Note: Please forgive the extreme time gap between this posting and the last one. I won't bore you with a long explanation, but let's just say that Real Life sucks sometimes. I have the next couple of chapters lined up and will be beta'ing for myself going forward. Please enjoy.

Chapter 21

John leaned on the kitchen table, his head bowed. Dean and Sam didn't seem to have anything more to say just then, but the springs on the bed did not indicate that they were getting up. How could he hope to protect his sons from danger when they were so willing to enter it to protect each other? A man shouldn't feel weighed down by such promises passing between his children.

"Hell," Bobby muttered. "I somehow doubt that was in our demon's plans."

"I don't give a damn," John said. "So, do I let them go to school tomorrow?"

Bobby gave him a dubious look. "Well, it's not like you can lock them up in the panic room for the rest of their lives," he said. John blinked, considering Bobby's words. The idea was enormously tempting, especially when it came to Dean, and it must have showed, because Bobby glowered at him. "You can't. I won't let you."

John shook his head. "I hate this!"

"Of course you do," Missouri said. "They're coming, and dinner is ready. Will you two set the table, or do I have to do everything?"

The woman had some kind of power in her voice. John found himself pulling plates and glasses out of the cupboard while Bobby got the silverware from the drawer. By the time the boys were upstairs, they had the table set and the milk poured.

"That smells wonderful, Miss Mosely," Sam said.

"You can call me Missouri, boys," she said. "Let's eat." John sat down with Missouri, his boys and Bobby, but before anybody could grab for the food, Missouri cleared her throat. "We need to say grace." Bobby and Sam bent their heads obediently. John followed suit a second later, with Dean a distant fourth. "Thank you, oh Lord, for bringing us all together for this meal. Keep us safe in Your loving hands. Through Christ our Lord, Amen."

They all started to eat, and John found himself watching his sons again. It was becoming a favorite pastime. He wondered if there would ever come a day when he'd find their banter annoying, as he so often had in years past. Of course, the closest they'd yet come to a real argument was Sam's refusal to promise to run. John realized abruptly that he had avoided making that promise. He'd promised to get Dean back, but not to run away.

He'd have to find some way to address the issue without letting on that they'd listened in to that intensely personal conversation over the baby monitor.

After dinner, the boys cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. Bobby and John went into the library, though they couldn't get right to work because of Sam and Dean just in the next room. Then the boys went upstairs to watch TV. Bobby flipped open the books and pulled out the photos preparatory to going to work.

John turned to where Missouri was still putting the food away in the fridge. "Missouri?"

"Yes?"

"Do we need another session?"

She put the last covered dish away and turned towards him. "Yes, John, we do. At least one, maybe more." She walked over. "In fact, I've been meaning to say something about that. Dean's going to say no, so you'd better be thinking about what you want to say to him about it."

"Because of the flashback?" John asked.

"No, John," she said, shaking her head and giving him a look like he was being particularly dense. "Because he's worried about me. Responsibility runs very deep in his make up."

John grimaced. "That's my fault."

"It would have no matter what, John. He's your eldest boy. It's only natural."

"So, we need to give him a reason to agree," Bobby said.

"Nothing easier," John replied. "I'll tell him it will help keep Sammy safe. It has the added benefit of being true."

Dean took extra care in getting dressed in the morning. He knew he was going to see Trish again today, and who knew how many other pretty girls. He wanted to give them a good first impression.

"Are you done yet?" Sammy yelled from outside the bathroom. "I need to get ready, too!"

"Just a minute."

"What are you, a girl?"

Dean opened the door. "No, just gorgeous," he said.

Sammy rolled his eyes. "So you have to primp for twenty minutes?"

Dean shook his head. "No, I have to tone it down a little or I blind people."

Sam shoved him out of the way and pushed past, slamming the door shut behind him. Dean went up the stairs into the smell of sizzling sausage and yeasty biscuits. He could really get used to this. It was Bobby doing the cooking, and Dean wondered if he did this when it was just him. Didn't much matter. Right now it was great.

"Your father and Missouri are sleeping in," Bobby said without turning around.

"Just me, Bobby," Dean said. "Sammy's still downstairs."

Bobby turned around and blinked at him. "Right. Anyway, I'll be taking you to school, like we planned."

"We didn't wash the car yesterday!" Dean exclaimed.

"No big deal," Bobby said. "It's kind of a drive into town. I figure you can take the bus home, like Sammy always did."

