"Winchester," shouted Jacobs. "You really did a damn good job back there." Jacobs slapped Dean's back as they exited the restaurant. Dean smiled down at the ground.

"Thanks." He hated compliments. He never knew what to do with them.

"How in the hell do you do what you do?" asked Mavrick.

Dean looked back up and shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, really. I just go in and get the job done." The crowd of firefighters hollered and cheered. Dean only then noticed that Olson still had his beer in his hand as he raised it to the sky. The men patted Dean on the back and messed up his hair. Soon they began to walk faster than him, and he fell behind the crowd. They yelled and cheered, "Dean! Dean! Dean!" as they went, but none looked to see why he was no longer among them.

Dean didn't really care for the social aspect of being a firefighter. He came to work, did the work, and all he wanted to do at the end of the day was to go back home to relax and sleep. But today had been a good "hard" day for him. He pulled a young boy and a seventy pound dog out of a burning apartment building in one trip, the boy in one arm, the dog in the other. The boys insisted they take Dean out for dinner and some beers. The only reason why he said yes was because his fridge was pretty much empty and he had another week before pay day.

He walked behind them with leftovers in tow. He ordered the largest plate of hot wings he could find on the menu so that he knew when he came home tomorrow, he would at least have a supper. The styrofoam container squeaked inside the plastic bag was he walked. The street was lit with lights from all sides. Cars flew down the road like there was no speed limit, and there really wasn't in this small down. Dean's eyes wandered, looking in windows as he passed, glancing at people sitting at tables or shopping late at night in Mom and Pop stores. Few people walked the streets and those that did quickly ducked into buildings to escape the sharp winter wind.

As he scanned the sidewalk, he noticed a bundle of blankets up against the wall, tucked between two windows. He walked passed and noticed it was a man sitting there, the blankets pulled up to his chin and over his head. Dean stopped. A tattered wool hat was pulled down to his brow. His blue eyes stood out from the smeared dirt and rough, full beard on his face. The man shivered and his teeth clicked as they hit. His face looked gaunt like he hadn't eaten in weeks, and he probably hadn't. The man looked up at Dean, but even though he stared into Dean's eyes, it seemed like he didn't see someone in front of him, his expression blank and tired. .

"Dean," called Peters, the rookie. He had turned and noticed Dean had stopped.

"Comin'." Dean took off to catch up to the group, but before he got halfway, he turned around. The man was no longer watching Dean. He was staring straight forward at the traffic without seeing it. Dean looked back at the guys and they were all walking away still cheering and singing. Dean jogged back to the man in the blankets and set the leftovers beside him. "Stay warm," said Dean as he backed away. The man looked at Dean like he had a third eye. He looked completely surprised to be given food because at first he didn't touch the bag. His eyes followed Dean and then the bag, and back at Dean and back at the bag.

"Thank you," said the man with a hoarse deep voice. Dean smiled slightly and ran to catch back up with the crowd, looking back over his shoulder about twenty times until they all turned the corner. The man in the blankets never looked away.

Dean climbed the stairs to his apartment slowly, dragging the tips of his toes on the iron steps. He jangled his keys as he trudged down the narrow hall and came to his door. When he opened the door, he breathed in and sighed loudly. He threw his keys in the bowl on the table beside the door and locked the door behind him. His back ached when he pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the couch, not even bothering to put it on the hook on the wall.

He made his way into the kitchen, opening the fridge to get out the second to last beer and marveling at how empty the shelves had become. He figured he could go ask his brother for a few bucks in the morning on his way into work, just to pay for some cheap food and a small amount of gas. I'll stop by the grocery on the way home, he thought. Dean closed the fridge door and went into the living room where he plopped onto the couch and set his aching feet on the coffee table. With a simple, easy flick of his wrist, he twisted off the cap and put the bottle to his lips, sipping the ice cold beer, savoring the slight bitter flavor.

He flipped on the TV and tuned into Doctor Sexy, MD. He wasn't much into doctor soap operas, but this one had enough hot girls and a good enough storyline that Dean found it interesting. He settled himself into the couch for the night when a thought came to mind. The man in the blankets. Dean kept seeing his face on the TV, in the small crowds that ran around on the screen, heard his husky voice when someone spoke. The thoughts of the man sitting alone and cold outside, pressed up against a building while people walked by without a passing glance made Dean's heart sink into his stomach. He was probably one of the few if any that stopped, talked to the man, gave him food out of kindness, treated him like a human being. Why the clock on the wall read one, Dean turned off the TV and tossed the remote next to him. He rubbed at his eyes as he stood. He went into his bedroom, changed into shorts and a t-shirt, and fell into bed. Thoughts of the man in the blanket haunted in until he fell asleep. Even in his dreams, he wanted to say he saw the dirty, rugged face with bright blue eyes in the crowds.

At 3 o'clock, his home phone rang loudly beside the bed.