So, Christian Kane (Eliot) and Jensen Ackles (Dean) are friends in real life (they sang together at one of Christian's shows), so this was just begging to be written. I would adore it if this could be an actual crossover.

AU for both a little bit, but nothing too extreme except the ending bit. I feel like Eliot could have been a part of the life at one point, so this makes complete sense to me. I'm thinking this will be a two-shot, two different ways that the team could have met Dean.

This is the first time I've written for Leverage, so if anything needs adjusting, tell me and I'll fix it.

I've been watching this video on YouTube and I think it's freaking amazing and y'all should check it out - SPN ×•× Dean Winchester - unbreakable soldier? [Dedication] oh and ❝following dads orders, a good little soldier

Reviews are love! I own nothing.

Fresh from the desk of a twelfth grade nothing.

Enjoy!

A/N: revised as of 5/18/14.

Eliot was refereeing Parker and Hardison's arm wrestling match (Parker was winning) when he heard the door to the bar bang open and Nate's voice call out.

"We're closed." The newcomer chuckled without answering.

"I didn't come here for the liquor," his low, soft voice drawled. Eliot jumped up and stalked into the next room. He took in the worn leather jacket, faded jeans, motorcycle boots, and cocky grin. His forest green eyes locked on Eliot's sea green eyes. His dark blond hair was cut short and spiked up.

"Spencer."

"Dean. You shoulda called," Eliot growled, stalking towards the young man. "You know I'm not in that business anymore." He was about to keep chewing Dean out for coming, when he noticed how damp the kid's shirt was and how it was clinging to his torso. He looked at Dean's face again and noticed that his eyes were dull and half-lidded. His skin was pale, causing the freckles on his nose to stand out. Eliot closed the gap between them and caught Dean just as his eyes rolled back in his head. The younger man might have been stocky and around 6'2", but his ribs were palpable through his shirt, like he hadn't eaten a decent meal in a while. The kid groaned as Eliot half-dragged him into the next room, ignoring Nate's protests and the looks of confusion from the rest of his team. He laid the kid down on the couch in the living room of Nate's apartment.

"Eliot, what are you doing?" Nate demanded.

"He's hurt, Nate," Eliot growled, turning and facing his friend. "He needs help. Isn't that what we do? Help people who have nowhere else to go? I know this kid. He doesn't have anyone else, save for a guy in South Dakota, a guy in Minnesota, and his dad who could be on the moon for all I know. He has nowhere else he can go."

"What about a hospital?"

"Hospitals mean questions. Questions mean police." Eliot turned back to Dean, signaling the end of the conversation. Nate accepted it, but Eliot knew he would want to talk more later.

"So who is he?" Parker asked.

"A friend," Eliot answered shortly. He grabbed a first aid kit from under the bar and Dean's duffle from beside the door. He gently stripped off Dean's leather jacket (the kid would kill him if he messed it up) and the Metallica t-shirt (probably got that one at a thrift shop or a garage sale, just like the one he wore out in Seattle). He saw what was causing the blood loss; a large gaping wound crossed from about his left hip to about the middle of the right side of his ribcage. There were two nearly identical gashes on either side of it. The rest of his chest was covered in scrapes and bruises and faded scars. The wound looked relatively fresh, so Eliot made quick work of washing it out with the holy water from Dean's bag before doing anything else. The skin hissed slightly but didn't react much otherwise. After wiping the water away, he set to work cleaning it with rubbing alcohol. Dean hissed and moaned as it stung his skin, but he didn't wake up. Eliot pulled a needle and thread from the first aid kit. Thirty-six stitches in the big one, thirty in the right one, and twenty-eight in the left. Eliot wiped the remaining blood off of Dean's chest before he went to the kitchen and washed the blood off of his hands. Eliot went back over and put bandages on the cuts before he spoke again.

"He probably won't stay out much longer," Eliot said. He gently placed his hand on the young man's forehead to check for a fever. The heat pulsing from his forehead hit him before he even touched the skin.

