Standing in line between a drag queen named Georgia and two rapid talking women in bright pink all while holding a heavy garment bag, Dean was pretty sure he was going to pass out from heat and boredom before he even got to the part of the line that was indoors.

It was mid April in Kansas, and by all rights it should have still been nice and cool outside, but Mother Nature evidently hated fashion designers and everything they stood for- no pun intended. The sun beat down on them, shining off the dark pavement in a way that would no doubt end in sunburn; and yet somehow Georgia was still dressed to the nines, in a full wig, heavy makeup, and a dress that had more fabric in it than the fabric store nearest to Dean's house. And probably that many kinds of fabric, too.

He had to ask himself why he was even here again, despite the fact that he'd already asked himself that question about seventy times. The answer was the same every time: money. Well, mostly. He pulled out his phone (he was surprised he had battery left, after checking it so often) and read the text message again, partly to keep himself from abandoning his spot in the slowly crawling line. Bet you two hundred bucks you couldn't get your toe in the door on that show, the text said, and Dean didn't know where Sam would even get two hundred dollars when he was a broke law major, but that hardly mattered. A bet was a bet, and he didn't have anything to lose, especially not with a round of auditions being held right in Topeka this year.

He was certain he wouldn't be getting those two hundred dollars though, either. He'd only watched a few episodes of All Star Design, but he was still convinced they were looking for the kind of people who used fifty yards of silk chiffon in one dress and then stuck a goose on the model's head and called it 'avant garde' or some shit. They weren't looking for a guy who routinely injected leather and plaid into formal outfits just for the sake of being contrary.

He lifted his gaze from the phone when he heard voices murmuring farther up the line, and he leaned out a little to look ahead. There were two people coming down the line, a man in a suit holding a clipboard, and a woman in a severe looking jacket and pencil skirt. She leaned forward, two fingers holding a strip of fabric from someone's work up ahead, gripping it as if it were some disgusting slimy eel instead of stretch knit. She dropped it with a sneer, and then continued down the line- and occasionally when she stopped to talk to someone, that someone would slink out of the line looking dejected.

The first cut was evidently happening before they even got to the first set of judges. And judging by this lady's outfit and facial expression, Dean was pretty certain he'd be one of those people taking the walk of shame back to their car.

"Oh, boy, don't you worry," Georgia said upon seeing the look on his face. She clapped a huge hand on his shoulder in what was probably meant to be a reassuring gesture but was more bone-jarring. "You're a pretty little thing, you ain't gettin' cut on the first round."

"Uh…thanks?" Dean said, though he wasn't sure it was a compliment, because he really didn't want to make it onto the show just to be the eye candy that gets kicked off first.

Not that he really wanted on the show at all. He would be stuck living with a bunch of elitist couture obsessed pricks for weeks on end, trying to please judges that seemed to have wildly varying standards of what constituted fashion. But hey, he would get two hundred dollars and maybe a boost to his business if he made it a round or two in. Plus a free trip to New York; like hell was he visiting New York City without squeezing in a visit to the Manhattan Car Club.

The woman was making quick work of weeding people out as the line moved forward, and not many people tried to argue with her. Before Dean could even prepare an explanation in his mind for his pieces, something that sounded like he at least somewhat knew what he was doing, she was talking to the woman in front of him. She only took moment to eye the wig skeptically and glance at the garments, her features pinched with disdain as she moved on to Dean.

"Good face," she said, studying Dean like he was at a modeling casting call instead of a designing competition. "Open the bag."

He fumbled to pull the zipper down on the garment bag, and she didn't even wait on him to fully unzip it. She tugged at the flap to see inside, grabbing at the black leather jacket sleeve and pulling it out to look at the seam.

"Good looking and a decent seam. You stay," she said, already moving on to the women behind him. Dean blinked in surprise, his mouth still open from being about to explain the inspiration for the jacket.

"Told you," Georgia said, her southern twang sneaking into her voice. "First cut they're gettin' rid of the unfortunate looking and the ones who can't sew in a straight line. Though, if you're pretty enough, they might let the sewin' pass for now."

Dean chuckled nervously. "You know way too much about all this."

"Tends to happen when this is your fifth season tryin' out," Georgia said with a shrug, though the tone wasn't of the expected disappointment or sadness- just determination. Dean raised an eyebrow, shuffling forward again as the line moved; they were almost to the glass doors of the hotel now.

"Five seasons? You've got more patience than me," he said, and Georgia snorted.

"These wigs aren't cheap, honey," she said, and they were interrupted as another person came down the line with a stack of stickers and a clipboard. She got to Dean and slapped a sticker on the front of his shirt with the number 181 on it.

