my life's come off its tracks [spn][three]
three
It’s the first day of school. Figures Sammy would be freaking out. He’s hopping all over the place; Dad’s already gone to hide in the bathroom or bedroom or something, until eight o’clock comes around.
It’s April. The school year’s practically over. Dean thinks it’s a really stupid idea to be starting now, right in the middle. When he can’t talk. Stupid. What’s he supposed to do?
That’s why he’s splayed out on the couch, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Gushers. He really would like some, right about now. His stomach rumbles.
Sam races into the living room. Screeches to a halt in front of Dean. Actually screeches. Nearly blows Dean’s eardrums out. He sticks out a foot. “Tie my shoe.”
Dean sits up and grabs his little reporter’s notebook from the table. Puts pen to paper, ready to scribble out that Sam can freaking tie his own shoe, but Sam wrenches the pad out of his hand. Narrows his eyes and sticks a finger in Dean’s face. “Sign,” he orders.
Dean sighs. Not that it really matters anyway, since Sammy still can’t read properly. He raises his hands and says, Tie your own shoes, dweeb. He has to spell ‘dweeb’ out letter-by-letter but whatever. As long as Sam gets it. Or even if he doesn’t. It’s the principle.
“I tried,” says Sam, and his hands come up to make the signs too. “They keep coming untied.” The last bit he says aloud, after a couple of crap attempts. He’s slower than Dean, but he’s not bad. Of course, the way they’ve been keeping their noses to the grindstone lately, the neighbors’ dog could probably do it too.
Mac walks in just as Sam’s signing with a, “Hey, chicos.” Grins at the sight and says, “Good job, Sam.”
Dean rolls his eyes. She is way too easy. That’s really not good for Sam; he’ll be expecting a pat on the back every time he pees now.
Mac closes the door behind her, sets her keys down in the bowl on foyer table and takes her coat off.
Mac is their nanny. This is not something Dean plans on telling anyone at school. Ever. It’s bad enough that he has to have one in the first place - if it gets around, he’ll be the talk of the town for more than just being the mute kid.
She was Dad’s idea. After a few weeks of trying to teach himself and Dean and Sam SEE, he’d decided it really was a job for someone who knew what they were doing. That’s where Mac came in.
She’s not really a nanny nanny. She’s not old or anything. Or wrinkly. She’s not Miss Birdie (thank God). Her real name is Mackenzie. She’s still in college and she always smells like peaches and languages are her thing. She told Sam and Dean if they tried to call her Mackenzie she’d kick their butts because only her mom uses her full name.
Dean’s not sure he gets that. He thinks it’d be nice to be called something your mother calls you. Dean’s mother only ever called him Dean, but if she called him something else, maybe Dean would ask other people to call him that too. Not if it was something dumb like Deany-Beany. Or Chick. But you know. It’s not like Mom would have ever called him anything like that anyway.
Probably.
“Hello?” says Sam. Raises his shoed foot into the air and wriggles it around in Dean’s face. Almost falls on his butt.
Mac’s here, Dean tells him. Ask her.
“No,” says Sam calmly, like he’s talking to some dumb baby. “I want you to do it.”
Dean could tell Sam to stuff it. He could. And Sam would listen, eventually, go off and mope for three hours and then be back again, like the puppy Dean never got. Sometimes he thinks that, you know? That God gave him a brother instead of a puppy; mostly Dean thinks that’s okay - everyone makes mistakes, and Sam’s not bad - he can talk. Which dog can do that?
So, yeah. Dean could tell Sam to stuff it. But he doesn’t. Sits up on the couch and bends over before Sam can rest his shoe on Dean’s knee. He ties them the squirrel-goes-around-the-tree way instead of the bunny-ears way because Sam thinks that’s more grown-up. Double-knots it just to be safe.
Sammy examines Dean’s work, and then beams.
No slobbering on me, Dean signs quickly, before Sam gets any ideas. (See? Puppy.)
Sam stares blankly at him, then leans forward. Whispers, “Do you mind repeating that?”
Dean closes his eyes for a moment. Signs slooooowly: No kisses.
“Oh!” says Sam. “Right. Got it. No kissing.”
And because Sammy is a smartass, he wraps his arms around Dean’s neck instead.
Almost strangles him too. Jeez.
-
Dad drives to school so he can register them and stuff.
Their school is called Lakeview Elementary and it has a kindergarten, so Sammy doesn’t have to go somewhere different. Mac’s been working with him on his writing and reading, and he’s caught up enough that even if they’re sticking him in a brand new grade near the end of the year, he shouldn’t have trouble. Dean’s going to finish up fourth grade, because he spent the last few months being sick and going to therapy at the hospital and learning sign language, not doing math or English exercises.
