Chapter Ten

Dean had given up on 'good clothes' years ago. It just didn't make sense. Nothing they did required 'good clothes.' Because monsters didn't give a damn what you wore, and you tended to get blood—or ichor, guts, or just plain ick—all over the clothes anyway, which meant they remained stained even after washing, or got tossed, so why on earth would you lug around anything that constituted 'good clothes' when you might need the space in your duffel for extra ammo?

Which is why he was disgusted that he stood before the mirror tying a tie and attempting to make himself look presentable.

It was one thing with chicks. Sure, they wanted someone clean, and he excelled at showers—you kinda learned that when you got back to a motel stinking of ew de monster—but most of the chicks he picked up weren't into inspecting every inch of his clothing (most preferred him out of them), and he'd sure never hooked up with any who expected him to wear a freakin' tie.

Well. Good enough. He'd actually combed his short hair into something approximating a part, despite his inclination to just run a hand through it post-shower; and he wore a khaki twill shirt where the stain was on the back, not the front, and the red-brown knit tie—Sam referred to it as burgundy—was knotted into submission; and his jeans . . . well, that was the best he could do. He had nothing approaching 'dress slacks.' He had jeans.

Jeans, fortunately, hid various stains far better than twill shirts. Or burgundy ties, probably, though he'd never worn a tie on a hunt. It was Sammy who insisted he have one, who said that you couldn't swear there'd never be a monster who didn't attend the opera.

Dean rather thought anyone who attended the opera was likely to be a monster.

He'd asked Sam if the teacher was male, or female, all the associated intel. Sam's reply had been less than forthcoming, other than to state the teacher was female. Dean preferred to have more to go on than just gender. 'Hot,' or 'grandmother' told a guy a lot, but Sam was too nervous to go there. Sam had just flapped his hands and said Ms. Abernathy was 'cool.' But mostly he was extremely nervous, and an extremely nervous Sam, who only appeared when girls or teachers were involved, never monsters, was not going to give him much.

You owe me, Dad. You owe me big-time.

Because Dad was conveniently out of town, when Sam's school required that a close family member over the age of twenty-one attend a conference.

Dad was out of town. Dean was twenty-one. Dean was thus elected by u-Sam-imous decision.

Sonofabitch.

He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He knew what to do with that face with a young, hot teacher. He was not so certain what to do with it with a grandmotherly type. Sam was the one who'd cornered the market on melting older hearts. He just had those eyes, and that whole knitting-of-the-brows thing, and the earnest appeal of someone who actually meant what he said . . . which was the Key to Sam, Dean knew. His brother really did mean the things he said.

And he wants to go to college. Who the hell am I to stand in his way?

Much as he wanted to. Much as he wanted to get right up into Sam's face—which was a little harder, now that Sam had sprouted yet another freakin' inch and was up to 6'3"—and tell him he should stay put with his family—his family, dammit!—and do what he'd been trained to do all of his life.

But for all Dad seemed to have a backbone of iron and could withstand all of Sam's wheedling and puppy dog stares, Dean always caved. It was a constitutional weakness of which he was not proud. Probably he should work very hard to eradicate this weakness. But it was what it was, and Sam was leaving anyway.

Dean wondered what would happen if he told the teacher that Sam was unsuited for college. That maybe in a year or two he'd be ready. That he was socially maladjusted, wholly dysfunctional, and required counseling to truly become the kind of citizen that college, and the world at large, needed.

Well, hell. Any teacher worth his or her salt would know by now that Sam was ready, and that Dean was merely throwing out his own insufficiencies as an excuse to keep his brother down on the farm.

"Dean." Sam, from the other room.

He ran a hand over his jaw. Freshly shaved, Old Spice applied . . . plus hair with an actual part; pressed shirt, tie; boots from which he had removed monster ick. What more did Sammy want?

Well. Sammy wanted a lot.

"Dean!"

Okay, anxiety ramping up.

Dean sighed, flipped off the bathroom light, appeared before his brother. "Happy, now?"

Sam's brows jumped. "You look—presentable."

"I look freakin' awesome," Dean corrected. "Let's get this done. How far is school?"

Dad had the Impala. "Two blocks," Sam replied. "Easy walk."

"I could boost a car."

That seemed to ratchet up Sam's anxiety. "We're walking, Dean! We're not going to show up at school in a car that could belong to the science teacher, okay?"

"Your science teacher lives in a run-down neighborhood inhabited by losers?" Dean asked, then waved a hand. "Don't answer that."

