Dean's lab partner rolls her eyes when he pulls his buzzing cell phone from his white lab coat pocket.
SW: Hey.
He waves his hand at the cute, plump girl and her unfortunately thick glasses, "Carry on, sweetheart. I'll be right with you."
DS: You're interrupting my education
SW: What class?
DS: AP Bio-chem
SW: Smart jock. I like that
DS: Fraid not. Regular, dumb jock. Biology was full when I got here.
DS: I don't understand half of this shit.
DS: You know anything about catalase kinetics?
SW: Actually, I do. Thought about going into medicine for a while
DS: Is that an offer to help me with my homework, doc?
SW: Maybe sometime
DS: How about tonight?
DS: Not flirting, btw. Could genuinely use the help
SW: You the new kid?
DW: That was not a smooth subject change
SW: Boss calling. GTG.
DS: Talk ltr?
SW: I'll try
Dean doesn't mind being the guinea pig. Leaning on the Winchester's kitchen island, he valiantly sacrifices himself for science and pops the pastry into his mouth. It tastes a lot like Lemonheads. He'd been caught stealing those from a 7-11 in Jacksonville, NC when he was 10. That had resulted in his first stint in juvie: that and kicking the shit out of the guy who ran the store so he could get what was in the cash register.
He shrugs. "It's good."
Mrs. Winchester smiles. Jo rolls her eyes. "Yeah, right. Like Dean has the world's most discerning palate. He'd eat cardboard."
"Not without salt." Dean corrects her and snags another little sour-sweet cake thing.
"Don't you have homework?" Mrs. Winchester scolds and Jo sulks away.
While Dean helps her stack the snacks, he blurts. "I need to make a little money."
"For what?"
'Because I'm a human being in the 21st century.' Dean chokes back the sarcasm. His own mother would never ask a ridiculous question like that, but this is not his mother. "It would just be good for me to have some."
"Well, if you need something, why don't you just go grab my purse…"
"No. I mean. Thank you." 'I can't exactly accept cash from you to give back to your husband, now, can I?' "I know how to get what I need. What I'm asking you is if you know any ways that you and Coach would approve of."
"I see." She purses her lips in consternation or contemplation or both. "Actually, I might have an idea. One of our elderly neighbors' husband just died. She could probably use some help around the house. Why don't we go have a look if she's home?"
Dealing with some crotchety old lady is not exactly Dean's first choice, but he follows Mary Winchester across the street. He did ask for it.
This woman is not old; she's ancient. The skin on her face looks like centuries-old leather. It folds and wrinkles in ways that remind Dean of an albino prune. The spiky inch of hair on her scalp is dyed pumpkin orange. Stretch pants and an oversized sweatshirt fit her spry body surprisingly well.
A faint scent of peppermint seems to eek out of her pores as she gives Dean a spicy once over and smirks. "Mary! Is this stallion for me?"
Dean's eyebrows shoot up and she winks baby blue eyes at the speechless teen.
"Mrs. Baker, this is Dean Smith. He's one of John's boys and he's looking to be of service. I believe you will find him to be strong, respectful and trustworthy." Mrs. Winchester meets Dean's eyes on that last word. "So, if you would kindly put him to work."
Mrs. Baker opens her door to make just enough space for him to squeeze through, sideways. "Oh, gladly, dear. Dean, is it? Well, come on in here, Dean. I'm sure I have just the thing for you."
He chuckles uncomfortably and accepts the invitation, glancing back over his shoulder at Mrs Winchester, eyes wide with absolute terror.
Between the running shower and Cas singing "The Rose" at the top of his lungs, Sam figures he'll have every indication when the coast is no longer clear. Still, he retreats into the kitchen - the farthest room from the bathroom - and sits on the floor with his back to the cabinets before he writes:
SW: Good day?
DS: Pretty decent. You?
SW: I've had better and worse.
DS: What'd you do?
SW: Work
DS: That it?
SW: That's pretty much me in a nutshell. Riveting, right?
