Henderson Iver Specialty School, otherwise known as 'the place you send your kid if they might just be made of something'. Henderson Iver offered courses ranging from acrobatics to astrophysics to advanced literary analysis, all of them coming with some form of college credit or esteemed referral. There were students who came out of the institute ready for the Olympics and others with a giant headstart on their masters'. But that in no way meant there weren't trouble makers, and it definitely didn't mean there weren't cliques. In fact, the groupings in Henderson could be much worse than one would find in any public or prep school. Everyone very obviously had their own corner and if you didn't fit into them, you were toast. Which meant on days like October 11th, 1997, things were a lot more complex than they might seem.

Along with its prestigious reputation, Henderson was known for its strict policies. There was no option for a twenty-minute lunch detention or sitting out of a fun activity. If a student's crimes were deemed worthy of punishment, the only thing they could look forward to was either four hours of the nearest Saturday being ruined, having to work with the faculty on whatever big project the school was undergoing, or being forced to stay home. No one liked those options...usually.

October 11th was one of those Saturdays, a few lonely cars rolling into the oversized parking lot. As the first came to a stop - a shiny Lincoln Continental - its passenger was quicker than a fox to jump out, and even quicker to pull an umbrella out to cover his head. Where the rain guard was more than plain, the teenager's clothes were anything but. The beige of his khakis matched the large trench coat tugged over his shoulders, just barely covering a pure white sweater with yellow bumblebees knitted into it. His head was held high and though it looked like this was the last place he wanted to be, that was far from the truth. Never looking back, the boy ducked inside the building and easily made his way to the detention center.

The next to arrive was a girl, one who parked her own beat-up BMW in the lot. At only fifteen, she wasn't legally supposed to be driving with only a permit to her name. Technically, she wasn't supposed to be smoking, either, but she certainly sat there for a few minutes to do just that. Running a hand down her face, the black-haired teenager eventually pulled up her hood and slammed her way out of the car. Locking it, clenched fists were pushed into hoodie pockets and the girl leisurely made her to the front door.

While she sat, two others arrived. A young boy with shaggy brown hair was stalled in the cab of his mom's baby blue pickup as the woman reminded him of how important school was. He listened and nodded his head with a few 'yes, mom's and accepted her kiss on the cheek when it was finally over. All the while, a dark-haired boy with even darker eyes walked through the pouring rain and, in a particularly foul mood, didn't even glance at the vehicle.

The final girl was late. She kept glancing at the clock as her mother reamed her, growing more stressed as the time dwindled down. With only a minute left, she finally managed to get out but didn't know the old truck's clock was two minutes slow. Even as the freshman tugged on her Letterman and ran up the steps, it was already 9:01.

Rushing through the back door, the blonde got lucky; well, if a student already picking a fight with the administrator counted as luck. Sliding into a seat up front, her lips pursed as she quietly placed a duffle on the ground.

"...on, Fergus, you know you-"

"Sit down, Winchester." The teacher seethes, glaring daggers at the teenager blocking his way into the room. "You are not a friend or a coworker, you are a student, and will address me as Mr. MacLeod."

Finally nudging past Dean Winchester with enough disdain to burn the world, MacLeod leans back against the front desk to stare out at his students for the day. The man is stout but regal, clearly too big for his britches but unaware. Originally from Scotland, anyone could still hear the roll in his r's despite living in Britain for the better part of his life. He'd wanted to teach since he was a boy, but at a British university with tenor, not some specialty American high school with a bunch of snobs and freaks. If he never had to deal with the likes of these kids ever again, he'd die a happy man.

Scoffing, Dean throws his arms up in an exaggerated shrug before stalking to the closest empty desk. He barely notices the two sitting at the table in front of him, stripping off a dripping leather coat to throw it over the desk. Pulling the chair out from under it, the teenager falls into it, arranging himself pointedly to get comfortable. Once MacLeod has reached the point of almost bursting, he settles, scuffed blue jeans crossed at the ankle where they meet mechanics' boots. With his arms crossed and a bitchy look on his face, the brunet raises an eyebrow.

"Don't look at me like that. Now...you all know why you're here. Though I'd love to give all the gory details, I'm under strict legal stipulations not to. Some of you I've never seen, some seem to have an addiction. All of you will sit here for four hours. None of you will work on your projects or practice. It'll be like an extended time-out. You get to sit here and simply think of what you've done; it's brilliant, really." Fergus waxes on, using hand motions every few words to illustrate. This situation makes him very happy, made obvious by not only the lilt of his voice but the twisted smile on his face. "None of you will talk. None of you will move unless I say so. Enjoy your stay."

With a self-indulgent nod and a glimmer in his eye, MacLeod strides out of the room, leaving the door open to see in from his office. Every student but Dean and the girl with her head on a desk in the back turn to follow his movements all the way until his ass hits the chair. Dean was busy picking at a loose thread from a hole in his jeans.

"Why do you always gotta pick a fight with him?"

"Because, Sammy. He's a dick." Shaking his head, Dean kicks the table leg with his toe, looking to the left at the boy more familiar to him than his own name. "And he thinks he can just get away with it. It's bullshit."

It's easy - for Sam - to read between the lines: Dean can't speak his mind to Dad, but he can to Mr. MacLeod. Dean is mad at Dad (and Mom), and everyone else gets the blunt end of it. Everyone gets snapped at and shitty jokes made about. Everyone but Sam. Sam is the only one, in Dean's mind, that doesn't deserve it. The only time he can keep himself from going too far.

"Give it a rest, Dean. He's just gonna give you more detentions."

"Yeah, and?" The senior questions incredulously with a wave of his hand. "Worth it to piss him off."

"Can you two maybe be quiet? This is bad enough without the married banter."

Turning to the two seated in front of him, Dean cocks his head, looking over the girl that had come in late. While she's far too young for his standards (no, Dean Winchester does not fuck freshman), it was always fun to fuck with people. The girl rolls her eyes and turns back around, but not before exchanging a pointed look with the older boy next to her.

"Yeah? Well, maybe I can talk to you, sweetheart. What's your name?"

"None of your business."

"Well, None of Your Business, he's not my husband. In fact, Sammy here isn't getting married until he's old and wrinkly; right, Sammy?"

"Shut up." Muttering, Sam taps absentmindedly on the wooden table, bored out of his mind, wishing he could pull one of the books on Roman history from his bag. Instead, he just shakes his head and tries to act like Dean, in all his glory, doesn't amuse him.

"What about you, trench coat? You gonna get married?"

"Leave me alone, please."

"What?" Dean snipes, setting his feet as he sits up properly to gaze at the school's perfect prince. "Too good to talk to the likes of me? Think you'll get your pure whites muddied up with my dirty blood? How angelic."

"If you knew me at all, you'd be aware I actually prefer getting my hands dirty." A small, almost deliriously wistful smile tugs at the boy's lips but he never turns to give Dean the time of day. "You, however, seem like more trouble than you're worth. Like a Venus flytrap."

Clicking his tongue, Dean cocks his head before throwing himself back in the chair, legs tossed up and crossed on the table. "Thanks for the compliment. Those things are fascinating."

"Yeah, what the hell would you know about a plant?" Reaching down to grab a drink from her bag, the jock throws Dean a dirty look, as if that could possibly scare him off.

"I dunno, blondie, maybe I'd tell ya if I knew your name. How do you know I don't specialize in agriculture?"

"You specialize in mechanics." A voice abruptly chimes in from the back, more gravely than anyone anticipated, with a sexually tense undertone. At all of five foot two, the dark-haired girl is curled in on herself, soaked hood still pulled over her head. Though she looks at them, her eyes flit around and hold the slightest edge of a glare, like she's daring them to try something. "I've seen you, all greased up in your flannel."

"Yeah? Like what you see, honey?"

"Oh, honey, you're not even close to my type."

With that, she drops her head back on the desk, leaving the others to marvel at the twenty-second interaction.

Smirking, Dean drops a fist to the table before pointing back at her. "You know, in all the riveting conversation we've had today, she's by far my favorite."

"Hey!"

"Sam, you don't count, cool your jets."

Even with Dean turning around, he's not able to see the blonde roll her eyes. "So sorry we're not entertaining enough for you."

"Thank you so much for that truly sincere apology, None of Your Business."

Looking around the room, Dean is quick to notice three things (he's good at noticing things). Sam is most certainly staring at the weird girl in the back, the boy in front of him is absolutely gazing at him curiously through his lashes, and the last of the bunch seems like she'd rather jump off a cliff than be here with them. Turning up the charm, he puts on his best smile and leans forward to set his chin on his fists.

"You know...you're awfully pretty when you look at me like that."

In two seconds flat, the teenager rolls his eyes in exasperation and turns to sit correctly in his seat with a huff. "And just like that, you go back to being nothing but annoying."

"Meaning I was more than annoying a second ago? Fantastic."

