Social Services

Miranda Simpson had been principal of Truman High for twenty three years, in addition to her nine years as vice principal to Mr. Carl, who had been a right royal pain in the ass. She had poured herself a glass of champagne the day that chauvist pig retired.

She had seen it all, whether it be graffiti in the halls (offenders scrubbed the walls and put over a new coat of paint, in addition to detention for a month), pregnant students (every effort was made to complete these girls' educations, and several were now prestigious business women with happy families), and abused children.

This was her case today.

Technically speaking, she wasn't in charge of putting kids into foster care, only reporting them to the state. She prided herself that she had never been wrong in these cases, and had been instrumental in pulling numerous teens out of abusive homes and situations. Some might call her meddling, but several victims had come up to her in later years and thanked her. That was worth the threats she had received from one particularly cruel father.

She glanced up from her papers to the student sitting in front of her, scuffing his feet along her clean tile floor, and staring up at the bland white ceiling.

She looked back down at her notes. Sam Winchester, a sixteen year old sophomore. He had moved around a lot, but despite his numerous schools, his grades were far above average. In fact, Miranda thought to herself, his marks were superb for never remaining in one school for more than a semester. Scratch that, his grades were amazing for anyone.

She read on. Family: one brother, older. An often absent father, and no mother. Sam was definitely prime material for abuse.

She put down her papers and folded her hands over them. Sam's attention immediately shot to her, his feet becoming still and his hands folding in his lap.

"Sam Winchester?" He nodded. "I'm Principal Simpson." Miranda held out her hand, and Sam shook it. It was a good firm grip, and he hadn't flinched when her hand came at him, she noted.

"Yeah, I guessed." He smiled blindingly, dimples appearing to set off his perfect teeth as he pointed to the name plate on her desk. Miranda returned the smile, eager to keep this friendly.

"Do you know why you're here?" She asked. Sam shook his head, long hair flopping into his eyes.

"Nope." He clarified. Miranda peered at him. He knew why, she was sure of it. He was too easy here, too loose. Probably playing around.

"I think you do." Miranda let him know she saw through his bullshit. It had been tried out on her before, although never with quite the style Sam had.

"You're right." Sam nodded, leaning back in his chair. "You want me to go to college, make something of myself." These words were slightly bitter. Miranda checked her notes. No, Sam wasn't just a genius cruising through. He worked for his grades, and was perhaps a bit of an over achiever. No support at home?

"Well, yes. But that's not why I called you in here today." She prodded.

Sam shrugged. "I didn't get into any fights?" He offered. Miranda blinked at him. There was a bruise blooming on his jaw, a clean cut across one forearm, and several nasty grazes across his other arm. Not a fight?

"No, Sam. I brought you in to talk about your home life."

Immediately, the easy manner was gone. Sam sat forwards. "Oh."

"I called in your brother. Dean?" She clarified, looking down once more at her papers.

"You called Dean? Shit." Sam ran a hand through his hair.

Miranda scribbled on a sheet of paper. Dean was possibly abusive.

"He has work!" Sam explained. "And he likes it. He was gonna start pulling overtime."

Sam wanted his brother out of the house?

"He's going to be here in a few minutes. So, before that, what can you tell me about your home life?"

Sam scowled at her, just the briefest of frowns. "It's erratic."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"We move a lot. Dad's in the car business, and he doesn't have anywhere to leave us. So he takes us with him." Sam's eyes lit up. "He took us to see Mt. Rushmore once. It was amazing."

"Was it?" Miranda asked. Sam talked about his dad... Reluctantly. Not willing to share all the details. For a man in the car business, John Winchester didn't seem willing to pay for new clothes for his son. Sam's ankles stuck out of his jeans a good two inches, and his t-shirt seemed rather worn.

"Yeah. And-"

"Sam?" A man, not much more than a kid, came bursting into the office. "Sammy? What's the matter?" He completely ignored Miranda, and her hovering secretary, in favor of fussing over the only other occupant of the room.

"Gettoff." Sam batted his brother's (because who else could it be?) hands away, even as Dean grabbed a hold of his face and peered at it. "I'm fine."

Dean apparently wasn't happy with this assessment, and continued to look Sam over. "That's what you said when you broke your arm."

"Seriously, fine!" Sam stood up, waving his arms. "See, nothing broken."

Dean glared suspiciously at him, before turning to the woman behind the desk. "Why'd you call me? What'd Sam do?"

Miranda gaped at Dean. He was shorter than his brother, but still a powerfully built man. He had several pieces of jewelry, including an ugly charm around his neck, in addition to the biker boots and leather jacket that was slightly too big for him.

"She wants to know if I'm abused at home." Sam explained behind his brother, a slight note of hilarity creeping into his tone.

"Aw, shit. Again?"

"Yeah."

Miranda was still staring at the brothers. Winchesters must be endowed with good looks, though from whose side of the family she didn't know.

"Look, lady." Dean ran his hand through his hair, full attention back on Miranda. "He's not being hit, or overworked, or anything at home. We''ve been through this before."

"Then how did your brother get those scrapes?" Miranda inquired, shaking off her surprise.

Dean didn't miss a beat. "He got the bruise by tripping over his ridiculous feet while trying to read a book and walk up stairs at the same time. It was his turn to cook the other night, and he was trying to finish the same book, and cut himself instead of the onion. And he got the grazes when he tripped over the shoes he had kicked off in front of the porch."

Miranda blinked owlishly. So Dean knew every bump and scrape? Was he that attentive, or was it something else? The excuses were plausible, though. Sam had probably just shot into his growth spurt, and her own sons had been constantly bruised when they suddenly grew into their true sizes.

But... Sam didn't seem at all afraid of his brother. It had been a look of pure relief, not fear, that crossed his face when his brother burst in.

"What about your father? Has he ever touched Sam?"

"No! No way in Hell." Dean shook his head, apparently stunned that anyone would accuse his father of abusing a child.

"Dad wouldn't." Sam nodded. "But he did teach me to wrestle." And to shoot, hand to hand, knife tossing, and archery, not to mention the appropriate way to use Brass knuckledusters.

"What about Sam's wardrobe?"

"If you wanted someone to take off their clothes, you shoulda just asked." Dean's eyes glimmered. "Look," he dropped the joking, "it's really hard to find this Sasquatch clothes that fit, and he's not done growing yet. our budget is limited, and not even Prissy here-" an vaguely insulted sounding snort from Sam "-can see putting money into clothes he'll outgrow in two months."

"Can we go?" Sam added hopefully when Dean had finished. "I have stuff I wanna do."

Miranda watched them for a second. "Yes, you may go." She sighed. These two weren't going to tell her anything, she could see that. Sam whooped, Dean grinned, and they were through the door and in the parking lot in record time.

Miranda watched them through the window. Dean was fluffing his little brother's hair, Sam obviously protesting wildly. Right in front of the school, it dissolved into a wrestling match, laughter floating into her office.

Miranda looked down at her papers, then swept them into the trash. It was nice to be wrong for once.