Lost Boys
Title: Lost Boys
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~4,341
Spoilers: None a'tall.
Warnings: Vague insinuations of child abuse and neglect.
Summary: Your big moment arrives, and it's not really how you pictured it.
Neurotic author's notes: Oh, god, I don't even like this, but it was sitting around as an unused bit for "Variations on a Theme" and today I finished it instead of reading third century Rabbinic literature, and now it's 2:30 am and I can't sleep on account of this bloody cold, so here, have possibly terrible fic! But hey, I got to stick a reference to HoJo's in there. Remember HoJo's? Anyways, this is my take what Sam and Dean must have looked like to their teachers and whatnot, and a little nod to how hard it can be, when you work with kids, to not know exactly how to help then. Also this might be awful. Blargh.
More notes: The title is the least original thing I have ever done.
One more! The cut text is from, what else, J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan.
November, 1993
There is a boy waiting outside of Hollis Elementary school, and he is every inch the type your mother warned you about.
That’s the first thing she notices about him, anyways-and it takes her a while to notice him at all, leaning as casually as he is against the low wall out front. He’s probably fourteen, got that skinniness of a recent growth spurt, and doesn’t seem quite adjusted to his broad shoulders-or maybe it’s just that the beat-to-shit leather jacket he’s wearing hangs too loose on his frame. He’s well on his way to good-looking, exactly the type of boy who would have broken her heart in high school-probably without even talking to her. His hands are in his pockets, his eyes scanning the road. His stance is defensive, almost provocative, and his presence outside an elementary school is honestly more puzzling than it is unsettling.
If he’s still out there at the end of the period, somebody should go and get him moving, but for the moment, the fifth grader history students are taking their biggest test of the year so far, and they’ve only got another ten minutes to do it. The room is alive with fidgeting and tiny, breathy sighs, pencils scratching haphazardly over papers. The ones who are taking it really seriously-Julie, George, Krista, Sam-are bent low over the papers, while a few of the others are staring idly out the window. Christ, a few of the boys are looking admiringly at the leather jacketed loiterer.
The bell rings and the kids are up all in one flurry, a few calling out a hurried “Bye, Mrs. B!” but most just scrambling to get their coats and scarves arranged to something approaching their mother’s satisfaction before dashing out, free at last.
Sarah is long used to this, and scans the papers as she gathers them. Julie’s attempts at cursive are scarcely legible, but her answers are solid; Max’s broad scrawl all but eats the page; Danny and Evie hardly wrote a word, Paul wrote far too much, and Sam-well. Sam Winchester is the only student who is new to her. She’d taught all the rest since the third grade, and knew a lot of them before that, but Sam is new in town, and his tight, controlled, and intelligent schoolwork has impressed her. He’s subdued, but very smart, and he worries her, sometimes, with the way he ducks his head when he’s finished rattling off an impressive answer, the way he always scurries from place to place, shoulders hunched, head down.
And because, according to teacher’s lounge gossip, this ten-year-old child has displayed a disturbingly cavalier attitude towards violence, has stood up for third graders in the face of boys twice his size, and defers unfailingly to male teachers with a clipped “yessir.” Nobody had ever met his parents. Add that to his raggedy, oversized clothes, his uncut hair, his thinness, and the oily, unwashed quality of his hair and face-and yes, alright, she’s concerned. But there are no bruises, no unexplained absences, no unusual aggression or shyness, no fear of returning home. There wasn’t enough to warrant a call to CPS, just enough to break her heart a little.
Wearily, she returned to her desk, gathered the tests and glances back out the window. The lanky mystery boy was still there, talking animatedly with-well, damn it. Sam. He was into it, too, leaning close, nodding and gesturing broadly, and Sam was as lively as she had ever seen him, practically bouncing and throwing his arms around for emphasis. More than once, she thought he was going to launch himself into the boy’s arms, though he never did. She wondered if this was the older brother he’d apparently told Oliver Price-his homeroom teacher-looked after him. Watching their easy, muted dialogue, like a silent film whose basic plot she could still follow-here Sam is talking about a some schoolyard drama, and here his brother is refocusing him as he gets bogged down in a thousand extra details, and here Sam’s story reaches its conclusion and his brother is suitably impressed-it’s easy to believe. The way they mirror one another’s gestures says they’ve known each other for a long time, and there’s a resemblance in their high cheeks and open faces.
And so with a smile she chastises herself for passing judgement on Sam’s brother, gathers up the tests and the rest of her things, and heads to a faculty meeting.
::
It’s dark before she sets off for home, and quite cold, and she’s cursing herself for her light fall jacket-and after Cal told her to bring a scarf, and after she called him a human icicle, damn it all-and she’s so intent on getting to her car she almost doesn’t hear them. But the murmur catches her attention-scares the shit out of her, actually-and she whirls around to see Sam and the other boy, still lingering by the low wall by the fifth grade rooms, on the edge of the parking lot. Sam is sitting on the wall, wearing the leather jacket over his frayed hoodie, and the brother is left in only a t-shirt and an open, thin flannel. The second she turns on them the boy is aware of her, placing himself in front of Sam, stance wide and challenging, his eyes tracking her movements and jaw set defensively. He looks dangerous, and somehow very young.
“Mrs. Beckett!” calls Sam, evidently unaware of his brother’s reaction, and the older boy relaxes.
