Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Sam's Folly.
Dropout
Chapter One
Winchester Family Business
"Dean, you can't quit!" Sam's thirteen year old voice already cracked and squeaked annoyingly, and when he was upset it was even worse.
Dean rolled his eyes. Drama Queen! It was on the tip of his tongue, but Dad's eyes wandered up from his journal and nailed Dean, daring him to say the words aloud. Clearly Dad didn't want to deal with this. He wanted quiet. Dean knew the look well.
Said drama queen was sitting cross-legged on the bed, his schoolwork strewn around him. Dean was sitting at the small table across from his father. John was writing in his journal, recording the things he'd learned on his last hunt. He always wrote down everything he could remember as quickly as he could. He said he didn't want to forget any details. He said it was important. He was amassing information that was essential to the "family business," hunting supernatural things and saving lives.
Dean was supposed to be studying. He had his history book open in his hands, but his mind had been wondering for some time now. He'd thought about Kitzy Mason, the cute redhead in his math class, and that occupied his mind for a while; but like it usually did, Dean's mind had wandered to hunting. Last weekend, he and John had hunted down a ghoul—a real corpse-eating, nasty-assed, really foul-smelling ghoul. John had been proud of him, and Dean remembered the warm feeling of basking in his father's pride.
How could anything be more important than hunting—killing things that hurt people? It was like being a superhero and Dad needed his help. He'd said as much, many times. He'd been training Dean since he was just a kid to do this. How could it be wrong? How could Dad possibly say no? Dean was sure that Dad had been waiting for Dean to decide on this. He was so sure it was what Dad wanted. Dad would agree with him, no doubt in Dean's mind, and Dean's problem would be solved.
Dean knew Sam would be upset—throw a bitch-fit. Sam would never let it go without a fight. But when Dad said yes—when Dad agreed with Dean, there wouldn't be much Sam could do but yell and pout and try to make Dean feel guilty. Sam could guilt Dean into a lot of things, but about this, Dean was sure, and he was determined not to change his mind. He was going to do this, and Dad would back him up.
"Dad!" Sam whined, demanding help.
"No, Dean." John gave his answer bluntly along with a look that indicated he was not willing to discuss the matter. Then he began writing in his journal again, and except for the scratching of John's pen, all was silent. The answer hit Dean hard and disappointment lay heavy in his gut. Dad might as well have shot him.
Dean sighed and got up from the table. Walking over to the bed, he looked back at his father. The one thing he didn't expect was that John would side with Sam. Dean was hurt and angry, but he didn't argue with John. He never argued with his father. He turned back and pushed his younger brother and all his books and papers to one side of the bed, then plopped down and stretched out, closing his eyes and folding his arms across his chest. Damn! He thought it but wouldn't dare to say it aloud.
Dean could hear Sam breathe a sigh of relief and fiddle around with his papers. He knew Sam wouldn't say anything more. John's final "no" had ended the conversation, and Sam knew it as well as Dean did. Besides, John gave the answer Sam wanted. No.
Sam was in the eighth grade, and he didn't mind studying or doing homework. In fact, Sam liked to read, and he had a photographic memory for words and numbers. School was easy for him and he loved it. Nerd!
Dean was feeling less than charitable toward his little brother now, but he was proud that Sam was always one of the smartest kids in school, even if they weren't usually anywhere long enough for it to be known. Dean knew. Dean signed Sam's report cards when Dad wasn't around, which was most of the time. Dean was the one to praise Sam for his good grades, and if he could scrounge up enough cash, he would take Sam out for pizza to celebrate his straight A's. Sometimes Dean called him "Geek Boy," but he meant it affectionately. He was not only proud, but maybe a little in awe. Sam could do anything, be anything he wanted.
School wasn't so easy for Dean. At seventeen, he should have been in his senior year, but he'd repeated sixth grade. As a result, he was two years away from graduating. The thought of two more years of high school made Dean's stomach churn. High school was stupid, full of stupid kids who had no idea about the things Dean knew. He'd been hunting ghosts and monsters for years. He'd ganked werewolves and wendigos and all manner of monsters with his father, watched them die and burned their carcasses. He found it hard to get excited about pep rallies and high school football games. He had too much else to do, more important responsibilities.
