Hillcrest High School was as unimpressive as they came. And Dean would know, considering how many different schools he’d attended within the past year alone.
He didn’t know why he was even still in classes. Since he’d turned seventeen at the beginning of the year, he was legally free to drop out of school without CPS breathing down their necks again. He’d scrape together a G.E.D. to impress his odd jobs, be free to work full time while Dad was away, and his time would open up for more away-hunts considerably. He knew it was on him to protect Sam, but he was more than ready to get out into the world, to become a real hunter. If only Dad would quit enrolling him in schools just to keep him occupied.
But Dad knew best. If Dean wasn’t invited to a hunt, then Dad thought that it was best for him to stay where he was. Even if where he was was some back country sticks town with a high school population that had known each other since grade school.
It was too hot, late summer, in the west end of Texas to be wearing his jacket, so he’d slung it over his shoulder. It didn’t have a backpack to contend with—he’d stopped carrying those around a few months ago. Such a hassle and for what? He usually just scribbled random sh*t on his assignments the before the teacher collected. He’d managed to stay a solid C- student that way, so why change, now?
He’d rolled up the sleeves of his blue flannel, trying to ignore the sweat stains not helped by a black T-shirt underneath. At least the school was air conditioned, unlike him and Sam’s motel. It was the only reason Dean kept showing up, at this point. That and there wasn’t an easy way for him to fool Sam, this time around. After all, Sam had officially begun high school that year and expected to see Dean in the halls and meet him by the flagpole at the end of the day.
The hallway was full, but Dean didn’t have a problem getting through the throng. When people saw him coming, their eyes widened and the moved out of the way. Others called out his name, slapped his shoulder, grinned. Dean was the first new student this high school had seen in years and, if Dean had said so himself, they couldn’t handle him. He was liking how this school was turning out—and that mostly had to do with the girls.
Oh, Hillcrest girls. Dean knew he was going to miss them when he had to leave. From day one, they’d all seemed to band together to create some kind of game to see who could capture Dean’s attention the longest. And oh, was that right up his alley. He’d already made out with seven different girls, most of them cheerleaders, and two of them had gotten plenty frisky with him. He even had the young track and field coach giving him goo-goo eyes, and sure, he was only seventeen, but she was only twenty-three, and she was one hot lady.
Dean felt a slim hand slip under his elbow on his way to his next class. He was slipping into a smirk before he even had a chance to see who it is—But the chick totally deserved it.
Christy Jennings was the hottest of the hot cheerleaders and one of the only ones he let hang on his arm in the halls—plus, she’d full-on cupped him through his pants the other day, so he had to respect her for that. And, of course, for her tight as f*ck cheerleading top that she wore every day.
“Hey, Dean,” she purred, pressing herself to his side as they walked. Her blonde curls bounced, her lips painted—did he have a thing for blondes? “You said we could chat later. Is it later, yet?”
She blinked up at him through her thick lashes. It was so fake, he’d be an idiot to miss it—but Dean just didn’t care.
“I guess it is, huh?” He said, stopping at his locker, just for the sake of stopping. “What’d you want to talk about, sweetheart?”
She leaned back against the locker next to his, her fingers curling into the sleeve of his flannel while he opened up the lock and tossed in his jacket. Just from the way she was all but lounging across the lockers, he knew full well what she wanted to talk about. They’d all been doing it for the past week. Even now, Dean could see other girls eyeing Christy with annoyance.
But he humored her, crossing his arms and leaning against the lockers before her. They were too close for anyone to mistake it as an innocent conversation, so Dean didn’t bother downplaying his smirk.
She ran a hand down his arm and Dean pretended like he didn’t notice the goosebumps. “Well, you said you weren’t free after school, but I really want to hang out with you. Why’re you so busy?”
“Gotta look after the kid brother.” Dean jutted his head to the left, where the students walked and chatted through the halls. “You remember when I told you about Sammy, don’t ya? He’s pretty much lost without me.”
Sam would always roll his eyes when Dean used the little brother card, but Dean thought it was funny. Girls would always eat that sh*t right up.
“Oh, that’s so responsible of you,” Christy said, her lips pursed in a pout. Dean didn’t glance down at them. “But…I’m sure little Sammy has a bedtime, doesn’t he?”
Dean barely held in a laugh. That was an original one, for this school. Christy was pretty determined to win this little game of theirs, wasn’t she? The game of who-can-get-in-Dean-Winchester’s-pants-first? As mentioned, Dean didn’t mind it one bit. But he was having too much fun with all of the girls around town throwing themselves at him in an attempt to win. It would be a shame to give it to any of them easy. Plus, he liked being the mysterious, handsome game piece.
But whoever won this little game he’d heard whispers about—he was so going to make them work for it. He was perfectly content with being used as their personal entertainment, because they were being used as his.
So he kept indulging her, tapping the underside of her chin with his finger and a wane smile. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe we can work something out. Grab a smoothie. What’re your folks up to this week?”
“Oh, they’ll be visiting my grandparents on Thursday,” she smiled coyly. Dean liked that she had to tilt her head up to look at him. “I’ll be alone at home. It gets a bit dark around here…I don’t do well alone.”
Dean, again, had to hold in his laughter. That line was straight from a p*rno, but so were half of his lines, so who was he to judge? He and Christy Jennings were the same kind of people, when it came to this.
“I don’t blame you. Never really know what’s out there in the dark, right?”
And in other ways, they would always be from completely different worlds.
She craned her neck up when he leaned down just a hair. Her lips parted and her eyes even fluttered a bit. But Dean let it sit there, letting her breathe his air for a moment, before pushing off the lockers and going towards his next class, leaving her behind. Maybe he’d go for her, maybe not—he wasn’t bored enough to decide, yet.
Besides he was this close to getting that art chick in his math class to fall for him. Cheerleaders throwing themselves at him—that was too easy. Getting the shy girls hot and bothered for him, making prettier girls jealous and petty, that was so much more fun.
But midway through his math class, all of it evaporated from his mind.
Christy was sticking her bare legs out into the aisle in front of him, obviously trying to keep his attention, but he was pretending not to notice, instead focusing on keeping Maddy Harper’s shy blush showing under her freckles.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, like he understood jacksh*t, while looking at her sheet over her shoulder. “Makes sense, now. Man, I never thought trig would be the thing to take me out.”
He gave her one of his flirtier smiles that he liked to think was all innocent. Maddy made a nervous noise at their proximity, a preening smile on her face. Honestly, she was probably prettier than Christy because she wasn’t such a try-hard bitch—Christy’s boobs still beat hers, though.
“Yeah, I mean,” Maddy licked her lips, looking down at her pencil. “It gets easier the more you do it, you know?”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Dean leaned on his hand. “You are way too smart to be in the same class as me. What did you do to get stuck here?”
She shrugged, still beat red. “I just wanted an easy A.”
Dean barked a laugh, catching Christy’s eye when Maddy covered her face with a hand. Christy gave him a stink eye. Dean winked at her, going back to ignoring her before Maddy noticed the exchange.
“Hey, Dean-o,” a hand slapped his shoulder. “Did your old man get back to you about joining in on some of our basketball practices?”
Dean glanced back to see Tony Robinson leaning over his desk, his math assignment half done. He was a taller guy, on the lanky side, not unlike Dean. He’d taken to the shaggy mop of a haircut the way that Sam had recently.
“Ah, no, he’s still thinking it over,” Dean said. “Probably ain’t gonna happen, man, I told you he was a stickler for sports.”
Tony groaned. Dean wasn’t lying too badly this time—his dad wouldn’t be a fan of Dean joining any extra curriculars that could waste his training time.
“Dude, just come anyway, at least to check it out,” Tony begged him. “I saw you on the court during P.E., man, you could be a total monster! Besides, Coach Broadside comes to all our games.”
He raised his brow suggestively. Dean tilted his head, weighing the pros and cons of going to the next basketball game.
Pro—getting to say he’d hooked up with a teacher. Cons—legal problems and having to watch a high school basketball game. Possible call to his dad.
Yeah, no. He shook his head at Tony. “Sorry to disappoint, man. I just wasn’t made for the court, what can I say?”
“Um, do you other stuff?” Dean looked over at Maddy, pleasantly surprised by her speaking up. “I mean, a different sport? You, I mean, you were pretty good. In P.E.—I’m in that class, too.”
Oh, he’d gotten her hooked. He grinned lazily. “My dad has taught me martial arts since I was a little kid. Kind of a family tradition. Even my kid brother is pretty good.”
“Oh, uh, Sam, right?”
“Scrawny guy, about yay high, mop on his head,” Dean gestured far lower than Sam’s actual height. “Yeah, you seen him around?”
“He’s seems sweet.”
“He’s real smart,” Dean said, tapping his own temple with his pencil. For the first time, he didn’t have to fake his grin. “Skipped a grade and everything. I swear it was that kid teaching me to read instead of the other way around. You’d like him, I’d bet. Maybe I can introduce you sometime.”
She smiled, still shy, but didn’t cover her face this time. Yeah, Sam would like her. If Dean ever brought home a smart girl, the kid would think he was possessed, though. Smart wasn’t much of Dean’s type. They always saw a little too much.
Then, it happened.
In that moment, Dean thought he imagined it. The sound of gunshots echoed in his mind pretty often. It was familiar in the way that the ringing of a landline was familiar. Familiar to the point that he occasionally thought he was hearing it, even when it wasn’t there—probably helped by his paranoia.
But he wasn’t imagining it, this time. Not with the way a few kids gasped, others jerking in their chairs, and one letting out a loud yelp.
The classroom abruptly fell silent. Even the teacher stared dumbfounded at the open door to the hallway.
POP, POP, POP!
