Phantom Load - Part 1
Tuesday, November 21st, 2006
Sam snapped the phone shut, and shifted in his seat. “Okay,” he said, “I got us a gig.” The darkening flat landscape sped past outside the passenger window.
“What kind?” Dean asked this without taking his eyes off the road or his hands off the wheel.
“Haunted school,” said Sam. He pulled out a map and unfolded it, scanned it, and then folded it back up and stuffed it under the seat. “Just keep heading west on I-25, and then up 36 into Boulder.”
“Boulder?” asked Dean. “It’s in Boulder?” There was a flick of Dean’s eyelashes as he spared Sam a glance.
“Yeah, so? Didn’t we used to live there once? It’s an okay town.”
“Yeah.” This from Dean as he cranked up the heat.
“Yeah, what? What, Dean?”
A moment of silence followed this question and Sam had the feeling that Dean wanted very badly to turn up the music, which was now playing the driver-picked Pink Floyd at a low enough volume so that Sam could talk on the phone. Now that Sam was done, the driver was within his rights to turn the song back up.
“Nothing,” said Dean, turning up the music. Not looking at Sam.
The sun was going down, and the wind picked up. They were about two hours out of Denver, he figured, and could probably pick a motel in a bit and then head into Boulder in the morning. It would make more sense than trying to push it, especially if the weather got bad. As he recalled, Colorado was not known for mild weather or good driving conditions, especially before Thanksgiving.
“We’re to meet with Audrey Clarke, she’s the principal, at 10, so I thought-”
“A principal? You’re making me talk to a principal?”
Dean’s silent scoff at this did not surprise Sam. His brother had been harangued by more principals in more schools than probably any kid on the planet. They were not his favorite people.
“He’s Mr. Panowski's cousin, remember the guy we went up in the plane for?”
“Oh, he’s got a cousin?”
“Yeah, she thought there was something strange going on at her school. She told him about it, and he-”
“Told her to call us.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s amazing how we manage to get work without advertising.”
It seemed like Dean meant this to be funny, but there was a slight edge to his voice. Though, truth be told, since Dad had died, there was a constant slight edge to Dean’s voice, often met by a glance from eyes that would slice through you rather than stay. As if this would push everyone away. Dean had learned the expression long ago, Sam couldn’t remember when, to keep others at bay. Sometimes Sam felt that in order to get beyond it, he had to walk through barbed wire and then would have to retreat anyway.
“If we stop early,” said Sam now, “we won’t have to push it.” He said it that way deliberately. We. As if he could possibly be as tired as Dean was, Dean who didn’t want to share the driving with anyone. If he made it out that he was tired, that little brother needed some rest, then it was likely that Dean would stop. But only for that reason, never for himself. “I could use the stretching out.”
Dean hummed for a minute and tapped the steering wheel with his ring finger, making a clack-clack sound like an old cash register doing calculations.
“Is there something at Denver?”
“Bound to be a Super 8 or something like it,” said Sam, letting out a sigh he hadn’t known he was holding. He wanted to stretch out and stare at the ceiling while Dean caught whatever late TV he was bound to insist he wanted to watch, and then Sam would let the white light and the low volume sing him to sleep. The break at the end of each day was becoming familiar, not a lot of conversation, sure, but a pattern he could fall into. That Dean, no doubt, had fallen into without even realizing it. Dean fell into a pattern as likely as the next fellow, but point it out to him and he was liable to want to shake things up, just on principle. Sam made a mental note not to mention it to him.
By the time it was full dark, the wind had died down and the lights of Denver, once just a sparkling promise through the hills on the horizon, became real and flashy and had signs that promised comfortable clean beds, free cable, and wi-fi. Sam pointed at the exit for the cheapest motel he could see, and realized that Dean wasn’t actually looking. So he gave Dean a jab in the shoulder and then pointed.
“I see, I see,” said Dean, not irritated. More, tired, the low energy showing in the set of his shoulders.
“At least it’s not snowing,” said Sam.
“Not yet,” said Dean, taking the exit. “In which case, we are booking out of here, you get me? I do not want to become trapped here.”
It was an odd thing for Dean to say, but he was taking the curve of the exit ramp hard, and Sam hung on to his seat and leaned into it. Snow normally didn’t bother Dean, although he was bound to fuss over his best girl getting ice in her undercarriage.
Dean pulled into the parking lot and flipped Sam a credit card. Sam took it without looking, figuring he was either going to be a rock star, or an obscure New Yorker.
He got out of the car into the icy, thin air, thinking about his jacket, which he’d folded under his head, and decided it would take too long to mess with it if he was just checking in.
“Ask for a first floor,” said Dean as Sam shut the door.
The motel had a room on the first floor and at the far end of the motel, which was lucky. This meant less noise, and they could park the Impala directly outside of their door. That way, if they had to carry in guns or anything that could be seen as threatening, they didn’t have as far to risk it. Sam took the keys, waved at Dean, and walked down the sidewalk to the last door on the end. Dean followed with the Impala and then parked it as Sam unlocked the door. A whoosh of heat flowed over him as he opened it and flicked on the lights, casting his eyes around to see the usual layout, the usual colors, the bathroom that smelled like green cleanser, the hum of the heater under the far window.