Dean let his anger dissipate. No use hanging on to it. Sam was quickly absorbed in his studies once again and Dad was bent over his journal. Dean fell asleep to the quiet shuffling of Sam's papers and the scratching of John's pen. When he woke from his nap, he was hungry, and he wandered to the kitchenette to forage through the cabinets and check out the supplies.
"Corned beef?" he called out.
"Yuck," Sam replied.
John gave no answer.
Dean scrounged around some more. "Mac 'n' cheese?"
"No!" Sam's voice cracked on that one and Dean smirked to himself. "Picky little princess," he muttered. He pulled out a can of chili and headed to the refrigerator. He was tired of this game. "Hot dogs and chili it is then."
Sam put up his homework and made his way to the kitchenette, where he pulled dishes and silverware out of the cabinets to set the table. John put away his journal and joined the boys, pulling milk for the them and a beer for himself from the refrigerator. Mealtime was by rote and usually happened when Dean got hungry enough to find something to cook.
They sat together around the little table. The one-room apartment offered nothing extra, just the basics and very little space. John told the boys it was temporary, a place to get them started in school until he could find something better. At the first of every school year, John always said the same thing, but it never seemed to work out that way. Sometimes he did find something better, but it ended up being temporary too.
As they ate, John recounted his latest hunt to the boys. He'd battled a water sprite. He told them how the sprite had dragged him into the water, pulled him down below the surface, and how he was able to kill it with a silver knife through the creature's heart.
"Yeah. Silver's a symbol of purity in many cultures," Sam added.
"Kills werewolves—well, silver bullet to the heart anyway," Dean supplied.
"True," said John. "You can fight and kill many things with silver: wraiths, shapeshifters..."
Winchester family times almost always centered on hunting—training for a hunt, preparing for a hunt or reviewing a recent hunt. With John, everything was about the hunt.
Sometimes, both the boys hunted with their father. At seventeen, Dean had been hunting with his father for five years, mostly on short trips, not more than a day or two. Someone had to look out for the youngest Winchester, and for as long as he could remember, that someone was usually Dean.
It was just within the past year that thirteen-year-old Sam had started going on hunts, but he'd been helping with research since he was nine. John started both boys in training early, Dean by the time he was eight and Sam even earlier, at six.
John taught his boys different games. He taught them hunting games—how to defend themselves in a hand-to-hand fight, how to handle not only a knife and a gun with skill, but a wide variety of weapons safely. They played tracking games and learned survival skills. They were John's little soldiers.
Later that night as John lay in his bed, he thought about what Dean had said. "I want to quit school and hunt full time." The words hit John hard, but he wouldn't let it show on his face. He knew Mary would never allow it. But Mary was dead, and her death had changed everything. John could still see her pinned to the ceiling, burned alive before his eyes, and that one moment, that terrible vision he could never forget, had scarred John's soul.
There was a time when John would never have entertained the thought of either of his boys quitting school. He'd started a college fund for the boys the day each one was born. Every month he would add money to the funds. Once, he'd had the normal hopes that any father would have for his sons, the hopes that he and Mary shared for their boys. But all that changed the day Mary died and John became obsessed with finding the thing that had killed his wife and torn his family apart.
Each year, John tried to keep the boys in the same school as long as he could. When they were younger, he did pretty well, only moving once or twice during the school year. He helped Dean with homework and made sure the boys ate a good supper, took their baths, and got to bed at a decent hour, at least on school nights. But back then, he was just getting started and only hunted on weekends when he could find a reliable babysitter.
By the time Sammy started school and Dean was in fifth grade, John wasn't just hunting, he was a full-fledged hunter. When he wasn't hunting, he was researching for a hunt. When he was on a hunt, he stayed until the job was done, no matter how long it took and whether he had someone to stay with the boys or not. So it fell to ten-year-old Dean to take care of six-year-old Sammy. Dean helped Sammy with homework and made sure he ate a good supper, took his bath, and got to bed at a decent hour. Dean no longer got help with his homework, and he had to repeat sixth grade.
John's obsession to find the thing that killed Mary became the center of his world. He loved his boys. They were Mary's sons. They were all he had left of her, but he convinced himself that he was at war and nothing else mattered—nothing. He told himself he needed to teach the boys to protect themselves, and that was true; but John went beyond that. He was training them to be soldiers at war. He was training them to hunt. It was all that mattered. The "family business." There was nothing else. Not for him, and not for his boys.