Receiving no response - unsurprising - Dean scoffs under his breath and whirls out of his chair to find something with a bit more substance. Boots making squelching noises on the linoleum, he walks along the walls, trailing his fingers over the books lining the small shelves. While there are nowhere near as many in the room as they keep in the library, maybe there would be something to strike his fancy.

Moby Dick - bit kitschy for his taste. The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle - admittedly he'd enjoyed it...in elementary school. History of Rock and Roll, The Return of Sherlock Holmes, Appointment in Samarra: all read. Grazing his fingers along a few more, he lets out a huff, properly annoyed at the lack of good literature to pick up.

"What? Angry you can't find a good book to destroy?"

Twisting around, Dean narrows his eyes at the girl still wearing her Letterman jacket as if it isn't drenched; as if it means anything in this room. He can see the words on the tip of Sam's tongue - the boy's arm outstretched in the jock's direction - and beats him to the punch.

"Have any suggestions?" Holding out his arms as if open to any she has, Dean points back to one of the six three-shelf cases actually filled with books. "This room is severely lacking in kindling."

Making a noise full of disgust, the freshman whips around and pointedly stares at the blackboard in front of her. The blonde's fingers twitch to do something - whether to hit him or simply look through her bag, Dean's not sure. Nonetheless, he still notices the boy next to her shake his head in disdain.

Ignoring them is easy as Dean continues to wander around the room. It's not like this place hasn't been like his second home for the last three years - he knows it like the back of his hand - but he's bored. Bored and ornery. But it's better than home. Basically, anything is better than home.

Dean's fingers grab onto the life-size school mascot as he passes it - a god damn trojan horse, how fitting - and pulls out some of its fur. Laughing to himself, Dean lifts his hand and slowly lets the pieces drop while he slowly struts further. For once, he doesn't notice eyes on him, the girl two paces from him turning her head on the desk to watch.

"That's school property."

Not even bothering to turn his head (although he does like looking at the senior), Dean makes it to the other side of the room, fingers wiping dust off of long-forgotten books on the second half of shelving.

"No shit. Next, you're gonna tell me the Earth revolves around the sun. Or do you still believe it's the other way around? That's been disproven, you know."

There's an air of arrogance in his tone that's been at the forefront of his words for ages now. It's always been there, ever since he was little, but it's certainly been warped in recent times.

A scoff is all he gets in return for that genius comeback.

Finally, finally, Dean comes across something that gets his attention. He's surprised they even have it in here. Vonnegut of all lovely things.

Slaughterhouse-Five. While he's read it before, he never got to finish it. That had been one of those things he'd started around the time mom and dad started fighting. Focus was nonexistent during those days, and when they actually separated - followed by full-on divorce - Dean didn't have the heart to pick it back up. But now, he rolls his shoulders, picks it up, and walks back to his seat while reading off the back cover.

"Slaughterhouse-Five, an American classic, is one of the world's great antiwar books. Centering on the infamous firebombing-"

"I'd rather not know that you're going to tear apart a piece of American history. Do you find it ironic, is that it? Going to war on an antiwar piece? Setting it on fire like Draeden? You should be ashamed of yourself." 

Dean's words are abruptly cut off by the prince's harsh tone of voice. Halting in his place, for a split second, he feels a nauseous sensation rolling in his gut. He'd heard those words a thousand times before. Hell, it was only Dean's fault his father wasn't the only one that felt that way, right? Of course. He dug his own grave.

The next feeling is anger - something he's all too familiar with. A fire lights in his eyes, enough to set the whole town ablaze. In the moment, he almost wants to rip the book to shreds. To set it on fire with the trusty zippo dad gave him back when he was still a man, right there on the motherfucker's desk. The only thing that manages to stop him is the soft but firm hold Dean suddenly finds wrapped around his wrist.

"Look. You don't know me. You don't know a single bit of me, you understand?" He seethes, trying to step forward but only being tugged back in place. "If I wanted to, I could set this whole fucking school on fire and you and your precious plants couldn't do a damn thing to stop me. What I do on my time is none of your damn concern."

Whipping around in his seat with one of the most scornful looks Dean's ever seen on a person's face, the boy scowls at him. "Watch your tongue, boy."

"Oh, pulling out the big guns, are we? Name calling? I'm older than you, you idiot."

Of course, the reason he knows that is no boasting matter. The only reason Dean is older than almost the entire student body is because he'd been held back in second grade. Whether or not that was because he was a full-on mute that year and was held back for lack of participation apparently hadn't mattered to the principal.

"Doesn't matter. You're a boy. Running around like you've got something to prove. What, Daddy doesn't love you?"

That's it. At first, he'd thought the boy had been rather cute, but now Dean just hates him. That seared a part of him way too deep and now his heart is what feels as if it's on fire.

Without even realizing, the dark-haired boy lurches forward and Sam has to physically get out of his seat and wrap his arms around Dean to restrain him. Though younger by four years, he's already nearly as tall as his brother.

"Dean! Dean! Calm down!"

"What's goin' on in there?!"

The yell comes from outside the room, easily discerned as their lovely detention master. It's that and nothing else that makes Dean rear out of Sam's hold, glaring at his now arch-nemesis the entire time he steps forward and slumps into the uncomfortable plastic seat. When Fergus' heavy footfalls reach the room, he turns the glare on him.

"What's goin' on in here?"

Huffing, Dean slaps the book down on his lap - remembering last minute that the teacher would snatch it from him for seeing it if he slammed it on the desk. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Nothin', huh?" The man questions, stalking down the aisle until he's in front of Dean. The boy leans forward, glaring as his arms lower onto the table, hiding his collection. "What are you up to, Winchester? No good, I assume."

Dean scoffs and shakes his head, looking Fergus up and down with a sneer.

"No good is what's up with your clothes. I mean, what kind of teacher wears a denim jacket?"

"Dean, I wear a denim jacket."

"Yeah, and you look like an idiot."

"Don't come complaining when I look better with a worn coat than you do."

"Quiet!" Mr. MacLeod snarls, a poorly manicured hand slapping down on the desk. It does its job, turning Dean's focus from his brother back to his real target.

"What, can't take the heat?"

"Keep it up, I'll just give you another detention."

"Oh, woe is me." Putting the back of his hand to his head, Dean pretends to faint before gagging dramatically. "Oh, boo hoo, I'm so scared."

Making a strange noise in the back of his throat - certainly, due to the cigarettes Dean knows he sneaks in the bathroom like some sort of school girl - Fergus backs up while pointing at him with an all too pleased look.

"Looky there, another Saturday. Keep this up and you'll at least be known for something, Winchester. I'm pretty sure you've already been in this room more times than anyone in the last century."

"Holy shit!" Dean gasps, leaning forward with wide eyes like that's the best news in the world. "Do I get a prize?"

"There's another Saturday."

"I happen to like Fridays much more. All the best parties are then. Do you remember what those are like? How long has it been? Three decades?"

"And another."

"Oh, that's right. You probably never got invited to any."

"Winchester."

"Quit it!" Sam shouts, but Dean hardly even looks at him.

"How many Saturdays is that now? Or are you as bad at math as you are at guidance?"

At that, Mr. MacLeod finally loses his cool. Shooting forward, both hands grip Dean's desk in a deadly hold as he glares down at him.

"At least I have a career. What about you? You're never gonna amount to anything. With all your time in here, you can kiss your scholarship goodbye. I'm sure Mommy will be oh so pleased about that." He growls, spit landing on Dean's cheek that he wipes off with a pissed-off grimace. "No trade school, no job, no life. You'll be on the streets in no time."

"Bite me."

"Saturday."

"Go to Hell."

"Saturday."

"Well, don't threaten me with a good time."

"Saturday!"

Seeming to think he's gotten in some kind of final word, Fergus slaps the desk once more for good measure, and with a met glare, strides away from the room.

Tense silence basks the room in a blanket of rage and misplaced pity. It all builds up under Dean's skin until it comes out of his mouth in an angry yell that rattles the floor as he promptly spits in the place that bastard once stood. Arms crossed over his chest, he forgets all about the book on his lap. When he shoots backward, Dean's back hits the seat so hard it almost falls.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"I don't remember asking you."

The other boy sighs, almost sadly, and that's the end of the conversation. Dean doesn't need his stupid "advice". Dean doesn't need anyone's advice, let alone from a person he barely even knows. Before today, the only interaction he'd ever even had with the senior was during that sophomore pottery class he'd taken, asking the trench coat toting prince of the halls if he wanted to smoke a spliff out by the bleachers. The answer was as unsurprising as it was hilarious.

Grumbling under his breath, Dean decides that's exactly what he needs. Except in a purer form. He needs a joint; he needs a god damn blunt to get him through this shit.

Book smacked down on the table, Dean gets up, seat shoved back with an audible screeching noise. People turn, they ask questions, but he just doesn't give a fuck anymore. There's a second door out of here and he's fucking using it.

The first person up to follow him is Sam, who looks worriedly toward Mr. MacLeod's office just to find it abandoned. With that in mind, he sighs warily and - risking his whole hide if mom found out - gets up to make sure his brother doesn't do something exceedingly stupid.