Dean was right behind him with duffle bags, Sam’s laptop, Sam’s jacket. Sam carried in everything else they’d need for the night, not much, and then he locked the Impala and hurried in to close the door behind him. Checked the locks, and watched Dean lay out the bags on their respective beds. Dean’s was near the door, of course, though Sam could never figure out what difference it made.
He didn’t say anything about it, though. It would just start an argument, useless as all the other ones were, and leave them both feeling like badly-peeled road kill. He only nodded to Dean, grabbed up the local menus, and called for delivery. Chinese. Knew Dean heard him order, knew that if that wasn’t okay, Dean would have said something. He didn’t.
When the food came, he concentrated on that, let Dean have the majority of the egg rolls, and cleared away the trash without seeming obvious about it. Dean would think he was fussing, and that always irritated him.
As he stuffed the last of the broccoli beef in his mouth, Sam said, “This is only her second year as principal, you know.”
“Who?” Dean asked this without turning his head, absorbed in the shocking truth about haunted homes in Great Britain.
“Mrs. Clarke, the principal. I said she’s only been at it two years, so she’s probably not a curmudgeon. Yet.”
“Do they even have women principals? I didn’t think they did.”
“Apparently in Boulder County they do.”
“Huh,” was all Dean said.
Sam shook his head and then made taking-a-shower-now noises, in case Dean wanted to get into an argument with him about that. But Sam met with no resistance and slunk into the white-tiled room to rinse the road dirt and sweat from his skin and to make his shoulders relax under the hot water. The gig in Boulder sounded easy enough; haunted schools, if it was a haunting, typically didn’t have complicated family dynamics to work around, or very many things ghosts would be interested in hanging around for. They would be in and out of there in no time, perhaps taking a break at the end of it to get some turkey and pumpkin pie.
Wednesday, November 22nd, 2006
As they pulled into the parking lot of Platt Jr. High school, everything was frozen, which seemed normal enough, but Sam found that he could barely recognize the school, for all he’d been there every day for almost a month. The only thing that seemed familiar was the long line of the top of the building, the red brick against the blue sky. And the orange buses, lined up to take kids home early on the day before Thanksgiving. He got out of the Impala, pushed down the lock, and shut the door behind him. He snuck his hands in his pockets and turned to wait for Dean who was taking an awfully long time.
Sam leaned down to tap on the glass of the passenger door.
“Hey,” he said. “The principal is not going to eat you, Dean.”
Dean scowled at him and put the car into park. He set the parking break and got out as well, using his keys to lock the door, sweeping a hand over the hood without touching the paint job. Then he looked at Sam.
“Why are we taking this job again?” he asked.
“Because, Dean,” said Sam, trying not to huff. Failing. “Mrs. Clarke is a cousin of Mr. Panowski's. We come highly recommended. Some thing, some entity, has been messing up the school, and the janitor has had enough.”
“The janitor?” asked Dean.
Sam was looking right at him, or he would have missed it. Dean swallowed and tucked his chin down towards his right shoulder. It was a move he used when he was preparing to fight, but without the fists to back it up, that and the lack of squared shoulders caught Sam. It was strange.
“You okay?” he asked.
Dean’s head snapped up. He smiled at Sam. “Yeah. Sure. I just don’t like principals, is all. Meeting with one. For any reason. Gives me hives.”
“We’ve got Calamine for that,” said Sam. He waved Dean on with his hand and started across the parking lot, bare of snow but slippery with ice in places. The buses, orange against the brick, were parked end to end in the front of the school, and he walked along them, not looking to see if Dean was following him. They had a job to do; Dean knew that. This was an easy gig as well, a phantom in a school house, and them with four solid, uninterrupted days to solve it.
As he rounded the last bus on the end, he felt Dean at his shoulder, the scent of leather warm in the cool air. They walked up the sidewalk together, stepping out of the way of a group of shrieking and running girls, backpacks and hair flying. Kids with hats, kids with boots and backpacks, parents milling, the din growing and bouncing off the red brick.
“Where’s her office?” Dean asked, as they were about to go in one of the double doors.
“You should know,” said Sam. “You were the one who went here.” He hadn't gone to this school, but he'd met Dean any number of times on the very sidewalk where they were standing. He had a flicker of a memory of Dean charging out from the double doors, running, late and breathless. He never remembered Dean being late to meet him, but perhaps Dean had thought he was late.
“Yeah, but I never got called to the principal’s office," said Dean now.
Sam pulled the door open and then paused to look at his brother. “Never?”
Dean shook his head and slipped under Sam’s arm to move into the current of warm air that pushed itself out into the cold.
“Not at this school,” Sam heard.
“No fights, nothing?”
“Nope.”
