Disclaimer: Has there been an episode of Glee where two smokin' hot brothers in an Impala show up to beat up monsters and sex up the Glee club? No? Well, then, whadaya know! I don't own Supernatural and Glee after all!

Warnings: language (c'mon y'all, this is me and Dean!), teenage drinking, sex and rough sex(the best part), violence (the next best part), and slight "blink and you'll miss it" Suck, or, Puck/Sam. Also, there will be slight dub-con, slight dub-con feminization, a bit of what looks like prostitution, and a lil' tiny bit of dom/sub and…let's not uncover all the goodies, right?

Normally, Sam would be ashamed to be here, standing outside a Seven-Eleven trying to look like a lost puppy and hoping someone would be sympathetic and shady enough to buy him a drink. So far though, he'd gotten five numbers, three from hot girls, one from an obvious madam*, and the last from a shifty guy who kept glancing meaningfully at an alley. Sam wasn't sure he really wanted to know what that guy wanted.

But really, Sam wasn't interested in sex. Okay, yes, he knew he sounded more like an alien from Mars, and less like the healthy teenage boy he was, but really, sex was drama, and Sam had no room in his life for that. Even if he had a one night stand, the girl might possibly get pregnant, and with Mom already pregnant again, that would be just one, two more mouths to feed.

Also, Sam wasn't trying to be conceited or anything, but what if the girl decided she wanted more, like say, a relationship? Well, after the whole Quinn/Finn fiasco, he was of the mind that he just didn't anything like that again in his life.

Besides, Sam felt…tired. Not physically, no, today was not a gym or football practice day, but Sam just felt…drained. He didn't feel like getting to whatever place this hypothetical girl might want to hook-up, and he certainly didn't feel like snapping on a condom and getting busy. He just wanted to lay somewhere and being drunk or at least slightly buzzed seemed like a good option as well.

So here he was, standing by the door like a dejected puppy. No one was falling for it, except a sweet little girl about Stacie's age, who gave him one of her lollipops and a wide, gap-toothed grin. Sam sighed and shifted his weight.

Just then, a shiny black, very well taken care of, 1967 Chevy Impala vroomed* up to the curb. Now Sam wasn't exactly as crazy about cars as most of his fellow male classmates and peers, but as soon as he laid eyes on that vehicle, he fell head over heels in love.

The guy who stepped out immediately intrigued Sam. His hair was sandy, about the color of Sam's real hair without the lemon juice*, but the guy's hair was short, and spiky on top. He wore a badass leather jacket, just as badass ripped up jeans, and not the store bought rips, and even more badass, "well loved", as his mother would say, clunky, combat boots. Under his jacket he wore an open red plaid flannel shirt, and the classic black AC/DC t-shirt.

But that wasn't what really caught Sam's attention. What caught him and held him was the way the man held himself. He held himself like a well-trained soldier pretending to be a civilian. Sam knew, because as a little boy, and even when he had the chance now, he spent every spare moment of family get-togethers studying every move and mannerism of Uncle Jesse, who everyone in the family knew was some sort of secret agent. * And this man, he had the same mannerisms as Uncle Jesses, even down to the quick 360 disguised as an innocently sudden and vicious neck itch that need to be scratched at just the right angle to provide coverage for a look around.

He caught Sam's eye as he strode towards the entrance, and for a moment he paused, as if he was about to stop and say something, but he just gave Sam an once-over and continued on into the store. The jock sighed again. He had hoped he'd be the one, but no dice. He stood for a couple minutes more, but was just about to give up the goat and head home when the same man walked out of the store again, a six-pack of beer and two bottles of whiskey in his hands.

"Here, kid, help me get this to my car, huh?" he muttered in a deep, gruff voice as he dumped the six-pack into Sam's arms. Sam gripped the pack with a surprised look on his face, but followed him to his car.

"Get in," he commanded, as he began to slide into his seat.

"Um, sir, I'm not…I can't just get in your car with you. I don't know who you are," Sam protested, still holding tightly unto the pack and wondering if he could make a run for it. The man shot him a "don't even think about it, kid" look and sighed, sounding annoyed.

"Dean," he grunted, then raised an eyebrow, prompting Sam to tell him his name. He quickly complied, as it was pretty obvious that this was a dangerous guy.

"Sam Evans, sir, but I still don't know you," Sam dared to add. Both of his eyebrows rose.

"I'm a police officer, kid, off duty," he added when he saw the blond teen's skeptical glance at his attire.

"Uh, no offence, sir, but I don't think a police officer would let a minor drink," Sam pointed out. His brows rose again and he cocked his head back, staring at the boy under half-closed eyes. There was a challenging look in his eyes.

"Maybe I was fired. Maybe it wasn't my fault. Maybe I'm just trying to spit in the face of the people who hurt me, even if it's just giving a fucking can of beer to a fucking kid. Maybe I just wanna do something so I don't feel like a fucking pussy*. Now get in the damn car!" his voice got louder with each sentence, the last one pretty much a shout, and Sam was glad the parking lot was practically empty.

He got in the damn car.

TBC…

Author's Apologies: Yup, that's right, your eyes aren't tricking you, this is another story. Yay for your eyes! They're so good! You must be so proud; you should really get them a medal, a ribbon, some sort of prize…

Okay, fine, yes, I'm trying to distract you from my grievous failure as a fanfiction author. I can only throw myself at you feet and beg for mercy! Please, do not despair! Slowly, slowly, one day in the future, each and every story started by me will be completed, of this I have little to no doubt! Now, on to the fun part: story notes!

Asterisks:

*a madam is basically a nice name for a female pimp

*I don't actually know what color Sam's hair is supposed to be, but let's go with Dean's okay? Does anyone know if Chord Overstreet is a natural blond or not?

*now, you may be thinking, "hey, they shouldn't know that!" well, yes, they can. One of my family members is a secret agent. He can't say what he does, or what branch, or whatever, but he does know martial arts and how to use a weapon.

*I'll explain Dean's explanation later, kay?

Alright, so that seems to be it for the asterisks. So, yes, I know I have other stories to update, and someday, hopefully soon, they will be updated, but there is no denying my plot bunnies. The breed like…rabbits, LOL, and they're all trained by Sam Winchester to lethally use patented "Puppy Eyes of Doom". So yeah, don't blame me, blame the bunnies! They made me do it!

Oh yeah, and, as always, please review!