Haze Chapter 10
Ok, so, what can I say? I've had the worst case of writers block imaginable. I've tried several times to write this chapter, only to throw those efforts in the trash. Recent feedback from some of my readers influenced me to try again, and miracle of miracles it seems to have worked. So here it is, Chapter 10. If anyone is still reading at all!
Title: Haze Chapter 10
Rating: PG-13 (violence, language -- I'm sticking to the curses you'd hear on TV)
Category: Gen
Characters: Teen Dean and Sam (ages 17 and 13)
Word Count: 2643
Spoilers: None
Summary: High school is a difficult place, especially when you're at the bottom of the social ladder. But there are worse things out there than jocks, pop quizzes and Dostoevsky. When students start dying, can Dean keep Sam safe?
Disclaimer: Dean owns me. I don't own Dean, Sam, or anything else involving Supernatural. The original characters, however, are mine.
The shabby, crouching rental house had never looked as good as it did that night, looming in the Impala’s headlights. When they got inside and bolted the door, both of them made the rounds of the rooms, looking for danger, checking the salt lines. Normally Dean performed the duty on his own, but tonight Sam joined him without a word.
When it was safe, when they both knew it was safe, Dean let himself collapse on his bed, barely able to spare the energy to pull his ruined shirt off. Faint lines of rope burn were already appearing angrily on his chest and under his arms, and he was certain he had them on his back too. And his throat, of course, was throbbing.
“Hey Dean,” Sammy said, coming in from the bathroom with Neosporin, gauze and painkillers in his hands.
“Bring ‘em over,” he whispered. It hurt to say even one of the words, but it wasn’t like he was going to let his little brother play nursemaid.
“Let me get your back first,” the thirteen-year-old said, reading his mind and gesturing for him to sit up. “Then you can do the rest.”
Dean just nodded, regretting even that bit of movement and dreading the thought of sitting again. He did it, but not easily, and it hurt so much that he didn’t even care when Sammy ended up putting medicine and bandages on every bit of broken skin. By the time he lay back down, a double dose of painkillers inside him and an ice pack wrapped in washcloths on his neck, he could barely manage to open his eyes and look at his hovering brother.
“Thanks, Sam,” he whispered before the very welcome darkness of sleep stole his consciousness.
“Dean! What in hell happened?”
He woke with a jolt that sent pain through his body. He’d tried to sit up - an automatic response when his father used that tone - before he’d even truly woken up.
His father. . . .
Dean’s eyes flew open and he looked, really looked. John loomed next to his bed, Pastor Jim a few feet behind him wearing a worried expression. On the twin bed next to his, Sammy was rubbing his eyes and blinking, still half asleep. The clock on the rickety table between them read 3:14.
“Dad!” he croaked, trying to push himself up with his uninjured arm.
“Why haven’t you been answering the phone?” John demanded, his brow furrowing angrily as he examined his older son. “What did- “
“John, let the boy answer,” the priest said quietly, stepping forward and putting a hand on John’s shoulder. “He’s hurt.”
“I can see that,” John growled at his friend before returning his dark gaze to Dean. “Well?”
“We didn’t mean for it to happen,” blurted Sammy before Dean could force even one word out. “We were just researching, so you could kill it when you got back.”
He wanted to groan but didn’t, partly because it would hurt too much and partly because he thought their dad was going to kill him. Sam meant well, but it was not the right way to explain.
“Kill it? You went on a hunt without me?” John’s voice had gone quiet, very quiet, and that was a lot worse than the yelling. There was only one path left to him now - the truth, unvarnished with any excuses and ending with an acknowledgment of his mistakes. Dean did his best to sit up straight, looked up at his dad, and spoke.
“There was a ghost haunting the school,” he reported, his voice strained but as neutral as he could make it. “I was with a girl it attacked; that’s how I found out about it. I had to figure out what its pattern was to keep Sammy safe. We learned something about the area the body might be in, and since people were getting attacked every day I figured I’d try to find out exactly where it was. I shouldn’t have done it; it was stupid. You’d have found it without putting Sammy in danger.”
