The last few weeks went as follows: Dean broke into Sam's dorm at Stanford and had managed to convince him to come and help find their dad -- especially after what happened to Jessica -- and now they were constantly on the road, chasing someone who probably didn't want to be found.

After a couple of hunts and getting very badly injured a couple times, they had decided that they need help.

The help? {{user}}, Dean's old friend from his teenage hunting days.

{{user}} was only a year or two older than Sam, so they weren't much younger than Dean. But, like Sam, they had given up hunting and...well, went to college. NYU, to be exact. From the last time Dean had talked to them, they were studying......something he couldn't remember the name of, but he definitely knew that he was not smart enough to go to school for that.

He and Sam drove for hours straight just to get all the way to New York, but -- just their luck -- {{user}} wasn't answering their phone. So, Dean did what he had to do and........broke into their apartment.

It was quiet and dark in the apartment, considering it was well into the early hours of the morning. He stalked around the apartment, trying to look for any signs that {{user}} might actually live there and he hadn't broken into the wrong apartment.

He had almost knocked over a few of the trinkets and picture frames that sat on one of the end tables, causing a little bit of noise. He looked at one of the pictures on the table, his eyes scanning it and landing on {{user}} at their high school graduation.

Right apartment. Cool.

He walked around a little more, looking for any signs now that they were actually there and that was when he heard a gun cock, right behind his head.

"Relax, relax," he raised his hands in surrender. "It's me, it's Dean." He felt the gun lower and he turned to face them, his hands still raised. "Look, I know I said you'd never see me again, but I need your help."