"Sure," Dean said. "No problem." He hated school buses, but beggars couldn't be choosers. "I wish I could get my license."

"Why haven't you?"

"The doctors said I needed to go six months without a total flashback before I could even apply," he said.

"I see." Bobby put a plate down in front of him, and Dean dug in. A few minutes later, Sammy came upstairs and started eating, too.

"John and Missouri are still asleep, but Bobby's taking us to school." Sam shrugged, continuing to eat without speaking. Mornings took some people like that.

When it came time to get in the car, they had to cram Sam into the backseat, and Dean was glad to be able to claim priority by height. Bobby dropped them off in front of a big brick building, and they headed into the office.

Sam appeared to be an old hand at starting at a new school by himself. He introduced Dean, and they were each taken by a member of the office staff to figure out their placement. Naturally, Sammy got the young, cute one, and he got the old matron. A plaque on her desk read Mrs. Standish. She took down his basic biographical info, and looked up at him. "So, you're a senior?"

He shook his head. "Nope, a junior. I was in the hospital for six months when I was twelve, missed a bunch of school, so I'm a year behind."

The familiar softening expression made him feel slightly uncomfortable, but it usually helped him out of trouble from time to time. He wasn't above using it. They got his regular subjects organized, then she said, "Well, it looks like you have room for an elective sixth period. You have a choice of drama or advanced auto shop, so I guess it will have to be drama."

"Why not auto shop?" Dean said earnestly.

"You have to have taken two years of beginning shop to qualify."

Dean shook his head. "I've worked at a garage for two years, and I'm helping Bobby Singer out in his salvage yard."

She raised her eyebrows. "Come by at lunch and I'll let you know what we can arrange for you."

"Thanks," he said. Sammy was just getting done, too, so he said, "What do you have first?"

"English," Sammy said. "You?"

"Math. My favorite."

They separated and headed to their classes. Dean's math teacher was an old codger who had an unexpectedly bouncy personality. He was allowed to slip into his seat without a mass introduction, for which he was enormously grateful. Trish wasn't in this class, but there were plenty of girls to wink at, so he felt right at home. Math gave way to English, which gave way to history, and then they were all set free for lunch. He was just heading for the cafeteria to see what kind of slop they served when he heard his name called from behind.

Turning, he saw Trish walking towards him. "Dean, hi!" she exclaimed. "You want to join us for lunch?" She had three boys with her, and none of them looked thrilled to have him join them. He didn't much care, and he didn't much want to eat alone. He'd already seen Sammy with his little friend Jeremy, and he wasn't going to try and horn in on them. They were far enough apart in age that hanging out at school would be kind of weird, anyway. Not that he'd care, but Sam had seemed to avoid him those last couple of weeks when they were still in school in Fort William.

"Sure," he said, earning himself the enmity of at least one of the guys she had with her.

"These are Jack, Keith and Mike."

After they'd all selected their brand of slop, they sat at a table in the cafeteria. "So," Keith said. "Two new kids in one day. You connected with the doofus over there?"

Dean glanced up and narrowed his eyes at Keith. "You mean the one sitting with the little blond kid?"

"Yeah," Keith said.

"He's my cousin," Dean said, and he gave Keith a look that ought to warn him to stay off. "Sam Winchester."

Mike turned to look. "Him? I didn't know he was back in town. He beat the crap out of my brother a couple of times." He gave Keith a meaningful look. "You know, the one whose brother was grabbed by some psycho."

Keith's eyes widened. "Oh." He glanced back at Sammy again, and his expression showed a little more respect.

"The blond kid is Trish's brother," Jack said.

Dean turned to her. "Really? So you're living over next to Bobby's place?"

She nodded. "Been there a couple of months. So it's your cousin who built that goofy little fort in the hills next to our property."

Dean shrugged. "I guess. He lived here for about three years awhile back."

"I suppose that means we take the same bus back home," Trish said, and all three guys got sour looks. "Maybe you can walk me home."

"Sure," Dean said with a grin, and she twinkled at him. Things were looking up.

Most of Sam's old acquaintances were firmly ensconced in their current friendships. He hadn't really clicked with anybody back then, too angry and freaked out about Dean. It was funny, though, watching Alan Grier gaze fearfully at him. He was at least six inches taller than Sam, and bigger all around without being fat, but he clearly remembered what Sam was like when he was pushed too far.