It was hard to believe, given Dean’s track record at any school he’d ever gone to. But whether Dean was making it up or not probably didn't matter anymore, so Sam let it go.
There was a sea of kids coming at them, splitting around Sam and Dean like water around rocks at high tide. He saw that Dean was looking up the hallway, but couldn’t see his expression.
“I think it’s this way,” said Sam. Then when Dean didn’t move, or look to see which way he was pointing, Sam said, “Dean.” And again. “Dean.”
“Huh?” Finally, Dean turned to look.
Sam pointed down the hallway to the right. “This way, dude.”
The sign over the door said Principal; it was hard to miss. The secretary buzzed them in, and they were soon in a comfortable little office, with big windows overlooking the row of buses, running children, and beyond that, the jagged edges of purple that were the front range in wintertime.
“Mrs. Clarke,” said Sam, reaching out to shake her hand. “I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean.”
Looking prim and organized in her dark blue suit, hair swept back in a braid, she shook Sam’s hand and then Dean’s. “Call me Audrey, please. And here is Phil, our janitor. Come in Phil.”
Sam felt Dean’s body jerk beside him as the man came in, brown haired and wearing wire rim glasses, dressed in blue jeans and a grey workman’s shirt. The label on his shirt said Phil, and he held out his clean hand. They shook it, and Dean let out a whoosh of air.
Everyone sat down.
“So,” said Audrey, sitting behind her desk, “Let’s get right to it. We’ve had disturbances for the last six months, and we can’t account for them. Phil has been keeping track.”
Phil leaned forward. “Yeah, six months,” he said. “I wrote it all down, you see, because I thought I was imagining things, making them up. Can’t have that.”
“Phil,” said Audrey, breaking in, “is getting his PhD at night.”
Sam nodded, felt his eyebrows rise. That made it a little different, though he would be the last person to say it aloud. “We’d love to see your notes,” he said. “But, just in general, what kind of things?”
“Clocks stopped, like they were turned off, light bulbs exploding, lockers opened, doors opened that I was sure I had locked. Stuff like that. And X marks everywhere in grease pencil. Every time I wash them off, they come back again.”
“How do you know it’s not kids?” asked Dean. “You know, kids with problems, messing stuff up.”
“Well,” said Phil, “that’s what I thought. At first. But it happens at night. When the school is closed and sealed up tight. And the X’s are in weird spots that a kid couldn’t reach without a ladder. But the ladder is heavy and is in the boiler room, so…”
“Okay,” said Sam. “So not kids. Not any adults either? Someone with an issue with the school, or-”
“We don’t think so,” said Audrey. “Like Phil said, it happens at night, and it’s everywhere, those grease pencil marks are a distraction and we’ve asked around-”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not someone who works at the school,” said Dean with a little snap.
Sam looked at him and tipped his head. “Look,” he said to both Phil and Audrey, keeping his voice low and even. They were probably right, but he had to make sure. Besides which, they were awfully calm about the whole ghost thing. “We know you think everyone should be considered innocent until proven guilty. But what makes you think it’s a ghost instead of a human adult?”
“You can’t get in the school once the alarm is set without setting it off. And while maybe James Bond could get in, no one who works here could. It’s a pretty good system, and I double check it every night,” said Phil.
Dean looked over at Sam and then he asked. “Why do you think it started six months ago?”
“We-” Phil started, then he stopped. Looked at Audrey. “Both of us started working here six months ago. It’s been happening the whole time we’ve both been here. Maybe it was going on long before that, I don't know.”
“You could check with Mr. Mates. He was the principal before me. He just retired,” Audrey said.
“And the other janitor,” said Phil. “The one who worked here before me. You could check with him.”
“Mr. Gunnarson?” asked Dean, his voice taking a strange high pitch that made everyone in the room turn to look at him. His eyes were wide and round. “He’s the j-j-he’s the-”
“No, it wasn’t a Mr. Gunnarson. The last janitor we had was Rondo Blake.”
“Kind of a hippy type,” said Phil. “Not really the janitor type.”
“So you could talk to him,” said Audrey. “I have his address here. And Bob Mates. Maybe they could tell you more.”
Sam folded and unfolded his hands against his thighs as he thought about this. Talking to people who had been at the school longer than six months was a good start, but he’d hoped the job would be simpler than that. He wasn’t up to talking to many more strangers than he already had, not when he’d anticipated a long weekend and an easy gig. They both needed it. He looked over at Dean who was studying the floor with the interest of an avid scientist. Sam quelled the urge to kick him. Then he looked up.
“Yeah, we’ll take those addresses,” he said. “We’ll go talk to them tomorrow, see what they have to say.”
“Oh,” said Audrey, looking startled. “Not tomorrow, of course.”
“Why not?” asked Dean.
“It’s Thanksgiving. They’ll all be with their families. Eating.”
“Oh,” said Dean, though Sam knew he himself had forgotten. The Winchesters had never been big on any holiday.