"Name?" she asked, and she jotted it down on the clipboard as quick as he said it before moving on. It was like a designer assembly line, rolling toward the ballroom of the hotel where the judging was set up. Although he imagined that normal assembly lines didn't have the sound of sobbing thrown in when someone was tossed from the line. He distinctly heard the woman saying to someone farther back "Honey, just go home," her tone practically screaming pity.

Talk about humiliating. He was glad that wasn't him.

Dean had to wonder just how receptive the judges would be after seeing 180 other designers before him. Not to mention the designers that had gotten through because of a 'good face' and not the samples they were carrying- they had to hate seeing those come through the doors. Then again, the first round judges were probably production people who were just looking for the insanely talented and the…well, insane. They always seemed to have that one person each season who seemed to be there just to cause friction.

Once they passed that preliminary check and got numbered, things went fairly quick. The line passed by a table where the filled out applications were turned in, and then they were finally fed into a giant room and sat down in groups, left to wait and listen to numbers being called. When he sat down, the first number he heard called was 164.

It would be a long wait. The time taken with each designer varied wildly; he saw one guy go in with dresses made of just feathers, and he was back out the door in less than thirty seconds, and he looked really angry about it. Another girl was in the room for over ten minutes, as if the judges couldn't decide about her. Most designers disappeared and reappeared in about five minutes, though, so he guessed he had at least an hour and a half wait.

At least he was sitting down in air conditioning now, the garment bags draped over the back of his chair as he studied the other people in the room. Some people were still finishing seams and adding embellishments, sitting on the floor with needle in hand, and he could only cringe at seeing some of the things they'd made. The room was full of ruffles and sequins and feathers and other things that should never have been attached to fabric or worn. Ever. He was pretty sure there was a rabbit skin just glued to the back of one dress.

At the same time, there were some that looked like they were pulled right out of a Versace show, people in perfectly pressed suits and complicated dresses. It was a good reminder that he was just some self-taught part time mechanic from Kansas who happened to have an eye for unique fashion. These judges would laugh him out of the room the second he unzipped that garment bag.

It only made it worse, watching the people leaving the judging room. Most of them didn't look happy- and some looked downright devastated. The whole time he waited, he only saw one person leave that room with a smile, and she didn't look completely sane.

"You look just about as lost as me in all this," a voice said, and Dean turned to look just as a pretty blonde dropped into the chair next to his. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy low bun, but he could tell she was good already, if she made what she was wearing- the shirt had amazing detailing on it, the stitches curved into elegant, subtle designs and the appliqué flawless.

"Yeah. I really am," he said with a laugh, holding out his hand. "I'm Dean."

She laid her garment bag across the back of the chair and shook his hand with a cheerful smile. "Jo Harvelle."

"You feel like you'll make it?" he asked, leaning back in his seat as another girl left the judging room crying into her sleeve. Jo shrugged.

"Don't know. Maybe? I don't really know what to expect. I've never watched the show, that's my mom's thing."

"You probably want to marathon a season if you make it through. Last season they made the designers make cocktail dresses out of stuff from a pet store," Dean said, shaking his head. "Never thought Frisbees and leashes could turn out looking like a red carpet piece."

Jo laughed. "Yeah, she did warn me about that stuff. She said, and I quote, 'Joanna Beth, you grew up on a farm, and you damn well better know how to make a dress out of corn husks and horseshoes'." Dean grinned, because he would bet that her mom said exactly that, and it was probably the perfect tone of voice, too.

"Well, if they ask us to make something out of car parts, I'll be in my element," he said, and Jo studied him head to toe.

"Really? You're not just playing the bad boy angle with that look?"

Dean put on a hurt look. "You don't like my look? I'm crushed."

"Yeah, because oil stains as so couture these days," she teased, and Dean looked down at the smear of motor oil on his jeans. Maybe she had a point, but looking for a pair of jeans that wasn't torn or stained in his apartment was like looking for the holy grail in a pile of shit; hopeless, and a messy endeavor.

They fell into easy conversation over a game of Go Fish. Jo had the infinite wisdom to pack a few things in her bag to keep herself entertained- unlike Dean, who had to turn around a few blocks from his apartment to go back and grab his portfolio. Her sticker read 188, so she would be going in after him, and he figured he'd give her a heads-up about the judges in return for the company.

He didn't feel ready at all when his number got called. He stood and grabbed his garment bag with trembling hands, cursing Sam for making him do this in the first place, because he could already hear the ridicule that was sure to come. Jo smiled at him, shuffling the deck with practiced ease.

"Good luck. You better not walk out of there crying," she said, and Dean rolled his eyes and headed for the two people standing by the door wearing production badges.

