Chapter One:
He tossed the old shirt at him without warning, causing the younger boy to giggle and pull it off his face.
"You're getting big, Sammy, soon you'll be needing new clothes," Dean commented, pulling his own shirt on over his head. He needed new clothes anyways, Dean thought to himself, pulling on his greyish-green jacket and turning around to look at his brother. They'd just moved though, and Dean was yet to find a job. They only had a few more months left until Christmas, and with their father gallivanting around it was likely he'd need to start saving now if he was going to manage to give Sam a good memory.
"I'm fine, actually," Sam said, pulling the blue plaid patterned fabric over his shoulders. He'd grown exponentially the past year, and it was getting to the point when Dean realized there was a good chance his brother might become taller than him. He hadn't even finished puberty yet, and the boy four years his junior was maybe two inches, maybe three, behind.
Hand-me downs would work for now, Dean thought regretfully, then forced himself to move on.
"Whatever you say," Dean muttered. "Now come on. I'll walk you over to the school,"
"I can walk myself," Sam scoffed. "You're school's further, in the other direction. You don't want to be late."
"I wouldn't mind actually. Now let's get going, okay?" Dean dismissed, and beckoned him out the door.
Their room led off into the kitchen-livingroom combo, which was covered in beer cans and empty whisky bottles, an overfilled ashtray stuffed with cigarette butts on the table. The carpet was stained, the paint was peeling, and there was a suspicious mold growing in the corner of the room. One old door led off to the bathroom, and another to their father's room.
Dull shades of grey and brown mixed together with the scent of late nights and bad TV, and Dean pretended like this wasn't where they were raising Sam. This was just a building, this wasn't home. This was a sleep spot. That's what he'd always said.
"Dean, why do we have to live here. It smells like cat pee and smoke," seven year old Sam would complain.
"Don't think of it as a home, more like… a sleep spot. A place for a roof, and nothing more. Home is wherever you want it to be, okay?" eleven year old Dean would assure him.
Dean had quickly figured out Home for Sam was school. The boy loved it, coming home with A+'s on projects and begging for Dean to take him to the library to research something for a class. He'd actually skipped fifth grade, and it was hard to believe that for the first time since elementary school, he and Sam would be in the same school next year.
The sun was just beginning to rise, and it was probably one of the last days of the year they'd walk to school in the sun. Winter was fast approaching. Sam would need a new coat, too. Or, at least a warm one.
Dad would never let them borrow the Impala though. Not once in a million years. Dean loved the vehicle personally. He loved helping dad tinker and play with it, getting it to purr perfectly and unlike any other thing they owned, it was nice. It was something him and his dad had actually bonded over. Something that, while working on, made it not so unbearable to be around each other.
But Dad would pack up and go at the drop of a hat, hunting somewhere, doing an odd job, leaving for some cheap motel room with a nice lady trying to put herself through college. Honestly. So he always made sure he had possession of the car.
The chill in the air woke Dean up completely, and they followed the worn grey sidewalk down the street. It was actually one of the nicer places they were sleeping in, in Dean's opinion. With mostly green grass, and mostly well kept houses. It was no utopia, but that was okay.
There was another young kid walking behind them, but they paid no attention to her, and she paid no attention to them.
Sam's school was low to the ground, blue, and had a picture of a diving hawk on the side of it. Kids were milling about the entrance, and entering school in October was harder than towards the end of the year, Dean had always found. He wasn't sure how Sam felt though.
The brothers stood at the top of the stairs leading down to the ground that the school was built on, waiting for a bit before Dean grabbed him roughly by the collar, shaking him playfully in the only thing he'd accept that was close to a hug.
"Alright kiddo, good luck," he said gruffly. "Don't beat anyone up, don't get in trouble-"
"Dean-"
"No drugs, don't skip class, pay attention-"
"Seriously Dean-"
"Don't get distracted by girls, don't sass the teachers, don't text in class-"
"I don't have a phone, Dean-"
"Don't-"
"Dean!"
"Sorry Sammy."
"I'll be fine," the younger Winchester assured him.
"I know you will," Dean agreed, and Sam took off towards the school, skipping down the steps, his three-years running blue backpack duct taped at the bottom and ready to go. Dean smiled, then turned and started making his way back towards the high school.
It was a little bit of a walk from Sam's school, but Dean liked being alone in the early mornings. The air was crisp, the dew on the grass still there, the sun peaking over the horizon. It would only get colder the longer they stayed, but Dean liked to be out here, because it let him cleanse himself of the alcoholic taste of their sleep spot.
