Chapter Two

Like any normal school day, it seemed like an eternity before 3pm came and the student body could all go home and commit the usual petty teenage crimes. When the final bell rang, Dean was more than ready to grab Sam and head home, even if it was just a crappy rental and even if he didn't know if Dad would be there or not. The bell had barely begun ringing before he shoved his English books into his bag and slung it onto his shoulders, standing up along with the rest of the class.

"I want those poems in by Friday!" Mrs Reynolds yelled over the cacophony of thirty-odd students chattering loudly among themselves. Dean said a quick goodbye to the few people in his class he talked to, then hurried out of the classroom, desperate to just get as far away from that English room as possible – and, by default, the headache it had been causing him for the past hour.

He slowed as he got to the corridor – not by choice, more by way of hundreds of kids pouring out of their classrooms in the same half-desperation that he was – and looked through the crowds for Sam as he weaved through the people. Despite his efforts, he couldn't find him. Maybe because the poor kid was so short, even for a freshman.

Or maybe, Dean thought as he saw a small crowd milling around two people, it's because he's about to start a fight.

He shoved his way closer to the crowd of freshman students, trying to get within earshot. He could see Sam now, and could tell he was getting angrier by the second as the other kid – some fat, greasy loser double the size of Dean's little brother – taunted him.

"C'mon, do it," he sneered, leaning into Sam's personal space. "Fight me."

"I'm not going to fight you, Dylan," Sam said through gritted teeth, moving aside to get past the kid. So-called Dylan shoved Sam, making him stumble back. Sam found his feet, and his hands balled into fists. He shoved back at Dylan to move him out of his path and began to walk away. Dean almost let out a sigh of relief, but then the kid made a huge mistake and called out just as Sam was reaching the crowd and just as he could have avoided looking like a complete dick.

"Get back here, freak!" he jeered, and Dean almost felt sorry for the stupid kid when Sam turned around, cold fury in his eyes. Dean struggled to make his way through the gathering crowd as Sam stalked toward the kid, fists balled and face blank with anger. He'd just managed to get through the wall of students when Sam swung his fist with full force at Dylan's face, connecting with his jaw and cracking the kid's head back and causing him to stagger backward and fall. Just as Sam was about to charge at him again, Dean ran in and grabbed his arm, stopping him from doing any further damage. A couple of other freshmen had gone up to Dylan, who looked like he was about to cry where he sat on the floor. Not stopping to apologize or help the kid – hey, you ignore a kid's warnings, you pay full price for it – Dean led Sam away from the scene. The crowd parted loosely for them, probably partially because they were paying attention to Dylan whining behind them, more likely because the fight had ended and freshmen very quickly faded back into general anonymity after they stopped being interesting. As they dispersed back into their own lives and problems, Sam yanked his arm from Dean's grip and glared at the lockers as they passed them.

"So," Dean said casually as they walked, "you gonna tell me what all that was about?"

"No," Sam glowered. "And you didn't need to pull me away like that. I'm fourteen, I know what I'm doing."

"Doesn't look like it, Sammy," Dean said, shaking his head. "What's –"

"Look, can we just go home?" Sam said, his voice taking on a slightly whiny tone. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Dean raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on it, allowing Sam to lead the way out the doors of the school corridor. He'd seemed really angry lately, though aside from Dylan calling him a freak today, there hadn't been any incidents. Maybe it was a puberty thing, Sam's sudden anger issues. God knew the poor kid hadn't had a growth spurt since he was five. This was probably a good thing. Still, Dean had to look after him. If he got into another fight, Dad would know, and that was one thing neither Sam nor Dean needed at all.

They walked toward Dean's crappy car together, Sam slowing down after about ten seconds of angry striding and stiff shoulders. Dean grinned at him, patting him on the shoulder.

"Well, he won't be calling you 'freak' anymore," he said, laughing. "You got him good, Sammy."

Sam said nothing, but looked up and glared sulkily at him, then shrugged Dean's hand from his shoulder and walked faster to the car, opening the door, somehow slumping into the seat and slamming the door behind him. Dean frowned, grin fading from his face. He hated it when Sam gave him the bitchface. More importantly, it was a fairly obvious pointer that Sam wasn't just unhappy. He was pissed. Well, kid wanted to keep it to himself, that was fine. Bury it deep, that's what we Winchesters do.

He went around to the other side of the car and hopped in, pulling the door shut behind him and shoving the key into the eyehole and starting the car. He wondered if Dad would be there waiting for them when they got home.

He kinda hoped he wouldn't be.

When Dean pulled into Eridan Street, he immediately saw the thing he'd simultaneously been anticipating and dreading. The Impala glistened slightly in the afternoon sun, contrasting greatly with the dirty house it proudly stood guard in front of. Dean sighed inwardly, glancing over at Sam. He didn't look like he'd just been in a fight, just looked like Dean had been poking and prodding at him a little too much. Maybe Dad would call him out on that. Maybe not. But there was going to be something wrong. There always was. There was always something he wasn't doing right.