He wasn't even at the door before one of them was grabbing his arm and ripping the number sticker off his shirt. "Okay, just go in, give them your portfolio, and answer any questions truthfully. And don't look at the camera, just pretend it's not there," the woman said, and Dean nearly tripped.

"Camera?" he repeated, but she was already opening the door and pushing him through. He stumbled in and the first thing he saw was the giant camera hoisted on a guy's shoulder, pointed right at the door – crap, he'd already looked at it- and the second thing he saw was the table where the three judges sat waiting. Two of them he definitely recognized; the first was Bela Talbot, the winner of the last season of All Star Designer and self proclaimed 'genius bitch' (she lived up to the name). The second was Tim Gunn, mentor to the contestants and probably the least frightening person on the show. Dean always wondered if Tim really was that calm and collected, or if he was putting on a sympathetic show.

"Come on in!" Tim called out, and Dean was so used to hearing that voice over TV speakers that it was surreal to hear it in the same room as him. He took a deep breath and stepped up to the table, trying to ignore the camera as he dug his portfolio out of his ragged backpack.

"Well, aren't you just a picture of fashion?" Bela said, her voice practically dripping sarcasm as she studied him head to toe. Dean had kind of been expecting it, though; he was supposedly a 'fashion designer', and here he was, strolling in wearing torn jeans, a faded ACDC t-shirt, a beat up leather jacket, and combat boots.

"Skirts don't fit me so well," he pointed out, and she smirked at him, taking his binder when he held it out. Score one for Dean- not frazzled by Bela's passive aggressive insults.

"Well, I'm Tim Gunn, this is Bela Talbot, and this lovely woman is Marina Hatcher, one of our executive producers," Tim said, gesturing to each in turn. "Tell us who you are and what you do."

Dean tried to talk, found that his mouth was way too dry, and he swallowed hard and tried again to force some words out. "I'm, uh…I'm Dean Winchester, and I'm a mechanic."

All three of them gave him an odd look at that, and he could have kicked himself; they probably meant 'what do you do' as in 'what's your design aesthetic' or something. Marina scratched something down on her notepad, and Tim frowned. "A mechanic?" the man said, his tone one of heavy skepticism.

"Well, I mean, I work as a mechanic most of the time, cause prom dresses don't pay the bills," he said with a shrug as Bela passed his portfolio down the table to Tim. It wasn't exactly an amazing portfolio, not like the embossed custom leather books some people out there had. No, his was a beat up black plastic school binder from Walmart, the pictures shoved into clear plastic sleeves. Nonetheless, he thought there was a pretty good range of stuff in there; he'd done a few wedding dresses, a ton of prom dresses (half of which weren't in there because teenagers request some god awful stuff), and other random outfits he'd made.

"What did you bring with you?" Bela asked, nodding at his garment bag, and he hung it up on the hanger rack that stood by the judging table and unzipped it. Feeling both the judges' eyes and the camera lens focused in on him, he took out the three garments and took them back to the table, handing them over one at a time.

"This is a, uh…a leather jacket I made, it's pretty form fitting. I did some zipper details, and the belt along the bottom, and then I took some saddle soap and sandpaper to it and ran it over a few times," he explained, all his well-planned descriptions failing him as he watched Tim and Bela look over the jacket. Bela looked horrified, though.

"Ran it over? With a car?"

"Well, technically a truck. Gives it character."

Bela still looked a little disturbed as she looked back down at the jacket. After recovering from his method of distressing the leather, though, their eyes gave nothing away as Tim nodded and passed it down the table to Marina. Dean realized Bela was waiting on him, and he fumbled to detangle the next piece, all black suspenders and metal rivets and grommets.

"This was for a girl's senior prom. She wanted something punk rock and told me to go crazy, so…yeah," he said with a shrug, passing the black taffeta and cotton dress across the table.

"You do a lot of prom wear?" Marina asked, eyeing him critically, and Dean nodded.

"Kansas isn't exactly Rodeo Drive. I don't have my own shop to sell from, so most of the commissions I get are by word of mouth for special occasions," he explained with obvious regret. Not that he would want to be clothing the Kardashians or whatever, but the endless ruffles and ribbons of school dances got seriously trying after a while.

"Did you create these yourself?" Tim asked, pointing to the back of the gown, where he had inserted cutouts in the shape of wings and lined them with metal to match the grommets- the girl originally wanted actual feathered wings, but thank God he talked her out of that and into something that wouldn't make her look like a bad Hot Topic outfit.

"Yeah. I'm at the shop all day, so I have access to all the tools there. I like to experiment. And I've only set the place on fire once," he said with no lack of pride- and Marina paled a little.

Yeah, maybe they didn't want people who were a fire risk around their 50 dollar a yard fabric.