He made it to school twenty-minutes after the bell rang. He probably could have made it, but Dean Winchester was not about to put an effort into going to school. So he stopped and inspected the houses a bit, admired a nice, big red truck on the side of the road with chrome hubcaps and none of those stupid stickers in the window.
His first period teacher was Mr. Harrison, for English. He sauntered into that class at 8:40 in the morning and immediately had every eye on him. Not that he minded, he'd be gone in a few months anyways.
Mr. Harrison looked up, raising an eye, then sighed. The rest of the class appeared to be working on something.
"Attention class," he declared, standing up from behind his desk. The class was already at attention, really, staring at Dean like he was a creepy new animal. Mr. Harrison's voice was grating and annoying, filled with a love of literature Dean really couldn't understand. He was older, with greying brown hair, and deep set eyes that stared off at them with a milky green shade. He was dressed casually, and stood with a limp. "This is Dean Winchester, he'll be joining us for the rest of the year," he announced, then sat back down. "Pick an open seat."
With that, the grade eleven kids lost interest in him as fast as they had looked up. Going back to a booklet filled with words. Words Dean didn't want to read. Words Dean couldn't be bother to interpret into something magical. He took a seat with no seat partner, hunched over his desk and wishing he could just drop out. He couldn't drop out though, because then what would Sam think?
Mr. Harrison dropped the booklet on his desk, and Dean sat up, looking down at it and reading the title.
Short Stories.
"Grade eleven English at Thornton Secondary is highly focusing on harnessing and developing the kid's own creative efforts," Mr. Harrison elaborated.
"Not the right tree to bark up, Mr. H," Dean muttered. The teacher seemed offended and stunned, but then nodded.
"For two weeks we'll be working on a minimum fourteen page short story. Any subject, as long as the contents are appropriate for school," Mr. Harrison said, this time his voice was clippy and already done with Dean's attitude. The boy laughed.
"That ain't gonna happen," Dean said, shaking his head.
"That isn't going to happen," the teacher corrected.
"I don't even own a computer!" Dean protested.
"Then you're writing by hand," Mr. Harrison reasoned. "Or, you could use the school library. The computer's there are pretty great."
Dean snatched the booklet in his hands, and the teacher huffed and turned away to answer another question. He read over the first page, finding it filled with ideas and options and examples. Damn it. A project? Really? This was not how Dean wanted his school year to go.
He could just… not do it. Take the bad grade.
"Hey," the boy in front of him said, turning around to face him. He had fluffy dark hair, hanging over large, bright blue eyes. His jaw was sharp and his nose angular, he looked a little older than the eleventh grade they were in, but Dean supposed some people just looked that way.
"Hey," Dean replied back sharply. "I'm trying to have an emotional meltdown, okay?"
"You know, it's not that hard of a project. We do one every year with Mr. Harrison. He loves projects. You kind of get used to it, and it's better than-"
"Can it, Shirley," Dean snapped.
"No, my name is Castiel-"
"Cas, Dean, stop talking and get back to your outlines," Mr. Harrison said, and 'Castiel' turned to get back to his work, leaving Dean once again in silence.
What the hell kind of a name is Castiel anyways. Probably some crazy hippie family he didn't want to get involved with. He had enough drama with his own family anyway.
Sighed, and certainly not plotting any sort of story graph, he sighed and leaned his head on his desk, closing his eyes. This school already sucked, and if Math and Science and Socials and whatever else they stuck him in sucked as much as this, well, he hoped dad would move again soon.
At least he had Mechanics and Woodworking to look forward to. Those classes were always tolerable, and he knew enough to impress the teacher into liking him.
He sighed, and waited for the bell.
Short stories, short stories… would he even write it? Obviously the question was yes, but it just didn't appeal to him. It didn't make sense. He didn't want to. He didn't want a lot of things, obviously, but school was less important than most things. School was what Sam did. Dean worked.
Dean wanted Sam to be able to go to college, get a nice job and live a good, healthy life. They'd need money for that. If Dean dropped out now he'd be able to get a full-time job somewhere, start saving up.
Or, he could finish his GED and get a better job, and earn more money. Ah, darn. He didn't know. He didn't know. He wanted someone else to tell him.
The bell rang.
God, he hated english. And he doubted math would be much better.
To pass the time, he started planning his after school. He'd make sure Sammy got home, then he'd head out and try and find a job. Depending on how long that took he might see where dad was, then…
"Mr. Winchester, are you planning on sticking around forever?"
Oh, right. The bell rang.