“Yeah,” said Phil. “I'll get to stay in town this year, with all the relatives coming. My wife is up to her eyeballs in turkey and stuffing, so I should get going and lend a hand or my name’ll be mud. You guys want me to show you around first?”
“I went to school here,” said Dean, speaking up, his voice flat.
“Well, sure, you’d know your way around then. But I can show you the janitor’s closets, the boiler room. Maybe you can replace some light bulbs or something to make it look legit. I mean, if you’re up for that.”
“Sure,” said Sam. He stood up and wiped his palms on his jeans. Audrey’s office, with the sun pounding in through the open blinds, was getting overly warm. “I’ve always wanted to see a janitor’s closet. Or a boiler room.” He looked over at Dean to share the joke, but Dean, now standing, was looking out through the glass in the closed door to the office. Sam couldn’t see his face. “Show us what you got, Phil,” said Sam instead of giving Dean a poke. “Can’t promise miracles, but I’ve been known to wield a broom in my day.”
*
Phil took them up the ramps for each hallway, and Sam recognized the H-shape from Dean’s long-ago descriptions. Though he’d been taken by van every day after elementary school to meet Dean, he’d never actually been inside. The H-shape was cut across by three short hallways, and everything looked spic and span. Shining.
“You keep a nice school,” said Sam. He waited for the jibe from Dean about having lustful thoughts about good old-fashioned school days, but none was forthcoming. Where was Dean? Sam turned his neck sharply to find Dean standing back as Phil paused in front of a door along the wall. His shoulders were hunched high in his leather jacket and he was staring at his feet.
Sam opened his mouth to say something, to ask if Dean was all right, but then Phil said, "Well, thank you, Sam,” and took out a ring of keys to unlock the door and open it. The smell of lemon-lime chemicals wafted out at them.
“Here’s a janitor’s closet, slop sink, cleansers, brooms, trash bags, and so on," said Phil. "There’s another one on the other side of the school. I keep some light bulbs in here."
"What is this stuff?" asked Sam, moving forward to take a look. "Man, that smells strong."
"Cleaning supplies," said Phil, laughing a bit. "If you boys get a mind to, you can give the floors a mop and then put down a layer of wax. The instructions are on the label here, just follow them.” He tapped a large plastic container on the floor with his foot, and then laughed again to show he was joking. His keys jingled as he locked the door.
"And now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll go down to the boiler room. You won’t have to do much there, but the emergency switch is down there, plus my very large supply of light bulbs.”
“Why very large?” asked Sam, following Phil as he led the way down a little side hallway. He looked back to make sure Dean was following. Dean was still, silent, a little folded in on himself. Sam cocked his head and tried to catch his brother's eye, but Dean wasn't having any of it. Sam had to trot to keep up with Phil.
“Well, like I said, the light bulbs keep exploding, and I have to replace by the gross ton these days. They get broken in the closets, so, I keep most of them down here.”
He’d stopped in front of a door all by itself in a dead end of a short corridor. He used the keys like before and as he opened the door, the musty basement odor that Sam had smelled a hundred times before rushed out at them. Phil reached in to flip on a switch and then turned to smile. “You’ll get a crick in your neck replacing light bulbs by the time you’re done, but if you can do that, and dust them a little, then you’ll do me a favor and a job well done.”
Sam nodded. It didn’t sound hard. He could replace a few bulbs.
“Well,” said Phil, looking back at them. “Get on in here.”
Sam started down the steps after him and then realized that Dean still wasn’t right behind him.
“Hey,” he said, standing on the top, metal step. “You coming?”
“Uh,” said Dean. It might have been the light, but his freckles were standing out on his face like they’d been painted on. “Maybe I’ll just stay here.”
“You’re not afraid of the dark, are you.” It wasn’t a question, but delivered with as much scathing sarcasm as Sam could muster.
“No, I’m not afraid of the dark.” Dean said this, but his mouth barely moved and he didn’t come closer to the top of the stairs.
“We need to check this out Dean,” said Sam, his exasperation rising like steam. “Will you please just come on?”
It was slow, but Dean followed him down the stairs, down the little corridor, and past the row of boilers, hissing away. They all crowded into the brown office, lit by rows of fluorescent bulbs, and the row of fogged glass windows that let some sunshine in. As Sam looked around, he tried not to frown. He couldn't imagine working in a place like this, with the layers of cobwebs among the supporting beams of the floor above, the dents in the filing cabinets, the gouges in the worktable against the wall, the spoon-shaped dent in the cage over the ancient wall clock. The floor, covered with original linoleum, splattered with stains, and the whole of it smelling of mold and lemon-lime cleanser.
“This is the office,” said Phil. “All the comforts of home. Including the couch. It's a sleeper, but I can't ever get it open.” He tugged on the corner of a blanket sticking out as Sam looked. It was an old couch, green, with rough patterns worn smooth by time, obliterated by hand-grease along the arms and dents where people had sat. “The bulbs are in here,” Phil said as he led the way to a little side room where the long blue boxes were stacked. “Really, I can’t keep up with the demand. If it’s a ghost, he’s bleeding me dry in the bills for these things. They’re expensive.”