“Hello, Sam,” she says, taking a step closer, making sure Dean sees that she’s carrying a pile of folders and a course planner, that she knows Sam and he knows her.
“This is my brother,” announces Sam, proudly, as if the boy between them was the most singularly impressive acquaintance she could ever make. “Dean, this is my history teacher. Mrs. Beckett.”
“Hi, Dean,” says Sarah, and offers a hand. Jaw still set hard, Dean takes it, and now he’s without his jacket she can see a stark network of scrapes and bruises on his arm, vanishing up beneath his sleeve, which is bunched around his elbow-the flannel’s too big. Oh, Jesus.
“Hey-a, Mrs. B,” says Dean, a quick smile tugging at his lips. He seems to sense her eyes on his arm, because he snatches it away, shakes his sleeves back down. They land past his hands, and he looks even younger.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, then fixes her eyes on Sam. “You boys been here since three?” Sam nods once. Dean is shifting from foot to foot, eyes on the road. “Is somebody coming for you?” Sarah continues, the beginnings of dread uncoiling in her stomach.
Sam opens his mouth, but Dean beats him too it, rattling off a “yes ma’am” that manages to sound like a dismissal. Sarah ignores him, keeps her eyes on Sam, who is watching his brother, squirming in the comically overlarge jacket. They stand there for a long moment, a triangle of wary eyes-Sam’s on Dean, Dean’s on Sarah, Sarah’s on Sam. Eventually, Sarah turns back to Dean. “Who?” she asks, in her best teacher voice.
“Our dad,” he replies instantly.
“When?”
He falters, bites his lip, and all of Sarah’s annoyance leaves her in a rush. The kid’s barely in high school, and it’s not his fault he’s alone, or that it’s cold and her husband expected her an hour and a half ago, or that he’s wary of adults. Especially that last one. That is learned behavior.
“Do you boys need somewhere to stay a bit?” she asks, turning her attention back to Sam, who is still fixated on Dean, eyes bright in the gathering dark. Sarah looks at the older boy as well, watches as he purses his lips and shuffles some more, squints at the road, willing this wayward father to show up. The wind is picking up, and Sarah nearly shutters herself, thinking of Dean in just his oversized shirt. She wants to shake Dean, tell him to trust her, she’s a teacher, this is her job. She’s happy to give them someplace warm and well-lit, just for a few moments, and it’s her job. She wants to direct his attention to Sam, whose face is pinched and uncomfortable, who might need a little soft and normal right now. Wants to drag him straight out of whatever hole he’s living in, pull him away from whoever bruised him up so bad.
What she says is, “What if we just sat in my car until your dad gets here? It’s chilly out.”
After another long and uncomfortable moment, Dean nods, first to Sarah, then to Sam, who slides easily off the wall and under Dean’s proffered arm. They walk like that to the car, the jacket nearly trailing to the ground, Dean’s arm slung easily around his brother. Sarah is prepared to offer Dean shotgun, but he ducks into the back with Sam, leaving her perched awkwardly in the front seat, watching them in the rearview mirror.
In the stark yellow light of the car’s overheads, Dean looks terrible. He skin’s got the same unwashed quality Sam’s does, and she hadn’t spotted the mostly-healed split in his lower lip, cushioned in a small but visible bubble of swollen, pink skin. He’s got deep purple smears under his eyes, and his forehead is smattered with ache. His left arm is propped over the back of Sam’s seat, protective without being overbearing, but he’s holding his right stiffly in his lap, palm up and fingers curled slightly. His eyes are still fixed on the road, over Sam’s head, and it looks like he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. He is the very picture of discomfort.
Next to him, Sam is bunched up in his seat, clutching his threadbare backpack to his stomach, eyes fixed on the floor, still burrowed in the giant jacket. He looks better than Dean, merely sleepy instead of exhausted, nowhere near as haggard. She can’t see a scratch on him.
“So,” she says, shifting in her seat to look at the boys, “I know Sam’s in the fifth grade. What about you, Dean?”
He jumps a little, fixes his eyes on her, narrows them. “I’m a freshman,” he says, and she nods, trying to engage him.
“Over at the high school?” she asks, though the answer is obvious, and he nods once. She fidgets with her jacket sleeves, nervous under his appraising stare. She reminds herself that he’s not ten, and she tries not to sound condescending as she continues, “That’s good, that’s good. What’s your favorite class?”
“Lunch,” Sam suddenly blurts, not looking up from the car floor. Sarah and Dean both turn to look at him, and he glances up at them from under his shaggy bangs, a self-satisfied little grin lighting up his face. Sarah can’t help the snort that escapes, and jumps when Dean also lets out a little chuckle, delivers an affectionate fake-smack to the back of Sam’s head. “What?” says Sam, still grinning in that I-know-I’m-cute way. “It’s true.”
Dean smirks, then shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says, looking back at Sarah, “lunch.” He’s a little less guarded now, a little cheekier. Affection for Sam is practically radiating off him.
She nods. “Fair enough. I’m sure Sam's favorite is history. Isn’t that right?” She knows it’s a risk, teasing even so lightly, but Sam nods eagerly, and launches into a detailed breakdown of his perceived performance on today’s test, as well as an excitable explanation of this week’s lesson plan. Dean watches with the same unpatronizing interest she’d seen in his posture before the faculty meeting, through the window. His face is open and his expression is so full of pride it’s honestly a little arresting.