“Hey, it was my idea too,” his brother interrupted angrily, but another glare from John silenced them both.
“You went after a ghost without me,” their father stated, his voice still chillingly quiet. The explosion was coming; Dean could sense it hovering like a thunderstorm in a Midwestern sky. And sure enough, the storm broke.
“You never, ever put your brother in that kind of danger!” John grabbed his unbandaged arm and shook him, eliciting a hiss of pain. “You lay low, you stay here, and you wait for me. You understand?”
Dean closed his eyes and nodded, trying to fight down the nausea roiling in his stomach from each shake. “Yes sir.”
“We couldn’t lay low!” his brother shouted angrily. Dean heard him jump to his feet and he exhaustedly forced his eyes open. Sammy was glaring up at their father with the fiercest expression Dean had ever seen him wear. “We couldn’t! School wasn’t safe, and if we stayed away we’d get into trouble with the teachers and then we’d have to move again and I don’t want to move!”
“I think that’s enough for right now,” Jim said quickly, stepping between father and son. “You all need to get more sleep. You too, John, don’t tell me otherwise.”
Their father glowered at his friend, so obviously upset that Dean wanted to close his eyes again. After a long moment, John nodded. “Fine. But I expect a full report later. And why the hell didn’t you answer the phone?”
Dean looked at Sammy, a bit mystified, then looked up at John. “We didn’t hear it?” was the only answer he could offer. It was an awful admission, sleeping through such a racket, but obviously they had.
John rolled his eyes and walked out. Jim looked at both of them, concerned. “Are you hurt, Sammy?”
“Just Dean.”
“Let me see.” The priest sat down on the edge of the bed and, after a grudging nod from Dean, quickly assessed the teenager’s wounds. “Not too bad. Nothing broken, I see. That’s good. You did a good job on the bandages. You’ll be pretty sore in the morning, though.”
“Yeh, don’t I know it,” Dean murmured, laying back down.
Jim smiled, the expression lighting his careworn face, and nodded. “Get some sleep, and don’t worry about your father. He’s been worried sick for the entire drive back when neither of you answered his calls. He thought the worst.”
“He still shouldn’t have yelled at Dean,” Sam said rebelliously.
“It’s okay; I’d yell at me too,” he whispered. “I messed up.”
“No you didn’t,” the priest said, cutting off Sam’s protest. “You protected your brother the best you could. Give John some time and he’ll see that. Now, both of you, get some sleep. And call me if you need anything.”
Dean nodded, and beside him Sam finally relented and got back into bed. Jim smiled, murmured something under his breath, and switched the lights off as he left the room.
“Sam?” Dean whispered after a moment.
“Yeh?”
“Dad’s right, but . . . thanks.”
There was a pause, and then his brother spoke, his voice somber. “No, he’s not. But I won’t say anything to make it worse.”
Dean sighed, but nodded. It was good enough for now.
------------------------------------------
Contrary to all that Dean had expected, he and Sam were allowed to sleep until they woke naturally. Sammy even rose almost a good two hours before the call of nature finally forced Dean out of bed and onto his feet. Once there he very nearly fell right back down, as every single muscle in his body cried out in protest. But sometimes pain could be overridden, and after almost eleven hours of sleep Dean’s priority was the bathroom.
Once he finished with the most pressing needs he decided on a shower. He should, of course, be reporting to John, but the smell of decay from the well still clung to his body, and his skin crawled from dried blood (and worse). That meant the bandages had to go, and he moved in front of the mirror to make sure he got them all off.
“Well crap,” he muttered when he saw his reflection. The bruises from Friday night’s beating were now joined by angry red rope burns, and a necklace of sullen reds and browns circled the front half of his neck. He supposed it could have been worse - without the ice his neck would probably be solid purple. Still, there was no way he could go back to school for the next few days. No one would believe that all this damage came from that one fight.