“We’ll check it out for you,” said Sam, stifling the urge to wipe his hands on his pants. The place was unbelievably dusty.
“You know,” said Phil, “it’s a mess, but the money goes where the parents can see it, you know?”
“Yeah,” said Sam. Then he turned to Dean, who was standing at the entrance to the grungy office, the flickering lights of the boiler indicators over his shoulders, jacket still on, hands at his sides. “You coming in?”
“Uh,” said Dean. He didn’t move. “No, I’m good here.”
Sam sighed. It was getting ridiculous, but short of yelling at Dean in front of a stranger, there was nothing he could do. “Extra set of keys,” he said now to Phil, “and the code for the alarm, and we’ll be all set.”
“You’ll take good care of my school?” asked Phil, digging in a desk drawer. “You won’t let her get into any trouble, will you?” He handed over a stiff little card and a ring of keys. The card had seven numbers on it, the code for the alarm. “Sometimes I can’t wait to get away. Other times, I can never imagine leaving this place.”
Sam smiled at him, thinking of places he’d rather not have left, towns he’d grown to feel familiar in. “We’ll take care of her for you,” he said, looking over at Dean. Who was standing as still as if he were playing a game of statues, his eyes on the long row of narrow windows on the far wall. “Don’t worry, okay?”
“Okay,” said Phil. “Audrey trusts you and that’s enough for me.”
Wednesday, January 8th, 1992
It was the morning of their first day of school in the new school, and Dad was gone. The sun streamed in the windows like it was boring its way in. There was a note on the dining room table with a phone number for Pastor Jim that Dean had memorized, but it never hurt to be sure. Next to the note were the keys to the trailer. The keys were on a string. Dean slipped these over his head, and scratched his tummy under his t-shirt. Sammy followed close behind, scratching his tummy too, striped pajamas, inherited from Dean, flooding over his toes, his hair standing up in a wreath around his head.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asked.
Dean looked at the counter. He’d left butter out to soften the night before, and there was fresh bread and sugar in the canister. He looked down at Sam, nodding, as if his idea were a good one, already accepted. Sam was hardly likely to argue; the more sugar the better. “How ‘bout sugar and butter on bread?”
Sammy’s nod almost snapped his neck. He pulled a chair over to help make it while Dean pulled out the loaf of bread from the breadbox and pulled out four slices. He laid them on the counter. Then he took a knife from the dish drainer and spread the butter. Then he smiled.
“Okay, Sammy. Your turn.”
Sammy grabbed the sugar canister, which was only an old tin cup with a battered spoon in it, but it held sugar up to the rim. Dean had made sure of it. With a wild wrist, Sammy flung sugar over the butter and the counter and everywhere. Dean scooped some of it up into his hand and spread it over the bread.
“More?” asked Sammy, and although the bread was shimmering white now, without a speck of butter to be seen, Dean nodded and pressed the sugar in with the blade of the knife.
“Yep,” he said. “It’s good energy. It’ll keep you going all day.”
Younger brother flung more sugar as though it were an art form, and then, with Sammy standing on the chair, towering over Dean, and Dean in his bare feet, wading in sugar crystals, they ate. Dean stuffed his mouth full, waiting for the inevitable question. Which came, soon after Sammy had finished his first slice.
“Where’s Dad?” His mouth sparkled.
Dean chewed. Slowly. Made himself nod and shrug. “On a job. You know. Like he does. I’ll take care of you though.”
It happened almost every time. Even the sugar-ladened buttered bread in his hands was almost not enough to placate Sammy. He liked it regular; he liked Dad home.
“But I want-”
“Doesn’t always matter what you want, Sammy,” said Dean, through a mouthful. He licked his lips. “We talked about this, remember? Dad’s gotta work. You and I will go to school, just like always.”
“And you’ll walk home with me after?”
Dork. Like that was the best part of his day.
“Yeah,” said Dean. “And we’ll have hot dogs for dinner.”
Sam’s eyes sparked at this. Hot dogs meant mustard. Lots of mustard, which Dean knew he loved. He’d forget about Dad being gone with visions of that in his head.
*
The school hallway echoed with students’ voices bouncing off the brightly painted walls, the polished floors. Dean shifted his shoulders back and walked into it, the floor shining beneath his feet. He had half-used spiral notebook and pen in one hand, and a piece of paper in his other hand, telling him where his homeroom was, and what his schedule was. Plus, for some reason, he had Sam’s crayons in his coat pocket; he could feel them bouncing against his leg. He shifted everything to one hand and took them out. It was only a little box of 24, but they were the real deal, not a knockoff bought at an outlet store. Dad had brought them as a treat for Sam for being reasonable about leaving his old school. Dean brought the box up to his nose to smell them; they reminded him of Sam, who hopefully would not get into trouble for not having the full set of supplies for a 3rd grader.
