, you'd see that they're all in sequin jumpsuits."

"Don't go there, Frank," Dean said slowly.

"Yeah, don't go there, Frank," one of the guys echoed. "Because the NBA is full of overpriced idiots."

"I'm not saying it isn't," Frank retorted.

"So you're finally admitting that Allen Iverson wasn't worth the money, then?" Dean asked, causing Frank to throw him a dirty look before putting down his tools and taking a step over to him, pulling the pad out of his hand.

"What are you doing, kid?" Frank questioned. Dean raised an eyebrow at the burly construction worker as he looked at the rough sketches.

"Can I have that back?" Dean asked. "The design is shit, anyways."

Frank sighed as he held out the pad to Dean, "Kid, what've I been telling you? Cut down your hours in this hell hole, work out a new schedule for those night classes you been taking, and go and do that shit properly."

"Thanks," Dean responded, taking hold of the outstretched pad, though Frank held fast to his end. "But I'm happy where I am right now."

"No wonder that wife of yours left you!" one of the crew called out. "Don't know when you have a good thing to move on to."

"Thought you said that she caught him with his pants down with the ex?" another crew member interjected.

"That's what I mean, the ex he went out with in high school. Deano here is too busy living in the past to see what's right in front of him." The first crew member replied. "Passed up little Veronica in the catering truck last week because he had broken up with that receptionist a month ago, and you know how long Veronica has been putting that extra baloney in his lunch sub just to get his attention."

"Seriously, Veronica? Athletics scholarship Veronica? 'Are those real or is that a really good push up bra under that sweatshirt, and that perky little ass that you want to take a bite out of' Veronica? The 'Even though my father will show you why he got that award for best butcher on the East side, not to mention that mega steroid-addict brother I've got, I'd damn well make it worth your while, because I'm up for anything' Veronica?" Frank asked, before looking at the kid in front of him.

"You didn't turn that sweet piece of ass down, did you, kid?" Frank asked Dean.

"If I'm a kid Frank, then she's in kindergarten," Dean replied, drawing himself up to his full height to face him.

"No way can you call Veronica a kid, not with the way she fills out that sweater," one of the guys said jokingly.

"You been looking?" Dean asked.

"She's a junior in college; it's only the touching part that's illegal now, Dean," came the sarcastic reply. "And with that girl, I think we're all in agreement that the real crime would be not to appreciate Mama Minola's fine, fine work. Even if that poor child is under the misguided impression that if she stuffs you full of sausage meat, you'd be willing to return the favor."

Dean blushed as Frank shook his head. "Kid, why the hell did you turn down Veronica? It wasn't like you were serious about the last one you went with. Hell, not that it would be serious about Veronica either – girl's been eying you up as a notch on her bedpost before she heads back to college for how long now? Or is it her muscle-headed brother you're interested in?"

"Give me the damn pad," Dean said firmly as the other guys looked, though Frank held on to the pages firmly.

"Dean, I'm saying this as a friend," Frank said sympathetically. "You know what happens when you think you can get away with sticking it in two places, and it's pretty obvious to everyone that you know not to do it again."

"Frank!" Dean protested, but the big guy went on.

"Dean, it's the twenty-first century, you don't need a show everyone that you've taken a suitable 'mourning' period between two bits of fun, especially when you end things the way you do with them," Frank said.

"Frank's right, I'd be willing to be dumped by you, if you treated me half as well as you did the last couple," one of the crew said. "The meal at Andiamo's would be worth putting up with your ass alone."

"Ortiz, you asking me out?" Dean inquired.

"Definitely," Ortiz replied sarcastically. "My mama's always asking me when are me and that nice tall white boy going to set a date. You know she wants to see me settled down with a nice American boy before she dies."

"In your dreams, Ortiz." Dean said mockingly.

"Every night Deano," Ortiz said with a smile, "But only when Angelina and Uma aren't available, and in my head they always are, so unfortunately, you're plum out of luck."

"Right out of luck, am I?" Dean replied.

"You two love birds done?" Frank asked before turning his attention to back to Dean.

"Yeah, we're done," Dean replied. "Don't know why I tell you guys anything; anyways, not everything I do goes back to what happened back then."

"So you've decided that you don't have to pay back every cent your ex-wife's family paid for that wedding, or that she doesn't need alimony anymore?"

Dean looked away from his friend's gaze.

Frank sighed, "Seriously Dean, we've had this talk before. You're a good guy to have on a crew but if you can get out of schlumping it on site, you would be a moron to pass that up. What was it that the new architect said – he knew someone who could help you set up shop with that woodwork crap you do, if you wanted to get serious about it."