John had long ago cashed in both the boys' college funds to buy supplies and ammo. Now he was thinking it might be a good idea to let Dean drop out. He could use Dean's help full time. But Mary would hate him for it, and Sam was doing exactly what Mary would do, fighting to make Dean stay in school. John's gut churned. Life had become cruel without her. He stared into the night. I'm sorry, Mary. I'll try to hold on until they graduate High School, but after that... A silent tear slid down his face.
It was Saturday morning and the day started early. Breakfast was cereal and toast. Then, whatever apartment or motel room they were in at the time was cleaned and laundry was gathered to take to the laundromat. This weekend, John was home, so he pitched in with the boys to get the work done by lunchtime. After lunch, it was time for training.
When John was home, training games were not play. Training was treated like life or death because that's the way John felt it had to be. The boys were training to be in the family business, and there was no room for error. A mistake could mean death. That's what John taught his boys.
This weekend, the training began with an obstacle course John had set up. Dean took point. He was older and more experienced. First, it ran through a field. The boys crawled through mud and scaled walls and chain metal fences, crawled under and through barbed wire and over rocks. All the while, they scanned for targets and were expected to hit the marks with precision. Once they made it through the field, the course wound through the woods. They ran, dodging trees and bushes, still scanning for targets. They crawled through underbrush and searched for cover as they made their way through the course.
They were approaching a small hill cautiously, expecting a target at the top. It seemed a great place for an ambush. Dean gave a quick, low whistle to Sam and motioned for him to take cover. Ducking behind a tree, Sam kept Dean in sight. Dean ducked behind a large rock and quickly scanned the territory, planning their next move.
Satisfied that he had adequately scanned the area, Dean signaled for Sam to advance while he covered. He nodded toward an outcrop of rock close by. Sam eased around the tree and scanned the territory, assessing the area. Dean watched and breathed a quick sigh of relief when Sam promptly spotted the outcrop and darted up the hill toward it. He was almost to his cover when Dean heard the thwack of a hard impact on flesh and saw Sam go down, sprawling to the ground, his hand clutching his thigh. Dean knew immediately what Sam had done. Shit! Shit! Shit! Sam had hit a trip wire.
He'd failed. Dean was point, and he should have scanned the area better before he sent his brother out. He'd missed something. Sam had failed. He should be watching better. He should have seen the trip wire. He should have been more aware of the path he chose to run. Dad would be disappointed. Sam hit the ground, wincing in pain from the wound on his thigh, and Dean knew the disappointment of failure was ripping through Sam just like it was through him. They would get a major lecture and some extra training for their mistakes.
Once again, Dean scanned ahead and saw the clues he should have seen before. Damn! There was another trip wire. Sonofabitch! Dean darted out, maneuvering around the second trap, and quickly made his way to Sam, who was crawling toward the outcrop.
"I got ya, Sammy. You okay?" He glanced quickly at his brother's leg and was relieved when he didn't see blood.
"Yeah. 'M sorry, Dean" Once the pain subsided—and, Dean suspected, some of the disappointment—Sam was able to make it to the outcrop on his own power. Dean knew well that part of the test was to put failures behind them and finish the course. They didn't have the luxury to nurse wounds or dwell on failures. They had to focus on getting the job done.
When they made it through the woods, it was close to midnight. John was waiting.
"I got a call from Bobby this afternoon. There's a spirit we can take out in the next town over. Come on, boys."
They piled into the Impala and headed into the night.
It was Dean that John's dark eyes pierced first. Dean's face burned hot. There was no way Dad would miss their faux pas back in the woods. It wasn't enough that they made it through a grueling obstacle course that even marines would find daunting or that he was only seventeen and Sam was thirteen. Dean swallowed back his protest. His arguments weren't important. The training was important. It was a matter of life and death. They'd been through all this before.
"You boys made a serious mistake back there."
"Yes, sir!" the boys answered in unison.
"It was a rock that hit you Sammy. I imagine you got a pretty big bruise." Sam rubbed his thigh. "It could have been any type of projectile—a bullet, a stake, maybe an arrow or a bomb. And, Dean, you were point. You should have scanned better before you sent your brother out. You could have gotten him killed. That was sloppy work!"
