Full Summary: A few weeks before the first anniversary of their dad's death, Dean is called into the high school: Sam has finally crossed the line with his bad behaviour.

Given a second chance, Sam must fulfil his punishment: the worst of which being weekly sessions with the school councillor, Mr Novak.

Having recently started a new job in a new town far away from his old life, Cas tries to start afresh: two brothers collide with him, an impact he could never have seen coming.

Hello! First off, warning that this fic is not like my usual she-bang. Yes there is a mountain of hurt!Sam, and plenty of brotherly love. But, this is an AU in which Sam and Dean live in the regular world, meaning there are no monsters, And, this is a destiel fic (wow, lennelle, did you really write a none-gen fic?) Yes, I did. This fic is written for my friend Pooja (you might know her as winchesterpooja/chronicpotterphile) and she's a major destiel fan. I'm not a shipper, at all, and I even used to be quite anti-destiel before becoming friends with Pooja, and I certainly never thought I would write a destiel fic. I'm still not a shipper of anything, but Pooja inspired me to write this and I'm writing it as a gift for her.

I was hesitant to post this fic here since it's not my usual type of story and I wasn't sure whether you guys would like it, but I've finally decided to, because why not? Hopefully you enjoy it.

Warnings: grief, mental health issues, self harm, suicidal thoughts, sex, homophobia, unhealthy romantic relationship.


It's not yet the middle of the day when Dean gets a call from the high school principal. He's in the garage's office, sorting through the usual; dotting i's and crossing t's. Boring stuff. Simple stuff. Stuff that actually takes his mind off things for a while. Under a car or in the office, he doesn't have to think about everything else that's going on in his life.

His mind is mostly blank, focusing solely on the numbers. It's good. Things are good. It's going to be a good day.

He jumps a little in his seat when his cell vibrates like a mini chainsaw on the desk, the ringtone is grating on his ears. There's a number flashing on the screen that he's received calls from all too often this past year.

Dean sighs heavily, takes a brief second to prepare himself. He puts down his pen and picks up his phone.

"Hello?" he answers.

"Dean Winchester?"

He suppresses a shudder. He hasn't been in high school for almost five years, but the sound of Miss Harvelle's gravelly voice still gives him have a mini heart attack. He clears his throat, trying to sound as authoritative and adult as she must expect him to be.

"This is he," Dean says.

"This is Principal Harvelle from Samuel Colt High School. I need you come in to speak to me as soon as possible. Your brother is currently sitting outside my office."

Dean closes his eyes briefly. A moment to pretend he's somewhere else. He's on a beach, maybe, with a few cold beers and he's with Karen Mulder. Or maybe he's with DiCaprio and he's…

"Mr Winchester?"

That does more than snap him back into the conversation. No one called him Mr Winchester until his dad died. There's a tightening in his airway and he has to clear his throat again just so he can get a breath in.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm still here," Dean says. "I'm coming. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Thank you," Principal Harvelle says, all professional and still downright terrifying. "We have a lot to talk about. Goodbye."

And she hangs up. Just like that. Dean begins to wonder if the conversation ever happened.

The garage is in full swing when he leaves the office. Bobby is giving an old Mercedes a new paint job and Garth is fiddling about with something on a Chevy, no doubt doing things all wrong.

"I gotta head down to the high school," Dean announces. Garth yelps all the way across the room as he bangs his head on the underside of the truck.

"You better not have done any damage!" Bobby barks over his shoulder.

"I think I'm okay!" Garth shouts back, grinning as he pokes his head over the hood.

Bobby rolls his eyes. "I was talking about the damn truck!" he growls. When he turns to Dean, his eyes are soft. "The usual?" he asks.

Dean shakes his head. "Seemed more serious when I talked to the principal on the phone."

Bobby nods, understanding. "Do what you have to, Dean. You can have the rest of the day off, but I need you back first thing tomorrow. I don't want this place burning to the ground with that idjit over there filling your work."

"I'm really sorry about this, Bobby," Dean says. He grabs his jacket off a hook in the doorway. "I'll work overtime soon to make up for it, okay?"

Bobby waves a hand dismissively and smiles. "Don't worry about it, kid. You go take care of that brother of yours."