"No, he put me in contact with his friends that had a store to sell some of my stuff," Dean replied. "Not to set me up."

"Thought he said it was a gallery?" Ortiz added.

"Did I ask for your opinion? Get back to work!" Frank said to Ortiz, before turning back to Dean.

"It's a store, one of those specialty ones, and it was only a couple of chairs," Dean replied.

"How did they go down?" Frank asked. "They find anyone to buy them?"

Dean nodded, to which Frank asked if the store had wanted any more.

"Yeah, but I haven't had a chance to start them yet," Dean said. "As for anything else…it isn't like the furniture is going to bring in any big money, even if I did set something up."

"You talk like that and it never will. Dean, I know you got bills to pay, but do you want to be freezing your ass off on some second rate construction site for the rest of your life?" Frank asked.

"How exactly do you want me to answer that, Mom?" Dean replied mockingly to which Frank narrowed his gaze.

Frank let go of the pad. He shook his head as he quietly said, "Dean, sometimes I wonder if your parents raised you right when you talk this shit like this. Because when you do, someone seriously needs to kick you up the ass – and if I was your father I would, you know that?"

"Frank," Dean protested.

"No Dean, you're a good kid. You work hard, but if you keep doing what you're doing now, you'll get nowhere. And before you start, I know you been taking those classes, but you don't seem to have done anything with them."

"Frank, it isn't like I haven't tried…"

"And don't go on about you and the bank again, 'cause that ain't going to cut it this time," Frank said firmly. "Shit, I wouldn't mind if you got off you butt and tried to make them give you a crew of your own to run here – you're more than capable of doing that, but you don't, so don't say you are just biding your time just now or try and bring up your cash flow."

"But…"

"No Dean, I don't know who told you that you ain't worth shit, but they're wrong," Frank said. "For Christ sake, you're not five, you don't need to be told this shit. So, you listen to old Frank, because I'm giving you a choice: You're going to get off your ass right now and go tell that architect that you'll make more of those chairs for him, or you do nothing while I go tell Veronica's old man what's been happening to all the baloney on his van, but I'll leave out the part where you turned the girl down. You understand me?"

"What?" Dean asked.

"You heard me," the old construction worker said.

"You're a real bastard, you know that?" Dean snapped.

"Well, as I'm running this crew and you're not, I can be. If you don't like it, quit and find something else to do," Franks said. "So, while you're making your decision; go get us guys' lunch. But, why don't you head to that coffee shop at the end of the block - the one that the suits use. I fancy some of those over-priced biscotti, and besides, you never know who'll be in there," Frank said before turning to the rest of the crew, "Guys? Who wants a mocho, choco, whipped cream frappy thing with sprinkles on top? Deano's buying!"

Dean bit his lip as the rest of the crew agreed, "Frank, I fucking hate you sometimes."

"No you don't, kid," Frank said with a smile as Dean turned to head off site. "It's either that, or you swing by the lunch truck to tell Veronica that you changed your mind about those sub stuffing lessons she was offering you."

Dean stopped and turned to stare at Frank, as the rest of the crew turned to watch him. Frank grinned and waved him on, "Go on kid – you heard me. You got a choice, because if you don't do either, I'm going to talk to her Daddy."

"Frank!" Dean protested.

"Better yet Dean, I think I'll go to tell her daddy anyway so if you're going to do the time, you might as well do the crime!" Frank said. "Not fair that the girl's put all that work in and have you let her go back to school all disappointed."

"I need a new job, and new friends," Dean retorted as the crew started to whoop in agreement with their old crew boss.


"So what changed your mind?" she called from the other room as he caught his breath.

"Ehm… I had, well…" Dean started to say not to sure what to say.

"Frank, huh?" Veronica asked as stood in the doorway.

"Yeah," Dean said as he looked at the light from his bathroom silhoutted her frame. "Basically told me to stop looking a gift horse in the mouth."

The girl raised an eyebrow. "A gift horse, am I? I don't know if I should thank the man or give him food poisoning now for thinking I was such a sure thing."

"I think he meant that if a girl takes all that trouble to keep giving a guy all that extra baloney, he should at least thank her properly, not that you were a sure thing."

"Is that what you call this?" Veronica said with a smile. "A way of thanking me? I wonder what you'd have done if I'd given you extra pickles as well?"

Dean smiled. "Well, actually I was thinking that tonight we'd just have been getting dinner and maybe have caught a movie, to be honest."