The school is huge, bigger than any other school Dean’s been to. Huge but… normal. Dean and Sam wait on red plastic chairs that wobble back and forth a little, while Dad stands at the desk and fills out papers. The lady behind the counter hands him sheets of papers, little glossy booklets. Smiles a lot. A lot, a lot.
A couple of kids come into the office, stare as they walk past. New kids give off vibes, Dean guesses, because it never seems to matter how big the school is or how impossible it would be for someone to know every single person and actually realize they’re looking at someone brand new. They always stare. Every single time.
Wait until they find out he can’t talk.
-
“This is Dean Winchester, class,” Ms. Calgary says brightly. She explains that Dean can’t speak, briefly. Does it all extra-loud, too, like Dean can’t hear her, or like maybe the class can’t.
See, the funny thing? If Dean were actually deaf, it wouldn’t matter how loudly she talked.
Everyone stares. Stares some more. Forty spotlights, focusing on Dean. It’s blinding. Dean stares right back. He’s even more blinding.
He sighs and, because it’s not gonna get worse than this, really, pulls out his reporter’s notebook. Writes down, I can hear, I just can’t talk. He shows it to Ms. Calgary.
“Oh,” she says. Volume adjusted. “I see. I’m sorry, I thought-” She doesn’t say what she thought, but she doesn’t have to. Dean’s not an idiot - he’s figured out how this thing works. He’d started figuring it out at the hospital.
“Okay, well, why don’t you take a seat behind Michelle?” Ms. Calgary says. A girl with blonde hair - Michelle - waves at him.
Notebook flips closed with a thwap. Dean sits down.
-
Ms. Calgary tackles Social Studies first. That’s okay. History never changes. Dean never forgets.
The words, PIONEER LIFE IN AMERICA, are splashed across the chalkboard.
Ms. Calgary talks like someone installed a motor in her mouth. 50 mph, 70, 100, 120 - damn, there goes the sound barrier. Maybe the class is behind in social studies. Maybe she needs to hurry to keep her job. Dean would like to tell her not to bother. He’s been in more schools than he can count and they never get anywhere with history. World War I is the furthest Dean’s ever gotten - and then POOF - like the world actually ended in that war instead of going on to take another shot at self-destruction.
There’s a line of books on a shelf behind the teacher’s desk. It’s the Little House series. Don’t tell anyone, but Dean’s already read all of those. They’re all right, he guesses. If you like that sort of dopey stuff - the kind where everything’s okay even when it isn’t and the world is a big happy place. Even when it isn’t.
Laura Ingalls was actually real. Dean wonders what she would have done if someone killed her Ma in a house fire. Wonders what she would have done if she found out that sometimes, there really are monsters under the bed.
-
That’s what happened, you know. It’s weird, just thinking about it sometimes.
Sitting in the bright, bright classroom, with the teacher’s voice swimming about in the air. Rustle of pages, tap of pencils. Sun glare on the windows. Birds chirping outside.
Something killed his mom. She didn’t just die. She was murdered.
Something did that and Dean doesn’t know what and he doesn’t know why.
But it happened.
-
Dean follows the other students when it’s time for lunch. There’s a wave of kids heading towards the cafeteria. Dean stops just outside the double doors and sifts around in his pockets. He’d forgotten to ask for something for lunch, or for money.
He comes up with seventy-nine cents, a paper clip and some lint. His reporter’s notebook and a pencil are stuffed in his back pocket. He has no idea what food costs here, or if you need a number or how anything works.
Man, he’s hungry.
Maybe he can barter.
There’s a tap on his shoulder. He ignores it at first, because he’s standing in the middle of a stampede, and he’s been bumped a hundred billion times already. But then some burly looking kid with no hair barges past and someone grabs the bottom of Dean’s jacket.
Dean looks under his arm.
Oh. It’s Sammy.
He’s glaring ferociously at all the bumpers. Dean pulls him closer. They press against the wall.
Sam’s trying to sign something at him, but since he’s holding a paper bag in his hand, it’s sort of hard to figure out what he’s saying.
Dean smacks the back of his head. Signs, Talk. Gives him a look to make sure Sam knows Dean thinks he’s a ginormous dork.
Sam heaves a long-suffering sigh. He raises the paper bag he’s holding. “Mac dropped off lunch during art because she forgot to give it to us before. It’s for both of us. We can sit together in the lunch room, okay?”
Dean gives him a thumbs-up and Sam’s dimples appear. Dean could make fun of them - he usually does and Sam hates it - but his stomach rumbles and reminds him that Sammy happens to be holding all the food and he’s perfectly capable of running away with it all.
Sam leads the way through the throng of students.