"And just why do you want to be on All Star Designer? What makes you believe you would excel?" Bela asked, reaching for his last garment, which was a silk navy and grey draped gown- not his usual style, but he knew walking in here with one type of clothing wouldn't be smart. That and the kid's parents had paid him a shitload of money for that dress, so he'd been able to get the best fabric he could find instead of a cheap knockoff.

"Well, my brother bet me two hundred dollars I wouldn't make the cut, and that would buy a whole lot of alcohol," he said, but when they didn't laugh, he shifted awkwardly and quickly kept talking. "But it would be nice to have my own shop to sell new stuff. I'm really tired of prom dresses."

Tim leaned over and murmured something to Bela as they studied the woven cords of fabric that crisscrossed at the shoulders and back of the dress. Marina was writing something down, the camera was focused right on him, and the silence was stifling; he was waiting for the 'thanks but no thanks' or the 'we don't bring mechanics that run over garments onto fashion shows' or something of the sort.

Tim straightened up and looked at Dean with a smile. "You know, you've got some real talent here. And without any formal training on your application, either. Your point of view is very unique," he said, and Dean couldn't help but straighten up a little and smile, because really? How often do normal people get a compliment like that from Tim Gunn? Show or no show, he could go home happy now. Maybe have the quote done in needlepoint and framed.

"Thank you," he managed, though that felt weak in comparison to the compliment. Marina looked at Tim, and they seemed to manage to have a conversation without a single word actually being spoken before Tim looked back at Dean.

"Congratulations. We'd like to move you on to the last phase of auditions," he said, and for a moment Dean stood shock still, because he was still processing what he'd heard. It was impossible. Maybe this was a candid camera thing, maybe it was all a set up by Sam to get back at him for the whole Nair in the shampoo bottle debacle.

But as far as he knew, Sam couldn't afford to pay Tim Gunn off for a prank.

"Really?" he said, his heart thudding in his chest as Tim nodded and handed his garments back to him.

"Really. We'd like to see more," he explained, taking a paper from Marina and holding it out. "We'd like you to make a biography video, between 2 and 3 minutes long. Show us your workspace, your family, your inspiration, and some more of your work, and tell us why we should bring you out to New York. The email address to send it to is on here, and you've got two weeks to turn it in."

Dean had just finished haphazardly stuffing the garments back into the garment bag, and he took the paper, trying to keep his hands steady as he glanced it over.

"Wow. This is…thank you. I really can't thank you enough," he said, stopping to shake all their hands before picking up his portfolio and heading for the door. He nearly tripped over his own garment bag as he left the room, feeling lightheaded and a little giddy, like those teenage girls acted on prom night.

He was in the last phase of auditions. They actually liked him. Tim Gunn liked his work. It seemed fantastical, like he imagined the whole thing, but the instruction paper for the video was still clutched tight in his hand.

Jo was waiting not far away, and she lit up when she saw him. "I'm guessing it went well?" she asked, and Dean nodded, still feeling dumbstruck.

"Yeah. I'm in the last round. They actually liked it," he said, as if he couldn't believe his own words. She grinned at him.

"I had a feeling they would. Who's in there, anyway?"

"Tim, one of the producers, and Bela," he said, and Jo frowned.

"Wait, Bela as in 'my mom wanted to call the network and chew them out for letting such a manipulative bitch win the whole thing' Bela?"

"That'd be the one," Dean asked, expecting her to wince or something, because Bela's reputation definitely preceded her- but instead, Jo squared her shoulders with a smirk.

"This'll be fun. Hopefully I'll see you in New York," she said, and Dean hesitated a moment.

"Want me to stay till they call you? I don't mind."

"No, go on, get outta here. Waiting around is a bitch," she said, and Dean gave her a sincere 'good luck' before he headed for the door. He really did hope that she would get through to the show- she was spunky. She was the kind of girl who would meet a contestant like Bela and make them eat their own words the whole season.

Obviously his giddiness was showing as he made his way past the line to the exit, because he got more than a few scowls and a few half-hearted congratulations. He was running on autopilot up until he stepped out into the afternoon heat, when he realized that he sort of needed to put his portfolio away and get his keys out if he planned to actually drive home.

But first, he was going to call Sam and gloat.

Life went back to normal after that. Dean made the video with the help of Garth, a scrawny coworker who nonetheless was a damn good mechanic, and once he sent it off he tried to forget about it. He didn't want to stress over something so unlikely, so farfetched; he didn't even tell his boss at the shop about it. Bobby would have gotten a kick out of the idea of Dean auditioning for some TV show. He would never hear the end of it.