"I'm not against pizza," she replied. "As for the movie, who wants to sit in a dark theater for two hours, when we can get right down to business?"

"Business?" Dean questioned.

"Oh, I'm all about getting down to business, Mr. Forester," Veronica said before smirking. ",Are you 'up' for another round of negotiations? But hey, if you want to go spend some time in a large dark room with an audience, I'm sure I can risk it, though as you know, I'm not exactly a quiet one."

"V…"

"I'm serious," she said as she made a move to pick up her clothes. "Could be fun, though if we get thrown out, we'll never live it down when the guys at work find out, not to mention my Dad or my brother."

Dean sat up swallowing. "Danny? Yeah, that would take all the fun out of this."

Veronica smiled at the expression on his face, "Hey, Dean, before you say a word, I'm not expecting anything from you, and even if I was, I'm not going to threaten you with my family to get it. I'm all about the fun, as I'm going back to college in about a week, so don't worry about me making this more than it is – not that it means that I'm I slut."

"V, I never thought that."

"I know, but I thought I'd get it out in the open, anyway. We're both adults here and I'm being honest, this to me is few days' fun. I don't believe in the romantic, lets pretend it's forever crap," Veronica said. "Not at my age."

"Okay," Dean replied.

"And for the record, I'm actually quite picky, you know. I like to do my homework."

"Homework?" Dean questioned.

"Yeah, you think I was giving you the best cold cuts purely because of that cute butt, broad shoulders and the fact that you can carry a conversation?"

"Really?"

"It was that tight white tee shirt you were wearing the first week in July that really did it for me," she said with a smile causing him to chuckle. "And it wasn't just me that noticed. The girls in the office block next to the site, as well as A.J in payroll weren't complaining when they came down to use the lunch truck."

Dean blushed, "I have no idea how I feel about that."

"You should be flattered. Well as flattered as I am when you guys discuss how 'nice' my sweater looks."

"I'm…."

"Hey, it's a construction site, Dean. You guys talk about 'stuff', we girls and A.J talk about 'stuff,' we all know where the line is," she said with a big grin on her face. "Helps when you want to find things out; like, I know you've been on site for a while and had only two sick days. You've had a couple of side jobs and you don't seem to sleep around, though you don't seem to do anything close to what could be considered long term either, which as I was saying, I am not going to complain about," Veronica explained. "I even know you have a kid sister at high school back in a little town in Connecticut."

"Have you been stalking me?"

"Kind of, though I did stop short from breaking into your doctor's office to sneak a peak at your medical records."

"What?"

"I like to do my research about my 'work out' partners. Need to know you're up to the job, though watching you move equipment around on site helped with that," she said.

"I'm a work out partner?" Dean said. "And I thought you were insulted about being considered a sure thing."

Veronica smiled, "I haven't exactly been subtle about what I want to do to you this summer, Dean. Though, took you long enough to get the message, even if Frank was involved, considering that I'm leaving in a couple of days. I was beginning to think that I would have to really use the gym when I got back to school."

Dean smirked. "So, I'm really just a work out for you."

"Oh god yes!" she said emphatically. "A six foot four inch gorgeous workout topped off with an ass I could watch all day."

"V, I think you are exactly what the doctor ordered," Dean said as he let out a hearty laugh.

She giggled as she dropped the bundle in her hands before moving toward him. "Oh yes, I am. And Mr. Forester? I think that it's time for you to take your medicine."


Dean yawned as he slowly trucked into work a little later than normal. As he went and got his tools to start working, he noticed the way that the rest of the guys on the crew had stopped to stare at him causing him to grimaced. "Right, right, right. Go on, get it over with," he snapped.

"Over with what?" one of the crew asked.

"You know what." Dean replied.

"Okay, but that depends if you've successfully filled Veronica's sandwich," another man asked. "So did you?"

Dean stopped and looked at the men in front of him, his gaze serious. "I am not discussing this."

"So you did?" Ortiz asked, grinning.

"I said, I am not talking about this." Dean repeated, turning his attention back to his work.

"You heard the guy – he's not talking about it," Ortiz said to the guys on the crew. "Deano here is being a gentleman."

"Screw you, Ortiz!" Dean retorted.

"We back in your dreams again?" Ortiz snarked.

"Hey guys, you're not getting paid to talk about the kid's sex life, just because none of you have gotten any in so long and you need to get your kicks. Though it's nice to know he can get off his lazy ass when he has the motivation," Frank said interrupting. "Get back to work. This block ain't going to build itself."

