The Dangers of Smoking
Title: The Dangers of Smoking
Rating: T
Characters: Sam, Dean, OCs
Warnings: Language, underage smoking and drinking, scary!Dean, stupid!kid!Sam
Genres: Gen, Humor, Family, Teen!chester
Chapters: 1
Completed: Yes
Word count: 1334
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Dammit. *angrily shakes fist at the sky*
Summary: “Hey, Winchester, isn't that your brother?” one of the guys, Pete Something-or-other, asked as he watched Dean's relentless approach straight to them. Sam's Adam's apple bobbed nervously and that was answer enough.
“Well? You gonna smoke that, Winchester, or stare at it?”
Sam's eyes flicked up from the red tip of the cigarette to the blue eyes of his new 'buddy', one Charlie Devreaux.
Three weeks in this new school and no one had given Sam the time of day. Until Charlie.
And the best part about Charlie? He was a package deal. You made friends with him and you automatically became friends with seven other guys. And three girls.
At the age of fifteen that was a pretty big deal, especially since Sam couldn't really claim a lot of face time with girls-not unless you counted Dean's flavor of the week or day or pit stop. Sam didn't count them because they never really saw him, even if they looked at him. He was just The Kid Brother.
But even when he wasn't with his brother, being the new kid and giving off what seemed to be some pretty strong 'freak' vibes meant the ladies kept their distance.
Not these girls. Although, to be honest, they weren't exactly crawling all over him. But hey they actually looked at him. Spoke to him even, and not in a condescending tone like he was seven years old. At this point, he'd take what he could get.
There was just one thing about being friends with Charlie. It meant redefining the 'rules' as laid down by Responsible Adults.
Which was why Sam was not in his seventh period history class but sitting behind the gym, a cigarette smoking in his hands and a choice being weighed in his mind.
If his Dad found out he'd be dead.
Cigarettes would slow him down. They were killers in more ways than one. If he wanted to die so badly, there were much faster ways to do it. And if he didn't want to die then he better not be smoking or the next time he was trying to outrun a werewolf he'd end up puppy chow.
“Winchester, if you're not gonna smoke it then pass it on. These things ain't cheap,” Charlie ordered and took a swig from a small flask full of whiskey nipped from his dad's stock.
Sam knew where Charlie was coming from, but Charlie didn't know where Sam was coming from.
His Dad would kill him for this. He didn't much care about that actually.
His dilemma lay in the reaction of his older brother.
If Dean found out-
Ah screw it. If Dean cared so much he could come and stop Sam right now.
“Uh oh.”
Sam looked up at the low utterance and froze, the cigarette just a hair's breadth from his lips.
Well whaddaya know. Dean did care.
And now Sam was dead. Beyond dead. Dean wasn't going to just kill him. Death would be an escape from what Dean would do to him.
Sam's eyes flicked to the left and right, looking for an escape, but found none. And despite the fact that he had a good inch or two on his brother he hadn't quite mastered the post-pubescent art of controlling his gangly limbs. Outrunning him wasn't an option. Outfighting him? Also not an option. The same problem with running kept him going face down on the mat with Dean on his back every time they practiced.
He was so dead.
“Hey, Winchester, isn't that your brother?” one of the guys, Pete Something-or-other, asked as he watched Dean's relentless approach straight to them.
Sam's Adam's apple bobbed nervously and that was answer enough.
“Later, dude,” Charlie said and that was the cue to scatter, leaving Sam holding the smoking gun as it were.
He was so dead.
He quickly stubbed the remains into the dirt and stood, hoping that maybe Dean hadn't seen it. He was kinda far away still.
Of course his brother's better than eagle-eyed vision allowed him to pick out the bottle-cap-nailed-to-a-tree targets his father used to train them on long-distance marksmanship. Dean's shooting record wasn't perfect, but it was close enough.
He was so dead.
He jogged to meet Dean, noting the scowl on his brother's face and silently thinking that he should have taken Amy's offer the other afternoon to sneak away under the bleachers during the assembly. He was pretty sure she had only wanted to make out, but at least he might not have died a total virgin.
He stopped, rubbing his hands nervously on his pants and praying he didn't smell like smoke.
Dean regarded him from under lowered brows, the silence building until Sam almost confessed just to break it.
“Where's your book bag?” Dean asked.
That was not the question Sam was expecting.
“What?”
“Your book bag,” Dean repeated, slowly and with a hint of irritation. “Where is it?”
“In my locker?” Sam said in confusion.
Dean nodded. “All right. Go get it and meet me at the office. We're leaving.”
“Leaving?” Sam repeated as he paced his suddenly departing brother.
“Buncha hikers have gone missing up in Washington. It's either a rabid bear or a wendigo.”
Sweet relief washed through Sam at the mention of a hunt. It explained Dean's tension and scowl, and most importantly he hadn't mentioned the cigarette. Maybe he hadn't seen it, being distracted by the hunt.
"I thought wendigos were more of a Northern Midwestern thing."
"Yeah, well, someone forgot to tell this one that."
“Are we coming back?” Sam asked, out of curiosity more than anything.
Dean cast a sidelong glance his way. “Doubt it.”
The protest was automatic. “But we've only been here three weeks.”
Dean shrugged. “Sorry. You know we have to go to where the hunt takes us. We can't expect them to come to us asking to be killed however nice that would be.”
Sam sighed but didn't protest further. It wouldn't do any good. Dean didn't make those decisions and their Dad couldn't be persuaded on the matter.
They walked in silence to the branch in the hallway where they would split off, the left going towards where Sam's locker was, the right towards the office.
Dean kept going, then paused and turned back.
“Oh and Sammy?”
“Yeah?” he asked, half turning.
“You're lucky that cigarette didn't touch your mouth or you'd be in real trouble. But if I ever catch you with one in your hand again you'll be praying for a wendigo to come find you. Understand?”
Sam swallowed thickly again. Busted. “Yeah,” he said softly.
Dean nodded. “Good,” he said with a smile that was both pleased acceptance and dark warning. He spun on his heel and kept going.
Sam watched him for another moment, then let out a long breath and headed for his locker.
Probably for the best that they were leaving for good. Charlie had seemed like a halfway decent guy, even if he had some bad habits and was prone to abandoning his friends in a time of need.
But, really . . . it would be a shame if Dean had to kill him.