Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters don't belong to me.

Dean dropped the paintbrush he'd been holding for the past half hour onto the ground, then slowly rose out of his crouch. His knees popped as he straightened, and he stretched and twisted to get rid of the rest of the kinks. He'd been painting this week's sales on the windows since it was pretty slow inside for the moment, and by this point was bored out of his mind. Luckily his shift was nearly over. He took a step back to check over his work, gave an eh, good enough shrug, and took a look around.

It was afternoon now, and the streets were bustling with activity. No one paid him any mind as they passed, too engrossed in their own little worlds to notice him, though thankfully no one had bumped into him while he was taking up sidewalk space.

Sometimes he would get jealous of the strangers walking past him, just for a fleeting moment. They all had such normal lives. They went to work, came home to their family, hung out with their friends, and most of all, they never had to worry about the threat of monsters swooping in and ending their happiness at any given time. They got stressed over taxes and where they were going to eat that night for dinner. Teenagers his age would be worrying over finishing their homework or wondering if their crush liked them back. It was all so hopelessly mundane and safe.

Still, Dean couldn't imagine living that kind of life himself. Not after how he and Sammy had grown up. He always felt that hunting was in his blood. His dad hunted in an attempt to avenge Mom's death, but Dean loved saving people. That's why he felt so connected to the job. He'd been so excited to share that experience with Sam, but now...

Everything felt different since their Dad died. Dean's priorities had always been take care of Sam, then hunt the monsters. Now Dean only had one priority, and he was damn determined to keep it that way. He refused to lose Sam like he lost his Dad. He wouldn't survive it. Maybe one day when Sammy was an adult, Dean would go back to hunting. Until then, he'd stick to painting sales on grocery store windows and hope that nothing else royally fucked up their lives.

Dean picked up his bucket of paint and the paintbrush, ready to head back inside. He probably had about ten minutes left of his shift, but he wanted to make sure Sam had all his things packed up. As he reached for the door, his hand paused on the handle. People continued to walk past him, the pigeons kept pecking at crumbs on the sidewalk, the breeze rustled the leaves of the small city trees, but Dean's skin prickled with unease despite all of it. Years of instinct that had yet to fade kicked in, and he slowly turned to face the street, trying to appear as casual as possible as he studied his surroundings.

Nothing stood out as odd, and no one seemed suspicious, but he just couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. He sighed, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face. Was he just being paranoid? His gut hadn't led him astray before, but there was a first time for everything. There was nothing he could see to indicate he should be worried. Maybe he was finally going crazy.

"Get ahold of yourself, Winchester," Dean muttered, subconsciously quoting his father. He spun around and yanked the door open with more force than necessary, accidentally scaring the woman who was exiting the store at that very instant. She jumped and let out a squeal, hand flying over her heart. Dean half-heartedly apologized, standing off to the side so she could get past him. She hurried by, huffing with indignation.

Once Dean was inside, he put the painting supplies in the closet, then headed towards the backroom to check on Sam. Halfway there, Anne intercepted him. "Dean, can I talk to you really quick?" She asked, with enough nervousness in her voice to have him pausing when all he wanted to do was get to his brother.

"What's up, Anne?" He asked, his tone kind and curious.

"Um, well..." She scratched her forehead, struggling to get the words out. "I was just wondering...if you and Sam, uh, would like to join me at my house for dinner on Thursday?" She rushed out, her words nearly running together at the end. Dean blinked in surprise, but she continued before he could respond. "I mean, I know you two are fine and you can take care of yourselves and I'm sure you could find better things to do with your evening than hang out with an old lady like me, but I just...I have all this food that my son brought over the other day—he worries, you know?—and I really don't think I can eat it all myself and a lot of it is perishable and I'm your boss so I know you're off work that day and I just think it would be kind of nice to spend some more time with you boys in a more comfortable environment." By the end of her rant, Anne was breathing a bit heavily, but she was giving Dean the most earnest look he'd ever seen.

His mind churned as he considered her offer. It would be nice to have a real home-cooked meal for once, something that didn't have to be microwaved...And he didn't think Anne was secretly a monster or anything, but...

"I don't know, Anne..." He trailed off uncertainly, glancing towards the room Sam was in and biting his lip.

She followed his gaze and smiled understandingly. "Just one meal," she pressed. Dean was clearly on the edge of agreement, so she tipped the scales further in her favor. "I'll make pie," she sing-songed.

Dean chuckled at the overt manipulation, visibly relaxing. "Well, how could I possibly say no to that?" He returned with amusement shining in his eyes.

Anne brightened, trying not to make a huge deal about his decision when he could still change his mind at any moment. "Great! You still have my address, right?" She confirmed, and Dean nodded. When he had declined her offer to let them move in with her, she'd insisted on at least giving him her address in case they ever needed anything. This dinner would be their first time going to her house, though.

