Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: Told you I'd update soon, ye of little faith. Anywhoo, just a quickie from the mind of Dean!

Dean's POV:

I didn't always want to be some bad ass, ghost bustin', demon hunter type guy. I know, crazy, right? Who wouldn't want this life, chock full of adrenaline and one night stands? Hey, I get to see the country, live out of the greatest motor vehicle ever made, eat what I want, do what I want, and kick ass while doing it. Plus, the whole saving lives thing is cool too. Way I figure, all the bad shit I've done, gotta even things out somehow. By now I should have enough hero points to earn me a spot next to Mother Theresa, no matter what I might have done with those two blondes in Cleveland.

Of course that's not why I do it, save people, I mean. I do it 'cause it's who I am. It's what I do. Just that simple.

But for all the perks this job has to offer, man, does it have its down sides too. Sure, digging up graves and salting and burning bones looks like fun, but at the end of the day? I smell like sweat and smoke, and if the body's not too old, burnt hair. And that smell sticks. Even after a shower. Even after two or three showers sometimes. And talk about aching shoulders, man! What I wouldn't do for one of those hardcore, deep tissue Swedish massages after a day like that. I got one once from this girl in Pittsburgh, a masseuse…fanfuckingtastic.

And hey, I love the rush of hunting, I do. But you get hurt sometimes. Now, I'm no whiny little baby or anything, I'm not saying that a bump here and a bruise there would ever make me throw up my arms and say, "I quit!" Hell, I think part of the reason I do it is for the scars. Chicks dig scars.

But still, it gets old sometimes. Looking down in the shower and finding a new bright red and purple bruise right next to the ugly yellow and green one that's still tender even after a week. And those little cuts and scrapes that you never even think about, until you go to put out the line of salt before bed and it falls into the open wounds. And that's not even talking about the real injuries, the broken ribs and dislocated shoulders, and so many concussions I'm surprised I don't slur my words.

And you're not the only one who gets hurt either. Sam gets it too. So does Dad. So do people you've never met, don't really know, but, at the end of the day, can't seem to forget. It's hard work. It's dangerous work.

And I love it.

But, like I said, I didn't always want to be…this.

When I was six we had a huge all-school fire drill. It was the first one I ever had, being in school for the first time since those shitty daycares my dad used to drop us at. Our teacher told us what to expect, and what we were expected to do. Line up, single file. Follow her out to the parking lot. Stay close, with your class. Don't lose sight of your teacher. Hold your buddy's hand. What she didn't prepare us for, or me anyway, was seeing the big red fire truck parked outside with the fully decked-out firefighters next to it.

The only other time I'd seen them, and that truck, was when my mom died.

Now I would never say I got scared, because even at six I didn't really get scared, but I did sort of panic. And I did take off, running away from my class and my teacher and my buddy, who, incidentally, was a fat kid that always picked his nose. I had an idea of which way home was, and I headed for it, away from the school and the fire truck and all those people calling out after me.

But I didn't make it far. Just when I thought I was home free, almost off the parking lot, this gynormous hand came out of nowhere and grabbed my shoulder. I turned around, ready to fight, thinking it was some kind of monster, or worse, my principal. But it was a big burly-looking fireman looming over me instead. Only he wasn't scary. He was tall and strong and…safe. And he smiled at me from under his bright yellow helmet. And he talked to me like I was a real person, not just some kid. He asked me what was wrong, and when I didn't answer he just laughed. Then he said, "Yeah, I'd probably try to skip too if I thought I could get away with it." And I just stared at him.

He led me back to my class, led me, not forced me, and then he went back to work. But he shot smiles in my direction every so often and he waved goodbye when they left. I don't remember much about that night, with the fire…with Mom. But I do remember that nobody was smiling, definitely not the firefighters. But this guy did, and he seemed nice. And it hit me, all at once, that the guys at my house weren't bad or scary people. They just had nothing to smile about. And why should they? I know they tried to save my mom, probably did all they could. But they still failed. And they still felt like they failed. And the fact that these tall, strong, brave men could try so hard, do their absolute best, and still feel like failures whenever a little boy was left without a mother…well, that impressed me. Even at six.