"I'll try my best," Dean answers, halfway out the door.

"And I want to see both of you boys at my house on Saturday for a proper meal, you hear?" Bobby's voice carries all the way over to Dean's car parked out front. Dean waves his hand in the air as some sort of answer, and he's pulling out onto the road in the next second.

Most of the journey is filled with a chorus of curse words as Dean grips onto the steering wheel like it's a goddamn lifeline.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST BITCH FUCK!" he shouts when he comes to a red stoplight. He winds down his window and glares at it, red light staring right back. "IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE, HUH?"

The light turns green and he speeds along, just managing to catch the shocked expressions of nearby pedestrians. He really doesn't care what anyone thinks of him. He really, really doesn't.

Sympathy. Pity. Disapproval. He's endured all of it.

He tears into the high school parking lot with his wheels squeaking beneath him. A group of students huddled around a bench nearby all turn their heads and stare at him. Eyes following him all the way out of his car, up the steps and to the main school entrance. He pauses, hand on the door, and glances back to where they're already hunched in on each other, whispering and giggling.

Dean lets the door clang shut behind him. The receptionist he's become almost familiar with over the past few months looks up. A smile spreads across her face like a Cheshire cat's.

"Dean," she purrs.

Dean doesn't even pause to glance in her direction as he makes a beeline down the hall towards the principal's office. He catches sight of Sam straight away. There's a miserable lump sitting in one of the chairs outside the door, hood pulled up over its face, back bent and heavy.

"Sammy," Dean sighs. He drops into the seat next to him. Sam doesn't even look up. Dean reaches out and tugs the hood away from Sam's head. It's only then that Sam looks at him, scowling.

"What happened?" Dean asks. Sam shrugs. The Shrug is Sam's favourite new thing, because why bother with actual human communication?

The kid pulls his hood back up and turns his attention to the sleeve of his jacket. He's completely still from that moment on until principal Harvelle steps out into the hallway, her voice like the crack of a whip as she calls Dean in. Dean sucks in a breath and Sam actually flinches.

Dean finds comfort in the fact that's Sam isn't a complete idiot if he still has the brains to know that he should be scared of Ellen Harvelle.

Dean feels like a kid again when he takes a seat opposite in her office. The door is closed behind him and he begins to understand what a rabbit feels like when it's caught in a trap. He had sat in this very chair many times when he was Sam's age. He is no stranger to Miss Harvelle's disapproving glance and sharp words.

But Sam. Sam had always been different. He's a good kid. He was a good kid.

The office hasn't changed much in the past five years. He notices a couple of new framed photos of a young blond girl he recognises from Sam's class. More than likely it's Jo Harvelle, a girl Dean heard a lot about a couple of years ago when Sam had his first major crush.

"I can't say I'm all that pleased to have to speak to you again, Mr Winchester," Harvelle says.

Dean feels that lump in his throat again. "Could you call me Dean? Please. Ma'am."

She nods and folds her hands in front of her on the desk. There's a file sitting there in front of her with his little brother's name stamped across the front. The file looks a lot thicker than it should be. She opens it, adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and scans the first few pages.

"Sam's record is even more colourful than yours was," she remarks. "Tardiness, unexplained absences, homework not being handed in, fighting with other students, foul language in class, disruption of class, poor behaviour towards staff members, and now I can add smoking on school property."

Dean nearly chokes, that damn lump in his throat has just suddenly expanded and threatens to suffocate him. The principal silently pushes a glass of water in front of him and waits patiently as he drinks and tries to get his breath back.

"Smoking?" Dean repeats, because maybe he didn't hear that right. The look on her face tells him he heard just fine. "Sam doesn't smoke. No way. The kid once cried when he found a pack in our dad's bedside drawer."

Harvelle sighs, eyes drawing sympathetically. Dean hates it. He hates sympathy because it's the last thing he needs. He needs her to be pissed again, he needs her to treat Sam like any normal brat because Dean needs them not to be the Winchester orphans anymore.

"I understand that the last year has been exceptionally difficult on Sam, and your family," she says. "I understand that he needs time to adjust and learn to deal with his grief." Her face turns stony again. "I've been easy on him, giving him a lot of second chances, but I have to draw the line."