They find a couple of spots empty at a table where some of Dean’s classmates are sitting. He doesn’t know their names. Michelle’s not with them. Sam clambers onto a bench and carefully opens the lunch bag. There’s two apples, two bags with carrot sticks.
Great. Mac thinks they’re goats.
Oh. Bologna sandwiches. Two juice boxes. And a container of chocolate pudding. Sam points to it. “We have to share this.” Remembers to sign, belatedly. Only gets the “we” and “to” right. Dean doesn’t bother correcting him. He can’t remember the sign for ‘share’ either.
The sandwiches taste great. Sam jabbers on endlessly about what he’s done so far and how it’s not too hard and he thinks he’ll be fine. He sounds like a professor.
“Hey, see that kid,” someone says, nearby. Dean’s ears decide that is more important to listen to than Sam’s story of Sari whose best friend hates her now. One of the kids from Dean’s class motions to Dean with a thumb. He’s sitting six spots down from Sam. Dean catches it in his periphery. He says, “He can’t talk. He’s a retard or something.”
“Really? He looks normal.” Girl’s voice. Dean’s row. He doesn’t turn his head to look at her, but he can feel her eyes. Like lasers. They’re eating his skin.
“Yeah.” A hand rises - finger circles around the kid’s ear. “Probably rode the short bus to school. I bet.”
“What’s the short bus?” the girl asks.
Yeah. Dean would kinda like to know too.
Some other kid. Higher voice. “My brother says it’s the bus that retards ride on, to go to their special school.”
“Yeah, the retard rocket.”
“Well, if he rode the retard bus, why is he here? Shouldn’t he be somewhere else?”
First kid again. “What do you expect? He’s a retard.”
Laughter. Hyena laughter. Donkey laughter.
He could show them. They’re the retards, they just don’t know it. If only he could tell them. He’d curse them a blue-streak and make their ears fall off.
“Dean? Hey. Dean? Dean, Dean, Dean. DEAN!”
Dean looks at Sam. Sam points at his sandwich. “You have a half left,” he says.
Dean’s not hungry. He wants to tell Sam that he can have it, if he wants too. He tries to make the words come out of his mouth. They don’t.
He stares at his hands, on the table.
They don’t move.
He’s silent. He’s a shadow. A ghost. He’s a nobody.
-
Dad asks, “How was school?”
Dean shrugs. Sam launches into a blow-by-blow recount.
He wants to say, Don’t make me go back there. Wants to say, Forget school. Who needs it?
Wants to say, Let me help you, Dad. I could help you. I could kill things. Monsters.
Talking doesn’t matter there.
But wait.
If he can’t talk…
If he can’t even make a sound…
What happens if he needs to warn Dad or something? What happens if he needs to call for help? What happens if he needs to say an incantation or a prayer or something?
What happens then?
He can’t stand there, with a gun in his hand and a bag of salt at his feet, and sign it. Hope that Dad’s looking his way at the right moment. Doesn’t get shish kabob-ed. Doesn’t let Dean get shish kabob-ed.
Sammy’s still chattering. Dean looks at him. His floppy hair. Big eyes. Tiny little hands, tiny little face, tiny little body.
Anything could just - snap.
Dean could do it, if he wanted to. Something could make Dean do it.
Or. Something could get them. If Dean can’t talk. Something could get him. Maybe even get Dad. Maybe. Dean would be a… that word. A - a - a danger. A liability. Liabilities get you killed, even if you are a superhero.
Then where would Sam go? What would he do?
He’d be alone. Just this little, tiny, snap-able… boy.
So. Dean can’t... he can’t ever hunt.
This is it for him. This is who he’s supposed to be.
Don’t be a little kid, says a voice in Dean’s head. Don’t be stupid. Be brave. Mom would have wanted you to be brave.
But really, all he wants to do is cry. All he wants to do is curl up and cry.
-
“Dean?” Mac taps him on the nose and Dean blinks. She gives him a small smile.
“You were spacing out on me kiddo.” She marks the page in the book they were reading/signing. It’s a weird book. But not bad weird. There are brothers in it too. “Anything on your mind?”
Dean thinks about it for a minute. Telling her.
Chyeah. Right.
It’s not like Mac knows anything about hunting. The day Dad hired her, he told her that he takes protection very seriously. He didn’t tell her that Dean has a .45 in his duffel that comes out and sleeps under Dean’s pillow when Dad’s away. He did tell her about his “sons’ BB guns”.
There was a look on Mac’s face when he said that. Like she’d tasted something bad. But it went away quickly. She never says anything about it either. Dean’s pretty sure she doesn’t approve. But then, Dean’s pretty sure Mac doesn’t know that werewolves are real. Dad’s saving people’s lives. People like her.