Angry with himself, he finished stripping down and stepped into the shower. His wounds stung, but the hot water was heaven for his aching muscles, and he stayed in for as long as he could stand it. Once he was finished, he redressed the burns and his shoulder the best he could, pulled on some clean clothes, and went out to meet his fate.
He’d heard signs of life in the living room and found his brother, father, and Pastor Jim in the middle of the weekly weapons check. Guns (and gun parts), knives, bows . . . it looked like the entire contents of his dad’s weapons locker, plus what they had here in the house, plus a few of Jim’s belongings. It was an impressive arsenal.
Sam offered him a tentative smile and Jim gave him a wave, but John just looked at him for a moment. “Had anything to eat yet?” he finally grunted.
“No sir.”
“Get something, then join us.”
“Yes sir.”
Grateful, he retreated to the kitchen to nuke a frozen sausage and egg biscuit concoction. Sammy hated them, but Dean didn’t think they were any worse than the real ones they bought at gas stations. Devouring it in a few quick mouthfuls, he carefully washed the grease off his hands - the last thing he needed was for John to complain that the shotgun smelled like sausage - and returned to the living room. There he sat, picked up the silver, pearl-handled handgun that he was particularly fond of, and started dismantling it, trying to ignore the fact that he was sore from his head down to his ankles.
“Up to talking?” John asked.
“Yes sir,” he answered. His throat definitely hurt, but not so badly that he couldn’t report what had happened. After all, there were things dad really needed to know. With a minimum of words he described the attack under the bleachers, then what they’d discovered about the other victims (including JJ), Friday’s brawl, and finally his conversation with Mariah. Throughout it all he remained relatively confident - after all, they hadn’t really broken any rules up through Saturday afternoon. John interrupted the narrative with some terse inquiries about their investigation, and even, just maybe, looked impressed. Dean wasn’t so sure he’d seen that last bit, though; it could have been his imagination.
It was only when he reached the part where they decided to go find the farm that he hesitated. “I need to tell you about Ms. Martin before I go on,” he said, putting aside the now clean handgun.
John arched an eyebrow and Jim looked at him in curiosity. The priest had already given Dean a few slightly stern looks regarding Mariah, but nothing worse than he normally gave when it came to Dean’s interest in girls. “Who’s Ms. Martin?” he asked.
“One of my teachers,” Sam supplied, a revelation that earned Dean another raised eyebrow, this one from Pastor Jim.
“Don’t tell me-”
“No, definitely no. I mean she’s kind of hot, but no,” he interrupted with an emphatic shake of his head. Jim laughed, but John just gave him a look that said Get on with it.
“Like Sammy said, she’s a teacher, and she’s . . . kind’ve been on our case. Worried that Sam missed a few days, you know? She’s been wanting to talk to you all week, and she’s been, you know, getting pretty impatient since you haven’t called her.” Dean shrugged, acknowledging their dad’s inability to call her and ignoring Sam’s not-so-subtle hints to shut up about Ms. Martin. He wished he could, but John needed to know that he would have to go charm her into thinking they were one happy, normal family.
“Anyway, when we were coming back Saturday afternoon we saw she was waiting in the driveway, so we couldn’t go home. And since we had a lot of light left . . . well, that’s why we went to find the farm. And when we found it there was still plenty of light, and since the ghost only appeared in the dark or at night I figured we were safe. We should’ve left right then, I know,” he said, forestalling the outburst he could see was about to escape his father.
“We were going to leave,” Sammy interrupted, a hint of defiance in his voice, “but we couldn’t. Three of the football players came - and they didn’t follow us, I would have seen them; they must have come from a different direction - and they blocked us in. That’s when the ghost came. It wasn’t even interested in me or Dean, just the other guys. It never even looked at me, and it only went after Dean because he was going to salt and burn it.”
