**Author's Note: _

THIS CONTAINS SOME GRAPHIC THINGS: PAST CHILD ABUSE, PAST ALCOHOLISM, MENTIONS OF PAST ABUSE, SEXISM (BARELY BUT W/ OMEGA STUFF), COPING MECHANISMS (FORCED MEMORY REJECTION), AND A RUNAWAY CHILD.

SMUT LATER.

Wow guys, you have no idea how many stories I'm writing.
And this one is another alpha/omega fic. I'm going to hell. (w/ Adam- we all know he's never getting to leave.)

This one is actually kind of depressing now that I realize it.
But whatever- Supernatural is depressing on it's own... :T

Hopefully this'll be a good one- and I plan on it. (:

ENJOY!~

The letters on the sign are clear: Lawrence, Kansas.

Dean Winchester hasn't seen this sign in fifteen years, and as the cracked words come into his view, he feels his grip on the wheel tighten. He only notices how hard he's wrapped his hands on the worn leather until his knuckles pop with the pressure and strain. The last time he was here, he was eight, a backpack on his spine with all of his belongings stuffed into it as it bumped against his back as he ran. Drops of dew from the summer night collecting on the bottom hem of his jeans as he ran away. It's been a long time, and Dean wishes it stayed that way. As the Impala's engine roars forward down the faded asphalt, Dean remembers why he's here.

His father, John, is dying.

Overall, Dean doesn't want to come back, doesn't want to relive the moments of his life that caused him to abandon his childhood town. His father was abusive, always insulting Dean for being an omega.

"Never useful," he'd slur after a slap or sip of his beer, "just a slut who wants a knot every month."

The words stung and hurt, but not as much as the nights when Dean thought he'd die or be beaten to the point he couldn't walk or live anymore. Too many days were spent cooped up in a house with ice packs to his swollen skin and tears streaking his cheeks. Too many empty beer bottles lying around with John's filthy existence and Dean having to function in it all. It was an awful childhood, one Dean preferred to keep far from his mind and behind him.

He was here for business, and that's all. The business of death and nothing more.

He was going to bury his father, and leave town before anyone knew he was here. Dean knew he was going to be swamped with questions as to why he ran away, as to why he never came back when he was older and he could stand up legally to John if he chose to. But Dean didn't want to see them or answers their questions- so skipping town as soon as the funeral was over was his safest bet to make.

He drove up to the small square, the buildings and businesses surrounding him the same as when he left. Sure, there was now grass growing out of some of the concrete's cracks and some buildings needed some renovation- but it was mostly unchanged. Dean just had to get to the hospital- to the funeral. That was all.

The hospital was worn down, small, and needed to honestly be demolished. The stains on the brick stared at Dean as he rode up, his Impala jutting out of the common arrangement of cars like a sore thumb as he parked. Dean walked in, the combination of questionable bodily fluids and cleaners assaulting his nose and making his stomach churn, doctors passing by as if he didn't exist.

Right now, the paper with John's room number felt like a weight that was lit on fire in the denim pocket of Dean's pants.

As Dean entered the room with John inside, he saw how much the decade and a half did to his father. Karma apparently took it's toll, along with his serious drinking problems, as his aged skin acquired a tint of something close to a watery mustard. Liver failure, the doctor had told Dean over the phone a few days prior. John deserves it. Not only for abusing the bottle, but his own flesh and blood for being an omega.

The doctor walks in, "You must be Dean Winchester."

"I am."

"You are aware of the arrangements?"

Dean shrugs, his cold hatred for his father seeping into his tone towards the doctor, "John's almost as dead as a door nail- what else is there to be aware of?"

The missing term of father doesn't go unnoticed, but instead acknowledged and restrained, "There's going to be a priest to come bless him, and then you can take it up with the morgue and funeral home about what you want done."

"The priest isn't needed. The only thing he was ever devout to was alcohol, and you already know exactly how that worked out for him in the end."

There's no more conversation, because the doctor isn't dense and can see the obvious resentment from son to father- but the cause will remain unknown to him- as to most. Dean keeps this fact about his life and even his gender wrapped tightly in his steel resolve and behind his wall, and he's positive that it's never going to change if he has any say in it. If anyone knew he ran away because John beat him for being an omega or that he was on his own for most of his life- Dean would be surrounded by nothing but pity. Dean despises pity as much as he does John.

"You're an old fat bastard, you know that?" Dean hissed under his breath, no one walking up and down the hallway to check IV's anymore, "You deserve this- every bit, every second and ounce of suffering. Of course it'd be your drinking that catches up to you and not someone beating the shit out of you like you did me most of the time. Wish maybe it was something else, but I think it's just that you ruined your own life too."

