The first thought that goes through his head as he wakes up is about his brother, as it always has been. The brothers had a special bond and love for each other, more so than the average siblings. After their parents died in an airplane crash, Dean Winchester knew two things for sure: that he had to stay strong and replace both parents for his younger sibling, and that it would not be easy for sixteen year old boy. Of course there was an option to live with relatives, but both brothers refused and chose to stay together at their own, old house.

Dean had to work his ass off at two jobs to cover the bills and have enough money to sustain Sam and himself. Even the fact that Sam was not very demanding or grouchy was not making life easier for either of them.

Dean was getting exhausted from being under so much stress. Many times he had fallen asleep on the couch with his clothes and boots on. He would not have strength to take even a single bite from a burger. Sam would cover him with a blanket and smile sadly. He knew how hard it was for his brother and was doing his best to help him in any way he could. At least Dean was free from house chores.

The nightmare ended when Dean's teacher Mr. Roche visited the boys one day. He encouraged Dean to resume painting; he had ceased because he had been so busy. Later Dean would admit that this was the best advice he had ever got.

Dean forgets about the disturbing news from the agent and dials his brother's number. Sammy is a an adult now Dean talked to him about problems like this because he has a unique perspective on things, which he needs if he is to become a successful lawyer like he plans.

There is a shuffling on the other end, then small yelp and some thudding. Dean can't hold in his laughter because he knows exactly what happened: his giant brother has just fallen off the bed and thudded to the floor.

"Heeey, Sammy. Are you alive there?" Dean cackles into the phone.

"Not funny, Dean." Sam is panting and his brother can almost see the bitchface he knows Sam is making (bitchface number 49).

"Gotta tell ya, your best one is number 32, man." Dean is in a teasing mood.

"32? What do you mean?"

"Your bitchface, Sasquatch." Dean grins again.

"Incorrigible jerk," Sam snorts with wide smile spreading on his face.

Dean's heart fills with warmth and he sighs happily. "So, how are you doing, Sammy? What's new with you?"

"Nothing much. I'm planning to come over for a weekend. Can you imagine, I missed you, asshole."

Dean's mood is instantly improved. He has not seen his brother for ages. And even a short visit would be great. "Glad to hear it. Missed you too, Samantha."

Sam just ignores the stupid nickname his brother has given him. "What about you? What's up with you?"

Dean smirks as he can imagine his brother's face while hearing the news about the painting and money check.

"I have some good news for you. I've got a new order for a painting and the guy has given me triple the amount I asked for in advance. Guess what this means?"

Sam falls silent, frowning deeply. "Uhm…a lot of money?" he tries warily.

Dean laughs and finally leaves his bed. "It means I can cover all the remaining amount for your studies."

Sam Winchester almost chokes after hearing this. His eyes water and he cannot speak from all the overwhelming emotions.

"I know, I know. Wipe the snot off." Dean is ruthless.

"Asshole. Anything else you wanna tell me? " Sam sounds more sobered up now than he was in the beginning of this conversation.

"Well…" Dean suddenly remembers the creepy, naked guy and hesitates.

"Dean? Is there something you aren't telling me?"

Damn his little brother's psychic powers. Shit. Dean gives up. He knows sooner or later Sam will suck it out of him.

"There was a small incident. A naked guy broke into the house."

Dean practically can hear his brother's concerned thoughts and cuts in before Sam speaks up. "Don't worry. Police arrested him."

He does not mention that the guy has mysteriously vanished from the police station. No need to scare the hell out of his mother-hen brother, or the guy will walk all the way from California.

"I'm glad they've got him and that you're alright, Dean," Sam says, relieved.

"Yeah, no worries, man."

"Just be careful."

"Sure thing. You take care too Sammy. Ok, man, gotta go do some painting."

His brother promises to see him soon and Dean disconnects the call.

In the afternoon Dean gets a visitor. It's Gordon Walker. Dean can see that the guy is confused as hell. He gives a coffee mug to the agent and they sit down on the couch for a short talk. Gordon tells him every detail of the incident and they both sit in an awkward silence for a few minutes.