There wasn’t much he could add to that, so Dean simply nodded and waited for their father’s verdict.
John continued to clean a sawed-off shotgun, but Dean could tell he was angry from the set of his jaw and the slow deliberation of his hands as he cleaned the barrels.
“That was stupid of you,” he finally declared. Looking up, he fixed his eldest son with his dark gaze. “You could have gone to a movie of the mall or the f***ing park instead of going out to that farm. It’s a miracle that you weren’t killed, that your brother wasn’t killed. You understand me?”
It looked like Sam was going to protest again, but Pastor Jim’s hand on his shoulder kept him quiet, much to Dean’s relief. “Yes sir. I screwed up. Won’t happen again.”
John nodded. He was obviously still angry, but he had control of it. “Okay then, this teacher. Any way you’re going to be able to pass off those bruises as something you got in the fight?”
He hesitated, knowing better than to look at his brother. He knew exactly what Sam wanted him to do - lie, say yes, don’t make dad worried. But he couldn’t do that. “Honestly, sir, I don’t know. The other teachers, yes, but she’s smart and she’ll probably remember I didn’t get strangled. And she’ll know the guys I got into the fight with are all in the hospital. She’ll put it together.”
“Dean,” Sam hissed, but one look from John silenced him.
After a long moment their dad nodded. “Time to move on. Pack your things. We’ll leave after I get your records from the school tomorrow.”
“Dad, no, I want to stay!” Sam protested, dropping the blade sharpener he’d been holding. “Just talk to her, tell her a story. You can make her believe you!”
John shook his head. “Sorry, Sammy. Damage is done; too much to explain. We move on.”
Dean shot his brother an apologetic work that Sam didn’t even see. Near tears, Sammy got up and left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him.
John sighed. “Could you talk to him later?” he asked Jim.
The priest nodded. “Of course. But he’ll be upset for a while. Be patient with him.”
John nodded and looked at Dean, silently searching for any hint of rebellion in his oldest. He found none; Dean just nodded, picked up another gun, and started dismantling it.
Title: Haze Chapter 10
Rating: PG-13 (violence, language -- I'm sticking to the curses you'd hear on TV)
Category: Gen
Characters: Teen Dean and Sam (ages 17 and 13)
Word Count: 2643
Spoilers: None
Summary: High school is a difficult place, especially when you're at the bottom of the social ladder. But there are worse things out there than jocks, pop quizzes and Dostoevsky. When students start dying, can Dean keep Sam safe?
Disclaimer: Dean owns me. I don't own Dean, Sam, or anything else involving Supernatural. The original characters, however, are mine.
The shabby, crouching rental house had never looked as good as it did that night, looming in the Impala’s headlights. When they got inside and bolted the door, both of them made the rounds of the rooms, looking for danger, checking the salt lines. Normally Dean performed the duty on his own, but tonight Sam joined him without a word.
When it was safe, when they both knew it was safe, Dean let himself collapse on his bed, barely able to spare the energy to pull his ruined shirt off. Faint lines of rope burn were already appearing angrily on his chest and under his arms, and he was certain he had them on his back too. And his throat, of course, was throbbing.
“Hey Dean,” Sammy said, coming in from the bathroom with Neosporin, gauze and painkillers in his hands.
“Bring ‘em over,” he whispered. It hurt to say even one of the words, but it wasn’t like he was going to let his little brother play nursemaid.
“Let me get your back first,” the thirteen-year-old said, reading his mind and gesturing for him to sit up. “Then you can do the rest.”
Dean just nodded, regretting even that bit of movement and dreading the thought of sitting again. He did it, but not easily, and it hurt so much that he didn’t even care when Sammy ended up putting medicine and bandages on every bit of broken skin. By the time he lay back down, a double dose of painkillers inside him and an ice pack wrapped in washcloths on his neck, he could barely manage to open his eyes and look at his hovering brother.