"Sure Frank," Dean said, and began to actually do the job he was being paid for.


"You sure that's him?" a man in the plaid shirt asked his companion.

The other man nodded, "Yep."

"Sam Winchester working construction?" the first man asked. "His brother? Yeah, I can see him getting a job on a work crew, but Sam? Wouldn't that be beneath the Ivy League educated demon boy?"

"John Winchester wasn't one to teach either his boys to pass up a lead just because it meant they'd have to get their hands dirty. Sammy could have swung it with his brother that way," the second man replied. "Using his brother's name, too, though the Forester is a new one for the Winchester boys – can't think of where they came up with that alias. Ain't no rock band with a Forester in it that I can think of."

"But there isn't any connection to that site and the Sigbin," the first man said. "Unless we missed something?"

"Who knows," the second man replied. "If that's the only reason the Winchester boys are in town – Sam could be using the case as cover, distracting his brother. Heard from Walker and Kubrick that he was a tricky bastard."

"You saying that there's something on that site that Sam doesn't want his brother to know about?"

"Could be, kid spent twenty minutes talking to the architect yesterday. Went out of his way to find the guy, too. All the way down to that coffee shop, nice and secluded; made sure the guys in the crew he's working with weren't around to hear their little chat. So, whatever is happening at that site, case or not, he's sure being careful to keep it secret." the second man replied.

"Well, sure sucks for him that we came across the same newspaper article. But then again, God does work in mysterious ways, doesn't he," the first man said with a smile.

"So what does the man upstairs want us to do?"

"We sit here and watch Sam until we work out what he's doing."


Sam Winchester walked into the crowded sports bar, tired and somewhat pissed off after spending half his afternoon stuck in the records office of the local police station. Though his irritation managed to get kicked up a few notches when he found out exactly why his brother had given up for the day.

"You enjoying yourself?" Sam asked as Dean preceded to hand him a beer.

"Dude, it had to be done. It wouldn't have been fair to come here to Michigan, to this city, and not actually take the final step. I owe it to her."

Sam sighed, "It's a car, Dean."

"Don't you talk about my baby like that, not here – not in Detroit," Dean retorted. "Not in her spiritual home. So what if I took her on a tour of the old GM factory where she was born, just to see the old place? It wasn't like I took the whole day – still focused on the job, Sammy."

"Really? The factory where your car was 'born'?" Sam said sarcastically, loosening his tie before taking a drink of his beer. Behind them, a group of girls began to get rowdy.

"Okay, so maybe it just an open lot now. But I'm pretty sure it was the spot where she and the rest of her brothers and sisters came off the line, back in '67."

"Yeah right," Sam said as he took a drink. "And tomorrow are you going to head to Wisconsin so you can be sure you took it to the right one? Because I heard they had a big plant down there too."

He thought for a second. "Maybe we could do that if we ever go past that way?"

"Yeah, Dean, glad to see you're so focused. Next you'll be organizing a family reunion for it?"

"Don't be like that; it's not like I didn't go round all the witnesses again, first. Nothing new though," Dean said. "So what you find out?"

"Not much, pattern seems to be what we expected," Sam said glancing over his shoulder at the small crowd causing so much noise. "Can we talk somewhere else?"

"Dude, you know this place has the best bacon cheeseburgers in a five block radius of the motel."

"How could I forget, you've been making us come in here every day since we got here," Sam said with a scratch of his head as his brother glared at him. "Okay, but can we find a booth to do this?"

"Don't know if there's a free one," Dean said, getting up from his bar stool.

"I am so going to miss this," the drunk girl said as she slapped Sam's behind, causing him to shoot up straight.

"Sorry," her friend said to the now-embarrassed Sam, while the drunken girl continued going on about the things she would miss once she was back at college.

"And see, he looks good in a suit too," the girl said as her friends started to bustle her out of the bar.

"Veronica, you've had enough," one of the girls said as she pushed her friend towards the door, though Veronica did seem to stall them for a second, turning around, "Hey Dean, if you're still around when I'm back for break, call me so we can schedule a proper workout if you get my meaning!"

"I really like this place," Dean said with a grin, before he saw the expression on his brother's face. "What, the motor city is a friendly place!"

Sam just shook his head, causing his brother to protest in his own behalf, "What, you don't think she was my type?"

"She had a pulse, didn't she?" Sam retorted.

"Or do you want to go try and hit that, seeing it appears that she's going to miss your ass," Dean said with a smile, grabbing his jacket after taking in the look on Sam's face, "Fine, prude, we'll go somewhere else to eat."


