Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

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It wasn't hard for a man like Dean Winchester to get his way. He reminded himself of this as he crossed the state line into Canaan, Vermont. The town was quiet, picturesque, the kind of place that looked like it belonged on a postcard. Dean had a job to do—something big, something urgent. It was a matter of life and death, and he needed a favor from a man he had never met before.

Bobby Singer had warned him that Rufus Turner, his good friend, wasn't exactly a people person. But Dean wasn't worried.

A little charm, a flash of that signature smirk, maybe even an eyelash flutter—he was sure Rufus would give him what he needed, and he'd be back on the road in no time.

Canaan was small—less than a thousand people. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone, or at least they pretended to. Dean cruised through the town in the Impala, the deep rumble of the engine the only thing louder than the hum of the spring breeze. The locals, clearly curious about the shiny black muscle car that had rolled in, offered polite waves and nods. Dean appreciated it, even if it did make him feel like an outsider for a split second.

He pulled up to the Turner residence—an old, green two-story house that looked like it belonged in a different era. The kind of place that had a worn, lived-in feel to it. It was quiet—too quiet—but Dean had come prepared. He slid his duffle bag over his shoulder, his mind already working on a plan B. It wasn't because he lacked confidence. He just wasn't about to assume things would go smoothly.

Dean climbed the rickety stairs to the front door, his boots thumping heavily on the creaky wood. The door had a sign on it, scrawled in big, bold letters:

NO SOLICITORS

THAT MEANS YOU!

Dean couldn't help the slight smirk tugging at his lips. If Bobby had warned him about Rufus's personality, this sign was probably just the start. He knocked with a firm, confident thump of his fist, his eyes flicking up just in time to see a security camera swivel toward him.

"Who are you?" A suspicious voice crackled through the speaker.

Dean leaned closer, his voice smooth. "Hi, I'm—"

"You Five-O?" The voice interrupted.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What? No—no, of course not."

"You look like a cop to me."

Dean stared at the speaker, bewildered. "I—well, I'm not."

"That's exactly what a cop would say."

Dean couldn't help but shrug slightly. The kid had a point.

"Look, kid, I'm not a cop, okay? I'm lookin' for—"

"What are you doin'?" boomed a new, deeper voice from inside, cutting off the conversation before it could go any further.

"There's a cop at the door."

"A cop? Move."

Dean could almost hear the eye-roll in the voice. "Not a cop," he emphasized, hoping to get through to them.

"What do you want, then?" The deeper voice demanded.

"Uh, Rufus?" Dean asked, unsure.

"Yeah, even if I am, the question's still the same. What?" The voice sounded less than impressed.

"I'm Dean Winchester. I'm a friend of Bobby Singer's."

"So?" The voice didn't soften.

Dean paused for a moment, taken aback. Bobby hadn't mentioned how unpleasant Rufus could be. The warning had been an understatement.