It got easier to forget about it as the weeks passed with no word. By the middle of May he'd completely written it off, getting back into the rhythm of working at the shop in the morning and spending the afternoon working on a few graduation party gowns he'd been commissioned to do. He figured the whole thing would be a nice story to tell- remember that time when Tim Gunn said I had real talent? Yeah, that was a great time.

So when his cell phone rang while he was on a creeper under the front end of a Mitsubishi, he wasn't expecting anything exciting. He flipped it open and tucked the phone against his head, continuing to work even as he said a casual 'hello?' over the sound of a motor sputtering in the next bay.

"Hello, is this Dean Winchester?" an unfamiliar voice asked, and Dean paused, pulling his hands out of the car's guts and actually paying attention. If this was a sales call, he was going to be royally pissed.

"Yeah, that's me. Who are you?" he shot back.

"This is Marina Hatcher, executive producer of All Star Designer. We'd like to invite you out to New York."

Dean nearly hit his head on the underside of the car. "What?" he said, already shoving himself out from under the car, sitting up on the creeper and leaning back against the front bumper. He didn't hear that correctly. He couldn't have.

"You've made the final cut. We'd like you to come compete in New York," Marina said, and Dean's mind raced, trying to catch up with what he'd just heard.

They wanted him on the show. They wanted him to come to New York and compete on the show. He took a moment to pinch himself, knowing it was cliché, but this would be one hell of a cruel dream for his subconscious to dredge up.

"Wow. I, uh…sure. Yeah. I can do that," he said, the words coming out clumsy and stilted. Marina was all business, though; she was probably used to reactions that were less stupefied and more unbridled joy. She was probably grateful he didn't scream into the phone or something.

"Glad to hear it. We start filming on the 30th, so I'm going to have you fly in on the 29th. I'll email you your plane ticket and a guide on what to pack," she said, and he suddenly realized that she meant the 29th of this month. Not next month or the month after.

"That's like…two weeks," he said, a little panicked as he wondered how he was going to explain this to Bobby, if he had enough in his bank account to prepay a few months' rent, and hell, maybe he should pick up some new jeans too.

"Right. We like to get things moving in the summer when Brighton's School of Design is on the limited summer courses," Marina explained. "Everything will be in the email, alright? Have a look over it and email me back if you have any questions."

Garth was giving Dean a strange look, probably because Dean was equal parts terrified and elated, and it probably made for an interesting expression on his face as they said their goodbyes and hung up. He stared at the phone, replaying the whole conversation in his head, wondering if this part was some kind of prank- but no, Sam would've pulled this a lot sooner, not over a month later.

"Dean, you okay?" Garth asked, and he looked a little concerned now. Dean nodded, taking a deep breath.

"I'm okay. I'm good," he said, trying to convince himself as much as Garth. "I made it on the show."

"The show?"

It was beginning to set in, the excitement taking over as the disbelief left him. "All Star Designer. They just called. They want me on the show."

"Man, that's great! I love that show!" Garth said, pulling Dean into an exuberant hug like he did for nearly every good thing that happened in their lives. One time he hugged Dean for changing a light bulb. Seriously.

Now he needed to tell Bobby. And his mother. And Sam, too, because he wanted that two hundred dollars, thank you very much. And he needed to finish all his current commissions before he left. He had two weeks to press the pause button on real life before he had to fly out to New York. He had so much shit to do it wasn't even funny, and it all got dumped on his shoulders at once.

The worst part was the idea of a plane ticket, though. Maybe he could convince them to let him drive there.

They didn't let him drive.

When he stepped off the plane and onto solid ground, he still felt woozy and sick and not ready for any kind of competition. It was only the third time in his life he'd been on an airplane, and that was three times too many. He sat down for a few minutes just to get his bearings before he decided he couldn't put it off any longer; he headed for the baggage claim, where a driver was supposed to meet him. And also a camera crew.

They didn't sugar coat things in the guidelines they sent out. They pretty much wrote that other than a few hours in the middle of the night and the bathrooms, you were going to be on camera 24-7 for the entire time you were there. The cameras stayed till you were asleep, and were back before your alarm even went off.

He wasn't looking forward to that part.

He was, however, looking forward to meeting the other designers who had made it onto the show. They refused to give him names or anything, and though he knew it was a long shot, he seriously hoped Jo had made it. Then there would be at least one guaranteed tolerable person here with him.

Maybe Georgia even made it. Sixth time's the charm, right?

Probably not.

The moment he stepped through the security checkpoint, he spotted a blonde guy in a suit and slicked back hair holding up a card with his last name written in large block letters- as if he wouldn't notice the guy with him holding a giant camera. He steeled his will and took a deep breath, hiking his backpack higher on his shoulder as he walked over to them.