Next could've been guessed by anyone. Looking up from her brooding nesting place, the dark-haired girl in the back takes one look at people leaving and promptly gets up to follow. She's got no idea where they're going, but she's bored and would love to get the hell out of dodge.

It takes a while for anyone else to move. The last two exchange looks, filled with a silent conversation full of eyebrows, narrowed eyes, and defeated expressions. Finally, with a huff, the boy gets up. This certainly shouldn't be what he's doing, but it was ingrained in his system long ago to worry about everyone, even assholes. So he goes. And the jock follows the prince because why on Earth would she leave herself alone in this god-forsaken room, let alone be questioned if their drill sergeant came back.

They all catch up fairly easily, Dean in front, with the other four paired off behind him. Inexplicably, Sam is walking with the weird girl, glancing at her every five seconds while she pays little to no attention. The others stay silent, though the sweater inhabitor continues to look around as if they'll be caught.

Hallways, posters, and the leftovers of a glitter bomb from Thursday later and they finally reach the destination: Dean's dingy old locker. The thing is dented and rusted, but most of the dings are from Dean's own fists and feet. People piss him off, what a surprise.

Entering in the locker combo he knows by heart, Dean pulls the thing open, leaving everyone to see the inside of the door. A small mirror is stuck to the thing, with tattered posters of a woman in a bikini on the beach, and a sexy fireman washing a car. Surrounding that are random stickers, mostly about marijuana or cars. There are the odd few that obviously pertain to what Dean would consider "nerdy shit" but everyone other than Sam is so focused on everything else, they hardly notice.

Inside the locker itself are books and papers filled with notes, even an old water bottle that belonged to their estranged uncle. Well, Bobby wasn't really their uncle, but Dean would give anything for one of his famous barbeque days again. He'd fallen off the face of the Earth a few years ago when he and Dad had gotten in a bad fight. Dean still didn't know what about.

Random knickknacks he doesn't want his father to get ahold of, pens and pencils strewn about, and a ball of rubber bands Dean likes to shoot at people later, and he finally finds what he's looking for. Wrapped in a brown paper bag is a smell-proof plastic one that is just filled with some premo shit. At the very top is a nestled pack of Top's, because he just rolls like that (pun fully intended).

Stuffing the thing in his pocket - thank manufacturers for deep storage - Dean slams the thing shut and turns on his heel to go back the way he came.

"You're not serious?" The incredulous tone is familiar by now, coming from the blonde bombshell behind him. "You have weed in your locker? Are you crazy?"

"Oh, definitely. Have been for years."

Ignoring anything else they have to say, Dean just continues on walking, looking around every few seconds in case there's a man roaming the halls sniffing out his particular brand of flannel.

More hallways, more posters, jesus fucking christ does glitter ever go away? Lockers; bathrooms; oh hey, there's the cafeteria. He wonders if they have anything ready to eat in there.

They get almost all the way back when he hears the whistling. Recognizes the jaunty tune. Fergus is right around the corner, and with suddenly wide eyes, Dean rears around. Grabbing his brother is the first order of business, and as he takes off, he doesn't bother to see if anyone else is following.

Everywhere they go, he seems to be there. Turning down a new hall, they have to backtrack, and by some grace of the heavens, the man doesn't hear the squeal of their shoes.

It feels like they're going in damn circles and Dean is so done with running. When you face the devil, you face him head-on, you don't run like a coward. Making an executive decision, he stops.

"Go." Slightly out of breath, it doesn't come out with much conviction and the lot of them stare like he's got twelve eyes. Before he can continue on, Dean reaches inside his pocket and proceeds to stuff the contents straight down trench coat boy's pants. "I said go!"

Without another word, he takes off running again, pointing behind them. Waiting until he's far enough away, Dean starts singing one of his favorite Kansas songs. Loudly.

"Carry on, my wayward son. There'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don't you cry no more."

Hands slapping lockers along to the beat, he hums the next few verses before going back to work.

"Tossed about, I'm like a ship on the ocean. I set a course for winds of fortune. But I hear the voices say..."

Reaching his destination, Dean doesn't even wait. He doesn't have much time.

In his pocket is a pack of Marlboros and the mini lighter he always sticks in the top in case his Zippo somehow becomes lost. Whipping out one of his luckies - 'cause why not - he quickly lights it with the thing and runs into the bathroom. There, he jumps up on the top of the stall closest to the open window and waits for the one-man cavalry.

Appearing as calm as possible, Dean is just hitting the smoke when Fergus shows up, panting and pissed. He zeroes in on Dean immediately but takes a moment to get his lungs straight - a great look on someone trying to act superior.

"Winchester. Put that out!"

"I don't think I will." He says with a lilt, simply taking another drag. "It's been a very stressful day, you see."

As the stout man huffs and stumbles over, Dean takes a long pull and holds the thing above his head. He laughs as the teacher jumps - jumps - to try and get to it. When that fails, he growls and simply grabs onto Dean's leg, tugging him down.

"Oohoohoo, gettin' a little grabby there, are we, Fergus?"

In response, the cigarette is ripped from his hand and thrown on the ground, being stomped out without another thought.

"Now that's just a damn waste. You should know better."

"Give them to me."

"Whatever could you be talking about?"

"Your cigarettes. Your lighter. Give them to me."

Fergus is so angry, it's laughable. Dean actually does laugh at it before grabbing the cardboard box from his pocket...and promptly shoves it down his trousers.

"Get 'em yourself."

The two just stand there. Glaring at each other. Dean wears a smirk and Mr. MacLeod wears a sneer. The impasse is finally over when the older man grabs him by the wrist and pulls him harshly closer.

"That's it."

Dragging him out of the bathroom, Dean just lets him do it, until the man opens the door to a broom closet and throws him inside. His hip hits a shelf, a bottle of cleaner falling on his head, and his ass hits the ground so hard Dean can feel it in his teeth. When he looks up - after throwing half a mop off his leg - Fergus is right up in his business.

"One day. One day, when your ass is booted out of here, I'm gonna find ya. You can bet your last toke I'll find ya. And I'm gonna kick your bloody arse for all the hell you've put me through these past years. Mark my words."

And with that, he slams the door shut and locks it.

"Gonna kick my ass." Dean mumbles to himself. "Doubt it could be any worse than what I get every damn day."

For a while, he just stays in there. Rearranges himself until he's somewhat comfortable and simply pulls out another smoke. This time he lights it with the Zippo.

By the time he's done, Dean just lights another. Who gives a shit, right?

Cataloging everything in there quickly gets boring and within minutes, he's got it all metaphorically written down. Tilting his head at the door, he stumbles his way to his feet and tries it. It doesn't work - no surprise there - and he shrugs. Not like it's the only way out.

Cigarette between his lips, Dean finds that stupid step stool and uses it to boost himself into the rafters. Ha. Stupid Fergus. The man would never come to check on him, thinking he had no way out, while Dean would be free to roam the grounds if he wanted. But he had better things on his mind. Particularly...what was in that senior's pants.

Crawling through the ceiling, Dean's face holds a smirk, feeling like some sort of super-spy. No way any of the goody-two-shoes in this place could say they've done this. Hell, they all have such sticks up their asses, they probably wouldn't even find it as cool as it is.

As he goes, taking puffs off the cigarette in his mouth and exhaling it without taking the thing off his lips, the Winchester army crawls; the thought makes him scoff. Oh, his father would be so happy to simply ship him off to the military. He talked about it all the time when he and Sammy were little, even got into fights with Mom about it. John Winchester was adamant that they needed to carry on the family tradition - be soldiers like he was once and his daddy before him and his daddy before him... Eventually, Mom got it through his head - begrudgingly - that it was their childrens' choice. That's how they ended up here in their respective pursuits. But ever since Mom had left, Dad had been on his ass about it, slurring about how his pansy ass needed someone to set him straight before landing a blow to Dean's kidney.

Shaking his head, subconsciously Dean starts humming along to "Hey Jude" by the Beatles. It's his mom's favorite song; or at least, it was. He's not sure anymore. And despite the ill will he holds toward the woman, the anger...he still always ends up humming it. On nights where his head pounds from too much liquor, trying to forget. Mornings where his wake-up call is being thrown out of bed. Evenings when he gets back from school and Dad's alright pissed (surprise) because Dean's been avoiding home for three days. He's not sure why. Maybe it reminds him of the days where Mom actually gave enough shits to help him - protect him. Now Jude's all he's got left.

Dean's not really sure where he's going, he just keeps dragging himself through the dust. At one point, he passes right over the head of Ms. Atson - an English teacher that likes to make everyone call her professor even though she doesn't work at a university anymore - who turns her nose up at the smell of smoke, looking around while Dean chuckles quietly.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take long to find the detention center. There are all of five students and a handful of faculty that are only here because they have to be and the students are by far the noisiest. Not that they're even being loud, but Dean can hear them whispering and snapping at each other through the pipes, following the voices until he finds a vent nearby.

