Supernatural Fanfiction- Disclaimer- I do not own 'Supernatural' or 'Tyrannosaur.' I am not making any money off this, it is purely a fan creation made for free.

Genre- drama, romance, au(alternative universe)

WARNINGS (and spoilers):
Dean-heavy plot.
No Sam for the first few chapters (there are plans to bring him in later.)
Alcoholism.
Religion vs atheism (no one side is demonised).
Death.
Cancer.
Spousal abuse.
DeanxCas eventually.
Child abuse.
Angst.

I am a slow up-dater (up-load once a fortnight max.)

Dean woke up to another grey morning. He lay on his bed, the mattress bare and no blanket covering him; he didn't care about stuff like that. Around him were empty bottles and the stench of cheap booze.

He brushed his hands over his stubbly face; it had been so long already. It wasn't fair for a human to survive shit for such an extended period of time. God should have made a mechanism so that when a human being experiences so much heartbreak, they're put out of their misery and die automatically. That's what a fair god would do. But Dean didn't really believe in all of that shit anyway.

As time began to tick away, he eventually peeled out of his bed and began to get dressed. He was unemployed and so had nowhere in particular to go. Therefore he went to where he always wasted his days, the pub.

He sat in Ellen's a few minutes later, nursing a pint and already feeling the dull painful throb of existence slowly melting away into a blissful apathy. Jo, the girl who actually ran the place, sauntered up to him with the attitude she always had since his life had turned sour, as if it were his fault everything was wrong and he was broken.

"Are you gonna see mom today?" she asked, "you usually see her before you begin to get drunk off your ass."

Dean thought about it. Ellen was in the back of the pub, connected to a machine and slowly dying of cancer. It was a painful death that was agonising to watch, but Dean had been there every day to watch over her since she came back from the hospital with the 'terminal' label.

He shrugged, "I don't know..."

"She's been there, we've been there for you since you were a kid!"

"I know," it was true, Jo and Ellen were the closest thing Dean had to a family, especially since dad had died. He muttered an apology, Jo was pretty much the only person left on the planet who would receive one from Dean, as he got off his stool and wandered into the back. There Ellen lay, all wired up with a mask over her face so that she could breathe easier. She was semi-conscious, as she was most of the time nowadays. Dean slumped down next to her.

Her eyes, dull and lifeless, swivelled to him and she began to mutter, making him lean in, "I haven't much longer..."

Dean sat back up, "don't say that Ellen," he argued, but knowing that she was telling the truth. It hurt, losing so many people at once. She held out her hand to him, god knows how much strength it took her to do that, and he clasped it in his own eagerly. She was so thin and weak now, nothing like the vivacious strong woman he remembered. The only testament to her strength now lay in Jo, her only child.

The cruellest thing about cancer was the fact that you couldn't kick anyone's ass for it, you just had to accept it slowly destroying someone you love. He blinked back the tears, hoping fervently that he wouldn't cry. He had thought all his tears had been drained through the loss of his dad.

"I just wish," whispered Ellen, "that I could get some sort of closure, but I can't, I just cannot manage it...I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Closure? How do you mean?"

"Like an acceptance of the fact that I'm going to die, that it's ok for me to go."

"But it's not ok," Dean wanted to scream, "I don't want you to die!" he knew he needed to comfort her, but he didn't know how to. He couldn't help her accept death because he couldn't accept it himself, and yet he was surrounded by it.

"Do you think there is an after-life?" she whispered, her voice like dry leaves, a far cry from the healthy tenor it used to be, "that a part of us is eternal, and that it goes somewhere else?"

"I don't know," he answered, brushing his fingers against her pale soft skin. He could see her veins through translucent flesh. "I wish I did, but I don't."

"I just wish someone could tell me it will be alright."

He held her hand and closed his eyes, he wished he could be the one to say that, he even tried, but the words got stuck in his throat, a few tears left his eyes. God, he was so tired!

"Ellen," he said at last, feeling that he could at least give her this affirmation, "I love you Ellen, I love you as if you were my mother." He glanced at her, only to find she was asleep.

He smiled, somewhat bitterly, it was probably for the best anyway. He got up from his seat slowly, like an old man, and wandered back out into the pub. Jo was drying a pint glass and looking like a stereotype. She give him a once over, her expression critical.

"We talked a little today," he said. "She wants some sort of closure."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm not sure, I couldn't totally make sense of what she wanted."He leaned against the bar and said quietly, "I think she's concerned about what happens after death."

"So, we should get a priest of something?"

He shrugged, "I dunno, that would be weird. She was never particularly religious, what if it offended her. I just don't know."

There was a brief silence before, "I guess you'll be wanting a drink?"

"Of course," he snarled, sitting on a stool.

"It won't make it end," she complained as she poured his pint glass, " Uncle John won't come back. He isn't at the bottom of a pint glass."

"But I can keep looking," Dean drained his glass ignoring how Jo rolled her eyes before serving someone else at the opposite end of the bar.

It was only nine in the morning, but the bar was already getting noisy. The jukebox was playing some noisy nonsense by some modern pop-rock band (Dean hadn't gone into a music shop for the last two years since he visited HMV and saw that rock and pop were in the same section together and now the terms were synonymous with one another. He had gone straight to Ellen's, drank enough to drown a whale and there made his vow to never enter a music shop again and that he would forever resent anything made post 1978). Ellen's had always been popular thanks to being open long hours, having the Ellen aka the dragon Lady behind the bar making sure all the louts (minus Dean) stayed out (now Jo had that job) and for it having the cheapest drinks around. Plus, this was one of the poorest areas in the city meaning that unemployment was high and many people relied on alcohol to get them through.