DS: Do you like what you do?
SW: It's not bad. Pays well.
DS: That's something.
SW: So, new kid. How long have you been in town?
DS: Few weeks
SW: Like it?
DS: It's just another place
SW: Where did you move from?
DS: New Orleans.
DS: Before that we were in San Angelo, TX
DS: Oceanside
DS: Twentynine Palms
DS: Barstow
DS: San Diego
SW: Went to school in CA
DS: UCLA?
SW: Stanford
DS: Smart jock
SW: Always liked school
DS: Freak
SW: How's pre-season going?
DS: Shoulder's a little fucked up, otherwise fine
SW: You start?
DS: Fuck yeah I start
SW: Messing with you. I could tell
DS: Self absorbed thing?
SW: I was kidding about that
DS: You weren't
SW: I kinda was
Sam smiles down at his phone, realizing that this unspectacular conversation is the highlight of his day.
Half dressed and spread out on the couch, Dean searches through his phone and sends an icon of a bull taking a crap.
SW: What ever happened to no emojis?
DS: No emoticons
DS: No punctuation faces
DS: This here is modern hieroglyphics
Sam spares another glance toward the still noisy bathroom. For the first time, he is actually grateful for Castiel's hour long cleansing ritual.
SW: Good to know. Any other parameters?
DS: I'll let you know if anything else occurs to me
SW: Gonna have to go soon
DS: Why?
SW: Just do
SW: You didn't say. Did you like the pic I sent?
Dean pumps his fist at the phone. "Did I like the fucking pic? You asshole. Stop fucking with me."
DS: What pic? Didn't get it. Send another one
Sam grins. "Yeah, right. You didn't get it."
He sticks out his tongue, crosses his eyes and sends a picture of that.
DS: Hot
Sam calls the dog and sends another one with him kissing her snout.
DS: Chalupa!
DS: Where do you even live?
SW: The city
DS: How long does it take to get out there?
SW: About an hour without traffic
DS: How often are you here?
SW: Not often
Across the apartment, the water stops.
SW: GTG
Dean sighs at his phone. "OK."
DW: Night
After a few minutes of no response, he tucks it under his pillow.
Dean looks up the ladder, watching more out of fascination than anything else. He's not trying to go all Harold and Maude, but Mildred keeps it together for a 75 year old. There are chicks half her age who aren't as fit. "You sure you don't want me to do that?"
"You're my assistant. Just hold the ladder. And stop checking out my ass." She reaches up to dust the top of the window frames.
Between that and the constant mint smell that comes off her, Dean can't hold back the sneeze.
"Bless you, darlin'."
Still, dutifully gripping the ladder, he wipes his nose on the inside of his arm. "So, what happened after that?"
"Well, what do you think happened? He went sixth."
"Come on." He shakes his head, incredulous.
"That's right."
A dust bunny wafts down in front of Dean's face. "Come on, Mil, don't jerk my chain."
She chuckles. "You don't believe me, look it up on your Google or something."
Sam picks up his phone with a smile that instantly fades when he reads it. He sighs and wipes a hand down his face. Silencing the device, he goes back to his work. Three hours pass before he gives it another glance. In that time, he has missed more than twenty messages, all to the same effect.
DS: SAM?!
SW: Hey
DS: Hey! Where are the fuck you?!
SW: Working from home.
DS: Did you not get my messages?
SW: Just saw them.
SW: You googled me?
There's a pause of a few minutes.
DS: After someone mentioned it
SW: Who?
DS: Does it matter?
SW: Kinda does
DS: How could you just fail to mention that?
SW: Not really significant.
DS: I'm going to have to disagree!
DS: Shit, Winchester.
DS: WTF?
DS: What the fuck?!
DS: Next thing you're going to tell me you fucked Katy Perry and just failed to mention it
DS: And why are you accounting?!
DS: What the hell happened?
DS: Did you get injured?
DS: Dude?!
Sam rubs his forehead.
SW: How was school?
DS: 6th in the draft, Sam?!