"Damn it, kid," he growled. He grabbed a cloth and a bowl of ice water from the kitchen and kneeled down beside the couch. He dipped the rag in water before gently wiping away the sweat that was already forming on Dean's face. His breathing was elevated and Eliot knew that he wouldn't be in his right mind when he woke up. The kid tended to hallucinate too; Eliot knew this from experience. He pulled a phone out of Dean's front pocket and dialed the first number he recognized.

It went straight to voicemail. He tried again, and again, and again; he didn't leave any messages, just kept hitting redial. Finally he got an answer.

"I'm only answering this because jess threatened to burn my books," the voice said. "What do you want, Dean." He was highly irritated.

"Took ya long enough to answer," Eliot growled. He was answered with silence.

"Where's Dean." It wasn't a question, but a demand.

"What if he'd only called you once because he was dying?" Eliot snarled, pissed that it had come to this.

"Where is he?" the other man demanded.

"Your dumbass brother is in Boston; he's sick as a dog and looks like he just finished a job," Eliot grumbled.

"Eliot?" the other man asked. "Bobby mentioned that you moved there after you left the life."

"Sam, what the hell is going on between you two?" Eliot sighed. "It sounds to me like you haven't talked in months." He knew they hadn't talked, but he was trying to give Sam a chance.

"We haven't talked in months," Sam said. "I haven't talked to anyone outside of Stanford since I left the life behind. Dean stopped trying to get through a couple months back."

"Did it ever occur to you that he gave up because it felt like you didn't want him around anymore?"

"Dean knows I just wanted to get out of the life. He knows I still want him around, I just needed a little space."

"You're wrong," Eliot said, shaking his head. "He felt like you didn't want him anywhere near you. He didn't want you to have to choose between him and the life you wanted, so he gave up. He told me Sam. He broke down after that first night he didn't call you. He was here and I had to take his phone or he never would have made it through the night. He actually broke down and sobbed about a month after you ran out. He told me how proud he was of you. He told me how he wanted to go with you but knew that your daddy would never let him go and he didn't want to take the chance of you telling him that you didn't want him with you. He told me that he waited for you to ask him to come. He drove you to that bus stop, Sam, without playing any music. When have you ever known him to drive in silence? He was waiting for you to ask him to come with you. Every time we've talked since, no matter if it's a conversation or just checking in, he always says to me 'I'm still waiting'," Eliot snarled viciously. "Do you have any idea what you put him through on a daily basis because he doesn't want to screw your life up?" Eliot was nearly screaming now, he was getting himself so worked up.

"I…I didn't know," Sam said slowly.

"You know he dropped out to keep you off the job, or at least off the front lines," Eliot told him, measuring his voice now. "Everything he ever did was for you." He took a breath to calm himself down before continuing.

"Did you know that he wrote down every single memory of your mother, everything he could remember about her from the way she slept to how she smelled, just so that you could at least know what she was like? He wrote page after page of brutal, heart-wrenching memories. He had to walk away from them sometimes because it hurt just to remember, all so that you wouldn't feel so bad about not knowing her. He was planning on sending it to you on your twenty-first birthday."

"He did that?"

"Mhm, every time your dad sent him on his own cases, he would finish early and then tell your dad that it was taking just a little bit longer than he expected, and he would write a little more. You'd better believe that if John had known anything about it, you'd never see them."

"I'm heading to the airport now," Sam told Eliot.

"Good decision," Eliot snorted, hanging up.

"Did he really do all that?" Sophie asked.

"He did," Eliot answered.

"Sounds like a great brother," Hardison commented.

"He's one badass son of a bitch." Eliot nodded. "All the emotional stuff I said he went through? That's stuff he hides on a daily basis. He bottles it up and sometimes it just blows up in his face. He doesn't have breakdowns often, but when he does, they suck." At that, Dean woke up. His dull green eyes opened and fell on Eliot.

"How do you feel?" Eliot asked.

"M'fine," Dean drawled sleepily.