By the grace of taking martial arts as a kid, he manages not to tumble to the ground, landing on his feet practically in silence. Dusting himself off, he adjusts the lapels of his flannel before looking around what must be the small storage space off of the room.

"What the hell even was that?"

"Why- why are you looking at me?"

"He's your brother."

"Where even is he?"

Figuring that was perfect timing, a smirk situates itself back on Dean's face as he strolls out the open door, plucking the close to dead smoke from his lips to flick ash on the ground. Practically ignoring the lot of them - staring - he strolls over to the perfect prince, sticks the ciggie back in his mouth, and grabs two handfuls of his sweater, pulling him to his feet. Very clearly looking him over, the Winchester cocks an eyebrow, swiftly sliding a hand down his pants.

"Is that my weed or are you just happy to see me?"

Head tilted just slightly to the side, Dean sees how he slightly pales, blushes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows roughly. The prince's breathes come out a bit ragged and Dean relishes in it for a moment before grabbing the bag and tugging it out.

Before anyone can even so much as clear their throat or process that he's back, Dean makes his way to the back of the room and throws himself on the ground with a heavy sigh. Laying on his back, the Winchester closes his eyes and just breathes for a moment, tossing his dead cigarette on the carpet without a care for how it'll singe it.

It's nice - almost peaceful - until someone ruins it.

"You dead?"

Scoffing, Dean's head rolls toward the noise, squinting the eye closest to them open. He already knew who it was - was easy to guess by the sound of her voice - but it's interesting to see her face. The girl looks mildly curious, but like she seriously couldn't care less if Dean had passed away right there on the ground. He has a sneaking suspicion that she'd just steal his stash, maybe tell his brother he was deceased, and go find a secluded section to smoke. It makes him chuckle.

"Nah. You wanna pretend with me?"

The girl doesn't say a word, simply steps over him before sinking to the ground, laying down beside him. Dean hears her let out a weary sigh, like maybe this is the most comfortable she's been in years. He understands the feeling.

"What's your name anyway?" He asks. "Feels like it's a little bit unfair you all know mine but no one bothers to make their own introductions."

Dean can practically feel the way her lips quirk up into a little smirk. "I thought we were pretending to be dead. Corpses don't have names; just faces."

"That was deep, man." Grin tugging at his lips, Dean's head shakes a little. "Well, corpse, you can have a name if you wanna. Like Frankenstein. Can even make up a new one if you want, I'll never know. Though, dear god, please find some creativity and be named after something other than your creator."

"Fucks sake, you really think I'd name myself after my parents? That's damaged goods right there." When Dean lolls his head to take a peek at the girl, she seems to be thinking. Humming, she turns to look at him too. "Name's Meg." She tells him, eyebrows bouncing tauntingly. "Now you'll never know if that's true or not."

Shaking his head, Dean finds himself chuckling, practically fond over having one damn person in here that he could riff with. That would come lay and play dead with him while the rest of the room was probably throwing a conniption fit in their seats. Of course, he doesn't care that much, but enough to be thoughtful.

"You wanna get stoned enough we forget we're in this god-forsaken place?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

"Awesome."

Forcing himself to sit up, Dean drags himself back far enough to lean against a bookshelf. The thing doesn't hold any actual books, just a bunch of stupid ass paperwork that the poor shmucks who work here had to sift through, so Dean doesn't give a damn about possibly bending pages or getting them smoke stained. Crossing his legs at the ankles, he pulls open the bag. Grabbing some random folder, he drops a few buds onto it and starts pulling them apart; he jumps in surprise when Meg - who he hadn't even realized sat up - starts helping him.

"What, you were going too slow." She quips when Dean glances up at her, promptly going back to her self-appointed job.

Head shaking in amusement, the two work together until they have enough for two decent-sized joints. Before he can even say anything, the girl grabs a rolling paper and starts packing weed into it with skilled, lithe fingers. Lips quirking up, he starts on his own.

"You're cool, man."

"Thanks, girl."

Grin still stuck to his face, they continue in silence and soon enough, are rolling the joints closed, sealing them with a lick. Sticking one in his mouth, Dean pulls out his zippo and properly lights it, going to hold it out to his companion.

"Dude, no." Meg scoffs, looking at him with furrowed brows that read he's an idiot. "Zippos make weed taste like shit, dipshit."

"Rude, for one thing." Pulling his hand back, he returns the zippo to its rightful place. "When you're not smoking something rolled, obviously. But the taste is practically nonexistent for about one hit and then gone with these."

"Sure, sure, whatever you say."

Brandishing a Clipper from under her shirt, Meg lights hers properly - impressive - before taking a long drag. Her eyes slide shut and Dean isn't sure if he's ever seen an expression quite so blissed out. Body immediately relaxing, she leans back against a reading chair across from him.

"I take it back, this is good shit."

"Yeah, I know." Entirely too pleased with himself, Dean gets comfortable and continues smoking his own. The feeling of it burning just a bit down his throat, the taste on his tongue, it's too good. Exhaling, his head falls back against the shelf. "You wanna make bets on how long it takes them to come back here?"

"To join or to bitch?"

"Either. Both. Whatever."

Much to both of their amusement, the merry bunch can't even place their bets before the sound of a chair scuffing on the ground permeates through the room.

"Hurry, who do you think it is?" Despite the words, Meg's tone isn't rushed, though it does carry a bit of excitement to it. This is fun for her. Fantastic.

"Fuck, it could be any of them. Money's on Sam, though. He's probably been waiting to come play righteous brother and couldn't sit still anymore."

Meg's scoff rings in his ears - not at him, but at his words. "Figure it'll probably be Castiel. Dude's always gotta be up in everybody's business. You'd figure, for the king of the school, he wouldn't give such a shit about people doing things 'wrong'."

His chuckle trails off as he looks over, seeing his baby brother storming their way. The kid looks so god damn disappointed and dear god, does it piss him off. Dean isn't Sam's problem, he's the older brother for fucks sake. And he'd always, always, taken care of him, from changing his gross ass diapers to giving him The Talk when mom got awkward about it. Dean had protected him from everything he possibly could, but here Sam is, storming over like Dean smoking to deal with his demons is the worst thing in the world. Like it isn't the only thing that keeps him half sane in a world where substance abuse and violence are the only things that make much of any sense.

"What the hell are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I need to take a load off and you're getting in the middle of it."

"Getting in the middle of it? No, I'm putting an end to it. You're gonna get us all in trouble."

Almost too slow to do anything about it, Dean lurches to the side as Sam lunges for his joint. Huffing out a disbelieving laugh, Dean clambers to his feet as Sam tries desperately to grab it from him. He just keeps moving it out of the way.

"Are you fucking serious? You're not gonna get in trouble, idiot. Fergus hates me, he'll toss me in solitary, call the cops, all before realizing any of you even exist. Jack shit is gonna happen to you."

"Dean, stop. Why are you always like this?"

Sam almost looks upset when he says it, all indignant and irritated. It makes Dean stop, joint held up above his head where Sam can't quite reach as he stares at him. It takes a while, but the younger Winchester eventually realizes that he's not moving and meets his stare. Dean's not sure what he's even looking for there, but whatever he finds makes him scoff, low and upset and fucking angry. As he walks back to where his jacket is slung on the table, Dean's blood only boils more, glaring at everything and nothing at the same time.

"You can't just walk away from me."

"Yeah, and why not?" Dean fumes, ripping his jacket off the table before it's abruptly taken away from him, thrown back on the desk. Turning, he practically growls at his brother. "What, you don't want me here but you don't want me gone, either? Make up your damn mind."

"I don't want either! God, you're so god damn aggravating, Dean. I just want you to stop throwing your life away."

"Well, that's not your choice, now is it?"

Suddenly too god damn hot, Dean tugs the sleeves of his flannel down one at a time, pulling it off to throw it on top of his beloved jacket. Turning away from Sam, he walks away from him, missing the gasp from somewhere behind him. A long drag from the joint is almost enough to quell some of the thoughts in his head, but he's reeling.

Twisting back around, he points at Sam angrily - joint in his hand - and doesn't even notice how everyone is on their feet now, how Meg has walked back over to them. "You don't get to tell me how to live my life, Sam. You don't, Mom doesn't, and Dad sure as hell doesn't. Stop trying to fix things that aren't broken."

"Dean..."

He's not sure what he notices first as the haze clears a little bit: the look on Sam's face or the way his voice cracks, sounding smaller than he's heard since the daily fighting in their shared home. Dean doesn't get it - he certainly didn't say anything that bad - and looks around the room, trying to figure it out.

Dean is an idiot.

It doesn't take a damn genius to figure it out. The looks on the other students' faces, where they're directed. His blood runs ice fucking cold and for a second, Dean can't breathe. He hadn't thought...god damnit. Sam wasn't supposed to know, he wasn't supposed to...