Because Sam would immediately respond that the Winchesters were not losers, and would embark upon all the reasons they weren't, which was not what teachers wished to hear, anyway. Besides, Sammy wanted to go to college, which pretty much proved he was not a loser.

Neither was he, Dean knew; and he did know that. But what Winchesters did would not register on any kind of scholastic aptitude test, and likely would not impress a high school teacher in a parent-teacher conference, especially when the parent was absent and the only relative present over the age of twenty-one was a wise-ass older brother.

So don't be a wise-ass.

Dean was not certain that was even possible. It was his default setting.

Dad said he was born with a smart mouth. Dean replied that at least part of him was smarter than Sammy.

"Can we go?" Sam asked.

"Chill," Dean said. "Besides, she's talking to me, not you. You don't even have to go."

Sam said, "But God knows what you might tell her. I have to be available to clean up whatever mess you make."

Dean, tasting ashes, stared at him.

Sam had the grace to realize what he'd just said. "Oh God. I didn't mean it like that!"

Yeah. You did. Dean shrugged. "Let's go."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"You got two choices," Dean said. "We can wait until Dad gets back, which means then you've got to tell him you're leaving; or I can go talk to this woman and sing your praises. Or make a mess you get to clean up. You figure it out."

Sam was close to tears. "I'm sorry."

He was. Sammy always was. He wanted so many things. He wanted them with a terrible need. Sam Winchester desired so badly to be other than what he was.

Can you be what you are because someone made you that way? Can you be really good at something you don't want to do?

Had he, himself, ever wanted to be other than what he was?

No. Not before Sam, in his own Sammish way, had questioned his own goals; and by that had made Dean think about what his brother needed.

What maybe he needed.

No. In the immortal words of Popeye, Dean knew the truth.

I yam what I yam.

And Sam's teacher would have to like it or lump it. This wasn't about Dean going to college. Dean didn't have to prove anything about himself. Just explain that yes, his little brother had the competence, and the dedication, to do what he said he intended to do.

Straight As, and he'd aced the SAT. Anyone who looked into the earnest puppy dog eyes would know what was in Sam's heart. If all it took was his older brother swearing that he believed in Sam, he was happy to do it. Because he did believe in Sam, the way he believed in no one other than his father. He believed in Sam more than he believed in himself.

And when they'd walked the two blocks, and Dean shook the hand of the middle-aged teacher—attractive, but not hot; but neither was she a grandmother—and he'd answered all her questions and ventured a few off-hand comments of his own, he was pretty sure he'd done what he could for Sam.

Until she said, as he headed toward the door, "Wait."

He turned back, thinking about Sam on the other side, waiting in the hall to see if he needed to clean up Dean's mess.

"Your father," Ms. Abernathy said. "Sam has avoided all my questions about him. Does he even know Sam wishes to go to college?"

"He knows," Dean answered easily, because he thought it very likely true.

"And you?"

Dean stared back at her. "I just spent forty-five minutes telling you how I thought Sam was a good fit for any college that might have him. And any college should have him."

"What about you?" she asked. "Sam says you never went to college."

"Sam getting in depends on my academic career? Because if so, he'd better hang it up right now. And I don't think that's what you want."

She smiled. "No. It's not what I want."

"Well?"

She met his eyes without flinching. "I see untapped potential. And I'm not talking about Sam."

"I am," he said. "That's the only reason I'm here."

She set her pen down. "All right."

"My brother's a smart kid."

"Your brother's a genius," she said. "I mean, an actual genius. And that makes me wonder what his older brother might be."

Dean hitched a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Jack of all trades. Master of one."

The misquote got her attention. Her brows lifted. "'One?'"

He gave her his best smile—and meant it absolutely. "I'm an awesome big brother."

But only because he had an awesome little brother.

"Mr. Winchester . . . ." And then she seemed to let go whatever she'd intended to say. "Thank you for coming in."

"Will he make it?" Dean asked. "Will someone want him?"

"Oh, I don't think it's a matter of will anyone want him. It's a matter of Sam deciding where he wants to go. He has many choices."

Dean smiled. "Good. He deserves to have choices."

"And you?" she asked. "What about your choices? You're a very young man, you know. "

"Not so young," he said, because hunters aged quickly. "And I made my choice a long time ago."

"But it's not the one Sam has made for himself."

Dean looked into her eyes. She was a civilian, but maybe, just maybe, she understood his brother.

"He has a hungry soul," Dean said, and thought it was enough.

He opened the door and walked out of the room.

tbc