"Dean Winchester?" the man asked, and Dean nodded, eyeing the camera with trepidation. The cameraman smiled and gave a half wave, the top of his head maybe reaching Dean's collarbone. He was a small guy wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, his black hair styled into a Mohawk- pretty much the exact opposite of sign guy.

"That's me."

"Don't worry, it's not on yet. I need to get you miked up," the cameraman said as he set the camera down gingerly. He dug into his bag and pulled out a small black box and a ton of wire- a microphone. He hadn't thought about that. He would have to wear one of these things for weeks. Oh joy.

Dean's first foray with the TV experience was to have a total stranger stick his hand down the back of his jeans, then shove a hand under his shirt to hook up the battery pack, run the wire, and clip the microphone to the collar of his shirt. He was tempted to make some smart-ass comment about the guy not even buying him dinner first, but the suited man made his little obviously pre-planned speech as the cameraman worked.

"I'm your driver, Dave. We'll get your suitcase, then Nile here will get a shot of you walking out of the airport to the car, then you'll be camera free till we get to Saturn Apartments. Sound good?" he asked, and while it didn't sound particularly good, Dean nodded anyway- at least the camera wouldn't be on the whole ride.

"Just pretend the camera isn't here and you'll be golden. Only time you should ever look at the camera is in the confessional room," Nile said as he picked the camera back up.

It was a step beyond weird to have a camera pointed at him as he went to the baggage claim and retrieved his suitcase from the belt. It didn't help that the camera was grabbing attention, so not only was he on camera, but people were staring and trying to figure out who he was despite the fact that he wasn't anyone yet. Dean felt a whole lot better once they'd sat down in the back of the long black car, Nile fiddling with his camera beside him.

He tried to ask questions about the apartments and what they would be doing tonight, but Nile was tight lipped; he was evidently strictly forbidden to do anything more than discuss the weather with him, pretty much. Though he did find out that Nile had been a camera operator for the show since season three, which meant that he was definitely going to be looking for the Hawaiian shirt if he had any questions he thought the guy was actually allowed to answer.

It wasn't a boring ride, conversation or not; Dean watched out the window as they drove into the heart of the city, glass and steel buildings reaching up to the sky on either side of the street and every conceivable type of person walking the sidewalks. It seemed like the cab drivers had their own language made entirely out of honking and creative maneuvering. Dean was happy now that he didn't drive Baby up here- the cramped city streets and crazy drivers would have given him an aneurism.

They pulled to a stop beside a tall modern looking building, and Nile got out first, hoisting the camera back onto his shoulder as Dean got out and hauled his suitcase out of the trunk. He gave Nile a look, and the man shook his head.

"Not filming again yet. You've gotta go through the search and sign your last contracts," he said, and Dean sighed- he'd printed and signed and scanned what seemed like dozens of documents in the past two weeks. Releases, rules agreements, agreeing not to sue them for anything- they had it all covered.

David led him inside and to a conference room, where two production assistants- PA's, they were called- dragged his suitcase onto the table and started going through everything in it. He'd read the list carefully of things that weren't permitted, so all he really had were his clothes and his basic sewing kit- though he did feel a pang of regret when after he signed the last contract, they told him to hand his phone over.

No phones, no iPods, no magazines, no books- they weren't allowed to have anything that could connect to the outside world or that could keep them entertained enough to ignore their fellow competitors. After all, they wouldn't have nearly as much drama if everyone was off in corners reading or had headphones stuffed in their ears.

He just hoped they let him call home occasionally. They said use of the designer team cell phone was on a case-by-case basis, and that they probably wouldn't be allowed any calls at all for the first five weeks or so. They would be completely isolated.

He was beginning to understand why so many people seemed to lose it more and more as the competition went on.

"Alright, everything looks good!" one of the PAs declared, grabbing a key from a nearby table and holding it out. "You're in 15B, and you'll have two roommates to start with. One is already up there, so go ahead and get settled, and we'll get in touch once you're all here!"

She was far too cheerful about this. Dean thanked her and took the key, lifting his suitcase off the table and back onto the floor- and when he left the conference room, Nile was waiting in the lobby, the red light on his camera on.

Don't look at the camera. Right. He was already screwing up again.

He made his way to the elevator, Nile following alongside him as he stepped inside; he would never be used to just standing there, ignoring a camera that was pointed right at him, as if waiting for him to fall on his face. Which would end up getting aired if it happened, he had no doubt. Hell, last season a girl had an allergy attack and got shuttled off to the hospital, and the cameras covered a disturbing amount of that debacle. They thrived on pain and tears, he was sure of it.

The hallway of the fifteenth floor was dimly lit, with smooth white tile floors and light green walls. The plaque on the wall across from the elevator directed him to the right for his room, which was the second to last apartment from the end of the hall.