Castiel staring, eyes widening in what Dean would hate to be automatic understanding; the jock's eyes softening, expression turning to pity that he doesn't want. Meg, in the back of the room, looking them over with the sick sort of fascination that comes from wondering if that would be better than nothing. It's too much and he can't even bear to try and look at Sam. He doesn't want to see the look on his face.

"Dean." Clenching his jaw, the Winchester's eyes seal shut at the sound of his brother's voice. Shit. He was such an idiot. "Dean, what the hell happened to you?"

What happened to him? What happened to him? God, sometimes Dean wondered too.

"Nothing." Clenching his jaw, Dean forces a breath through his teeth, looking at the floor as he storms over to the table, trying to grab his flannel to hide the damn evidence. This wasn't supposed to happen. Time to do what he'd had too much damn time to learn: lie. "I get in fights, Sam, stop looking at me like a kicked puppy."

"Those are...not..." Dean hears from behind him, coming from that damn kid that looked at him like he might understand, and he doesn't want to fucking hear the way his voice cracks, "from fights."

"Yeah, and what the hell would you know about it, princess?" He snaps, managing to snag his shirt up before it unceremoniously gets ripped from his hands. Finally turning to Sam, he glares, trying his damndest not to crumble at the look of pure devastation on his face.

"You don't get burns from fights, Dean." Sam's voice is hard, but Dean can hear it. That tell-tale roughness that says Sam's just trying to be strong so he doesn't cry. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"

"Sam."

He's not even sure who said it. It might've been the perfect boy or it could've been Meg. Hell, maybe it was both of them; their voices seemed to meld together on the word, low and warning.

"My-" Dean can't help it, his voice catches. His voice cracks and he breaks into hysterics, laughter spilling from his lips before he can stop it. He has to bend over from the force of it, reaching out to catch himself on the desk before he fucking collapses. Himself. What a stupid fucking assumption. Hell, he'd love for that to be what Sam assumes but he just can't stop laughing and he knows that he won't be able to get himself out of this. His own damn mouth will betray him. "My-heh-myself. God, that's the funniest fucking thing I've heard in a long time."

Situating himself, Dean's still chuckling under his breath, straightening as he tries to get himself together before he says something stupid. Wiping a hand over his mouth, his head shakes as he backs away from his brother, taking a drag off his joint knowing that he needs something a hell of a lot stronger for this. "Fuck, I can't do this." He mumbles and hopes no one can hear him.

"Dean."

"Sam, we're not doing this." The words come out lower than he would've hoped, trying to ignore the tears that popped out in his hysterics, wiping them away.

"Dean." A hand grabs his arm and Dean rips himself away from it, back turning on his brother as his head shakes. "Dean, you can't just walk away from me. We need to talk about this."

Hands in his hair, the eldest Winchester tugs on the ends, running his hands through it before the fall over his face. God, this was never supposed to happen. And in front of god damn strangers too.

"Dean!"

"They got divorced." The words tear out of his god damn chest before he can stop them. A hand slaps over his mouth but it's too late to take them back.

"What?"

"Mom." Dean stumbles over the word, catching in his throat. "And Dad. They got divorced."

"Yeah... I know. I was there." From behind his back, barely a yard away, Dean can feel Sam's mind working, reeling, cogs turning faster than he can latch onto the concepts. "What, did you- did you- I don't get it, do you feel like you needed to hurt yourself? Are you letting someone else do it? I get that it's been hard, but you can't do that, Dean. Talk to me, I've been going through it too. How's it any differe-"

"It's different because you get to live with Mom!" Finally snapping, Dean spins around, gesturing wildly at the room, not looking at a single one of them. "They just...divided us up. Just like that. And you get Mom, who makes soup when your sick and talks to you and drives you to class. I got stuck with Dad. And Dad's not coping, Dad's drinking, and he's..." Dean hisses, pulling the arm he'd been waving around back to his body before using it to point with every new subject. "You got Mom and a dog and a new stepdad, and I'm stuck takin' care of Pops. Working every day after school. Cleanin' up after him and gettin' hit for it anyway. Getting bottles thrown at me and cigarettes put out on my skin. 'Gotta be strong, son,'" he mocks, shaking his head rapidly. "So don't- don't act like it's as bad for you when all Mom wants is for you to get somewhere like Dad didn't."

Silence, sudden and stifling, rings through the room and Dean can't stand it almost as much as he can't stomach the way he knows they're looking at him. Pity. Understanding. Pain. He doesn't need it, they don't get it, and they could promptly fuck off.

"Dean...why didn't you tell me?"

Scoffing, Dean runs a thumb over his top lip and only looks at Sam long enough to address his presence. "You're my little brother. It's not your problem."

"I would've-"

"What would you have done? Hm? Talked to Dad? Talked to Mom? It wasn't her problem anymore, either. She noticed what he was gettin' like and hasn't said a word about it. I'm not sure she really gives a damn."

Completely deflating, Sam's heart appears to break further than it already had. "Dean...you know that's not true."

"Yeah? Give me one good reason to think so."

He's met with silence once again and he's not even surprised. There's nothing Sam could say that would make him think differently. Mom left and she didn't look back, not even for him.

Scoffing, Dean's head shakes once again and he walks forward, not even bothering to try and grab his flannel. Sam tries to catch him as he passes, but he shrugs him off with a leave me the hell alone, Sam. Practically tumbling into the back of the room, Dean scoops up his bag of greens and finds that dark corner he was thinking about earlier. His head bangs back against the wall and he doesn't fucking care. He doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't care. About any of this. It was fine, he was fine, everything was fine.

Hands shaking too much to roll another joint, his cigarettes get pulled out again and he doesn't pay attention to which one he grabs. It's lit and in between his lips without a thought. Eyes closed, Dean hits the back of his head on the wall, once, twice, three times for good measure. Dear god, he wishes something could make him forget. He tries, god does he try, but it never stays away. No matter how much he drinks, smokes, fucks. No matter how many fights he gets into, how many arguments he picks with Fergus, it doesn't go away. At the end of the day, he still has all the bruises and the cuts and the scars, and eventually, he has to go back home. His home that isn't a home; simply a skeleton, a ghost of the family it once carried. A house was all it was now and Dean is so tired of the good memories being smothered and drowned out by all the god damn pain.

He's not sure how long they leave him alone. It could be minutes, it could be hours. He knows he's gone through at least three cigarettes before hearing someone slink to a seat in front of him. Dean doesn't bother to open his eyes, doesn't want to see what's staring back at him. The sound of paper and plastic rustling doesn't even make him stir, and fuck, they can take his whole stash if they want to. He'd figure it out.

Eventually, he hears a lighter flick and the tell-tale smell of reefer coats the air. His eyes still stay closed, but he inhales deeply, the scent bringing some kind of comfort. Like muscle memory. Like the smell of Mom's old candles before Dean grew too angry and smashed them to pieces.

He opens his eyes.

They're all there now. That, he wasn't exactly expecting. Meg half next to him, half in front of him with her legs crisscrossed, that he expected. But he never heard the prince walk over, stretched out and sitting back against a bookshelf a few feet from the wall in front of him. Dean didn't know the jock had taken up a spot next to her equal or that Sam had padded over to sit a little bit to his left. Dean looks around at them and doesn't know whether to scoff or cry, so he does neither.

"My, uh..." Castiel clears his throat, picking at a loose thread in the carpet, eyes narrowed a little. "My parents are getting divorced."

That Dean does scoff at. "What, you think that means you get it? Get over yourself, dude."

All he does is look up at him. The boy doesn't take the bait and Dean doesn't know if he wants to hit him over that or not. He wants a damn fight, he wants to forget, and Castiel isn't giving it to him.

Sighing, Castiel leans forward and reaches out to Meg. Dean isn't really sure what he's doing for a moment, but when the sophomore places the joint in his hand, Dean's eyes widen. What the hell?

"They've been fighting for the last year or so. I don't even remember when it started. One day, Mom came home and Dad was just mad. So mad." Staring at the joint, Castiel seems to be in deep contemplation before slowly bringing it to his mouth. He doesn't even cough, just makes a little noise in his throat, and Dean doesn't know what to think about it. "At first, I would just hide in my room. Didn't want to be a part of it. But then, I started getting pulled into it. Either by them or just didn't want to see my mom get screamed at for no reason." He takes another hit. "Every time, they'd go out and buy me things. Take me places. Try and buy the bullshit off."

Pausing, he tilts his head and holds out the joint in the jock's direction - a silent question. She just stares at it. For a long time, Dean sits in anticipation, wondering what's gonna come of it. Eventually, she sighs and takes the damn thing. She coughs and Dean can't help but laugh, getting a glare for his troubles.

"I'm sure Mom was thinking about it. Divorcing him, leaving, but she kept putting it off. Hoping things would go back to normal. I tried to talk to her about it once, but she just brushed me off and took me to the local garden." Castiel scoffs, a sad sound, and shakes his head. "She's been staying with my aunt the last few weeks. I've just been...bouncing around my friends' houses or there." Dean's pretty sure he's gonna stop there, listening to the backtrack of an archer's coughs. But he doesn't. "He...he hit her. They were fighting and he just..."