And that's when I knew I wanted to be a fireman.

Then, in the tenth grade we had this bullshit career day thing to go to. There were booths and guest speakers and all kinds of free junk from advertising agencies and the military. In fact I think the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marine Corp. probably had the best setups of everyone. Our tax dollars hard at work. But then I stumbled across the FBI.

I gotta admit, I watched The X-Files. Dad hated it, made fun of it, refused to allow it in his house. But then again, he was hardly ever around, so… Anyway, I'm not saying that Mulder and Scully were any kind of role models or anything, I mean, shit woman, how can you not believe with all that you see! And some of their cases, total bull. All those aliens? Like aliens really exist, please. But there were some cool episodes, like that one where the guy got all stretchy, awesome. Of course, I know that the real FBI wouldn't be anything like The X-Files, after all it was only those two who got assigned those cases anyway, so the likelihood of me getting in on some of that action, pretty slim. And Dad, with his whole, "always respect authority figures, but never, ever trust them" bent? No way he'd let me be a cop or an agent or anything remotely…governmenty. But that wasn't the point. My dad and that weird ass show were the last things on my mind when I started talking to the way-too-hot-to-carry-a-gun female agent.

She was short, maybe 5' 3, 5' 4, but, oh my God, was she…ahem, purely a professional. With her long dark hair, bright blue eyes, perky little…nose. She was wearing one of those suits that was totally appropriate for court or whatever, but fit every single curve perfectly. And those legs…ooh. Plus, she carried cuffs, a badge, and a gun, and had attitude. Long story short, she made me fall in love with her.

And if it meant being near her, or anyone like her, then I knew I wanted to join the FBI.

Then Sam graduated from high school, got a full ride to Stanford, and took Dad on, telling him that no way in hell was he gonna run his life anymore. He always wanted to have a normal life, whatever that meant. He had dreams. He had a future. Now that he was 18, he had a choice. And he knew it. And he worked it out. Even if it meant pissing Dad off, getting his ass beat, hell, getting…disowned. He still did it. He lost his home and his family and his life as he knew it, gave them all up, and chose something better. A better life, one that he actually wanted. One that he actually deserved.

Sammy stood up to Dad like I never have, like I never could. Sammy stood up for himself.

And when I was 22, well, that was when I knew I wanted to be Sam.

But the purest hope I had, the only time I really remember thinking, yeah, that's what I want to be when I grow up, was a long, long time ago. Back before Mom died and Dad started drinking and self-destructing. Way back then, in a time I barely remember, I knew I wanted to work in a garage. Not just any garage of course, my dad's. And not just for anyone, or with anyone, but for and with my dad.

I remember him taking me there when I was little, setting me up with my toy cars and trucks in the office, probably because Mom didn't want me to get too close to anything that they were working on. And I remember sneaking out of there and over to my dad's side, where I could see everything. He'd smile and pick me up and hold me over the open hood so I could get a better look. And he'd tell me all about what this car's problem was and that one. And I'd get to help with the oil changes and watch them do tire rotations. And if I was really good and could sit still long enough, he'd walk me through replacing a fan belt or checking out the manifold. Once I even sat in on a total brake overhaul, complete with new struts and everything.

And I didn't move a muscle. I was captivated…what's the word? Entranced. And I loved it all

Even after, when I was older, the only times I ever really had with my father – you know when he was my father and not my drill sergeant, or my violent parole officer, or the passed out drunk I had to help into bed – were the ones spent bent over a transmission or stuck under an engine block.

So maybe I was only four at the time, and yeah, a lot has changed since then, but the first thing I ever knew I wanted to be, was a mechanic.

From the mouths of babes, right?