He stopped for a moment, staring at the silver '15B' hanging on the door; he was about to meet one of the people he'd be stuck here with for weeks. Maybe months, if both of them lasted that long. He could practically feel the camera lens at his shoulder as he turned the key and opened the door.

The apartment already looked nice at first glance, definitely nicer than his crappy one bedroom place back in Lawrence. To the right of the door there was a small kitchen with all the appliances, and past that a 'living room' space with two couches and a coffee table. The stand where the TV would normally sit was conspicuously empty, but that was no surprise. The floor was a light colored laminate wood, which was a nice contrast to the white walls with varying shades and sizes of green stripes running horizontally. Not overpowering, just a nice splash of color.

God, even his inner monologues sounded like designer talk already.

"Hello?" he called out, not sure if his roommate was in the bedroom to the right or the left, but he didn't have to wonder for long. The man who emerged from the right bedroom was slender, with messy dark brown hair, slight stubble, and striking blue eyes, the kind of eyes that managed to make Dean do a double take. He was wearing dark pants and a white button-up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off slightly tan skin and lean muscles.

Okay, Dean normally leaned more toward the feminine side of potential romance, but it felt like an anvil just got dropped on the 'gay' end of his Kinsey Scale.

"Sorry, I was unpacking," the guy said, his voice lower and rougher than Dean expected. He held out his hand, and Dean shook it firmly.

"No problem. Dean Winchester," he said, the camera hovering just behind him before Nile scooted over to get a good angle of both of them.

"Castiel Novak."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Castiel, huh?" he said, and the man chuckled and shook his head.

"I know, I know. You don't even have to say it," he said, and Dean left it alone for now, figuring that the poor guy probably got a lot of nosey questions about the weird name. "Both the bedrooms have two beds. You can wait till our third gets here to decide on a room, if you want."

Dean shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me. Just gonna be dumping my clothes into a drawer anyway," he pointed out, earning a strange look from Castiel, which didn't surprise him- after all, the guy looked like a walking menswear advertisement. The idea of just throwing a bunch of jeans and t-shirts into a suitcase and calling it good would probably horrify the poor guy.

Turned out, though, they didn't have long to wait. The door swung open, nearly hitting Dean's suitcase, and at first Dean was tempted to tell the guy he had the wrong apartment. He was pretty sure an Asian kid that didn't look a day over 18 wasn't here for All Star Designer, because the age limit was 21.

"Hi!" the kid said with a grin, dragging his suitcase in and kicking the door shut behind him. "You're my roommates, huh?"

"Guess so," Dean said, shaking the kid's hand; he had a surprisingly firm grip. "Dean Winchester."

"Castiel Novak," Castiel said, reaching past Dean to shake their roommate's hand.

"Kevin Tran," the kid said, dropping his duffel bag on the floor. Dean felt a little better now- sure, the kid was in a button-up too, but it was untucked and wrinkled from travel, and he was wearing jeans with it. Dean didn't feel like such a slob anymore.

"Are you seriously 21?" he asked, not able to help but wonder, and Kevin rolled his eyes- evidently he'd expected the question. Or had been dreading it. Either way.

"Turned 21 last week. Just in time," he said, just as there was the soft sound of an envelope sliding under the door. Kevin turned around and picked it up, the 'All Star Designer' logo standing out in gold on the front, and he nearly tore the envelope in his haste to get it open.

"Designers," he read, eyes skimming the letter with unbridled excitement. "Welcome to the Saturn Apartments. Please get settled in and then join Tim and Gabriel on the roof for a toast to our season 7 competitors."

That certainly moved things along. Kevin offered to share a room with Dean, and they made short work of getting unpacked before meeting Castiel in the living room. Dean was getting more anxious by the second to meet the designers he'd be competing against, and it was a great distraction from the constant hovering presence of the camera.

"Where are you guys from?" Kevin asked as they made their way to the elevator.

"Kansas," Dean said, and Kevin winced.

"Oh man. That's, uh…kind of the middle of nowhere, isn't it?" he asked and Dean laughed and shrugged.

"Guess so, but let me tell you, the Midwest has some amazing pie and damn good whiskey. I'm not suffering," he said as the three of them got into the elevator and Nile followed close with his camera. Dean punched the button for the roof, and then raised an eyebrow at Castiel.

"I'm from here. New York City," Castiel finally said, still standing stiff; every time he got pulled into conversation, he just seemed to be that much more awkward about it. Like he wasn't used to talking to people in the first place. But hey, all designers were kind of strange people, in his experience.

"I'm from Michigan. Step above Kansas, I think, but a few notches below New York City," Kevin said with a shrug, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans as the elevator rose. "Miss my girlfriend already, though."