Swiftly and unexpectedly, anger coils in Dean's gut. How dare he lay his hands on a woman. The woman he was supposed to love and take care of. A growl bubbles up in his throat but Castiel doesn't pay it any mind.

"I got between it and he... Ya know, they say boys aren't supposed to wear makeup, but it covers up a black eye pretty well."

Dean doesn't know what to do about that. Sure, it's not like what he goes through. It's not that bad. But it's some twisted form of comradery, something he would have never anticipated with the likes of Castiel, and he can't help the urge to try and make it all better. That's so entirely screwed, and wife beaters and child abusers just make his fucking blood boil to the point that he sees red.

"My parents don't even pay attention to me." Meg's voice breaks the silence and Dean looks over to see that she had rolled another joint while he wasn't looking. It's strange that in any other situation he would've been pissed - that with these people, he should be pissed - but he's thankful. "They haven't for years. I think way back when, they believed having a kid would fix their marriage or something, but that was fucking absurd. My cousin said it was good for a few years - ya know, those ones I don't remember." There's a lilt to her tone that denotes how ironic she finds it. "But all I remember is fleeting embraces, being dropped off with a wave when I was a kid. By the time middle school hit, they could barely look at me. Now they don't even talk to me. I keep doin' shit to try and get their attention, but they don't even notice. Keep food in the fridge, keep a roof over our heads, and ignore everyone in the house. I'd bet good money I could blow up our damn house and the only thing they'd care about would be having to find a new one. Wouldn't even pay any mind that I was the reason for it."

Playing with one of his rings, Dean shakes his head. God, how did they all end up with fucked up parents? It felt...weird that Dean's perceptions of these people were so skewed - his perception of everyone. Life was so unbelievably fucked for him that he never figured maybe everyone else was hiding under a facade too. Briefly, it makes him wonder if they took a survey, what percentage of the students would actually have these kinds of problems.

When the jock turns to Sam and holds out the joint, Dean has half a mind to grab it before he can. He almost does, leaning forward with a start that everyone notices. But he looks at it, looks at Sam, and settles back down. This isn't something he can take from his brother. If he wanted to, he could do it. Hell, it would make Dean a fucking hypocrite to say this helps him but he has to protect his own brother from it. It's not like Sam would go off and turn into him. He's too damn smart for that.

Sammy stares at it quizzically, like if he looks long enough, he could figure out everything about it from its chemical composition to every possible side effect it could bring. The familiar expression makes a small, fond smile crack on Dean's lips and he reaches out to ruffle the kid's hair. Sam, of course, shoves him off with a blush. When he finally takes a hit, he coughs hard, hitting at his chest, eyes getting watery. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see Castiel trying to hide a grin and it only makes his smile widen.

"My dad died when I was a kid." The jock starts up, leaning her head against the side of the bookcase Cas has perched himself in front of. "He was a hunter. Craziest thing, he got mauled by a bear. I didn't even know he was hunting that weekend, I was with friends...I got to stay with them for my birthday." A heavy breath falls from Dean's lips and his eyes close. Fuck, that's not cool. "He, uh...he was an archer. I would watch him when I was younger and fell in love with it. For years, I couldn't even pick another bow up. But then, my mom, she, uh...she kinda wigged. I guess her version of mourning was shoving everything that had to do with dad on me: had to be the perfect student, the perfect archer, ya know? She put me back in classes even though I would cry about how I wasn't ready yet. Now, it's...kind of nice. I feel like he's there with me, I guess, when I shoot. But there's always that...darkness I feel because she pushed me too fast. It doesn't quite feel like it should. And she's always pushing me so much...like if I get second in competitions, she'll freak out, tell me that my dad would be disappointed. It's...why I'm here, actually. I kind of broke down last time I was on the field and Coach, she's a damn drill sergeant. Gave me detention for it."

"That's fucked up."

Startled by the unexpected voice, the jock looks over at Meg just as she lights that second joint she'd been holding onto for a few minutes. Brow arching, the blonde tucks a stray hair behind her ear. "Which part?"

"Dude, all of it." Unable to help himself, Dean cracks up and grabs the joint from his brother when it's passed back to him. "We've got weird lives."

"No shit."

After Meg's words, everything's quiet for a bit. They just sit in each other's company, passing around the joints the dark-haired girl had been nice enough to roll. Or, hell, maybe she was just taking advantage of free weed. Dean wouldn't blame her.

Over time, everyone shifted a little bit, the jock's head on Castiel's shoulder with Sam's legs bent over hers. Meg was in a position resembling fetal, head propped up in her hand, looking at everyone else over Dean's legs, while Dean had stretched out a bit more, feet hitting Castiel's every once in a while when they moved.

"So, uh...obviously you guys know half of this story already." Sam starts, taking a hit off a joint, no longer coughing. Dean was almost proud. "Things are...good at home, ya know? Like Dean said, Mom's great, her husband is nice, and I've always wanted a golden retriever. It's not like things are as bad as they are for you guys. But...like...she just pushes me so much. Makes me take AP courses to help with college. Has me do community service and stuff to look good on transcripts. Helps me bake things to give to teachers to try and score kudos points or something for references. Every time I come home with anything lower than a B, she just looks...so tired. Like if I don't do perfectly, I'm gonna fail. And I know it's just because she doesn't want me to end up like Dad. She wants to make sure I have a good life, ya know? But it's so fucking exhausting. I, uh...I had actually thought about telling her I wanted to try living with Dad." Sam scoffs and shakes his head, taking another hit. "God, I didn't realize that would be so much worse."

It takes a good while for that to set in. Slowly, a cold terror runs through Dean's veins at the thought of Sam being anywhere near their father. That would...that was not acceptable. John could hit him all he wanted - hell, he could kill him - but he would not lay a hand on Sam.

"He wouldn't touch you, Sammy." Dean growls out, jaw clenching as he takes the joint from Sam's outstretched hand. "If he tried, I'd kill him."

His brother laughing was not the reaction Dean was expecting. Turning to look at him, Dean's brows furrow as he tries to figure out what the boy's thinking.

"Dean, you would never kill dad. Don't try to act all tough. You would've done it by now. And you're not a murderer."

Dean stares at him. Stares at him and waits for Sam to turn and see how serious he is. No one would touch Sam, not even their damn father. Especially their damn father. When his brother finally looks over, Dean has to squash down a lot of words: it's different. I deserve it. I can take it. I've done worse.

"You got no idea what I'd do to him if he hurt you. You're my baby brother, Sam. It's my job to keep you safe."

"Dean, you don't-"

"Yes, I do."

There's no room for argument in his voice. He would always keep Sammy safe. He would always protect him. He would kill and die for him in a heartbeat, no matter what. He remembered a time when he thought Sam being born would ruin everything - that their parents would love him more - but the second Sam came into the world, that changed. Dean didn't care if their parents loved him more. He didn't care if Sam was destined to burn the world to the ground. He loved that little boy and at the tender age of four, vowed to do everything in his power to make sure Sam was safe and loved and okay. Even if it meant he wasn't.

"Well ain't that tender."

"Shut up, Meg."

There's no bite in Castiel's words. A smile lights up his face and Dean can tell he's stoned out of his mind. The senior looks so fucking content and Dean hadn't realized until this moment how god damn tense the kid always is. How much he always tries to come off as the perfect person, like he isn't even human. How he probably throws himself into his gardening to distract from the bullshit. Who knew plants - growing, not smoking - could be a damn vice.

"Fuck no. We're being god damn depressing." Taking a hit from yet another joint she'd rolled, the girl blows a few Os in the air and Dean can't help but look at the shape of her lips. I mean...come on. But he's surprised at the thought lingering in his mind that he'd much rather see if Castiel was able to do that. "I want juicy details. Come on, we're all sharing all our deepest and darkest secrets. I wanna know like...what's something unique about you no one would guess? Or tell us something no one knows about you. I dunno, something fun."

"Seriously? You're gonna start this and then not even give us something? You want anything out of me, you're gonna have to give up some secrets." Dean chides, grin on his face as he shoves Meg's arm out from under her. His grin only widens when she glares up at him after her head falls.

"Fine, dick." Just to piss him off, she lays her head down on his shin instead of going back to her prior position, making him roll his eyes. "I'm a lesbian."

"Oh, come on, there's no way no one knows that."

Moving to glare at him, there's genuine anger in her eyes. "And how the fuck would you know?" Stilling, all of Dean's muscles lock up, surprised. She had just said it so casually, he had assumed, but now he feels bad. That's...kind of a big deal. Shit. "Do me one better then, oh fucking wise one."

Head tilted, Dean scours his memories for something. Something that might make up for him being such an asshole without formally apologizing. When he thinks of something, a grin spreads on his cheeks and he shakes his head. "No, no way."