For some reason, working with his hands always made Dean feel good. It was clean, easy and focused. Construction, mechanics or carpentry, the work just seemed to make all of his mistakes, his failings, melt away.

Beginning, middle, end – it was simple, and if something did not work the right way, or did not work at all, you stopped and fixed it, or started over. It was an aspect of Dean's life in which he could take delight in; taking his time while he learnt the intricacies hidden within the work, because there were no mixed messages or recriminations, no emotions or regrets.

In this small rented lockup, he could set his own rules to go by; with the worst consequence he would ever have to face being a trip to the emergency room for a stitch or two, from a slipped tool. Not like other things in his life, things from the past that still came back to bite him in the ass. Things like that reminded him that it was better to keep things light and short, not get too invested – have some fun before letting them down easy. Make them feel like the most important thing in the world, before they found out that they were competing against the open wound of a memory; a memory of something that, in reality, didn't exist, except in the broken dreams of a stupid kid who never knew when to just let go.

But the person who that kid had become could ignore that; ignore that and the rest of the world in those four rented walls. Ignore his mother when she told him that it was okay that he hadn't been home for the Fourth of July as long as he made it back for Thanksgiving, ignore the hope in her voice when she said she wouldn't even mind if when he came home, he brought a 'friend' with him.

He could even ignore the fact that he knew Frank was right, that he needed to move on with his life and, if he didn't do something soon, he would find himself busting his ass in a construction crew, age forty-five and doing business courses.

Though for the first time in years, he understood what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it. He liked fixing old things or building them in old fashioned ways, from cars when he was a kid, to helping Tom remodel houses when he was older.

He liked getting his hands dirty, not because he could pick up the skills easily, but because he liked the thinking on the spot, adapting to the situation. He liked having the satisfaction of knowing that his sweat, and in some cases blood, had gone into the finished article. He liked assembling things from almost scratch by hand, watching people use what he had created or brought back to life.

Why he could not have gotten to that revelation back then, he'd never know, but for some reason he had never felt that it was something that he should aspire to. He never felt good enough, confident enough, to say that he actually liked being the guy on the ground, the guy who got his hands dirty when they took plans apart to actually make them work as well as keeping the things in budget, while the guy in the suit took all the credit.

Not that he did not like thinking about how things should slot together, of sitting in front of a drafting table coming up with ideas, just like the suits would. It was just he knew he would never find any real enjoyment in doing it on a grander scale than helping to put an old house back together in the spirit that the original suit intended. But somehow, back when he was a kid, something about making a living out of it, admitting jobs with Tom wasn't just him earning extra cash or a stop gap until something better came along, never seemed quite… right.

Not that he could blame Rory for it; it was just compared to her dreams, his always, well seemed so small, so…unimportant. Not like the guys who had tumbled out of the pool house after her that night, who could promise her the world and deliver it in spades, or like Jess, who had found a way to make his mark. Jess, who had been filled with attitude and anger back then.

Not that Dean grudged the guy his success, especially as it was in a world that Dean had little interest in, other than being the occasional end consumer.

If anything, that was the only thing he could possibly link to his time with her. His passing appreciation of Burroughs, Heller and Thompson all dwindling in the face of her love of Tolstoy, James, Melville, and her mental catalog of obscure authors he had never heard of. His choices always seeming lighter, less worthy than those she suggested to him in their time together.

He knew he could have spoken up more when he said that those literary heroes she kept putting in his path left him cold, instead of just throwing them and their tales into the bottom of his hockey bag, and hoped she didn't notice that they were untouched when he handed them back. He could have pointed out the obvious when she or her mother suggested Willy Wonka or Pippi Longstocking for the hundredth time, when all he wanted was to watch 2001, Body Snatchers or Rosemary's Baby, rather than sitting in silence when she told him how the books that they were based on were so much better.

He knew he could have explained better about why, unlike Jess, he couldn't share Rory's ability to actually remain interested in browsing the shelves of Andrew's small book store for up to five hours at a time. He could have spoken up and made her actually realize that it wasn't just because he didn't share her interest in the minutiae of the literary world that made him want to go, but it was mostly because unlike her, he couldn't curl up on Andrew's floor to work his way through some random book that was interesting enough to read, but not interesting enough to buy. When she did it, Andrew thought it was cute – when Dean had attempted it, his size had lead to discussions about fire code violations.