"Not what I asked," Eliot told him, a warning clear in his voice.

"You want me to say that I feel like shit warmed over?" Dean growled; the rest of Eliot's team winced at his blatant disregard for Eliot's warning.

"That's what I asked for." Eliot grinned. With any of them, Hardison suspected, Eliot would have slapped them without a moment's thought for that tone. Dean reached over and gave a little tug on Eliot's hair.

"What's up with this shit?" Dean asked. "Where'd your crew cut go, brother?"

"Aww shuddup, not all of us had to be soldiers forever." Eliot laughed.

"Not all of us had the choice to leave it behind." Dean shrugged. "Now, if you cut up my shirt, I'm gonna have to kill you." Eliot laughed and let the comment slide, but pushed Dean back down when he tried to sit up.

"Not so fast John Paul," Eliot rumbled. "You're gonna sit back and rest because nearly a hundred stitches ain't good."

"Spencer, I'm expected to be in Baton Rouge by nightfall," Dean said. "If I expect to make it there anywhere close to nightfall, I have to leave now."

"And I'm saying, screw John," Eliot snarled. "You bend over backwards for him, you follow every damn order and every damn command, and for what? He leaves you and tells you where to go, what to do, how you should live your life. Dean, when was the last time you considered doing something for yourself?" Eliot demanded, letting his anger at how John Winchester had raised and continued to treat his eldest son get the best of him.

"It isn't about me, it's about saving lives!" Dean growled, standing up and facing Eliot. He was taller and lankier than Eliot while still being a large man width-wise, but his movements were stiff from exhaustion and sickness.

"What right do I have to do anything for me when there are people out there getting slaughtered?" Dean demanded. "Why the hell should I even think about doing something for me when people are dying because of things they have no control over?"

"Because people die every day from things they can't control! Because you can't save everyone and you don't have to do everything alone!" Eliot countered. The two were chest to chest and riled up. Eliot's team couldn't figure out what was more dangerous; let them fight or let Dean walk out if it came to it. Nate knew that soon, one or both would say something they would regret.

"Apparently I do have to do everything alone because that's just how everyone leaves me!" Dean's words hit Eliot like a slap in the face and he took a couple steps back. Dean's shoulders slumped and the fight drained out of both men. The tension in the air dissipated.

"Dean –" Eliot started.

"You left me out there," Dean said, "alone." He looked at Eliot and they saw tears filling his still fevered eyes. "Sam left me a few times and then he never came back. He made it clear that he didn't want me around anymore." He shook his head and swayed a bit, but stayed standing. "You think I don't know that my dad leaves all the time and treats me like shit? You think I don't notice that he never stays with me?" Dean asked. "I always go back and always do what he wants me to do because maybe then he'll stop leaving." Tears were sliding down his face now. "Why does everyone keep leaving me?" he asked. "Am I that much of a screw up?" This time when Dean swayed, he did collapse, and Eliot caught him before he hit the ground. Eliot slowly moved to lean the young man up against the couch. Eliot sat beside him and let Dean rest his head against Eliot's shoulder. The heat pulsing off of Dean was discerning to say the least. Eliot let the man hold onto him like a tired man to coffee because he knew that his friend wasn't completely in his right mind. The fever was making everything seem even worse than it already was.

"It's okay, Dean," he said, rubbing the younger man's back. "You're not a screw up." Eliot said firmly. "You're not." Dean's labored breath was hot on Eliot's neck. He gave a little moan and surrendered to the exhaustion that was pulling him down. Eliot felt Dean relax against him as he passed out. Eliot didn't know what else to do except rub him comfortingly on his back. He hid his surprise when Parker came up to him and gently wiped Dean's forehead with the damp cloth. She sat beside Dean and continued to run the cloth over his neck and shoulders too.

"He's had a really hard life, hasn't he?" she asked. The room was silent, save for Dean's heavy breathing.

"Like way harder than ours?"

