A/N: albatross (n) - a psychological burden that feels like a curse

[Weight of Living Pt. I by Bastille]

Warning: murder and some blood. Not really gory or descriptive, just mentioned.


Dean's first week in 1959 was spent in a jail cell, detained for various charges of destruction of property, public nuisance, and assaulting a police officer. Since he had no money to post bail, he remained in there while he waited for a judge to sentence him. When he was released, it was with the conditions of repairing or paying for the properties he destroyed, as well as a hefty fine for everything else. He was also ordered to report to the American embassy in order to replace the passport he'd 'lost.'

Either way, Dean was screwed. Utterly screwed. How the hell was he supposed to pay off all this crap if he didn't even properly exist yet? Even if he was able to pay off his fines, he still had to pay for food and lodging while he worked, not to mention how much cash it would take to pay someone off to make him a fake passport, and then to buy a ticket to New York. He figured it would take him up to a year to earn up enough money, not to mention having to stay under the radar.

After finally having accepted his lot in life, he set out to find some dubiously honest work. With his charm and handsome face, Dean had no trouble finding work of all kinds. After three days working the streets, he'd earned enough money to convince someone in the unsavory area of London to rent him a room and work at the illegal drinking established located nearby. He preferred to be around the type of people who didn't ask questions, which was why he'd rather work four low-paying jobs in the ghetto than a fair-paying one up in the posh streets.

A month past his arrival in 1959, he established a schedule for his life, trying to fill the loneliness and fear with busywork. He tended the illicit bar from late afternoon into the late night, whereupon he'd go off duty and proposition bargoers who would accept more often than not. It wasn't the most savory way to supplement his income with easy work, but hell his dignity had made concessions in order to pay for food and rent before. He tried not to dwell on any of it. In the wee hours of the morning he stumbled out of unfamiliar beds to find his own and gain another hour or two of sleep to round it up to his usual rest of four. When the sun rose he was up to deliver newspapers as quickly as he could before heading to waiter at a restaurant until his shift began at the bar.

Dean Winchester didn't make friends; he made allies. He made allies with patrons who had important connections; he made allies with criminals; and he made allies with the people he worked with. People began flocking to him like moths to a candle after he began making a reputation for himself as the aloof enforcer of the unspoken laws in the slums. He was the one someone went to if they were being robbed, or stalked, or mugged. He never asked for much in lieu of payment, perhaps a meal, a drink at the bar, maybe some clothes, and in return Dean would teach the instigator a lesson. Rapidly, people learned to keep their morals on mostly the high ground when he was nearby. Once when he'd caught a douchebag trying to slip something into their date's drink, he'd left them badly beaten in the alleyway outside. Another person had stolen all the money two parents had been saving up to send their child to college, but the next morning all the money had been replaced, with no explanation. Even schoolyard bullies were not spared a lesson when Dean caught them beating on younger classmates; they were given a stern lecture to quit doing it or…It was implied that if they continued to beat people up when they were older, Dean would find them. This was one of their three warnings.

After this intervention in the schoolyard, children began to hero-worship Dean, even the former (now-reformed) bullies. They exchanged tales of his heroic actions they overheard from their parents' dinner table. For the kids without enough money for books or entertainment, he became their hero.

"Did you know Dean got in a fight last night? He totally crushed the five guys that ganged up on him!"

"Whoa, really?! They must've been new! I heard that last week, Dean set all of Mr. Barham's alcohol on fire when he heard him beating his dog again!"

"Okay but did you hear that Ms. Maison was mugged last night and she got stabbed and Dean was the one who found her and kept her from ex-ex-san-guin-ating and then he went and found the guy that did it and beat 'im up!"

"No way! D'you think she'll be better in time for Monday's lesson? Dean said it was real important to get 'n education.

Dean was totally a superhero.

Even the mothers liked him. No matter how late or early or busy he was, he always tried to help them fix stuff, or he'd drop off any "extra" food he had. They all knew Dean probably bought it with his own money, or took it from his own pantry—they could see how lean he was getting—but they couldn't afford to refuse it with hungry mouths to feed.

Some of the husbands didn't appreciate Dean's solicitousness and approached him threateningly at the bar. Dean merely waved their concerns aside and told them that if they had no problem watching their family starve, they could go ahead and kick his ass. They learned quickly. He also took it upon himself to stop allowing known domestic abusers into the establishment, as well as cutting off any violent drunks before they were thoroughly drunk.

In return for Dean seemingly taking it upon himself to act like a Western sheriff in the middle of London, the community kept their mouths shut about any of his actions and denied everything when the cops came asking questions. They let Dean keep to himself, but with subtle gestures and kind conversations, they made it abundantly clear that he was one of their own.

