Author Note: Seen as this is the first chapter that starts mentioning year groups, I thought I'd better include my explanation of the English education system here.
You enter the main education system at the age of four, in reception (which is like pre-kindergarten in the US, or so Wikipedia tells me). Then you have year 1, which is kindergarten, and year 2, 3, 4 etc. This all consists of primary school (which is roughly equivalent to elementary school).
At the age of eleven, you leave primary school and enter high school. There are very few middle schools and the vast majority of students go straight from primary to high school. You start that in year 7 (the equivalent of 6th grade).
High school is a little odd in that it technically lasts until year 11 (age 16), but a lot of schools have a sixth form college attached onto them (years 12 and 13, the equivalent of US grades 11 and 12) and so some people say they're still in high school when they're at a sixth form college. In this story, Moreton High works this way.
The main official exams start to occur in year 10 and 11 and are called GCSEs (General Certificate of Secondary Education). They're best equated to OWLs in Harry Potter. Once you've done them, you can technically leave education and enter the world of work, but the vast majority of students stay on and complete their A levels (technically called the General Certificate of Education Advanced Level... because some people have too much time on their hands), which are once again best equated to NEWTs in Harry Potter. You start those when you're 16 and finish them when you're 18. After that, it's university.
Hence, at this point, Sam's in year 7, in his first year of high school. Dean, Priya, and Billy are all in year 11 and are working towards their GCSEs. Exams are sat in May and June (though I've restricted them to June just to make the timeline fit a little better), summer holidays are the end of July and all of August. Results are released mid-August. I think that's pretty much all that's included in this story.
If any of this doesn't make sense, please just drop me a comment. I may be a little blinkered in my explanation, having grown up with this education system.
Trigger warning: references to past child abuse
Sam asked once more for the music to be changed.
"Why can't we listen to something more normal for once? Why does it always have to be something stupid like Def Leppard?"
Mum winked in the rearview mirror at Dean, who covered his own smile with a hand, and turned the music up. "What was that? I can't hear you."
Sam, clearly the only sane person left in his family, leaned back with a huff.
They were driving to Mr Mason's house for lunch. Sam didn't get why Dad had so many old, boring, friends. What did they even talk about? Surely conversations about the weather could only be sustained for so long. Sam usually spent the time going round and asking people what they thought of peanut butter and banana sandwiches while keeping an eye out for the food.
Then it occurred to him, one of the benefits of having a bothersome older brother who laughed at his mum's jokes was that you always had someone to talk to at boring people's parties.
When they arrived, Sam was pleasantly surprised to see that there were some kids there. There was a girl called Jess (who seemed kind of sweet but Sam chose to ignore the weird part of his brain that suddenly seemed to find those aliens of the opposite sex kind of attractive), in year seven, and her brother, Billy, in year eleven.
Sam had been to the Mason household before. It was a large house where everything had its place and it had better stay there or he'd hear about it later from his parents. Nevertheless, Sam was inquisitive by nature and couldn't refuse Jake's offer to see their small library. It was cramped to the point Sam would have felt claustrophobic if he wasn't fascinated by the range of titles surrounding him. Rows upon rows of books were stacked on all four walls, with the newer books nearer the door. Walking through the room was like walking back in time.
Running his eyes across, he found a cookery section that looked utterly boring. It was full of dull recipe books like '1001 things to do with mince' that probably only appealed to the likes of Mrs Mason. That woman gave Sam the creeps, though he never knew why.
There was a light knock at the door and Jess slowly came in.
"Your brother and my brother are talking about cars or something so I thought I'd see if I could find you anywhere," she said, meekly. She was wearing a white top with a floral design on it. Sam was surprised to find he thought it was really pretty.
When on Earth did you start finding clothes pretty? And for God's sake, stop staring at her…
In an attempt to hide his stupid habit of gawking, he blurted out, "Do you watch Mythbusters? I do, they're pretty cool. I mean, Adam's really funny and Jamie knows so much, it'd be so awesome to meet them and maybe even try to bust a myth with them. But I question their methods seen as they don't do enough repeats to really valid-, valid-" Sam paused his verbal diarrhoea for a second as he realised he couldn't remember if the word he was searching for ended with an –ate or an –ify. "Enough repeats to make their claims valid. What do you think of peanut butter and banana sandwiches?" he finished awkwardly.
Jess looked just the slightest bit terrified. "Okay then, I think I'll go now."
With that, she quietly slipped out of the door, leaving Sam blushing and wondering why the heck he cared about what some girl thought of him.
Trying to think of anything but how nice it looked when Jess's curls sparkled golden in the light, Sam wandered to the back of the room and pulled out a small, inconspicuous, hardback book that was overshadowed by much larger encyclopaedias on the world wars.
A Short Guide to Ghosts and Other Miscellaneous Items of the Supernatural
Sam didn't believe in ghosts. He might have done when he was five and got scared when the wind howled but he knew now that everything could be explained by science and reason. Ghosts just did not exist.
It'd be fun to read this just to laugh at it.
Sam knew he was just trying to justify what he was feeling. Justifying it was much easier than trying to understand why he could feel his fingers itching to lift the cover, why he felt it was important that he read this short guide to hocus pocus.