"I understand," Dean agrees, "but if you just let me talk to him – "

"Sam needs to know that behaviour like this is not acceptable," Harvelle interrupts him. "Sam wasn't just smoking; he was doing it in the hallways of the school, and when a member of staff confronted him he refused to listen to instruction and said some things that I would rather not repeat."

"What did he say?" Dean can't help but be curious.

Harvelle purses her lips. She turns the file around and points at a few words near the bottom.

"Oh man…" Dean sighs, scanning the paper. This is not good. Not good at all. This is the kind of not-good that gets someone suspended from school.

"I'm going to have to suspend Sam."

And there it is. Just what they need. Fuck.

"You can't do that," Dean protests.

"I have no choice," Harvelle says. "Some things I cannot let slide. However, considering the circumstances, I will give Sam his final second chance. Sam is suspended until next Monday, and when he returns to school he will make progress, understood?"

"Yes," Dean blurts. His heart is pounding a little. He could fall out of his chair any second he's so relieved.

"Sam will also attend detention every Saturday morning for the rest of the semester, starting next weekend. He will join at least one extra-curricular activity. And he will have weekly sessions with our school counsellor where he will learn healthier ways to deal with his grief."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you so much."

"If he so much as puts a toe over the line, he will be suspended permanently. Am I clear?"

"Crystal."

Harvelle stands up and shakes his hand. "I will see him next Monday in my office, 7.30am sharp."

Dean is about to open to door when Harvelle says, "I'm rooting for him."

Dean doesn't really know what to say. He just nods awkwardly and leaves the room faster than he ever did when he was sent there as a student. Sam is where Dean left him, still hunched over like he's trying to become one with the seat. Dean taps his shoulder.

"Come on," he says. "We're going home."

Sam stands up and finally looks at him, not in the eye, his gaze lingers on Dean's chin.

"She tell you what happened?" he asks.

Dean keeps a hand on his shoulder all the way down the hall. "Oh yeah. She told me everything."

Sam looks back to the floor and Dean is actually pleased that Sam has the good grace to be ashamed of himself. The receptionist's eyes follow them both all the way out the door. The air is cold and the trees are bare. This time of year, it's always the hardest. November 2nd is a day they mourn, and now so is December 15th.

That same group of kids are still huddled around the bench. They all take one look at Sam and burst out laughing. Sam ducks his head lower and tries to wiggle out of Dean's grip, but Dean holds on tightly.

In the Impala Dean turns up the heater. The old Legos in the vent rattle and the two of them sit there, listening.

"You could have taken them out," Sam says.

Dean shrugs. "I like them. We put them there, remember? It's like a part of the car now."

"It's annoying," Sam says dully. He shifts in his seat until he's facing the window.

Dean takes a brief moment to gather himself. I am not pissed. He's just going through a lot. Don't lose your fucking temper, Dean. Go easy on him.

He opens his eyes and he's still in the school parking lot. Sam is still in the passenger seat, still ignoring Dean's presence. Sighing heavily, Dean starts the engine and drives.

He takes the long route home. The only way they can avoid driving past their old house. Dean tried once, to see if he could do it, but the door was painted a different colour and someone else's car was in the driveway and through the window he could see all the furniture that wasn't theirs. It was strange. It was the Winchester's home. It always had been and it always would be, but someone else was living there.

There is another route back to their apartment, but that way is the worst of them all. No way Dean is ever going near that road.

They take thirty minutes getting home when they could have taken ten. Thirty minutes of complete silence and a tension so heavy Dean is waiting for it to pop like a balloon. It doesn't.

He's only just managed to park and Sam is already out the car and heading to the building's front door. He lets himself inside, the door swings shut right in Dean's face. Now, Dean is pissed.

"Sam!" he barks, climbing the stairs after him. Sam doesn't answer but Dean can see his shape flicker above him, one flight up.

When he gets to their floor, the very top floor, he's a little out of breath. He lets himself in and finds no sight of Sam. He knows where his brother is, the same place he usually is. The very same place he would probably eat all of his meals and live out the rest of his life if Dean would let him.

