Dean's world rolled and boiled around him as he blinked his eyes open slowly, his forehead screwed in pain and his whole body aching, pulsating with every beat of his heart. He pushed himself off the hard wooden floor, stifling a groan of pain as every muscle simultaneously protested at being move. The fact that sunlight was cheerfully shining through the drawn windows didn't make him feel any better; That only meant he'd been out all night and would probably now be late for school.
With one hand pressing hard into his eyes to try to stop the pounding resonating throughout his head, he carefully made his way up the stairs, years of repetition allowing him to miss the spots that caused the old warped wood from screeching in protest of bending under his weight. He paused outside his dads room, leaning his ear against the door to hear the slight snoring coming from the most likely severely hung over man.
Dean let his shoulders sag a little, the relief in being able to take a shower almost palpable. If John was passed out then he wouldn't wake up when he turned on the shower. He ducked into his room to grab a set of clothes to change into, hastily grabbing the not too smelly green flannel from a few days ago off the floor once he'd seem the overly bright red lights of his alarm clock. As usual, the sight of the second bed, neatly made and tucked into the corner, sent a pang of longing through his heart.
Sammy had gotten some big scholarship to go to a private school in the city. He'd worked his ass off to get it, applied for every scholarship they'd let him and stayed up all night, weeks in advance, so he'd be ready to ace their admission test. He'd passed with the highest score, as expected, the kid was a genius. So off he'd went, coming home only on the weekends when Dean could barrow one of Bobby's cars to pick the kid up.
Though he missed him, Dean was nothing but grateful Sammy had gotten out of their house. John never touched him, that's what Dean was for, the human punching bag, but Sammy didn't need to see that. Or hear it. Or think about it for that matter, though Dean knew he still played heavily on his brother's mind. He started every call with "Are you alright?" and wouldn't stop sounding like a worried mother hen, even after Dean had thoroughly reassured him that he was fine.
Leaving his room he entered the bathroom, closing the door and locking it, just in case John hadn't actually drunk himself into a coma the night before. He immediately opened the cabinet above the sink and took three small blue pain pills, swallowing them dry. He then proceeded to shed his clothes, grimacing as he peeled the black form-fitting t-shirt from his battered body. A large array of colors marred his skin, the bruising gathered in patches here and there on his chest where a foot or a fist had come in contact. He look like some sort of morbid human painting. As usual, John had tried to avoid his face, opting to instead beat the rest of him past recognition. Wouldn't want anyone to suspect anything, would we? he thought bitterly, turning the shower on hot and sighing in relief as the hot water eased his pain slightly.
He was slightly taken aback to see blood coloring the water a faint rusty-red. He checked himself over, but seeing no sign of recently broken skin, he brought his hand up to his head, gently prodding his scalp with his fingers until he came into contact with a sharp piece of glass imbedded in the hair matted at the back of his head. Even that gentle touch sent the shower reeling, and his stomach turning over itself. He swore under his breath. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the shard hard and pulled it out with a quick tug. The white-hot pain shot through his head and the room spun, going out of focus. He grabbed the wall to steady himself, the shard clattering to the shower floor as he waited for the spinning to stop. Luckily there was nothing in his stomach.
The offending piece of glass, thick, green, and translucent, was obvious from a beer bottle. Looking at it now, he did faintly remember the sight of a green bottle gripped tightly in his dad's fist the night before, as he proceeded to tell Dean, once again, exactly what he thought of his pathetic, good for nothing son. Dean just stood there and took it, not opening his mouth or raising a hand once to defend himself as he was torn to shreds, physical and metaphorically. It only ever made it worse. When Sammy was around he'd tried, done anything he could to keep John's rage focused on him allowing his little brother to escape up to their room, or to a friends house, if it was as bad as that. Sense he'd left, Dean had stopped trying, resigned to his fate for one final year before he could leave the hell hole behind. As hard as he tried though, Dean could not erase the things John ground into him.
He waited for the water to become clear again before he turned it off, not daring to risk washing his hair. He grabbed a wad of toilet paper and held it to the wound, patting it until it had dried and no more blood seeped out to stain the white material. He checked himself over one final time, hastily covering a few abrasions with gauze and tape to keep them from bleeding during the day. As quickly as his pounding head and aching bones would allow, he dressed and brushed his teeth. From his room Dean grabbed his school bag and his beat up leather jacket from where he'd left it hanging on one of the bed posts. He crept back past his dad's room, down the stairs, and out the front door, letting it fall quietly shut behind him.
