Dean set the last box down on the floor of his new room. He straightened up before placing his hands on his hips and looking around with an exhausted sigh. The room was white with bare walls, a small ceiling fan, and a bed pushed into one corner. Dean walked over and collapsed on the bed before hearing a faint knock at his door.

"Come in." He said, allowing the visitor in question to enter the room that now belonged to him. His younger brother, Sam, entered and looked around. He put on a fake pout and spoke to Dean.

"Aw man, why did you have to get the big room?" He whined, a joking tone in his voice. Dean sat up and grinned at his brother, laughing ever so slightly at the 15 year old.

"Because I'm older and I would kick your ass for this room, bitch." Dean replied with a cocky tone. Sam pulled out the bitch face, and Dean laughed.

"Jerk." Sam grumbled. "And you aren't that much older. You're only 17. Which is only 2 years." Sam crossed his arms and shot a glare at his older brother.

"But you're only 15. Which makes me older and stronger than you." Dean shot back with a triumphant tone in his voice, which he followed up with a smug grin. Sam huffed, shook his head, and walked out of Dean's room with a look on his face that could kill a man, raise him from the dead, and kill him again.

He watched his brother leave before collapsing back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He groaned and stood up again as he heard his father call his name from downstairs. He walked​ down the stairs and into the kitchen, which was excessively clean. It was as if no one had ever lived here, even though the house was about 10 years older than Dean was.

"I swear this is going to be the last time we move. I found a high school for you and Sam to go to. It's just around the block, so you'll have to walk, but I hear it's the nicest in the district. So be grateful, and try not to get expelled like you do everywhere else, you insufferable little dick." Dean clenched his jaw and nodded before walking away and leaving his father there alone. He didn't notice that his hands were balled into fists until he felt his nails digging into his palms. He took a few deep breaths and relaxed, reminding himself that John couldn't hurt him much longer.

From the time he was 4, up until he was 16, John had beaten Dean. Whenever Dean complained about something, or got a bad grade on a test, or accidentally hurt Sammy, John had cornered Dean in his room and beaten him. It started small, just enough to hurt him without it being visible, but as Dean got older, the injuries inflicted upon him got worse. Soon, he had bruises littering his arms, scars on his back, and many more unspeakable things. However, when Dean turned 16, he had had enough and threatened to call the cops. That was enough to make John back off, but the emotional abuse still came everyday.

Dean shook his head to clear the memories that flooded his mind and went back up to his room. He shut the door behind him, sighing as he looked around at all the boxes he had yet to open. He leaned down and opened one, only to be greeted by his CD collection. He smiled and shook his head. Why hadn't he labeled the boxes?

After 2 and a half hours of unpacking, Dean looked around at his room. He had all his clothes in his closet and his dresser, all his posters up, and all his CDs in the display case he had bought last year. He sighed, looking at the unmade bed, which was just a mattress with some sheets, a comforter, and a mattress pad folded on top of it.

And so, Dean spent an hour trying and failing to make his bed. He got the mattress pad on just fine, but sheets did not want to cooperate. Every time he got one corner down, another would come off from where he had secured it. He finally got the sheets on after 45 minutes. Then, to his dismay, he couldn't get the comforter on without it wrinkling up in one spot when he straightened out another.

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