When he’s finished the conversation moves more easily, covering Sam’s other classes, the books he’s reading, a bit of distantly observed lunchroom drama. Dean and Sarah interject occasionally, prying Sam for his opinions on class topics and the current events she has reviews with her students every day before the lesson proper begins. Sarah finds herself focused most acutely on Dean, whose own attention is fixed solely on Sam. Never in ten years of parent-teacher conferences and elementary school graduation ceremonies has Sarah seen someone look on a child with such utter, open adoration.
It’s only when Sam’s contributions begin to dwindle and he starts sagging almost imperceptibly against Dean that Sarah realizes, with a start, that it’s been well over an hour. She excuses herself to go call her husband. “This dumb car still doesn’t have a phone,” she confesses (before she remembers their tattered hand-me-downs and realizes they probably don’t have a car phone either), and slips into the school building, leaving Dean and Sam locked secure in the warm car. She doesn’t bother asking them to hang around until she comes back, even if their dad does show up. She’s sort of forgotten he’s expected.
When she returns, Sam is slumped all the way against Dean, whose eyes are back on the road. His mottled left arm is tucked securely around Sam’s shoulders. She tries to be quiet as she gets back into the front seat, and turns immediately to face Dean, reaching up as she does to switch the car ceiling light off. “What do you think’s keeping your dad, Dean?” she asks softly, not wanting to spook him.
He shakes his head, almost unaware he’s doing it, still gazing out the window, eyes huge and almost glittering in the near darkness.
“Dean,” she says, again in her teacher voice, and he shrugs this time. “What’s your dad do?” she asks, trying to draw his attention back to her, trying to ascertain if this is as bad as it looks.
“He-this and that,” says Dean, voice very low, “odd jobs. We’re not-I mean, he-he’s a, um, he’s a mechanic, but we travel around a lot. You know.” He leaves it at that, and she supposes he’s expecting her to fill in the gaps. He’s usually between jobs. He doesn’t make much. We move around too much.
She wants to remind him that it’s almost 10:30 at night and he and his ten-year-old brother would still be sitting on that cold wall by the fifth grader’s room if she hadn’t spotted them on her way to the car, that it’s cold and-fuck, neither of them will have eaten since lunch, they’ve got to be starving. She wants to force him to take the situation into perspective, but at this point it seems far more like cruelty than tough love.
“We can go get something to eat,” she says instead. “There’s a HoJo’s not too far from here. My treat.”
He shakes his head immediately, finally tearing his eyes from the road and looking at her. She can just see his outline in the dark car, sprinkled with the light of a few street lamps and the lit-up buttons on the car’s radio. “No, thank you. I mean, you don’t have to-thank you, but nah, we’d better wait for my dad. And since Sammy’s-” He inclines his head towards the boy sleeping against him and cuts himself off, eyes drifting back to the road.
“Are you okay, Dean?” she blurts, before she can stop herself, and he turns back to her in an instant, setting his shoulders back, stiffening. Goddamn it, he’s back on the defensive.
“Yes ma’am,” he says again, flatly, and the arm around Sam tightens-she can see his edge of their shared silhouette squeeze closer to Dean. Sam lets out a little sigh but sleeps on.
“Dean,” she says, as firmly as she can without making him think she’s angry. She reminds herself this could be a family emergency, a one-off occurrence-never mind Dean’s injuries and the boys’ total acceptance, she could hold onto the idea that these boys had something good waiting for them at home. “Does this happen often?”
He doesn’t answer, just tucks his chin over Sam’s head and watches the road again. It’s all the confirmation she needs, and she wants to tell him she has nearly enough to call CPS already, wants to offer him this out. He’s tucked himself a little more fully around his brother, watching the road with something approaching desperation now. He’s fourteen years old, she thinks, and her heart hurts for him.
“Dean,” she prompts him, and he ignores her. “Dean, honey. Are you okay?”
A car rounds the corner and Dean’s whole face lights up in the flood of the headlights, then crumples just as quickly, just as totally, as the compact little red sedan rattles by without stopping. His chin is quivering.
It feels cruel, but into the renewed darkness she whispers, “What happened to your arm, Dean?”
“Nobody hit me,” he says, and his voice wobbles just a little, and Sarah is a little lost.
“Okay,” she says.
They’re quiet for a long time. It’s 10:59 before Dean speaks again. “It sounds like Sammy’s doing really good in your class,” he says. His voice is thin but steady.
“He sure is,” she says, and thinks she sees him smile a bit. “He’s very smart.”
Dean lets out a short, small laugh. “Too smart for his own good. Can barely keep up with him anymore, when he’s talking about school.” He pauses, trails his hand up and down Sam’s upper arm. His voice is wry and self-depreciating when he continues. “The other day I was making dinner, and he asks me a math question-I swear to you, I had no idea what he is talking about. Kid’s in the fifth grade, and he’s got me beat. And it wasn’t even his homework, just something he’d wondered about after flipping ahead in the workbook. The little dork.” He says it like, can you believe this nerd? and also like I can hardly stand how much I love him, but all Sarah can focus on was what he isn’t saying. I make my brother dinner. I help my brother with his homework. I’m the one doing the parenting here.
“Do you take care of Sam, Dean?” she asks, and he nods immediately, looking back into her face.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and he’s so proud and affectionate it hurts Sarah’s heart. He’s fourteen and a better parent than lots of people are at forty. Hell, he’s a better parent than the one he’s got.