SW: Don't really want to talk about it
DS: I'm seriously dying here.
SW: Another time. Maybe.
SW: You got practice now?
"Fucking Winchesters, man." Dean looks out across the field. He's the only one in the bleachers now, watching the custodian add an extra coat of white to the 40 yard line.
DS: First game with the team tonight
SW: Have fun
DS: Is that official advice from the master?
SW: Now I'm the master?
DS: You're a fucking NFL draft pick, Sam.
SW: Was
DS: You fucker.
SW: That's a compliment, isn't it?
SW: And I actually did meet her once. Very cute.
DS: I'm going to fucking strangle you
Dean hashes it all out in his mind again. He had assumed that Sam must have been pretty good for him to take the team to the state championship. College ball was no big shocker, either. The idea that Sam had been good enough to play for the NFL was kind of blowing Dean's mind - only slightly more so than the fact that nobody seems to want to talk about it.
DS: Why don't you come watch me play? Give me some pointers after the game
SW: Wish I could. Got a bunch of extra work to catch up on.
SW: I'll be surprised if I get to sleep by 2 tonight
DS: I could come stay up with you?
SW: Message me when you get home.
DS: Yeah all right. Later
SW: Kick a little ass for me
DS: Will do.
It's nearly midnight. Sam is still at his desk when the phone lights up. He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes and smiles.
DS: Your dad is an asshole
SW: How bad?
DS: 13 - 7. He made us run 6 miles. Then made us talk out the game play by play.
DS: Just getting home.
SW: The man hates to lose
DS: Oh yeah and I fucking love it
SW: He's a brilliant coach. You think you'll lose the next one?
DS: You think he's so great, why do you two hate each other's guts?
Sam winces at the screen.
SW: I don't hate my dad
DS: Then, what's the deal?
SW: Tell you when you're older
DS: Funny
DS: Asshole
SW: Do you get along with your father?
The front door opens. Sam's stomach knots. Castiel's footsteps sound like a death knell in the hallway as Dean writes back.
DS: Good one
SW: Gtg
DS: Why?
Sam deletes the messages, puts the phone face down and covers it with some papers. Castiel doesn't even turn his head as he strides past on his way to the bedroom. It was too close and Sam's heart is thudding in his chest.
It's another first for him. Mowing the lawn is not all that bad. You push a machine in straight lines and occasionally empty the bag. It's an okay way to make a buck.
Jo stands up on the porch watching like he's an afterschool special. Mildred, too, from her own porch. Dean waves over at his old pal. She grins and wiggles her fingers back at him.
'What a riot.'
It takes Jo a good ten minutes to work up the nerve to cross the lawn. When she finally gets around to it, he drops the handle on the mower. The racket stops. The dust and clippings settle. He tugs the folded T-shirt from where he has tucked it into the waist of his sweatpants to wipe his sweaty forehead with it.
She keeps about two feet distance between them, facing the house and holding out the glass of lemonade in an outstretched arm. The ice has long since melted. It's pitiful and cute all at the same time.
Dean smirks. "You ok?"
She nods her head. He pulls his shirt on. It's covered in clipped grass and dirt, but Jo finally turns to face him. He can't help but chuckle to himself.
Dean downs the drink all in one gulp. He wonders if Joanna realizes that she's so thirsty she's watching him with her damn mouth hanging open. He nods his appreciation and hands her back the glass. As she heads back to the house, Dean calls after her. "Hey Jo."
She spins around and gazes at him with her doe eyes wide with expectation.
"What's up with your brother?"
"What?" She clearly didn't see that one coming.
"Your brother, Sam. Your mother told me about him. What's the deal there?"
Her mouth flaps a few times before she answers. "I don't know. We don't talk about him. I saw him for the first time in, like, five years at my dad's birthday."
"What, does he have leprosy or something?"
She shrugs. "Do you have siblings?"
"I do not. But my mom's name is Jo."
She laughs like he's putting her on.
"Really. It's Jody. See? You and me, we must be fate."
