Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), AU, Homelessness, Profanity.

The object of life is the fleeting joy of a need fulfilled. That spark of happiness when something inside of you has been placated. It's what everyone looks for, the next need, and the next way to be satisfied. Yet satisfaction is an illusion. There is only a brief moment when everything is perfect. A few scant seconds when happiness, when satisfaction is sustained, then the next need becomes pressing, and you're driven onwards once more. Dean's used to that drive, is used to being driven by his needs, is more than used to seeing others driven by their needs.

The World is changing, and changing for the worst. At least that's the way Dean sees it. People are growing more selfish, more driven by their own needs, and less concerned with finding satisfaction in fulfilling the needs of others. There are a few left, but they're so rare that they've almost become like white whales in an ocean of sharks. The slightest drop of blood in the water draws them all into a feeding frenzy, every one of them drawn to get their pound of flesh. The World is growing more selfish. The World is growing more self-obsessed. The World is growing more narcissistic, and frustrates Dean endlessly.

When he was younger, his life had been easier. Still horribly difficult, and brutally unpleasant, but it had been easier. He'd been a cute kid if nothing else. His mother had taken advantage of that. In his youth, people had given generously to a child beggar, but now they scurry past him and his little paper cup without a backward glance. It might be that he's not bathed in a few days, it might be the fact that his eye's swollen shut from a fight he lost, it might be that he's chosen a bad pitch, but he's not seen a nickel all day, and it's got him feeling existential.

Living on the streets gives you a lot of time to think. It's something Dean's always appreciated about his life. He'd like to think he's given more thought to the human condition than the scurrying Starbucks obsessed masses. He's not hyped up on too much sugar and caffeine, so he's clear to see the World for what it is, and what it is, is nothing more than a bad joke. It's not that he thinks his status of no fixed abode is a particularly good one. Quite the opposite, if there's one thing Dean would be truly grateful for, it's an abode, but he sees the futility of the people rushing around him, not sparing a glance in his direction.

There is a system in Dean's life. A system that he's followed for as long as he can remember. A system that's kept him alive if nothing else. He's been sitting on this particular piece of sidewalk at this particular time for a week now. It's part of his system, his order of haunts to try his luck at begging. Here near the subway for morning peak hours, downtown for the lunchtime rush, back to the subway for the evening commute, a system he's thought out carefully to try and maximise his potential earnings. In this particular spot, he's seen the same faces for a week, and he can tell they're no happier with their lives than he is with his own. Sure, they look at him with pity, sure guilt sometimes forces them to drop a dime in his cup, but for the most part his presence makes them feel better about themselves.

At least I'm not that guy.

If he could read minds he's sure that's what they'd all be thinking, but in honesty, it's what he thinks of them. At least he's not rushing to a job he hates, to get money to pay for an apartment that's too small to house the family he doesn't care about. More money, more problems. It's always been Dean's philosophy. He's never seen rich people who are any happier than he is. People are always looking for the next need to fulfil. His poverty, his homelessness makes his needs more simplistic. His needs are easy to define, and in theory easy to meet. If only the scurrying masses would drop him a nickel every so often.

"This is my spot." Dean glances up at the voice. Native Chicago, a little rough, a little tired, and unfamiliar.

"I didn't see your name on it." Dean shrugs, and studies the man in front of him, ignoring the way some people are staring at them, hoping for a fight, hoping for something to post on YouTube or Facebook, something to garner them hits and maybe a spot on local news.

"It's right there." The man smirks, and points behind Dean's head, to the crudely scrawled punk on the wall.

"Punk? That's not a name." Dean mutters, and the man in front of him laughs. He looks like he's been on the streets a while, not as long as Dean, but long enough to know that duct tape is your friend, long enough to know that trimming a beard is a good idea if you wear one, and Dean is beginning to get one. He's going to have to try and find a spot at a shelter for the night soon, he needs to shave at the very least, and shelters usually have free razors.

"It's my name." The man looks oddly pained, his hand coming up to rub at his forehead, pushing the beanie on his head up slightly, letting Dean catch a glimpse of a long, white scar.

"Punk? Odd name." Dean shrugs, unwilling to surrender the spot, unwilling to change the system. "You've not been here in a week. It's my spot now, Punk." Dean smirks, but all Punk does is sit beside him, setting his own cup down. A scurrying person drops a quarter in it as she hurries to her train, and Dean glances over at Punk, a slight smile on his lips.

"She always gives me a quarter... Fixed her shoe once." He shrugs, and Dean holds back an irritated sigh. Punk seems like a nice, decent guy, there's a story behind him, and Dean's more than little certain if he stays in Punk's company too long he'll end up being told the whole tale.

A few more quarters land in Punk's cup, a few of the scurriers makes enquiries as Punk's health. This is his pitch, and Dean should move on. It's probably why he's been getting so little in this spot. People get attached to their tragedies. They get used to their homeless guy, and when a new one shows up, they're resentful because it interrupts their narrative. People are only concerned with themselves, and they like the scenery in their stories only to change on their whim. People like Dean aren't people in the eyes of the scurriers, they're like pigeons with more recognisable faces. Some scurriers feed pigeons, some shoo them away, and others would shoot them on sight if it were socially acceptable, the same applies to the homeless.