Two students screamed. Others scrambled from their seats. Hands abruptly clung to Dean’s side when Maddy instinctively grabbed him.
But Dean was at school. This wasn’t supposed to happen at school. School was safe. School was normal-town. School was the one place he’d promised dad to never bring his gun.
“Oh my god, oh my god!” Christy cried out from the front of the room.
There were screams that echoed from far through the school. The teacher, Mrs. Banks, snapped from her paralysis and leaped forward to slam the door shut, locking it. She quickly slapped the light switch, plunging the classroom into darkness, illuminated only by the sunlight behind closed window blinds. The darkness didn’t do a thing to help the chaos of a bunch of students freaking out. Things were thrown, tables got knocked over. Dean wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t like things like this happened enough for anyone to practice for it.
No one but him, anyway. But he didn’t have the luxury of hunkering down with the rest of these shmucks to wait it out.
He shot out of his chair, accidently dragging Maddy with him.
Sam. Sam could be out there. And as much as Dean was talking up the kid’s fight, he was as good as dead if a shooter caught him on the wrong side of a hallway.
“Sam,” Dean muttered. “f*ck!”
“D-Dean?” Maddy stuttered.
Dean didn’t waste time explaining. He shoved her off, all but vaulting his desk to get around it.
Tony reached out and clamped a hand on his shoulder, pulling at him. His eyes were wide with fear and disbelief. In a whisper, he hissed, “Man, you gotta help me barricade that thing! Let’s drag Mrs. Banks’ desk!”
Dean hesitated. Mrs. Banks was frantically shushing the students, gesturing for them to get quiet. Some of the other boys were already trying to carry chairs to the front, in a scrambling rush.
These were innocent people. Dean was supposed to protect innocent people. If the shooter did wander down here, he might be the only one with the training to save them.
He grabbed Tony’s hand and ripped it from his shoulder. “I have to find my brother. Don’t wait up.”
“What?!” Tony exclaimed. “Wait—Dean!”
Dean jumped over the last row of desks, making another girl scream. As he did, he reached under his flannel at the small of his back. With a smooth shink, his large buck knife with the serrated edge slipped free. It flashed in the dull light of the classroom as he skillfully flipped it flush against his forearm in a backwards grip.
One of the larger boys was already shoving his desk in front of the door. Dean was honestly impressed by his reaction time, but in the moment, he was an obstacle between Dean and Sam’s safety.
The boy’s eyes widened comically at the massive blade in Dean’s grip and he stumbled back, hands up. “Whoa, man! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
“Just get outta my way, tubby,” Dean growled, shoving the boy back at his shoulder. He stumbled, almost falling, and was caught by his friend.
“Dean?!” He heard Christy yelp, but he ignored her.
He planted his foot on the desk in his way, tipped it over, and wrenched the door open. People panicked in the room behind him.
Just as quickly as he opened it, he closed it again, slowing at the last second so that the door didn’t slam. Instead, the click of the lock quietly echoed in the otherwise dead silent hallway. The cries of the students inside were muffled, and they quickly fell down when Mrs. Banks finally got control. Dean heard furniture being pushed against the door. Good.
In the hallway, he crouched in the shallow doorway, holding his blade tight against his body for the moment. He took a second to breathe.
The school wasn’t big. There weren’t many places for an attacker to go. A horrible dread sat in Dean’s gut—a dread that said that this threat was there for him and Sam, that they had lead their lives here, and now people were paying for it. He shook it off. Focus on the mission. And his mission? Find Sam in one piece or stop the attacker before the risk was there.
God, Dean wished he had his gun right about, now. This was reckless, he knew. His dad would chew him out for it—but Dean couldn’t take the chance when Sam’s life could be on the line.
Gunshots echoed once more from somewhere in the school. Dean didn’t flinch. It wasn’t a large school, but it had two levels, and all of the hallways were connected. It made for great acoustics for singing, not so much for pinpointing where something was coming from.
There was a scream that was cut off by gunfire. Dean’s heart froze in his chest. The scream had sounded young. Young enough to be Sam. Before it had been dashed, of course.
He white-knuckled his blade. Took a deep breath. Pushed off the door. People were dying. Sam in danger or not, saving people was Dean’s job. It wasn’t like he hadn’t faced down live guns before. Hell, he’d faced down his dad’s own bullets.
Still, Dean was no idiot. He knew the police were on their way, and if this wasn’t a supernatural threat, they’d be able to handle it. He just needed to find Sam.
And if this was a supernatural threat…
He’d cross that bridge when he got to it. First, Sam.
Thankfully, Dean knew that kid’s schedule by heart. Better than he knew his own, even—what could he say? He didn’t much care for his classes, but he’d be damned if something happened and Dean wasn’t fast enough to find Sam. He’d originally been thinking along the lines of Dad calling suddenly and needing them to haul ass, but this…well, obviously this was so much worse.
P.E., Dean thought. Sammy had P.E. in the gym. It was easy to remember because the kid had been bitching about dodge ball the other day. Why he’d been bitching when he’d won without question was beyond Dean. Dean hadn’t been listening very well.
Now, he only focused on his ears as he crept down the hallway. No footsteps. No breathing. It was eerily silent, considering Dean knew for a fact the school was filled with students, every classroom likely occupied. He passed them all, the doors shut tight, the lights shut off inside. If Dean was really looking for it, he could probably hear the minute shuffles from within.
What his ears did tell him was that there was only one shooter, or any accomplices were being far less helpful. The gunshots were never layered—it was only a few at a time. If Dean had to guess, it was some sort of rifle. Hunting, he was sure. Reload time would be slow. He at least had that going for him.
He reached the junction of the next hallway. The sun was streaming in through open windows, striped across the lockers, bathing the hall in an orange light. Dean pressed himself before the corner, holding his blade close once more. He only tilted his head far enough around the corner to take a look.
The main entryway, beside the front office, was filled with trophies and photos behind glass cases. Two of the cases had been shattered—and blood was sprayed across them.
Three bodies. One, larger, a teacher. Two, with backpacks on.
Dean’s heart skipped a beat, but one of the students had an impressive black afro and the other had basketball shorts on. Not Sam. Still innocents.
Dean’s footsteps were all but silent, even with boots in an empty hallway. As he came up to the entryway, he remained glued to the wall of lockers. The front entrance was empty. Across from it was the largest staircase to the second level, made to look impressive upon entry. There was blood smeared on the handrail going up.
After determining the area was secure for the moment, Dean rushed over to the closest body.
Angelica Jones. Her hair was splayed out behind her head, back arched over her backpack, eyes wide and empty. The high pressure of the bullet had cut clean through her—bullets. She’d been shot three times in the chest. Dean didn’t have to feel for her pulse to know she was gone. She had been in Sam’s year. Fourteen years old.
Dean regripped his blade. Stay focused.
The other kid, Dean didn’t know the name of, but he’d been on the soccer team, he thought. Red hair, ghostly face. He’d been in the year between Dean and Sam, a sophom*ore kid. A bullet had blown out his knee, another had caught his shoulder. Dean quickly felt for a pulse, lowered his head to look for breathing—but he was gone, too. The large pool of blood beneath him should have been telling. Dean’s hand came away bloody.
The teacher was Vice Principal Ramirez. His throat had been torn through. His glasses were speckled with red.
Dean moved on.
The gym was just down the hall from where he’d come from.
This time, Dean did twitch when BANG BANG echoed throughout the school. Without the muffling of the safe classroom he’d been in, the shots were loud and hair-raising. Two shots. Last time, he’d heard three.
He still couldn’t tell where they were coming from. If the guy was upstairs, Dean should go after him, keep him there, because that meant Sam was safe down here. If the guy was still on the first level…
Dean passed up the staircase and hurried down the hall, quicker this time, but still keeping a hand touching the wall of lockers. They’d make for poor cover if Dean was spotted in the middle of the hall, but a wall was better than being caught with his pants down.
A whimper reached Dean’s ears. He turned quick, swinging his knife around to point at—a pair of legs sticking out from the boys bathroom. The legs didn’t so much as twitch.
Survivor. Dean hurried for the bathroom, throwing a glance down the hall. He was so close, but Sam would be pissed if Dean rushed passed a hurt civilian.
It was quickly obvious that the boy was as dead as the three in the lobby had been, with half-lidded, empty eyes and a few leaking holes in his torso, torn through his purple hoodie. But as Dean stepped into the bathroom, there was a sobbing cry of fear from inside.
Pressed against the back wall, under the sinks, there were two girls. There was a lot of blood, too. One was a brunette, makeup messed up, wearing a cheerleader’s outfit—it was the second handsy cheerleader, Melinda. She was hovering over her friend, the girl’s cheerleading uniform smeared and drenched with dark red. The smear across the floor suggested they’d dragged themselves over.
Their eyes were both alight with terror at the sound of his footsteps, then the sight of him.
“Linda?”
“Oh my god, please, please, don’t hurt us,” Melinda sobbed, ugly tears falling, choking on her own throat. “Please!”
“Hey, hey! I’m not here to hurt you, it’s me, Dean!” He rushed over, setting his blade aside as he crouched to assess the situation. “Linda, hey! Are you hurt?”
“De—Dean?” She gasped, then began to cry anew, grabbing onto his arm. She’d been poorly putting pressure on a wound at her friend’s side. “Oh, god, Dean, thank god, thank god, please, you have to help us, Sarah got shot, please help us!”
“Breathe,” Dean ordered, not wasting a second as he stripped his flannel. The girl leaning against the wall was still conscious and wincing, which was a good sign—but there was a bloody hole at her side. Luckily, he’d seen his dad take a bullet in that place before and he was up and walking the next day. He quickly bundled up his flannel and pressed onto the girl’s wound.