He can’t tell her any of this.
Dumb kids at school, he signs, instead. Not that it’s bugging me, he adds quickly. In case she gets the wrong idea.
“Kids,” Mac says. Corrects his sign. Then she smiles again. Takes Dean’s hand in her own. Her hand is nice; long thin fingers. Smooth palm. Warm. “Kids are going to be jerks no matter who you are or what you can and can’t do,” she says. “Even I get shit, and I’m in university.” She pauses. “Don’t tell your dad I said shit, though.”
What for? Dean signs.
Mac looks stumped for a moment. “Well, it’s not exactly professional. Though maybe I could say I’m supposed to be teaching you how to sign the English language and ‘shit’ is a word-”
Dean shakes his head frantically, laughing.
“What? What?” Mac’s eyes widen. “Oh. What do I get shit for?”
Dean nods.
“Well. This.” She shakes her head so her short, rainbow colored hair flops around. “And this.” She taps her eyebrow piercing. Then she looks over her shoulder and lifts her shirt up a little.
Her bellybutton is pierced too.
HER BELLYBUTTON.
“And that.” She smiles at Dean. “Some people just don’t like it if you’re different. Doesn’t matter what kind of different. But then you have people like you and your dad and Sam. None of you care about this stuff, do you?” She waves her hands at herself.
Dean shakes his head fervently. Brings his first two fingers and thumb together over and over: No, no, no, no, no. NEVER.
Mac grins. “Exactly. So you just have to meet the right people. They’ll accept you for exactly who you are, because they’ll know.”
Know what?
“What a catch you are,” Mac says. “And until then, you have me.”
“And meeeeeee!” Sam comes running out of nowhere and pretends to dive-bomb into Mac’s lap.
Little eavesdropper.
“And Sam,” Mac agrees. She looks back at Dean. “Just you wait. Things will look up soon enough. Now-” she lifts up The Plant that Ate Dirty Socks again, “-we have signing to do.”
-
Next morning.
They wait in front of their house for the school bus. It rained last night. Everything’s wet, even the air. The sky is still gray.
Dean’s hot and cold at the same time. His shoulders are aching. It feels like he tied a rope around his chest this morning before getting dressed.
Mac comes running out of the house. “Lunch!” she chirps, handing them their bags. “Totally didn’t forget this time.”
“There!” Sammy exclaims. Bounces like a frog. Points.
Dean’s heart wants out of his chest, NOW. It’s very demanding.
The bus is coming around the corner. Big yellow caterpillar. It hisses. Wooshes. Stops in front of their house.
It’s not the short bus. It’s the regular bus. The long one.
Dean helps Sam get up the big steps and feels all the tension running out of his body. It trickles down onto the street and slips into the drain. The rope around his chest is gone.
Mac waves to him in the window and Sam leans over Dean to wave back. Dean puts a hand on his face, pushes him back. Waves to Mac too, when she glares pointedly at him and waves harder.
Psh. See?
Not a retard. Duh.
-
Dean gets called into the counselor’s office in the middle of math.
He doesn’t mind all that much.
The counselor’s name is Miss Burgess. She smiles at Dean when he knocks on the open door and tells him to come in.
Dean sits down. Flops down really. Spreads his legs out. Stretches a bit.
The counselor looks nice. Young. Not as young as Mac, but close. She has brown hair to her shoulders and brown eyes. She’s got a… thing, strapped on her shoulders like a backpack. A tank. It’s black.
“So, Dean,” says Miss Burgess, looking up from the folder on her desk. She catches Dean staring and smiles a little. “Do you prefer sign language or is it fine if I just talk?”
You can sign? Dean asks.
“Sure can,” she says. Signs at the same time.
It’s okay, Dean says generously. Just talk.
“Right,” says Miss Burgess. “You’re probably wondering what this thing is, huh?” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder.
No, Dean says. Shrugs a little. He could care less. In fact, he doesn’t care at all. He looks up at the ceiling. Interesting - it’s white.
Miss Burgess hums a little. “Well, can I tell you anyway?”
Dean gives her the go ahead. Why not? If it’ll make her feel better.
“It’s an oxygen tank. My lungs don’t work very well - they haven’t since I was a kid. So I get to carry extra oxygen around all the time, to help my lungs get all the air they need.”
All the time? Dean asks.
“Yep. All the time. Does it bother you?”
Dean shakes his head. Why should it? It just looks like she’s carrying around a tank. If she hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t know it’s helping her get air. He wonders if it’s connected to her somehow. Like, going inside her body. That could be cool.