"Yeah," Eliot sighed, "Dean has had a very hard life, but he would give his last dollar to a stranger. The only thing he has that he wouldn't give up is his '67 Chevy Impala." Eliot smiled a little at the thought of Dean and his obsessive love for that car. "He loves that car like a person. Kinda makes sense since it's the only real home he ever had and it's been his only companion since Sam left him." He sighed. "He's right. I did leave him. We were working a case together in Seattle. We got split up and I gave up searching for him after a few weeks. A month after I left, he called me up and we met again. I'll never stop regretting my decision to leave him there." He shook his head. "Of course Dean forgave me right away, because that's just what he does." He sighed again and Parker put her hand on his shoulder.

"Dean is a good person. He's loud, lewd, crude, obnoxious, antagonistic, hedonistic, and extremely bull-headed, but he's also one of the kindest, most compassionate people I've ever met," Eliot remarked. "Dean has overcome things in his life that most people could barely comprehend. Dean has been a grown up since he was about five or six years old. He might act like a dumb high school drop-out, but he's a mechanical genius, he recognizes patterns in movement just by reading newspapers, and he is unbelievably resourceful."

"How old is he?" Nate asked.

"Twenty-three," Eliot said. "But he's been saving people's lives since he was about thirteen. He learned how to shoot when he was six, how to fight when he was seven, and how to hunt when he was eight. His dad trained him all of his life; that's one of the reasons why I haven't spoken to John since the first time we worked together. Dean went with him on the job, and it was a bad one. Dean got hurt, bad. He was laying there in a world of pain, moaning because it hurt that damn much, and John ordered him to stop complaining. Dean stopped and didn't make another sound. The kicker? He was unconscious from blood loss when John gave him the order. He was only a teenager at the time." They looked at the sleeping man in front of them and wondered just what his job was and why it was so dangerous.

A few hours passed and Dean was still sleeping. Eliot was still worried about Dean's fever, but had moved him back onto the couch. Eliot heard a sharp knock at the door and went to open it. There was only one person who should have been knocking at this time of night. He opened it to find a tall young man with a mop of long, light brown hair and very worried hazel eyes.

"And he teases me about my hair," Eliot remarked.

"Eliot," the man said, ignoring the joke.

"Sam." Eliot nodded, moving to let him in. He started walking to the room where Dean was, Sam following like the puppy Dean had always described him to be.

"So, how'd you find this place?" Eliot asked.

"Looked up all the bars in town with apartments and narrowed it down by what traffic sounded like and which ones were Irish. Knew you'd never be at one that wasn't Irish. Drove by the ones I narrowed it down to and went to the one with the Impala outside."

"And if you hadn't found us still?"

"Then I would have called."

"Answer for everything right?"

"Learned from the best." Sam shrugged.

"He is pretty good at that isn't he?" Eliot said lightly.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked, getting straight to the point.

"He's sick, fever. Injured, but I stitched him up and he should be fine," Eliot told him. At that point, they walked into the next room and Sam made a beeline for his older brother, ignoring everyone else in the room. He kneeled down next to the couch and pushed Dean's damp hair off of his forehead. Dean stirred at Sam's touch.

"S'mmy?" he slurred. His eyes were even duller with pain than they were before.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm here. I'm right here," Sam said gently.

"Wha' you doin' here?" Dean asked, his eyes drifting closed again.

"I came to help you," Sam said. "You don't seem to be doing too well."

"Doin' fine, Samantha." Sam shook his head and smiled involuntarily at his brother's jabs.

"Dean, about what I said before –" Sam started.

"Forget it." Dean sighed.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I shouldn't have said what I said and you have every right to hate me for it."

"I don't hate you," Dean said. He opened his eyes again. "I could never hate you; you're my little brother."

"Dean –"

"I carried you outta that fire; I took care of you when dad wasn't around; I taught you everything I know about the job and anything else you asked me about. It's my job to take care of you. I'm responsible for you and I always have been. It's my job to keep you safe. I've kept my eye on you since you left. I kept every bad thing I could away from you. I took care of you as much as I could. Why on earth would I take care of someone I hate?" Dean asked. His green eyes were filed with tears, but Sam didn't point that out because he knew Dean would blame it on his sickness.