"Sam, why do all the bullies look at you like that?" Jeremy asked. They'd worked out to have two classes together already, which was cool so far as Sam was concerned.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"They all act like they're afraid of you, even the older guys."

Sam snorted. "That's because I didn't take any crap when I was here before," he said. "I was pissed off already when I got here, and when they pushed me, I pushed back." He glanced around to see if Jeremy had anyone in mind and noticed Dean sitting at a table with three other guys and Trish. "Looks like Dean's met your sister."

Jeremy turned around and grimaced. "Great. Maybe you'd better tell him to stay away. She's kind of . . ." He shrugged.

"Kind of what?" Sam asked, mildly alarmed.

"The guys who hang around her get really stupid," he said. "They do whatever she wants them to do."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, she says go pants some freshman, and they do it. She says steal a teacher's book, they do it. Then they get in trouble when they get caught, and she smiles sweetly and says she doesn't know a thing about it. Even my parents are fooled most of the time."

Sam glanced over at her. "Dean won't get stupid," he said confidently.

"I still think you should warn him."

"We'll see."

Phys ed was right after lunch. Dean left Trish's little group with the feeling that they were all a little immature. Most kids his age seemed immature to him, though. He sighed and went to the locker room where he expected to be told to sit the day out between his cast and the fact that he didn't have anything to change into.

"Hunter?" called a male voice. "Front and center."

Dean sauntered over and said, "That's me."

"Here," the coach said, holding out a pair of bright green sweats and a white t-shirt with a green cougar on the front of it. "You can use these today."

Dean took the small pile and walked over to the rows of lockers. He pulled off his tennies and his jeans and put the sweats on. He hung the jeans and his jacket in a locker, tossed the white t-shirt on the bottom of the locker, and sat down to put his shoes back on.

"You not going to change into the shirt?" the guy next to him asked.

"I don't do white t-shirts," Dean said. He wondered if Coach Jennings had even noticed his cast. The long sleeve of his dark shirt might have concealed it sufficiently to fool him.

"Coach Jennings won't like that. He's got a real thing about street clothes."

Dean shrugged and finished tying his laces. He slammed the locker door shut and started to follow the other kids out of the room. There were still some guys changing, and the coach was hanging out in his office. Dean had to go past the big window into the office to get to the door out of the locker room into the gym. Before he reached it, he heard that voice again. "Hunter!" Dean turned around. "You going to finish dressing out?"

"I have," Dean said.

"Hunter, come over here." Dean walked over to him, ready for a dressing down. He pulled up the sleeve to reveal his cast, and he saw the Coach's eyes flit to it, but he didn't seem to care. "Where's the white t-shirt I gave you?" the coach asked.

Dean shrugged. "In the locker."

"Why didn't you put it on?"

Dean grimaced. "Coach Jennings, can we talk privately? In your office?"

"We can talk after class. Dress out and get into the gym."

Dean shook his head. "We need to talk now, sir," he said as politely as he could.

"I can give you a zero for the day, Hunter, if that's what you want."

Dean studied the man's face and then sighed. "Whatever." He turned and started back towards the gym.

"If you don't dress out, then you don't play," the coach said.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks, shrugged, and went back to the locker. Coach Jennings returned to his office, and Dean saw him fiddling with some paperwork. Dean changed out of the sweats, put his jeans back on and grabbed his jacket. As he stood up, he picked up the sweats and the t-shirt so he could turn them back in. Coach Jennings came out of the office, looking pissed. Dean couldn't help but notice that the direction of travel for his fellow students had reversed itself. They were developing quite an audience. He so didn't need this.

"What do you think you're doing, Hunter?" Coach Jennings demanded.

"If I'm not going to play, then there's no reason for me to wear the sweats, either," Dean said. "Can I have a pass to the office?"

"All I'm asking you to do is dress out, Hunter. What's so hard about that?"

"I'd be happy to tell you – privately," Dean said, glancing around at the crowd. "Otherwise, I'd like a pass to the office, please."

"What do you need to go to the office for?" Jennings asked.

Dean was getting really angry by this point. He gave Jennings a tight grin. "Because you're an insensitive dick." Jennings' face turned purple, and Dean heard an excited whisper run around the room. "I'm trying to do this the right way here, dude, and you're not letting me. If you won't give me a pass, I'm just going to walk my ass over to the office anyway. It's not like you can stop me." He paused, waiting.

"Everyone out," Jennings ordered, turning his back on Dean.

