Horace Weber relished moments like these. In the twenty long years he had spent teaching these mouth-breathers at Lawrence Free State High, between the tasteless bits of conversation and tortillas in the staff lounge and the four minutes he spent getting out of the parking lot, these were the moments that he lived for.
He brought his history book down heavily on the desk, a vicious grin on his wide face.
Dean started, eyes flying open, to find his history teacher leering down at him. He leaned back in his seat, mute but observant. Weber had actually taken the effort to walk to the very back of the classroom instead of flinging bits of chalk at him.
He meant business.
"Sorry," Weber bore down on him, "did I disturb your beauty sleep, pretty boy?"
Nervous laughter rippled through the students. It was a class rule - if you weren't with Weber, you were against him. And so far, the only person who had successfully managed to be a repeat offender in Horace Weber's books was Dean Winchester.
"Mr Winchester," Weber barked, straightening up, "I was wondering if you could list out a few significant events which led up to the Boston Tea Party?"
Dean racked his mind; he was sure he had heard Weber muttering about it once or twice during the semester, but nothing he could recall would satisfy the snorting history teacher. He considered dropping a couple of wise guy one liners, but he knew that would send him straight to the principal. Dean shrugged and looked at his notepaper. The obscure scribbles didn't help him much.
"If you aren't interested in American history, Mr Winchester, please feel free to leave my class."
Dean tightened his jaw, "I'm sorry Mr Weber, I'll pay attention from now on."
The teacher grimaced at him. This was a rare statement coming from his least favourite student. No struggle, no arguments, no smart alec remarks. Weber was sufficient placated. He returned to the front of the class, adjusting his tie.
"Samuel," he called, raising a finger at the tall boy in front. "Care to enlighten us?"
"It was a political reaction to the tax policy of the British government," Sam said quickly.
"Very good," Weber continued with his lesson.
Sam turned his head only slightly, glancing at Dean with what could only be described as an apologetic frown. Dean ignored him and kept on scribbling into his note paper - vague shapes and outlines that meant nothing, but left sharp imprints on the other side of the page. He waited out the remainder of the period, sunken low in his chair, until the lunch bell interrupted Weber.
When class was dismissed, Dean got to his feet and reached for his bag with no more enthusiasm than a dead turtle. He was conscious of his classmates shuffling past him, eager to get to the cafeteria so they could invest their thirty minutes in mindless babble and clam chowder. He sidled between rows of seats, turning his face away from Weber's desk as he passed it.
"Mr Winchester," Weber said, without looking up from his papers, "you're on thin ice."
"Always am," Dean mumbled, out of earshot.
Sam was waiting for him outside the door. The corridors were still milling about with people, lockers were slamming, there were loud hoots of laughter and sneakers skidding on the tiles.
"What's the matter, Sammy," Dean said gruffly, "not eating with your new friends?"
Sam pursed his lips, "No, I told them not to wait up."
They walked down the corridor in silence.
"There something you want?" Dean asked suddenly.
"Dean, I was just-" Sam began but shook his head and sighed. "Is everything alright with you? You seem a little, I don't know, out of it."
Dean scowled, "I'm fine. Just not looking forward to that caf food so much."
Sam knew that wasn't the problem. Dean refused a packed lunch from home and never ate at the cafeteria either. He decided not to push it. "I'll see you next class, then."
Dean watched Sam plow through the crowd, towering over everyone else by just under a foot. There was a time he could keep his elbow on Sam's head and drive him crazy. He was relieved Sam hadn't taken advantage of his growth spurt.
Yet.
He turned on his heel and went the other way, dodging the influx of students coming from the east wing. He slid past the stairwell and out the service door in the side, carefully stepping over brooms and buckets placed there as makeshift door-stops.
Dean had been going to his Safe Place a lot more often now. It was just a block down from the school yard, made accessible from a rent in the fencing. He walked down the long stretch of sidewalk as discreetly as he could manage. Playing hookey wasn't the worst of his offenses, but he liked to avoid being caught all the same. It wasn't far off now, his Safe Place. It was an abandoned factory annex, a dismal looking place that had smoldered under the Kansas sun for years, and cooled off during the September winds.