“Thanks, Sam,” he whispered before the very welcome darkness of sleep stole his consciousness.
“Dean! What in hell happened?”
He woke with a jolt that sent pain through his body. He’d tried to sit up - an automatic response when his father used that tone - before he’d even truly woken up.
His father. . . .
Dean’s eyes flew open and he looked, really looked. John loomed next to his bed, Pastor Jim a few feet behind him wearing a worried expression. On the twin bed next to his, Sammy was rubbing his eyes and blinking, still half asleep. The clock on the rickety table between them read 3:14.
“Dad!” he croaked, trying to push himself up with his uninjured arm.
“Why haven’t you been answering the phone?” John demanded, his brow furrowing angrily as he examined his older son. “What did- “
“John, let the boy answer,” the priest said quietly, stepping forward and putting a hand on John’s shoulder. “He’s hurt.”
“I can see that,” John growled at his friend before returning his dark gaze to Dean. “Well?”
“We didn’t mean for it to happen,” blurted Sammy before Dean could force even one word out. “We were just researching, so you could kill it when you got back.”
He wanted to groan but didn’t, partly because it would hurt too much and partly because he thought their dad was going to kill him. Sam meant well, but it was not the right way to explain.
“Kill it? You went on a hunt without me?” John’s voice had gone quiet, very quiet, and that was a lot worse than the yelling. There was only one path left to him now - the truth, unvarnished with any excuses and ending with an acknowledgment of his mistakes. Dean did his best to sit up straight, looked up at his dad, and spoke.
“There was a ghost haunting the school,” he reported, his voice strained but as neutral as he could make it. “I was with a girl it attacked; that’s how I found out about it. I had to figure out what its pattern was to keep Sammy safe. We learned something about the area the body might be in, and since people were getting attacked every day I figured I’d try to find out exactly where it was. I shouldn’t have done it; it was stupid. You’d have found it without putting Sammy in danger.”
“Hey, it was my idea too,” his brother interrupted angrily, but another glare from John silenced them both.
“You went after a ghost without me,” their father stated, his voice still chillingly quiet. The explosion was coming; Dean could sense it hovering like a thunderstorm in a Midwestern sky. And sure enough, the storm broke.
“You never, ever put your brother in that kind of danger!” John grabbed his unbandaged arm and shook him, eliciting a hiss of pain. “You lay low, you stay here, and you wait for me. You understand?”
Dean closed his eyes and nodded, trying to fight down the nausea roiling in his stomach from each shake. “Yes sir.”
“We couldn’t lay low!” his brother shouted angrily. Dean heard him jump to his feet and he exhaustedly forced his eyes open. Sammy was glaring up at their father with the fiercest expression Dean had ever seen him wear. “We couldn’t! School wasn’t safe, and if we stayed away we’d get into trouble with the teachers and then we’d have to move again and I don’t want to move!”
“I think that’s enough for right now,” Jim said quickly, stepping between father and son. “You all need to get more sleep. You too, John, don’t tell me otherwise.”
Their father glowered at his friend, so obviously upset that Dean wanted to close his eyes again. After a long moment, John nodded. “Fine. But I expect a full report later. And why the hell didn’t you answer the phone?”
Dean looked at Sammy, a bit mystified, then looked up at John. “We didn’t hear it?” was the only answer he could offer. It was an awful admission, sleeping through such a racket, but obviously they had.
John rolled his eyes and walked out. Jim looked at both of them, concerned. “Are you hurt, Sammy?”
“Just Dean.”
“Let me see.” The priest sat down on the edge of the bed and, after a grudging nod from Dean, quickly assessed the teenager’s wounds. “Not too bad. Nothing broken, I see. That’s good. You did a good job on the bandages. You’ll be pretty sore in the morning, though.”
“Yeh, don’t I know it,” Dean murmured, laying back down.
