The factory was in full flow now. Men and women rushed through the dirty industrial sight hurriedly. Sparks flew into the air like stars. The grinding of metal echoed through the dense concrete wall, shuddering with effort. Yellow hard hats illuminated the usually grey and dull area. Above the main floor, pacing on the walkways, the work was just as hard. Everywhere there was an order, a reply, a cry of frustration or woe. The sunlight barely penetrated through the dusty cracks, which were pretending to be windows, and a grim dim ensued. A working day.

Dean entered this place warily. His cold eyes searched everywhere. He returned an unfavourable gaze with a darker look, and the workers quickly learnt to stay away from him. The cowboy prowled amongst the various iron works, the flying sparks spraying up fireworks in front of his eyes. The tap of his boots was unheard through the immense noise. He brooded. It was like a vision. Surreal.

From the front of the factory, an extremely broad, bordering on fat, man with a black beard and wearing a loose checkered shirt, recognised Dean and beckoned the cowboy over with a wave of a large hand. Dean obliged and stalked over casually, his brown jacket hugging his skin. The man led him through a small door into a separate, abandoned part of the factory, just as big. Their footseps echoed around the iron structure. The factory work slowly dulled to mere background noise.

The man spoke as they walked. "This is just a part time gig really, till I get settled properly. Clive's a good mate, he always sends me the – uhm – reliable sort".

Dean walked silently at his side. He hated conversations.

They reached a large filing cabinet at the end of the room. The man searched amongst the names.

He pointed to one. "That's me. Harry Rose". He gave Dean a stern look. "Now you would do best to forget that name unless you ever need to see me again. Understood?"

Dean stared back nonchalantly. "I think so, Michael bloody Corleone. Now stop treatin' me like a fool. I ain't gonna go shootin' myself in the foot or ass if that's what ye think".

Rose seemed a little taken aback. He glanced around nervously before shooting Dean the dirtiest look he could muster. "You ought to remember who you're speakin' to, mister Winchester".

With a look as cold as the thoughts that ran through his mind, Dean took a step closer to Rose. "I thought ye said I should forget yer name, Rose bud?"

"Yeah – well – whatever!" Rose shot out, looking extremely flustered. "Now let's get to business".

He delved inside his personal draw and pulled out two objects. The first was a file, consisting of several pieces of paper, which he duly handed to Dean.

"This is everything you need to know about him," Rose explained, continuously glancing around. "Proof of identity, photograph, job, home address, family. Everything!"

Dean took them and flicked through hurriedly until his eyes landed upon the photograph. His jaw twisted and quivered. The paper began to crinkle in his rage filled hands. That face! That face! It was like looking at Satan himself. Dean quickly closed the file and took a deep breath. Rose was surveying him quizzically.

"Right – uhm – okay then. And this is what you'll need" From his other hand, Rose revealed a small, shiny, silver revolver and held it up. "I trust you know how to use one of these, cowboy?"

Dean snatched the gun away and casually snapped open the barrel, inspecting the six bullets inserted in each chamber, just lying in wait. He span the barrel for show, before slamming in back in place and cocking it right in front of Rose's face. The builder forced a smile before nodding.

"Well – that's good I suppose," he conceeded meekly, as Dean stuffed the revolver into his waistband, pulling his jacket over it, and collecting the papers. "But that isn't the important thing though is it, Texan?"

Stopping, Dean turned and looked hard at the man. "And what is?"

"Can you do it? That's the question," Rose smiled cruelly. "The thought's always somewhere. It hides in the back of your mind until the last moment, until the time comes to pull the trigger. When you first see there face it's different. You're full of rage, but is that enough. Am I a killer? Now –" he sighed, " – that really is the question you should be asking yourself".

Dean's head remained perfectly still. His eyes flickered momentarily. He pulled the gun from his waistband and admired it, caressing its smooth texture. All he could see in his head was one mans face. "Not a problem, flower," he said softly.

He walked away, the sliver of light missing him by inches.

"What's the weather like in Texas this time of year?" Rose called after him.

His boots halted. Dean did not turn. He could hear the man's breathing, a dozen or so yards behind him. He rubbed his brittle hands together. The air was so thin.

"Cold," he murmured. "Always cold".

"Is that the weather or you?" asked Rose, lounging against the cabinet, his arms folded.

Still without turning, Dean answered. "You decide". He began once more to leave. His boots rattled the metal as he went.

"I'll see you back here. I know it!" shouted Rose. "You're no killer! I can tell!"

But Dean did not stop this time. Instead he continued to slope off through the factory, leaving a trail of suspicious glances in his wake. The millions of sparks burnt a fire in his eyes. Rose's eyes travelled through his mind like splinters. He tried to supress them. I am a killer, I am a killer, he told himself over and over again. The metal gun bit into the base of his spine. This was it. What would life do to him after this? Was there much point in carrying on? They would have the peace they deserved... deserved... derserved. The word just did not seem right as it flickered through his mind painfully.

He emerged from the factory into the cold autumn air. The dull, industrial landscape hung before his eyes. The mist settled over him. He was veiled as he stalked off through the city streets in search of... a moment in life that makes a man what he ultimately dies as. The sleeper.