Dean pulled into the driveway, eyeing the Impala with some envy. No matter how much he neglected so many other things – himself, his house, his own two sons – Dean had to admit that he kept his car in damn good condition, considering he'd had it since the late 70s. He drove it everywhere he went and barely let anyone else touch it, let alone drive it. It was his baby, and dear God, Dean was jealous of a freakin' car for the attention Dad gave to it.

He pulled the keys out of the trash can car that he'd bought for himself (the word "bought" being used in place of "took on a test drive from a shady shop and never returned") and looked over at Sam, who looked marginally pleased now.

"Dad's home," he said, smiling a little and then getting out of the car. Dean followed suit, not bothering to reply. Sam knew that Dean was usually pretty indifferent as to whether Dad was home or not, but he didn't seem to realize how much Dad relied on Dean to look after him, and he certainly didn't seem to know how angry Dad got at him when Sam came home and was hurt somehow, whether it was a small scratch on the side of his hand or bruises from having taken on a provoking bully... again.

He headed toward the door as Sam opened it and walked rather determinedly into the house, keeping up his regular habit of checking that Dad was actually there and the Impala hadn't just appeared there without him by some freak incident. Dean supposed it wasn't that unusual, considering Dad did have a tendency to disappear on them without any indication other than some money on the counter with the usual "be back later, look after Sam" note.

Dean walked into the house, taking his time as he placed the keys on the wall hook – something he hadn't done since... well, since the last time Dad had come home from one of his business trips. He stepped cautiously from the front hall into the living room, where Sam was sitting on the shabby couch across from where Dad sat in his armchair, smiling distantly at his youngest son. He looked up as Dean walked in, and the first thing Dean saw was those tired eyes, too weary to hold anything more. Dean swallowed, then grinned at Dad, keeping a cautious distance between them.

"Welcome back," he said nonchalantly, leaning against the wall and giving his father a completely faked grin. "Nice to have you home again."

Dad stood up with a grunt, nodding at Dean. "I'm off again tomorrow," he said wearily, looking at Dean meaningfully. "I'm only here because I had to check up on you boys. See that you were doin' okay."

Dean shared a look with Sam, who gave him a significant look. Tell him we're doing horribly. Tell him we miss him. C'mon, Dean, get him to stay.

"We're doin' fine," Dean said unhesitatingly, smiling so his teeth would hide the lie. "Where you going this time? Out west again?"

"Illinois," Dad mumbled vaguely, beginning to walk out of the living room. "Gotta do some... business, y'know..." He walked heavily down the hall, almost dragging his feet. Despite the familiar hurt Dean was feeling at such a quick dismissal, he couldn't help but feel that Dad seemed so much older than the last time he'd been home, so much more tired than a man who ran a "small family business" should have been. Dean didn't know whether he felt sorry for him or angry that he wasn't saying anything.

Then again, neither was Dean himself, but maybe that was something he'd learned from good old Papa Winchester.

A sudden thought struck Dean then, and he walked into the kitchen after his father. He walked casually over to the house phone as Dad looked through the fridge, quietly picked it up and then looked through the recent calls. As he'd suspected, there was one from Lawrence High School. Only about a minute or so long, enough for Dad to know that Dean had just failed his third math test in a row, but not long enough for Dad to have discussed it. Not long enough to care about it.

Suddenly, Dean thought that maybe he'd fail his next test, too.

"Dean."

He set the phone back onto its charging dock and turned around to see Dad regarding him with serious eyes. "Yeah?" he replied nonchalantly, raising an eyebrow and leaning against the slightly dirty counter as if he wasn't hoping against hope that maybe Dad was about to have one of those fabled father-son conversations with him. He waited to be disappointed and hoped to be proven wrong.

"You been lookin' after Sam okay?" Dad asked, looking genuinely concerned through his weariness. "Kid seems a bit off."

Dean let the words sink into his ears and burn themselves into his skin before swallowing down the bitter anger rising in his throat and finding his capacity to reply.

"Yeah," he said simply, nodding once and then beginning to walk away.

"Yes, what?" Dad called after him as he headed down the hallway to his room.

"Yes, sir," Dean replied loudly, opening his bedroom door and slipping into the small room quietly. Yes, sir, I'll look after your son better than you can. Yes, sir, I'll pretend to be you for his sake. Yes, sir, I'll pretend neither of us know or care that I'm failing an essential class.

Yes, sir, I'll do better next time.

Author's Note: Holy blonde cheerleader, Batman, this got eight follows and two favourites within a day! Is that normal? Am I doing this right? Anyway, please don't hesitate to leave me a review pointing out everything that's wrong with this (seriously, people, I needyour criticism, I feed off it) or just saying hello. I like knowing that you've been here. I can smell your presence anyway, but I don't feel as creepy reading your comments as I do creeping into your home at night and sniffing you. (Mmmm, do I smell strawberries?)
...This needs to stop. But thankyou all so much for following the story and for adding it to your favourites and all those really nice things I don't really deserve! I appreciate it, and again, feel free to contact me.