"Okay, then, I'm gonna go back to work. Thursday. 5pm. Don't forget." She pointed a finger at him sternly, then stepped around him to go back to the counter. There were a few customers in the store, but nothing she couldn't handle by herself.

Dean walked into the backroom, stopping just inside the doorway. The tv had been turned on at some point, and there was a rolling banner at the bottom of the screen that read "BREAKING NEWS—YOUNG BOY FOUND MURDERED IN ALLEY. POLICE HAVE NOT YET IDENTIFIED A SUSPECT. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE DIAL 911 IMMEDIATELY." Dean frowned at the blurry pictures of the crime scene. All you could see was the hazy image of a small body covered in white tarp, but it was enough to make Dean's stomach turn. Sam's eyes were glued to the tv, his brows furrowed in a mixture of sadness and anger—the same expression he got whenever their dad used to tell them about the victims of whatever monster he was hunting that week.

Dean snatched the remote out of the kid's hand and quickly shut off the tv. "C'mon man, you shouldn't watch crap like that," he snapped, concern lending an irritated edge to his voice.

Sam looked up at him with those damned puppy dog eyes. "He was only nine years old, younger than me," he murmured.

Dean held back a wince. "I know, Sammy. I saw. But you can't let it get to you, alright?" He said, his tone much softer than before. "Bad shit happens to people who don't deserve it. That's just life." He shrugged sympathetically, starting to gather the books that were strewn across the table and putting them back in Sam's book bag.

"Life sucks," Sam grumbled, kicking the leg of his chair lightly.

Dean sighed, glancing over his shoulder at his emo little brother. "It's not all bad, Sam. You just gotta focus on the good moments," he advised, placing the now-full bag back in the corner cubby where it belonged.

Sam snorted. "You should be a motivational speaker, Dean," he remarked sarcastically. Dean smiled, knowing that if his brother could sass, he was feeling alright.

"Maybe I will. People love to hear me talk," Dean retorted playfully.

"No, Dean, you love to hear you talk," Sam corrected, giggling as Dean reached to smack him upside the head and ducking deftly out of his chair to stand a few feet away.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean had an arm slung lazily over Sam's shoulders as they made their way home. He was humming Led Zeppelin, something he'd always done to pass the time. The weather was chilly but not uncomfortable. They had left the busy blocks of town and now only passed a few people every once in a while. Overall, it was a relaxing walk.

Dean's gaze slid absentmindedly to the left, and he noticed they were coming near the neighborhood park. It was small but well-kept. There was a fenced-in dog park, a playground, and picnic tables set up at random points around the perimeter. He could see a couple kids around Sam's age on the playground, a family sitting and eating at one of the tables, and a woman sitting on a bench next to the play area, a stroller right beside her.

"Hey, Sammy, wanna go to the park?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. The murder they'd heard about on the news had occurred in a town a few hours from them, so he wasn't worried a killer was roaming the streets of Philly. Besides, the cops would catch the asshole before he got very far. They were safe where they were—well, no less safe than usual anyway.

"I'm too old for the park," Sam answered matter-of-factly, catching Dean's attention.

His face scrunched up, and he pulled his brother to a halt. "What? No, you're not. You're ten, not forty," he argued.

Sam looked unsure, glancing between Dean and the swings with an almost wistful expression. "Dad always said I was too old for that kind of stuff," he mumbled, clearly wary of bringing up Dad but wanting to prove his statement correct, as if the man's word was law. Which...okay, it might've been when he was alive, but times had changed.

Dean shook his head, brushing Sam's hair back with one hand so he could see his face properly. "Well, I'm saying you're not, and I'm always right." Dean smirked, eliciting a tiny smile from his little brother.

"Um...I guess a few minutes couldn't hurt," he acquiesced.

Dean grinned and grabbed Sam's hand, pulling him towards the swings. "Damn straight," he agreed. Luckily, the swings were empty when they got over there, so they had the space to themselves. Sam let go of Dean's hand to run to the nearest swing, and the older brother took the one beside it. When Sam noticed Dean's actions, both his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"You're swinging, too?" He gave a lopsided grin, clearly excited his brother had joined him.

Dean scoffed dramatically. "You kiddin'? You're not the only one allowed to have fun around here," he claimed, pushing off with his feet. "Hey, I bet I can swing higher than you," he added with a challenging smirk. The look Sam gave him in return—like he was the coolest brother on the planet—nearly had Dean jumping out of the swing to hug the kid.

"You're on!" Sam declared.

