A/N: I've been lurking in the SPN fandom for the past few months, but this is my first attempt at writing for it. Not my best work, but let me know what you think all the same. :) Reviews are greatly appreciated.

They were drunk. This alone was not a rarity for their type; hunters often took to drink to cope with their personal demons. But they weren't just drunk, they were so fucking wasted it was a miracle any of them were still able to sit up straight.

"And then I threw the match down that fucking hole and watched the bitch light up. Woosh!" Sean Collins threw back his arms, demonstrating the flames.

Bobby Singer and Rufus Turner laughed heartily before turning back to their drinks.

"C'mon, kid, it was just a salt 'n burn," Bobby was still chuckling. "You make it sound like you saved the world or some shit."

"Hell, man, maybe I did," Sean shot back, shrugging slightly. "Nobody really knows what the fuck ghosts are doing anyway."

"All I know is that when shit goes down, we gotta clean up the mess," Rufus added.

"Ain't that the truth?" Bobby raised his glass in a toast, the other two hunters meeting him in the middle.

"Hell yeah," Sean added before knocking back the last of his whiskey.

The three men fell silent for a minute.

"Best hunter you ever met?" Sean suddenly asked.

"The fuck kinda question is that?" Rufus questioned, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening.

"I dunno; you two are the only guys I actually know in the business. It'd be nice to know who else knows what they're doing." Sean shrugged again.

Time seemed to drag when neither of the older men answered him, and for a minute, Sean that they wouldn't.

"Winchester," Bobby suddenly piped up.

"John? C'mon, Bobby, the man's good, but he's got some kind of a death wish." Rufus shook his head. "He's gonna get himself and somebody else killed."

"Not John, ya idjit," Bobby shook his head angrily. "Dean Winchester."

"John's kid?" Rufus's voice didn't lose its disbelieving tone; if anything, it grew stronger. "The boy's barely 18!"

"You've never even met Dean, let alone hunted with him!" Bobby shot back. "There's a reason our dear buddy John hasn't gotten himself killed yet."

Rufus opened his mouth as though to reply, but seemed to rethink it.

Throughout the exchange, Sean had gone from bemused to confused, his head whipping back and forth between the older hunters.

"Wait, who the hell is Dean Winchester?"

The elder hunters stopped their bickering and turned towards the younger man simultaneously.

"Dean Winchester is the best man I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, and the best hunter, too," Bobby said softly after a moment. "That boy's going to save the world one day – I'd bet my hat on it." If Sean was a more insightful man, and perhaps a bit less drunk, he may have noticed the slightly sad tone that accompanied the statement. As it were, he barely caught the trailing words – "…even if it costs him his life."

When the three hunters would wake up the next morning slumped over on the table, glasses still in hand and heads throbbing painfully, none would speak of the night's conversation. They would simply nod and grunt and pass around a bottle of aspirin before going their separate ways.

As the years passed and Sean became a more seasoned hunter and developed contacts and allies outside of Rufus and Bobby, he would hear stories and rumors about Dean Winchester. Things that would make him laugh and things that would make him cringe. Things that he would accept as truth and others dismiss as exaggeration or outright lies. A decade would pass, and Dean Winchester would become more legend than man, tales passed from hunter to hunter over a bottle of Jack.

Sean heard that Dean died, at least a dozen times. He heard that he'd been to hell and back, rescued by angels to stop the Apocalypse. One hunter told him that Dean himself was an angel, sent by Heaven itself to kill the Devil. Another said that Dean let the Devil loose in the first place. People said his best friend was an angel named Castiel, and that they went to Purgatory together. These were the stories Sean would dismiss as fiction.

He saw Dean and Sam Winchester's faces splashed across the television – FBI's Most Wanted. Sam was reported killed twice, but Dean's total reached three. Sean figured they faked their deaths. He heard that Dean drove a near mint '67 Impala and that he was a damn fine shot. These were the things that Sean would accept as truth.

There were very few stories that didn't include Dean's brother, Sam, but Sean only ever remembered the things about Dean. Ever since Singer's drunken confession, he'd always been curious about the eldest Winchester son. Wondered if he really lived up to the hype. Doubted it.

Over a decade passed, and Sean got old and ugly and mean, as hunters do. Scars and wrinkles lined his once smooth face, only slightly hidden by a growth of wiry beard. He was only in his forties, but, God, did he feel eighty. He killed every fugly he could, but some would get away, and he would get tired and angry. Revenge and grief could only drive a man so far. He turned to the only medicine hunters would ever really rely on.

It was that cold October night in Bumfuck, New Mexico when he had turned to his old pall Jack for a good old fashioned hunter's cure that Sean Collins would finally meet the legendary Dean Winchester.

The Roadhouse hadn't been the only hunter's bar in the US, but it had been the most popular. After it burnt down, hunter's had to go out looking for a new favorite haunt. Sean had made his the Hunter's Lodge. The name was a bit much for him, and it threw off the passersby, who couldn't fathom what one would be hunting in the middle of the desert. A lot of the hunters, Sean included, got a kick out of seeing the 'brave' travelers saunter in as though they owned the place only to scurry out seconds later, once they had seen the patrons.