The girl, Sarah, cried out and grabbed at his wrist. He mumbled, “I know, I know, I’m sorry, we’ve gotta keep pressure on it. Linda, hey! You with me?”
She let out another short sob, but nodded, still clinging onto his side—wiping Sarah’s blood from her hands to his side.
“Good, great, listen to me.” Dean grabbed Melinda’s hand and pried it from his arm, moving it instead to take over putting pressure on Sarah’s side. Melinda looked terrified at the action, giving Dean her wide, crazed eyes. Dean put a firm hand on the side of her neck to keep her focus. “You have to keep pressure on that. Both sides, here, see? The bullet went all the way through. That’s a good thing. As long as she stops losing so much blood, she’ll be okay. The police are on their way already with paramedics. Sarah, you with us?”
Sarah groaned, “Ye…Yeah.”
“Wait, wait, why me?!” Melinda cried, but kept her hands firm where they were as Dean leaned back.
Dean grabbed up his knife, raising to his feet. Melinda looked frantic.
“No, no, wait, stay with us, please!” Melinda begged from the floor, covered in red. Fresh tears spilled. “What if he comes back?!”
“I have to find my brother,” Dean snapped off. “Just keep it down and I swear to god, you’ll be okay. Keep her awake.”
Dean stepped out of the bathroom before he could hear any more of Melinda’s cries—though they took a long minute to calm to muffled. Dean’s hands were shaking lightly with adrenaline, but the blood didn’t loosen his grip on his blade.
He picked down the hallway, but no gunshots. It seemed clearer and clearer that the gunman had gone up the stairs in the foyer. It had yet to be revealed whether or not that was fortunate for Dean.
He slowly opened the door to the gymnasium, being patient enough that the door didn’t even creak. He couldn’t help the way that the sunlight spilled into the room through the hallway, unfortunately. The gymnasium, unlike the other classrooms, was completely blacked out. No windows, no skylights. When the lights were off, it was like a tomb.
That tomb was what Dean stepped into. He scrunched his nose. It even smelled like a tomb—teenage body odor. And Dean knew better than anyone what a tomb was like.
The sliver of light cut through the darkness of the gymnasium just enough to reveal an empty gym. There were balls scattered across the basketball court, as well as hoola-hoops, the remains of some P.E. game. The stage for school performances was empty. There were some drinking fountains and folded-in bleachers, but unless the shooter had tucked himself away behind there, there was no where else to hide.
Dean quietly closed the door behind him. He patted his jean pocket—his penlight was in there, of course, but he didn’t pull it out. If Crazy McGee was around, Dean didn’t need to give himself a spotlight to shoot at.
He walked quietly along the bleachers, blade held at shoulder height, ready should anyone jump out. The air was still. Stale. Dean suddenly felt like he was stuck in some sort of apocalypse—alone in the world aside from the bleeding bodies he’d come across.
He didn’t hear any more gunshots. He couldn’t tell if the gym muffled it too much or if the shooter really had taken a break after five shots.
But Dean knew for a fact that there had been a class here. If there had been, where the hell were the students? Where the hell was Sam?
He gritted his teeth to keep himself from doing something stupid—but all he really wanted to do was scream Sam’s name until he came out of his hidey-hole.
Satisfied that Crazy McGee probably would have shot him dead by now, Dean caved and pulled out his penlight. It cut through the darkness with even more grandeur than the sunlight had. He turned it in a slow circle as he surveyed the room. If I was a scrawny, hunter-trained genius kid, where would I shove my ass to hide?
Dean paused and swung his penlight back around. In the corner of the gym, there was a double set of door that Dean knew lead to a storage room. A storage room large enough to hold an entire class’ worth of students. And, as his light drifted, he saw the telltale white of other flashlights inside the storage space.
Dean let out a relieved exhale that had him feel exhausted, and he ran across the gym, no longer caring about the way his boots pounded across the court.
There were whimpers and gasps of fear that he could hear up close, and a muffled sob as he boots skidded before the door.
He banged on it, demanding, “SAM! Sammy, you in there? Hey, whoever the hell’s in there, is Sam with you?”
For a long moment, no one answered. Dean wanted to kick the entire door in with frustration, he needed to see Sam’s stupid face right this second, but he just banged again. “It’s Dean, Dean Winchester! C’mon, please, just someone tell me if my brother’s in there!”
“Dean?” Came a muffled reply.
Dean’s heart sunk. That wasn’t Sam’s voice. Too blubbering. But Dean still recognized it—Sam had only made one friend since coming to Hillcrest and had been content with that.
“Yeah, yeah, uh—Mike, right?” Dean pressed his hand against the door.
“Uh, no, no, it’s, um—it’s Max.”
Whatever! “Yeah, okay—Sam, is he in there? Is he okay? Look, you don’t have to open the door, just tell me if he’s okay.”
There were muffled voices, scared whispers. An adult’s soothing voice was clear among the others—Coach Broadside.
Max responded, his voice shaking. “No. He—He went to the bathroom. I’m–I’m really sorry, man. Is it—Is it safe out there?”
Went to the—
“Son of a bitch!” Dean cursed.
The door opened and he saw Coach Broadside’s face—her hand was reaching out as if to pull him in, terror and concern all over her face. But Dean was already sprinting full speed back across the court and flinging the door to the hallway open.
The bright light poured in, but Dean hardly noticed. He’d been wrong, he’d been so wrong—Where would Sam shove his ass to hide? He wouldn’t! Dean couldn’t believe he’d been bragging about his brother being smart earlier! His brother was an idiot! A regular thirteen-year-old dumbass!
His pounding boots echoed through the hallways, his legs burning as he pushed passed the lockers, passed the dead boy, passed the three bodies in the front. He almost skidded and tripped when he abruptly turned to leap the stairs two at a time. The bloody smear on the handrail burned into his brain.
His heart hammered in his chest, almost too loud to hear—BANG BANG! There was a scream and f*ck, it sounded like his little brother.
He bit his tongue to not holler out Sam’s name as he hit the top of the stairs, breathing tight.
Dean froze at the top of the stairs, listening.
Voices echoed from down the hall, around the corner.
“Wait, just—just wait.”
Sam. Dean gripped his knife’s hilt until the wood dug into his palm. His footsteps were silent, but he was done with taking it slow. The bottom of his boots rolled against the floor to mute the noise.
“They deserve it,” another voice sobbed. “They all deserve it. Why’d you come to school today, Sam? Why’d you have to get in the way? You were the only one—You were the only one that was on my side!”
“I—I was on your side, what they did was wrong, but–but you killed people! Angelica—She didn’t do anything to you!”
“She didn’t stop it! None of them did! No one ever did! They’re all trash! All of them! Even Mrs. Richardson!”
“Jeremy…please. You can stop this. You’ve–You’ve made your point, okay? No one else has to die.”
“You defended them, Sam. You know what they did to me and you still defended them. You tried to save that piece of crap, Tyler! He’s a bad person! They all are! And now, they’ve got you, too!”
“No—Wait, no, I’m—Jeremy, come on. No one’s got me, I swear. I’d never bully anyone. Please, just stop.”
Dean rounded the corner.
The kid had some kind of military vest on, his jeans too big, and long Smith & Wesson pulled tight to his shoulder. Someone had taught him how to shoot that gun, probably with the intent of hunting duck or the like. Now, the kid, barely older than Sam, was pointing the business end at Dean’s little brother. Dean could tell the kid was shaking, even from the end of the hall, and any scare might cause him to pull the trigger.
Sam had been forced to press against the locker wall on the opposite side of Dean. Thirty feet away, Dean estimated. There was an unmoving body between him and the two boys—Dean didn’t pay it any mind. Not with Sam’s face white, his hands and stomach sticky with blood, the red smear on his face.
All Dean could think was that Sam was covered in blood and he’d been shot.
Get the gun off him.
“Sam, DOWN!”
Sam threw himself onto the ground. The shooter boy didn’t flinch and pull the trigger, but he whipped the gun around, with eyes wide and full of tears, snot running down his face, crazy written all over his expression.
Dean had already co*cked back and thrown the dagger with all the strength in his shoulder. It shot straight and true—digging right through the boy’s bicep. Blood spurted over the boy’s face as he let out a bloodcurdling scream.
The gun clattered to the ground. Sam lunged for it at the same time as the boy, who was reaching out with his good arm. The boy’s scream had turned into one of pure spite and panic, a feral screech. They tug-of-wared for only a moment before Sam coiled a leg in and kicked the boy so hard he slid across the tile floor with an oomph!
Then, Dean was on him. He grabbed the boy by his bad shoulder and wrenched him around to his back. The boy flailed, wailing, trying to claw at Dean, but Dean held him down to the ground with a fist wrapped in his collar. He dropped down to pin the boy with a knee to the gut, then pulled an arm back and punched him right in the face. Over and over and over again.
Sam covered in blood. Wham! Blood smeared on the ground where Sam had fallen. Wham! The barrel of the gun pointed at Sam’s face. Wham!
No one—Wham!—touches—Wham!—Dean’s—Wham!—brother.
The tears on the boy’s face were lost under the blood and bruises.
“—Dean!”
Dean stopped, not even breathing hard. The kid was unconscious and limp. Maybe indefinitely, with the way his head had cracked against the tile.
But he was just a kid. A human kid. Even if he had also been a monster.
Dean shifted his knee off the kid and reached under his chin. His heartbeat was wild, but very much still there.
He stood up emotionlessly, stepping over the kid, then crouching down at Sam’s side. The gun had been half disassembled already, the chamber open and emptied, the magazine snapped out and thrown on the ground.
“Are you hurt?” Dean demanded, grabbing Sam by the shoulders while he looked down at his bloody shirt. “Did he get you? Sammy!”