It'll be a laugh…
With that thought hanging around his mind as awkwardly as a blatantly fake tan, Sam sat down with his back to a shelf and began to read.
Time flew by as he read about all sorts of mythical creatures, both corporeal (a word he'd definitely have to slip into conversation someday) and not. It had nearly been an hour since he'd picked up the book when the door opened again and Mr Mason peered in.
"Still in here? Did you find something good to read?" asked Mr Mason, as he entered and shut the door behind him.
Sam nodded and held up the book. "It seemed interesting. I'm not sure I believe any of it, but it's kind of fun to read."
"If you like it, I can give you quite a few more to read. I have a few boxes full of them down in the garage," he said, opening the door again, "Hold on, I'll bring them up for you."
While waiting, Sam wondered if Mr Mason was a collector of some sort. Maybe he liked gathering them or something, why else would one have boxes full of books like this one?
Because they're important.
Sam laughed at himself. Like hell these ghost stories could be important. The monster under the bed just didn't exist. Science said so.
Mr Mason entered the library butt first and set down the two cardboard boxes he'd been carrying.
"I got them off of a distant great-uncle I didn't even know I had. Apparently, he hadn't made a will and I was the closest family that was still alive so I got these, pretty much his only possessions," he gestured to the piles of dusty books and manuscripts. "I didn't know what to do with them so I shoved them in the garage. I planned to throw them away, but if you want, feel free to take them."
He could already hear his mum telling him he'd have to keep them tidily in his room. Nonetheless, Sam grinned. No way was he ever saying no to free books. "I'd love to."
"Great, I'll-" he paused as someone, presumably Mrs Mason, called his name. "Coming!" he yelled at the open door before making his way back out. "Have fun with those," he said to Sam as he left.
Sam waited for the door to click shut before pushing back the corrugated cardboard flaps on the box nearest to him and pulling out the first book, a large, black one with spindly gold writing on the front. Maybe the Masons weren't so boring after all.
Dean knew it had been a bad idea to come.
The house reminded him too much of his last abode. The same pastel coloured walls, the same pristine rooms, the same unwelcoming smell of bleach.
You remember the sting of undiluted bleach on your hands? You remember the dread you felt every time you had to put your hands back in the bucket to pull the cleaning rag out, knowing it'd burn like a bitch but you had no fucking choice in the matter? I know you remember. I know you do. Now try to remember you could so easily be returned to that within the blink of an eye. Don't you dare fucking forget that.
Try as he might, he couldn't get the voice in his head to shut up. He knew why too. Try as he might, a little part of him couldn't stop seeing himself as the outsider, the one the family could go on without. He needed them. It didn't work the other way round.
He picked a spot on the couch and started to sit down when the door opened.
"You're that brat the Pypers had taken in, aren't you?" asked a scarily familiar voice.
Dean turned to see Mrs Mason stood ominously in the doorway, her steely glare fixed on him.
Shit.
He was good at maths, he should have been able to put two and two together. Even if he hadn't looked her in the face at any point, the clues had all still been there. Lauren Mason. The high, nasal voice. The clip-clop of stilettos.
He's been a good kid recently and there haven't been any punishments for a couple of weeks. Hence, as there's no visible bruising and he isn't looking too gaunt, ma'am asks him to serve dinner for their guests.
Dean thinks the guests do something to do with stone because before their arrival the word 'mason' kept being thrown around. He comes out of the kitchen and goes round the table, setting out the plates for dinner.
"And Lauren? What would you like to drink?" he hears ma'am ask.
"A glass of red for me, thanks. Who's this?" asks the high pitched lady, watching him from the sofa.
"Oh, just a kid we took in from the social services. His father couldn't cope with him, I imagine."
"How very good of you. Though I always say, you shouldn't have kids if you can't manage them." The nasal lady continues while her husband looks decidedly awkward sat next to her. Dean doesn't know why, but he feels like defending his father. This lady doesn't know jack squat about his father, how dare she pass judgement?
But it's not his place to question the guests so he goes back to setting out the cutlery.
"Awfully quiet, isn't he? Is he…" she makes some kind of gesture while Dean's got his back to her and Kate and Max giggle, making Dean feel sure he's better off having missed it.
"Well, he has some violent tendencies and a sailor's mouth, but we try to help him as best we can." Sir lets out a long-suffering sigh. A little bit of Dean wants to punch him pretty fucking badly and prove him right.
"And do check all your belongings when you leave. His fingers can get a little, er, itchy from time to time," ma'am adds.
He can't help but glace up from the table at that. He's just in time to catch the lady's scandalised gasp and the man's look of pity.
He doesn't like to be pitied so he looks down with a scowl, but that doesn't stop the man from saying, "I'm sure that won't be a problem, will it-" he pauses and turns to sir, "er, what's his name?"
"Dean."
"Will it, Dean?" He says his name in this soft, caring kind of voice that Dean wants to record and play back to himself whenever he starts to forget who he is. People don't say Dean's name very often. It's usually used pretty clinically, generally when being asked a question in class. But Dean feels that this is how a name is supposed to be said. As if you care about the person it represents.