Dean doesn't bother knocking on Sam's bedroom door.

"Fucking knock, would you?" Sam yelps. He's sitting on his bed, school bag abandoned on the floor by his feet.

Dean holds out his hand. "Give me your cigarettes," he orders.

Sam rolls his eyes. "School already took them," he grumbles. He kicks off his sneakers and tucks his feet under him. "I bet Mr Henrickson is smoking them right now."

"Henrickson? That's who caught you?" Dean says. "Jesus, Sam. And you spoke the way you did to him? Fucking hell!"

"He was being an asshole," Sam defended.

"Oh, he wasn't the asshole in that situation." Dean scratches the back of his head. "Principal Harvelle spoke to you about the suspension and everything, right?"

Sam smirks. "Oh, yeah. She was this close to bringing out charts and diagrams to show how much of a fucking failure I am."

"You're not a failure, Sam."

"Right. Only the best students get suspended," Sam drawls. "Seriously. It's not a big deal anyway."

"Not a big deal?" Dean sputters, just about chokes. "What happened to Mr Straight-A's? What happened to the kid that wanted to go to an Ivy League school and did extra homework on weekends?"

Sam shrugs. "People change. I'm not a kid anymore."

"Sam, you are a kid," Dean says softly. "You're a kid that's been through more than any kid should have to. Please, Sam, you need to turn things around. The principal seems to have faith in you. I have faith in you, Sammy. Think of Dad, you know he wouldn't – "

"Shut up!" Sam snaps. "Don't talk about what Dad would want, okay? He doesn't want anything, he's dead. Dead people can't want anything; they can't feel anything. They're nothing."

"Sam…"

"Get out," Sam bites back. He drops his head, voice lowering with it. "Please… just leave me alone."

Dean wants to say something else, but he's not sure what he could say to help the situation. He wishes he had some magic word that would zap Sam back to the kid he was before the accident. The kid that was so bright and hopeful. This Sam is nothing but a sixteen-year-old ball of anger. Dean clears his throat.

"I'll leave you alone for a bit," he says, "but you will leave your goddamn room for dinner. And we're going to talk about this a lot more, and you will listen to me. Got it?"

Sam doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. On his way out, Dean leaves the door open.

By the time dinner comes around, Sam is fast asleep. Dean eats alone at the kitchen table with nothing but the leaky faucet for company. He twirls spaghetti around his fork. Around and around and around and around. The photograph of their parents on their wedding day stare down at him, smiling and frozen. Both of them. Gone.

"Suspended?" Bobby barks. He stares at Dean, clearly surprised since his eyebrows have all but disappeared under his cap. Dean glances nervously back at the office. Through the window he can see Sam spinning idly on the desk chair.

"Keep it down, okay?" Dean says. Sam gets a little paranoid sometimes. A lot paranoid. If he catches Dean and Bobby talking about him, there'll be another blow out that Dean really doesn't have the energy to deal with. "He's out of school until Monday, and I can't leave him at home by himself."

"Of course not," Bobby agrees. "I worry about that boy, you know."

Dean sighs. "I know. I just need him here so I can keep an eye on him. Just until Monday."

"Don't worry about it," Bobby smiles. "You know how much you boys mean to me. I'm just surprised is all. I know Sam's been getting into trouble at school lately but I never thought he'd be suspended. The boy is too damn smart for that."

Dean sneaks another look at Sam, who has stopped spinning in the chair and is now staring at them both.

"His GPA has dropped," Dean whispers. "His attendance is under 70%. It's just not like him. He's just been struggling so badly since the accident. I thought maybe the fighting and skipping school would stop eventually, but it's just getting so much worse."

"It's not just school, Dean," Bobby says. "He's not been the same for months. I think maybe this counsellor will be good for him."

"Maybe."

Dean looks again and Sam is still staring, only now he's got a pissed off look on his face. He catches Dean's gaze and his jaw clenches. Dean turns back to Bobby.

"I better go talk to him."

Bobby blows out a whistle. "I think you ought to. Although, I'm glad I'm not the one that has to go talk to El Diablo in there," he says. He gives Dean a not-so reassuring pat on the shoulder and heads off to keep an eye on Garth, who is glancing between a wrench and a screw driver with a worryingly puzzled look on his face.