"We can put patrol near your house for a few days and watch to see if he returns," Gordon offers his host.

Both men know that it's futile when they are facing a guy that seems to have a teleportation ability.

"Yeah, I guess that's a good option." Dean taps his fingers on his knee. What else can they do? Nothing much.

Gordon leaves after fifteen minutes and Dean is left alone with his thoughts. He quickly washes the mugs and goes to his studio. He needs to start painting, for God's sake. The time is pressing.

Dean Winchester stubbornly stares at the white canvas in front of him for hours, trying to get to work. His mind apparently has other ideas. Inspiration does not come. Where is that bitch that humans call 'muse'? Where the hell is she when she is needed the most?

No, this is not working. If he stares at the blankness before him, he will go crazy for sure. So he decides to go out and search for the inspiration he needs.

He tries many weird places: parks, abandoned and ruined buildings, cemeteries. Nothing works. His head hurts terribly. What is he going to do if he isn't able to finish the painting in time? He cannot let Crowley down. No way in Hell.

It is 7 pm when Dean finally gives up and goes to the nearest bar. He needs a couple of beers and maybe one or two shots of Whiskey.

The bar is crowded tonight. Different voices, laughter, and music is all mixed up. Dean spots a free chair near the bar counter and quickly goes to it.

He's having his third shot of Whiskey when a pretty blonde sits next to him, giving the painter a lustful smile and a wink.

"Hello there, gorgeous," she purrs, devouring him with her eyes. She just looks like someone starving for sex and ready to be mounted.

"Hi." Dean winks at her. Fuck it. At least he's lucky at the moment.

She leans forward, her lips almost touching Dean's ear and whispers, "Want to go somewhere else, honey?"

Dean turns to face her and opens his mouth to say 'Yeah, why not?' when something gets his attention and he looks behind her, towards the pool table.

This is not possible! It must be his tipsy state and clouded mind, otherwise there's not a chance in Hell that a naked, blue-eyed man would be standing in the crowded bar staring back at him.

Have you ever tried to negotiate with your panicked mind, telling it to calm the fuck down and succeeded? Well, Dean Winchester cannot brag that he has succeeded, either.

"I'm sorry, maybe next time." He quickly drops some money on the counter for the barman and runs out of the bar at a break-neck speed, like all the demons of Hell are after him.

He does not give a shit that cops might arrest him for drunk driving and starts the engine. The Impala's tires screech and leave a black, burned rubber trace on the concrete as the car disappears in the darkness of the night.

Dean's hands slightly shake on the steering wheel and every few seconds he checks the rearview mirror, as if he expects a monster in the backseat that will jump at him and tear into shreds.

As he gets to his house and spots a patrol car nearby, his rapidly pounding heart starts to calm down and Dean puts a nonchalance mask on, to show the whole world and mostly the cops in the car that he's perfectly fine.

He does not know what is to blame, alcohol or self-assuring, but by the time he fumbles with the keys at the front door, he really feels more relaxed. He turns the lights on and tightly holds the paper bag he's holding, which contain some cold burgers.

As Dean finishes locking the door once he gets in the house, he turns around and the paper bag falls from his hand and hits the floor. The painter leans against the door in shock. He is not prepared for the sight before his own eyes.

Of course it's the naked, stalker guy, who currently stands in the middle of the room, holding a red blanket. His gaze is intent on the material like he wants to smite the thing. He does not even notice that Dean is in the room or that the lights are on.

Dean is astonished. He cannot move, shout, whisper or do anything at all. He just stares at the creepy guy in front of him. And that's when the stalker senses that he's not alone. He lowers the hand that still holdis the blanket and looks down at the floor.

Dean finally finds enough strength to choke out a single word. "You…" he hisses.

The man nods and lifts his gaze from the floor. Blue-eyes look at the painter and chilling cold runs down his spine once again.

Dean does not know which one is worse: the piercing, burning glare or the deep, gravelly voice that says:

"Hello, Dean…"