Shrugging, Dean dropped the sweats and t-shirt on the bench and left the locker room. No doubt a call would reach the office before he did, but he was secure on the moral high ground here. He walked into the office and the matronly lady looked soberly at him. "Are we having a bad day?" she asked. He wanted to tell her that he didn't know what kind of day she was having, but his was kind of mixed.

"Do I have a counselor?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "The junior class counselor is Mr. Grimes."

"Is he available?"

"He's teaching calculus this period."

Dean closed his eyes. "School nurse?" he asked.

"Are you not feeling well?"

"Is there a school nurse?" he asked.

She sighed. "Not today. She's here on Tuesdays, Thursdays and half the day on Fridays."

"So I guess people had better not get sick on Mondays and Wednesdays," he muttered.

"That's about the shape of it," she said.

An older man in a pair of slacks and an open-necked white dress shirt walked out of a side office. "Is this Mr. Hunter?" he asked.

Dean looked over at him. "Yes sir," he said.

"Why don't you come into my office. I'm Mr. Mitchell, the principal."

Dean sighed and followed him into the little room. Mr. Mitchell closed the door behind him and said, "Have a seat, young man." Dean sat down and tried to look like a model student. Mr. Mitchell sat behind his desk and leaned towards him. "I just spoke to Coach Jennings, and he said there was a little problem with you dressing out today?"

Dean grimaced. "I really tried to handle it the right way, sir, but Coach Jennings wouldn't let me talk to him privately."

"Okay, well, we're private here. Why don't you see if you can make me understand?"

Dean looked down at his hands. "It's kind of hard to explain," Dean said. "Or rather it's easy to explain, I just don't like talking about it."

"What was the problem with the shirt?" Mitchell asked. "Coach said you didn't have a problem with the sweats, just the shirt."

Dean moistened his lips. "There's a couple of problems. First, I don't change shirts in front of anyone. Ever. Second, I don't wear white t-shirts. Ever."

"Can you help me understand why?"

Dean shrugged. "I have . . . scars . . . bad ones . . . all over my torso," he said. "Big keloid things, and they're not . . . skin-colored. I sweat at all in a white shirt, and it's all there, plain as day."

Mr. Mitchell blinked at him. "And that would be why you don't change in front of people either, I suppose?" he asked.

Dean nodded. "I can switch classes, if I have to. Is there anything else I can take that period?"

"I don't know," Mitchell replied. "But I'd rather see if we can't resolve this." He looked over at the computer. "According to this, you're eighteen, but do you mind if I call your parents?"

Dean shook his head. "My uncle," he said. "John Winchester. My parents are . . . they're dead."

"Oh, I see," Mitchell said. "There's no phone number given here. What is the number?"

Dean shrugged again. "I honestly don't know. We're staying at Singer's Salvage, but we've only been there a couple of days, and I didn't think to ask for the number." Sammy would know, but he wasn't having anyone call him out of class for this.

"Oh, I can get that from the phone book. Would you mind waiting in the front office?"

Dean got up and walked out of the room. He sat down and looked out the window, watching the cars go by on the road. Maybe he should just tell John he'd study for a high school equivalency exam and then he could skip out on the whole school thing.

After about five minutes, Mr. Mitchell emerged from the office. "Doris, give Dean a pass to the library for the rest of the period. Dean, I'll talk to Coach Jennings tonight and straighten everything out. You won't have any more problems."

Dean stood up and thanked him, privately figuring that Mitchell was an optimist and Jennings would have it in for him the rest of the time they were here. Mitchell disappeared into his office again, and Dean walked over to Doris. She handed him a pass, and said, "You didn't stop by at lunch."

Dean blinked at her. "I'm sorry, I forgot."

"It's okay. Your sixth period is all set up as auto shop, so that's Room 8B, out behind the school."

Dean grinned. "Thanks a lot."

"Now, behave yourself," she said.

"I always try," he said with a straight face.

"Go on with you!" she said, laughing.

He went to the library where he decided to be a good little boy, though no one here would recognize it as such. He looked up a book on paranormal studies and sat down to read up on spooks. The bell rang, sending him on to chemistry, where he was paired up with a short girl with glasses. He wished he could avoid chemistry, but it seemed to be his doom. Maybe he could get Megan to do the stuff involving fire. Fortunately, his first day was all book work, so he went up after class. "Mr. Thompson?" he said.

The teacher was working at his desk, marking papers or something. "Yes, Dean?" he said, looking up.

