Title: Story

Author: Soul-fag

Summary:

The moon was bleeding silver tears of pain and.

Dean was gazing into the depths of the starry trees, wondering where his sandwich and pickle pie had gone. Just as he came to a conclusion about why his stomach was full, he heard a loud rustle in the Impala. Sam moaned out "Hey, where is our box of condoms?"

"We forgot to pack extras after the truck stop rendezvous."

God, Dean missed guns. They cool, smooth feel of 'em as you gripped them hard and just let loose all over who or whatever the Hell was in front of you. The total reckless abandon they gave allowed and even encouraged. They were all good, small, big, long, short, fat, thin – every single one of them had purpose and could, without a doubt, get a job done. You just had to know how to use it. Dean smirked. It really wasn't the size of the tool, you just had to know how to use it. He didn't quite know when this had become a big metaphor for dicks, but it ended at tool – size did matter there.

Where did he pick up metaphor? It was probably Sam. It was always Sam's fault in one way or another. Dean found that in any given situation, and they had been through a Hell of a lot in the past few years, most often, the entire mess could be traced directly back to one Sam Winchester. Dean really didn't know where his mom and dad had gone wrong on him. Crap, he had raised Sammy, hadn't he? Well, he had been too busy, starting hunting before he could graduate from elementary school. Which led him back to…right, guns.

Sixth grade had been a good year, getting his first sawed-off shotgun, killing his first monster. He had mostly been delegated to salt and burn or be a lookout before that. Sixth grade had been good and he felt like he was back there, all of a sudden. This time around, it didn't seem so good. This, again, led him back to missing guns so much.

A small, mousy girl eyed him wearily. She was the kind of girl Dean wouldn't look twice at unless he was drunk and wanted an easy lay, because really, a frizzy haired girl with buckteeth just reeked of inadequacy issues and some kind of complex that could be played upon to get her into bed – he meant, if he was actually back to the proper age.

"You're not supposed to be here." The weird little nerd girl interrupted his thought. Some part of him was grateful but he was quick to retort.

"Watch your mouth, kid. I can be where ever I want-"

"No," she interrupted him again. "I mean, you shouldn't be here. You're a..muggle." Something about the way she said the word made it seem foreign and dirty – a new slang, swear word perhaps? He'd have to call Sam it later and see what happened.

Dean turned towards her and pointed a finger. "You really need to…watch your mouth, kid." He didn't have much besides that. "And be careful where you pick up those kinds of words. I'm sure you're little teacher is prowling around right now, pussies have always been tricky like that."

The girl's eyes bulged nearly out of their sockets and her skin tinted light red. Sam snorted besides him and Dean glared at him before turning around the room. Maybe the teacher was around somewhere, prowling. "Cat, I meant. Cat?" He pressed forward, eager to convince this odd girl and the potential threat hiding in the shadows. "You know, like pussy-cat?" Somehow, she didn't seem very convinced. She simply nodded and stepped backward, bumping into some ginger kid who seemed to be busy ignoring her as best as he could.

Sam outright laughed. "Dean, stop. You're scaring the kids. Five minutes and you're already close to getting on the sex offender registry."

"They have one of those?" Not that Dean intended to do anything to get put on it, but still.

Sam just shook his head and pressed his lips into a thin line, avoiding laughing. Dean didn't know which was more aggravating, the laughter and jibing, or the stubborn silence and forced neutral expression. It was easier to not choose and just be equally made either way. Fairer, too. Dean straightened up. He was so fair with his brother. A quick jab to Sam's side had him wheezing slightly. Very fair. That had been going easy on him. He could have…told or something. Sam would have. Really, Dean was too kind.

Dean idly glanced around, wondering when exactly the show was going to get on the road. Did professors make a habit of being this late? And why weren't the students going wild? There was some whispering here and there, sure, but nothing like he remembered of school. Then again, he always used to be the center of such chaos when the teacher left the room. He smiled again; sixth grade was such a good time.

The mouse-girl caught his eye again and he could have sworn she was staring at him as if he was some kind of ghost or freak like that. He nodded at her seriously and turned only to find that Sam was looking at him weird, too. Not like a ghost or anything. Sam should know better than the little creepy school girl that Dean was not a ghost. But something. Like for a second, Dean was not Dean and Sam was not Sam. That kind of look.

Something had to give, and as usual, it was Dean. "Dude. What?" He flicked his eyes around the room to make sure Sam wasn't just seeing something he wasn't, then back to Sam and urged him on silently.

"You." Sam said. He was being so helpful, as per usual. Dean resisted backhanding him or kicking him or something to vent his frustration at him, mouse-rabbit behind him, the annoying ginger and black haired kid who kept whispering and laughing, and the whole freaking situation they were. Sam shook his head finally and looked away. "You're smiling like…that. Nothing ever good can come of that smile. When you look so happy."

Dean blinked and frowned then looked at the girl that had never heard of Pantene to verify that he had heard right. Before he could speak, he was interrupted.