Dean would have said he was sorry, but he knew the response he'd get from that. Both boys had been down that road enough not to go there. Sorry didn't help, not with Dad. "Yes, sir." Dean hated to disappoint John more than anything. He hated to fail, and it was a bitter pill.
They rode without conversation. John played his favorite rock music, and it was a long while before he elaborated about Bobby's call.
"We're after an angry spirit in an old farmhouse," John said, finally breaking the silence. "Seems every few years some kids get the notion to test out the local legend and go in this farmhouse. Some come out terrified with new stories to add to the legend, and there've been a couple of deaths over the years."
"So what's the legend?" asked Sam.
"It's a routine salt-and-burn, Sammy. That's all you need to know."
Sam hated when John cut him off. The legend was important to Sam. Figuring out the "why" was the part he liked about the family business, and he was sure it was helpful in solving the hunts faster. That's why he liked staying with Bobby when John and Dean hunted. Bobby taught him a lot about research and Sam soaked it up like a sponge. Besides, Bobby had books—ancient books that you couldn't find in a library, not if you were thirteen years old.
They arrived at the farmhouse and were loading their guns with rock salt rounds when John spoke again.
"Bobby figures the remains are in the house with the spirit." John looked his boys in the eye. "I want you boys to handle this one. It's all on you. I'm going to be here, and if you call, I'll be there. It's your first hunt. Just you two. Don't let me down."
Sam and Dean exchanged looks. White teeth shined through Dean's muddy face as he grinned and winked. Let's do this Sammy. His look said it all; neither of them needed to speak. Sam could hear him loud and clear, and he couldn't help but respond with a broad smile for his brother.
Sam was excited about this opportunity to hunt a real ghost, just him and Dean—a chance to prove themselves. He knew they could do it, but he hated going in without knowing what he was facing. "You don't always know what you're up against." That was John's rationale for leaving them in the dark, but Sam thought it was dangerous and unnecessary.
"If you know what you're up against, you know how to fight it better. That's why you research." That's what Bobby always said. Grudgingly, Sam knew both men were right for their own reasons.
Both boys checked their guns and then nodded to each other. They were ready. Dean took the point, heading toward the house first, Sam following behind. When they reached the house, they silently made their way up the steps and across the porch to the front door. Dean nodded to Sam, who held his shotgun ready. Sam watched Dean's hand at the doorknob intently as he silently counted down. Three—three fingers pointed toward the door, two—two fingers, one—one finger.
Dean pushed the door wide open and ducked low, gun drawn as he entered the house, sweeping right to left, scanning the room. Sam immediately followed, entering at full height, gun drawn and sweeping left to right. The room was dark, but they were used to looking for any slight movement, listening for any tiny sound. Flashlights held up next to their guns, they moved with practiced ease, almost like a dance, clearing the room and moving forward, just like they'd been taught.
There were two doors leading out of the front room. One was directly in front of them and one to the right. No way to tell which direction would lead them to a spirit or the remains. Choosing the wrong direction would allow the spirit to ambush them from behind. Dean motioned Sam to take the right as he moved forward.
Sam scanned the room as he slowly entered. He looked carefully, gun and flashlight searching along each wall from corner to corner and along the floor. He didn't want a repeat of the afternoon's failure. There was nothing in the room, nothing to cover, so he began to work his way across to the far side, always alert for any movement. He saw nothing but when he heard a grunt and gunfire, he knew Dean had found the spirit.
Sam doubled back and ran through the room and the door Dean had taken. Once in that room, he spotted Dean on the floor at the far side of the room, sitting against a doorjamb.
"Dean!" Sam grabbed his brother by the shoulders. "Dean, you okay?"
"Yeah. I shot it, but it'll be back. We gotta find the remains."
"What was it?"
"A pissed off sonofabitch, Sammy! What do you think?" Dean was picking himself up from the floor with Sam's help.
"I mean, was it male or female? Did you see any evidence of how it died? Any marks or scars?
Dean gave his brother an incredulous look. "I don't know, man. It happened sort of fast. I was trying not to get killed." He brushed off Sam's grip on his shoulders and rolled his eyes.
"It could be important, Dean. It might help us figure out where to look for the remains."
