A/N: Hi guys! So I don't know how this happened, but I got bored one day and decided to write a second Sam and Dean story. I'm not sure what to make of it as it was just something I started throwing together without much thought but as iffy as I am with it so far, I have a feeling it could turn out decent enough if I play my cards right lol. I know I've been really mean to Dean so far but I promise Sam'll make it all better! Oh and just a warning, there are mentions of past child abuse in this so you might want to skip it if that bothers you. Hope you guys like it. Read and review! :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for

- Dag Hammarskjold

Dean knew there was something wrong with spending your entire Saturday afternoon staring out of an open window, the sound of lawnmowers and neighborhood chatter ringing in your ears while you look on in timid fascination. He wanted to be a part of that, wanted so badly to say 'to hell with my agoraphobia, I'm going outside!' But alas, he knew that to be impossible. The world was a scary place, far too scary for meek little Dean Winchester to integrate himself into any part of it, no matter how badly he so desperately wanted to.

It had been like this for as long as he could remember. He'd always been a rather shy boy, finding it much more convenient to stare absentmindedly at the ground rather than face the unwanted eye contact he was sure to get from the person standing in front of him. His coy and often introverted nature may have made life more difficult, but it never hindered his ability to step foot outside of his home until the death of his mother, Mary.

Thoughts of the woman who'd been his rock for the first ten years of his life were getting harder to hold onto, the fragmented pieces of his cracked memories resembling that of a broken mirror; the images reflecting back at him becoming more distorted with each passing day. As frightening as the concept of losing all recollections of her was, there were some memories that would never fade; so imprinted were these on his brain that they had become tattoos etched into the walls of his consciousness. He remembered the summer drives in the Impala; her hair, the color of candlelight, flowing freely past her shoulders to the rhythm of the soft breeze. He remembered all the times she would comfort him after a bad nightmare, humming Metallica into his eager ears until he was claimed once again by sleep, the reason for his interrupted slumber long forgotten in the arms of his guardian angel. He remembered being told that angels were watching over him, that there was never any reason to worry about the outside world he found so scary. He remembered her smile, her laugh, her voice. No matter how hard life got, he knew it was all going to be okay. It was okay because he had the most beautiful woman by his side; his protector and his friend. Nothing could ever tear them apart.

Except something did tear them apart. The fire tore them apart. He could still smell the smoke that permeated the walls of his bedroom all those years ago, forcing his ten-year-old self up and out of bed before he could so much as bat an eyelash. His body had been thrust into survival mode, the need to remove the threat to his life so great that he didn't have a chance to think about the woman he shared the house with. Wanting to escape the burning building, he climbed out of his window and jumped without thinking of the consequences, crying out in pain as the fall broke both of his tiny legs. It wasn't until he was lying on the sharp grass that thoughts of his mother came rushing back, the knowledge that she was still stuck in that fiery inferno causing him to crawl towards the front door as fast as his arms would allow. The neighbor next door picked that exact moment to come out of his house, scooping Dean up in his arms and running as far away from the fire as possible. He could still remember his screams as the sound of police sirens broke through the peaceful tranquility of the once victimless neighborhood, shouting for his mother so loudly that it could be heard all the way down the street. Needless to say, nobody was able to save her.

Dean thought back to that day and felt a pang of guilt rip through his gut. It was his fault that his mother died. If he had just found a way to make it to her bedroom, then he could have prevented all of this from happening. But life makes no time for regret, the minutes ticking by refusing to stop long enough for anyone to get their wits about them. Instead, it kept going…and going…and going. He was so sick and tired of the sound his clock made that he was tempted to tear it off the wall most days, opting instead to leave it up as it was the only company Dean had, the tick tock echoing off the walls sounding almost lifelike in the otherwise silent house he'd inherited from his wretched aunt Phyllis.