"Because that's what you do. You take care of everyone," Sam said. "Go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up." Sam sighed. Dean gave him a small smile, and closed his eyes, giving Sam time to figure out how he could forgive himself for being stupid enough to let his brother walk out of his life. Dean's breathing deepened and the tension left his limbs. Sam grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over his older brother.

"Dad know he's here?" Sam asked, not taking his eyes off of Dean. He's always taken care of me, now it's my turn to take care of him.

"No," Eliot answered.

"Good." Sam nodded. He and John hadn't been able to stay in the same room with each other for quite some time now. Dean had always been the mediator and the arguments had worn on him so much over the years that, for a few months before Sam had left, he had started taking walks and coming back when he thought it was safe. He had told Eliot how much it bothered him to have the only family he had left fighting almost twenty-four-seven. Whenever his birthday came for the past couple years, there was only fighting and arguments because both had forgotten him while they were at each other's throats. The first birthday after Sam had left, Eliot had called around midnight, right after finishing a job. He'd waited till after he finished because he wanted to give Sam and John a chance, but from the sound of Dean's voice, rough and slightly slurred from the whiskey, they never even noticed. Bobby – an old family friend who Eliot wished had been Dean's father – had called, but his own flesh and blood had forgotten him. Sam at least seemed to feel bad about treating his brother this way. John simply handed him some cash and told him where the next job was.

That pissed Eliot off beyond belief, and he knew he wasn't the only one who felt like that. Sam had long since stopped believing that their dad was anything close to being a good father. Bobby certainly felt he had done a bad job, but always said that John just didn't know how to be a father without Mary, so he wasn't completely to blame. Bobby held onto the belief that John did as good was he was able to. He had also claimed Sam and Dean as "his boys", and would have done anything to keep them from growing up too fast. He was able to let Sam be a kid from the first day John had asked him to keep an eye on them, but Dean was a little tougher. He had eventually managed to get Dean to let himself go for a little while. He was certainly pleased with the outcome because Dean still had a little bit of kid in him.

Eventually, dawn was just on the horizon and Sam had started to doze while sitting on the floor and leaning against the couch. Dean's phone rang.

"Hello?" Eliot answered.

"Dean!" an angry voice spoke. "Where the hell are you? We agreed you'd be here long before now!"

"He's a little busy at the moment," Eliot growled.

"Who are you?"

"Spencer."

"Eliot, put Dean on the phone."

"He's busy. We got a job to do. It's gonna take a few weeks; it's a big one. You're just gonna have to do this one without him."

"Tell him that he better have one hell of an excuse for skipping out on me and not telling me that he was going to see you."

"He just finished a hunt last night. He came to see me cause he was in town," Eliot snapped. "You just sit back and be the deadbeat dad you've always been and let me take care of my brother," Eliot snarled viciously at him before hanging up. Thinking that John had tried to love his boys as best he could didn't make up for the way John was treating Dean as an adult and certainly didn't make up for creating the mindset in Dean's head that he didn't have any options when it came to leaving hunting behind. Eliot didn't like John, no matter how hard he might have tried to do what was right by his boys; kids weren't supposed to grow up knowing how to kill things with their bare hands, and Dean had definitely learned that at a young age.

"Still as charming as ever," Eliot muttered to no one in particular. Hardison was hard at work on their "fraud hunt" as he was now calling it. Sophie was deciding which character she wanted to play in their con. Nate was drinking (shocker) and Parker was watching over Sam and Dean, marveling at their close relationship and thinking about her own relationships with her team.

"Dad?" Sam asked. Eliot turned.

"Thought you were sleeping." He shrugged. Sam nodded.

"Dean was supposed to meet him somewhere, right?" Sam asked, already knowing the answer.

"Mhm."

"Soulless bastard."

"Too bad we aren't much better." Sam didn't have a response for that; he knew he had hurt Dean too over the years. They were silent for a moment.

