A/N
my first multi chapter story for this fandom, I wasn't going to publish it yet but feedback usually keeps me writing and also I'm the most indecisive person in creation.

Chapters will be named after songs- you can (and totally should) check them out ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or other copyrighted material mentioned

Note: you might notice- well I'm telling you so you will notice- I misspelled NCIS. That's totally intentional because I wouldn't do that on accident since it used to be my favorite show before SPN happened.

Now enjoy the show and leave me feedback if you want to see this continued, the next update isn't far away.


Chapter 1
Send Me An Angel


If a girl walks in and draws her name in my heart

I'll turn and run away

Everyday we've all been led astray

It's hard to be lucky in love
.

(- Real Life -)


Raising a kid was hard, Dean got that. He also got that after three years of living with his girlfriend Lisa and her now fourteen-year-old son it meant that he couldn't just smoothly disappear from their lives as he had done with his flings- and even Lisa herself- prior to this relationship. They had parted on fairly good terms. There hadn't really been an exchange of harsh words or tears... just the acceptance that whatever it was they had shared romantically had over the course of their time together transformed into mere friendship. The feeling was perfectly mutual, so their break-up had undergone a quiet discussion and the agreement to part ways and see whether them being friends was a good idea. Mostly they both thought it would be good for Ben if Dean stayed close by, considering he had become the boy's father figure, and not a bad one at that. That's why he now found himself seated in his '67 Chevrolet Impala at roughly six p.m. as he waited in the parking lot outside Dance Heaven as he had done every Thursday for the past year and a half.

Dance Heaven was the dance school Ben had been attending hip hop classes at as a substitute for the kick-boxing lessons his mother wouldn't let him take until he'd be sixteen. Dean, too, was glad that the fourteen-year-old had let himself be persuaded into trying hip hop, seeing as now he seemed to enjoy it greatly. Even now that his and Lisa's relationship had ended he still took time out of his week to spend it with the kid, feeling it was what both of them needed and that Lisa could probably use some time for herself every once in a while. He knew she could manage raising her son on her own, had done so for ten years, but still he felt an obligation to not abandon the pair and was honored that they would let him stay.

Ben had been very mature about the splitting-up of his mom and Dean, though he had heard the kid stifle a choked cry once he'd retreated to his room after they'd broken the news to him. After the initial shock had worn off Ben had gone back to normal fairly quickly and even helped Dean move the boxes with his belongings into the Impala and later into the modest new apartment halfway across town. He was really grateful for having the boy in his life.

A quick look at the clock told him that the class should have ended by now but no kids were exiting the building. He wondered whether he had mixed up the day or Lisa had already been here before him but knew either was highly unlikely. With a soft sigh he got out of his car and threw the door shut behind him before walking the few yards across the lot. He'd never actually been inside the building before and thus was slightly startled when he found that the studio turned out to be bigger than he'd thought. There was the reception desk he could see through the windowed doors and across from it the cozy looking group of cushioned chairs in the middle of which was a small white IKEA table littered with various glossy dance-themed magazines, a waiting room for all those moms picking up their little girls- and boys, no judging there- from ballet classes, he supposed.

Further down the hall, the part of the studio that couldn't be seen from outside, a couple of doors led to different rooms and by the looks of it they were all busy. Classical music could be heard faintly, probably from the room on the far end of the hallway, but was mostly swallowed up by the harsher tones of what he guessed was Ben's hip hop class. The fact that the music was still playing also explained why no one had come out yet. Another melody was thrown into the medley of genres and Dean found it was coming from a room diagonally across the hall from the hip hop class. The door stood open as if in an invite. Gifted with a natural urge to explore he was immediately drawn to the room with the mystifyingly rhythmic music. Cautiously he approached the class and took a peek inside. It was a dance class for adults and to his untrained eye what they were- partly clumsily- practicing looked very much like a Tango. It was a strange mix of sudden jerking movements and smoothly flowing ones that came together in the choreography, in parts obviously well-rehearsed already. One of the dancers stood out from the rest and Dean was almost certain that he must be the instructor. The man was clad in black slacks and a white shirt, the fact that he was soaked in sweat making the material slightly translucent so there was no way to ignore his leanly muscled back and arms. His dark hair was messy but in a strangely organized way- how that description made sense in his head was beyond Dean- and stuck to his sweat-beaded forehead and he moistened full lips with a dart of pink tongue while he watched his students' performance even as he was dancing himself. What was most mesmerizing about the guy, however, were his eyes. Never before had Dean seen such a radiant shade of blue, well maybe on a Siberian Husky but not on a guy. Or a chick, for that matter.