Dean snorted. "You aren't gonna last long if you're already pining over it," he pointed out, and Kevin elbowed him.

"I'll last longer than you, for sure," he said playfully, and Dean smirked.

"We betting on that?"

"Isn't it a little premature to bet before you see his work?" Castiel asked, a hint of amusement to his tone. The elevator door slid open, and Castiel led the way to the roof access door as Kevin gave Dean a mischievous look.

"I'll bet the tab on an evening at a bar. I stay longer on the show, you cover my tab. You stay longer, and I'll pick yours up."

"Not sure you could afford my tab for one night of drinking."

"Please, I went to design school. I've seen 90 pound girls run up a tab that would kill a moose."

"A moose? Really, Kevin?"

Their banter had to stop when they stepped onto the roof, but that wasn't a bad thing- because the view was incredible. The sun was setting, casting the skyscrapers in a beautiful orange and yellow glow, slowly dipping into silhouette. He was used to sunsets where you could see miles in every direction, but this had its own kind of beauty, he had to admit.

The view had to wait, though- because someone tackled him in a tight hug, and he nearly fell over before he realized who it was.

"Jo! You made it!" he said, returning the hug. That was a huge relief; Kevin seemed cool, and now Jo was here, and Castiel…well, he was still trying to figure out Castiel, but the guy didn't seem half bad. Just…strange.

"Knew I'd see you here," Jo said with a smile, and then she was grabbing him by the arm and dragging him over to two women standing by the ledge of the roof. "Dean, these are my awesome roommates. This is Jody, and that's Charlie. Girls, this is Dean," she said, gesturing to the brunette, then the redhead.

"Nice to meet you," Charlie said, and her smile was infectious- he found himself smiling in return already. "So, did you get good roomies, or did you get saddled with old and creepy over there?"

"Old and creepy?" Dean repeated, following her gaze to where a balding man in a perfectly pressed black suit was standing next to Tim. And talking his ear off, by the looks of it. "Nah, I got lucky. I got Kevin and Castiel. They seem tolerable," he said, and he was only half joking, because there was a good chance the longer they were here the less tolerable people would be.

"Which ones are they?" Jody asked, and Dean pointed them out. Kevin was talking to a knockout of a woman with long, curly brown hair and tanned skin who was probably ten years older than him, and Castiel was being his awkward self, standing next to a tall blonde man in a deep V-neck shirt; the blonde seemed to be doing all the talking.

"Dude, if I weren't skewed the other way, I would totally be hitting on that," Charlie said as she eyed Castiel, and Dean couldn't help but laugh.

"Kind of a weird guy. Socially awkward, I guess."

"Then he's probably some kind of genius that will kick all of our asses on this," Jody pointed out, and Dean wondered for a moment- awkward genius, or awkward normal guy who was brought on the show because he was awkward? They'd be finding out really soon, that was for sure.

The door to the roof opened again, and this time it was a familiar face- Gabriel Milton, actor, fashion designer, and host of All Star Designer for all 6 seasons so far. Dean already had three words in mind to describe him by the end of the first episode: self-absorbed dick. Not that he was going to come out and say it.

"Designers, huddle up!" Gabriel said, and PAs darted in from seemingly nowhere and lined them up carefully, making sure the shorter designers were in front. Dean was seriously temped to prop an elbow on Kevin's head while they listened.

"Congrats on making it onto season seven," Gabriel said, his voice just as dramatic and ridiculous as it sounded on the TV with the full mood music going. "I'm sure you know Tim Gunn. And I'm sure you know me. And you'll definitely get to know each other really well."

"Is that optional?" a voice purred from the end of the front line, coming from a pale woman with dark hair that fell in loose waves around her face. He could already tell just from three words and the sassy tone that she was a whole lot of personality in a tiny body.

"Well, I said you'll get to know them, but you're not required to like them," Gabriel pointed out, pulling the champagne out of the silver bucket of ice. "Take the time to relax and have a drink now, designers, because starting tomorrow you won't remember what the word relax even means," he continued, and then he popped the cork free. Dean took the moment to study the competitors he hadn't met yet; other than the blonde dude in the V-neck and the two hot girls, there was creepy old dude, a tall girl who looked more like the girl next door type with straight brown hair half pulled back, and a brick wall of a guy with a brownish blonde beard and a driving cap on his head.

They definitely had a good mix of unique looking people here, and they were probably all talented in their own way- and a good amount of them were probably like Kevin, with years of designing school behind them.

Someone shoved a champagne glass into Dean's hand, and Tim called for a toast, but the whole time he lifted his glass he only had one thought on his mind:

He was so going to get kicked off the first week.