A/N: So, a lot of weird things happen to the Winchesters. But they won't be around forever, right? Presumably, at some point the forces of heaven and hell will have to find somebody else to pick on. This is just an imagining of one of those somebodys, whose first mission happens to involve the Winchesters anyway. So maybe they are still being picked on…

Please note that this is almost totally silly, sort of.

To Save Dean Winchester (Or Something)

Part 1: In Which a Hunter from the Future Interrupts an Otherwise Quiet Evening

The bar is crowded and noisy. The Winchester brothers want it that way, as they share quiet victory beers in the corner. Sometimes privacy is easiest found amidst other people. It's been a hell of a few days, tracking down a handful of demons that decided it would be fun to possess household pets and attack the unsuspecting owners.

Not one of the toughest hunts they'd ever endured, but definitely one of the most annoying, not to mention one of the hardest to explain, considering the multiple brake-ins necessary and the odd assortment of casualties (which most notably included fifteen guinea pigs—but who the hell needs fifteen guinea pigs?). They'd skipped town as soon as they were finished and driven for a few hours until Dean decided it was necessary to find a motel, but more importantly to find a bar.

Sam lifts his beer to his lips, then winces and rubs the back of his hand, which is starting to bleed through its bandages. Dean snorts into his own drink.

"Dude, seriously?"

Sam scowls, "Hey, man, puppy teeth are sharp. Like needles."

Dean keeps laughing. "Uh-huh. Well I wouldn't know, I never had a puppy."

Sam thinks about this for a moment before brightening. "Can you imagine? We should have gotten a dog. Like a hunting dog. We could train it to smell ghosts, or attack demons or something."

Dean is about to make a sarcastic comment and then changes his mind as he thinks about it. "You know, that would be pretty cool."

But that is as far as the conversation gets, because then the general noisiness of the bar becomes noticeably louder. The brothers look toward the front door, where the ruckus is coming from. Someone has just walked in, and he is causing quite a stir.

"Wow!" they hear him say, "This is amazing! It's just like Disney World, or something!" There is some laughter at this, and the man proceeds to examine a colorful neon sign in the window that reads, "BUDWEI ER" with extreme interest. Dean notes vaguely that the man is young, probably about Sam's age, Asian, and carries a heavy-looking duffel bag. His attire is a little odd—a fraying grey trench coat with a lot of buckles that don't seem to actually serve any function, and equally buckle-y black boots that cover his calves. Beneath it looks like he's wearing some kind of military uniform, but not any that Dean's ever seen before, all in blacks and greys. His hair is spiked up, black except for two streaks in the front that look blond in the bar's dim lighting, but on second thought might be green.

Dean finds none of this very interesting and is about to turn back to Sam when the dude at the front loses interest in the sign, looks around, opens his mouth and begins shouting:

"WINCHESTER. I'm looking for Dean Winchester, has anyone seen him?"

Dean and Sam shoot each other surprised looks before groaning simultaneously. Don't they deserve a chance to relax, drink, and exchange pointless banter as much as anyone else? What now?

"DEAN WINCHESTER?" the man shouts. He is being ignored for the most part—some drunk looking for his friend, probably. Dean doesn't know if the guy is drunk or not, but he's certainly no friend of his. "Seriously, anyone? Anyone seen Winchester? HE'S A HUNTER AND HE—"

The brothers exchange looks again. They don't need to say it out loud to know what the other is thinking. Who the hell goes around shouting about hunters in front of normal people? Clearly slipping away from this guy isn't an option.

"Hey!" Dean calls out, standing up. By now most of the people in the bar have stopped whatever they were doing to stare at the strange, excited man by the door. "Joey, there you are!" he says, quickly approaching him. Sam sighs, throws several bills down at their table, and follows.

The stranger frowns in confusion. "My name is—" he begins, but Dean cuts him off, grabbing him by the shoulders and steering him back to the door.

"Shut up, you damn drunk," he says, loud enough so everyone else can hear. There is some scattered laughter, as well as a few groans and sarcastic comments, and then conversations pick up again. Dean opens the door and shoves the man outside in front of him. He's angry, angry enough to punch the guy even if he hadn't specifically been looking for him, just for interrupting what he had hoped would be a calm, weird-shit free evening.