Sam blinked, then shook his head. He lifted his button up to show that there were only light stains on his under-shirt—the blood wasn’t his. It must’ve come from one of the poor saps downstairs. Because of course Sam had tried to save them.
Dean had smeared the blood on his own hands on Sam’s jacket. Sam was shaking under his grip and maybe Dean’s hands were shaking a little, too. Dean didn’t say anything when Sam slowly leaned forward and let his head fall onto Dean’s chest. Sam sniffed.
Dean glanced behind him. The kid wasn’t moving. The body at the other end of the hall—it was a teacher, a woman. Dean thought he recognized her. One of Sam’s teachers. Had she tried to protect Sam or had Sam failed to protect her? Regardless, the red splatter around her head told Dean he didn’t have to waste time checking on her. She was dead.
Dean’s adrenaline crash was beginning to make itself known. He was familiar with them. His legs were going a little wobbly and his expression control was growing weak. He hauled Sam up by the shoulders and dragged him over to the wall of lockers before slumping down next to him. He positioned himself between Sam and the bodies while his brother slowly wrapped Dean’s waist with his shaking arms.
“Police are probably on the way right now,” Dean muttered, looping an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “We’re okay. We’re good, right, Sammy?”
Sam’s exhale shuddered, pressed into Dean’s shirt. Then, he choked. “This—This is all my fault. I–I did this. They—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Dean squeezed his shoulder. “The hell are you talking about? That kid had the gun, not you. Don’t be stupid. You saved people.”
“He tol-told me not to come to school today. Said something bad was gonna—was gonna happen. I should’ve known. I should’ve said something!”
Sam sobbed, punching Dean’s arm weakly.
Dean didn’t know what to say. The sound of sirens caught his ear—his head perked up and he listened. They were close. Police and paramedics—they’d handle all of this. It was over. He and Sam were okay, the danger was passed, and they wouldn’t have to do anything any more.
Dean just pulled his legs up and squeezed Sam’s shoulder again, letting him cry and trying to ignore the way his own eyes burned. They were at school. Sammy wasn’t supposed to have to worry at school.
-
“You two, move away from the gun!”
More guns pointed at them. Dean almost snarled at the useless team of armored police officers. Instead, he just kept Sam pressed close to his side as he kicked the unloaded gun away and scooted the two of them further down the hallway.
“It was that guy, alright?” Dean pointed. “He was the one trying to kill us.”
One of the police quickly crouched beside the teacher to check on her, finding out fast that she was as dead as Dean had assumed her to be. The other officers began to lower their guns, the vest on the boy paired with Dean and Sam’s lack of threat seeming to convince them that Dean was telling the truth.
Sam wiped his face, pushing away from Dean. Both of them stood up, Dean feeling a little light-headed, when one of the officers approached. The other four split off to search the remainder of the hallways.
“Are you both alright? Are you bleeding?”
Sam quietly shook his head. Dean wiped a hand on his T-shirt. “Not our blood. Hey, there was—uh, a girl, in the west bathroom. She got hit. Is she…?”
The officer nodded. “She’s alive. We have some paramedics downstairs getting her into an ambulance right now. You’re Dean, then?”
Dean nodded. The officer looked grim, but clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Good man. Let’s get you both out of here. I’m sorry…I’m so sorry you boys ever had to be in this situation. And what’s your name?”
Sam stayed close at Dean’s back, but didn’t cling. He hadn’t clung for a couple of years, now. His voice was weak and quiet. “I’m Sam.”
“Sam,” the officer reached out to squeeze Sam’s shoulder, too. He sounded sincere as he said, “You’re safe now, I promise.”
“C’mere,” Dean said, wrapping an arm around the kid again. Sam didn’t try to struggle away. “Let’s get out of his hellhole.”
Sam didn’t say anything, but his eyes were glued to the body of the teacher as the second police officer took off his uniform jacket and covered her. The blood was staining quickly. Dean subtly angled his body between them and Sam’s gaze dropped to the tile.
The other bodies downstairs were already being picked up by paramedics. It seemed things were being rushed. Dean couldn’t find it in himself to think about it or wonder why. In fact, he wasn’t thinking much of anything. He felt like he was an autopilot. A paramedic tried to pull them towards an ambulance on the lawn, but Dean just kept shaking his head and pushing them away, insisting that they were fine. Still the paramedic insisted they both sit down. With no where else to go, he and Sam found themselves at the flagpole.
The paramedic put a blanket around Sam’s shoulders and Dean held it there when Sam tried to shake it off. Dean mumbled, “C’mon, man, it’s hot as balls out here and you’re still shivering, quit being a bitch about this.”
Sam huffed, turned his face away, and hunched his shoulders until the blanket became a wall between him and Dean.
There was a crowd of parents being pushed back by a relatively small police force. Fire trucks had come along with all of the other emergency vehicles—to help with crowd control and to deal with whatever had happened. There were parents screaming, crying, demanding they be let through.
An ambulance pulled out of the parking lot. When it moved, it revealed a girl in a bloodied cheerleader’s outfit sitting by the back of a police car, a paramedic hovering over her while she was also huddled under a blanket.
“I’ll be right back,” Dean told Sam, giving his head a tap with a knuckle before standing. Sam didn’t say anything.
Melinda was clearly on the verge of shock, or perhaps just coming out of it. The paramedic registered Dean’s approach must faster.
Eventually, Melinda looked up, cradling something in her hands. As soon as she saw him, she got choked up all over again.
“Dean!” Tears welled up in her eyes. Her limbs shook a little, but it didn’t stop her from standing up and throwing her arms around him. He hugged her back. “Thank you, thank you. They—They said that Sarah would have died already if I hadn’t—If you hadn’t came to help her. I—here.”
She pulled back to give him the bundle in her hand—it was his flannel, fully soaked through with her friend’s red blood. All but dripping. Dean tried not to grimace as he took it, carefully folding it.
“Thank you,” she said again, her voice cracking with tears. “Thank you. Did you find—Is that Sam?”
“Yeah. He’s okay.”
A few minutes later, with the bodies removed—the shooter handcuffed to the stretcher he was taken out in—the students were given the all-clear.
The doors blew open and any semblance of order that had been kept during the situation was gone. Kids and parents rushed in a crowd of people, panicking when they couldn’t find each other. But there were moments where parents found their kids and wrapped them in the tightest of hugs, both sides crying. A dad wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulder, a mother squeezed the daylights out of her crying daughter.
Dean saw Christy’s rich parents shouting for her and she dove into their arms, sobbing. Tony’s dad was there and he grabbed the back of his son’s neck before pulling him in. Maddy was hugging her brother and caught Dean’s eye. Dean smiled a little at her, tightening his hold over Sam’s shoulders. She smiled back at him, bittersweet, but relieved behind her glasses. Even Mrs. Banks found her husband and kissed him fiercely, tears rolling down her face.
And above it all, there was the wail of a mother who’d lost her child. There were the cries of a wife that had become a widow. Through the crowd, Dean saw flashes of a family crumpled over a gurney with a bloodied sheet draped over it.
He looked away, reassuring himself that at least Sam was safe. It hadn’t been their job to save everyone this time. There was no reason to feel it.
But if he’d just been a little faster. If he’d just handled it professionally, if he’d reacted to the very first shots, if he’d realized.
“This isn’t your fault,” Dean said to Sam. “Hey? You hearing me?”
Sam looked up, his eyes haunted and sad. He looked small under the shock blanket. His voice sounded even smaller. “Yeah. I hear you.”
“You couldn’t’ve known. There’s only one person to blame here and it was that freak kid. Okay?”
Sam didn’t respond for a long moment. He just lowered his chin again. Dean jostled him a little with the arm around him.
Quietly, Sam admitted, “Jeremy was my friend. They picked on him bad. I thought…I thought I could help him.”
“Yeah, well…you know better than anyone that some people are passed saving, Sammy. That ain’t on you. Understand me?”
None of it is, he didn’t need to say aloud.
Sam nodded mutely.
“Let’s go home. Call dad and get the hell outta this town.”
Sam looked up quickly and looked away just as fast. He raised his blanket, then pointed over toward the ambulances. Dean bobbed his head and hauled his brother to his feet.
They weaved through the crowds of families holding each other. They passed a woman holding her son’s face and telling him how proud she was. Proud? All he’d done was sit in a room, waiting for someone else to rescue him and the rest of the hopeless civilians.
Sam beelined for the paramedic that had met them when they’d emerged from the school. He’d folded the blanket into a sloppy square while they’d walked and held it out with reverence. “Thank you. I thought you’d want this back.”
The paramedic had a kind smiled, eyes lined with stress. She took the blanket.
“By the way, what’re the chances I’m getting my knife back?” Dean asked.
Her eyebrows furrowed. “What knife?”
“Kid with the blast vest and the uglied-face, knife in the arm? Ring a bell?”
“Dean,” Sam hissed at his attitude.
He should have taken it back earlier, but he hadn’t been too keen on watching the kid bleed out faster than he already had been. Freak or not…a human kid was all he’d been.
A hand clapped on Dean’s shoulder yet again. This time, he hadn’t been expecting it, so he flinched. His frown didn’t disappear when he saw who it was—that cop from earlier.
“Hey, boys,” he greeted, badge shining. He was an older man, in his forties, balding, with his little hair shaved down close to his head. Dean was taller than him. “I was hoping to talk to you about that. I know you’ve been through a lot, but would you mind telling me what happened while you wait for your folks? That way this’ll be the end of it and you won’t have to worry about giving a statement at a later time. You’ll be able to forget about all of this.”
Dean’s eyes tightened. Forget about it? If they were anyone else, this would probably be the worst day of their lives. None of the innocent kids of Hillcrest were ever going to forget about this. And Dean would never forget the sight of Sam’s life being held by someone else. That didn’t happen. That wasn’t supposed to happen ever.