"So, the stuff he wrote about mom…where is it?" Sam asked.

"You know the box in the trunk of the Impala where he always stashed his porn?"

"All too well; I wouldn't go near that box with a ten foot pole."

"It's in the bottom, in a black leather bag."

"He told me that bag is where he keeps his favorites."

"Dean isn't stupid. He didn't want you to look through it before he was ready to give it to you."

"He's disgusting."

"He knows you, Sam. He knew you'd never go near the stuff. He had to keep it safe." Eliot shrugged, trying to keep a grin off of his face at how well Dean knew Sam.

"I'll be back," Sam said, standing up and stretching out. He fished the keys out of Dean's jacket pocket and left the room. He returned a minute later with a black leather bag that had seen better days. He looked at Eliot before he opened it.

"If I pull out porn, I'm slapping you with it," he said.

"If you pull out porn we can both slap Dean with it for lying to me about where he hid those papers."

"Good deal." Sam nodded, opening the bag. He pulled out a stack of papers. A lot of them were filled with writing, but there were some drawings too. The woman in the sketches was beautiful and always smiling.

Except in one picture. One sketch, one drawn in painstaking detail, was of flames shooting from all around her as she was pinned to the ceiling, her mouth wide open in a silent scream. It was drawn in such a way that Sam knew that it was forever ingrained in Dean's memory.

"My God," Sam breathed, covering his mouth with his hand.

"I didn't know he saw her die." To think that his brother had carried this memory around all this time, it made Sam feel sick. The picture was only done in pencil and made Sam wonder. He wondered how he hadn't known Dean could draw; how he hadn't realized how much it must have hurt Dean just to think of their mother when the last he saw of her was this awful image of her death; how he hadn't realized he was pushing away the one person who would never stop loving him no matter what he chose to do with his life. He put down the pictures and picked up the pages with writing. He read through the detailed accounts of his mother written in Dean's blocky, straight handwriting. He read the memories of picnics in the park, classic rock lullabies, and lots of baking. When he finished reading, he didn't even try to stop the tears streaming down his face. These happy memories of a life stolen from under his brother made Sam realize why Dean always told Sam that he wouldn't leave the job, why he always insisted Sam should leave the job. Dean didn't want the normal life that Sam wanted because he didn't want to chance losing it a second time. He went back over to his brother and sat back down on the floor in front of the couch. He pushed the damp blond hair off of Dean's fevered forehead. Without waking up, Dean turned his head towards Sam. Sam laid his head next to Dean's arm and closed his eyes.

When he woke up, Dean felt better. His chest didn't feel so tight, and he wasn't shivering anymore. His head felt clearer and he felt like he was more in control of himself. He looked over and saw Sam leaning against his arm. He smiled and closed his eyes again as Sam yawned and started to wake up.

"Mornin', sleepin' beauty," Dean drawled.

"Mhm," Sam moaned, stretching his long arms out. He yawned again.

"Feelin' better?" Sam asked.

"Much." Dean sighed, grinning at his not-so-little little brother. Sam put his hand on Dean's forehead just long enough to know that the fever was gone before Dean smacked his hand away.

"So he's feelin' like himself again?" another voice called out.

"Yeah, he'll be back to his stubborn, asshole, self soon enough."

"He is right here, and he is gonna kick both of your asses," Dean growled, glaring at both Sam and Eliot. Eliot laughed.

"Made breakfast for you boys," he said.

"Awesome," Dean grunted, getting up. He pushed Sam's hand away when Sam tried to help him up. Sam sighed at his brother's refusal to accept help.

Once he'd had some coffee, Dean was more awake and less grumpy. Eliot was washing the dishes when Sam broached the subject of leaving for Stanford.

"I have to be back in a few days," he said. Dean, who had been joking and smiling and laughing all morning, frowned slightly. He had been happy just minutes before and Sam couldn't remember the last time he had seen Dean happy.

"I figured," Dean sighed.