A bell rang, and everyone jumped and started scurrying around. Dean let the energy of the hallway pull him in the direction of the right room. He was two days late for the semester, but that didn’t matter. They wouldn’t probably be around long enough for it to matter, or for any teachers to start expecting anything out of him. He just had to keep up and keep his head down. That’s what Dad had told him before he left. That’s what Dad wanted.
Someone bumped against him, and Dean slid the crayons back into his coat pocket. It wouldn’t be good to be seen with a little kid’s crayons. That would bring on a fight for sure. No fights, Dad had said. Dad had said a lot of other things, but the no fights one had stuck.
His homeroom was with Mrs. Monroe in Room 103. Dean walked in, head high, catching some kids' eyes, ignoring others, nodded at the woman who must be Mrs. Monroe, and took a seat near the door. He rubbed his nose as he set his feet under the desk. His hand smelled like crayons. This made him laugh; Sammy was going to give him such shit for accidentally taking them.
Mrs. Monroe gave him a locker number and a combination, but no one wanted to share with him. He was the new kid; it was almost a given. That was okay with Dean. When they were dismissed, he found the locker, opened it, and stored his coat. Besides the notebook and pen and the dollar for lunch, it was all he had.
Then he walked among the sea of kids to science class. Once there, he sat as far away from the cage with the rat in it as he could. The teacher glowered at him for not having a book already, and was even less pleased when Dean pulled forth his ragged spiral notebook and placed it on the desk. At least he had that and a pen. The teacher could go to hell.
In gym class, Dean didn't have the regulation clean, new, non-street sneakers or the uniform, and so he had to sit out. That wasn’t so bad. The bleachers had a nice view of the girl’s side of the gym, where they were wearing the modest, Catholic-girl cute uniforms and learning tumbling. With his elbows on the bleacher behind him, he tipped his head back and tried to snooze, but wasn’t tired. Sam had been over the moon with joy at the thought of starting a new semester almost on time. Crayons or no crayons, Sammy was, no doubt, having a fine fucking time.
As was the stocky, dark-haired kid he could see on the other side of the volleyball net. He had some other kid in a headlock and was smacking him on the back of the head. The teacher called out his name with a snap Joel Booth! to make him stop, and Dean could see right away he was a bully. Only a bully would pick on a littler kid for no reason or smack him that hard just for fun. And then one last time after that for good measure. Dean made a mental note to stay away from him.
When the bell rang, Dean clomped down off the bleachers and took out the torn schedule from his pocket. He had English and then math, neither of which sounded any fun. He walked down the hall. Where was 22B? The numbers over each room didn’t seem like they went in sequence, but maybe, like with hunting, the pattern wasn’t an obvious one. He didn’t want to stop an adult to ask, that would just draw attention. Besides, Winchesters didn’t ask for directions. They gave them. Or invented them.
The school was in a basic H shape, with two long hallways, and three short ones going across. Just like a four on the floor. Easy enough. But there was a little hallway, jogging off to the left at the bottom of the left hand stroke of the H, and then it took a quick right. That’s what it looked like to Dean as he stood at the end of it. Maybe 22B was down there? He headed down the ramp, and realized that it wasn’t filled with classrooms or anything, but after the hall jogged to the right again, there was the band room and nothing else. A dead end. Right across from the band room was a door with a sign above it that said Boiler Room. Dean turned around to go. He wasn’t taking band. Never had. Never would.
“What are you doing there, son?”
There was a man there. He had come from the Boiler Room and was closing the door behind him and locking it. His streaky white hair was cut in a buzz cut. He had a grey uniform shirt on, sturdy dark grey glasses and looked at Dean with blue eyes. He had a name tag that said Gunnarson. Dean realized he must be the janitor.
“Uh,” he said. “I’m-” He was about to say he was lost but a Winchester never admitted it, even if it was true. “I’m looking for 22B.” He held out his slip of paper with his schedule on it.
“Shouldn’t you know where that is by now?”
“I, well, this is my first day.”
The janitor looked at him. “What’s wrong with your pants?”
“My pants?” Dean looked down at his jeans. The hems were ragged with strings, and the knee on the right leg was going to need a patch soon. But that was normal.
“No, I mean in the back. Turn around.”
Not thinking, Dean did as he was told. A hand cupped around the back of his neck and pushed him up against the wall. It took him a minute to catch his breath and by that time, he felt the janitor’s hand cupping his buttocks.
“You’ve got patches and holes,” said the janitor.
Dean gulped. Was there a rule against patched pants? Had the patch he put in worn away to a hole already?
Then he felt the janitor’s fingers pushing through the cloth, reaching forward to rub up between his legs, fumbling forward until he could feel them on the back of his balls. There was a tearing sound as the cloth of the seat of his pants gave. His forehead grew hot and slick and slipped on the coolness of the tiled wall. The janitor’s fingers stroked him there, right up there where his flesh was damp and personal, and then withdrew. Dean shivered.
“You better get those pants fixed, son.”