“Okay,” Miss Burgess says. “Well, you just started here, so I wanted you to know where my office was and that you can come and talk to me whenever you like, okay? Whatever the reason, even if it seems like nothing to you. If it bothers you, come tell me about it.”
As if. Dean nods anyway, so she feels like she’s accomplishing something.
“How do you like Lakeview so far?”
Dean makes the so-so sign with his hand. Looks around the office. There are frames behind Miss Burgess’s desk, with colorful shards of glass stuck on the wood. A lot of frames. There are more on the other walls too.
“My students,” says Miss Burgess. “The ones who come talk to me a lot get to make a frame and then I put their pictures up.” She smiles at them fondly.
“Maybe you can do one,” she suggests.
Dean shrugs.
Maybe. Maybe not.
-
Ms. Calgary holds up flash cards with the shapes of the fifty states on them. The whole class is sitting in a circle. Two students stand up. The one who names the state first moves on to challenge the next student.
Dean gets to sit out, because almost everyone’s faster than the kid who has to write down the name of the state.
He keeps sitting in his chair, writes down the names of every single damn state on the flashcards even though Ms. Calgary didn’t tell him to. He gets them all right too.
Couple of kids are glancing at him every now and then. Snickering into their sleeves. Dean waves at them and they stop laughing abruptly.
Fucking Lakeview.
-
Recess. Dean walks up to some of the kids from his class. The ones that think they’re particularly funny. He starts signing at them.
Their faces go from confused to uncomfortable to freaked out.
He signs faster. He’s making no sense, just sticking together whatever pops up in his mind.
“Um,” one girl says. “What?”
Dean sighs then, loudly. Shakes his head. Looks at them all like the pathetic things they are and walks away.
If he’s got to do this thing. Well. He might as well use it to his advantage, right?
Right.
-
Fingers tapping on the door. Dean keeps his head under the sheets.
“Up and at ‘em, Dean,” Dad says gently. “You have therapy today.”
ARGH. Therapy.
Dean doesn’t move. Holds his breath too. He is a rock. He is a stone. He does not need any more stupid therapy, thank you very much.
Don’t come in, he thinks. Don’t open the door. I am a stone.
No more tapping. No more words. Dean relaxes.
The door opens. Crap.
“Hey, Dean?” Sam. Tiny fingers prodding the blanket. “Dean? Are you awake?”
Quiet, for a long time. The door doesn’t close again. But it’s still quiet. Dean holds his breath. Tries to hear Sammy breathing.
Nothing.
He pokes his head out of the covers. Sam’s eyes widen comically. He’s still standing right there, next to the bed.
Fuck, Dean thinks.
Oh, wait. He can smell something. Pancakes. Huh. Dean glances out the window, just in case pigs are flying. Dad hasn’t made pancakes in… a long time.
“Are you getting up?” Sam asks.
Dean thinks about it. Shakes his head. Not even pancakes are worth therapy. Everyone acts like he’s a dumb kid there.
“DAD!” Sam screeches at the top of his lungs.
“Hug ‘im, Sam. Hug him into submission!” Dad calls back.
A huge grin spreads on Sam’s face. Wicked. The little monster.
Dean tries the puppy-dog eyes, but they seem to have no effect because Sam leaps anyway, slathers himself all over Dean.
Beaten. Beaten by his own dad. It’s a cruel world.
-
“Hey! New kid!”
Dean’s in the yard. He’s lying on the grass and staring at the sky. The clouds are gray-black. Rumbling. Lighting flashes behind them every now and then. The wind rushes around him, and the grass rustles. Dean loves it. Only loves two things more. Weeeell. Three. Including Mom.
He sits up at the sound of a voice. There’s a girl leaning over the fence, in Miss Birdie’s yard and she’s not Miss Birdie. No one lives with Miss Birdie, not even her husband, because he passed away.
Dean pulls out his notebook.
Are you trespassing? Dean writes. He folds a paper airplane, shoots it towards the girl. The wind swishes around a bit but it falls on her side of the fence. She jumps off the fence to get it, opens it up. Puts her arms back over the fence, toes on the horizontal board near the bottom.
“No,” the girl says. She’s got black hair. Long, down past her shoulders, down past the fence. “Are you the new kid?”
Dean shakes his head. He’s lived here for months now. He’s not new. Points to her.
The girl splutters. “I’ve been here before. A million times. Never seen you though.”
Maybe you should look harder, Dean thinks. Writes it down and airplane’s it to her. The leaves on the trees shudder, laugh. It was funny.
The girl narrows her eyes at that. “I’m Lily.” She stops. Gazes pointedly, like she’s waiting for something.
Dean stares right back. “And?” she asks. Dean raises his eyebrows.
Lily rolls her eyes. “Who are you?”