"But there was something I wanted to ask you."

"Shoot."

"Will you come with me?"

Silence.

"What?" Dean asked. Eliot held his breath.

"Come with me, to Stanford. I have an apartment, you could get a job on campus or nearby, you wouldn't have to hunt and I wouldn't have to worry about you never coming home," Sam pleaded.

"Come on, Dean. You can't tell me that you never wanted to get out of the life."

"I can't let people die Sam."

"Then you could keep your hunting to a certain area around Stanford. Lots of hunters stick to a certain area."

"Sam –"Dean started. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Eliot knew what was coming.

"Please, Dean. I can't leave you again. Do you have any idea how hard it was to walk away the first time?"

"Looked pretty easy to me." Dean said quietly.

"It killed me, but I had to go. I was so worried about you and I wanted to call about twenty times a day, but I knew that, if I did, and you said you needed help…I would have come back and I wouldn't have been able to leave you a second time. I wouldn't have hesitated if you had asked me to come back. You are the only thing I missed when I left, but I couldn't go back. Ignoring you was the most difficult thing I've ever done aside from leaving, but I couldn't take the chance that you would call when you were hurt or needed my help because I would have gone to wherever you were and I wouldn't have been able to leave again." Dean just stared into his coffee.

"I'm begging you, Dean. I want you to meet my friends. I want you to meet my girlfriend who already feels like you're family to her. I want you to have a life that doesn't revolve around killing people's nightmares for a living. I want you to be happy and to have the family we never really experienced on the road. Please, come with me." Dean was still silent and Eliot willed him to agree, to leave their dad and find people who wouldn't take advantage of his loyalty and who actually knew how to love him back. Dean looked up at Sam, thus ending the discussion.

"Okay." Dean said. Eliot let out a breath, grinned, and silently thanked God for Sam's puppy dog eyes that Dean never could say no to.

"Thank you," Sam breathed.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, shrugging. "Hey! No more chick-flick moments or I might throw up."

"Jerk." Sam grinned.

"Bitch."

Three months later

"Hello?"

"Eliot?"

"Dean."

"Yeah, my dad come by?"

"Nah, I haven't heard from him," Eliot said.

"Wonder if he knows," Dean muttered.

"I think he probably should have guessed by now."

"He might have."

"You and Sam still coming out for Thanksgiving?" Eliot asked.

"Yeah, he's bringing Jess too."

"Great, I can't wait to meet her."

"She's so out of his league," Dean laughed.

"I bet," Eliot chuckled. "Maybe she just loves his brains."

"Yeah, that or his 'personality', whatever the hell that means."

"Are you gonna stop in and drag Bobby out of the cave he calls his junkyard?"

"Might as well; it's not thanksgiving without Bobby." Dean sighed, remembering that his father almost always dropped him and Sam at Bobby's for Thanksgiving.

"I gotta head into work soon." Eliot knew that Dean was smiling to himself at how different, how normal, that sounded for him.

"What job are you working tonight?" Eliot asked; Dean had told him that he had three jobs that he worked at different times.

"The bar; they love me there." Dean laughed. "Although they also love me at the diner and the nightclub," Dean said. He was not only a bartender, but a waiter (who got big tips thanks to his charming grins) and a bouncer (who frequently got to exercise by 'helping' rowdy patrons out the door).

"It's fitting." Eliot smirked as he looked around the bar he was sitting in, the bar Dean had been patched up in after a hunt; this was also the bar that had brought the Winchester brothers back together.

"Alright, I'll talk to you later," Eliot said. "See you in a couple of weeks, brother."

"I'll send a couple of chicks your way."

"You do that."

Eliot hung up and chuckled as he downed the rest of his scotch. They might not be blood, but, as Bobby might say, family don't end in blood.

FIN

Okay, so this took me quite a while to get typed up, but I had fun with it. I was in a car crash recently, and this provided a much needed escape from my own head.

Also, I love all of you, so show me some love by clicking that little favorite button and that little review button.

Peacing out, y'all.