It was probably easily observable how fascinated he was, his gaze intently focused on the blue-eyed dancer and his sly movements, but thankfully no one even seemed to notice him in their concentration. The song ended abruptly and the pairs all assumed an end pose then there was a brief moment of silence and stillness before Blue Eyes straightened up and clapped his hands, nodding appreciatively at his students. Dean took half a step back so he was partly hidden by the doorframe and didn't look like the stalker he was. A part of him hoped there would be another song, another choreography to watch but his hopes crumbled when the people in the room went to the back of the room- it was completely mirrored on the wall opposite from where he was standing, giving him full view of the scene- and rummaged through their things. To his relief it looked a lot like they were just having a short break because after they had all drunk some water, dried their sweaty faces in towels or shared a quick laugh all of them went back to their previous partner and position in the room. Blue Eyes took the hand of a young dark-haired woman with a constant smirk on her pretty face. She, like the other people including Dean, seemed to be utterly captivated by the dancing instructor and awaited his next words.

"You did really well, all of you."

What a voice.

So deep and rough while at the same time incredibly smooth, like... like sandpaper laced with a spoonful of honey. Dean found himself gripping the doorframe for support. "Now let's continue last week's choreography where we left off, see how it goes." With that Blue Eyes produced a small remote control from his pocket and pushed a button. A moment later a new song started up and Dean dared to step forward from his half-hidden position in order to see better. This dance, while still containing obvious elements of a Tango, was smoother than the first; all slow spins and rolling hips, especially the latter giving Dean slight gooseflesh as he watched on.

Lost in the movements of the man with the impossible eyes and the indescribable voice he almost jumped in surprise when someone tapped his shoulder. He turned around to look down and meet apologetic eyes. "Sorry I didn't text you, I knew it would take longer today, Zeke added thirty minutes extra because of the competition." Ben looked genuinely mortified for not telling him and Dean sent him a lopsided grin, ruffling the boy's damp hair affectionately as he had often done with his little brother.

"Don't worry, I figured it was something like that," he said reassuringly. "Ready to go now?" When Ben nodded he motioned for him to lead the way and sent one last look to the tango class. They were all lined up in front of the mirror, men loosely embracing the women from behind. Just before he turned around to leave he accidentally met Blue Eyes' stare in the mirror and froze temporarily at the intense expression in those eyes.

When he finally remembered how to move his legs he swore there was a smirk on the dancer's face.

Outside Ben was already leaning against the passenger door of the Impala, backpack carelessly thrown over one shoulder and sweaty hair shielded from the late April breeze by a baseball cap. Dean winked at him and got into the car on the driver side. "This time last year you were already picking me up with the bike," Ben said innocently, stroking a finger over the car's worn leather interior while they drove down the semi-busy road to the house Dean no longer shared with the Braedens.

"You know there was still snow in the area a month ago. Not the perfect biking conditions," Dean explained patiently. "But she's already in the garage and Bobby's having a good look at her. I promise to take you on a ride soon as she's finished, alright?"

"Awesome." The boy's eyes lit up significantly at the promise and he turned to look out the side window at the few pedestrians still on the streets. They were talking about the motorcycle Dean had wanted ever since he'd been Ben's age and finally had saved up enough money to buy for his thirty-second birthday two years prior. The bike was his second big love next to the Impala and Lisa had during their relationship often joked about how she felt like she had to share Dean with two other women.

Now in retrospect Dean wondered if maybe she hadn't been joking at all.

"Your homework all done?" Dean asked in a moment of parental responsibility- usually he would take on the role of the ally in the situations requiring a good-parent and a bad-parent, much to Lisa's disdain.