"No sir," he whispers back.
"Well, I should hope so! Imagine keeping a thief in your house! If it were me, he'd not even get a second chance…" she keeps talking in that same, annoyingly high, frequency band that Dean's trying to tune out.
Dean slides back into kitchen and wills himself to not feel a thing.
"Yes ma'am," said Dean, sinking onto the floor and staring at the red standby light on the plasma screen television as if it's the most fascinating this in the world.
"Trying to ruin the Winchesters' lives now, are you?" she sneered.
Dean shook his head. "No ma'am."
Mrs Mason barely seemed to hear. "I don't know how a self-respecting family like the Winchesters can let someone like you in, I really don't."
That makes two of us, then.
"Have you made plans to steal anything from them yet?" She spat out the question, as if disgusted to find herself speaking to filth like him.
Dean continued to stare at the borders of the television- Why does that insult always cut so badly? -The left side hadn't been cleaned properly, there were fingerprints on it, ruining the shiny veneer- It's because you know it's true –and there was a spot near the back that had been missed, an ugly patch of grey amongst the gleaming black- The Winchesters will work it out too, soon.
Yeah, okay, fine. He'd stolen before. Normally just small things. A slice of bread, some sheets of lined paper, the odd pen. But he'd honestly had no plans to ever steal from the Winchesters. They'd been more than fair to him.
He turned to face those grey eyes again and answered coldly, "One does not bite the hand that feeds one."
"True," Mrs Mason seemed almost disappointed by the answer, "But that's nothing to stop you from stealing from us, is it?"
Dean could see what was coming next and he utterly dreaded it.
"Turn out your pockets."
He shut his eyes to stop the damn tears leaking out. Why couldn't people give him one fucking chance before they decided he was scum that didn't deserve to breathe the same air as them?
"Dean hasn't stolen anything!"
His hands paused in the act of tugging at the inside of his pockets. Billy strode into the room and glared at Mrs Mason as he jerked Dean onto his feet and sat him down on the sofa.
Clearly as surprised at the interruption as Dean, Mrs Mason straightened her dress and walked to the door. "Alright, well, keep your pilfering hands off my property. Do I make myself clear?" She gave him one last glare and then exited.
Dean nodded, he had no wish to touch the bitch's Royal Doulton anyway. For now he was struggling to come to terms with the fact someone who he thought hated him had actually helped him.
It didn't make sense.
Billy had been blanking him ever since he moved to sit next to him and Priya in maths. Even today, Billy hadn't spoken a word since they'd arrived. Dean didn't mind, or so he told himself. Being ignored was better than being actively hated. Besides, it wasn't like there weren't a multitude of reasons to avoid Dean.
Billy stopped the silence from stretching too long.
"So what was that about?" he asked, staring at the floor, clearly finding the situation just as awkward.
No point lying. The kid already knew what that had been about. "She thought I'd stolen something."
"And had you?" Billy asked quietly.
"Not today, no," replied Dean.
"So that means you've stolen before?" Billy blurted out the question and then seemed to regret it. Dean held back a chuckle, he was the one admitting to his criminal past and Billy was the one embarrassed.
"I guess so, yeah. I've taken things like bit of food, maybe the odd sheet of paper if Kate wanted her homework done but wasn't willing to lend me the resources. Stuff like that."
"That doesn't sound too bad," he mumbled weakly. Then, he asked, "Who's Kate?"
"No one."
Billy nodded and leaned back, "how come you're with the Winchesters?"
"Well, I'm sort of adopted by them now. I think so, anyway."
"I thought it might be something like that. We've known the Masons for a while and they've spoken of the Winchesters, but they only ever mentioned Sam."
"I only moved in with them about a month ago."
Billy stopped staring at the mantelpiece, looked Dean in the eye and said the last things Dean expected to hear.
"Look, I'm sorry about ignoring you so much in school. I mean, it was a dick move. You're new here and everything and I was just there, trying to pretend you don't exist." He paused and stared at the carpet before continuing quietly, "It felt weird to think of there being someone else hanging out with me and Priya."
Dean's brain tried to keep up with the words coming from Billy's mouth. It made no sense, he was apologising for just ignoring him? Hell, he hadn't even done anything wrong!
"Priya told me to at least give you a chance, she thinks you're kind of nice to have around. I didn't want to hear it. I mean, her and I have been friends for years now and I couldn't see why we'd need anyone else. But I get what she meant now, you seem like an alright guy."
"Uh, thanks, I guess."
"So are we cool? Will I ever get to see that Impala you guys have?"
Grinning at the mention of their baby, Dean replied, "Yeah, we're cool. And she's beautiful, isn't she?"
"They don't do them like her anymore, that's for sure. I mean, the Veyron's pretty awesome in itself, but it doesn't compare to the classics."
"Oh definitely, a Mustang will always beat a Ferrari Maranello."
Billy's sister, Jess, wandered in and plopped down on the couch with the lack of sophistication that made children so fun to be around.
"What are you guys talking about?"
"Cars. Wanna join in?" replied Billy.
Jess promptly pulled herself off the couch and walked out of the room.
"Works every time" Billy grinned.