But telling them whatever they wanted to hear here and now would keep them off their backs, keep them off dad’s back. So whatever.
Dean didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. “Fine. But we wanna go home, so make it quick.”
“Let’s sit down a minute.”
There was an empty curb behind the ambulances without as much crowd. The sounds of the sobbing and voices muffled out. A paramedic eyed their bloodied states, but they weren’t bothered.
The old cop had a nametag that read Morrison. Most precents or departments were slightly different, but Dean thought that the man’s ranking on his shoulder seemed to be one that was high up. The man wasn’t unkind, but Dean remained stiff with him, and he kept Sam close enough that their knees bumped together.
“I heard the shots,” Dean recounted. “Left my classroom to find my brother. Found Linda and her friend on the way. I know a little first aid from my dad, so I did what I could. I kept looking and heard Sam scream upstairs. The kid was there with a gun on my brother, so I threw my knife, Sammy got his gun, and I beat his face in. Sammy?”
Sam nodded, taking over. “I was going to the bathroom when I heard shots out in the hall and kids running. I went outside, but got knocked down by these three kids running into the girls’ room. Two of them already got shot. I…I recognized Jeremy…he was my friend…so I tried to stop him, but he shot Tyler in the back. Then he…he tried to get me. I tried to grab his gun, but I just knocked him down and ran for the stairs. Mrs. Robinson…she tried to take me to the teacher’s lounge, but…he got her. I tried to talk him down again, but…but, uh…anyway, then Dean showed up. That’s all.”
“Any questions?” Dean asked sarcastically. It came easier, now.
The officer frowned at him. “Yes. I’m sorry, but why did you bring a hunting knife to school?”
“Self defense,” Dean said dryly. “You gonna ask why I’d need to defend myself, next?”
“No, son,” Morrison sighed. “I saw what I needed to see. The two of you are real heroes today. A lot more people could have gotten hurt or lost their lives if not for you. This has been a tragedy—but I’ll be the first one to tell your folks how proud they should be.”
Dean remained stone-faced. Sam’s dejected gaze remained pinned to the cracks in the cement.
“Great. Can we go home, now?”
The officer looked confused. “Sorry, are your folks here already?”
“Nah, dad’s gotta make the paycheck, and I’ve got a car, so,” Dean stood up. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” The officer reached into his pocket and pulled out an old receipt, revealing a pen and scribbling on the back of the paper. He held it out to Sam. “My number. In case you boys need anything or want to tell us anything else. And I’d like if you gave it to your old man and tell him to call me whenever he gets home from the job.”
Dean peaked over Sam’s shoulder and saw Captain Morrison written in quick strokes next to the phone number.
“Yeah, we’ll do that. C’mon, Sam.”
-
Sam hadn’t asked why when Dean had dropped his bloodied flannel into the motel’s stained sink and immediately walked back out the door. Sam hadn’t even tried to interrupt after Dean had closed it behind him and taken a few steps back towards the car. While the kid usually would have been nosy and demanded to be involved, no effort was made to this time around. Dean knew the kid wasn’t dumb—Sam was certainly aware of why Dean was stepping out. He just…didn’t seem to care.
Dean almost wished he would. Because it would be much easier to yell at Sam for being nosy than to listen to Dad’s voicemail.
He hadn’t expected the call to go through. It never really did. Dad hadn’t immediately picked up the phone for Dean since he’d been twelve years old.
Still, for some reason, his chest ached when his dad’s voicemail ran on.
“This is John Winchester. If this is an emergency, leave a message.”
Dean rubbed the arch of his nose and tried to ignore the fact that his eyes were burning. Allergies, he told himself. It was late summer in the middle of Texas, allergies were perfectly normal.
“Hey, dad.” He willed his voice not to crack. “I…Something happened at school. There was this shooting, a couple of people died. Sam almost got hurt. I handled it—we handled it and we’re both fine, but…if you could just stop by before your next hunt. Or just…call me back. Sam got pretty shaken up.”
The mobile phone beeped loudly, signaling the end of the message. Dean huffed and pulled it back to glare at it. He’d meant to also tell their dad that if Dean didn’t hear back from him soon, he and Sam might skip town themselves. They could find a school Sammy really liked, hopefully near a job that wasn’t as dry as the garage Dean helped out on around here.
It felt wrong to stick around, now. They always ducked a town after being involved with something violent. Sure, usually it was because they’d left bodies in their wake, but still.
Plus, thinking about it made it easier to ignore the rising desperation in his throat following his dad’s radio silence.
He pressed the hard edge of the mobile phone into his forehead.
When he opened the door, Sam looked up from his bed on the far side of the room. His expression was unreadable.
“He didn’t answer, did he?”
Dean shot his brother a cold look and almost let loose a scathing remark. But around the textbook in his lap, his fingers were still slightly stained from the blood, pink splotches that hadn’t been wiped away by the soap in the bathroom. The bitterness emptied out of Dean, and he just shrugged, looking away.
“You know he’s not going to while in the middle of a hunt,” Dean reminded him, going for their bathroom. “He’s probably rescuing some sorry joes as we speak. ‘Sides, it’s not like we need his permission to skip town when we need to.”
He and Sam both knew Dean’s call hadn’t had sh*t to do with getting permission from Dad about anything.
Dean stripped his shirt, finding Sam’s soiled clothes stacked in the yellowed tub, ratty curtain pulled aside. He tossed his shirt onto the pile. Sam had already added Dean’s ruined flannel to the mass. Dean had some blood on his jeans, too. Dean sighed.
He walked back out of the room and grabbed an entire change of clothes. He didn’t bother closing the door behind him, as Sam couldn’t see from where he was sitting, anyway. Some things became an extra, unnecessary hassle after living close-quarters with one another for…well, forever.
He took the wet rag already by the sink and began to wipe the blood from his hands, arms, face, neck, and where it had bled through his shirt onto his abdomen. Scrubbing the blood from his skin was not an unfamiliar feeling. In a strange, and probably mentally deranged kind of way, it was almost comforting. It meant the job was done and it was time for some rest.
Sam spoke from the other room as Dean pulled on fresh jeans.
“I don’t want to leave, yet. Not if Dad hasn’t said we have to.”
Dean suppressed a sigh as he zipped up and stuck his head out of the bathroom to give his brother a suspicious glare.
“Why the hell not? Is one kid going insane not enough for you? You want to wait for another one to lose it? I’m tellin’ you, man, the education system f*cks kids right up.”
Sam frowned. “I…have a test on Friday.”
Dean scoffed, turning back to grab his T-shirt and throw it over his head. “Are you serious?”
Sam didn’t respond from the other room. Dean huffed, hands braced on the sink as he looked at himself in the mirror to take a moment. The blood was mostly gone—his hands were less pink than Sam’s.
He pushed off and leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms.
Sam looked okay. Better than he had in the yard of that school. He’d changed into sweatpants while Dean had been outside, and the sweater would have been too hot if they were going outside, but the motel had surprisingly functional air conditioning. In his lap was a textbook that Dean recognized from his schoolwork, along with a few papers strewn out. Was he—Was he seriously doing schoolwork? His little brother was something else.
Dean scoffed and shook his head in disbelief.
“You are serious. Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me. You wanna stay in this sh*tty little town and go back to that school? Did that son of a bitch get your head back there?”
“No, I’m fine.” Sam earned himself a dubious look. “I’m fine. I just—we just got here, Dee. It hasn’t even been two full weeks. You know it’s not going to be long enough to go on my record until I stay until at least Friday. Assuming we even get back to class.”
Dean laughed. He couldn’t the bitter sound from escaping. “You are unbelievable. Your brains almost re-decorated Hannah Thompson’s locker and you’re thinkin’ about your GPA. Man, I can’t believe I convinced Dad to put you into high school early. Clearly, you’ve still got some learnin’ to do—the common sense kind.”
“I’m the only one here who knows anything about common sense!” Sam snapped his textbook closed. “I’m trying to keep good grades so that I can do something with my life! You brought a buck knife to school!”
“I saved your hide with that buck! Didn’t you hear that cop? We’re heroes. Not ‘cause we got good grades. We’re heroes ‘cause everything Dad taught us.”
“Yeah, well, we wouldn’t’ve needed to be heroes if—”
Sam stopped abruptly, covering his face with a huff of frustration. He’d pulled up the sleeves of his sweater, the way he’d done when he was four and still knawed at them to deal with stress. Now, he used those sleeves to hide his eyes, shoulders hunched.
Dean waited, but Sam didn’t unglue his hands from his face. His brother’s shoulders began to tremble.
Dean pushed off the doorframe. “…Sammy?”
“…Just leave me alone,” Sam mumbled.
“C’mon, don’t be like this—”
“Dean!” Sam tore his hands down to glare up at Dean with red-rimmed eyes. “Just leave me alone! Okay?!”
The hostility in Sam’s eyes took Dean off guard. Dean knew Sam knew well enough to recognize that it wasn’t all aimed at him. He was frustrated. He’d been scared. Still, Dean was annoyed at the displacement of anger. He frowned. Dad did the same thing when he was mad at Sam—he got mad at Dean, instead. The two of them were gonna be the death of him one day.
“…Alright, whatever.”
Dean huffed and dug into the bag at the foot of his bed until he found his walkman. He unwound his orange-cushioned earphones and slipped them over his head, ignoring the puppy dog eyes he could feel burning through his shoulder.
He continued to ignore Sam as he pulled out his collection of tapes and snapped in Metallica’s Ride the Lightening album.
Cleaning out blood stains wasn’t hard, most of the time. As long as it wasn’t white, Dean could do it. Cleaning out jean and flannel was the easiest—hence their closets. He left Sam to his stupid homework, filling the tub up with cold water and digging the liquid detergent from the back of the Impala. The water quickly turned pink, flaked with dark spots, as the relatively fresh blood began to wash out.