Dean writes his name on a page, big letters. Shows the notebook to her and then signs it, letter-by-letter. Thunder. Loud, loudest yet. The wind tries to push Dean over.
Lily’s eyes move back from the sky to Dean. “Dean,” she repeats. She tries the signing. Screws it all up. “Cool.”
She jumps down, peers at Dean through the fence slats. “Nice to meet you, Dean,” she says brightly.
Lightning flashes and Lily runs away, into Miss Birdie’s house.
-
Two weeks.
Dean gets through them. Doesn’t have a nuclear meltdown. Doesn’t go kamikaze on the whole of Lakeview Elementary. Takes pity on the poor saps. Leaves the school standing.
Pat me on the back, he signs to Sammy, ‘cause he feels like it.
Sammy does so with fervor.
-
“Retard!” someone hisses. “Retard? Hey, you deaf too?”
Ms. Calgary is correcting tests at her desk. This is reading hour. Dean keeps his eyes on his book.
“RETARD!”
Dean glances up at Ms. Calgary. Wants her to look up for a moment. He imagines it. Imagines her coming to his rescue. Feels hot all over.
On second thought, he wants her to stay right where she is.
“Retard’s deaf,” the voice says. Dean knows who it is now. Mark Holmes. Mark is what people call a douchebag. People being Dad, mostly.
Something hits the side of Dean’s head and lands on his desk. Crumpled up piece of paper. Dean sighs and opens it up. Smoothes it out.
It’s a stick figure. A poor one. It’s drooling, Dean thinks. Or it’s supposed to be drooling. Sammy could do it better.
Dean looks up, and over his shoulder.
Mark grins big and mean, nods his head a little. Yeah, you punk. I’m lookin’ at you.
Dean rolls his eyes and glances at Ms. Calgary. Makes sure she’s occupied, and then turns back to Mark. Raises his fist, and then slowly lifts his middle finger.
Big ol’ grin drips right off Mark’s face. Like drool.
Dean goes back to his book.
-
Sam is a regular social butterfly. He has friends. So God knows why he keeps on sitting with Dean at lunch.
Go sit with your friends, Dean writes on his reporter’s notebook. Sam’s lips move as he sounds out ‘friends’. Says ‘fry-ends’ twice before he gets it.
“Why?” he asks. Bites down on his apple. Juice runs down his chin.
Because, Dean signs.
“That’s not a reason.”
Yes.
“No.”
Yes.
“No.”
Dean wishes there was a way to yell in sign language. YES, he writes down, using the whole page.
“NO,” Sam bellows, making his voice monster-deep. Piece of apple in his mouth. Dean’s disgust must show on his face, because Sam’s mouth pops closed and his cheeks turn pink. “Sorry,” he says. Chews as fast as he can.
Sammy gets embarrassed about the weirdest things. Dean’s obviously got more work to do - kid could have milked that for all it was worth.
-
Saturday.
Dean wakes up to Dad trying to sing the house down.
“Well I never been to heaven, but I've been to Oklahoma. Well they tell me I was born there, but I really don't remember!”
Something good must have happened yesterday. Dad went to work.
Sammy’s already awake.
Dean can hear him asking, “Were you really born in Oklahoma?”
He always does that. And Dad always sings back, “What does it matter? What does it matter?”
-
Every Tuesday they have P.E.
Before the gym teacher had been on leave, but she’s back now, so they’re actually doing something for once - playing kickball.
Dean’s at the plate. The ball rolls up - he kicks - it goes flying!
First base - second - third-
The other team is shouting and scurrying around. Like ants when you blow on them. They won’t get the ball in time though. Dean kicked it with everything he’s got. Dean kicked it out of this world. “Damn, look at that beaut,” Dad would have said, if he could have seen. “Look at her go.”
Home plate. Dean slides.
His team erupts. The cheers echo around the gym’s blue walls. It sounds like the whole world’s cheering for Dean. He raises his arms above his head - the cheering gets louder. Dean’s grin is going to break his face. Kevin comes up and slaps him on the back. Megan squeals happily in his ear. Even Mark-the-douche looks pleased.
Kickball. Don’t need to talk to do that well.
-
During lunch, Cy waves him over.
His name is actually Richard, but everyone calls him Cy. It stands for Cyclops. Because he has one real eye and one glass one. He’s the class screw-up - well, after Dean, that is. He makes a joke out of it though. Usually, when Ms. Calgary is reading, she stands next to his desk and keeps her piece of chalk poking his neck. This has two advantages - one, Cy’s desk in right in the middle of the class, so she doesn’t have to worry about the back row not being able to hear her and two, it stops Cy from mocking everything everyone says in the book. Mostly because he’s trying hard not to choke.