Dean grimaced. He'd been through this more than once with previous teachers, but it was always hard to talk about it. "I thought I should let you know, I . . . I have kind of a phobia of fire."

Mr. Thompson's eyebrows went up. "When you say phobia, what do you mean?"

Dean shrugged. "I just really don't handle it well. At my last school, my partner did most of the active lab work, and I wrote the experiments up. I don't care about acids, and explosions are kind of cool. It's just . . . open flame can send me into . . ." He shuddered, and something about his expression must have been convincing, because Mr. Thompson was already nodding. Dr. Jones hadn't taken much persuasion, either.

"We'll see what we can do. Megan is a bit of a pyromaniac, so I doubt very much that she'll mind doing most of that side of things."

Dean found this description of his mild-seeming lab partner faintly alarming, but he just thanked Mr. Thompson and went to find Room 8B. He was led there by his own sense of where people would keep a noisy, sometimes smelly class. Walking into the shop felt like coming home after a long day out in the scary world of academia. The other guys – and one girl – were all getting right to work on cars, some in pairs, some solo. Dean walked up to the teacher, who was bent over an engine, explaining the intricacies of computer driven fuel injection.

Dean had to admit, he preferred cars with a little less of the computer and a little more of the grease monkey, but he listened to the explanation and didn't find it lacking. The teacher set the kid he'd been lecturing to loose and turned to Dean. "Bobby tells me you got the Camaro my beginners half-ruined back up and running and ready to sell," he said without prelude.

Dean blinked and glanced around. All the other kids were looking at him, but he didn't see any animosity. Just curiosity. "It took a couple of days," he said with a shrug.

"Single handed?" the teacher asked.

"Well, Uncle John made a few suggestions," Dean said.

"But you did the work?" Dean nodded. "I'm Henry Enfield. Call me Hank. Let's get you started." Dean followed him to the back to get a pair of coveralls and his first assignment, feeling for the first time that day like he was going to do something productive.

Jeremy was in Sam's sixth period algebra class, so they headed out to the bus together. "I hate math," Jeremy moaned desperately.

Sam shrugged. "It's no big deal."

"Maybe you can help me with it," Jeremy said. "I mean, I'm doing okay right now, but I just know I'm going to get lost. I always do."

"Sure," Sam said. "I don't mind."

"Cool. Maybe you can come over sometimes and we can do homework together."

Sam grinned, but he didn't really feel it. He knew that was likely to come up in the near future at least. Dad and Bobby and Dean would want him out of the way while they worked on whatever it was they were all so worried about. "Your parents won't mind?"

"My mom always asks me why I don't have friends coming over like Trish does," Jeremy said. "If you were coming over more, maybe they'd get off my back."

Sam shrugged. "If your mom always cooks like that, I'd be totally up for it." They joined the others getting in line for the bus, and Sam noticed Dean a little ways ahead of him, surrounded by guys who seemed to be congratulating him over something. "What's that about?" he muttered.

"You didn't hear?" That was from Monty, a kid Sam knew from before. "Your cousin totally told Coach Jennings to stick it, and there was a screaming fight, and he got sent to the office."

Sam blinked. "Dean doesn't do screaming fights," he said.

"Well, that's what I heard from Joey, who was there," Monty said with a shrug.

"Nobody talks back to Coach Jennings," Jeremy said in an awed voice.

Sam nodded. He'd seemed like kind of a hard ass. Usually, Sam got sent to the benches on the first day if he didn't have his gym gear. Today, the coach had handed him some stuff and told him to dress out. He'd had kind of an attitude about it, too, now that Sam thought about it. "What period is that?" he asked Monty.

"Fourth," Monty said.

That explained that. Dean had objected to something, Sam didn't know what, and Coach Jennings had been all prepared for a fight from Sam fifth period. "Wouldn't he have been suspended if he'd had a screaming fight with a teacher?" Sam asked.

Trish came up and pushed her way into the crowd around Dean, and one of the teachers came over and told everyone who wasn't supposed to be on this bus to get to wherever they were supposed to be. Trish slipped her hand into Dean's arm and looked up at him winningly. He smiled down at her and pulled away slightly. Nothing real noticeable, but it made it hard for her to hold onto him. She let her hand drop and started chatting at him.

"See?" Sam said in an undertone to Jeremy. "He'll see right through her."