"Come on."

Weighing the pros and cons in his head, Dean chuckles, bringing his hand up to his mouth before taking another hit, passing the joint to Meg as she'd already passed hers off. "Sam, cover your ears."

"What? No. What am I, four?"

"Whatever, man, it's your funeral." Shaking his head, Dean leans it against the wall for a moment before picking it back up, looking around at the group. "So, my dad's homophobic, right? When he started being a pissant, slurs started getting thrown around a lot more. And instead of being a god damn bitch about it, I just started fucking more guys. One day, I brought someone back home and fucked him against the kitchen table. Left the mess for dear old dad to clean up. He thought it was mayonnaise."

"Oh, God, gross, Dean!" Sam exclaims, a disgusted look on his face, but Dean is too busy cracking up to care. He can even feel Meg laughing up a storm about it on his leg and that makes it all the better.

"Oh, fuck, that's good." Reaching up, Meg wipes tears from her eyes, still laughing. "I take it back, those were some juicy details."

"Nah, man, yours was good too. Proud of you."

That earns him a teary-eyed smile, which he returns with a tender one of his own. Jesus christ, what had this day turned into?

"No one's ever told me that before."

"Well, they suck. You're dope." Leaning forward, Dean holds his hand out for a fist bump and promptly receives one. Very content, Meg snuggles up closer to him and gets comfortable.

"I have a frenum piercing."

The words are so god damn rushed, Dean almost couldn't make them out. His brain processes it before he does and he's suddenly spluttering, coughing on absolutely nothing as Sam rubs at his back. The poor kid is sporting a confused expression while Castiel's blushing face breaks out in a pleased grin.

"What's that?"

"No one explain that to him."

"It's a dick piercing." Meg sing-songs and relishes in the equal looks of horror on Sam and the blonde's faces.

Face screwed up, shivering in second-hand pain, Sam throws a hand out at Cas. "Dude, why?"

The prince shrugs, grin only becoming wider as he looks Dean's way. "I was bored."

"Fuck, that's hot."

He didn't even mean to say it, the words spilling out of his mouth - traitor. But the look that Castiel sends him for it has his blood fucking singing and he can't look away.

"I bet you want to see it, don't you?"

Blush creeping up Dean's face, he tries to ignore it as his eyes widen just a little. Damn, if he doesn't almost beg. "Is that even a question?"

"Okay, guys, the resident virgin doesn't want you guys to start comparing sizes."

"You're a virgin?"

Now it's the other Winchester's turn to blush, red splotches traveling fiercely up his neck. "N-no."

"Oh, no, come on, you can't take that back." Meg follows up. "It's not like it's weird or anything. If it makes you feel better, I've only had sex with a guy. It's what made me realize I didn't like dick."

"That's..." Sam rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, turning to look at her. "That does, yeah."

Giggling from next to Castiel catches Dean's attention, finding the jock with a hand over her mouth, mirth shining in her eyes. Head cocking, he almost gets angry over it before she speaks. "Sorry, sorry, I just...this is such a weird conversation."

"You could say that again."

Smiling over at Sam, she gets herself together. "So, no one knows my real name." She tells them, a fond little smile taking over the previous grin. "I go by Jo, which is short for Joanna. But it's my middle name. My first name is actually Beth, but," her nose scrunches up, "I never liked it."

"Holy shit, finally!" Dean practically shouts, hands shooting above his head in success. "I can stop calling you None of Your Business and 'the jock'. It's a damn miracle."

Jo rolls her eyes but the expression on her face doesn't stray from amused.

"I'm in detention because I punched someone in the locker room after gym class."

"Sammy, what the fuck?" Turning on him faster than the beautiful Chevy Impala he isn't allowed to drive (even though he was supposed to get it when he turned sixteen), Dean stares at him in shock. Sam had never been the violent type. Oh god, was this his fault?

Shrugging, Sam looks a bit sheepish. "He was talking about how much of a babe mom was and...things he would do. What would you have done?"

Shit, he would've pummeled him.

"I would've punched him." Reaching over, Dean pushes his brother a little bit, lips curling up. "But don't go doing things 'cause you think I would. I ain't exactly a role model."

"That's not true."

Ignoring him, Dean turns to the others. "Well, why are you guys in here?"

"Um..." Castiel looks around at them before locking eyes with Dean, looking embarrassed. His cheeks are bright red. "The librarian turned me in for doing research on how to grow marijuana."

Eyes widening, a bark of laughter jumps from Dean's throat and he nods, pride and surprise filling his chest. "Holy shit, really? So you do smoke. I knew there was no way this was your first time. You didn't even cough."

"Yes, Dean. I just didn't want to smoke with the resident bad boy from my pottery class. Besides, I don't like tobacco."

"You remember."

"Of course I remember."

For a moment, Dean just stares at him in awe. Of all the things he could've been in here for, he didn't expect that. And he certainly didn't expect Castiel to remember him, let alone the one interaction they'd had.

"Okay, stop eye-fucking each other." Meg teases, slapping a hand to the leg she isn't currently perched on.

"You're not even looking at me."

"I'm still looking at him, dumbass."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

The automatic response from his brother makes Dean chuckle, wiping a hand down his face. Fuck, this is the most fun he's had in...so long. And it had started as such an awful day.

"Whatever, why are you here, Casanova?"

"Funny you should call me that. Got caught by some freshman having sex in a bathroom stall. She told a teacher. Damn nark."

"Fucks sake, I should've guessed."

"If it's any consolation," Dean tells her, "I could be in here for a million reasons. I think I got like seven detentions just for fucking with Fergus."

At that, everyone cracks up. It seems that as much as they'd scolded him earlier, they actually find it amusing. That man was a god damn menace, everyone should find it amusing.

"Do you guys know why he's still not in his office?" Dean questions, beginning to card his fingers through Meg's hair without realizing. She relaxes into it, utterly starved for attention. "It's why I know I can get away with this kind of shit. Every Saturday when he thinks the students won't notice, he goes down to the basement to go through people's records. I'm pretty sure he's compiling blackmail against the faculty and for kids once they're out of school."

"That's so fucked." Rocking with laughter, Meg points up at him. "He's probably got a whole damn file on you."

"Oh, I'm sure he does."

Unable to stop her giggling, Dean looks down at her in concern, hand pausing in its ministrations. A joint is passed to him, one that had just been relit as they all went out while they got consumed with their conversation. He takes a hit before giving it to her, wondering if it will quell whatever hysterics she's lapsed into.

"I'm...I'm literally just here because I skipped too many classes." Meg's words are choppy with laughter and soon enough, Dean joins in, disbelieving that they're all here for seemingly mundane reasons despite how complex their lives are.

"Wow, look at you, you god damn rebel."

"Shut up." She chokes out, trying desperately to take hits off the joint between bouts of laughter.

"Never."

As the hysterics die down, the five of them sit there, sharing the last of the joints. At some point, Sam goes back to the desks and comes back with everyone's bags, the saint that he is. Immediately, Castiel tears into his and pulls out a fancy lunch box.

"Holy shit, I didn't even realize I'm starving." The boy claims, pulling things out and setting them on the ground beside him. 

"Yeah, weed'll do that to you, dude."

"Oh, I know."

Everyone starts pulling out their food, Meg maneuvering and standing to walk across the room. When she comes back, she's got two cans of Dr. Pepper and Dean looks at her in question, wondering where the fuck those came from.

Smirking, she hands one to him before settling back down, sitting up to eat. "I always knick soda from the cafeteria on Friday and hide it in here when I have detention."

Marveling at that, Dean shakes his head. That's god damn brilliant. If he was smarter, he'd have figured that out ages ago.

When Sam pulls out his boring brown paper bag, Dean immediately reaches over and steals the sandwich he pulls out. He ignores the way Sam stills and stares at him in betrayal.

"Dean, why are you stealing my food?"

"Mom always makes you better food."

Pulling the plastic wrap off of the bread, Dean hears Sam sigh from next to him. At first, he thinks it's a sigh of resignation, but that isn't it at all. The boy had simply realized the implications of Dean not coming in with a bag.

"Dad didn't make you anything, did he?"

"Nope."

He tries to say it as casually as possible. Sam doesn't need to know that Dad hadn't made him a meal in over a year. Sure, he kept groceries in the fridge (though, Dean often had to do that himself too), but he never cooked for Dean. Even on the nights where he was sober enough to make an actual meal, he only made food for himself, looking at Dean in disdain if he even got close enough to look. And seeing as Dean spent the night in the baseball field dugouts - something Sam also didn't need to know - he wasn't able to make himself anything.

Sam sighs again but doesn't say anything else, leaving Dean to his sandwich as he digs into a thermos of chicken noodle soup. Castiel practically wolfs down some kind of burrito, Jo much more timid with her salad. Meg is apparently having an Experience with her cold jojos, a moan spilling from her lips.

"Yeah, you havin' fun over there?" He teases, nudging her with his foot.