Dean has barely stepped into the office when Sam speaks.

"What were you and Bobby talking about?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam isn't looking at him anymore, his gaze his locked on his feet. In fact, his voice is far softer than Dean expected.

"I was just explaining that you're going to be hanging out here for the week," Dean tells him.

Sam fiddles with his sleeve. "Did you tell him why?"

"I told him you were suspended, but I didn't tell him why you were suspended."

"Is he mad?"

Dean blinks. That certainly wasn't what he'd expected Sam to say. Sam, who for the past few months seems like he couldn't give less of a shit about anything. Sam, who comes home with a bloody nose and split knuckles far too often. Sam, who disappears during school days to God-only-knows-where.

Right now, Sam is sounding a lot like Sam-before-the-accident.

"He's surprised," Dean admits. "But he's not mad at you. Bobby could never be mad at you."

"You're mad at me," Sam mumbles.

"I'm worried, not mad."

"Sorry," Sam pipes up. "For making you worry."

Dean huffs a laugh. "Dude, I always worry about you. Even when you were still in diapers. I'm just… I just want you to be okay. I can see that you're not okay right now."

Sam shrugs. "I'm fine."

And there it is. I'm fine. Sam's second favourite thing, right after the Shrug. Dean fucking hates it. Sometimes he wants to grab Sam by the shoulders, shake him, beg him to just scream yell cry. Just do anything but be this silently angry imitation of himself.

Sam never cried once after their dad's funeral. Not once. Dean finds himself shedding a tear almost every night when he's in bed and everything's quiet and he's got nothing to do but think. He thinks about how much he misses his parents, how much he misses his brother, his family. He thinks about how he's not cut out for this job. He's not cut out for adulthood.

Dean can barely keep his own head above water. Here he is, watching Sam drown.

It's 7pm on Saturday night and Dean is running late. He and Sam are supposed to be at Bobby's right now, but instead they're having a goddamn standoff in the kitchen.

"We're going to Bobby's," Dean says. He would shout but he's too tired. "I told you at the beginning of the week and you promised you'd go."

"I'm supposed to be meeting Ruby."

"Since when?"

"Since she called me a couple of hours ago and asked if we could hang out," Sam says, shrugging. Fucking shrugging.

Dean can't hold it back anymore. "And you didn't think about the fact that you're already supposed to be somewhere?" he shouts. Sam actually flinches a little but he covers it quickly, the I-don't-give-a-fuck mask slipping back into place. "And what about the fact that you're grounded? How are you even talking to Ruby? You aren't supposed to have your phone! Does it ever occur to you to think of another human being other than yourself for once?"

Dean is a little out of breath when he's done. He leans against the kitchen table and waits for Sam to respond. His brother is hurt, that much is obvious. There had been a flicker of something on his face that made him look way too much like a scared little kid. Just as quickly, the shutters come down and Sam stares at the floor. He shrugs again.

"I guess not," he mumbles. He's fidgety, fumbling with the sleeve of his hoody. Dean ducks down, tries to get a look at Sam's face, but that ridiculous mop of hair is in the way. When did Sam last have a haircut? Was it before the accident? A year ago?

Sam clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is strained. "I'll tell Ruby I can't make it."

Dean sighs. "Thank you."

Sam turns back towards his room but Dean stops him halfway.

"I just lost my temper there," Dean apologises. "I didn't really mean it, okay?"

Sam shrugs.

He says, "sure."

Jody is at Bobby's house, as she is most of the time. Dean had a bet going with Benny at the diner on how long it would take for Bobby to ask her to move in. So far, both of them are out of the bet. Each of their guesses are almost two years off. Sometimes, Dean wonders if he should just get a house key cut for Jody to save them both the bother.

"I hope you like meatloaf," Jody says as she hands out dinner plates. "Bobby did the green beans so make sure you give them all the appreciation they deserve."

Dean chuckles and she grins at him. Bobby pokes his head around the door.

"I heard my name," he says suspiciously.

"Only good things," Jody promises.

