Dean spent the first few weeks after he officially moved in settling in to the new house and making it home. He didn't go out of his way to interact with his neighbors, but it seemed that every night, in turn, his neighbors would pay him a visit, dressed in their Sunday Best, brandishing a plate; cake from Gage and Great Johnston form across the road, various flavored bread sticks from Alysha and Michael Wells from two doors down; their twins Ava and Adam had given him handmade cards saying 'Welcome To The Neighborhood'. Carly – who clearly had a crush on Dean judging by the way she blushed and twister her hands when he looked at her – and her fiancé Krishen brought sandwiches and beer. Dean had done the neighborly thing and invited every visitor in and made them drinks and offered them flapjacks, but the conversation had been stiff and not steering away from how he'd needed a change from city life and wanted to get more out in to the country, change his career, and a Monday to Friday 9 til 5 had taken its toll on him, and he wanted a more mundane every day job – he didn't really need the money anyway, but he didn't mention that – before his soul was totally destroyed. No he didn't have any kids, yes he is single, and he has a brother and an Uncle who would be visiting regularly, and he wanted them to have a bedroom each to sleep in, and if anything were to happen to either of them, there was the insurance of Dean's house for them to come to.

Carly, Krishen and Dean had spent the evening on the back decking, talking about the weather and football. When it had grown cold, they had retired inside. The TV impressed them, and Dean had allowed Kris – as he preferred to be called – free reign of the remote. As Kris flicked through the channels, mouth agape in awe at the 60" screen ahead of him, Carly shyly turned to Dean and smiled. "So," she tapped on her nearly empty can of beer in her hand. "Is there a Mrs Dean Winchester?" She instantly regretted asking.

Dean sat back as if he'd been hit in the chest, blinked and flexed his jaw.

"I-I-I... I'm sorry! I didn't mean to..." She looked to her fiancé for help, "I'm sorry."

Dean finally relaxed, and he looked in Carly's general direction, deliberately avoiding eye contact. "It's fine." He sighed. "There's no one, no." His gut twisted painfully. He rubbed his eyes absently. "I think I'm going to turn in. You're more than welcome to stay,"

Carly jumped to her feet. "Thank you, but we're only next door."

They bid their goodbyes, their good nights and their see you arounds, and Dean was finally alone. He glanced at the time. 11.57pm. Oh boy. He was going to have a big, deep, bubbly bath. And no amount of beating himself up about being a big girl was going to stop him.

6am he dragged himself out of bed. He'd been awake for a good twenty minutes anyway, and it was clear that sleep was not going to return to him, so he would be as well to get up and do something. He ate a breakfast of muesli and brown toast, then poured out a fresh cup of coffee, which he set on the side to cool. He cleaned up and washed the dirty dishes, cleared the coffee then snapped on his headband.

The air outside was crisp, and the wind had a sharp, icy bite. With just a tank top, shorts, socks and running shoes to combat the winter chill, Dean figured it would be best to set off quickly and keep going.

He fell in to a good routine of the early morning run, but Dean felt there was something missing in his life. He had all the material possessions he wanted, but there was a hollow, besides the obvious. An unscratchable itch. He needed a job. So he searched. He landed a casual job in a bar through old family friends – Dean barely remembered Ellen, and Jo hadn't yet been born when John had been working with Ellen's husband - long hours and crap pay, but it put food in the cupboards and beer in the refrigerator. And wine in the larder. And vodka. And gin. Whiskey. Rum... Dean closed the door. "No more." He scolded himself. He shook his head staggering through the living room, then steadying himself by the window. Go on. The whole street will be in bed now, it's sometime around 1. No one's going to see what a fucking useless mess drunkard you are.

He steeled a peek out the window. That house. The one opposite his own. The one with the blinds permanently closed. He thought he'd seen a removals van outside it a few days previously, but he'd been in a rush almost late for work – and there was no way he'd be late for work, or his boss would have his guts for garters – and was only a little bit sure that it had pulled up at that house. It would make sense. That and Dean's houses were at the end of the cul de sac, and he'd met the families of every other house in the road. No one had said anything about moving, and in a place like this, everything was everyone's business. No one had spoken of the house opposite Dean's. Not in any details more than 'I think it's empty' and that had been after the removal van, so perhaps it had just taken a wrong turning. But by fuck, there was a car in the driveway. Being a slight nerd for cars, Dean knew what car each household had, and this was definitely not from the locals. Even if it was, it'd be a bit strange having it randomly parked in front of a vacant house. He couldn't see too well in the dimly lit street, but Dean could just make out that it was shiny and possibly black. The blinds in the bottom left window twitched. "What the..." Had someone been at the window watching him watching them? It was a sobering thought as Dean finished his dozenth glass of Jim. The glass shattered on the floor when Dean jumped and swore. He looked at the shards littering the floor. "Dammit." He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open and answered it.