The two brothers swung their feet like their lives depended on it, both laughing mirthfully despite the fact that it was supposed to be a competition. There were a few times Dean nearly fell backwards out of his seat, but he managed to hold on with only a few muttered curses. It was clear after a while that there would be no clear winner, but that had never really been the point.

"Hey, Sammy, watch this!" Dean called out. Once the kid's gaze was latched onto him, he waited for the perfect moment before letting go of the swing. He was airborne for a few seconds, then landed with a muffled thud on the soft mulch, his feet leaving drag marks as he slid a few more inches. He stood up victoriously, turning to face his brother. Sam had stopped moving his legs so he wasn't swinging so high and was shaking his head in exasperation.

"Show off," he said with obvious fondness.

Dean winked at him. "Can't help that I'm the best, Sammy. You keep swinging, okay? I'm gonna get a drink from the fountain," he told him, waiting for Sam's nod of acknowledgment before walking toward the edge of the playground where the water fountains were located. As he bent over to get a drink, a woman's voice spoke up from his right.

"Is that your brother?"

Dean startled, standing straight and giving the stranger a quick scan. It was the woman he'd noticed earlier, the one with the stroller. Now that he was closer, he could see the bundled up child next to her more clearly. It was a girl, if the pink headband indicated anything. Dean guessed she was about five months old. The woman herself looked to be in her early thirties, with long blonde hair and light blue eyes that glanced between him and her baby. She reminded him so strongly of his mother that his heart ached, and he struggled to process her words.

"Um, w-what?" He stuttered.

She gestured towards Sam. "Is he your brother?"

Dean's hackles raised a bit, always uncomfortable when a stranger took notice of his brother, but he forced himself to calm down. She was just a curious mother, not a child-snatcher.

"Yeah," he answered finally, shifting his weight awkwardly.

She nodded, having expected that response. "That's nice of you to bring him here. Not many teenagers have the patience for younger siblings," she noted, sending him a quick smile. Dean pressed his lips together, unsure what to say to that, and still confused why she was talking to him in the first place. She seemed to read his expression, since she held out her hand. "Sorry. I'm Heather. I just moved in right down the block," she explained sheepishly.

Dean relaxed slightly, sitting beside her as he shook the proffered hand, making sure to keep to the opposite side of the bench. "Dean," he introduced. "How old is your daughter?" He asked, figuring it was as good a conversation starter as any.

Heather looked down at her baby with blatant adoration. "She'll be five months next week," she replied. Dean's assumption was correct, then.

"They're pretty cute at that age, huh?" He remarked, the corner of his mouth lifting in remembrance. She raised an eyebrow.

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience," she said.

"My brother," Dean elaborated, looking out to where Sam was still swinging to make sure he was okay. "I can still picture his little chubby cheeks. And those dimples were a heartbreaker. Still are, really," he chuckled.

Heather laughed softly with him. "My son is six. He wants nothing to do with Brianna," she stated, and Dean connected the dots quickly enough that Brianna was the baby's name. "He thinks she has cooties," she snorted, rolling her eyes.

Dean considered that for a second. He didn't know how other kids reacted to learning they would have siblings, but Dean's first reaction had been utter joy. One of his earliest memories was his mom tucking him into bed, her face torn between hesitation and excitement as she informed him he was going to be a big brother. He'd felt his parents were giving him a gift—a built-in best friend, someone he could share his toys with and tell all his secrets. He'd pestered his mom constantly those nine months, asking when the baby would get there. She was always patient with him, telling him, "You've gotta give him time to grow, Dean. You want him to be healthy and strong, right?" It was usually enough to assuage the young child for a few days.

After Sammy was born, Dean wasn't allowed to see him at first, which drove him all kinds of crazy. He was stuck at home with the babysitter, forced to wait until his mom and dad arrived home from the hospital. The day they got back, a new human cradled in his mom's arms, Dean demanded to see his brother.

"Mommy! I wanna see him! Lemme see!" He whined impatiently, making grabby hands at the unfamiliar bundle.

"Okay, Dean. You have to sit down first, though, alright? He's really fragile. You don't want to drop him, do you?" Dean instantly obeyed, running over to the sofa chair in the living room and climbing into it. Once he was situated, his mom placed the baby in his lap, uncovering his face so Dean could see him clearly. She hovered nearby just in case, while his dad sunk into a crouch next to the chair.

Dean froze in place as big hazel eyes stared up at him. The baby squirmed, still getting used to his ability to move his limbs around freely, though the blanket he was wrapped up in restricted him a bit. After a bit of maneuvering, he managed to get one arm free and immediately lifted it to Dean's face, trying to reach him. Dean took a deep breath, grabbing the baby's hand gently in his own and holding it against his cheek. It was warm and soft.

"What's his name?" Dean wondered, his gaze never leaving his brother's.

