The Black Rose (completed)

one

WARNING: This chapter contains themes of abuse, loss and suicide. Please use discretion when reading.

Dean used to be like any other kid.

When he was three or four years old, before Sam was born, he liked to run around the backyard with his mom playing cowboys and indians. Dean always liked to be the cowboy, chasing his mother and tackling her, although she only fell to humor him. They always laid together in a bundle of laughs, and Dean's mother tickled him and everything was perfect.

Then his mother, Mary, got pregnant and their times of tickle fights and games dwindled to rare occasions. Dean felt a little left out, maybe feeling less important than he used to be. But when Sam arrived, all of those feelings of inadequacy melted away. There was one thing he knew for sure. He loved his brother.

When their mother died, Dean was heartbroken. Sammy was just a baby, and Dean wanted to give him a happy life. He didn't really have a choice, but he still wanted to do it. Their father John fell into a deep despair when his wife died. He was able to save their sons, but Mary was already dead, trapped and burned to a crisp.

He tried, John did, he tried desperately for three years to act normal. Act like nothing was wrong. He acted like a good father. He acted like he cared. But when Dean was old enough to be even the least bit independent, John fell off the deep end.

Dean became the father Sam would never have, the mother he never had. Dean cared for Sam, feeding him, getting him to preschool, then elementary school later on, and helping him get to bed every night. John helped at first, but then he gave up. He gave in. Gave in to his sadness, his depression, and drank to hide it all.

Dean disregarded his father's anger, his lashing out, the abuse. He's just not happy right now, Dean thought to himself, he'll get back to normal again. Dean didn't let it get to him. At least, he tried. He didn't let anyone ever see him cry.

But that doesn't exactly matter now. Why dwell on the past?

By the time Dean was sixteen, John had grown to manage his depression. He threw himself into every job he could find, but sometimes he had a bad day and got nothing done. He was usually fired after that, or quit, and they'd move on.

Sometimes John actually became Dean's father again, even going as far as teaching his son to drive his most prized possession, a black 1967 Chevy Impala. And of course, now that Dean was able to drive, that meant he got late night calls from a drunk John, usually crying and begging for a ride home. Dean would drive, sort of worried that his father would sit motionless in the passenger seat. But then he would let out a cry or snore, and Dean would sigh.

He knew his father gone long before he actually died. Nothing could return the happy, well-adjusted man Dean barely remembered. The man Sam never knew.

Dean doesn't really like to talk about it. Sam doesn't know what really happened. He never really knew. Dean never told him, and, well, John didn't live to tell the tale.

It was late at night. The air was cold, and the sky was black. Dean had gotten a call, a familiar drunken call from John, and gone to pick him up at a bar called The Black Rose. Dean parked and walked inside, hugging his leather jacket close and fidgeting with his pendant. He stepped up to bar, instantly getting the bartender's attention.

"Get out of here, kid, we don't serve minors," He said dismissively.

Dean cleared his throat. He was tall, but still looked like a kid. "Listen, man, I'm not here to drink," He earned the bartender's attention again. "My dad called me. I'm just here to pick him up and take him home."