It's cruel, he knows. It's also kind of hilarious.
A pretty pink blush blossoms on her cheeks and she trips over her feet on her way up the steps.
When Jody comes out of her bedroom, her hair hangs loose over her shoulders. Her lips are so red, black leather dress so tight and short that Dean scratches his head and looks away for a second.
"You like it?" She spins in the six-inch stilettos like she was born wearing them.
"You're looking every bit the slut tonight."
She curtsies. "Why, thank you, son. Spoken like a true expert. Your coach stuck it up your ass yet?"
"He's not my coach."
She rolls her eyes. "But you are still playing football."
"I told you not to worry about it."
Jody tosses her hair off her shoulders with both hands. "I'm not worrying about it. I'm going to get laid."
"Is it that douche, Caleb?"
She gives him the middle finger. "He's not a douche."
"Let's agree to disagree. You enjoy yourself, young lady. Use protection. I don't need siblings."
"And I don't need any more headaches. You lock up if you go out." She prances across the floor, unnecessarily crossing between Dean and the television.
He pointedly keeps his eyes glued to the screen.
"Both locks." she says, as if they have anything valuable to protect.
"Got it." He watches the TV until the door closes behind her.
Then he picks up his phone and writes:
DS: You tell me your daddy drama, I'll tell you mine.
It is not an offer Dean makes lightly. It is not something he discusses with anybody. Ever. What makes Sam so special, he isn't sure. Maybe it's because he's not really there in the room, with that pitying look in his eye that people always get when they hear a sob story. Dean doesn't give people the chance to give him that look or to try to psychoanalyze him. He keeps his goddamn sob story to himself. Usually.
SW: How was your day?
Sam Winchester. King of the subject change.
DS: Sprained my stupid fucking ankle in practice.
DS: Otherwise, crap. How about you?
SW: OK
DS: I guarantee my dad is a worse nightmare than yours
Radio silence. Not another peep from Sam.
Dean forces himself to only check his phone at commercial breaks. He finally stuffs the thing under his pillow and let himself be lulled to sleep by Space Ghost. The hornets in his dream turn out to actually be the pillow buzzing, which turns out to be a message from Sam.
SW: Hey
DW: Hey
SW: You up?
DS: No
SW: Tell me about your dad
Dean squints at the phone. "It's fucking 4 in the morning, you psycho."
DS: Not much to tell.
DS: He makes your dad look like Chalupa.
DS: Knocked up my mother when she was 13.
DS: Tried to kill us
DS: All around winner
SW: Geez
DS: Yeah
Dean takes a long drink from the beer he'd left unfinished on the floor beside the couch. "That was fun."
DS: Going back to sleep
SW: The thing with my da
Sam is in the middle of typing when Castiel reaches over his shoulder and snatches the phone away. "Who are you texting at this hour, you sneaky fuck?"
He smacks Sam's ear with it and then bounces away from his reach. "Uh-uh. I want to know who this bitch is."
Castiel holds the phone over his head, which puts it just above Sam's eye level. Sam grabs his wrist, but Cas deftly drops it into his free hand. Then, he jabs it into Sam's throat and waltzes away.
For a few minutes, Sam truly believes that he is going to die. He gasps like a fresh caught fish: doubled over in pain, clutching his likely crushed voice box. He laments that he won't get to explain to Dean, wonders who'll get his work load or tell his parents.
Eventually, Sam manages to pull a wheeze of air through his aching larynx. While he struggles to pull himself together, Castiel amuses himself with the messages on Sam's phone.
"God, this kid is fucked up. Poor little sphinx." Castiel giggles. "How do you think his daddy did it? Let's see. How would I kill my kid? I think I would either drown it in the tub or back over it while it's riding its big wheel?"
"Come on, Cas." Sam croaks and reaches out for the phone. "He's having some trouble."
Castiel narrows his eyes. "Too bad for him. Come to bed."
"In a minute."
"Now." Castiel flings the phone. It shatters against the balcony door. "Now, Sam."