Jim smiled, the expression lighting his careworn face, and nodded. “Get some sleep, and don’t worry about your father. He’s been worried sick for the entire drive back when neither of you answered his calls. He thought the worst.”
“He still shouldn’t have yelled at Dean,” Sam said rebelliously.
“It’s okay; I’d yell at me too,” he whispered. “I messed up.”
“No you didn’t,” the priest said, cutting off Sam’s protest. “You protected your brother the best you could. Give John some time and he’ll see that. Now, both of you, get some sleep. And call me if you need anything.”
Dean nodded, and beside him Sam finally relented and got back into bed. Jim smiled, murmured something under his breath, and switched the lights off as he left the room.
“Sam?” Dean whispered after a moment.
“Yeh?”
“Dad’s right, but . . . thanks.”
There was a pause, and then his brother spoke, his voice somber. “No, he’s not. But I won’t say anything to make it worse.”
Dean sighed, but nodded. It was good enough for now.
------------------------------------------
Contrary to all that Dean had expected, he and Sam were allowed to sleep until they woke naturally. Sammy even rose almost a good two hours before the call of nature finally forced Dean out of bed and onto his feet. Once there he very nearly fell right back down, as every single muscle in his body cried out in protest. But sometimes pain could be overridden, and after almost eleven hours of sleep Dean’s priority was the bathroom.
Once he finished with the most pressing needs he decided on a shower. He should, of course, be reporting to John, but the smell of decay from the well still clung to his body, and his skin crawled from dried blood (and worse). That meant the bandages had to go, and he moved in front of the mirror to make sure he got them all off.
“Well crap,” he muttered when he saw his reflection. The bruises from Friday night’s beating were now joined by angry red rope burns, and a necklace of sullen reds and browns circled the front half of his neck. He supposed it could have been worse - without the ice his neck would probably be solid purple. Still, there was no way he could go back to school for the next few days. No one would believe that all this damage came from that one fight.
Angry with himself, he finished stripping down and stepped into the shower. His wounds stung, but the hot water was heaven for his aching muscles, and he stayed in for as long as he could stand it. Once he was finished, he redressed the burns and his shoulder the best he could, pulled on some clean clothes, and went out to meet his fate.
He’d heard signs of life in the living room and found his brother, father, and Pastor Jim in the middle of the weekly weapons check. Guns (and gun parts), knives, bows . . . it looked like the entire contents of his dad’s weapons locker, plus what they had here in the house, plus a few of Jim’s belongings. It was an impressive arsenal.
Sam offered him a tentative smile and Jim gave him a wave, but John just looked at him for a moment. “Had anything to eat yet?” he finally grunted.
“No sir.”
“Get something, then join us.”
“Yes sir.”
Grateful, he retreated to the kitchen to nuke a frozen sausage and egg biscuit concoction. Sammy hated them, but Dean didn’t think they were any worse than the real ones they bought at gas stations. Devouring it in a few quick mouthfuls, he carefully washed the grease off his hands - the last thing he needed was for John to complain that the shotgun smelled like sausage - and returned to the living room. There he sat, picked up the silver, pearl-handled handgun that he was particularly fond of, and started dismantling it, trying to ignore the fact that he was sore from his head down to his ankles.
“Up to talking?” John asked.
“Yes sir,” he answered. His throat definitely hurt, but not so badly that he couldn’t report what had happened. After all, there were things dad really needed to know. With a minimum of words he described the attack under the bleachers, then what they’d discovered about the other victims (including JJ), Friday’s brawl, and finally his conversation with Mariah. Throughout it all he remained relatively confident - after all, they hadn’t really broken any rules up through Saturday afternoon. John interrupted the narrative with some terse inquiries about their investigation, and even, just maybe, looked impressed. Dean wasn’t so sure he’d seen that last bit, though; it could have been his imagination.