Dean kicked up the dirt with his shoes as he made his way to the remnants of a parking lot. It was almost swallowed by generations of weeds, continually borne by their long dead kin. He tossed his bag onto the dirty hood of a broken down Impala. One of the doors had fallen off and the floor mats had been replaced sleepy moss. He sat down heavily on the edge of the car floor, producing a lighter from his jeans pocket. He flicked it open and watched the sparks. They calmed him a moment. Then a curious scent wafted over him, raspberries and mint. He recognized it immediately.
"Well, good afternoon, sunshine," a young voice chirped at him. "My, don't you look chipper today."
"Harvelle," he growled, looking up at the trunk end of the car, with a half-smile.
"Sorry to intrude on your little moment, Dean," the blonde girl said, running her finger over the dust on the windshield, leaving behind a little 'J' through which the sunlight filtered, kissing the faded seats. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Sam earlier."
"Oh, but I bet you could," he responded, a little testily.
"No beer, huh?" Jo asked, glancing at the old discarded cans that had rolled under the car from a week ago.
Dean continued to watch his lighter. The flame sprang up and then died out. Sprang up. Died. Out. Clockwork. Routine. Life. No hard feelings, just business as usual.
"Well, you've gotta talk, sometime," she said folding her arms.
"What do you expect me to say, Jo?"
"How about you start by admitting you're worried?"
"What good will it do?"
Jo Harvelle frowned, "It isn't like you to just sit on your ass, Dean."
"He'd call. He'd call right?" Dean asked her. "That's the least he could do. I'm just sick and tired of waiting."
"You're such a mule, sometimes."
"So what if I am? It doesn't matter any more. I'm just resigned to the facts. So I spend my time in an abandoned car park, with beer cans and ghosts. So freaking what?"
Jo strolled around the car, "All it takes is a phone call."
"Look, don't give me that again," Dean began, but stopped short, finding Jo's face just inches from his. Her large green eyes were translucent and she had the afternoon sun streaming through her hair. He felt her fingers on his cheek, cold, like the mist from a meat-locker.
Dean blinked; he wonder why he had thought of that. And then he saw it all over again. The yards of yellow tape, the blue and red sirens, the emptied out butcher's place, and a frozen body crumpled on the cold stone floor. An innocent kid who'd chosen the wrong night and the wrong neighbour to be walking through. The man responsible had been rotting in a prison cell for over two years now. Dean's upper lip twitched. The electric chair meant nothing if it couldn't bring Jo back.
He felt her frigid lips against his but his eyes flew open as he heard heavy boots scraping against the dirt, close by.
Jo was gone and the sunlight was blinding. He scrambled for his bag, ducking behind the Impala. In the distance he could see a man in a navy blue uniform - a security guard. He was whistling his way around the factory, unsuspecting, casually strutting through his shift. Dean sprinted up behind the factory, silently swearing under his breath. He couldn't afford to be caught loitering around a restricted area, especially when he was supposed to be in Mrs O'Leary's algebra class. Dean held his breath watching the security guard pace around disinterestedly. Jo had materialized somewhere near him, tucking her see through hair behind her see through ear. She tread slilently by him and he became profoundly aware of the way his shoes crunched on the gravel. He paused behind a large barrel, waiting in silence for the security guard to be on his way.
The guard certainly was taking his time. Dean's annoyance quickly turned to fear when he saw him stooping down on the other side of the Impala. The beer cans. He cussed and ran a hand through his hair.
"Dang kids," he heard the security guard say before he marched out with the determined look of pursuit on his face.
Dean shrunk back into the shadows, Jo still by his side.
"I'll distract him, you go around back," Jo said before melting into the air.
Dean looked around wildly. If she didn't want to be seen, she wouldn't be. He watched the scene a moment, more out of curiosity than anything else. Jo had become considerably stronger; she could lift things now with her see through hands that she couldn't have in flesh and blood. Dean stayed to watch a few crates being hurled into the wall and the engines of a dead car humming eerily. The security guard broke into a sweat and Dean broke into a run.
There was a reason people liked to steer clear of the place, but Dean was the only one who had ever seen the girl who haunted the old shoe factory.