A/N: Here I bring you another tragic oneshot. Inspired by the song "Delta Dawn" by Tanya Tucker, which I recommend listening to before you read, just to get you into the right mood :) Enjoy.

I own nothing.

Delta Dawn,

What's that flower you have on?

Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?

And did I hear you say he was a-meeting you here today,

To take you to his mansion in the sky?

The town's folks knew him as the Sheriff's crazy son.

He was at his late twenties, tall and clumsy and very innocent-looking, like an over-grown child. With his messy hair and large, wide brown eyes and the countless moles that covered his face and neck, he could be easily mistaken for one.

They would often see him wandering aimlessly around town with a raggedy bag hanging from his shoulder, big eyes staring at nothing. He'd smile distractedly at random people with that sweet smile of his, wishing them a good day before resuming his walk, looking for something or someone he could not name. And they all would just nod at him politely and wait until he was gone, mumbling in pity to each other about the poor, poor kid who lost his mind. What a shame it was, they'd say. He used to be such a smart kid. He could be so much more.

Because there was not one man nor woman in that old town who didn't know Stiles Stilinski's story.

Over a decade ago, when the Sheriff's boy was just a teenager, a group of soldiers stopped by the town for a couple of weeks of refreshment before leaving to Iraq. These were wild times, tales the elders would tell their grandchildren about with a shine of nostalgia in their eyes. Parties and drinking nights were held every evening at the local bar, with loud music and alcohol and rolling, bubbling laughter. Young girls dressed up in their best clothes, flirting and giggling and clinging to the handsome soldiers, waiting for them to ask them for a dance. While children ran around screaming and laughing until dawn, the elders kicked back with bottles of whiskey and card games, sharing stories from wars long forgotten. It was a happy time.

Soon after their arrival, though, whispers and rumors about the Sheriff's kid getting a little bit too friendly with one of the soldiers began to drift around. He was tall, they knew. With dark hair and green eyes and a permanent scowl that chased away most of the ladies in town.

But that boy stuck to him when others ran away, and it didn't take long for the two to start being seen walking around, holding hands in public.

A few of the town's folks were disgusted at the nerve the two men had, some were scandalized. They had a homosexual in town, the whispers said, and it was the Sheriff's boy, no less. Some of them tried to bring the bothersome situation up in front of their Sheriff a couple of times, but every time one of them tried, he waved them off with a frown and left.

They were a quiet family, the Stilinskis. They more or less kept to themselves after the Sheriff's wife died a while back, never showing up in social events more than what was politely necessary. Never showing their private life to the public.

The Stilinski boy and that dark-haired soldier were subtle at worst, to be honest. They never kissed or hugged or touched each other in too obvious a way, never flaunted their close relationship in public apart from the hand holding that gave them away. It was a blink-and-you-miss situation there, but it was enough to provoke some of the more old-fashioned town's people.

So they stayed quiet, and kept a low profile. And no one bothered them, much.

Sometimes at very early mornings, though, they could see the two boys working at the front yard of the Stilinski house, moaing the grass and planting roses and lillies and daisies all over the place, and their laughter carried away in the cool and quiet air of dawn, where no one else was up and around yet.

It was their only time together they could be themselves, some of the more open-minded town's folk figured. With no one around, they could laugh together and stand close to each other without any of the usual judgemental glares that followed them wherever they went. They worked well together, there. And as it was, the Sheriff didn't seem to mind.

However, when the day came and the soldiers left with all those pretty, crying girls waving them goodbye and shouting promises, the Sheriff's boy was nowhere to be seen. He didn't show up to send his dark-haired soldier off, and never said goodbye.

Days gone by and letters exchanged hands, words of eternal love and heated promises decorating endless pages, with lipstick marks and scented papers making their way across the sea to the soldiers the town's young women still held dear. Romance bloomed amongst the mess of war, and the Stilinski kid was no different.

It didn't take long for one particular letter to come, though.

No one said a word out loud when the rumor that the dark-haired soldier was killed in action started spreading. The gossips and whispers about the Stilinski boy shutting himself out never reached the Sheriff's ears, and he in exchange never gave up a hint about his son's condition.

And then, one day, it happened.

As if all was fine and normal, the kid walked out to the streets with a packed bag hanging from his shoulder, a long coat and a dried, pressed rose rolling between his fingers nervously. Excited, he told anyone who asked that his soldier was coming back today, and that he was going to take him away from here, to see beautiful places.

It was impossible, of course. Everyone knew that. And everyone dreaded the moment the poor crazy kid realize that, too.

And when the night came and nothing happened and no one showed up, that sweet smile faded away and the rose crumpled into dust. But ever since then, years later... every morning before dawn, the Sheriff's boy - who wasn't a boy anymore - would go out to the streets with a worn-out bag on his shoulder and a fresh new rose in his hand, wandering around with a hopeful sweet smile, waiting and looking for a certain someone who never came.

And they were nice to him, the town's folks. Even the eldest, the ones who didn't approve of the kid's relationship with that soldier - there was no harm in that anymore, they said. They pitied him, pitied the Sheriff who had to deal with an innocently crazy young man who lost his mind long ago.

And when he died, at age twenty-nine, he died with a smile on his lips and a faded rose in his hand, old and raggedy bag held tight in his arms like a little girl's doll. No one knew why or how it happened, and no one asked.

On his gravestone they wrote something about lost years and eternal youth, but when the Sheriff spoke with a broken and quiet voice, he only prayed that his son finally found what he was looking for.

Years later, seasons changed but people didn't, and they still spoke of and told the sad story of the Sheriff's crazy boy. A few songs were written and sang at the late nights at the local bar, with people raising their glasses and drinking to his memory. Silently whispering his name.

They never forgot him.

And if you ever stop by that town, don't forget to pay a visit to his grave, just so you know he was real. Not just a story.

And bring a rose with you.

Just in case.

A/N: Please review.