“What about your dad?” she asks, and is sorry a second later, watching as Dean folds back into himself, eyes drifting back to the road.
“Works a lot,” says Dean, shortly.
“Is he gone more than he’s home?” She says it casually, like she can relate, like she’s just ribbing gently on the old man. Dean nods once, and she pushes her luck. “Is anybody taking care of you, Dean?”
He doesn’t answer, but she can see his jaw working as he keeps staring determinedly out the window. “You’re a kid, too, Dean,” she says, trying to dredge up the phrases they’d taught her when she was a new and fresh-faced teacher, convinced-utterly sure-that she’d know exactly what to do when a situation warranting a CPS call presented itself, much less precisely when such a call was warranted. She’d been so cocky, sure she’d find it easy to draw the kids out of their shell, comfort them, help them out. Of course, in all these years she’s called CPS twice, and both times she was deplorably late in spotting the issue and handled it every bit as clumsily as she’s handling this now. That was normal enough, or so they told her. Nothing really works like it does in a Very Special Episode.
“Sammy’s my job,” mumbles Dean, so softly she nearly misses it.
“Whose job are you?” she counters gently, and he shakes his head, chin wobbling again. “You take good care of your brother,” she says-if she’s certain of nothing else she’s certain of that. “But you’re a kid yourself. Somebody ought to take care of you.” They’re silent for another long moment before Dean speaks.
“I’m okay,” he says, like it’s definitive, and Sarah doesn’t believe him for a minute, but can’t find it in herself to bruise his pride. Her mind is made up in any case. Tomorrow morning she’s going to call CPS no matter what he says, but she feels like a traitor even thinking it, when he’s clearly trying so damn hard.
“I know you are,” she says, and they lapse back into quiet. Dean’s chin is still tucked over the crown of Sam’s head, and his own head has started to drift back against the seat back, his limbs relaxing incrementally, and if his eyes weren’t so fixed on the street Sarah would have thought he was asleep. Her own head is heavy on her shoulders. She’s caught between frustration and honest admiration; Dean will never admit, she is sure, that he’s in trouble, but likewise she feels reasonably confident no harm will come to Sam while Dean’s around.
It’s ten past midnight when an enormous black car screeches into the parking lot. Dean and Sarah jerk upwards as one.
“Sam,” says Dean, his voice low and urgent. “Sammy. Wake up, now. Sam. C’mon. Just for a minute. Dad’s here.”
Sam is fumbling with the door and grumbling sleepily as the other car’s door opens and someone emerges, staggers towards Sarah’s car, the only one left on the lot.
“Hurry up, Sammy,” says Dean, his voice commanding but without annoyance, and Sam stumbles out of the car and towards his father, who is still lurching haphazardly towards them.
“Dean,” says Sarah, seeing her opportunity and rounding on him. “Dean, honey, are you gonna be-”
“Dean. Dean!” barks a gruff voice from outside, and Dean stiffens, his eyes focusing immediately on his father. “Sam? Dean. Get over here,” he slurs, and Dean seizes his bag and is out of the car in a second. Heart pounding, Sarah follows suit.
Sam has nearly made his way to the big black car by now, dragging his schoolbag, and Dean is standing by the side of the car, watching as his father sizes Sarah up. He’s imposing and knows it, looming over her, his lined, bearded face set in a way that reminds her very much of Dean, daring her to say something.
“Mr. Winchester,” she says, “it’s past midnight. Your sons-”
“There was an emergency,” he snaps immediately, and she can smell the whiskey on him.
She gives a perfunctory nod, lets her anger bleed into her tone as she continues. “Nevertheless, they had no means to get home, and Dean’s physical condition is-”
“Dean,” snaps Mr. Winchester, like he can’t hear her, and Dean immediately scrambles to his side, puts a hand on his father’s arm like he’s going to help his father back to the car. He’s shrugged off immediately and he shrinks back, ducking his head. Mr. Winchester’s attention turns back to Sarah. “Dean is fine,” he growls, and then seizes Dean by the collar and marches him back in the direction of the car.
“Mr. Winchester!” calls Sarah, appalled. Dean’s fighting stance is long gone now.
“Thank you for your help,” he calls over his shoulder, his fake-gracious tone like acid, and she watches helplessly as he drags Dean across the parking lot, shoves him bodily towards the passenger seat, knows with terrible certainty her attempted intervention will do Dean precisely zero favors tonight.
She bristles as Dean ducks into the car, already mentally composing her CPS complaint. It’s all she can think of as the car rumbles away, and by the time she’s driven home and stumbled inside and fallen, fully clothed, into bed, she’s got the story written-the complaint, the eventual rescue, the moment when Dean wavers and tells some doe-eyed social worker that the bruises are his father’s doing, that he is raising a ten-year-old by himself. She falls asleep tasting the triumph of Mr. Winchester justly childless, his sons secured in some new home. The thought consumes her so utterly the boys even invade her dreams, flitting in at odd moments, Sam prattling on about his schoolwork, Dean laughing and wincing and endlessly watching an empty road.
First thing in the morning, before she’s due at school or before Cal is even awake, she’s digs up her old teacher’s handbook, finds the section on contacting CPS, takes a few notes on a legal pad so she doesn’t forget anything crucial. Plans to head over to the office after first period and play Wendy to the lost boys.
She does, but Sam isn’t in his fourth period history class, and she doesn’t see him or his brother again.
