Ms. Maccabee may be new to teaching but, contrary to popular belief, that didn't mean she was clueless. She knows how to handle children in their best and their worst moods. But, most importantly, she knows how to help them. She knows how to resolve fights over who gets the last pink crayon, how to put a band-aid on a scraped knee, and how to wipe away the tears and snot of an overly tired child.
Helping a child is one of the most important things a teacher can do and when all twelve of her new students flooded into the room to begin their first day of kindergarten, Ms. Maccabee watched over them and resolved to help each and every one of her kids.
As the year slowly began, Ms. Maccabee got to know her new students and began trying to help them in any way she could. She began with simple exercises and, one day, she asked every child to draw the dream they had the night before.
Some of the other teachers may have thought this was strange but, having taken a class in child psychology in college, Ms. Maccabee knew that children often express themselves through art, and this can help clue her in to any problems going on in their lives.
As Ms. Maccabee began handing out the crayons and markers she was shyly approached by little Suzanne Marsters.
"Missus Maccabee, I can't remember what I dreamded last night!" she cried, with tears beginning to well in her eyes.
"That's okay, sweetheart. Just draw a dream that you do remember." Ms. Maccabee replied soothingly, attempting to stop tears that would surely set off the rest of the class.
"Okie dokie!" Suzanne said as she hurriedly skipped back to her desk, fears and tears forgotten.
With the crisis averted Ms. Maccabee returned to the front of the room to make an announcement.
"Okay class, now I know some of you may not remember what you dreamt last night and that's okay. You can draw your favorite dream or a dream you have a lot, okay?"
After being answered with a chorus of "okay", she began her trip around the room.
Throughout her trip, she noticed Dean Winchester furiously scribbling away at his paper.
Smiling to herself, Ms. Maccabee made her way over to Dean, thinking of how nice it is to see him so involved in his work. He may be a smart kid, but he didn't always put much effort into his class work and he seemed to put even less effort into making friends. His somewhat asocial behavior was starting to worry her.
Dean looked up as she approached his desk and seemed neither nervous nor excited like the other kids when she looked at their drawings.
Leaning over his desk, she looked at his paper and could not contain the small noise of surprise when she saw what he had drawn.
The bottom half of the page was filled with jagged peaks of orange and yellow while the top half was covered in curling black smoke.
Crouching next to him she asked, "Dean, honey, tell me about your picture."
"It's the fire." He whispered while staring at his desk.
"What fire, sweetheart?"
Instead of answering, Dean silently shook his head, continuing to stare at his desk. Ms. Maccabee persisted, hoping to get him to open up.
"Did you have a nightmare about a fire last night?"
Finally, Dean looked at her, and quietly said, "This is what I dream every night."
Dean turned his attention to the floor this time and Ms. Maccabee left him alone.
She went across the hall to ask Mr. Williams if he would watch her class while she quickly made a call in the office.
John Winchester quietly sat in the empty class room with a squirming Sammy on his lap as he waited from Dean's teacher to return.
He had received a call a few hours earlier from Ms. McAbbey or Ms. Mackey or whatever, asking him to stay late after coming to pick up Dean to talk about his son's drawing.
Once the classroom had finally emptied of all those kids and their parents, Ms. McSomething took Dean to play in another classroom so they could "speak privately" because, for whatever reason, the kid couldn't hear the adults talk about the thing he drew.
When she finally returned, she introduced herself as Ms. Maccabee and shook his hand with a surprisingly strong grip, which he returned.
She then turned to Sammy, who, in lieu of a handshake, decided to drool and giggle instead.
John resumed sitting quietly and waited from for Ms. Maccabee to tell him why the hell he had to stay late just to talk about his son's drawing.
"Well, Mr. Winchester," she began with her hands clasped neatly together on her desk, "I'm sure you're curious about why I asked you to come in today."
"Yes, I am." He replied simply, hoping to get this over as quickly as possible.
"Well, today I asked the students to draw what they dreamt last night."
"Alright."
"And, while many of the students had a hard time remembering, given how young they are, Dean had no trouble at all."
"And that's a problem?"
"No, the problem is what he drew, Mr. Winchester."
John swallowed nervously, thinking of the many things Dean may have seen in the occult and mythology books that he probably should've hidden better. How would he explain away whatever scene he drew?
"Well, what did he draw?"
Instead of answering him, she took a piece of paper from her drawer and slide it across the desk to him.
John stared at the oranges and yellows and blacks, not entirely understanding what he was looking at. Mary had always been the one to understand Dean's drawings, Mary had- oh God, Mary.
All the air in his body vanished at that moment as he realized the immensity of what he was looking at. Immediately he wished his son had drawn something else, anything else, something bloody and gruesome and so not childlike that it down right terrified his teacher. A werewolf ripping the heart out of a man's chest, a wendigo being set on fire, a ghoul eating an entire family, hell, he could've drawn a ghoul eating me. Just not this, oh Lord, anything but this.
"He told me it was 'the fire'." she said, interrupting John's internal collapse with her quiet words.
"My-my wife died in a house fire, not long ago." he replied, gently running his hand over Sammy's wispy hairs, trying to calm himself.
She seemed stricken as she quietly apologized, "I'm so sorry, I had no idea..."
"That's alright", he said, pulling himself together, "I didn't tell the school when I enrolled him, I didn't want people treating him like he was broken."
She nodded understandingly, she knew how people could be with kids who have dealt with tragedy. Treating them like they're fragile little things that could break any moment won't help them over come what they've been through.
"What concerns me the most is not so much what he drew, but what he said." she said.
"What did he say?" John asked, worriedly.
"Well, I asked him if he had a nightmare about a fire, but he told me that..." she paused, looking unsure, "that this is what he dreams of every night."
Those words felt like a punch in the chest to John. His boy, his son, dreams about his mother's death every night. Every night he relives having everything he's known ripped away from him by some piece of shit demon.
John opened and closed his mouth a few times, too stunned to speak.
Thankfully, Ms. Maccabee stepped in with a suggestion, "But, I think I know something that may help him."
"What?"
"Do you read him any bed time stories?"
"No, Mary always read him stories."
"Well, I think you should start reading him some."
"I-"
"Mr. Winchester," interrupted Ms. Maccabee, "I think getting back into routine would help Dean adjust and I know from the address you gave the school that you've been living in a motel," John looked shamefully away, "so sometime as simple as a bed time story would be a good place to start."
John nodded, "Alright, I'll try."
Looking pleased, Ms. Maccabee rose from her chair, "Alright then, I'll go get Dean and you three can be on your way," she held her hand out to him, "I'm glad we had a talk, it was nice to meet you."
Shaking her hand, he nodded and gave her a smile.
That night at the motel, John tucked Dean into the stained motel bed and sighed. He knew what he should do, he should ask Dean how much he remembers, what he saw, and try to explain what happened that night. Try to explain why they had to move and why he had to live in a motel instead of a real house and why he had to put salt down and always take care of Sammy. Maybe he was being selfish, but John just could not find it in himself to ask him. He knew from the moment he saw the drawing that his boy, his little Dean-o, could never be a normal child again, not matter how hard he tried.
But, if John Winchester was anything, he was stubborn, and he'd be damned if he didn't try.
"Alright, Dean-o, time for a story."
Dean looked at his father with wide, questioning eyes but John persevered and pulled out a Classics Illustrated comic book Ms. Maccabee had given him.
"Okay, this is called Knights of the Round Table..."
The End