Dean gave his brother another look. "Geek!"
Sam sighed. "Dean."
"Okay, okay. Its eyes glowed red and it grabbed my shoulders and pushed me against the door." Dean hesitated like he was trying to picture what he'd seen. "His wrists had bruises around them, like rope burns, like he was bound. His face was bruised too, on one side, the left. His left eye was blacked and swollen almost shut."
"Did he say anything?"
"No. I think he kinda hissed at me." Dean was growing impatient with this line of questioning. "I don't know, man! Let's just find the damn thing and burn it!"
"All right," Sam said absently. Angry spirits were most often born of violent death and remained to seek revenge. He was trying to formulate a hypothesis as to what might have happened to the spirit, which could help them figure out where to find the remains.
"You find anything on the other side of the house?" It was Dean's turn to question.
"No. The room was empty. I didn't get past the first room before I heard a gunshot." Sam was pensive. "You say the spirit shoved you into the doorjamb?" He shone his flashlight in the door and down a flight of steps. "Basement," Sam mused. "Might be he was tied up down there. You say his face was bruised?"
Dean nodded.
"Maybe he was tied up and beaten—tortured."
"I'd use the basement if I was going to torture someone."
"Dean, you'd never torture someone. We save people; we don't torture."
"You're right, Sammy." Dean grinned. "We're the good guys. Come on, I'm heading down first. You cover me."
Dean crouched low and shone his flashlight on the stairs. He had his gun drawn and ready as he descended. Sam was immediately behind him, his flashlight and gun scanning the room below. They made it to the base of the stairs and saw a figure tied to a chair off to the right. A brief glance passed between the brothers, which relayed their thoughts instantly. Yahtzee!
They made their way slowly toward the body. There was no odor. It had obviously been there undisturbed for years and had mummified. Suddenly, there was coldness around them and Sam noticed his breath fogged as he exhaled. Red glowing eyes appeared in front of him. The face contorted into a frozen, silent scream, bruised and swollen. Sam gasped, and the spirit hissed and grabbed Sam by the shoulders. It pinned Sam's arms to his side, and Sam was unable to raise his gun to shoot.
"Dean!" Sam screamed to his brother for help. Dean couldn't shoot the spirit without hitting Sam as well. Sam knew rock salt wouldn't kill him but it would hurt like hell, so he braced himself for the pain. Sam looked through the spirit and saw Dean running to the mummified remains, pulling salt and lighter fluid from his pockets as he ran. He quickly doused the body with both and fired up the mummy.
Flames immediately engulfed the figure. As the remains burned, the spirit's face contorted, first in confusion and then realization of what was happening. Sam shuddered, and then he breathed a sigh of relief.
Dean was immediately by his brother's side. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm good." Sam gazed around the room and thought about the circumstances of this death. It sank in that this was no longer a legend. It was a person who was obviously tortured, and the body had just been left. "I wish I knew the story behind this."
"Come on, Sammy. You're such a girl! It's over. We killed it. Let's go."
"Yeah, you're right." But Sam resolved to find out what happened and who the spirit was. He wanted to satisfy his curiosity, and something in him felt that the spirit needed someone to know. Maybe next time he was at Bobby's, he'd look it up.
The ride back home was a time to review all that they did on the hunt, and was no less a learning experience than any other part of the day. The boys related everything that happened on the hunt to John. He nodded, listening intently. Occasionally, he added a "that was good" and even a final "I'm proud of both of you." John made no mention of the failure during training the day before. The boys had absolved themselves by the successful hunt. It didn't go unnoticed. Both boys were obviously glad for the reprieve and, for now, they enjoyed the camaraderie of hunters.
When the Winchesters arrived back at the apartment after stopping along the way for breakfast, it was eight a.m. The boys were exhausted. Sam showered first while Dean and John cleaned and stowed away the guns and equipment. Sam was fast asleep by the time Dean finished his shower and crawled under the covers. John finished writing in his journal while his sons drifted into a dreamless sleep.
John was tough on the boys, and he knew it was a rough life. They missed a lot. He wanted to give his sons a stable life and some hope of going to college, maybe one day settling down to a normal life. But it wasn't possible. When John looked at his boys, he saw that they were strong and smart. They knew what was real in this world, and they knew how to face it head on. Dean was already a hunter, and John had no doubt that Sam would be too—no doubt that the Winchesters would be the best damn hunters on the planet.