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~4,341
Spoilers: None a'tall.
Warnings: Vague insinuations of child abuse and neglect.
Summary: Your big moment arrives, and it's not really how you pictured it.
Neurotic author's notes: Oh, god, I don't even like this, but it was sitting around as an unused bit for "Variations on a Theme" and today I finished it instead of reading third century Rabbinic literature, and now it's 2:30 am and I can't sleep on account of this bloody cold, so here, have possibly terrible fic! But hey, I got to stick a reference to HoJo's in there. Remember HoJo's? Anyways, this is my take what Sam and Dean must have looked like to their teachers and whatnot, and a little nod to how hard it can be, when you work with kids, to not know exactly how to help then. Also this might be awful. Blargh.
More notes: The title is the least original thing I have ever done.
One more! The cut text is from, what else, J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan.
November, 1993
There is a boy waiting outside of Hollis Elementary school, and he is every inch the type your mother warned you about.
That’s the first thing she notices about him, anyways-and it takes her a while to notice him at all, leaning as casually as he is against the low wall out front. He’s probably fourteen, got that skinniness of a recent growth spurt, and doesn’t seem quite adjusted to his broad shoulders-or maybe it’s just that the beat-to-shit leather jacket he’s wearing hangs too loose on his frame. He’s well on his way to good-looking, exactly the type of boy who would have broken her heart in high school-probably without even talking to her. His hands are in his pockets, his eyes scanning the road. His stance is defensive, almost provocative, and his presence outside an elementary school is honestly more puzzling than it is unsettling.
If he’s still out there at the end of the period, somebody should go and get him moving, but for the moment, the fifth grader history students are taking their biggest test of the year so far, and they’ve only got another ten minutes to do it. The room is alive with fidgeting and tiny, breathy sighs, pencils scratching haphazardly over papers. The ones who are taking it really seriously-Julie, George, Krista, Sam-are bent low over the papers, while a few of the others are staring idly out the window. Christ, a few of the boys are looking admiringly at the leather jacketed loiterer.
The bell rings and the kids are up all in one flurry, a few calling out a hurried “Bye, Mrs. B!” but most just scrambling to get their coats and scarves arranged to something approaching their mother’s satisfaction before dashing out, free at last.
Sarah is long used to this, and scans the papers as she gathers them. Julie’s attempts at cursive are scarcely legible, but her answers are solid; Max’s broad scrawl all but eats the page; Danny and Evie hardly wrote a word, Paul wrote far too much, and Sam-well. Sam Winchester is the only student who is new to her. She’d taught all the rest since the third grade, and knew a lot of them before that, but Sam is new in town, and his tight, controlled, and intelligent schoolwork has impressed her. He’s subdued, but very smart, and he worries her, sometimes, with the way he ducks his head when he’s finished rattling off an impressive answer, the way he always scurries from place to place, shoulders hunched, head down.
And because, according to teacher’s lounge gossip, this ten-year-old child has displayed a disturbingly cavalier attitude towards violence, has stood up for third graders in the face of boys twice his size, and defers unfailingly to male teachers with a clipped “yessir.” Nobody had ever met his parents. Add that to his raggedy, oversized clothes, his uncut hair, his thinness, and the oily, unwashed quality of his hair and face-and yes, alright, she’s concerned. But there are no bruises, no unexplained absences, no unusual aggression or shyness, no fear of returning home. There wasn’t enough to warrant a call to CPS, just enough to break her heart a little.
Wearily, she returned to her desk, gathered the tests and glances back out the window. The lanky mystery boy was still there, talking animatedly with-well, damn it. Sam. He was into it, too, leaning close, nodding and gesturing broadly, and Sam was as lively as she had ever seen him, practically bouncing and throwing his arms around for emphasis. More than once, she thought he was going to launch himself into the boy’s arms, though he never did. She wondered if this was the older brother he’d apparently told Oliver Price-his homeroom teacher-looked after him. Watching their easy, muted dialogue, like a silent film whose basic plot she could still follow-here Sam is talking about a some schoolyard drama, and here his brother is refocusing him as he gets bogged down in a thousand extra details, and here Sam’s story reaches its conclusion and his brother is suitably impressed-it’s easy to believe. The way they mirror one another’s gestures says they’ve known each other for a long time, and there’s a resemblance in their high cheeks and open faces.
And so with a smile she chastises herself for passing judgement on Sam’s brother, gathers up the tests and the rest of her things, and heads to a faculty meeting.
::
It’s dark before she sets off for home, and quite cold, and she’s cursing herself for her light fall jacket-and after Cal told her to bring a scarf, and after she called him a human icicle, damn it all-and she’s so intent on getting to her car she almost doesn’t hear them. But the murmur catches her attention-scares the shit out of her, actually-and she whirls around to see Sam and the other boy, still lingering by the low wall by the fifth grade rooms, on the edge of the parking lot. Sam is sitting on the wall, wearing the leather jacket over his frayed hoodie, and the brother is left in only a t-shirt and an open, thin flannel. The second she turns on them the boy is aware of her, placing himself in front of Sam, stance wide and challenging, his eyes tracking her movements and jaw set defensively. He looks dangerous, and somehow very young.
“Mrs. Beckett!” calls Sam, evidently unaware of his brother’s reaction, and the older boy relaxes.