The street outside the bar is brightly lit from the street lamps. It's practically empty at this time of night, but to be safe Dean drags the man around the corner and pushes him into the narrow alley between the bar and the building beside it. The man is unsteady for only a moment, then finds his footing and assumes a defensive stance. He's got an odd expression. Dean can feel his own face pulled into a stony scowl, but this guy's eyes are shining and he looks as if he wants to smile and is trying not to. Weird sort of attitude to have for a fight, but Dean's a little too pissed to actually care. He's about to attack when he feels Sam's hand on his shoulder, holding him back.

"Who are you?" Sam asks him directly. Leave it Sam to calmly try and get to the bottom of a situation. (Unless there are demons involved, in which case he can be a little scary.) ((Except when he was fighting that little possessed daschund earlier, which had actually been pretty funny.))

"I'm warning you," says the man. "I'm a Hunter, and I can kick both of your asses." He drops his duffel bag to the ground, and it lands with such a loud clank that Dean thinks it is probably a lot heavier than the guy had made it seem, and full of something metal. Weapons, he assumes automatically, but the stranger isn't reaching for any, so possibly something else. Instead he stands with his fists up, ready to tango.

"Oh really?" Dean taunts. "Well, bring it. Let's see some kung fu, Jackie."

"Kung fu?" the man repeats. He looks extremely startled. Then, to Sam and Dean's surprise, his face brightens into a huge, delighted smile. "Was that racism?" he asks excitedly. "Facinating!"

Dean thinks that maybe this guy might be a bit nutty. Of course, if he really is a hunter then crazy goes with the territory, but it's the first time Dean's met one quite like this.

Before he can think of a way to respond, the guy launches himself at him and Sam. It catches them both off guard, but they've got well-honed reflexes and respond easily. Dean ducks the initial punch, and Sam grabs the man's extended arm and immediately tries to twist it behind his back. The man is surprisingly compliant with the motion, but as soon as Sam thinks he's got him he suddenly throws himself to the ground, bringing the taller Winchester with him. Sam let's go of him to try to break his fall, and their agile opponent is up in time to block a punch from Dean and deliver one of his own. Dean dodges, but not enough, and feels the man's fist graze his cheek bone. He's taken more than a few hits to the face in his life, and this one is surprisingly painful.

"What the hell?" he growls, blinking stars from his eyes. "You got steel in your fingers, or what?"

The man laughs and wags all of his fingers at Dean, obviously enjoying himself. No steel, but each of his palms has a tattoo, some kind of star. Dean doesn't have enough time to get a close look at them. Sam grabs the man from behind and with minimal effort—the guy is Dean's height and skinnier than both of them—slams him to the ground, landing on top of him in an imprisoning straddle. Dean immediately jumps down to help, grabbing his legs before he can knee Sam in the back while his brother restrains his arms.

"Who are you?" Sam demands, much less politely this time. With one hand he pushes the man's wrists into his chest, and with the other he holds a knife to his throat, probably retrieved from his jacket sleeve. Dean notes that despite being helpless the man still seems unnervingly cheerful. It's pissing him off, and he wonders if he really is a hunter, or really even human. His cheek burns and he decides to go extra hard on the guy if his eye swells up.

"I can't tell you who I am," the guy says. Sam pushes the knife more closely against his throat, almost cutting, but not quite. "I need to find Dean Winchester."

"Well you found me, asshole," Dean snaps. "What the hell do you want?"

The stranger, still unfazed to be overcome by the two, raises his eyebrows and appears pleasantly surprised. "You're Dean Winchester?" he wonders. Then he laughs and says, "Wow, that was so much easier than I thought it would be!"

"That's what happens when you go shouting at the top of your damn lungs for somebody," Dean says.

"What do you want?" Sam asks. He tries not to show it, but he's a bit shaken. They've got the guy trapped, he and Dean, but the way he keeps smiling, it's like he's still got a trick up his sleeve.

Or, as it turns out, in the palm of his hands. In a snap motion he pulls his hands free and holds them open toward Sam's chest. For a moment Sam and Dean think the star tattoos might be glowing. And then they realize that they are actually glowing, and by then it's too late to react properly because a blinding silver beam shoots out of each, knocking Sam directly in the chest. He's thrown backwards, right into Dean, who is even more surprised (he didn't think he could be at this point) when the momentum is enough to carry him backward too.

For a moment Dean is disoriented. Then he realizes that he's being half crushed by Sam, who isn't moving. He feels his chest tighten as blind panic sets in.