But that was then, and he was no longer in Stars Hollow. Where he hadn't really gotten the message and accepted things until it was too late.

Where he had tried to become one of those men in breeches from those books she had passed on to him, just to be close to the one who made his chest tighten and his mouth go dry with a single smile. Where he has ended up tearing his life apart, while the nice girl who wanted nothing but to try and please, who didn't deserve the betrayal, waited for him at home.

Where the only opportunities to do anything close to what he wanted job-wise was working with Tom, as there wasn't enough work in the town to set up competition, or even a partnership. Not that he would have considered the competition part – Tom had always been straight with him.

This was Detroit. This was a place where working on a side project in a small rented lock up for some extra cash, like two chairs to sell in a store, was not a life-shattering event. Nor did it make him feel like a failure because the bank had told him that, due to the current countrywide banking situation, his financial commitments and his lack of business experience it would be highly unlikely that he'd qualify for a small business loan.

Here it was what it was; no big hidden meanings, except perhaps that his timing has always sucked. They were not a metaphor about how capable he was; even if the guys did say they were good, because this was Detroit. Where no-one cared that he had found himself falling into a comfortable rut, going through the motions day after day on a construction crew as he fulfilled his obligations. But most importantly, no-one here cared that some days he felt like some pathetic sick stalking asshole.

Because even years later, even though he hadn't sought her out since the night he had walked away to let her fly into the world were she belonged, sometimes he would find his nights were filled with dreams of delicate sparkling crystal blue eyes hooded under long lashes, while the sounds of Candy man could be heard drifting down the streets of a small picture perfect town.

No, this was a place where what he was doing now was only a sideline that he found fun and kept his hands occupied, and if they sold, could pay Lindsay and her folks for the next few months. And if he was real lucky, this would help him grow a reputation that would let him possibly set up something on his own when he was ready, when he had finally finished paying what he owed and got some spare cash together, when the economy upturned enough for the bank or some magical investor to take a risk on him, even though he had no idea when that would be.


"What, no jerky?" the man asked as he looked into the bag.

"No," came the reply as the car door shut. "Any idea what he's doing in there?"

"Nope," the first hunter said as he took out some snacks. "Could be anything."

"Any idea where his brother is?"

"From what I know about Dean Winchester, probably with a couple of hookers about now."

An eyebrow was raised. "You can't be sure of that."

"What do you expect from the 'normal' one of John Winchester's boys? Him to go home at night to apple pie?"

"No," came the resigned reply from the second hunter. "But you don't know that he pays."

"Even if Dean says that he don't believe the stories about his brother, he couldn't be foolish enough to risk squirreling someone away. He must know that if he's wrong about his sainted Sam, that whoever he took up with would be one of the first in the firing line." The first hunter said. "Better him picking up some whore in a bar than someone nice and clean getting hurt when Sam finally decides he doesn't like any competition for his brother's attention."

"Even if he does pay for it, it could just be the hunt, you know. Not the easiest way to live." The second hunter said mournfully as he sipped a cup of coffee.

"No, it isn't," the first hunter said. "But the hunt ain't no excuse for picking up a girl for only one thing even if he doesn't pay."

"So if he pays for it because somehow he's frightened of his brother, that's alright, but if Dean picks up someone for one night because he won't be in town for too long, that isn't?" the second man asked only to be greeted by a stony silence.

He sighed, "You're a judgmental bastard, you know."

"I know it ain't black and white, but wrong is wrong, just things like Sam Winchester are wronger than others," came the firm response. "And for all we know he's conjuring up something even wronger in that lockup."


"Everything I can find says we're dealing with only one whatever the hell you said it was," Dean Winchester said. "What do you think?"

"Yeah, one," Sam replied as he studied the papers in front of him. "And it's Filipino in origin."

"Yeah, you said, but what the fuck is a Sig…whatever the hell it is, doing in Detroit?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged, "How would I know? Someone brought it back from vacation?"

"They should really train those customs guys better," Dean joked.

"Yeah," Sam replied as he went back to the papers in front of him.

Dean sighed. "And here I thought that we had something we could really sink our teeth into."

"Oh, Dude, that is bad," Sam groaned, looking up from the gory photograph he had been studying.

Dean grinned. "I was just saying."

"One or not, we've got work to do, so will you knock it off with the bad puns and focus?"

Dean pouted as he picked up his gun and coat to head towards the door, "Fine, but they know what they say – All work and no play makes Jack?"

"Yeah, I know, ending up chasing Shelley Duvall round an old hotel with an axe."