“Hello, Sam,” she says, taking a step closer, making sure Dean sees that she’s carrying a pile of folders and a course planner, that she knows Sam and he knows her.
“This is my brother,” announces Sam, proudly, as if the boy between them was the most singularly impressive acquaintance she could ever make. “Dean, this is my history teacher. Mrs. Beckett.”
“Hi, Dean,” says Sarah, and offers a hand. Jaw still set hard, Dean takes it, and now he’s without his jacket she can see a stark network of scrapes and bruises on his arm, vanishing up beneath his sleeve, which is bunched around his elbow-the flannel’s too big. Oh, Jesus.
“Hey-a, Mrs. B,” says Dean, a quick smile tugging at his lips. He seems to sense her eyes on his arm, because he snatches it away, shakes his sleeves back down. They land past his hands, and he looks even younger.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, then fixes her eyes on Sam. “You boys been here since three?” Sam nods once. Dean is shifting from foot to foot, eyes on the road. “Is somebody coming for you?” Sarah continues, the beginnings of dread uncoiling in her stomach.
Sam opens his mouth, but Dean beats him too it, rattling off a “yes ma’am” that manages to sound like a dismissal. Sarah ignores him, keeps her eyes on Sam, who is watching his brother, squirming in the comically overlarge jacket. They stand there for a long moment, a triangle of wary eyes-Sam’s on Dean, Dean’s on Sarah, Sarah’s on Sam. Eventually, Sarah turns back to Dean. “Who?” she asks, in her best teacher voice.
“Our dad,” he replies instantly.
“When?”
He falters, bites his lip, and all of Sarah’s annoyance leaves her in a rush. The kid’s barely in high school, and it’s not his fault he’s alone, or that it’s cold and her husband expected her an hour and a half ago, or that he’s wary of adults. Especially that last one. That is learned behavior.
“Do you boys need somewhere to stay a bit?” she asks, turning her attention back to Sam, who is still fixated on Dean, eyes bright in the gathering dark. Sarah looks at the older boy as well, watches as he purses his lips and shuffles some more, squints at the road, willing this wayward father to show up. The wind is picking up, and Sarah nearly shutters herself, thinking of Dean in just his oversized shirt. She wants to shake Dean, tell him to trust her, she’s a teacher, this is her job. She’s happy to give them someplace warm and well-lit, just for a few moments, and it’s her job. She wants to direct his attention to Sam, whose face is pinched and uncomfortable, who might need a little soft and normal right now. Wants to drag him straight out of whatever hole he’s living in, pull him away from whoever bruised him up so bad.
What she says is, “What if we just sat in my car until your dad gets here? It’s chilly out.”
After another long and uncomfortable moment, Dean nods, first to Sarah, then to Sam, who slides easily off the wall and under Dean’s proffered arm. They walk like that to the car, the jacket nearly trailing to the ground, Dean’s arm slung easily around his brother. Sarah is prepared to offer Dean shotgun, but he ducks into the back with Sam, leaving her perched awkwardly in the front seat, watching them in the rearview mirror.
In the stark yellow light of the car’s overheads, Dean looks terrible. He skin’s got the same unwashed quality Sam’s does, and she hadn’t spotted the mostly-healed split in his lower lip, cushioned in a small but visible bubble of swollen, pink skin. He’s got deep purple smears under his eyes, and his forehead is smattered with ache. His left arm is propped over the back of Sam’s seat, protective without being overbearing, but he’s holding his right stiffly in his lap, palm up and fingers curled slightly. His eyes are still fixed on the road, over Sam’s head, and it looks like he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. He is the very picture of discomfort.
Next to him, Sam is bunched up in his seat, clutching his threadbare backpack to his stomach, eyes fixed on the floor, still burrowed in the giant jacket. He looks better than Dean, merely sleepy instead of exhausted, nowhere near as haggard. She can’t see a scratch on him.
“So,” she says, shifting in her seat to look at the boys, “I know Sam’s in the fifth grade. What about you, Dean?”
He jumps a little, fixes his eyes on her, narrows them. “I’m a freshman,” he says, and she nods, trying to engage him.
“Over at the high school?” she asks, though the answer is obvious, and he nods once. She fidgets with her jacket sleeves, nervous under his appraising stare. She reminds herself that he’s not ten, and she tries not to sound condescending as she continues, “That’s good, that’s good. What’s your favorite class?”
“Lunch,” Sam suddenly blurts, not looking up from the car floor. Sarah and Dean both turn to look at him, and he glances up at them from under his shaggy bangs, a self-satisfied little grin lighting up his face. Sarah can’t help the snort that escapes, and jumps when Dean also lets out a little chuckle, delivers an affectionate fake-smack to the back of Sam’s head. “What?” says Sam, still grinning in that I-know-I’m-cute way. “It’s true.”
Dean smirks, then shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says, looking back at Sarah, “lunch.” He’s a little less guarded now, a little cheekier. Affection for Sam is practically radiating off him.
She nods. “Fair enough. I’m sure Sam's favorite is history. Isn’t that right?” She knows it’s a risk, teasing even so lightly, but Sam nods eagerly, and launches into a detailed breakdown of his perceived performance on today’s test, as well as an excitable explanation of this week’s lesson plan. Dean watches with the same unpatronizing interest she’d seen in his posture before the faculty meeting, through the window. His face is open and his expression is so full of pride it’s honestly a little arresting.