"I love potatoes."

"Absolutely valid."

After that, they eat in silence, random noises of pleasure cropping up every once in a while. Dean thinks about how this day has been a complete whirlwind, of everything that had come from it. He's somehow found himself hoping to learn more about these people, wanting to hang out with them. Wanting to be someone Castiel could spend the night with when he had nowhere else to go - even if that's not something he could offer because he would never want the boy around his father. He wants to help set up Meg with some girls he knows, smoke cigarettes with her in the bathroom, enlist her help to drag Castiel under the bleachers to get baked. He wants to see if teaching someone how to shoot would help Jo with her lingering tenseness over being an archer. There was a bowling alley in town he frequented that he's sure they'd enjoy. But, Dean knows better than to get his hopes up. They lead different lives. They'd probably never want to see the likes of him again.

Apparently, if he wouldn't ask the question, someone else would.

"So...after today, are we ever gonna do something like this again? Not here, but...like hanging out? Or are we just gonna pretend we don't know each other?"

The question comes from Jo and Dean can't pretend he isn't surprised. Although she probably just wanted confirmation they'd all pretend this never happened. There's no way a popular jock like her would want to be around him or Sam or even Meg. Maybe Meg would still chill with him; that would be nice.

"I don't really know why you're asking us." Sam speaks up, putting his thermos down to focus on the conversation. "I mean, maybe I'm wrong, but the popular kids are usually the ones who turn up their noses at people like us."

"People like what?"

"Outcasts." It's the easy answer to Castiel's question. It pops out of Dean's mouth before he could even think of it. "Nerds, stoners, artists, weirdos. Unless, somehow, they're part of your crowd too. You don't make friends with us, you judge us when we get too close."

"Is that really what you think of me?" The boy sounds downright offended, expression crestfallen as he meets Dean's gaze.

"Dude, you're seriously telling me that if I walked down the hall and said hi that you wouldn't act weird and then say some shit behind my back when I leave? Today's been great, sure, but none of your buddies are here."

Castiel doesn't say anything for a while, just staring at him. 

"I wouldn't do that."

"Sure." Dean scoffs, no longer in a good mood as he shakes his head with an unamused chuckle. "You don't give a fuck about your reputation or the friends you could lose for talking to me because all of those types give so much of a fuck about who's who."

"If you don't believe me, fine." Castiel stows his belongings and stands up with them, dusting himself off. "For the record, I don't keep company like that. And if it turned out I did, good riddance to them."

When he walks away, Dean stares after him. He feels guilt bubbling up in his gut but swiftly shoves it down, converts it into anger. Dude couldn't even stay to finish the conversation. Probably because he knew he was lying. Knew-

He's interrupted by a kick to his hip, looking up to see Meg gazing at him with a pushy expression. "Dumbass. Go get him."

"Why the fuck am I the bad guy?"

"No one's the god damn bad guy. We all came in here with opinions about each other simply based on this stupid ass school. It's a bullshit thing society does. But if you let him walk away, that's on you, not on something you think he'd do because of his social status."

Grunting under his breath, Dean shakes his head again. He stares at the ground, refusing to get up, refusing to admit he'd done anything wrong. All that gets him is another kick - this one harder - that he glares at. But Meg doesn't let up, gesturing toward where Castiel went with her chin.

"Fucking go."

"I don't like you."

"You're a fucking liar. Now, go."

Dean grumbles and rolls his eyes, but he gets up anyway. He earns a slap on the ass for that and turns his head to glare at Meg, who just sends him a smirk and gestures away again.

Striding toward the front of the room, he finds Cas up there, pacing. His bag has been thrown in the seat he once occupied. Seeing his - what would he even call it? Distress? - Dean feels that guilt surge again and pushes it down. This probably isn't how he should go about things, but it's the only way he knows.

"Why the fuck did you walk away?"

Pausing in his pacing, Cas turns to look at him and rolls his eyes before continuing to pace. "Why do you think so lowly of me?"

"You're the god damn prince of this school, dude. You're popular as fuck. Every popular person I've ever known has turned their nose up at people like us. Talk shit. Pick fights. Excuse me for thinking you guys would do the same damn thing."

"Yes, excuse you." Snapping, Castiel stops once again, turning to take a few steps toward him. "Not all of us are the same, Dean. I like to think I choose who I engage with wisely and hope they know where my morals lie. If they don't, I would not choose them over my own boundaries. At the end of the day, I need people and things that make me happy. Like my plants and my brother. If you were a person to make me happy and my friends did not like it, they would not be making me happy. I would tell them to shove it."

"So if I walked up and kissed you, and all your friends acted disgusted, you would stop being friends with all of them?"

"Yes!"

The shout takes Dean aback, physically taking a step back. He stares at Castiel, eyes wide, and breathing ragged. There was no way.

"And if I did it now?"

"What?" Confused, Castiel shakes his head, mind boggled under frustration.

Taking a risk, Dean starts walking forward. He keeps walking forward even when Cas steps back, head angled to look at his face. He doesn't stop until he's got the boy boxed in against the front desk, hands pressed to the wood on either side of him.

"If I kissed you now, what would you do?"

He doesn't receive an answer. Castiel makes a little squeaking noise and looks quickly from his eyes to his lips, and then does it again. Focus staying locked, the boy licks his own lips before glancing back up.

"Figure it out."

Taking that as all the incentive he needs, Dean surges forward, lips meeting Cas' messily. Apparently, what Castiel would do is immediately tangle his hands in the Winchester's hair, tugging him closer. His teeth pull on Dean's bottom lip and he moans when Dean's hands find his hips, dragging them tighter together. From somewhere in the back of the room where he can't hear, Meg's 'boy's are fucking complicated' is followed by Jo's 'and horny'.

When Dean's hands tighten on Cas' waist and lift him onto the table, he gasps and kisses him with more fervor. A tug on his hair makes Dean groan and he forces himself to pull away - something that's very hard with the way Castiel whines. Breathing heavily, their foreheads rest together.

"Why did you stop?"

"Because my brother is in the room. I don't think he'd appreciate if we got into heavy petting." He pants, lips grazing over Castiel's with every word, only tempting him.

"And what makes you think I'd let you?"

"Cas, you grinded against me the second my tongue was in your mouth." Chuckling, Dean's thumb slides under Castiel's sweater, rubbing against bare skin.

"Not my fault you have a tongue piercing." Grinning, Castiel's expression shifts to one of curiosity. "Cas?"

"Yeah, Cas."

"Well...does that answer your question?"

"Yeah...yeah, I think it does."

Pressing one last kiss to his lips, Dean pulls the prince off his throne and just holds him there for a second before pulling away. When he turns around, the other three are walking over, bags in hand. Meg has a giant smirk on her face and he - very maturely - sticks his tongue out at her.

Breaking the silence, Jo hands Dean his weed. "You might want to sit. We've only got fifteen more minutes."

"Holy shit, seriously?" Looking over at the clock, Dean finds that, yes, seriously. "Damn."

Head tilting in a nod, Dean walks back to his desk and tugs his outer layers back on. God, this was the first time in...he doesn't even know how long that Dean had been comfortable without his arms covered around other people. When Castiel pulls that damn trench coat back on, he sends Dean a wink.

Unlike when they first came in, the air in the room isn't tense and everyone keeps sending little grins to each other. It feels like a new beginning, and fuck if Dean doesn't need that. Even when Fergus comes in there, telling them he's so sad to see them go and making sure Dean knows he'll see him next Saturday - glaring at him for somehow finding a way out of the closet - it doesn't bring his mood down. How the fuck can it when Castiel waits for him at the door and leads him out with a hand on his back?

When they get outside, Sam doesn't try to convince him to talk to Mom like he's been doing lately. He doesn't say anything about Dad. He just hugs him and tells him that the door's always open if he wants to visit. No matter what.

Before she joins her mom - who's waiting for her outside a pickup truck - Jo sends him a salute and a grin; Dean knows Castiel's not the only one he'll be seeing again. There's something so fucking big growing in his chest, something he hasn't felt in a long time: hope.

And when Castiel pulls him in for a long kiss right there in front of the school, it swells. It swells into a giant grin on his face and when his arms wrap around Castiel's waist in a tight hug, he doesn't want to let go. He doesn't until Castiel assures him that on Monday, he'd greatly enjoy showing Dean his plants in the greenhouse. With one final kiss to his lips, Dean releases him and watches until his car pulls out of the parking lot. Practically in a daze, he doesn't even see Meg waving at him.

"Hey, fuckface!" Finally looking over, he notices Meg gesturing him over. "Come on."

"Where am I coming on to?"

"Wherever the fuck you want to go to. Unless I'm wrong in assuming you don't want to go home."

Dean doesn't even say a word, he just walks over and follows Meg to her car, hopping in the passenger seat. And sitting there, in the car of a girl who shouldn't even be driving, Dean feels like he might've found something he could actually call home.

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Stay tuned for part two!

~SiriusCatBennett