God, he couldn't stand that woman; hating the old hag so much that her death was a source of satisfaction for Dean. The worst thing his mother could have ever done was place him in her care after her death. It was that god awful bitch who was inevitably responsible for his downfall, beating him to within an inch of his life and making sure he went to school in filthy rags that caused him to get bullied mercilessly, much to her enjoyment. He'd never forgotten what life with her was like. She used to come home after one of her late night binges with sour breath and a ready hand, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and murmuring words of discouragement in his damaged ears.

"Nobody loves you," she used to say. "Nobody's ever gonna love you, my boy. You wanna know why? Because you're a filthy beast. Saved yourself and let your own mother burn in that fire. You're a disgrace to humanity and you deserve to be punished. I'm gonna beat some sense into you, boy. You're gonna wish you had died right beside your mama by the time I'm through with you."

She made good on that promise. Boy did she ever…

As horrific as the physical and psychological abuse she inflicted upon him was, it was the events outside of his home that eventually did him in. However much Phyllis hated him, the children at school hated him more. He never made one single friend the entire time he was there, probably because all the kids would push their desks as far away from his as possible in an effort to avoid catching what were apparently his "cooties." Nobody liked him. The teachers didn't like him, the principle didn't like him. Hell, even the parents of his tormenters didn't like him. He was called every name in the book and gotten the shit kicked out of him so many times that it was a wonder his body worked at all. It eventually got to the point where he spent more time at home than was strictly necessary. He figured suffering through the beatings Phyllis gave him every time he missed a day of school was worth it in the end. But throughout all of this, he'd kept telling himself that it was okay, because Mary was still there with him. He had the amulet she gave him wrapped around his neck to prove it. As long as he had that last piece of her left, he could have taken on anything. It wasn't until his fifteenth birthday that everything changed…

A sudden crash upstairs jolted Dean out of his musings, propelling his body up and off the chair in record time as he ran up the stairs to his art room, stopping dead in his tracks as he took in the sight of his busted window. It wasn't often that the neighborhood kids threw rocks into the house of the madman on Meadowbrook Lane, finding it much more enjoyable to throw flaming bags of dog shit on his front porch while screaming obscenities loud enough for the whole block to hear. Yes, being the town pariah wasn't particularly entertaining but at least he didn't have to leave his house to put up with their abuse this time…or so he thought.

Retrieving the rock that broke his window, he frowned as he took in the word "freak" written in capital letters all over the large stone.

"Hey freak!"

Dean's head snapped up at the sound of shouting in the distance, looking out of the window and scowling angrily as he locked eyes with Jeremy Downs, the fourteen-year-old nuisance who'd just moved into the house next door.

"I know you killed your aunt. Don't think that house of yours is gonna save you asshole! It's a whole new ballgame with me in this town motherfucker. I'm gonna annihilate your ass. Just you wait!"

Dean growled at Jeremy's back as he walked through his front door. He should have known that his peaceful existence inside the safety of his sanctuary wouldn't last forever. There was always somebody who was going to find a way to make his life a living hell. It was the price you paid for being an outcast.

Sighing heavily, Dean made an attempt to go back downstairs, only to stop in the doorway as a painting in the corner of the room caught his wandering eye. It was the first one he'd ever done, brought on by the loneliness his thirteen-year-old self needed an escape from. He remembered the feeling of wanting to create an imaginary friend that he could have pretend conversations with, a feeling that led to him painting the portrait of a man he envisioned in his head as kind and understanding, someone who not only enjoyed the pleasure of his company, but who was also capable of releasing him from the burden of his solitary confinement. The end result proved to be quite a welcome distraction, as the man's dimpled smile made it extremely easy for his naïve mind to concoct a delusional fantasy centering around the imagined relationship he now shared with his creation; a person who, in his mind, was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Looking at it now after all these years, it seemed little has changed in the way he felt about his most treasured possession.

At least I still have you Sammy, Dean thought with a smile as he turned to descend down the spiral staircase, visions of Sam and Mary swirling around pleasantly in the murky depths of his consciousness.