A/N: Okay, so I suck beyond description. I am so, so, so, so sorry to leave you all waiting for so long for an update. I kind of wrote myself into a corner, with so many little things I wanted to share with you before taking us to some major moments of conflict/crisis, but anxiety and writer's block left me completely stranded in a quagmire of "Where the hell do I go from here?"
I think I'm mostly past it now. I've got myself past the worst of the writer's block and have written this little snippet (just barely over 2000 words) to try to bridge the gap, I guess. I'm working on the next chapter, and hope to avoid any further huge gaps in posting like the last couple. I feel like I know where I'm going with this now. *crosses fingers*
In the meantime, I need to tell you all, from the bottom of my heart, how much you have carried me through some rough, inspirationless times. I don't think there's a more supportive or constructive readership in the whole of fandom like I've seen here. You're all so amazing and helpful and just plain encouraging. You've kept me going with your kind praise, support, and concern, when I might otherwise have given up. So thank you - a million times over - thank you! You didn't let me down, and come hell or high water, I'm going to get to the end of this story.
And now without further ado...
In spite of how pretty he was, Dean Winchester was not a popular kid at Albright Academy, even after almost two months of attending there. He may have had charm enough to lure middle-aged nuns into his bed, and he may have caught the eye of just about every girl between the ages of twelve and sixteen. He may have been athletic and some kind of prodigy on the drums. But he was not well liked. At all.
He was a foster kid, for starters, and everyone knew it. He may as well have been wearing a big, neon sign that read "Trailer Park Trash." The lack of background, of biological parents, of family wealth, made him nothing in the eyes of a lot of the stuck-up kids at school, like he was the dirt beneath their feet. It was also widely known that his father was in jail, which added to the aura of danger and worthlessness that Dean seemed to carry with him naturally. All the well-bred, socially elite teens of Phoenix's most prestigious private school seemed to take particular slight to someone of Dean's degraded background being admitted to their hallowed halls, being granted the kind of education that was theirs by right and, it seemed, his as some kind of sad, cruel joke.
Angela didn't get it, and hated that so many of her fellow classmates could be so snobby and shallow. Dean may not be very polished, and could sometimes be massively socially retarded, but he was one of the best people she knew when it came to essentials. He'd jumped off a bridge and saved a little girl from drowning. He'd done that, risked his life, without even thinking twice. She couldn't picture even one of those high-horsed bitches at school doing the same.
But a teeny, tiny, secret part of her was just the slightest bit relieved that Dean was an outcast, because Dean being something of a social pariah meant that he wasn't likely to ever ditch her for bigger and better friends. Beggars can't be choosers, her grandpa used to say, and she felt guiltily content to have her friend stuck with her for that very reason – not that he ever acted like being her friend was some kind of chore or anything. And really, she was pretty sure his disdain for the popular crowd, and for kids their age in general, was pretty genuine.
Maybe, she thought, Dean didn't have other friends (with the exception of Derek Schuster and occasionally Jamie Anderson) because he didn't want them. Maybe he was perfectly satisfied being BFFs with a string-bean girl with no boobs and wild hair and glasses so thick they were pretty much bullet proof. Maybe he liked her just the way she was. He didn't say as much in words (that was never his style), but she got the feeling that he kinda, maybe, really cared about her.
For example: he kind of went all out for her birthday (as much as Dean Winchester is ever likely to go all out for anything). Her parents were out of town at the end of October so Angela got permission from Florinda to have a birthday party with just a few friends from school. It wasn't anything fancy – only about ten people showed up, all told – but it was a gathering of her favourite people, and Florinda made all of Angela's favourites as snacks – and Dean would not shut up about the damned taquitos. There was music and people brought presents, and then they all watched the "Rocky Horror Picture Show."
But Dean really surprised her with his gift.
He'd come up to her looking all sheepish and flushed, ducking his head and patting absently at the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck. There was no box, no wrapping paper, and no bow adorning or embellishing the gift. Only Dean's broad palm clenched tightly to the secret treasure within before it eased open. Angela's heart did a frantic leap into her throat.
It was a necklace. A silver chain with a fine, delicate weave dangled daintily from his calloused fingers, with an intricately designed charm swinging prettily from its end. It looked kind of like a pentagram, only more detailed, more elaborate, with a starburst pattern or sun behind it, and its finish was rich and dark in parts, evidence of years of wear and tear. It looked old, like an heirloom, but beautiful and valuable in a way that used or second-hand gifts rarely were.
Angela had grasped it with barely trembling fingers to inspect it.
"I don't know what to say," she'd whispered, suddenly embarrassed.
Of all the birthday gifts he could have possibly given her, Angela would never have guessed Dean Winchester would give her a necklace. She'd thought for sure she'd be getting a Led Zeppelin CD or an ACDC t-shirt. This… this was so unexpected and beautiful.
"My uncle Bobby found it," Dean had said with a shrug, eyes still looking down at his feet. By now Angela knew that 'uncle Bobby' was actually some old guy from South Dakota who came to visit every now and again – a close family friend who'd lost touch after Dean's father got arrested. Dean didn't talk about him much, but it was obvious that he both admired and respected the guy. Angela had only ever seen the man from a distance a few weeks ago, when Bobby had shown up to take Dean on a weekend 'fishing trip,' but he'd looked gruff and kind of like a trucker.
"It's not uh, fancy or anything. But the chain's pure silver, and the charm's consecrated iron. I tried polishing it…"
"It's beautiful," she'd interrupted, sensing that he was feeling self-conscious. "I love it."
Then he'd met her eyes and grinned, and the heavens parted and the angels sang and every other cheesy clichéd thing that writers of silly love songs yammer on about happened. He smiled and Angela's heart melted to a puddle at her feet, and she nearly freaking died when he took the necklace from her hands and undid the clasp to tie it around her neck.