Thus passed five months and Dean found himself having survived to 1960.

It started with brutal killings of sex workers who also frequented the same bar as Dean. Dean had known several of them, and he had liked them. It was a dangerous position to be in for the murderer. One did not simply kill someone Dean Winchester liked without it coming back to bite them on the ass sevenfold.

Dean had just been laying down to catch his four hours of sleep when there was a racket, a racket banging at his dingy flat's door. He shot up, all thoughts of sleep forgotten, and grabbed a large hunting knife he kept under his pillow. He snuck over to the door cautiously cracking it open and quickly hiding the knife behind his back. It was just Charles, one of the older kids on the street.

"Man, what is it?" he demanded gruffly. Eyeing the boy's wild, excited posture. "And stop bouncing. You'll wake up Mrs. Dalson's baby downstairs."

Charles stood still immediately, practically at military attention, but his eyes still danced with thrill. "Sorry, but my mum told me to fetch you real quick! There's a dead body out back of the bar!"

Dean started to shut the door, saying, "You know I don't do dead bodies. Call me if it's a bully, or the monster under your bed, okay? Leave the regular dead bodies to the actual police."

The boy shoved his foot between the door and the frame, pressing his face against the gap. "Trust me, you'll wanna see this. Momma pushed me away before I got a good look, but I saw anyway. Their throat was ripped out. So much blood."

The man's jaw tightened, and he nodded tersely. "Alright, I'll come." He threw on the previous day's clothes, grabbed an even larger knife, and the two of them ran down to the bar.

"Hey, Ms. Hanover."

The older woman's creased face relaxed in obvious relief. "Dean, thank god you're here." She wiped her hands on her apron and hustled him towards the back door, fixing a stern eye on her son. "Stay put, Charles. Don't come out back, you hear me?"

After closing the door to the bar light and raucous drinking, she slumped against the wall. "My lord…it's just terrible. I didn't touch her, 'cept to push back her hair and see who the poor girl was. It's Joan." The bartender ran a shaky hand over her face. "I'm very sorry to bother you, Dean. I know you need your sleep, but I didn't want to leave this 'till your shift."

"It's okay ma'am, no problem at all. Do you want to go back inside? I think I can take care of myself." Dean crouched next to the body, looking up expectantly.

"Bless you boy, I think I will." Ms. Hanover leant over and placed a motherly kiss on his cheek. "I'll make sure no one bother you. And don't you worry about the other girls; they've already found beds for tonight."

Dean nodded. "Good. Can you check up on all of them in the morning?"

"Of course. Dean? Thank you for all you've done here. It was getting real bad just before you came, and now it's so much better. I don't worry as much about my bar girls and Charles. Thank you."

The hunter fidgeted under her gratitude, unaccustomed to being thanked. "It's no trouble at all; this is my business after all." He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump. "Do you know where I can get syringes?" he asked, changing the subject.

Ms. Hanover nodded. "I confiscated a few from a patron on heroin a couple nights back. Don't need to be clean, do they?"

Whereupon Dean shook his head and assured her those would be just fine, she bustled back in and out, returning with the promised syringes. After she left to return to the bar, he quickly filled them with Joan's blood.

He took a moment to stare sadly at her bloodied body. "Who were you going home with, huh? Whoever they were, I'm going to kill them. …God, I wish you weren't in this business. I wish none of us were, but we gotta pay the rent somehow, don't we? You were a great girl though, I bet they'll let you into that big pie in the sky. Hell, maybe I'll see you there after this. Actually, you never know with me; I might end up taking the elevator downstairs. Ha, oh well." He bushed a hand through her hair, probably the only part of her not soaked in blood, and closed her eyelids. Standing up, his gaze was dark and pretty damn murderous as he gripped his knife. Time to go vampire hunting.


A/N: Ugh, guys I'm sorry for taking a while to update. Honestly, I just don't have an affinity for writing hunts; usually they just take too long for me to set up and get the details right. For me they're just…blech. I'm bad. Then coupled with my ineptitude, these weeks leading up to finals have been kicking my ass so I haven't found much time to write. So I may not have another chapter until the beginning of June. Sorry! That scene I mentioned in my last author's note? Yeah, it might make an appearance in the next chapter, depending on how long it takes me to wrap up Dean's revenge hunt. Also, I'm going to try to include some Sam POV somewhere soon, so hopefully he'll seem more like the Sam we know and love. I am feeling like such a disappointment haha; this story is taking so much longer than I originally planned to get it to this point. But anyway, thank you all so much who are giving my first foray into an extended story a chance! xx