Bobby rolls his eyes as he enters. He heads over to the kitchen counter and picks up the bowl of green beans, then he places them proudly on the centre of the table.

"Buttered to perfection," he says.

Dean almost chokes midway through a sip of his beer. "I'm sure they are," he agrees.

Bobby takes his seat between Sam and Jody. He leans on his elbows and smiles at Sam, who has been staring at his lap silently since he sat down.

"How have you liked spending time at the garage?" Bobby asks.

Sam doesn't seem to have noticed he's being spoken to so Dean nudges him under the table with his foot. Sam's head shoots up, his eyes wide and alarmed. He pauses and glances around like he's only just remembered where he is. Then, he notices Bobby's gaze.

"Sorry. What?" Sam breathes.

"Was asking how you liked being in the garage," Bobby says again, gently.

Sam nods. "Right. It was, um, good." Then he glances down again, fidgeting with his sleeve.

Jody glances at Sam, frowning, then she looks to Dean, questioning.

Dean sighs. "Let's eat," he says. Ignoring Jody and Bobby's faces.

Jody and Bobby carry most of the conversation, chatting about work and that crappy movie they saw the other week. Dean pitches in when he can but he's too busy watching Sam, who's too busy staring at nothing and pushing food around his plate.

Sam refuses desert, deciding to sit in the living room by himself while everyone else has pie and ice cream.

"Bobby told me about Sam," Jody says quietly. "About him getting suspended."

Dean smiles grimly. "Yeah… it's been a weird week."

"Bobby also told me that Sam's going to be seeing a counsellor regularly," she goes on. "I think that's really great. You know, I saw a therapist after my son and my husband…" she pauses for a moment, "and therapy helped me more than I can say."

"Not sure Sam feels the same way," Dean admits.

"He just has to be willing to try," Jody says. "He's a great kid. You're doing a great job, Dean. But sometimes people lose their way and no matter how much we try to fix things, we can't get them back on track unless they let us help them."

Sam looks even more miserable come Monday morning, if that's even possible. Bobby has given Dean the morning off to get Sam sorted at school. He's up before Sam, making breakfast and packing lunches. He sets out pancakes, syrup, fruit and juice onto the kitchen table. He figures good food might make the morning a little less shitty for the both of them.

He knocks on Sam's door.

"Breakfast is on the table," he announces.

"I'll be out in a minute," Sam answers, voice sounding raspy. There's a soft grunt of pain on the other side of the door, Dean frowns.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Fine. I'll be a minute."

There's the sound of something being knocked over and Dean is stepping into Sam's room the next second. Sam freezes, only his arms are through his sweater, and there's nothing on his bottom half but his boxers. He shrinks under Dean's gaze and yelps.

"Get out! What is wrong with you?!"

Dean quickly backs out of the room. He gets a lecture from Sam about knocking on doors while they're eating breakfast. Dean just nods through it, apologising where necessary, but he's too busy marvelling at the fact that Sam is actually eating everything on his plate.

The kid's been living on just air for the past few days, it was inevitable that the hunger would catch up with him sooner or later. Dean decides to take it as a good sign. Maybe Jody was right; the school counsellor could really help Sam. This could all be a fresh start.

They take the long route to school, avoiding their old house and the road where the accident happened. Sam seems nervous, leg bouncing, fingers fiddling with his sleeves. Dean places a hand on Sam's knee to stop it moving as they come into the school's parking lot.

There are more kids hanging around the grounds in the morning, and a lot of them stare at Sam and whisper not-so-inconspicuously to one another.

Sam tugs his hood up over his head and ploughs on by.

The receptionist looks up when the two of them enter the building, and she winks at Dean, biting the end of her pen. Dean swallows, feeling like a slab of meat being eyed by a lion. Sam has already disappeared around the corner so Dean hurries after him. He finds Sam already slumped down in one of the chairs outside the principal's office, eyes darting around for an escape.

That's when Dean notices the man standing next to his brother. He's dressed like most of the staff in this place; collared shirt under a sweater, messy hair, a cup of coffee in one hand. He's got a tired look about his face, blue eyes sagging, but he's smiling softly, gazing down at Sam as he speaks.