Dean rolled up his sleeves and dunked a sponge in a mix of hydrogen peroxide and the detergent before pulling out Sam’s undershirt and began to scrub at the light stains there. Times like these were when Dean began to feel like a Victorian-era mother, especially with Sam on his ass in the other room being entirely unhelpful. Dean rolled his eyes to himself and just put more elbow work in, bobbing his head to the intro of Fade to Black.
He left the phone on the sink, just in case, and kept glancing over, hearing phantom ringing behind his music—but it never was. It took him almost two hours and a refill of the tub, but he’d gotten the stains out as much as he could. They could go in with the rest of their laundry now—Dean had been meaning to take a trip down to the laundromat for a few days, anyway. Most of his jeans smelled like engine grease and motor oil after his garage work.
The news of the situation spread through the town pretty quick, as Dean realized the moment he left Sam to visit the laundromat. A few hours later, the news reached the two of them that school was to be canceled the next day, much to Sam’s disappointment. Dean wasn’t surprised. They’d need some time to clean the brains from that display case. But school would go on like normal come Wednesday morning.
Dean was very close to not going. What the hell was the point? School wasn’t even a place they could call a safe zone any longer. It was just as dangerous as the outside world, now. Sam wouldn’t go for skipping, though. He’d made that pretty clear. The thought of leaving Sam there alone after the Monday they’d had filled Dean with dread. At the very least, Sam had given Dean a compromise—he only insisted they stay until Friday.
Wednesday morning, after two plain bowls of oatmeal, Dean tucked his colt into the waistband at his back.
Sam eyed the motion with tired eyes. “What if they search everyone from now on?”
Dean raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Sam sighed and picked up his backpack, shouldering passed Dean out the motel door.
It had been luck that Crazy McGee hadn’t pulled the trigger before Dean had gotten there, or in the moments before he’d been stopped. It was even lucky Dean had managed to hit his target—he was a good throw, but anything could happen in the heat of the moment.
He wasn’t taking that risk again. And he wasn’t with Sam, either.
Dean locked the motel door behind him. Sam was hugging his bag in front of him and didn’t glance over when Dean slid onto the leather seat on the driver’s side.
“Hey,” Dean said.
Sam huffed and glanced over.
Dean reached into his jacket and pulled out a small revolver, the barrel almost non-existent. He could walk around with it in his pocket and no one would notice. It was low-caliber and wasn’t made for a clean kill—but Dean knew Sam wouldn’t even consider bringing something real enough to murder.
Sam looked unimpressed and didn’t go to grab it. “Really? A mouse gun?”
“Just take it,” Dean gestured impatiently. “Safety’s on, but it’s full up.”
Sam’s grip on his backpack just tightened until his knuckles strained white.
“I’m not bringing a loaded gun to school. Nothing’s gonna happen. Just forget it.”
Dean scowled. “You almost died because you didn’t have a weapon, dumbass. Now that’s it’s pretty much been confirmed that’s something we ‘aught to bring to school, you don’t want to take precautions? Your ass is lucky we’re even going back. You tryin’ to get up on that pyre early or somethin’?”
“No, Dean, this is just how normal people work,” his brother spat. “When bad things happen, normal people feel sad, they don’t bring guns to school!”
“You’re really going to turn this into a bitch-fit about being normal again? Get a grip, Sam!”
“No, you get a grip!” Sam was shaking again. “Does it not bother you how far off the reservation you are? Does nothing bother you? Do you—Do you even care about what happened?!”
Dean slammed a hand onto the steering wheel of the Impala. “Do you think I’d be trying to put a damn gun in your hand before you go off to English class if I didn’t f*cking care?! The hell are you on?”
“I’m not talking about me, Dean! I’m talking about the people whose blood you washed out of our clothes! Angelica and Tyler and Mrs. Robinson and Vice Principal Ramirez! Those people!”
“Oh, right, sorry—let me just show up at all of their funerals and give them all a good cry! What do you want from me, man? Of course it sucks and I feel like sh*t about it! But if I thought about everyone who’s died on our watch, I wouldn’t have the time to drive your scrawny ass to school every morning, now would I?”
Sam curled over his backpack without responding. He glared at the dashboard in front of him—but Dean could see the shine of tears in his eyes again. What a soft kid. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe Dean went too easy on him.
But Dean couldn’t look at Sam making that screwed up face and leave it be. He couldn’t imagine how Dad ever could.
Dean took a deep breath, loosening his grip on the wheel.
“Sammy,” he said quieter. “There was nothing you coulda done. And even if there was—it’s in the past now. No amount of hoping or moping can change what happened. There’s always gonna be people we can’t save. You’ve gotta learn to let it go.”
“Is that what you do?” Sam mumbled without looking. His voice was bitter and dry.
No, Dean thought. But I wish to hell I could.
Sam grunted in annoyance when Dean didn’t respond. He reached for his jacket and pulled it back—revealing to Dean the hilt of a dagger, the sheath strapped to his belt.
Another compromise. Dean worked his jaw, considering. Then he pulled the glovebox open and slammed it back up with the small revolver inside. Fine.
Dean got a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror as he backed out of the lot, arm thrown over the seat. It was lucky that he was used to getting so few hours of sleep—despite the nightmares that had haunted him the past two nights, there weren’t bags under his eyes. Dean had become very good at keeping it all shoved down far enough to keep it off his face—usually Sam could see right through him. The fact that Sam couldn’t tell…his little brother was hurting bad.
Dean didn’t know what to do with that information. So he drove Sam to school, he didn’t force the mouse gun on him, and he didn’t even tell Sam off for slamming the car door too hard.
Dean let the first bell ring without him before he finally sighed and wrenched open the driver side door.
With students already in their classes, the walk through the halls was peaceful. He shoved his hands into his front pockets, ignoring the eyes of the women at the front desk, and the stares of other straggler students that seemed stuck on him. The display case in the entry way had been emptied of trophies, the glass cleaned out, and any stains scrubbed clean. It was just a void wooden case, now. Dean let his eyes slide passed it.
He stopped in the hall at his locker, not caring how late he was going to be to class. Two days before, he’d left his dad’s jacket stuffed in there and he wasn’t going to do that again. Didn’t want anything else anchoring him to this damned place, making him come back later, should he ditch it. He slammed his locker shut once he had the leather jacket thrown over his shoulder, where it belonged.
The silence that fell over his math class when he opened the door wasn’t subtle. That alone gave him half a mind to step right back out of the room.
But he rolled his eyes to himself and weaved around students to find his seat. Sammy had only asked until Friday. Dean could manage until Friday.
Christy Jenning’s red lips parted and her eyes widened. Dean gave her a ‘how-ya-doin’ wink, but otherwise ignored her. Tony Rodriguez stared at him just as silently, along with the rest of the class. Even Mrs. Banks stuttered in her lesson for a moment before picking her voice back up.
Dean graced Maddy Crawford’s blatant stare with a flick of his chin. “Mornin’.”
“Hey,” she greeted wearily.
Dean leaned on his elbow, unconsciously running a hand over his nose and chin. Did he have something on his face? What was up with all the looks? Had they been that weirded out by the knife? Come on. The administration hadn’t even mentioned it, so why’d they care? It wasn’t like Dean was another crazy ass.
Dean leaned over into Maddy’s personal space as soon as Mrs. Banks got absorbed into her lesson again.
“Why’s everyone giving me weird looks?” He muttered, relieved when Maddy didn’t lean away from him like he was Crazy McGee 2.0.
In fact, the girl smiled a bittersweet smile between her glasses. “Because you were the one who took down the guy with the gun, weren’t you?”
“Who told you that?”
She shrugged. “Everyone just knows, I guess. You did, then, didn’t you?”
Dean raised a shoulder a dropped it casually. If this were any other sort of situation, he might have grinned and milked the praise out of people, soaking in the whole hero bit. But this time around, it felt wrong. The school felt wrong, the students felt wrong.
Mrs. Banks hadn’t needed to remind the class to be quiet once. Christy was sitting upright and facing forward in her desk, a hoodie over her uniform. Tony hadn’t even slapped Dean’s shoulder yet, his eyes distant as he scribbled nonsense on his math sheet. Even Maddy felt like she wasn’t really seeing Dean, despite looking right at him. Her eyes were somewhere else, and judging by the nervous bounce of her leg, Dean doubted it was anywhere good.
Consequently, it felt wrong to try too hard with his usual facade. He didn’t even want to flirt with Maddy anymore. For the first time, the idea of gloating about being the hero made Dean more nauseous than proud.
He leaned back into his own chair.
Nearing the end of the lesson, the announcements crackled.
“Good morning students,” said the drawling voice of Principal Dunford. “I’d like to begin by thanking each and every one of you that has come back to classes so soon. What happened at this school was an utter tragedy. It was something that should not have happened. School is a place of learning and knowledge, not a place to fear for your lives. I’d like to reassure you all that increased security measures have already been taken. We have added to our school security staff and I can guarantee that you will all be safe here. In that light, please, let me apologize from the depths of my heart for the school’s failure to do so before. And if we could take a moment of silence for our friends and peers that were lost in the horrible tragedy. Angelica Jones. Tyler Morrison. Katherine Robinson. Kirk Ramirez. Jamie Garfias.”
Dean couldn’t hear much passed the four walls of his classroom, but the school felt utterly silent in those few moments. As each name was said, a body flashed in Dean’s vision. The two students in the entryway, the vice principal—the boy in the bathroom—the teacher Sam had tried to save upstairs.
His hand tightened into a fist on his desk. All he wanted in that moment was for the phone to buzz in his pocket, for Dad to tell him they needed to leave for whatever reason there was.