"I got here as soon as I could, what do you mean my place got turned over?" Dean Forester asked the caretaker as he ran into the site.

The small man stuck his hands into his pockets as he explained that the unit where his tools and work were being stored had been visited in the night and, although a few of the other units had been 'visited' only the one rented by D. Forester seemed to have warranted special attention.

"And what did the cops say?" Dean asked.

The man coughed. "I…well; nothing was really damaged as far as I could tell."

"That you can tell?"

"Yeah, they could have got spooked by the alarm, or by the dog finally waking up in the yard; I thought that since yours was the one that was really broken into, that you should come down in case there was something you wanted to, well you know? I run a clean place; I don't need the cops poking their noses into my business."

"Call the cops, I'm not hiding anything," Dean said, sighing.


"You sure there wasn't anything there?" the first hunter asked his friend.

The small man shook his head, "No, just tools and wood."

"He's building something?"

"Yeah, but unless Pottery Barn is branching out, I can't think of anything Demonic about dining furniture."

"Whatever the hell he's been doing, can't cover it from his brother for much longer."

"Why?" the second hunter asked.

"Well, while you were enjoying yourself looking through storage units, saw Big Brother close the case - blew the damn thing's head clean off."

The second hunter took a breath, "If we're serious about doing this, we got to do it soon."

The first hunter smiled. "Maybe you finally getting to the same page was all the Lord was waiting for."

"Cut the bullshit," the second hunter said. "If we do this, we do it quick."

"Not that I'm not in agreement about doing this as quickly as possible, but does it matter how we do this? Or is it that you just don't want to piss the son of a bitch off?"

"Hell, his brother maybe full of it, but I never heard a word saying he fails to do what needs to be done except when it comes to Sam – he don't deserve to have this dragged out more than it needs to be."

"So you really need to do this for Dean?" the first hunter asked.

"No, what I'm saying is that we don't drag this out. Best for all of us if we just get it over with."

"We do this and it's never going to be over," the first hunter said. "Dean Winchester is going to be on our tail the second his brother hits the floor, he's never going to stop until either we or him is in the ground, and even then we ain't going to be safe from him."


"Dean, go get that arm checked!" Sam yelled throwing a towel in his brother's direction.

"It isn't that bad," came the reply before all Sam could hear was a muted hiss coming from the other side of the room.

"Sure it is, it's perfectly fine. That's why you look like you're about to pass out when you poke the damn thing," Sam said smugly.

"Shut up."

"Go get it check and remember to get a damn tetanus shot, will you?"

"Excuse me?" Dean replied.

"When did you last get one?" Sam asked.

Dean thought for a moment.

"Exactly, go get one. You backed up on a rusty post."

"Come on, does it really matter? I got how long left?"

"Dean!"

"Right, okay Mom, I'll go get my arm checked out," Dean retorted.

"Go get the damn shot, you said you were going to the hospital anyway. It's not like you'll have to swing out of your way," Sam said.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, but that was because I told that kid I would let her know when it was done."

"She's four, Dude," Sam said. "She wouldn't hold it against you if you didn't keep that promise."

"I told the kid I'd get the thing that killed her dog and we did, so I'm going to let her know it's over. Least I can do for the kid after we made her bring all that shit back up. She was almost catatonic as it was when we left her."

"It killed her neighbor, Dean."

"She didn't see it eat Mrs. Faber. Pickles, she saw being torn apart," Dean pointed out. "You start packing up here and I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"You know, we could stay here a couple of days, have a vacation," Sam said. "You could take the car…"

"Sam, got a time schedule to keep, I got more things to do than sit on my butt in Detroit," Dean said as he grabbed his coat.


The line of lights moved so quickly, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh they went as they moved passed his head.

No, he was moving under them, that was what the thunk sound was, wheels moving over old worn linoleum, but it was so bright and all he could focus on was them as he couldn't move his head.

But he hadn't hit his head, had he? He heard voices, lots of voices.

"Kid, you stay with us, okay?" someone was calling to him.

Frank, he thought it was Frank, or was it Ortiz? No, it was Ortiz, because he and Ortiz had gone to the seven eleven to pick up some groceries. Ortiz had to get milk and bread and canned fruit for the some desert his mother was…God, this was a bad day, first his workshop got broken into and then Ortiz was screaming for the cops as he was on lying on the ground.

All of it was a blur and now he was here; he remembered lying there, and it had been wet – shit, had he peed himself or worse? …No, it was lower down, it was his leg that was wet and ….Oh my God that hurt! What the hell was happening to his leg? What the fuck were they doing to his leg?