"I hope so. Even nice guys can turn into jerks when she starts messing with them. My cousin Steve won't have anything to do with her anymore, and I know my Aunt Marge hates her. Mom says she's just jealous because Alicia – that's my other cousin – isn't as pretty, but that's not it."

"What is it?" Sam asked, and Jeremy shook his head. Sam shrugged. Every family had secrets, just most of them didn't have deadly ones, like theirs did.

The bus pulled up, and they all got caught up in the inevitable pushing to get the best seats. Sam and Jeremy got a seat together, and Sam craned his neck. Trish had pushed her way, dragging Dean with her, all the way to the back. The make-out spot. Sam rolled his eyes and turned to face front. The bus pulled away from the curb and headed over to the elementary school to pick up the little kids from their area.

The bus started to fill up, little kids taking whatever seats their elders had left them. Trish tried to hold onto the back seat against the influx, but Dean just gave her a weird look and pushed over to let some fourth graders take the other half of the back seat. Trish looked mildly put out, and Sam laughed when Dean shrugged. He wasn't going to have to warn Dean about anything. Trish would take care of it all on her own.

The drive was long, and they were almost the last stop, so what with all the stops, it was nearly an hour before they got home. They had the same stop as Trish and Jeremy, so they left the two remaining kids behind and all four of them got off the bus. "You want to come to dinner tonight?" Trish asked Dean. "My mom won't mind."

Dean shrugged. "I've got to be heading home pretty quick. I'll walk you to your house, then I'd better be getting back."

"Why?" she asked, ruffling her hair. Sam rolled his eyes and glanced at Jeremy, who had a long suffering look on his face. "Do you have a lot of homework?" Given that Dean didn't have a backpack or a book in sight, this was clearly a gibe.

"Actually, I have a job," Dean said. "Bobby's expecting me by five-thirty." Sam glanced at his watch. It was twenty past four, so that was a good bet. He knew it wasn't true, but he wasn't going to rat on him. Not to Trish, at any rate.

Trish pouted and took his arm. "Let's see if I can convince you." She walked away with him, and Jeremy turned towards him. "You'd better go tell Bobby that Dean will be late, or he'll be in trouble."

Sam shook his head. "Dean won't be late. He's had a job for two years already, and he takes it seriously."

Jeremy shrugged and trudged off in the wake of his sister and Dean. Sam headed back to Bobby's, where he found dinner in the works, some kind of spicy stew, it smelled like, and no one in the kitchen. Bobby was in the library, Sam didn't see his dad or Missouri anywhere. He wondered if he'd taken her home, or something.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam said.

"Hey yourself," Bobby said with a grin. "Where's Dean?"

"He's walking Jeremy's sister home. I can't wait to hear what he thinks of her."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because Jeremy thinks she's some kind of femme fatale. He says I need to warn Dean off her."

"Femme fatale?" Bobby repeated with a puzzled grin. "Where'd you get that from?"

"A documentary on A&E, I think," Sam said with a shrug. "Femmes Fatales of History, or something like that. I've got loads of homework, so I'd better get started."

"You're not going to ask where your dad is?"

"I figure you'll tell me if you're allowed to," Sam said sourly, dumping his backpack on the table and digging his math book out.

"Ouch," Bobby said with a realistic wince. "You know we're not doing any of this to bug you, don't you, Sam?"

Sam shrugged. "I know, but it doesn't actually stop it from bugging me anyway."

"I get you," Bobby replied. "As it happens, John took Missouri to pick up some things she'll need for an extended stay. I guess she didn't expect to be here more than a day or two."

Sam had gone to the fridge to pour himself a glass of milk. He looked up at that. "She's staying longer than that?" Bobby shrugged. "Bobby, what's going on?"

"I think your dad and Dean have told you what they want you to know."

Sam shut the fridge with unnecessary force and sat down, careful not to spill his milk on his books. Bobby wisely left him alone after that, and Sam worked out some of his irritation on polynomials. He'd moved on to reading through the poems he was supposed to be ready to discuss tomorrow when Dean came in. Sam glanced at the clock and saw that it was only quarter after five.

"Whoa!" Dean groaned. "That girl is a lot of trouble."

"So I've heard," Sam said, giving him an amused look.

Dean's brows went up. "You have? What have you heard?"

"Her brother says she's a troublemaker," Sam said with a shrug. "He told me to tell you to stay away from her because even nice guys turn into jerks around her."

"I noticed that she had a trio of dorks on a string, if that's what you mean," Dean said.