It's not even a goodbye and Dean knows it, knows that his father is probably too far gone to even hear him anymore. The breathing machine in the corner is proof of that, among countless others plugged into the wall keeping his husk somehow still barely functioning. But Dean doesn't care, he wants his point across, even if John's brain is technically dead and unresponsive- he's going to tell John exactly what he thinks and feels, what he needs and wants. However, what Dean really wants is it to just be over. He just wants to go back to hustling pool and living in shitty motels and eating burgers by himself at two in the morning. It's better than having to come back here where the past he's avoiding is all too evident. Solitary but safe.

Instead of going back down the highway and leave the festering Lawrence sign behind again, he pulls up a plastic chair to the farthest corner and sets himself in it. He stares, cold and hard towards the slack face of John Winchester, and anger and disappointment stir inside of him. Why didn't his father die sooner? Why did Dean take so long to run away from John and Kansas? Why did Dean come back? Why was Dean an omega? Why Dean at all?

The flood of why's are a little too much it seems, as Dean presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. They don't stop the tears that escape, they never do, and it only makes Dean angrier. If he can't even sit and look at his father without letting all of the scars reopen, how is he going to manage the feat of burying him?

It's probably a self-destructive train of thought, but Dean was John's son after all- no matter how much he resented that fact- and inherited his recklessness and harmful ways to an extent. When he was eight he proved that. Proved he was finished with getting called a "slut" and "knot whore" everyday and getting bruises and cuts by grabbing his belongings and running. It was Dean's last resort, and the whole ordeal was a blur in his memory with how far he had buried it.

"Did you hear about the event the Novak's are holding?" A girl said outside.

Dean's head snapped up, he hadn't heard that name in years, before he ran past that sign and away from John and all the bullshit he had called his life. He keened in, wondering why in the world the name had the nostalgic ring.

"I did actually- isn't their youngest son of age now?"

The other woman chuckled outside the doorway, "Yeah, he is. They're trying to find him a mate last time I heard something. There's supposed to be some meeting or party where all the families that are intereseted visit him. Guess you could say they're looking for the spark at first sight."

Dean furrows his brow at the words, vague images appearing his mind from the name Novak. He can't think of a first or middle name, but he knows it's on the tip of his tongue. However what they were talking about was part of Dean's life in Lawrence, so whoever they were discussing went along with it to the vault of forbidden memories. Because when Dean Winchester wants to forget something, he can really bury it in his mind- and all the things that are related or remind him even the slightest of it.

The women are gone now when Dean resurfaces from his thoughts, the only sound in the vacant room is the beeping of John's heart monitor and the mechanical rise and fall of his chest. It's a little sickening to hear, but Dean knows it won't be long that he has to have it fill his ears. He has a few days here until John passes, at least two pertaining to the burial arrangements if something goes wrong. If he's honest, it isn't going to be easy at all for him.

But Dean never had easy much. The road he was on began uneven and jagged, only getting worse as the years progressed onward and Dean got older. It wasn't until he ran away that he was truly happy or relaxed. Until his firsts heats hit, naturally. Most of it was stuck pent up in hotel rooms hoping an alpha never caught onto his scent and staying low for a week- other than that it wasn't bothersome to him. Dean was used to hardship and challenges.

He leaves the room now, entering the Impala's metal body and turning the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life. Dean pulls out of the parking space, thinking about going down the highway further so he can get a burger or something instead of chancing it with the local diner. Sure it's bad for his health, but Dean would tell you to go fuck yourself and that he doesn't have to worry about a familiar face at a McDonalds- or he hopes he doesn't.

It's on the way there that Dean runs into something he hadn't completely blocked or fully forgotten. It's the white house, the one he sometimes had flash in his dreams or appear vaguely in his head, on the hilltop just to the right of the road. Not much has changed as he eyes it, and Dean doesn't realize what he's doing as he turns into the driveway with all his focus on the white siding and the canopy of trees in front of him.

"Fuck!"

Naturally he'd do something like this, but as he rolls up underneath the overhang of old willow trees, Dean finds a small part of him okay with where he's headed. Dean knows he's not supposed to be here, not supposed to go and be recognized by anyone who might see him and recall what happened- but the damn house is maybe the only exception he'll ever make while he's here. It is the only thing that's stayed after his mental sweep and lockdown. He can at least see as to why.

So as Dean parks the Impala, he takes all it's details in before he knocks on the door.

Some ring old bells. Like the smell of the blooming cream roses on the side of the house, or the vines trailing up the sides and to the second-story windows and shutters. It's an older house, as Dean remembers it had been there awhile even as he was a kid running around and scuffing up his knees. Even now, it seems just as new as it was built, and it's just as gorgeous. The porch has a bench swing on it's left, and it swaying a little in the light breeze. Dean recalls a lot from it, like it's large lot and the old pond out back- except, Dean can't tell you why it's so god damned important.

He falters for a second, doubt rising in his mind- but when Dean's got a reason for something, he motivates himself to see it through. He walks up the stairs, cautious and a little worried, biting his lip and hoping for the best as he reaches out to press the worn doorbell.

"Dean?"

He turns around, and is completely shocked by what he sees.