By the time he reached school, there was only fifteen minutes left of his first period, not that he cared. He didn't like algebra very much anyway. The beat up rusty red pick-up Bobby had lent him the year before clanked as he put it in park. For years he'd been riding his bike to school, first with Sammy on his handle bars, and later on his own bike that he'd found and fixed up. But when Dean had started working for his dad's friend Bobby Singer at his auto shop, Singer's Salvage Yard, his pseudo uncle had practically forced Dean to take one of his 'projects' home. He claimed it was because he was sick and tired of Dean being late for work, but Dean knew he was just tired of seeing Dean riding his bike the few miles to school, and the few miles after that to his shop. Dean had flat out refused at first, there was nothing he hated more than pity. But after goading him for weeks he'd final relented, but only after Bobby agreed to increase his hours, without paying him extra, so he could eventually pay him back for his gift.
The secretary, Ms. Missouri Moseley, gave him one of her classic smiles as he entered the office.
"Car trouble?" she guessed, her southern drawl thick. She opened the drawer to her desk and removed the yellow pad of late passes.
"My alarm didn't go off" He corrected her, the lie coming easily off his tongue.
"No worries sweetie" She gave him a sympathetic look, holding the pass out for him to take. "Why don't you head to second period, that way you still got a couple minutes to go to your locker" As usual, Dean could detect the worry bleeding into her voice.
"Thanks Missouri, I'll make sure it doesn't happen again" he joked, giving her a charming smile as he turned towards the door.
"You just make sure you're alright" She replied seriously, looking at him knowingly, one eyebrow cocked towards her hairline.
His smile faltered slightly, but he managed to save it just in time. "You got it". After his mother had died, Missouri had been a great neighbor, bringing him and Sammy casseroles and staying over when they were younger and their dad went out. When his drinking had started to get bad he'd told her to stay away, said he didn't want her to have anything to do with his boys, even threatened to call the police. She'd continued to look out for them during the school year though. Dean swore sometimes she was physic, with the way she always knew exactly what it was the two Winchester boys needed. He also worried she knew about John. If he was being serious with himself, he'd say she did know about John. It's hard to be one of the only houses on their street and not know something was going no. She'd at least had the respect for him and Sammy not to tell anyone, not after he'd made her promise one evening when Sammy had escaped to her house on one of John's particularly brutal nights, spilling everything to the strong, motherly woman.
Dean left the office and headed towards his locker, his head no longer reeling as the pain medication started to kick in. He thanked the high heavens and whatever gods were out there for the creation of pain medication. Dean was thankful that first period wasn't over yet, as there was no one in the hallway to jostle and push each other in the race to get to wherever they were going. In general that was no fun, who honestly wants sweaty, smelly, and hormonal teenagers shoving against you forcefully in an over crowded and narrow vicinity. For Dean the bruising and his head only made it worse, it was rare for him to come to school without them, only on the odd occasion when is dad left town with his buddies for a week.
His father was rarely far from Dean's mind. In a way, he haunted him. He'd become such an entity in how he lived his life that John arose like a vindictive spirit with every decision Dean made. He'd worked his way into the very core of his being that his worse resonated through Dean's head at all hours of the day. Useless. Good for nothing. Worthless. Disappointing. Unwanted. Stupid. Hard as he tried to forget them, as hard as he tried to stay happy and make his own way, the lies still sang in his head.
Dean plugged in his locker combination and emptied all the books in his bag from the night before. Sometimes he managed to actually get some of it done, between working at Bobby's, night shifts at the Road House, and his fathers fits of alcohol fueled rage. Usually though, he passed in some half-assed attempt, or didn't bother to do it at all. By this point in his high-school career, most of the teachers didn't expect anything less.
With his things for the first half of the day stored in his bag Dean headed towards the library. If he was being honest with himself, one of the reasons some of his schoolwork didn't get done on the days he had the time for it, was because he often opted instead to read. If questioned about it, he'd flat out deny it, he didn't want to be branded a book work or a nerd. He'd worked hard to gain his reputation, the residential mysterious bad boy of Lawrence High School. Even though none of his stories turned legends were even remotely true, his standings did give him a very reasonable and believable excuse for the bruises he often supported.
With first period still going on, Dean doubted there would be anyone in the library beside the librarian of course, Ms. Pince. She was quiet and rarely talked to any of the students, so Dean didn't worry about her ratting out his secret to the rest of the school. He entered the double doors and nodded his head silently to Ms. Pince as he passed the front desk and entered the stacks of books. He'd recently just finished Ray Bradbury's "Fariegnheit 451" which had actually been a book he'd needed to read for his English class. It was honestly the only class he even stood a chance of doing well in. He'd really enjoyed the writers style, and he headed to where he'd found the book before. Scanning the titles Dean decided to grab another one of Bradbury's books, "Something Evil This Way Comes". The bell rang then, and Dean could hear students begin to fill the hallway. Not bothering to read the back, as Dean wanted to hurry out before anyone could come in, he brought the book up to the front desk to check it out.
With the book safely tucked away in his bag, Dean left the library and hurried towards his second period class, wanting nothing more than to leave the crowded hallways as soon as he'd entered them.