Rated T for language, bitchy teenage POV, and non-graphic, off-screen child abuse.

Sam, Bobby, and possibly others will come into this fic later, and there will eventually be references to the universe of the show.

Chapter 1

The first time Dean saw him, it was a Tuesday, and he was pissed.

He was sitting in the passenger seat of a crappy Honda sporting a peeling puke-green paint job and an engine with a knock that sounded like something was trying to get out, tugging on a loose fiber on the hem of his shirt and watching the dark fabric unravel like it was the most interesting thing he'd seen in weeks because, fuck, it was.

His latest social worker—Julia—was nervously tapping her dark red dragon-lady fingernails on the back of the steering wheel as she drove, beating out a tiny tuneless song that made Dean long for the (totally not stolen) Metallica tapes shoved in his garbage bag of possessions in the truck. She was prattling on about the new home they were sticking him in—about how "kind" the couple was, how good their track record was with "rehabilitating" kids, what "exciting" opportunities there were at the local high school …all the while stealing uneasy glances at his scratched and bruised knuckles like her was going to snap and pop her, right there, right now.

Julia could kiss his ass. Seriously. And if she tried to scoot her shapeless behind another inch away from him, he was going to live up to that "potentially dangerous" red flag stuck in his file.

"Where are we going again?" Dean asked, cutting her off mid-yammer. He had been staring out the grimy window for hours, seeing nothing but miles of cornfields and cows, which, in Kansas, narrowed it down to pretty much anywhere. She shuffled, using one clawed hand to flick at an imaginary fly-away hair, continuing to tap on the steering wheel. Click. Click. Click.

"Overbrook, Kansas." As if Dean was too stoned to remember the state he had lived his entire life. "Home of the state's best cinnamon waffles," she added with a fluttery laugh.

"Cinnamon waffles," he echoed. Actually, compared to the shit food they slopped on your plates at the government houses, cinnamon waffles sounded kind of awesome, but that wasn't going to stop him from acting bitchy if he fucking wanted to act bitchy. "Well, tickle my pig and call me Shirley."

Julia blinked. "I—I'm sorry?"

Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand over his freckled face and through his short hair, seriously considering upgrading this one from annoying to full-on stupid bitch. "Nothing. Don't worry about it, sweetheart." He rolled his eyes as she shifted uneasily, the tempo of her tapping increasing. Click, click, click, click, filled the tense air within the car. Dean let his gaze drift back out the window, briefly considering trying to determine the ratio between cow and pile of shit in the field they were currently driving past. He decided against it. Too much effort. He rested his forehead on the cool glass and closed his eyes.

Sometime later, there was a hand gently shaking his shoulder, and he unstuck his eyelids, blinking blearily to see the same shitty interior of the same shitty car, with Julia eyeing him anxiously from the driver's seat.

"We're here, Dean," Julia informed him, faking a cheerful smile with nicotine and tea-stained teeth. "Home sweet home."

Dean snorted as he shoved the door open. After a few dozen homes, they stopped being so sweet. He stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, narrowing his green eyes against the assaultive glare of the sun as he seized up this new place.

At first glance, it was pretty…non-descript. Dean's seen a lot worse, and a lot better. The house was three-stories, bigger than Dean's used to, but that wasn't surprising, if it really held the eight kids that Julia said it did. It was painted a boring beige, with an even-cut if parched front lawn and clean windows with dark curtains drawn tight across them. And after the last home, that little sketchy fact made Dean's skin prickle, and he tensed his muscles against the shudder threatening to run through them.

Doing his best to shove down his misgivings—not fear, because he's not a freaking girl— Dean walked slowly around the car, popped the trunk, and extricated his garbage bag of meager belongings. He threw it over one shoulder, feeling the corner of his Walkman cutting into his back just below his shoulder blade, and scuffed his well-worn boots on the asphalt as he followed Julia up the driveway. The social worker paused with one finger halfway to the doorbell, turning to face him.

"Dean…" she began, her words coming out at a glacial pace and thick with apprehension. "I feel you should know…there aren't a lot of homes who are willing to take you on anymore. After the…incident in Leavenworth, many of our parents expressed a certain concern about you. They don't want to…"

"To what?" Dean interrupted, feeling the heat rise up under his skin. "Take on a head case with anger management issues like me?"

Julia blanched. "I didn't say that, Dean. I just…" she swallowed, her eyes skittering around the door, the yard, the car, anywhere but Dean's hard glare. "This might be your last opportunity to find a good home. I don't want you to waste it."

"Like you give a damn about me," Dean replied darkly, and before she could let out another word, he reached out and stabbed the bell, hearing the muffled ding-dong through the heavy metal door. He glanced over his shoulder, suddenly needing to make sure he had an out, an escape he could take if it somehow came to that, and that's when Dean saw him.

He was standing on the sidewalk across the street, arms hanging loosely at his sides and a deep frown etched on his face. He was wearing a white shirt, blue tie, and—was that a trench coat? But given the undeniable suburby feel of this neighborhood, a dude in a suit wasn't that unusual, except for the fact that he was rooted to the spot, just fucking staring at Dean with two deep blue vortexes for eyes.

"Dean?"

"Wha—?" Dean blinked, turning his gaze back to Julia. The door had opened, and a couple was standing there, smiling at him. The woman was short, with shoulder length brown hair and bangs that hung nearly low enough to cover the small wrinkles around her dark brown eyes. The man was taller but still shrimpy, with curly black hair, hazel eyes blurred behind thick glasses, and a slightly more forced smile than his wife. Normally, Dean would be beginning Phase One of the New Foster Parent Evaluation System, but all he could think about was the weird guy across the street.

"Aren't you going to say hello, Dean?" the social worker prompted. Dean grunted in response.

And when he turned back around, the man was gone.