"Hey Dean, how you settling in?"

Dean rolled his eyes and headed to the kitchen for the dust pan and brush. "Damn, Sammy, you scared the crap outta mree-me." He winced.

A sharp sigh from the other end of the line made Dean's heart sink. "Have you been drinking again?"

Dean felt as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "No." He lied.

Silence.

"Sammy?" Dean brushed the broken glass in to the dustpan. "Sam-"

"Dean!" His younger brother cut in. Another sigh. "You have to stop, Dean,"

"I know-"

"I really don't think you do, Dean."

He hated it when Sam used this tone with him. He knelt down, and had the brush resting loosely on his leg.

"Remember Dad, Dean. What it turned him in to. What it did to him. And what it did to Mom."

There it was. The words he didn't want to hear. The tears started falling, but he wouldn't let his baby brother know he'd struck a chord with him. He wouldn't sob down the phone and beg for help.

"Dean," His brother's voice took on a stern overtone. "Remember what it did to-"

"You dare finish that sentence, Samuel, and so help me God I will go straight up there and I will kick your ass in to the middle of next millennium." With that, he slammed the phone shut and hurled it across the room. He knew that later, he would be glad it landed on the Lazy Boy chair.

Dean poured the shattered glass in to the bin, and then he ran. He ran through the living room, the hallway, up the stairs, he turned left, ploughed through the door ahead of him and collapsed to his knees, catching hold of the toilet bowl just in time to hurl in to it.

Dean couldn't remember getting to his bedroom, but he woke the next morning sprawled on his bed, his tee removed somehow twisted up in the sheets, his trousers undone but not removed and his head. Oh God his head was pounding.

He made it through the day on a diet of coffee, aspirin and dry bread.

Even after a shower and a weak attempt to gel his hair, Ellen had tutted at him and threatened to kick his ass if he came in to work hungover again. Something about that woman, little though she was, put the fear of God in to Dean. He would damn sure not come in hung over again. The prickles of fear were still working their magic when Ellen's daughter Jo walked in to the bar. She earned several looks, but everyone knew better than to pass comment with Ellen around. There was no doubting she was a hottie, and Dean enjoyed sneaking a peek at her when she bent over a table to wipe it down, or she reached up to the top shelf for a drink. He was enjoying a prolonged glance at her as she was rummaging through the bag she'd had on her shoulder, when a sharp backhand on the backside made Dean just about drop the glass he had been pretending to wash for the last minute or so.

Ellen's eyes were already glaring disapprovingly at Dean when he turned round. She allowed a beat for effect. "Bar please, Winchester. I need to pop downstairs,"

Dean nodded. "Yes Ma'am,"

Ellen looked to her daughter then back at Dean. She pointed a finger mere inches from his face. "You so much as touch a hair on my daughter's head." She didn't need to say anything else.

"Absolutely not, Ma'am," It wasn't her head he was interested in. Ellen smiled at Dean, a smile that grew infinitesimally when Dean flinched at the rough pat she applied to his arm. "Good." She left, but it was still a moment before Dean dared to move.

"Hi Dean," That heart stopping smile did its job as Jo walked behind the bar, not losing eye contact with him.

Dean smiled stiffly, then turned away, grunting something resembling a reply. He got to work serving the customers, all of whom were dressed in sorry looking clothes; a lot of faded denim, chequered flannel shirts, dirty tank tops, old boots and well worn coats. No one looked happy, Dean had noticed during his short time in the job. Sure he would see smiles, hear jokes and laughter, but accompanying the half hearted smiles, he would see a distant, pained look in their eyes. Somehow, Dean knew these people had seen things no person would wish to see. Things no one deserved to see or have to deal with.

Dean spotted a girl who couldn't have been more than nineteen. She sported a fresh bruise on her right cheek, and she was running a dirty hand around the top of a glass of something Dean would turn a blind eye to. He felt himself begin to heat up with rage at the thought of the young girl cowering in a corner, sobbing and begging for mercy as her probably drunken boyfriend shouted abuse at her, waving a half empty bottle, taunting her before landing a heft wallop across her face. Maybe he had fitted in a boot to the guts for good measure. Dean made the decision to catch up with her on his break. If the boyfriend decided he didn't like it, didn't like Dean, he would have to take the issue up with Dean himself. And Dean would give him a taste of his own medicine.

"Dean," Ellen's voice made him jump. He looked in her direction, and she indicated a waiting customer.