"Aren't you the nice one?" Dean doesn't look at Punk, but he can feel a smirk being aimed at him, can feel something like human interaction, and he's not sure he can really remember how that feels.

"When I want to be." Punk chuckles, and offers a thank you to the man that drops a dollar in his cup. The note is quickly taken out of the cup, and stashed somewhere on Punk's person. You never leave a note in the cup, you never leave too much change, and you never have nothing in it. A note makes people think you're doing fine, it might only be a dollar, but that won't stop them from thinking it's a hundred. You never have too many coins in the cup for the same reason, and you never have none because the scurriers like to hear the sound of their contribution to your meagre existence. It makes them feel like they're doing their good deed for the day, and that's important to them.

They spend maybe an hour at the station entrance, not talking, not acknowledging each other, before Punk stands once more, and Dean, at loss for anything better to do, stands as well.

"I'm Dean, by the way." He offers, but Punk only nods distractedly, stashing his change in various little pockets hidden in his thick layers.

"Uh-huh... I'm Punk, nice to meet you." He mumbles, and starts walking away, heading for a larger station up the street.

"Hey, wait up." Dean chases after him, not really sure why, but knowing he's not quite willing to return to his own thoughts just yet. He might not want to hear Punk's story, but he's not ready to be stuck with his own right then. A little company never did any harm, at least when it's simply companionship.

"Look... Neither of us are going to get anything if we're together. It looks bad... Two women are okay, a man and a woman, a man and a dog, all okay, but two men is too threatening." Punk states calmly once they arrive at the larger station, and Dean nods, knowing Punk's right. There are two exits, one on the left, one on the right, if they divvy it up; they'll both get a little.

"I'll go left." Dean smiles slightly, and Punk nods vaguely, starting to walk to his door.

"Hey... Uh... Look, in a couple of hours... There's a place. We can get something to eat, if you wanna?" Punk looks desperately uncomfortable, and Dean supposes he doesn't much wanna be alone either. Sometimes it's better to be alone on the streets, sometimes though you need someone there. Even if you don't know that person, even if they'd stolen your pitch, you need to know that there's a person there with you. Human contact, genuine human contact not marred by pity, or comparison, the warmth of a person who knows, who understands, and generally doesn't care. It's what everyone is looking for really, scurrier or homeless.

"Cool. Thanks man, I appreciate it." Dean smiles, and Punk nods, shuffling to his spot setting himself up. Dean follows suit, and waits to see if this will be a more successful spot for him.

A few hours, and thankfully several coins, later, Punk comes shuffling over to Dean. He looks strangely tired, even more tired than he had looked earlier, wobbling slightly even though he's standing still.

"You taking something?" It's the most obvious answer to Dean's mind. An addict is often on the streets, an addict would look so pale, and weak after sitting for so long, an addict would need another hit.

"Drugs?" Punk sneers, and raises his hands, presenting Dean with his knuckles. DRUG FREE is branded across them. It's a bold statement, especially in today's society where there are hidden drugs and additives in everything, but it does neatly answer Dean's question.

"Then what's wrong?" Dean slips an arm around Punk's waist, mildly surprised by how slight he is. He's tall, not as tall as Dean, but tall enough, and his waist is so narrow underneath all of the layers. He can't have been eating too well lately even by homeless standards he's skinny.

"Nothing... This way." Punk starts walking, slowly, mostly shuffling in all honesty, and Dean matches his pace, ignoring the looks, ignoring the jeers, ignoring the fact he knows all of the scurriers think that they're drunk.

"Where we headed?" Dean asks once they're away from the plaza outside the station, and making their way down a quiet street.

"To the back of a deli." Punk smiles at him, and steps away. "Thanks... I... Sometimes I'm a little..." Punk shakes his head, and Dean nods slightly, not too sure what to say. Sometimes you need to keep your secrets to yourself, sometimes you can reveal too much, and lose the little you have.

They make their way along the street in silence, turning into an alleyway. Punk leans against a wall, and Dean hovers beside him waiting.

"Hey Punk! How's it going my man?" A young man comes out of the back of the deli, in his hands is a loaf of more than likely stale bread, and a half empty bottle of soda. Punk smiles at the man, and Dean glances between them. "You forget my name again? Punk... Man... If I didn't know better, I'd be offended." He hands Punk the food and drink, getting a grateful smile from him in return.

"I remember your face just fine." Punk's smile gets bigger, and the man nods vaguely, staring at Dean.

"Who's your friend?" He asks, his eyes flicking over Dean, then back to Punk. Dean isn't sure if he should say his name or trust Punk to give it to him. Punk tears the bread in half, clearly stalling for time.

"Uh..." Punk turns to Dean, holding out half of the loaf, a slightly lost look on his face.

"I'm Dean." Dean offers his name to the man, and is mildly confused by the hand that's offered to him. He can't quite remember the last time someone shook his hand.