When he’s finished the conversation moves more easily, covering Sam’s other classes, the books he’s reading, a bit of distantly observed lunchroom drama. Dean and Sarah interject occasionally, prying Sam for his opinions on class topics and the current events she has reviews with her students every day before the lesson proper begins. Sarah finds herself focused most acutely on Dean, whose own attention is fixed solely on Sam. Never in ten years of parent-teacher conferences and elementary school graduation ceremonies has Sarah seen someone look on a child with such utter, open adoration.
It’s only when Sam’s contributions begin to dwindle and he starts sagging almost imperceptibly against Dean that Sarah realizes, with a start, that it’s been well over an hour. She excuses herself to go call her husband. “This dumb car still doesn’t have a phone,” she confesses (before she remembers their tattered hand-me-downs and realizes they probably don’t have a car phone either), and slips into the school building, leaving Dean and Sam locked secure in the warm car. She doesn’t bother asking them to hang around until she comes back, even if their dad does show up. She’s sort of forgotten he’s expected.
When she returns, Sam is slumped all the way against Dean, whose eyes are back on the road. His mottled left arm is tucked securely around Sam’s shoulders. She tries to be quiet as she gets back into the front seat, and turns immediately to face Dean, reaching up as she does to switch the car ceiling light off. “What do you think’s keeping your dad, Dean?” she asks softly, not wanting to spook him.
He shakes his head, almost unaware he’s doing it, still gazing out the window, eyes huge and almost glittering in the near darkness.
“Dean,” she says, again in her teacher voice, and he shrugs this time. “What’s your dad do?” she asks, trying to draw his attention back to her, trying to ascertain if this is as bad as it looks.
“He-this and that,” says Dean, voice very low, “odd jobs. We’re not-I mean, he-he’s a, um, he’s a mechanic, but we travel around a lot. You know.” He leaves it at that, and she supposes he’s expecting her to fill in the gaps. He’s usually between jobs. He doesn’t make much. We move around too much.
She wants to remind him that it’s almost 10:30 at night and he and his ten-year-old brother would still be sitting on that cold wall by the fifth grader’s room if she hadn’t spotted them on her way to the car, that it’s cold and-fuck, neither of them will have eaten since lunch, they’ve got to be starving. She wants to force him to take the situation into perspective, but at this point it seems far more like cruelty than tough love.
“We can go get something to eat,” she says instead. “There’s a HoJo’s not too far from here. My treat.”
He shakes his head immediately, finally tearing his eyes from the road and looking at her. She can just see his outline in the dark car, sprinkled with the light of a few street lamps and the lit-up buttons on the car’s radio. “No, thank you. I mean, you don’t have to-thank you, but nah, we’d better wait for my dad. And since Sammy’s-” He inclines his head towards the boy sleeping against him and cuts himself off, eyes drifting back to the road.
“Are you okay, Dean?” she blurts, before she can stop herself, and he turns back to her in an instant, setting his shoulders back, stiffening. Goddamn it, he’s back on the defensive.
“Yes ma’am,” he says again, flatly, and the arm around Sam tightens-she can see his edge of their shared silhouette squeeze closer to Dean. Sam lets out a little sigh but sleeps on.
“Dean,” she says, as firmly as she can without making him think she’s angry. She reminds herself this could be a family emergency, a one-off occurrence-never mind Dean’s injuries and the boys’ total acceptance, she could hold onto the idea that these boys had something good waiting for them at home. “Does this happen often?”
He doesn’t answer, just tucks his chin over Sam’s head and watches the road again. It’s all the confirmation she needs, and she wants to tell him she has nearly enough to call CPS already, wants to offer him this out. He’s tucked himself a little more fully around his brother, watching the road with something approaching desperation now. He’s fourteen years old, she thinks, and her heart hurts for him.
“Dean,” she prompts him, and he ignores her. “Dean, honey. Are you okay?”
A car rounds the corner and Dean’s whole face lights up in the flood of the headlights, then crumples just as quickly, just as totally, as the compact little red sedan rattles by without stopping. His chin is quivering.
It feels cruel, but into the renewed darkness she whispers, “What happened to your arm, Dean?”
“Nobody hit me,” he says, and his voice wobbles just a little, and Sarah is a little lost.
“Okay,” she says.
They’re quiet for a long time. It’s 10:59 before Dean speaks again. “It sounds like Sammy’s doing really good in your class,” he says. His voice is thin but steady.
“He sure is,” she says, and thinks she sees him smile a bit. “He’s very smart.”
Dean lets out a short, small laugh. “Too smart for his own good. Can barely keep up with him anymore, when he’s talking about school.” He pauses, trails his hand up and down Sam’s upper arm. His voice is wry and self-depreciating when he continues. “The other day I was making dinner, and he asks me a math question-I swear to you, I had no idea what he is talking about. Kid’s in the fifth grade, and he’s got me beat. And it wasn’t even his homework, just something he’d wondered about after flipping ahead in the workbook. The little dork.” He says it like, can you believe this nerd? and also like I can hardly stand how much I love him, but all Sarah can focus on was what he isn’t saying. I make my brother dinner. I help my brother with his homework. I’m the one doing the parenting here.
“Do you take care of Sam, Dean?” she asks, and he nods immediately, looking back into her face.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and he’s so proud and affectionate it hurts Sarah’s heart. He’s fourteen and a better parent than lots of people are at forty. Hell, he’s a better parent than the one he’s got.