"Yep," Ben said, popping the 'p' and nodding his head. "Kevin helped me with algebra after school and the rest was easy."

"Good, we don't wanna repeat last semester's debacle," Dean warned, earning himself an eye-roll and a sigh before he approached a more fun subject. "Are you excited for the dance off?"

Ben beamed at him. "You bet I am! We're gonna show those other groups what real hip hop looks like!"

"That's the spirit, kid." He chuckled lightly.

"Even Mr Novak said we had really good chances the last time he watched our training. And he really knows what's up."

"Who's Mr Novak?" Dean raised an eyebrow as the unfamiliar name rolled off his tongue, scanning his brain for a memory triggered by it and coming up completely blank.

The boy next to him sent a quizzical look in his direction. "He owns the studio. And I don't think you've met officially, he wasn't around for the dance off last year, but you probably saw him today. He teaches the standard dances himself. You were watching one of his adult classes when I finished."

Dean swallowed, already having a faint idea of who this Novak guy possibly was. "Dark hair, blue eyes?" he asked to make sure just as they pulled up in front of their destination.

"Yeah, that's him." Ben said, already pushing the door open. "Thanks for picking me up."

"No problem, buddy." They bumped their fists together- their own version of a cool goodbye ever since hugging became too awkward- and Ben got out of the Impala. "Is the Saturday thing still okay?" he called after the boy.

"Sure! See you then." The answer was called at him over Ben's shoulder as he disappeared in the house.

"See ya," he echoed to himself. At the window he saw Lisa standing and watching him with a melancholic gaze, sending him a small wave when their eyes met. Dean raised a hand in an awkward answering wave and maneuvered his sleek black car out of the driveway to make his way back across town into the cold and lonely apartment that awaited him.

The drive took less time than he would have wanted it to, seeing as he really didn't look forward to spending the night in his barely furnished living room with a can of cheap beer and a B-class crime show. It being a Thursday it probably wouldn't even pay off to go out and pick up a random chick at some bar, not that he particularly felt like it. His time with Lisa and Ben had changed him, Bobby thought so too. And he freely admitted that it was nice having someone to come home to, someone who was there. He'd never had that before his time with the Braeden's.

Dead mother, abusive asshole dad… then Sam had left, so he had sought temporary comfort with one-night-stands until he'd met his high school sweetheart again only to mess it up all over.

Pushing the dark thought aside Dean pulled into his usual spot and killed the engine, fondly petting his steering wheel as if communicating a silent 'thank you' for the ride. Sheesh, he really was too attached to his car sometimes. With a grunt he dragged himself out of the Impala and onto the street to walk the few yards to his building. This part of town was mostly deserted, the exception being the notorious drunkards wandering the street. Sure, it wasn't Beverly Hills but it was affordable enough and still more agreeable than other places he'd looked at and it wasn't like he spent much time there anyway.

Most of his time was passed at Bobby's which belonged to... take a guess... the one and only Dean Winchester. Guessed wrong, didn't you? Most people did and even Dean himself thought it confusing to keep the name. Bobby Singer, a gruff mechanic with a heart of gold, had always been the father Dean and Sam had never had. He had been the one to teach Dean how to ride a bike and later drive a car, he had been the one to turn up at Sammy's graduation, hug his enormous frame and tell him that he was damn proud of him. Their dad had spent that day with his hunting buddies.

Then a year ago Bobby had suffered a light stroke, which on its own had been a shock to everyone, but then on top of that he had declared that he wanted to sell his auto shop because he couldn't afford having employees and couldn't keep working like he did. Dean, who'd been between jobs back then and only occasionally helped out at the garage, had offered to start full-time on minimum wage just so the place where he and his brother had spent so much of their childhood didn't get closed down or taken over by a stranger. Bobby being Bobby had immediately written the whole shop over to the Winchester and insisted they keep the name. It was the only thing to remember him by, he'd stubbornly grumbled.

So yeah, that's the story of why a garage by the name of Bobby's was owned by someone bearing a completely different name.