"Dean... Deano... Good name, man. Punk'll forget it, but it's a good name." The man laughs, and Punk shrugs, as though fully accepting the inevitability of his forgetting. "So... Punk, where you been? Ain't seen you around in a few weeks... You been doing okay?" The man sounds genuinely concerned, and Punk nods, clearly unwilling to divulge his business. Either because he doesn't want this man to know it, or he doesn't want Dean to.

"I'm alright... Surviving." Punk offers with a smile, and the man laughs.

"Yeah... Ain't we all?" His smile dies slowly, his eyes skimming over Punk's face carefully. "You're looking thin again, you been remembering to eat? If you're his friend, you gotta make sure he remembers to eat." The man turns to Dean, his eyes narrowed. "Crazy bastard forgets." He laughs, his tone fond. He's clearly a friend of Punk's and Dean's not entirely sure what he is to the odd man he's been following all morning.

"I'll watch that." Dean takes a bite of the bread, and is surprised to find it's not as stale as he'd expected. It's not fresh but it's not a brick, and it actually tastes pretty good.

"So... My cousin's got a shipment coming to his restaurant tonight, might be a couple of bucks in it if you're interested?" The man's turned back to Punk, staring at him as though willing him to say yes.

"Uh-huh? Where?" Punk nods, sipping at the soda, and then passing the bottle over to Dean.

"You know Joey? Big guy, mole the size of a grapefruit-"

"On his left cheek, about six two, black hair with grey in it?" Punk asks, and the man nods. "His place is like two blocks down... The fancy Italian one?"

"That's the one. You might be shit with names, but Jesus, if the cops ever need a description; you're the man to go to... Makes me terrified to ask how you remember me." At this Punk laughs, and takes his first bite of the bread.

"You'd stop feeding me if I told you." Punk laughs, and the man snorts. "What time?"

"Bout seven... You taking your new friend? Tell Joey that Sammo sent you over. He'll know Punk, or Punk'll know him, but you know it's best to have names." Dean nods, he's pretty sure he'll be sticking with Punk at least on the off-chance of getting money, a couple of dollars is better than nothing.

"Sure thing." Dean nods, tapping Punk's arm with the bottle of soda, Punk takes it from him, but doesn't drink just yet.

"Cool. Right man, I gotta get going. I'll let Joey know you'll be over, Punk, and that you're bringing a friend. I'm sure he'll have something to fatten you up." The man, Sammo Dean supposes, smiles at Punk, getting a slight nod, and a vague smile in return. "You take care till then." He heads back into the deli, and Dean stares over at Punk.

"I helped him out once... He needed money for a cab home." Punk mutters, taking a sip of the soda, and sighs, before polishing off his bread. "He's a good guy." Punk shrugs, and hands Dean the bottle. "C'mon... Let's get outta here. His boss doesn't like me hanging around, says I bring down the tone of the place." Dean laughs, and follows along behind Punk.

"You really are nice when you want to be, aren't you?" Dean bumps Punk's shoulder lightly.

"Yeah..." He sounds confused, and is rubbing his forehead once more.

"Hey... What's up with your head anyways?" It's not uncommon for the homeless to be sick, there's more than a few legitimate crazies on the streets, more than a few physically, and mentally disabled people out there. The sort of people the scurriers don't want to have to worry about, so they're tossed out like garbage.

"Nothing... I just forget things." Punk snaps, and levels Dean with the sort of look that says the conversation is closed.

"Alright." Dean holds his hands up, offering his surrender, showing he's not going to push the matter. He doesn't much care about Punk's story, for now, he's a good companion, not overly chatty, and that suits Dean just fine. He likes silence, likes being lost in his thoughts. "I've got a pretty sweet spot downtown, if you wanna..." Dean leaves the offer open, and Punk turns to him, a hint of confusion in his eyes. "There's one of those trendy coffee shops where they let people buy coffees to keep on tap for people like us." Dean explains, and Punk nods, falling into step with Dean. "It's ain't too far from here, so we can make it back for seven easy."

"Yeah... Sure." Punk sighs, and Dean glances over at him. "I'm sorry... What was your name again?" Dean laughs, and Punk frowns over at him. "If we're hanging out I should try and remember."

"Don't worry about it. I'll write it up by yours tomorrow." Dean laughs, and Punk snorts in amusement. Silence follows them for a while, but Dean can't help but want to know a little about his companion. He's not had one in so long, and it seems rude not to enquire a little. Punk strikes Dean as the type of guy who has a list of people Dean can benefit from, and he's not above using his odd new friend to make fulfilling his needs a little easier. "So... What other nice stuff you done?"

So, the winner of the poll was chapter 9 Carol of the Bells. I was a touch surprised to be honest, but such is the nature of democracy! Thank you to all who voted! This is the first chapter of this odd little tale. Set before the Christmas fic, so reading it isn't necessary to understand this one.

I hope you enjoy it. I found it oddly cathartic to write this first chapter.

If you enjoyed - Please review. A few kind words are an elixir to my weary soul.