He was being held down now, he couldn't see what was going on, but he could see the needle coming towards him, "No! No!"

"It's okay," the hand behind the needle said. "We're going to have to up the pain killers you were given in the ambulance."

"Dean, it's okay kid," Ortiz yelled from somewhere else, "You stay strong, okay? It's only your leg."


"You missed!"

"Really Sherlock? I didn't notice that!" the first hunter yelled.

"He is going to come after us, both of them will."

"He didn't see our faces," the first hunter said.

The second hunter sighed, "Like that matters."

"He got taken away in an ambulance."

"So what? We hope that some overworked ER intern does the job for us? We shot him in the leg," the second hunter said.

"Well, I said that a drive by was going to be risky. But you wouldn't listen, you insisted."

"He'd have known what we were going to do if we had come at him straight."

"I got no doubt of that," the first hunter said. "But we just missed our chance because you got no stomach for dealing with the consequences when his brother to catch up with us."

"No, I'm not but…"

"Are you changing your mind on this?" the first man asked curtly cutting the second man off.

The second hunter sighed, "No. Sometimes things have to be sacrificed for the greater good."

"Nice to see we're on the page," the first hunter retorted. "We've started this, so now we finish it – and we make sure it's done right."


It was nice, a nice dream. He was seventeen again, sitting in his room, reading a book, and there she was. Sitting in his window, begging him to take her back because, even though he had been right about her crush on Jess, she knew that it was not the same as what they had. That is was not as real, that what she and Jess had between them was just a schoolgirl thing, and that she did not want to throw away what she shared with him, and that if there was no hope left for them, she would move to the other side of the world if he wanted her too.

That she would leave him alone, and not make him see her face everywhere he went. She would not demand to be friends, to expect him to hang on her every word, let him move on from whatever hurt he had, let any success he had not involve her voice being in the back of his head telling him that 'Dean you are smart and you can do anything you want.'

It was a stupid dream and it was not real, but it was nice and warm and – wow, were those pink butterflies flying over his head? They were making nice humming sounds, no wait, they weren't, they were singing, trying to drown out that annoying sound in the background.

"SAMMY! SAMMY! Can you hear me?"

"Sammy! What the fuck happened? Are you okay? Sammy, who did this? Can you talk? What did the quacks shoot you up with?"

No, no, no, the pink butterflies were going away, he didn't want that, he wanted them to stay!

All the Yale boys were laughing now, and Luke in that stupid back-to-front cap of his was the judge who was handing down his sentence; about how he was never allowed to move on, that he had to pay Lindsay and her family back for all eternity, for the wedding he put them through. Lorelai was standing in the corner, pregnant with the bop-it in her hands, as Luke laughed and told Dean that he had his Gilmore, and that Dean was not good enough for anything – no life, no future away from Stars Hollow because it was in his blood, and he would never get away. That every time he set foot over the county line to see his folks, Taylor would be there to make sure he put on that stupid apron, before handcuffing him to the register.

How there would be a parade with balloons, with him being be lead out so the rest of the town could throw rotten fruit at his head as Kirk danced and danced. How his failures would be on banners posted around the square, a failed husband, an adulterer, a college dropout – that he should consider himself lucky that he was more than one step away from a being a bum working from pay check to pay check, too unsure and scared to figure out where the hell he was going.

He tried to explain that he was trying, that he had been too young back then; he knew he had made mistakes, but he was trying to fulfill his responsibilities, to make amends. He was paying Lindsay back, he was trying to move forward, but it was just tough going right now. That he finally understood why he and Rory could never be. That he knew that what that last time around had really been about; he'd been trying to hang on to what Rory represented as much as her, that first real love, the innocence, the hope, the acceptance. Having the ability to somehow gain respect by just being with her, her ability to not let the rest of reality get in the way, the way she made it all seem so easy.

He told them that he knew that Lindsey hadn't deserved any of it, that she had just been a victim in it all, that he should have been stronger and not let it happen. That he knew he should never have asked Lindsey to marry him, and definitely not to prove to her and to himself that he loved her after he had gotten into a fight at a party because his ex girlfriend had been upset.

But all that did was cause them to laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh.

But the pink butterflies, the pink butterflies that fluttered and hovered.

"Come on, stop doing that."

No, he almost caught one; no, don't push his hands away.

"We got to get out of here, before the cops come and Jesus, Sammy, can you walk at all? Don't worry, I'll get a chair, and you, you just be okay, alright?"