Dean stayed where he was, pressed against the wall, while the sound of footsteps walked away. He let his hands drop to his sides, let the notebook and the pen fall to the floor. Then he took off his flannel shirt and tied it around his waist. Picking up his notebook and pen, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. There was the bell. And he still didn’t know where room 22B was. By the time he found it, across from the library in the second hallway going across the H, he was late. Late enough to be written up by the English teacher, who looked old enough to have written every book there ever was. Even the Bible.
After English was math and then lunch, but when Dean reached into his pocket, he realized there was a hole at the bottom of it, and that he’d lost his dollar. Instead of getting in line with the other kids, or sitting at a table with nothing to eat, he walked past the cafeteria and went outside. For a moment he stood there, letting the wintery sun warm the odd iciness inside him. Then he sat on the steps and leaned against the red brick wall by the side of the stairs. Some kid was doing stunts on his bike, and a sandwich fell out of his bag just as his rear tire went over it.
“You can eat that, kid,” he said, and then sprinted away, peddling hard.
Dean looked around. No one was looking. He picked up the sandwich and undid the plastic bag. It was a tuna sandwich with cheese. Not his favorite, but he ate it with both hands, not bothering to take the sandwich out of the bag. He even sucked down the squashed bits, which were almost liquid in his mouth even before he began to chew. His stomach thanked him and he burped into the back of his hand as he wiped his mouth. Then he wiped his hands on his jeans.
The rip in the seat of his pants was feeling the cold of the cement beneath him; the noonday sun was not enough to really warm anything, but it was bright, and Dean turned up his face into it. If he dared, he’d jump ship and go on home. It was only a mile. But he had to stay. The van would be bringing Sammy from his elementary school at 3:30 and Dean had been told to meet the van. To walk Sammy home. No exceptions. Dad’s face and voice had been serious, and while Dean knew that Sammy could very well have handled the mile walk, the old rule still applied: Never let Sammy out of your sight.
The afternoon went slow, except for geography. His teacher, Mr. Collins wore a red tie and smiled at him as he gave Dean an almost-new book. "We're learning about Russia," Mr. Collins said, and then flipped the book open to show the maps inside. Dean nodded, thinking that Sam would enjoy looking at the maps and charts. Besides geography was something he'd need to know for hunting. He nodded at Mr. Collins.
After that, Dean sat through social studies and art, wondering why he felt lightheaded. Maybe the kid’s mom had done something to the tuna. Some dope she’d added to keep the kid under control. He’d looked pretty hot and wild on that bike. Maybe he was a handful at home.
At 3:10, school was out. Dean went to his locker and got his coat, put his notebook and pen on the shelf next to the books he'd been given that day, and then closed the locker. He spun the lock; there was no homework for him, even if there was any, because he wasn't doing it. He went to the front of the school to wait for the van. The school that could take Sammy was in the right busing district, but the bus couldn’t very well take him to an empty house, so, along with other kids like him, a van took him from his school to Dean’s. The plan was they would walk home together, every day. Which meant no extra activities for Dean, but that was fine by him. Pounding a basketball indoors while some guy in dumb shorts blew a whistle and shouted at him was not his idea of a good time. Track, which he liked, or baseball, wasn’t till later in the year. As for anything else? No way.
He sat on the sidewalk, his feet in the gutter, staring out at the parking lot, watching moms and dads come and go, watched kids shrieking as they got on their buses, and thought about what time it was. He didn’t know what time it was and his butt was getting cold. Then he stood up, and saw the janitor at the front door. He was talking to another man with brown hair and a brown suit; Dean guessed he was a teacher or something. He was nodding to the parents, frowning at the kids when no parent was looking. Maybe he was the principal; he and the janitor looked out at the sea of kids. Dean licked his lips and then looked away. His plan was to avoid the janitor in future.
A ratty white van pulled into the parking lot and before it came to a complete stop, Sammy jumped out, coat unzipped, mittens on strings flying out of his coat sleeves. He had a little plastic sack with his stuff in it. He was hatless, though, his dark hair flying out of his eyes as he raced over to Dean.
“Where’s your hat?” said Dean. Sam’s ears were red.
“Some kid,” said Sammy, shrugging. “Stole it.” Then Sam smiled. Wagged his arms to make the mittens flop up and down. “He tried to get the mittens too, but couldn’t.”
“Christ, Sammy,” said Dean. But Sammy looked up at him through his mop of bangs, and Dean didn’t have it in him to get really mad. They’d get another hat. The weather was sunny enough. Maybe it would stay that way for a while. “Let’s go.”
Giving Sammy’s coat a tug, Dean led the way across the edge of the parking lot and out onto the side of the road. Slush was melting under their feet, but now that it was after 3:30, the sun was going low to the mountains. The air was getting snappy with cold. A mile would take them 20 minutes, maybe. It would be okay.
Over his shoulder, as he pushed Sammy ahead of him towards the intersection, he looked back. The janitor was gone, and the principal was still standing there.