"Um… hello?" Dean interrupts.

"Hello," the man replies. He holds out his free hand and Dean shakes it. "I'm Mr Novak, school counsellor. I was just introducing myself to Sam here. Are you Dean?"

"That's me," Dean says, breaking out into a grin.

Mr Novak nods. "Principal Harvelle asked me down to your meeting this morning, just so I could say hello."

"Cool," Dean beams. He nudges Sam's shoulder. "See, things aren't too scary yet, right?"

Sam shrugs him off. "Stop talking to me like I'm some little kid."

Dean's smile falters and he glances at Mr Novak, who's observing the two of them quietly. Then, the office door opens and Harvelle steps out.

"Hello, Sam," she says to the miserable lump in the chair. She nods to Mr Novak and Dean, gesturing for them to follow her inside.

There are only two seats opposite the principal, so Novak just lingers in the corner sipping his coffee. Sam is flopped halfway down in his seat, trying to pull his hood up. Dean smacks him on the arm and glares at him until he's sitting upright.

"I see you've already been introduced to Mr Novak, our school councillor," Principal Harvelle begins. "He'll be seeing you every Wednesday at 3.30."

"But school finishes at 3," Sam interrupts.

Harvelle raises an eyebrow. "I'm aware."

"So I just wait around for half an hour? Why can't I see him when school ends?"

"Because, believe it or not, Mr Novak works with other students than yourself, and 3.30 on Wednesday is the only free slot available. If you struggle to occupy yourself within that half hour, maybe you could utilise it to catch up with the classes you're failing."

Sam promptly shuts his mouth.

"Back to the situation that got you here in the first place," Harvelle says. "You will write Mr Henrickson an apology letter, no less than one thousand words. Also, you will be spending your Saturday mornings for the foreseeable future helping our Janitor, Ash, to clean the classrooms and paint the bleachers. He'll meet you in the school's entrance at 8am sharp."

Sam's face is stony. Anger is bubbling under the surface, his fists are clenching under the desk, his jaw is wired tight. Dean reaches out and puts his hand on Sam's shoulder. His brother loosens a little under his touch and he takes a deep breath.

Dean notices Mr Novak watching them.

"You will also be joining at least one extracurricular activity," Harvelle adds. She peers down at the file in front of her. "It says here you were on the debate team, the soccer team, and you ran tech in theatre. You haven't been to any of these clubs in several months."

Sam shrugs. "Lost interest."

Harvelle's brows pinch with concern. "These are all things you can discuss with Mr Novak. I know you've struggled a lot since the accident, but you don't need to be on your own. Mr Novak will have sessions with you every week."

"And you can knock on my door any time," Novak cuts in.

Sam pays more attention to his shoe laces than he does to anyone else in the room. Dean nudges his shoulder and Sam reluctantly looks up.

"Are you clear on everything we've just discussed?"

Sam nods. She raises her eyebrow.

"Yes, principal Harvelle," he answers quietly.

She smiles approvingly and gets to her feet. Sam follows, already inching towards the exit. Harvelle puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "I'll escort you to your first class," she says. "As someone will every day this week, each period."

Sam barely stifles his groan. He casts one last glance back in Dean's direction and it's a look of fear that says help me. Dean gives him half a grin and tries to look as encouraging as he can. Thumbs up and everything.

"Thank you for coming, Dean," Harvelle says from the doorway. "I hope I won't have to call you in again."

She and Sam are swallowed up by the crowded hallway.

"I'd better get going, too," Novak says. Dean jumps, he'd forgotten he wasn't alone for a moment. He clears his throat.

"Um. Yeah. I have to head to work," he replies. He gets out of the chair and finds himself a little too close to Novak, at a loss for space in Harvelle's tiny office. He quickly steps back, heat rising on his cheeks.

Novak stares at him, blue eyes bright and amused. He takes a sip of coffee. "It was nice meeting you," he says.

"Right back at you," Dean replies, and immediately regrets it. Right back at you? Who says that?

He doesn't waste another moment before he's out the door.


A/N: There will be around 7 or 8 chapters in total. Let me know if you're interested in this fic and would like me to keep posting it on this site. :)