“Want to sit with us?” Cy asks. Penn Foster’s sitting at the table and so are Jeremy Winger, Jaime Hallows and Wentworth Collins. Jaime’s got an earring in his ear. It glints.
Dean looks over at his usual table, where Sam is waiting.
He takes out his notebook. Writes out, Can my brother sit with us?
If these kids somehow forgot he’s the retard, they’ve just been reminded.
But Cy doesn’t look fazed. He takes the notebook, reads and hands it back.
“Your brother cool?” he asks.
Yeah, Dean writes. But he’s a kindergartner.
“One of the midgets, huh?” Cy says. Grins, then. “Sure, why not?”
“Why are we sitting with them?” Sam whispers when Dean goes to fetch him.
Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s not really sure himself.
-
They sit down. Sam right next to Dean. He’s practically pasted to his side. Dean can feel their cells fusing. They’ll be two people in one body if he keeps it up. Dean hopes no one else can tell.
“So, Dean,” Cy says. He’s got this tone - like he thinks he’s king of the rock. Dean’s heard it before. There was this guy that Dad met once, to talk about hunting. He’d been like that. Kept calling Dad, “Johnny-boy” or “kiddo”. Talked like he’d seen everything there was to see, like if he hadn’t seen it, it didn’t exist.
“So, Dean,” Cy repeats. It looks like he’s trying to get his eyes to x-ray Dean. “So. Dean.”
Dean really wants to ask someone to kick him. He’s stuck on loop. The radio in the Bobby’s truck does that sometimes. All it ever needs is a good kick.
Sam’s watching Cy with wide eyes. “Are those the only words you know?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Well, it’s good you know Dean, now, right? Is that why you wanted us to sit here? It must be weird, saying ‘So, Dean’ to everyone, when their name isn’t Dean.”
Dean has to bite his cheeks hard to keep from laughing. Cy’s face is a little frozen, but it smoothes out quickly.
“Huh,” he says to Sam. “I like you.”
“Huh,” Sam shoots back. “You know more words.”
“What do they call you kid?” Cy asks.
“They call me Sam.” He opens up his lunch bag, pulls out his carrot sticks. “And this is my big brother Dean. They call him Dean. Well, actually Dad sometimes calls him Dean-o, but you’re not Dad.”
Dean’s scribbling in his notebook before Sam’s done talking. He sticks it in front of Cy’s nose.
Dean. Just Dean. You can call my brother Sammy, though.
“Just Dean and Sammy,” says Cy. Dean should have known. Sam looks outraged at the use of ‘Sammy’ but can’t say anything because his mouth is stuffed full of carrot.
Cy sticks out a hand. “Nice to meetcha.”
-
Ms. Calgary gets hyperactive over commas and Cy passes Dean a note.
It doesn’t say anything special.
Just, Lunch was fun today.
Dean stares at it for awhile, then writes down his response and slides the note back.
It was fun.
Dean can’t remember ever thinking that before. Anywhere.
Ms. Calgary’s antennae go up. Someone’s thinking about fun.
“Dean?” she says, turning away from the board that has more white on it than black, now. “Are you listening?”
Dean nods earnestly. As earnestly as he can manage.
(Sammy cornered him one day to give him lessons. Dean’s not sure it worked.)
-
Lily is Miss Birdie’s granddaughter. She’s come to stay for a few months.
She’s homeschooled. Her mom’s name is Emily. She doesn’t have a dad. Not right now, at least. Apparently, her mom’s shopping around.
She tells Dean all of this, hanging over the fence. Dean listens. It would be rude not to. Besides, she’s not annoying.
You know, lilies are supposed to be good luck, Dean tells her once. In China.
“Good thing I’m not in China,” Lily says, handing his notebook back.
-
A week of lunches.
“We’ve decided,” Cy says the next Tuesday. “You’re gonna be official members.”
“Official members of what?” Sam asks suspiciously.
“Our family,” Jaimie-with-the-earring says, like it’s obvious.
“But first,” Jeremy says, “you need to be initiated.” He adjusts his glasses on his nose. Puts his hands behind his back.
“How?” asks Sam.
Maybe when God gave him Sammy, he wasn’t giving him a puppy, he was giving him a translator. Or something. A mind reader. Because usually, when Sam’s around, Dean doesn’t have to bother signing or writing. Sammy just takes the words right out of him mouth.
“I won’t do it if it’s legal,” Sam says.
Great. Just when you think…
Dean rolls his eyes and pulls his notepad out. Writes: ILLegal, stupid head.
“Oh, right,” says Sam. “ILLegal. I won’t do it then.”
“Don’t worry, Sherriff,” Cy says. “It ain’t nothin’ illegal. All you have to do is touch my eye. The glass one.”