Dean turned back around. “Let’s hustle, Sammy.”
“I want tuna fish for dinner,” Sammy said.
“No,” said Dean. “Tomato soup. It’s hot. I want hot.”
“Okay,” said Sammy, kicking his feet through piles of fast-freezing slush.
When they got to the corner of Cherryvale and Baseline, Dean socked Sam in the arm. “Quit it. You’re getting wet. Your shoes will never dry.”
They hurried along Cherryvale and then up the other leg of Baseline, and by that time, they were both soaked to the knee. It was getting dark by the time they got to the narrow white trailer by the side of the road. They were frozen as they walked up the driveway, which was unshoveled and unmarked except for the wheel marks left by the Impala.
Dean scrambled in his pocket for the key, which was on a string around his neck, and opened the door. “Hurry up, dork,” he said. “Stomp your feet on the step, don’t trample snow in.”
“Nag,” said Sammy, doing as he was told. His lips were blue, and Dean could not believe that some asshole had taken a little kid’s hat like that. Some sixth grader who thought he was hot shit, no doubt. Five minutes alone with Dean could teach him the error of his ways.
The trailer was old. It had probably been old when it was built. But it was big enough, bigger than some motel rooms, for all it was so narrow. There was a bedroom at the front, which was Dad’s in case he had to come or go at weird hours, and a bedroom at the back, near the bathroom, in case Sammy got sick and had to throw up. In the middle was a living room that flowed into a tiny kitchen. The furniture was scarred and cheap, but the couch was huge and there was an armchair with an ottoman. Like the empire, Dad had said. Nothing matched. The carpet had cigarette burns, and there was a stain on the carpet that none of them could identify.
Dean made Sam drape his coat over a chair in the kitchen and had him take off his shoes and socks, and put the shoes upside down on the heating vent to dry. He did the same with his own coat and shoes, while Sammy followed him around, patting his own tummy, demanding to be fed, eyes sparkling as he annoyed Dean by not saying it outright.
“Look,” he said, giving Sammy a shove. “I’ll start something to eat. Just go watch TV or something.”
“I’m cold,” said Sammy, going over to throw himself on the couch.
Dean chewed on his lower lip. The last thing Dad would appreciate was Sammy getting a cold. Not when the school and the van and everything had been set up so nicely so that Dad could work a couple of jobs in the area. He checked the thermostat. It was up to 70, as high as Dad said it should go. Then Dean went into the back room, and unplugged the space heater that sat next to their double bed. He carried it out to the living room, plugged it in and set it down in front of Sammy. He turned it on, watched the bars glow orange.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” Sammy looked up at him, and pulled his writing tablet from the plastic sack on the floor. Then he said, “I lost my crayons today, too.” He dipped his head between his shoulders. Under ordinary circumstances, both of them knew that carelessness to get your hat stolen and loose your new crayons on the same day would call for some serious trouble. Dean smiled. He would save the day.
He went to his coat and pulled out the crayons. The edge of the box was a little damp, but they were all there. He put them under his nose and smelled. “Such a terrific little box,” he said.
Sammy leaped up from the couch to grab them. “Dean, Dean!”
Dean smiled. Sammy danced his way back to the couch and settled himself in to color in his notebook, pretending to be a great and famous artist. Dean turned to the kitchen and hunted down the cans of tomato soup. Was there milk to make it with? Yes. They were well stocked. At least for now.
“Grilled cheese, too, Sammy?” he asked.
“Yeah!”
Dean nodded. Grilled cheese it was.
*
No.
He thought it. Tried to say it.
No. Don’t do that. Don’t do that to me.
It was too late. He could feel the hands on him, fingers slipping between his legs, stroking the flesh behind his balls. The hand wanted to do more. He knew it.
No.
He sat up. The covers slipped from him, and he almost couldn’t breathe. The TV was on in the other room; he could see the light, hear the low sound. People laughing. A talk show. Dad. Come home from a hunt, or maybe the bar, or maybe the library. There was a clock on the wooden chair by the bed. It said 2 am. It was set to 7 am, so Dean could get them both up and meet the bus with Sammy before he walked to school by 8:10. And as for nightmares, there was nothing Dad could do anyway. He was a big boy. It was just a dream.
Beside him, as he lay down, Sammy stirred, and curled in closer. Even with three blankets over them, the furnace never did much good. The space heater was still out by the TV, but Dean didn’t want to get up and get it. That would alert Dad to the fact that Dean was awake, and Dad would want to know why. It was nothing.
“’ean?” asked Sammy. Sam’s monkey-light hand patted him on the shoulder. Sammy had his share of bad dreams, it seemed he could recognize when Dean was having one. “S’okay, now. Sleep.” The little hand touched Dean’s face before falling back on the pillow. Dean turned and curved his arm around Sammy’s shoulder, tucked Sam’s dark head under his chin. Made himself breathe slowly in and out. Breathed in Sammy’s clean soap scent. Closed his eyes against the darkness. Willed sleep to come.
Part 2