Title: Stuck In the Middle
Author: neitherxnory
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, John, OC
Disclaimer: I don't own anything pertaining to Supernatural or the boys.
Warnings: An F-bomb, a little blood, a little Dean-whump
Word Count: 1300
Summary: Karla has seen the likes of busted-up, Latin-spewing, on the down-low, school-hopping shifty-eyed Dean Winchester before.
Prompt from an old hoodietime hurt/comfort challenge meme: Preseries, gen. Sam and Dean start at a new school, and Dean's hunting injuries draw the wrong kind of attention. I'm not talking CPS. One of the teachers is a witch, and s/he knows a budding hunter when s/he sees one. . . .
Every year there's that one kid. Never any rhyme or reason to it: obnoxious middle-schoolers come in all shapes and sizes. One year it's the big kid with acne and a holier-than-thou attitude, the next it might be the quiet one from the back who cheats on every last American Literature II test. But, all things considered, Karla doesn't see how anyone can really blame her. After all, just because she practices the dark arts doesn't mean she can't be doing the world a favor. Exactly the opposite: Mrs. Everhart, seventh grade English teacher at Central Plains Junior High, is separating the wheat from the chaff one student at a time.
So, every year western Kentucky loses a middle school student to a tragic, physical-education related accident which can in no way, shape or form be traced back to the unassuming, cat-loving English teacher. Every year the paper makes a hullabaloo about the situation, and every year the good people of Central Plains eventually realize that they don't miss Johnny or Suzy or Angela quite so much after all. Mrs. Everhart really did do her homework, after all.
And if, on days when teaching American Literature II to class after class of incompetent comma splicers brought Karla to the end of her rope, who could blame her for mentally auditioning Johnny or Suzy or Angela for the leading role in this year's production of "When Good Lacrosse Sticks Go Bad: Episode 4?"
Karla is having exactly one of those days on February the 11th, three days before the middle school hormone-fest known as Valentine's Day possesses the little monsters more thoroughly than any demon ever could. This morning the hallways had been decked out in revolting pink crepe paper, and during the 2nd lunch bloc Jimmy Myers had apparently vomited on Aimee Yu while asking her to the Valentine's Day Dance-Off. It was enough to try the patience of a saint, and Karla Everhart was no saint.
Into this horrific spectacle of pre-pubescent lust crutches one Dean Winchester; thirteen and tow-headed, cocky grin, busted lip and right leg casted from toe to hip. What self-respecting parent dumps their child into a new shark tank in the middle of February was beyond Karla, but Mr. Winchester seems undaunted as he limps into class ten minutes late with nary a sheet of paper on his person. A nod to the teacher, a quick visual scan of the classroom, and the boy sets right to work on the troublemaking. Without any prompting, he introduces himself to the twenty-odd fascinated kids.
"Dean Winchester. Moved from Corpus Christi. Shark Attack." And with a wink to tittering blonde Lizzie in the front row, he grins at Mrs. Everhart as if to say 'Your move." And even as she rearranges the room to seat the gregarious Mr. Winchester, she feels a prickling curiosity in the back of her brain. Shark attack her ass.
February 17th and Dean Winchester is jumping up and down on her very last nerve. Six days into his tenure at Central Plains and the boy is bothering her to an unmitigated degree. Not only has he shown negligible interest in the English language, he has also drawn the wholehearted attention of the female members of her 6th period class. The formerly clean cast is covered in loopy signatures and doodles, Lizzie Windermyer is practically sitting on his lap as she shared her copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird," and nearly every boy in the room has glared at him at least once.
And while Dean laps up the female adoration, Karla is still seeing something out of place. He spends too much time checking the room and too little time looking down Lizzie's blouse. He tells outlandish shark attack stories but no personal details aside from his name. He wore the same pair of jeans three days in a row. And, most tellingly, he never initiates physical contact. If Karla had been any other teacher she would have suspected abuse. The leg, the lip and the obviously sore ribs are certainly probable cause. Some of her conscientious colleagues certainly assume as much.
"Dean Winchester doesn't eat more than an apple for lunch… does he look hungry to you?"
"I saw that boy going home with a huge bear of a man. Biiiiig dude…"
"Winchester…. he's hopelessly behind in World History: his file lists 5 schools in the last year!"
"Well I've never had a problem: his Spanish is excellent. Said to me that it was a lot like Latin…"
And in the space of a single teacher's lounge gossip session, Karla Everhart understands everything she needs to know about Dean Winchester. Busted-up, Latin-spewing, on the down-low, school-hopping shifty-eyed Dean Winchester. The boy who belongs to the gruff, reporter-impersonating Hunter who rolled into Central Plains a week or so ago. Karla smiles as she mentally upgrades the boy from supporting cast member to Enemy Number One: Looks like her annual Spring Cleaning will be a smidgen early this year.
Today is Dean Winchester's lucky day. And by lucky, Karla Everhart means clumsy. She keeps an eye out for the blonde boy today, watches out her window as he loses traction on the icy front sidewalk and goes down hard in a jumble of limbs, plaster and crutches. She watches from her doorway as the boy with the locker next to his slams the metal door into Winchester's head. And she watches as his cheap metal desk collapses halfway through American Lit II, dropping a moderately heavy hardcover anthology directly onto his broken femur… moments before the whole mess crashes to the ground. Girls look on in horror, boys chuckle vengefully, and Dean Winchester doesn't even bother to crack a self-deprecating smile to lighten the mood as he struggles to his foot. So he knows something is up… good. Wouldn't want him to sleep through the grand finale, after all.
The grand finale is scheduled for the usual place, usual time: 7th period PE. Dean Winchester will, as per his norm, be spending the class watching his peers from the bleachers. Karla Everhart will, as per her norm, be watching from the mezzanine windows which overlooked the gym. The only thing out of place will be the banner boasting Central Plains' Girls Basketball Team of 1982's Conference Championship title. The banner and the metal rod on which it usually hung will soon be misplaced, impaling one Dean Winchester where he sat.
Well, the banner and the knife currently pressed against Karla Everhart's throat.
"You know, Dean had no clue. He's bright, but even when I told him there was something witchy going down in this school he never once mentioned your name," John Winchester rumbled from directly behind her.
"It's the cats. And the grandchildren. They throw everyone off."
"Almost everyone."
"Alright, almost everyone then. Are you going to slit my throat and leave me here for the children to find?"
"That depends."
"On?"
"On whether Dean down there is about to be the next Cathy Jones. Or Craig Ferguson. Or Trisha Stepnowicz. Is there someone with a lacrosse stick down there about to beat Dean's brains out?"
"No lacrosse this year: I never repeat myself. This year it's just a little… animal magnetism.
"Well, that explains the car door this morning, at least."
"He really is a very…. attractive boy."
"Don't I know it," The big man spoke up, dropping the big knife, pulling off the leather gloves and stepping away from the ex-English teacher bleeding out on the mezzanine floor. "Attractin' all sorts of crazies."
And with that, John Winchester trundles down the stairs to the gymnasium, back to the motel to pack his sons' crap into the Impala before they get home. Another day, another hunt, another dead baddie.
But next time, seriously, no middle schoolers. They fucking reek.