It was only when he reached the part where they decided to go find the farm that he hesitated. “I need to tell you about Ms. Martin before I go on,” he said, putting aside the now clean handgun.
John arched an eyebrow and Jim looked at him in curiosity. The priest had already given Dean a few slightly stern looks regarding Mariah, but nothing worse than he normally gave when it came to Dean’s interest in girls. “Who’s Ms. Martin?” he asked.
“One of my teachers,” Sam supplied, a revelation that earned Dean another raised eyebrow, this one from Pastor Jim.
“Don’t tell me-”
“No, definitely no. I mean she’s kind of hot, but no,” he interrupted with an emphatic shake of his head. Jim laughed, but John just gave him a look that said Get on with it.
“Like Sammy said, she’s a teacher, and she’s . . . kind’ve been on our case. Worried that Sam missed a few days, you know? She’s been wanting to talk to you all week, and she’s been, you know, getting pretty impatient since you haven’t called her.” Dean shrugged, acknowledging their dad’s inability to call her and ignoring Sam’s not-so-subtle hints to shut up about Ms. Martin. He wished he could, but John needed to know that he would have to go charm her into thinking they were one happy, normal family.
“Anyway, when we were coming back Saturday afternoon we saw she was waiting in the driveway, so we couldn’t go home. And since we had a lot of light left . . . well, that’s why we went to find the farm. And when we found it there was still plenty of light, and since the ghost only appeared in the dark or at night I figured we were safe. We should’ve left right then, I know,” he said, forestalling the outburst he could see was about to escape his father.
“We were going to leave,” Sammy interrupted, a hint of defiance in his voice, “but we couldn’t. Three of the football players came - and they didn’t follow us, I would have seen them; they must have come from a different direction - and they blocked us in. That’s when the ghost came. It wasn’t even interested in me or Dean, just the other guys. It never even looked at me, and it only went after Dean because he was going to salt and burn it.”
There wasn’t much he could add to that, so Dean simply nodded and waited for their father’s verdict.
John continued to clean a sawed-off shotgun, but Dean could tell he was angry from the set of his jaw and the slow deliberation of his hands as he cleaned the barrels.
“That was stupid of you,” he finally declared. Looking up, he fixed his eldest son with his dark gaze. “You could have gone to a movie of the mall or the f***ing park instead of going out to that farm. It’s a miracle that you weren’t killed, that your brother wasn’t killed. You understand me?”
It looked like Sam was going to protest again, but Pastor Jim’s hand on his shoulder kept him quiet, much to Dean’s relief. “Yes sir. I screwed up. Won’t happen again.”
John nodded. He was obviously still angry, but he had control of it. “Okay then, this teacher. Any way you’re going to be able to pass off those bruises as something you got in the fight?”
He hesitated, knowing better than to look at his brother. He knew exactly what Sam wanted him to do - lie, say yes, don’t make dad worried. But he couldn’t do that. “Honestly, sir, I don’t know. The other teachers, yes, but she’s smart and she’ll probably remember I didn’t get strangled. And she’ll know the guys I got into the fight with are all in the hospital. She’ll put it together.”
“Dean,” Sam hissed, but one look from John silenced him.
After a long moment their dad nodded. “Time to move on. Pack your things. We’ll leave after I get your records from the school tomorrow.”
“Dad, no, I want to stay!” Sam protested, dropping the blade sharpener he’d been holding. “Just talk to her, tell her a story. You can make her believe you!”
John shook his head. “Sorry, Sammy. Damage is done; too much to explain. We move on.”
Dean shot his brother an apologetic work that Sam didn’t even see. Near tears, Sammy got up and left the room, closing the bedroom door behind him.
John sighed. “Could you talk to him later?” he asked Jim.
The priest nodded. “Of course. But he’ll be upset for a while. Be patient with him.”
John nodded and looked at Dean, silently searching for any hint of rebellion in his oldest. He found none; Dean just nodded, picked up another gun, and started dismantling it.