Author's Note: Hi, I'm back! Special thanks to jasewolff for reading all of my weirdness, and accepting it! So this chapter is just Sam being the little brother, and Crowley appears! So does Jimmy, but Cas doesn't. Sorry, but bear with me until the next chapter, kay?

The car was whistling. Whistling. How does a car whistle? Dean sat in the Impala, and he just couldn't hold it in anymore. Grabbing his phone, he dialed Sam's number, and waits for Sam to pick up.

"Hello, Sam Winchester speaking,"

"Okay Sammy boy, where's the whistle?" A muffled giggle escapes on the other end of the line, and Dean feels ready to throttle his little brother.

"Ah... Should we say that it might be... Um... Dean, do you know where your records are?"

"Yeah," Dean did not have a good feeling about this.

"Check each box,"

"Excuse me?"

"Mmmmphlmhphee," is all that Sam can choke out before hanging up, unsuccessfully hiding the guffaws that escape him before he can hang up properly. Dean is ready to deny the entire conversation ever happened. Another meep escapes the whistle, and Dean just cannot, cannot, take the stupid whistling.

Pulling the car over, he opens the drawer by the passenger seat. Pulling out his collection of records covering songs from AC/DC, he paws through the rectangular casings. Finding nothing after a few minutes, he pulls out the box labelled AC/DC-2, and looks through that as well.

After about twenty moments, he finds the source. Sam got a gizmo thingymabob to give out a shrill meep every thirty seconds or so. Opening the door, Dean placed the thing in front of one of the tires. Then he got back in the Impala, and kept driving, smirking when he heard the crisp crunch signalling the end of the unfortunate device.

Heading towards Starbucks, he hopes for a coffee, and maybe to see the mysterious man he saw the other day.

Back in Black starts to blast from something, and Dean fishes his phone out of a pocket, and looks at the number. It's listed as unknown, and he guesses it's a telemarketer.

"Hello?"

"Um, hi, is this..." There's a pause, and the person on the other line fumbles around for something. "Dean Winchester?"

"Yes. Sorry, who is this?"

"I believe you left your card in the Starbucks by Main Street, and I was wondering where your shop was? It doesn't say on the card,"
"Uh... Sorry?" Dean was confused. The man on the other end of the line had a vaguely British lilt, and seemed to be asking for the address of Dean's garage.

"You're Dean Winchester, the mechanic, right?"

"Yes. You didn't answer my question though. Who are you?"

"I'm Crowley, and I'm a customer. So, where did you say your garage was?"

"It's at 273 Dorower Street, close to Main. Look for the blue sign that says Singer's Auto," This Crowley didn't seem bad, and most publicity was good publicity, right?

"Thanks, mate," Dean hears the click of a phone snapping shut, and looks at his phone like he'd never seen it before. When did customers call him? He was a mechanic, for God's sake! Who called a mechanic with a job?

Stopping at the traffic light, he sees a trench coat hurry past his car on the sidewalk. Dean stares at it for a while, curious, but as a man head towards the trench coat, the head turns, and he sees a very female face looking at the man. So it wasn't the blue-eyed Starbucks server.

Hearing the car behind him honk, he looks up, and sees that the light had changed. Flipping the finger to the man behind him, he sees the man reciprocate, and he drives on to the Starbucks on Main, telling himself he wants to grab a quick coffee before work, but in a little corner of his mind, he knows what he's going for.

The little bell jingles as he opens the door, and he hears Jingle Bells over the speakers, and his mood is improved slightly. Looking around for the man he saw the other day, he wanders over to the end of the line, waiting on the two people in front of him. Looking around, he decides on a vanilla frap, and he's at the front of the line. Looking at the server in front of him, he immediately notices that he doesn't have blue eyes. Or a trench-coat. Or dark hair.

"Good morning, sir, what would you like?" A perky dark haired guy with eyes of the same color greets Dean.

"A vanilla frapuccino, please. The name's Dean," He adds, even though he didn't need to. Business was slow this late in the morning.

"That'll be $12.99," Dean pulls out a $20 bill, and tells him to keep the change.

As he prints a receipt, Dean asks, "Sorry, but," Dean looks at the nametag on the man's shirt. "Jimmy, tell me, does a man in a trench coat work here, blue eyes, dark hair?" As the man taps away at the cashier, he nods and listens to Dean's description.
"Actually, he might be my brother. He's tall, kinda skinny, really shy, right?"

"Uh, yeah! He's the one with blue eyes,"

"He's Castiel. Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, just saw him around the other day, and got a little curious. Nice guy," The server shrugs, and turns around to make Dean's drink. Since there's not much business, there's only Jimmy working, and Dean heads over to one of the mauve armchairs near the ordering area, waiting for his drink. He mulls the idea of the man with blue eyes, Castiel, over in his head. Those eyes were piercing, almost like they could see right through you. See through everything you ever did, ever saw, ever thought. Everything. His thoughts are interrupted by Jimmy, with his drink.

"Hey, Dean?" Dean looks up from his contemplation, and sees Jimmy with the drink in his hands.

"Oh. Thanks," Dean smiles at Jimmy, and heads out. Driving towards his garage, he sees a nice Bentley outside, but it's an old model. 1920's at least, but a real beauty. Parking his Impala in the driveway, a smaller man in a suit walks up to him.

"You Dean Winchester?" Dean recognizes the voice, the voice with the slightly British lilt to it, the guy who called him to ask about repairs.

"Yeah?"

"You sure? You don't really sound like you're sure," He's cocky, but Dean admires that about him now. He likes people who aren't afraid to voice their opinions.

"You're Crowley, aren't you?" The man nods, and smiles.

"Last I checked. Now, tell me, can you fix my car? It's the Bentley outside," Dean nods respectfully.

"That's a really nice car. 1920's?"

"Actually, yes. 1926,"

"Nice. What's wrong with her?" Dean starts walking inside, gesturing for Crowley to follow him.

"She's whistling," he says flatly. Halfway through his beeline to the fridge to grab a beer, Dean freezes.

"Whistling?" He turns around slowly.

"Yeah. I'm wondering why too,"

"Actually, my car was doing the same thing earlier," Moving towards the fridge again, he offers Crowley a beer.

"Thanks mate,"

"Do you know why it might be whistling?"

"Nope,"

"Do you know a guy called Sam Winchester?"

"Is he related to you?"

"He's my brother,"

"Ah. I see,"

"So you're acquaintances?"

"You could say that,"

"He left a whistling thing on my car," Dean spits the word "thing" out like it's something nasty.

"Oh,"

"Well, let's figure out where he hid it this time, eh?" Dean heads out, and Crowley follows him.

Author's Note: Soooo who liked the story? (Whoever liked it please review now. Please?) I'll be off now, but remember, reviews are good for the author, veeeery good. Very very good.