"Dopes on a rope, huh?" Bobby commented. "John and Missouri should be back fairly soon, and then we can have dinner. Where are your books, Dean?"

Dean gave him a baffled look. "Books?"

"Yeah, books," Bobby said.

"In my locker," Dean replied with a shrug.

"And your homework?" Bobby asked.

"I don't know." Dean reached in the fridge for a can of Coke. He turned around to find Bobby still gazing at him, eyes narrowed. "I'll just dash something off in the morning," he said. "Mostly that's how I get by."

"You need to do your homework, Dean," Bobby said.

"Homework," Dean said with a strange little laugh. "So, I'll just work my way through geometry and some stupid essay on early American history, and then we'll have another session with Missouri. Do you not see the absurdity of that?"

Sam turned to see what Bobby would say. "No," he replied frankly.

"Dude, you must have a really weird life," Dean said. Bobby shrugged. "Anyway, I left the books at school."

"What's the essay about?" Sam asked.

"Teddy Roosevelt," Dean said, and then he shrugged. "Okay, he's maybe the rockingest president ever, but still."

"Teddy Roosevelt isn't early American history," Bobby said.

Dean gave him a puzzled look. "He's ages ago," he replied. "Like, more than fifty years."

"Do you know the topic?" Bobby asked.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Describe Theodore Roosevelt's most important contribution to the American State," he recited. "But it's not due till next week."

"Then, since you don't have any of your regular books with you, I've got some stuff for you to look at." Bobby left the room and Sam laughed.

"You'll bring your books home tomorrow night," he predicted.

Dean gave him a dubious look, but then Sam saw Bobby coming back out of the library with three books in hand. Two of them looked like popular references, but the third was really old looking. "Give a look at these," Bobby said, thumping them down on the kitchen table before going back to work himself. "They should give you some idea of his contributions."

Dean gave Sam an incredulous look, and Sam just laughed again. Dean sat down and started looking at the books. "Dude, even I know he's way more recent than 1812," Dean called over his shoulder.

"Look at the author's name, chucklehead."

Sam peered and saw that the book was called The Naval War of 1812. The author's name was Theodore Roosevelt.

"Oh," Dean said, sounding startled. Taking a deep breath, he started looking through the other two books.

Sam got up a couple of times and stirred the stew, and he'd gone on to read the chapter he'd been assigned in history by the time the front door opened. He started clearing off the table, and Dean barely looked up. "Did you know that Teddy Roosevelt reformed the New York City police department?" he said. "Is there anything this guy didn't do?"

"Sit still for five minutes," Bobby said. "Time to set the table."

Dean picked up a napkin and used it as a bookmark, and Sam was amused to see him so interested. He didn't remember Dean as being much of a reader.

They had the table set before Dad and Missouri got to the kitchen, so when they arrived, everyone was ready to sit down to the table immediately. Sam didn't remember having this many meals with other people in a row since he'd left Bobby's. Even then, he'd often had breakfast on his own before heading to the bus. It was weird, but in a nice way.

Dad was pretty quiet during the meal, but Missouri kept getting on both Sam and Dean's case about table manners. She even had a go at Bobby for putting his elbows on the table. That was something Sam didn't remember ever having. He wondered how Dean felt – if it reminded him of Mom at all – but then he realized that Dean didn't even remember Mom. That seemed very wrong suddenly. Dean had always remembered Mom, in fact nearly everything Sam knew about their mother he'd learned from Dean. It was something else the demon had stolen from his brother. Sam suppressed a surge of anger. They would make him pay, all three of them.

After dinner, they cleared the table, then Dean went to grab the book on Teddy Roosevelt. Sam was just picking up his backpack when Dad said, "Take your books and stuff downstairs, would you, tiger?"

Sam turned around in surprise, but the look he saw on Dean's face was more than surprise. It was alarm and . . . maybe a little anger. Dean cleared his throat. "I have some homework to work on, too, John," he said.

"Is it due tomorrow?" Dad asked, and Dean's lips compressed.

"No, it's not."

Dad turned to Sam. "Sam? I asked you to go downstairs."

"Dad, I –" His father's eyebrows went up, and Sam's shoulders sagged. "Yes, sir." He shouldered his backpack and headed to his room. He wondered if Jeremy would think his bedroom was weird or cool. He'd bet on cool, based on how Jeremy had reacted to stuff so far.

He thumped his backpack down on the desk and flopped down on his stomach on the bed to read his history chapter.