The patrons of the Hunter's Lodge and every other hunter's bar all looked the same. They tended to be big, scarred, wrinkled, dirty, crude, and unwelcoming – hunters. So when Sean heard the doors open and in strode this stranger, he took stock of the name – 6', not huge, unscarred, early 30s, attractive to the point of being pretty, relatively clean – he prepared himself for the usual reaction.

To his mild surprise the stranger did not lose his confident stance and bolt for the doors, but instead calmly examined the room and its occupants. A slight smirk made its way to the stranger's face, and made his way over to the bar… right beside Sean Collins.

"Can I get a whiskey? Double." The stranger said to the bartender. "Thanks, man."

Sean kept a watch on the man beside him from the corner of his eye. Though the stranger looked casual, relaxed, Sean could see how tightly the man held himself, how his eyes stayed put on the mirrored wall behind the bar, subtly keeping an eye on those behind him. This close to him, Sean could see that though his red leather jacket was clean, it was also well worn and covered with a latticework of scratches and marks. The lines on the man's face weren't deep, but the stranger's eyes were hard. Something about his expression reminded Sean of a cornered wolf.

"Last person who eyed me like that, I ended up getting laid," the stranger suddenly spoke, turning towards Sean.

Sean blinked in surprise but quickly recovered; he thought he was being subtle. "You haven't even bought me dinner, stranger. You ain't getting lucky tonight."

The stranger smirked again. " 'S alright. This bar doesn't exactly have a wide variety of women to pick from. I'll just bring my old buddy Jack home tonight."

The corner of Sean's mouth lifted slightly. "Haven't seen you around here."

The stranger nodded, hearing the unspoken question. What are you doing here? "Just passing through."

Sean quirked up an eyebrow. He couldn't decide if this stranger was a gusty traveler or a working hunter. What are you doing here?

"Heard it was a nice place to hunt around here," the stranger added after a beat of silence. "Plenty of game." The stranger's stony eyes seemed to light up with barely disguised amusement. He was enjoying fucking with Sean.

Sean narrowed his eyes at the stranger. "Ain't you a little young to be a hunter?"

The stranger hummed, his expression still amused. "Aren't you a little old?" Sean heard the implication; most hunters didn't make it to his age. " 'Sides, Grandpa, I'm thirty something, not a kid."

"A young thirty something – you look like you're barely out of diapers," Sean shot back. It was a lie, but who gave a fuck?

The stranger smiled again, but his expression had changed; it was almost wistful. "How long you been doin' this gig, Gramps? What, like ten years?"

"Closer to fifteen."

"I've been on this job almost twenty-five years."

Sean blinked in shock. How old did this guy say he was? The stranger barked out a laugh at his expression.

"What's your name? Or should I keep calling you Gramps, Gramps?" The stranger changed the subject quickly. Gone was the wistful sadness, replaced once more by the bitter amusement.

"Collins. Sean Collins," he replied, holding out one hand. The stranger smiled and shook it heartily.

"Pleasure, Sean Collins. I've just gotten back from a bit of a… trip. I'm feeling celebratory, and my buddy's running late. Let me buy you a drink."

"Where was this trip to?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Time ticked by and the two men talked about nothing and everything. Girls they had slept with, places they had been, pranks they had pulled. The one subject they didn't touch was hunting. Monsters went unmentioned, and Sean found he enjoyed the feeling of normalcy, bullshitting with somebody over drinks. For the first time in over a decade, Sean wondered what life would've been like if he hadn't gone after the vampires that had killed his family. If the vampires hadn't come at all. His chest ached with loss.

"I'm serious man – itching powder in his underwear. He fell for a classic," the stranger smiled genuinely. It looked out of place on him, as though he wasn't quite sure what happiness really felt like.

Sean felt his aching heart go out to the younger man. If he were being honest about how long he'd known about the things that went bump in the night, the stranger would've never had a real childhood, would've never happy memories of picket fences and Sunday dinners to draw upon in his darkest moments.

The stranger and Sean both turned when they heard the doors open again. This newcomer was even more out of place than Sean's new drinking buddy. A tattered dirty trench coat hung from his narrow shoulders, barely concealing what appeared to be scrubs. His dark hair was unkempt and stubble covered his jaw. His head was tilted slightly to the right, and he looked incredibly confused, reminding Sean of his youngest son for a painful second.

"Cass! Be there in a minute," The stranger called out, waving at the confused man. "Well, that's my cue," the stranger set down his half-finished glass. "It'd been nice drinking with you, Sean Collins." He held out his hand.

Sean took it and shook it slowly. The stranger went to meet the newcomer at the doors, but Sean didn't release him. The stranger turned back, looking slightly confused.

"What did you say your name was again?"

His expression cleared, and the stranger smiled a little bit. "I didn't." Sean narrowed his eyes but let the stranger go. "It's Dean."

Sean blinked in surprise as he watched Dean walk away. He shook his head slightly.

Dean…as in Dean Winchester? Cass… as in Castiel?

" 'm not nearly drunk enough to think this through." Sean muttered under his breath.

Sean left the bar only a few minutes later, the two strangers on his mind. He wondered where exactly the trip Dean had spoken of had taken him. He wondered if any of the rumors he'd heard were true. He thought back to the stranger at the bar as he sat in his beat up Chevy truck. Wondered about the marks he'd seen on the leather, wondered about the steel he'd seen in the man's eyes.

Sean decided maybe some things were better left as stories. For once in his life, Sean decided maybe he didn't need to know the truth.