Dean chuckled grimly. Being his own boss was great, of course. No one yelled at him for coming in late- except for Bobby- and no one gave him shit for not finding out what was wrong with an engine after like five minutes- again Bobby was generally an exception to that, the old man was really bored since he'd retired. But all the paperwork that came with owning a garage and the calls he had to make- and there really was no way to put it nicely- sucked balls. Okay, so maybe there were several ways to put that nicely but Dean couldn't be bothered with niceties when it came to paying a friggin' shitload of bills.

The garage didn't run too well. They had their regulars who brought in their rusty old trucks that almost fell apart while driving on a regular basis and occasionally they'd get a frantic call from someone who had found their number in one of the phonebooks from a public phone booth, neither of which had seen an upgrade since the mid-70's or something. It wasn't that they were bad at what they did, both Dean and Bobby knew damn well how to treat a car or motorcycle of almost any kind and they were more than just decent mechanics, but Bobby Singer's... it looked like a derelict junkyard. Which it kinda was. It just also happened to be a garage and Dean, as much as he wanted to polish his shop's image, had no money left over at the end of the month to invest into advertisements or much needed renovation works.

What little money he did have he spent on his rent, groceries- aka beer- and poor Diner food, on gas for both the Impala and his bike and the rest on Ben because he loved that kid enough to spoil him. It was good the way it was. Not great but fair enough.

Dean dropped onto his couch and stared at the shoddy ceiling, asking no one in particular, "When exactly have I become so fucking pathetic?"

For a very long time he didn't move from his spot and just kept staring until his upstairs neighbors returned home and their steps caused debris to crumble into his eyes. He blinked several times after that and got up to push the couch a few feet back, which solved the problem for now. Slowly Dean walked into his kitchen and got himself a beer before sitting down again and picking remaining ceiling flakes out of his eye lashes. Next he reached over to his makeshift coffee table, which was really just a large cardboard box that he hadn't yet unpacked, and fished for the remote, switching on the TV even before settling back into the cushions.

As predicted there was nothing on. Conspiracy theories on FOX News, live footage from the middle east on CNN, re-runs of Drawn Together on MTV, an ancient episode of some Navy crime show on CBS. With a sigh he stopped zapping through the channels and turned the volume on mute before drowning his beer in one go. Hesitantly he patted down his jeans, unsure in which pocket his phone rested but quickly realizing it was on the left. He unlocked it with an automatic slide of his thumb and went straight to contacts, blindly finding the number he was looking for. For a solid minute his thumb hovered above the screen before he dared to push the call button.

It rang for a while until a familiar voice sounded in his ear.

"Hello, this is Sam Winchester, sorry I couldn't answer right now but leave your number and I'll, uh, call back." Dean knew the message by heart and waited three seconds for the next part. "And if this is you, Dean- I'm fine, school's great and stop worrying. I'll call you, bye." The good-natured eye-roll was almost audible if you knew Sam.

Dean smiled sadly, ended the call without leaving a message and wanted to get another beer but ended up carrying the whole six-pack back into his pathetic excuse of a living room. He turned the volume on the TV back on just in time for an interrogation scene and realized after doing a comic double-take that the suspect showed an uncanny resemblance to a certain Mr Novak. Suddenly the show was very interesting and he focused intently on the screen, drinking beer after beer as the episode went on.

When he already felt the familiar buzz of alcohol in his veins he found he just didn't care anymore and redialed his brother's number, waiting for the message to repeat before he spoke. "Hey Sammy it's me. I miss you. My new place sucks… I hate being on my own. But I met someone today," his voice was already slurred but he kept on talking, "Well, 'met' is probably the wrong word… I saw someone. Dark hair, blue eyes- you know I'm a sucker for those, haha." There was a long silence as he was distracted by the Novak-lookalike on screen. He cleared his throat. "'m sorry, Sam, I just really miss talking to you. I'll probably call again soon… bye." It felt like his phone weighed a ton as he hung up and his head felt twice as heavy, so he curled up on the couch without really watching N-C-S-I or whatever the show was called anymore.

He dozed off to the mental image of radiant blue eyes.


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