It didn’t. Instead, Maddy reached over and put her hand over his closed fist. He glanced up, letting his fingers loosen. She just looked sad as she laced their fingers together and squeezed. Dean let himself be comforted. Had he looked that pathetic? He quickly glued his eyes to the front of the classroom. Smart girls noticed too much.
“Thank you,” the principal said after a few long moments. “I’d like to let you all know that throughout the next few days, each student will be called to the library to talk with a grief counselor. These talks can go any way you wish and you may take however long you feel you need. They are here to help you. That being said, if the following students could make their way to the library before the bell rings…”
The man rattled off a list of ten or so students, all with the last names beginning with the letter ‘A’. Good. Dean wouldn’t have to talk to one of those numbskulls for a while. Maybe if they were slow enough, he’d be gone before he had to worry about it.
Classes passed in a weird blur. School had somehow become completely uncomfortable in a single day, his reasons very different from every other student’s. Melinda came up to him in the middle of the hall and hugged him tightly, pressing her face into his chest like she could hide there. When the hug lasted a little too long, he awkwardly patted her on the back. By the time she pulled away, she was wiping away tears. Just a week before, she’d only ever had a sly smirk on, cool and confident enough to put the moves on a kid she’d just met. Now, she clung to him and pulled away without words, as if he could be the only one to understand.
In an attempt to get things feeling back to normal, to ignore the way that random kids kept bursting into tears before him and thanking him for saving them, Dean found Christy during lunch. It had taken quite the hunt—the cheerleaders usually shared a table in the lunchroom, but today they were all spread out. And the lunchroom had been uncomfortably quiet. Everything was uncomfortable.
Christy was in one of the stairwells, sitting with two of her friends. One hadn’t done her hair and the other had layered on far more makeup than usual. They all looked up when Dean appeared with his own lunch tray in hands.
He smiled, in what he hoped was a charming way. Christy’s smile back was weak at best, and forced at worst.
Her two friends shared a look and excused themselves, mumbling goodbyes to Dean. Two days ago, they would have been giggling behind his back.
He slid down the wall to sit on the ground next to the blonde. Christy picked at her awful school corn.
The silence was unbearably awkward. Was Dean supposed to ask ‘Are you okay?’ Because the answer to that was pretty obvious. Sarah, the cheerleader that had been shot, had been well-liked and she was still in the hospital. And Tyler, the kid Crazy McGee had such a problem with, had been a star on the football team. Considering how close the football team was with the cheerleaders, and the fact that Christy had probably been in all of their pants, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if there was a relation there.
It became clear pretty quickly that Christy wasn’t up to playing their little game anymore, not even as some empty assurance that everything could be normal again.
So, instead of all that, Dean casually stuck his plastic fork in his mouth, at ease beside her.
“Man, I think this stuff gets worse every day,” he complained, poking at his chicken, that was maybe a hunk of plastic. “You’d think they’d give us a special treat or something, but this has gotta be the ancient emergency stash.”
She huffed, half-heartedly rearranging her food. He eyed her.
“Why…How did you do it?” She asked, looking up.
He raised a brow. “What, my hair? Just woke up like this. Sam’s the one that primps in the morning.”
She didn’t grace him with a smile, her eyes far too serious. She looked away, gripping her fork a little tighter.
“No, I mean…When…When it happened, I was so scared. I couldn’t…But you didn’t even hesitate. You just went out and a few minutes later, it was over. How could you…What kind of instinct is that? Is your family some kind of secret-fung-fu-crime-fighters or something?”
She laughed, but it was painful, humorless. She choked up on it, a hand going up to rub her eyes. Dean itched his nose, looking away to give her some dignity.
“I couldn’t even…I thought I was going to die and all I did was cry,” she admitted quietly. “And if it happened all over again, I still wouldn’t be able to move. How could you jump out there? Weren’t you afraid to die?”
“You caught me,” he sighed dramatically. “I am a masked crime-fighter in my free time. Don’t tell anyone, though, you’ll blow my identity.”
This time, she gave him a weary look. “Come on, Dean. Be serious, just this one time.”
“Sure.” Dean shrugged against the wall. “We’re all gonna die one day. Some things are just worth dyin’ early over.”
“A bunch of people you don’t even know counts? You…You’ve barely been here a week and a half and you put your life on the line.”
“Doesn’t matter. If there are innocent people on the line, then they deserve saving. I’d’ve done the same thing even if I’d never met anyone here. ‘Sides, Sam was out there.”
She stared at him like he was growing a second head out of his ass. He co*cked an eyebrow, pursing his lips in an overexaggerated ‘What?’ expression.
She shook her head. “If any of the other boys here said that, I’d call them on bullsh*t, but I guess you already proved it. I’m just…I’m just not like you.”
“Eh, don’t sweat it, sweetheart, ain’t no one else like me,” he joked.
She rolled her eyes a little, but Dean was relieved to see it—to see her less somber and a bit more like the flirty Christy with the too-tight shirts and the suggestive poses.
She opened her mouth, hesitated, then muttered, “I didn’t know Sam was in the halls with that freak. Makes sense—I mean, why you went out. Dean…Thanks. If it wasn’t for you…”
Dean shifted uncomfortably. Too many damn kids he’d never even met had already stopped him in the halls to grab onto him and give him their gratitude, most with far-away looks and weak voices. Coming from Christy, it sounded the same as any of them.
Dean wanted to get out of this damn town already.
“No problem.” He bumped her with his elbow. “Hey, you wanna ditch this joint? That diner down main has a way better lunch than this.”
Her gaze flickered away, almost guilty. He frowned as she spoke. “Um…I don’t think so. Look, you’re, like, really hot, and now you’re, like, a full-on hero, but I…I think I just want to forget that any of this ever happened. I just want things to be normal again.”
Dean leaned back, keeping his expression under careful control. “…So, guess no Thursday plans for us, then, huh?”
“My…My parents cancelled their trip. To be with me, you know? So…I don’t think it would be a good idea…”
“Cool, yeah, that’s cool.” Dean shoved a forkful of plastic-hunk-chicken into his mouth. He mumbled with his mouthful. “That’s great. Great that they’re staying for you.”
Even though you didn’t even see a body or have a gun shot at you or anything. Damn, people really coddled their kids around here, didn’t they? What the hell kind of support would Christy need when she’d been crying in a dark classroom from the beginning to the end? But whatever.
It wasn’t Dean life. Dean was just glad that his dad apparently didn’t think Dean needed that kind of thing. His dad knew he was strong enough to not get all babied over nothing. And seeing a few bodies, stabbing a crazy asshole, getting a gun off Sammy? Nothing to him. Dean had seen far worse, he’d been through far worse. He wasn’t a kid, like Sam, and he wasn’t a useless civilian, like Christy. He didn’t need anything, especially not from his dad.
He ate the rest of his lunch like he was starving (his stomach had been grumbling since yesterday) because the faster he ate, the faster he had an excuse to get out of the stairwell. Away from Christy’s thanks and her dropping her interest and equating him to all of her bad memories, basically.
He dumped his tray in the cafeteria, then ditched his next class to head out to the bleachers. The hawks in the hallways were stifling, the principal not kidding about the new security thing, and two more school officers had taken up post in the building. The bleachers were the only place kids could go to skip comfortably, taking advantage of the shade that spared them from the heat of West Texas. Dean knew a few of the usuals already—some kid who always brought his bong, Tracy and George, who shared cigarettes between them, plus Randy and his buddy, who would take turns burying a pocketknife into the trees closest to the grassline—sharpie-drawn targets littered with holes showed their history of misses.
To Dean’s surprise, there were a few more kids huddled under there than usual. Though maybe he shouldn’t be surprised—after all, who would want to be in the school right now, when it felt like the whole place was holding its breath?
He got a few nods of acknowledgement and smoke drifted between the slotted seats. What really surprised him was seeing Maddy Crawford, because Maddy Crawford was a good kid with straight As and a clean record, and good kids didn’t hang out under the bleachers during class.
She was tucked alone at the end of the bleachers, away from the other solo or group-ditchers. She had a book open in her lap—he almost snorted. Skipping class just to continue nerding out. Sam would like her for sure.
He leaned over her, arm balancing him on the bleachers above his head. She looked up when his body cast a shadow across her book.
He smiled, his innocent flirting smile, the one he usually didn’t bother with when it came to girls like Christy. Thinking about Christy, about what she’d said, made Dean forget all about his hang-ups from that morning about turning up the charm with Maddy. Thinking about her parents coddling her and her needing comfort for going through nothing. It just reminded him to toughen up.
His classmates hadn’t been through anything, with the exception of Melinda and Sarah. He and Sam had. And if he and Sam were fine after facing the freak that was responsible for all of this, then they could all toughen up, too, after just hearing about it.
“Hey, there. What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Dean.” She quickly closed the book, like she’d been caught with a handful of cocaine. Her face was already pink. “Hey, uh…I just…needed to get away. What’re you doing here?”
He shrugged, reaching his other arm up to hold onto the bleachers and lean further down. The metal creaked under his weight, but it was made to hold—it was just old.
“Mrs. Johansen’s voice makes me want to dig my eyes out with the backside of a hammer,” Dean admitted. “Figured I didn’t need to mess up anyone in chemistry who might have to watch.” Any more than they already are.
Unlike Christy, who surely would have winced, Maddy cracked a smile. “And Dean Winchester continues to be the hero of Hillcrest. You’re a regular Hercules.”
Dean quirked an eyebrow, intrigued with Maddy’s newfound confidence. Two days ago, she could barely look him in the eye, much less form comebacks to his poor wit.
He grinned. Finally, normal.
He dropped onto the yellow grass next to her.