"What the hell did you just do to my brother you son of a bitch?" he shouts. He knows that they're making too much noise, that somebody inside the bar or on the street is bound to hear and come find them, but he doesn't care. The man crouches down and pulls the knife out of Sam's fingers, which give way easily because he's unconscious, then tosses it into the shadows. Dean thinks this is odd, but supposes this guy doesn't need to hold a weapon to be threatening, which is both alarming and annoying. Dean decides he needs to be upright and he tries to shove Sam off without hurting him.

"You're really Dean Winchester?" the man asks. He remains in a crouched position with his arms resting on his thighs. Dean can't see his palms, but he still watches those hands warily. What was that anyway? It couldn't have been a demonic thing—that shit doesn't work on Sam. So what then?

"Fuck you," Dean replies, he finally works himself free and hoists himself to his feet. The man makes no move to stop him. He lifts his hands in a gesture that seems almost placating, except Dean has seen what they can do and tenses, ready to jump out of the way. The man seems to realize this and lowers his hands again. Then he frowns, and looks down at Sam.

"Wait, did you say this is your brother?" He nudges Sam in the ribs with one booted foot, and Dean wishes he had some kind of weapon, or that this guy couldn't shoot magic out of his hands, so that he could just kill him now.

"I know," he says through his teeth. "You can hardly tell—I got all the pretty genes. Who the hell are you?"

He can hardly believe it when the guy suddenly looks sheepish. He rubs a hand through his spiky hair—the front of which is actually green, Dean can tell now, and then scratches the back of his neck.

"I'm uh, Wilbur Chung. I'm from the future. And I've been sent to save you."

Dean is taken aback by how much everything in that set of statements bothers him. So much so that all he can seem to say in reaction is, "Your name is Wilbur?"

"Uh, yeah," he replies, and then says, "Sorry." Dean thinks he's apologizing for his name, but the guy's looking down at Sam now, who is starting to come to. He groans and rolls to his side, curling up. Then he blinks his eyes open and sits up suddenly. He doesn't seem hurt, just confused. Dean reaches a hand down to help him up, never taking his eyes off their attacker. Or Wilbur, apparently.

Sam jumps up easily without needing assistance. "What the hell happened?" he asks, sounding bewildered.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, still watching Wilbur.

Sam shrugs, a small shiver going through his body. "Fine. Really fine, actually. I feel like I got a hit from some jumper cables. Like I could run a mile."

Wilbur sighs and looks down at his hands. "Yeah, that's the only problem with these things. They give you an extra couple seconds, but if you don't use them well it really sucks because—"

"Save it," Dean snaps. "What were you talking about? Something about saving me?"

"Oh right!" says Wilbur, brightening again. He looks completely unflustered by the fight, as if it never happened. Not a single hair spike is out of place. Dean can't remember the last time he was so irritated by someone. And then he thinks of Uriel and changes his mind. "Yes, it is my mission."

He lets that one hang there, not bothering to explain further. Dean is almost too fed up at this point to ask, and Sam still looks a bit like he's high on something. Finally Wilbur gives an appreciative whistle and says, "Snazzle. Dean and Sammy Winchester. I can hardly believe it."

"Sammy?" Sam repeats, frowning, at the same time Dean says, "Snazzle?" Sam seems to be coming back to earth now. "And what about saving Dean? Save him from what? And who are you?"

"Oh, you were unconscious," says Wilbur apologetically. "My name is Wilbur Chung. I'm a Hunter from the year 2109. I've been sent here on a mission to save Dean Winchester… and I guess, you know, the world, consequently."

"Mission from who?" Dean asks, though he hardly needs to. He already has a pretty good idea, and he wishes he didn't.

Wilbur adopts something of a self-important look. For a moment Dean can't keep himself from thinking that the guy does look kind of cool, with his gelled hair and interesting jacket. Kind of punk; maybe steam punk. A fifteen-year-old science fiction geek's vision of what a hunter would look like, maybe, assuming that fifteen-year-old had never met an actual hunter and didn't know that they dressed much more for utility and comfort than for style. And also that most of them were far too shit broke to afford it anyway.

"I've been sent here by an angel," Wilbur declares, as if this is very impressive. "God himself wants me to save you, Dean Winchester."

He appears somewhat surprised when Dean's reaction is to roll his eyes and state, "God, I wish God would quit saving me and just leave me the hell alone for once."

To be continued…

Post A/N: No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfiction. Hope you're enjoying it so far!