“What about your dad?” she asks, and is sorry a second later, watching as Dean folds back into himself, eyes drifting back to the road.
“Works a lot,” says Dean, shortly.
“Is he gone more than he’s home?” She says it casually, like she can relate, like she’s just ribbing gently on the old man. Dean nods once, and she pushes her luck. “Is anybody taking care of you, Dean?”
He doesn’t answer, but she can see his jaw working as he keeps staring determinedly out the window. “You’re a kid, too, Dean,” she says, trying to dredge up the phrases they’d taught her when she was a new and fresh-faced teacher, convinced-utterly sure-that she’d know exactly what to do when a situation warranting a CPS call presented itself, much less precisely when such a call was warranted. She’d been so cocky, sure she’d find it easy to draw the kids out of their shell, comfort them, help them out. Of course, in all these years she’s called CPS twice, and both times she was deplorably late in spotting the issue and handled it every bit as clumsily as she’s handling this now. That was normal enough, or so they told her. Nothing really works like it does in a Very Special Episode.
“Sammy’s my job,” mumbles Dean, so softly she nearly misses it.
“Whose job are you?” she counters gently, and he shakes his head, chin wobbling again. “You take good care of your brother,” she says-if she’s certain of nothing else she’s certain of that. “But you’re a kid yourself. Somebody ought to take care of you.” They’re silent for another long moment before Dean speaks.
“I’m okay,” he says, like it’s definitive, and Sarah doesn’t believe him for a minute, but can’t find it in herself to bruise his pride. Her mind is made up in any case. Tomorrow morning she’s going to call CPS no matter what he says, but she feels like a traitor even thinking it, when he’s clearly trying so damn hard.
“I know you are,” she says, and they lapse back into quiet. Dean’s chin is still tucked over the crown of Sam’s head, and his own head has started to drift back against the seat back, his limbs relaxing incrementally, and if his eyes weren’t so fixed on the street Sarah would have thought he was asleep. Her own head is heavy on her shoulders. She’s caught between frustration and honest admiration; Dean will never admit, she is sure, that he’s in trouble, but likewise she feels reasonably confident no harm will come to Sam while Dean’s around.
It’s ten past midnight when an enormous black car screeches into the parking lot. Dean and Sarah jerk upwards as one.
“Sam,” says Dean, his voice low and urgent. “Sammy. Wake up, now. Sam. C’mon. Just for a minute. Dad’s here.”
Sam is fumbling with the door and grumbling sleepily as the other car’s door opens and someone emerges, staggers towards Sarah’s car, the only one left on the lot.
“Hurry up, Sammy,” says Dean, his voice commanding but without annoyance, and Sam stumbles out of the car and towards his father, who is still lurching haphazardly towards them.
“Dean,” says Sarah, seeing her opportunity and rounding on him. “Dean, honey, are you gonna be-”
“Dean. Dean!” barks a gruff voice from outside, and Dean stiffens, his eyes focusing immediately on his father. “Sam? Dean. Get over here,” he slurs, and Dean seizes his bag and is out of the car in a second. Heart pounding, Sarah follows suit.
Sam has nearly made his way to the big black car by now, dragging his schoolbag, and Dean is standing by the side of the car, watching as his father sizes Sarah up. He’s imposing and knows it, looming over her, his lined, bearded face set in a way that reminds her very much of Dean, daring her to say something.
“Mr. Winchester,” she says, “it’s past midnight. Your sons-”
“There was an emergency,” he snaps immediately, and she can smell the whiskey on him.
She gives a perfunctory nod, lets her anger bleed into her tone as she continues. “Nevertheless, they had no means to get home, and Dean’s physical condition is-”
“Dean,” snaps Mr. Winchester, like he can’t hear her, and Dean immediately scrambles to his side, puts a hand on his father’s arm like he’s going to help his father back to the car. He’s shrugged off immediately and he shrinks back, ducking his head. Mr. Winchester’s attention turns back to Sarah. “Dean is fine,” he growls, and then seizes Dean by the collar and marches him back in the direction of the car.
“Mr. Winchester!” calls Sarah, appalled. Dean’s fighting stance is long gone now.
“Thank you for your help,” he calls over his shoulder, his fake-gracious tone like acid, and she watches helplessly as he drags Dean across the parking lot, shoves him bodily towards the passenger seat, knows with terrible certainty her attempted intervention will do Dean precisely zero favors tonight.
She bristles as Dean ducks into the car, already mentally composing her CPS complaint. It’s all she can think of as the car rumbles away, and by the time she’s driven home and stumbled inside and fallen, fully clothed, into bed, she’s got the story written-the complaint, the eventual rescue, the moment when Dean wavers and tells some doe-eyed social worker that the bruises are his father’s doing, that he is raising a ten-year-old by himself. She falls asleep tasting the triumph of Mr. Winchester justly childless, his sons secured in some new home. The thought consumes her so utterly the boys even invade her dreams, flitting in at odd moments, Sam prattling on about his schoolwork, Dean laughing and wincing and endlessly watching an empty road.
First thing in the morning, before she’s due at school or before Cal is even awake, she’s digs up her old teacher’s handbook, finds the section on contacting CPS, takes a few notes on a legal pad so she doesn’t forget anything crucial. Plans to head over to the office after first period and play Wendy to the lost boys.
She does, but Sam isn’t in his fourth period history class, and she doesn’t see him or his brother again.