Sam woke up first that afternoon, and gathering up his books, he spread them out on the table to finish his schoolwork. John and Dean continued to sleep. Dean's regular breathing and John's faint snores didn't bother Sam. He was studying for a history exam on Civil War battles, and he was totally fascinated.
Soon Dean began to stir. Sam was watching from his place at the table when Dean opened his eyes, rolled over, and sat up on the side of the bed, orienting himself. His back was to Sam and he stretched his arms out, rocking his head from side to side. Sam knew that Dean was aware that he was being watched. Not much got by Dean. He seemed to know everything, and Sam had a pretty good idea that Dean knew what was on Sam's mind.
Dean stood, stretched again and headed to the bathroom. Sam decided it would be best to let Dean get good and awake. He was an absolute bear when he woke up and was a lot more reasonable once he'd had the chance to freshen up. Sam really wished he'd made a pot of coffee.
When Dean came out of the bathroom, Sam motioned with a nod of his head toward the front door. He didn't want to wake John, and he'd been waiting all afternoon for Dean to wake up. Dean gave a heavy sigh and headed out the door with Sam on his heels.
"What?" Dean was on the defensive already.
"You can't quit school, Dean. You just can't. It would be the biggest mistake of your life." Sam knew John had said no, but he also knew that John's heart wasn't in that 'no,' and Dean wouldn't give up. Sam had to convince Dean he needed to stay in school.
"Yeah, well, I don't think so. What do I need with all that crap? I'm a hunter, Sammy. It's all I'm ever going to be and I can learn all I need from Dad and Bobby." Dean was adamant, but Sam had confidence in his ability to convince Dean.
"Dean, there's more to life than hunting and you need to be able to do something besides hunt," Sam pleaded.
"I can work on cars—classic cars. I could rebuild the Impala from the ground up if I had to. Don't you think I can't!"
"I know, Dean, but you need to finish high school. You can't drop out. Just...you just can't."
"I'm already a year behind and that means two more years to finish. I can't do this for two more years. I hate it. Don't you get it?" Dean's face was anguished in a way that Sam had never seen before, and he didn't quite know how to handle that kind of emotion from Dean.
"For all their smarts, those teachers have no idea the things we know, Sammy. They have no idea what the real world is about. They don't even know how many times we've saved their asses! And I have to pretend I care about that stuff with all I have to do?" Dean was shaking his head emphatically. "Uh-uh. No. Can't do it! Won't do it!"
"Dean!" Sam had a sinking feeling he was losing this battle, so he changed tactics. "Dad won't let you quit."
Dean snorted. "Yeah, he will. He wants me to hunt full time. You'll see." Dean held Sam's eyes with his own. He was deadly serious. "I'm more important to him hunting than I am in school. I don't have time for both, Sammy. Maybe you do, but I don't." Dean went back into the apartment, leaving Sam speechless on the doorstep.
When Dean stomped into the apartment, John was up and gazing down at Sam's homework on the table.
"What's up?" he asked. Dean could tell that John had a pretty good idea what he and Sam had been arguing about.
"Nothing." Dean headed to the kitchen and started scrounging through the pitifully bare cabinets. It occurred to Dean that John wouldn't weigh in on their argument. He would let Sammy guilt-trip Dean into staying in school, because Sammy was so good at conning Dean into doing whatever Sammy wanted. Damnit! Dean slammed the cabinet door. He knew Sam had the high ground on this and even Dad wasn't going to stand up against him.
"I need to make a grocery run. We don't have much to make dinner with," Dean groused.
"Okay." John searched his wallet until he found a VISA card in the name of John Padalecki. "Here's a card you can use. Get whatever you think we need."
Dean took the card and glanced at the name. "I look Polish to you?"
John smirked. "It'll work." He motioned Dean out the door.
Sam was still on the doorstep, and Dean could see the wheels turning in Sam's big ol' nerdy head as he contemplated what to do next. He was not willing to let go of this.
"Where you headed, Dean?"
"We need supplies. I'm going to the store. I'll fix dinner when I get back."
"Want me to go with you?"
"No!" Dean left Sam speechless on the doorstep for the second time that afternoon.
TBC