Hello everyone and welcome back. Sorry but this is a short, Dean-focused chapter. My original plan was to have this story complete by Christmas but real life has bombarded me with so many unexpected twists and turns this past week that I don't think that goal is reachable. Also, sorry that I have not replied to your wonderful reviews of last chapter, I hope you each know how very much they mean to me. Thanks.

Dean Winchester. The sight of his own name, emblazed in big, bold Technicolor makes him cringe. The more he stares, the more the letters seem to shimmer in the light. They ebb and flow within an ever changing kaleidoscope of colour, showered in the most dazzling shades as if a rainbow hides underneath, pulsing within the confines of them just itching to be released.

It doesn't make sense. His name, it should carry a heavy shadow in its wake, any brightness leeched out like the arrival of an eclipse that blots out the warmth and radiance of the sun to cover the world in a veil of frosty blackness. This name, his name, should not be lit up like some sort of invitation for all to see. It ought to be erased, the letters left to crack and shatter, to be swallowed up by darkness to serve as a warning to others, of what the owner has brought to every single thing he has touched.

It doesn't make any sense that he would be welcomed here. He… he is nothing and he is nobody. Well, scratch that, he is something, but not the ray of sunshine this stupid billboard is trying to make him out to be. He is a harbinger of death, an omen of it, has been to pretty much anyone and everyone who has been unlucky enough to cross his path. If you see Dean Winchester walking down the street, you better give him a wide berth, or better yet turn and flee, before his infection bleeds into you and you wind up just another casualty of his curse. You don't welcome him with open arms and you definitely don't invite him in on purpose.

His eyes bore into each letter. The light dances all around until it encompasses him in a layer of colour and light. The last time his name was exposed to the world was courtesy of that damn shapeshifter, forever equating him with murder and death. Dean Winchester now stands as a name synonymous with pain and torture. In a blink of an eye his role had changed, he had gone from hunter to the hunted, his prized anonymity stripped away from his flesh. He should have paid attention. He should have taken heed to the signs all around him. Who knew it would take a filthy, supernatural thing, that took his form for such a short period of time to hit the nail on the head. That. That is how his name should be remembered, how he deserves to be remembered, not like this.

The flickering of light within doesn't stop but seems to strengthen and intensify, like it is trying to smother the smoldering hatred his own name elicits from him. He watches in fascination as tendrils of colour seem to reach out like ghostly fingers, stretching and yearning to make contact with his skin.

Dean Winchester. He used to be different. His name once stood for loyalty and purpose, for humour and wit and unyielding sarcasm. But now it is marked and pitted, somehow the traits he once prided himself in have been scooped out with each passing hunt, until only a shell of a human being remains, tired and beat and ready to give up the fight.

He moves closer, the flurry of vivacious pigments and pulsating warmth that juts out from them drawing him near. He can't…he can't help but reach out to touch a wispy ringlet of colour as it streams out towards him. Its contact with his flesh causes a ripple of serenity to pulse into him like the beat of a bass drum that gets under your skin and pulls you along in its rhythm.

No. It's too late. Too many things have happened. Too many lives have been stolen. Too much carnage has been doled out. He doesn't deserve to be warm and fuzzy inside, yet he finds it harder and harder to concentrate and hang on to the feelings of self-loathing he needs, he deserves to inflict upon himself. His focus shifts as he is mesmerized by the swirling lights that dance around him, inexplicably drawn to the promise of the lazy little town with the ridiculous and ironic name. Tranquility, the town not so far away, seems to think his name is something to be cherished.

He gulps in a mouthful of air as he is bombarded with positive and peaceful thoughts and memories.

His mother smiles at him and whispers in his ear words of love.

His dad plays catch with him outside in the sun while his mother watches from the lawn chair, a brand new life held delicately in her hands.

Sam. His first smile. His first laugh. The way his tiny hand curled around his big brother's finger and gripped it tight. Such trust. Such love.

Faster and faster the images come, they start to cram themselves into his head to edge and overtake all others. His pain and heartache seems to filter out faster and faster like grains of sand sifted through your fist and left to dissipate and flutter away in the gentle breeze. His focus shifts more and more from all the anguish and sacrifice that has dogged him up until now, to the promise of what lies just beyond the threshold of the town.

He steps away from the sign to begin his journey into Tranquility.

TBC...