"Sam. His name is Sam," his Dad answered, his tone full of affection.

"Sam," Dean repeated, trying out the name. "I like it. Do you like it, Sammy?" He asked with a smile, which turned into a full-blown grin when his brother gave a happy gurgle and kicked his feet. Dean brought the baby tighter against his chest, leaning down until his forehead nearly met Sam's. "I'm happy you're home, Sammy," he whispered as if it were their little secret.

Dean never understood his parents' proud reaction to his quick acceptance of Sam, but perhaps now he did. If he were any other older sibling, he might've been loath to share the attention—or in Heather's son's case, run away shouting "cooties!"

"Anyway, I should get going. I think Brianna's getting sleepy." Heather's voice broke into his thoughts and Dean blinked as the woman stood up to leave. The baby was indeed beginning to nod off. "It was nice to meet you, Dean." She waved, and he returned the gesture.

"You, too," he called after her as she turned to head out of the park. Just a few seconds later, Sam ran up to him, his jeans now covered with dirt at the knees. Dean pursed his lips, eyeing his brother speculatively. "You jumped and landed on your face, didn't you?" He guessed monotonously. He must've been really distracted not to notice that.

Sam's eyes widened at being caught out, but he quickly adjusted his expression into defiance. "No," he lied.

"Uh huh. Next time, leave it to the pros, Sammy."

When they got home to their shabby studio apartment, Dean headed for the kitchen to make dinner while Sam went to grab his schoolbook with the practice problems. He set it on the table, along with a notebook and pen, then settled himself in one of the hard chairs.

"How's grilled cheese sound?" Dean asked, already pulling cheese slices out of the fridge. Sam gave a quiet sound of agreement but otherwise didn't respond. Neither of them really had the luxury of being picky and they knew it. Good thing Dean's cooking kicked ass, no matter what they were eating.

While he was waiting for the ancient stove to heat up, Dean crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. "What's the topic today?" He hoped it wasn't English. That was his worst subject, and he wasn't sure he had any right to teach Sam anything about it.

"Math. Volume word problems," Sam replied distractedly, trying to find the correct page. Dean sighed. Fun. "You don't have to help. I can do it on my own. This stuff is easy," Sam insisted.

"I don't mind helping, Sammy," Dean told him honestly. It wasn't exactly exciting stuff, but he never resented it. He would do anything for his brother.

"I really wanna try doing it myself," Sam practically begged.

Dean raised his hands in surrender, then placed the sandwiches in the pan to start cooking. "Okay, Mr. Independent," he joked. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Dean made Sam one grilled cheese—knowing the kid wouldn't eat any more than that even though he was too skinny for his own good—and made a double for himself using three slices of bread. Sam was so engrossed in his work that Dean had to wave the food in front of his face to get him to eat.

Dean waited until their food was long gone and Sam had finally shut his textbook to bring up his conversation with Anne earlier. By then it was dark, and Dean had turned on the overhead light, which was actually quite dim. They didn't own any lamps.

"Anne wants us to come over for dinner at her place on Thursday," Dean blurted out as Sam let out a yawn. A plethora of emotions passed through his brother's eyes: confusion, hope, excitement, then wariness.

"What did you say?" He wondered hesitantly.

Dean shrugged. "I said we would go."

"Wait, really?" Sam's face lit up and his posture straightened.

"Yeah," Dean said slowly. "Don't act so shocked," he muttered defensively.

"I am shocked," Sam objected through his smile. "I didn't think you'd agree to something like that. You think it's safe?" He asked, the genuine trust he had in Dean's judgment always putting the big brother at ease.

"Yeah, I do," Dean said quietly.

"I wonder if she has any dogs," Sam mused out loud, biting his lip with barely-contained excitement. Dean huffed in amusement, standing from his chair and stretching.

"I don't know, buddy. What I do know is that it's time for your shower," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Sam grumbled incoherently at being bossed around, but obediently shuffled towards the bathroom. "Don't be too long," Dean called right before his brother shut the door.

Dean did a final check of the windows, making sure the salt lines were intact, then flopped onto the mattress to relax until he could take his own shower. He was exhausted despite the fact that it wasn't very late and was more than ready to call it a night.

He rolled over onto his stomach, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy bedding. He'd thought the motel rooms they'd stayed in growing up were crappy—boy, was he wrong. Those places seemed like penthouse suites compared to where they were now. He could hear a couple arguing a few doors down, multiple police sirens ringing out in the distance, and the loud bass of a speaker thumping through the ceiling. It was hardly home sweet home.

Someday things would be different, though. He'd make a better life for Sammy—the life he'd always deserved. Dean had one goal through this whole fucked up mess, and that was to keep his brother happy and healthy.

One day at a time, he thought with a sigh.