“Aren’t you f*cking up your perfect attendance or whatever?”
“Yeah, well…” She sighed, putting her book aside and leaning on a drawn up knee. “I guess I am. I don’t know. That kind of thing seemed like the most important thing in the world on Monday. But, now…I don’t know. It seems stupid.”
Dean made a face that said he clearly agreed, but he quickly raised his hands in an ‘i-dunno’ gesture for the sake of comedy. Her lips quirked further up.
“I think I’ve spent too long trying to make my parents happy, trying to—focus on my future,” she told him. “I deserve to be happy right now, don’t I?”
“I mean, yeah, f*ck it,” he encouraged. “Do whatever the hell you want, whenever you want, that’s what I say. Any day could be your last, you know?”
“Yeah. That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
Dean wasn’t one to be blind sighted often, especially not by a kiss, but this time around he was properly dumb-founded.
But like any time a pretty girl decided to kiss him, he folded right away. She tugged him forward by the shirt, her mouth soft on his. It was pretty clear she didn’t have a lot of experience—or any. But she made up for it with enthusiasm, her gentle, exploratory dry kiss turning forceful as her grip on his lapel tightened. He opened his lips so that hers slotted against his, like the good teacher that he was.
She broke off from him laughing. He tried not to act bewildered, and a little disappointed when she pulled away, their lips wet.
“Yeah,” she breathed, grinning up at him, pretty brown eyes alight behind her glasses. “Just like I thought.”
“What?” He chuckled, her amusem*nt infectious.
She didn’t say anything—just swung a leg around his lap and her arms around his neck to pull him into another kiss. Her tongue slipped in and his hands fell on his waist and they both let themselves forget about everything for a while.
-
The pick-up line outside of the high school was way more crowded the usual. Kids that usually drove themselves, walked home, or took the bus were getting picked up personally by parents instead. To check up on how the first day back went, to judge the new security officers from a distance, to be there for the same kids of theirs that could have easily been listed off in the short memoir Principal Dunford had announced that morning. It was probably great for the kids who didn’t get a lot of parental attention.
For Dean, it was another annoyance. After all, he’d have to suffer through the throng behind the wheel after he met up with Sam.
The kid was already waiting by the flagpole, like always. His short, lanky figure was obvious from a distance—with his too-big jacket and too-heavy backpack. That kid, Mick or Matt or whatever, was next to him, but both of them seemed to be in somber moods, talking without their usual geeky hand flapping.
If the other geek had been intimidated to see Dean before, he outright squeaked at his approach this time around. It was Sam’s only warning before Dean reached out to muss up his hair real good.
Sam ducked on instinct, already groaning when he went to slap at Dean’s hand sharply. “Can you not bother me for once?”
“You’re askin’ me not to breathe oxygen, man,” Dean shot back. He raised a brow at Sam’s pale and silent friend, who stared up at him. “Wassup, Matt?”
“…Nothing much,” the kid sighed. “I’ll see you tomorrow, dude.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed quietly. “Get home safe.”
The geek saluted, already walking towards a car with a mom waving frantically from it, calling out to her ‘pooh-bear!’ or something. Dean snorted, giving Sam a look that said, ‘Aren’t you glad that’s not you?’ But Sam was too busy watching the mother and son. Dean decided to ignore the fact that it looked like longing on his face.
Dean clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and turned him around towards the parking lot. Sam didn’t complain about the manhandling, quietly clutching at his backpack straps, instead.
“It’s Max.”
“Huh?”
“His name,” Sam said stiffly as they walked. “It’s Max, not Matt. At least remember his name.”
Dean side-eyed him. “…Alright. Max. Got it.”
Maybe on another day, Dean would have ribbed him back for being a bitch, but he knew all too well what was going on in the kid’s head. Maybe Dean had never thought very highly of school, not like Sam did, but he had always had this expectation that the two of them would be safe and separated from their other, dangerous life, as long as they were in a classroom. And if even Dean was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t safe or secure or separate, Sam was probably struggling with it a whole lot more.
Dean wished he could just go back and drag Sam out of this damn school before his kid brother had ever had to look down the barrel of a gun, soaked in the blood of other kids like him.
But all Dean could do now was squeeze Sam’s shoulder and hope his lame attempt gave Sam some kind of reassurance. Sam glanced up at Dean, then looked down again.
Dean’s hand slipped from his brother’s shoulder. There were students going to their cars and a few loitering around the parking lot, like always, but there was someone who looked wildly out of place.
A mid-thirties, adult man, with a striped tie on, sleeves of his collared shirt rolled up. He was standing right next to Dean’s car, at the driver’s door…waiting.
Dean scowled. The guy looked far too purposeful and far too close to his baby.
The guy spotted the two of them headed toward the car and his eyes lit up.
“What the hell?” Dean muttered angrily, nudging Sam lightly toward the passenger side of the car. Louder, he told the guy off. “Hey, buddy, back off from a guy’s ride! Trying to leave, here.”
“Are you Dean Winchester?”
The guy had a notepad flipped open and a pen in hand—but Dean’s hand twitched back, where the cool press of metal against his back resided. He and Sam shared a look across the hood of the Impala.
“Who’s askin’?” Dean asked.
“Blake Johnson, with 360 West Newspaper.” The man thrust the pad forward, an arm’s length away from Dean, now. “I’m writing an article about the terrible tragedy that took place here Monday morning and I heard you and your brother were quite the heroes. What was going through your head when you took it upon yourself to save all of your peers at Hillcrest? What do you parents think about your acts of heroism? What is it like to return—?”
“Shut up. Get away from my car. I ain’t answering any of your damn questions. Sammy, let’s go.”
At least the itch to pull his gun went away, but Dean’s relief was instantly replaced with something bitter. He glared at the man—Johnson got the message and stepped aside before Dean could shove him out of the way. The meathead actually seemed surprised when Dean spat such cold words at him.
The door creaked open on the passenger side.
“Wait! Don’t you want people to know what you risked? How incredible you were?” Johnson insisted, his hand catching Dean’s sleeve. “You’re a hero! You prevented something horrible from becoming even worse. You deserve recognition.”
Dean grabbed the guy’s wrist, not bothering to be gentle when he tore the fingers off of him. “Worse? Five bodies isn’t better than ten. People are still dead. If you come near me or my brother again, I’ll break your stupid-looking face, got that?”
Johnson’s eyes flickered across the car to Sam, who stood with a hand on the door, glaring with eyes that could kill. He pulled back when Dean let go of him, shaking his head in disbelief.
Dean didn’t bother waiting for him to say something before he got in the car and slammed the door shut behind him. Sam followed suit. Once on the leather bench, they looked at each other. Sam’s eyes were shining with rage, but the grief, the hurt underneath it was undeniable. Righteous anger.
Dean was just plain pissed. Motherf*cker questioning a couple of kids about their dead classmates two days after it happened? Sick bastard. Not to mention the fact that he’d dug out Dean’s name. Some student had run their mouth too loudly. When Dean pulled the car out of the lot, he had to be extra sure that he didn’t hit any spare kids in his bad mood.
“He won’t put our names in the paper,” Sam said on the way home. “He can’t, it’s illegal without parental consent.”
Dean just grunted. Civilians and their f*cking gossip. Couldn’t they just be grateful that their lives weren’t sucking? Why’d they always have to focus on all the bad stories they could get their hands on? Why did they find suffering so entertaining?
God, Dad would kill Dean if they got their names in any paper. Good thing they still had the protection of being minors. Despite how annoyed Dean was when their dad treated him like a kid sometimes, he wasn’t looking forward to giving up that status in the eyes of the law. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d gotten off of petty theft and trespassing just because he was a minor.
By the time they got back to the motel, Dean was cursing at his watch.
“sh*t, I’m gonna be late for work.” He jammed the key in and opened the door for Sam to shuffle in after him.
“They only gave you two days off?”
“Can’t really afford to take more time off, dude, the card dad left for us already got flagged. We’ve got, like, twenty dollars left and if you wanna stick around, then that means I can’t hustle the bar yet. Aw, sh*t.”
Dean had dumped their fresh laundry on his bed after being too lazy to properly pack it away the day before, but now that he was going through the clothes to find his uniform, he saw that Sam’s undershirt from the other day was definitely stained a light brown. He shook out the other clothes they’d been wearing that day—the flannel looked fine, his black shirt was too dark to tell, but there were stains on their jeans, too. He’d hoped the laundromat would take care of what had been left, but apparently the laundromat in this town sucked ass.
He threw the clothes back down to get his annoyance out. Fine, he’d get on his damn hands and knees again when he got home, but for now, he had to go grab a real paycheck. He found his stupid-looking blue button up with his name embroidered on the front pocket. What was up with mechanics and having collars like it was the 70s again?
“I can get the stains out,” Sam told him, sorting through the pile and pulling out his undershirt. “Don’t worry about it. Just go, Dean, it’s okay.”
Dean slipped the shirt over the one he was wearing and started to button it up. He gave Sam a suspicious look—he’d been all attitude about fifteen minutes ago, what was up with these teenage mood swings?—but decided to take it at face value.
Besides, he was relieved at the idea of less work for him. “Right, yeah. Thanks, Sammy. Left the stuff in the bathroom.”
Sam nodded.
Dean patted his pocket to make sure the keys were still there. He left their phone on the counter—too quiet for Dean to hear at work, it was better that Sam would be able to answer. “After I go—”
“Lock the door, line the salt, clean the guns,” Sam recited with a sigh. “I know, I know.”
Dean raised a teasing eyebrow. “I was gonna say you’d better finish your homework before you go washing out any blood stains, but I guess all that, too.”
Sam snorted. “You’re definitely gonna be late, now.”
“Oh, f*ck me. I’m so fired.”