“That’s disgusting!” Sam exclaims. “Really?”
“Yep. Chicken?”
“No,” Sam mutters. Nudges Dean. “You first.”
Cy leans forward. Dean then reaches out a finger without hesitation. He’s one cool cat. He touches Cy’s dead eye. It’s a little wet. Mostly hard.
Sam still looks like he might turn tail and run, but he reaches forward just like Dean did. Taps Cy’s eye and then yanks his hand back, scrubs it on his shirt.
“Excellent,” Cy says, smartly. “Welcome to the family, Just Dean and Sammy.”
-
He walks out of the school, heads over to where the buses wait, near the kindergarten classes.
Sam’s class is walking out. They line up. The teachers start chatting with each other, unvigilant.
Mark Holmes walks up to the line of kids. Walks up to Sam.
Dean’s feet move faster.
Mark’s hand reaches out. He pushes Sam, and Sam lands on his knees, hard, and Dean has never been so fucking pissed in his life. His feet are on rockets. Mark’s saying, “Aw, is retard’s brother gonna cwy?”
Dean rushes up to Mark, grabs the front of his jacket.
“Hey - let go of me, retard,” Mark says immediately, struggling. He’s bigger than Dean. He manages to get loose.
Dean pushes past him, helps Sam up. Sam whose jeans are torn at the knees, whose palms are bloody. His eyes are wet. Dean brushes him off carefully, gets to his feet again.
Turns around and gets a fist in the eye.
He falls to the pavement. Can’t see for a minute. It hurts like hell. He can hear Sam shouting: “You jerk! You big fat jerk! You stupid, fat, ugly, JERK-FACE!”
Another voice shouts, “Hey!” and there’s a grunt, then. Maybe two. Dean blinks. See’s two people rolling on the ground - Mark is one and - and - Cy is the other. Cy. Cyclops. Huh.
“What is going on here?!” A teacher. Finally. They really, really need some work.
Sam’s giving it his all. “That guy hit my brother! For no reason! And he pushed me!” he wails. Sniffs loudly. Oh, yeah. The big guns are coming out - puppy-dog eyes, FULL POWER. The teachers don’t stand a chance.
Cy is shouting, “Those are my friends, loser!” Pulling Mark’s hair. The teacher’s spring into action, try to separate them.
Dean’s vision clears more, as a teacher kneels next to him. “Hey? Are you okay? Look at me, sweetheart, look at me now.” She lifts Dean’s chin with a finger, gently. Smells like flowers.
“That’s going to bruise,” she says with a wince. Looks over her shoulder, where Mark is standing with a teacher’s hand on his shoulder, looking shocked and holding his fist and looking teary. Cy’s being held back by Mr. Hanson, who teaches music. Cy looks mutinous.
They all get sent to the principal’s office - he and Cy and Mark and Sam. Dean and Sammy get off scot-free because apparently Mark’s a troublemaker and Principal Dickens is getting tired of his shenanigans. Cy get’s a warning.
Mark gets suspended.
-
Lily’s in her yard when the school bus drives up. Dean jumps down, gives Sam his hand to help him jump too.
Lily watches as they go up the walk. “Dean!” she calls.
“What?” Sam calls back.
Lily’s used to Sam speaking for Dean. “You look happy,” she says.
Sam stops at that, peering up at Dean calculatingly. “He looks like he has a messed up eye,” Sam states.
Dean shrugs. He keeps walking. Strolling, really. Sammy hooks his scraped-raw hand in Dean’s and swings his arm.
Maybe he is. Happy, that is.
-
Dad stares at his black eye and Sam’s scratched up knees.
“Tell me what happened again?” he asks, dabbing on stingy stuff.
Dean shrugs. If he could talk he’d say, Fell on a fist. But you should see the other guys!
“Dean, if you’re having trouble at school-”
But Dean shakes his head heard. Signs, I’m not, promise. It was just. Kids. Being mean to Sammy.
Dad nods then, slowly. “Okay, kiddo.”
-
Miss Burgess, the counselor, calls him to her office. Asks, “How are things going Dean? I heard you got into a fight. You want to tell me about that?”
Dean tells her, things are going fine, yeah he got into a fight and no, he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s getting better and better at this sign language thing. He looks at her brightly. Big smile. Opens his swollen eye as wide as it can go.
Ouch, shit.
Miss Burgess nods and her lips pull together, but she doesn’t press. She smiles and pats his hand and tells him he can tell her about any trouble he’s having, he knows that right?
Dean nods. Anything else I can do for you? he writes out on his notepad.
“Um. No,” she says. Lips twitch. “Thank you though.”
Dean leaves.
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