"Don't take it off," he'd whispered.
"I won't."
"Ever," he'd insisted.
"I won't." It was a promise she knew she'd keep. She'd wear this against her skin, right next to her heart, until the day she died. The fact that he wanted her to wear it always…? That was just gravy, made her giddy like the 14 year-old girl she now officially was.
She'd tried to draw up as much enthusiasm for the framed poster of Charlotte Bronte from Neil and the White Album on CD from Caroline, but the air was fuzzy with static electricity and Angela could scarcely keep herself in the moment without floating away. Dean had got her an heirloomy necklace for her birthday. It was old and important, well-worn and significant in a way that reminded her of the amulet Dean wore around his own neck (every day, under his school uniform, without fail). He'd got her a necklace. It was a huge freakin' deal.
But if that weren't enough to throw her off-kilter, the surprise duet had nearly knocked her flat on her ass.
They'd just finished watching Dr. Frank N. Furter get carted off by Riff Raff and Magenta to the planet Transylvania, when the room had suddenly gotten quiet. In the immediate hush, Angela noticed that Caroline looked bright-eyed and determined as she shooed two people off of the loveseat to make room for herself and… Dean? And then Dean was sitting down, looking sheepish and highly put-upon, before Neil showed up with a guitar (and where the hell had he been hiding that?) and handed it to Dean.
"Now you know how much we love you," Caroline had teased, "if we're willing to put our heads together," indicating herself and Dean, "to sing you a song for your birthday."
Dean slung the guitar strap over his shoulder and kept his head ducked down, a bright pink flush creeping across his cheeks and down his neck.
"Just so we're clear," he'd muttered. "This was entirely her idea."
"I take full responsibility" Caroline nodded sagely, winking at the birthday girl. "Because you're the best girl ever."
And then Dean had cleared his throat and began to strum, plucking out a familiar sweet riff that brought instant tears to Angela's wide, gray eyes. His strong hands strummed carefully, though with ease. Nothing fancy. Just pretty chords filling the air before the voices of his two best friends sang together:
'Two of us riding nowhere,
Spending someone's
Hard earned pay.
You and me Sunday driving,
Not arriving,
On our way back home.
We're on our way home.
We're on our way home.
We're going home.'
They were singing her very favourite Beatles' song.
'Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters
On my wall.
You and me burning matches
Lifting latches
On our way back home…'
They sang in perfect harmony, with Dean taking the lower Lennon parts and Caroline taking the higher McCartney parts. It was sweet and melodic, just the way the song was meant to be sung: Dean's husky voice (when not strained with oversinging) acting as a perfect complement to Caroline's sweet, honeyed tones. And Angela found that she did cry, in spite of herself, when her best girlfriend in the whole world took up the chorus solo.
'You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches on ahead…'
Dean kept his head ducked down, his eyes closed as he sang, but Angela knew that, in spite of his embarrassment, his heart was really in it. What was more, he'd taken a part of the song and internalized it, and Angela could see Sam behind those notes. She could see little brother and best friend and family, could picture a little boy's dimpled grin and bright, cat-slanted eyes every time Dean sang the words 'two of us' or 'you and me.' He was singing to her, in a best-friend, non-romantic kind of way, but he was thinking of his little brother, the light and life in his eyes, with every word he sang. And it meant more to her, when she really thought about it, that he would share this with her on her birthday. It meant more that he'd invited her in to be a witness to that love, that he was including her in it in some way – even if it was only as an observer, as a friend pulled in along the sidelines. He was doing it for her, even though he was probably cringing inwardly at the grand gesturiness of it. He was doing it because it was her birthday, and he loved her in his way, the only way he know how.
'Two of us wearing rain coats
Standing so low
In the sun.
You and me chasing paper
Getting nowhere
On our way back home.
We're on our way home.
We're on our way home.
We're going home.'
When the last few chords faded from the guitar, the entire room burst into wild applause. It wasn't a large audience, but it was an enthusiastic one, especially with Angela clapping so emphatically that her hands stung. She was torn between bursting into (more) elated tears and hooting in approval.
"I can't believe you guys did that!" she'd managed to choke out through the lump in her throat as she gave Caroline a tight, warm hug. "That was so beautiful!"
"You should have seen them practicing," Neil deadpanned, smirking with glee. "Wasn't so beautiful then."
Dean scowled and flipped him the bird, providing enough distraction for Angela to swoop in for a much-needed hug from that quarter as well. She held on tight, breathed in the smell of his skin, feeling the hard muscle under his t-shirt where she clung to him as he held her in his strong arms.
"Happy Birthday, Ange," he'd whispered, earning him another squeeze before he pulled away to grin sheepishly at her once again.
It was the best birthday she'd ever had.
And later that night, when everyone else had gone and just the fab four of Angela, Neil, Caroline and Dean remained, tucked away in the inner sanctum of Angela's bedroom with sleeping bags and chips and music, the birthday girl was filled with such contentment that she felt her heart swell to fullness in a way that ached. She'd gorged on sweet, good things that day, had tasted the fruits of a life that was both simple and complicated, painful but beautiful.
Angela Platt knew what it meant to be happy.
TBC...
End notes: If you don't know the song "Two of Us," you need to go download it and listen to it NOW. It's by the Beatles and it's from the Let It Be album. It's one of my all-time favourites of theirs (and if you haven't already gathered, Angela's Beatlemania is entirely based on MY Beatlemania). I hear that song and think of the relationship between two brothers on my favourite TV show. I also picture Jensen's husky voice singing John Lennon's part and do a little swoon in my heart. *sighs contentedly*
Thank you so much for reading! I love you all more than words can say!