Dean thought about Ellen and how weak she was. It made him angry. She wanted some sort of absolution, she wanted god, but why? Who would want a god that would allow such things as cancer to spread itself upon the earth and strike down people as good as Ellen? Who would want to be in the presence of a god who broke strong men, like John Winchester, tearing the man apart, ripping away all that he loved until he turned into a cold hearted monster, a raving drunk, something that John always hated? It had killed John, knowing what he was, and now it is was killing his son, Dean.

There were a group by the pool tables now, young lads, all guffawing and swearing, spitting on the floor because they have no respect for themselves or for the pub, all taking photos of one another on their phones and high-fiving and fist-pumping the air. Dean sighed and tried to drown them out. His head hurt. He demanded another beer and a shot on the side. He needed to get drunk, the pain was too much. Emotional and physical distress, it just wasn't fair.

His surroundings began to spin slightly, reality began to twist. He sighed and looked out of the smoky window some feet away from him, ignoring all the jobless losers he shared the bar with. It was still daytime, not even noon. The sky was still grey. The weather was never cheery here. It was always desolate, like a lonely moor home to a mad hermit and wild animals and nothing else. "The sky is the moor," he thought, "we are the animals...so who's the mad hermit? Well, I suppose that would be god. Jesus, I suppose I've cracked it! That's the eternal truth all theists are looking for!" he cackled at his own joke, knowing it was stupid and hating it, but laughing nevertheless.

"You alright Dean?" asked a young man. It was one of the pub's regulars. Dean didn't know his name, but the boy had always been pretty nice to him, "Oh, yeah, thanks, just a private joke I remembered."

"Alrighty then." The man grinned and flitted away. Dean watched him for a moment; he hadn't seen anyone wearing a mullet for years.

Now people were playing on those damn fruit machines. Another pointless song was assaulting his ears. He could hear the lyrics, something about people being encouraged to 'scream their hearts out on a rooftop.' Dear god, kids were taught this nonsense through song and everyone was wondering why Generation Y was full of a bunch of pussies who sued teachers for yelling at them and wept over the beauty of the Twilight Series.

He sighed heavily and went to take another swig only to find his glass was empty. He didn't remember drinking that one. Oh well, he was getting drunk, of that he was reasonably sure, but he also felt very in control of himself. Therefore he wasn't drunk enough.

"Jo, another beer."

"Haven't you had enough Dean? Go home." The petite blonde put her hands on her hips and scowled. It was reasonably intimidating, but nothing compared to what Ellen used to be able to do (his stomach lurched at the memory.)

"I've barely had any! I've had, like, two! Maybe three at the most."

"You've had more than that and you're slamming them back so fast you can't even taste them. Dean, trust me, you are drunk. You need to go home and sleep it off, come back later..."

He frowned, ignoring what she was saying and letting her ranting fall into white noise. He didn't need yet another lecture from Jo, especially when he had a killer headache from all the damn noise people were making, and big questions about life and death and god on his mind and an old friend dying next door.

"DAMN IT JO, JUST GET ME A BEER!" He slammed his fist on the bar.

Everything went silent.

He could feel all the eyes staring at him. The jukebox singing about feelings and sadness played on ludicrously. "What do these so-called rock bands know about misery?" he thought suddenly, "they don't have a clue and it shows through how insincere their shit is."

"I think you need to go," said Jo, ice in her voice.

Dean stared at her, his eyes bloodshot and angry.

The guy with the mullet put a tentative hand on Deans back, "come on man-"

"Get off me!" Dean pushed the thin man away. "what are you all staring at?" he roared. A few people looked away, but some stared on defiant.

There was only one who sniggered.

Dean whirled around to see the gang of boys around the pool tables. They stopped smirking and visibly paled as they saw him glaring at them.

"Dean leave it!" he heard Jo warning him, but it was too late, he had seen red and was storming towards the boys, his fists tightening.

The pool tables were situated near a set of fire-doors. One of the lads immediately pulled the door open and ran out of it, setting off the blaring alarm as he did. Dean let out a feral growl, enraged at the shrieking sound and that now beat down his ear-drums. He flung out his fist and hit someone, one of the stupid boys. He dimly felt the floor shake slightly under the weight of a fallen body. Then there was someone pulling him back. Seeing this as an attack, he swung round and head-butted the assailant before turning away and marching over to the pool-table. There were two boys standing there. One, hyped up on adrenaline and fear, ran up to him and tried to land a punch. Kid was an amateur. Dean whacked him around the head with a pool-cue so hard that the stick actually broke in half. He heard the kid he had whacked crying out in horror and pain, but he paid it no mind, it was all just part of the torturous noise that screaming at him at all sides now.

He grabbed the last boy by the front of his sports jacket and threw him up against the wall.

"Funny am I?" he roared drunkenly, waving his pool-cue like a Neanderthal. "Laugh now for me! Laugh now, I dare you!"

The boy then began to cry. It was pathetic.

The wailing sound of the alarm shut off. Someone must have finally stopped it. All that he could hear now was the snivelling of the boys.

"They're kids Dean!" he heard someone say incredulously. He turned to see Jo holding up the guy with the mullet, only now the man was bleeding and bruised. Had Dean done that?

"They're just kids!" she shrieked.

He looked about him and saw she was right. The kid he was holding up, the one who was crying, could have only been fifteen. About him the lads lay scattered, their blood staining the floor. On the pool-table he saw they had been drinking blackcurrant cordial. They were kids.

He let the boy down, "I'm sorry," he muttered, the words sounding stupid and meaningless even as he spoke them, "Oh my god, I'm sorry...I'm..."

He looked around hopelessly, not knowing what to do or what to say, not understanding the person he had become before he saw that the fire-doors were still open and so, in a flurry of panic and self-loathing, he ran through them into the cold, grey, unforgiving streets.

A.N- This is my first supernatural fanfic. I would love some feedback, pretty please? :3