A/N: Thanks for the wonderful reviews! This has gotten far more attention than I thought it would, so thank you all for your kind words. I'm super busy this weekend with work, but I hope to get the next chapter done by sometime early next week, possibly Monday or Tuesday.

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3. Popularity Can Neither Be Created Nor Destroyed…

Rumors spread faster in high school than a wildfire in dry prairie grass.

And it was the rumors that first came to my attention, even before my first glimpse of my mystery man. All through the hallways during the five minute passing between first and second period, a barrage of voices invaded my senses, and rather than ignore them as I was wont to do, I tuned in to the vulgar ideas.

"…I heard he rides this bitchin' Harley, and he had a major run-in with an SUV."

"That's nothing. I heard he kicked the football coach's ass when he wouldn't let him on the team, and that's why Coach Baxter isn't at school today."

"...Did you hear about the new kid? Apparently he was trying to steal a Corvette but got caught by the cops, and he had to beat up five or six of them before he got away."

"Was that before or after he had an affair with Principal Gordinsky's wife and…"

I couldn't help but scoff at the outrageous 'inside info' that these heathens were dishing out to one another. What sort of gullible twit would actually give credibility to any one of these clearly falsified stories? Still, I was intrigued and eager to behold the sight of Dean to see for myself what was the cause of such monstrosities as these rumors.

Third period could not have arrived at a sooner time; I slipped into math class and took my seat in the back, craning my neck around the other milling students to catch a glimpse of Dean as he entered the classroom. I was rewarded for my efforts mere moments before the bell tolled, and boy, was I shocked by the sight.

In strolled Dean—or perhaps limped might be a more apt term. He wore the same leather jacket and ripped jeans as he had every other day, only now he wore bruises as well; his entire right cheekbone was mottled with a colorful array of blues and purples, and the right side of his lip seemed red and disproportionately plump in comparison to the left. The bruising arced gracefully up to his eye, which peered out through a dark ring that encircled the ocular organ. This display, however, was not the only new aspect of his appearance. At some point he had gained a limp in his step, as I alluded to earlier, and he walked slowly, favoring his left leg, which remained stiffer than a normal appendage should be.

I could not help but gaze upon him in horror, unwittingly mimicking my gawping classmates. Yet Dean, as was his usual custom, seemed thoroughly uninterested in his classmates' awe and obvious curiosity; in fact, he seemed not to notice it at all. He merely limped over to his seat, three from mine, and slid elegantly into it, propping his right arm loosely over the back of the chair and leaning back.

Check: Injuries on a normal person appear gruesome and agonizingly painful. Injuries on one Dean Winchester ran together like a watercolor painting, somehow enhancing the beauty and mystery continually cloaking his figure, and appearing as effortless as an accessory that one might carry, such as a handbag.

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By lunchtime, there was not one person in the entire junior class who remained unaware of the interesting predicament that had befallen the new student. It seemed that in a single half-day, he had gone from ignored nobody—a mere baby-step up from my own level of popularity—to wonderfully fascinating mystery man. Rumors abounded.

I took up my seat in the cafeteria, watching ever-intently the door to the hallway and willing, with all my brainpower, the entrance of the aforementioned student. At long last he limped into the arena, brown-bag lunch dangling at his side. A hush seemed to fall over the eager crowd, as though awaiting his first trick—would he start a food fight? Sit on the floor? Jump over fourteen trucks on his alleged motorcycle in a single bound?

I at once felt sickened by the atmosphere that had taken hold of my fellow students, one that might often be found at a three-ring circus as the audience watches the freaks arrive with enthusiastic leers upon their grotesque faces.

Yet Dean did not do any of the things anticipated. He merely cocked an eyebrow at the strange quiet in the cafeteria and proceeded to exit the far door, as he always did. And once again, I slid surreptitiously to the other side of my table to watch him through the windows as he sat down in the courtyard and carefully unpacked his lunch.

Only I was not the only one to do so. It seemed my interest had caught on and become something of a fad—which I detest, I might add. Much of the cafeteria broke out into loud whispers, and soon zealous conversation as half the junior class peeked out the windows in a less than discreet manner before turning to their equally atrocious companions and speaking excitedly into one another's ears.

I felt my stomach turn, and I could not finish my turkey-on-rye (quite a rarity, I should say). It was simply appalling, the way they stared at him like some sort of trained monkey, expecting him to get up and do a dance. I could not stand it. He was no longer my little project, and could never be again, for he had gained a notorious sort of popularity that was unbecoming of me to intrude upon. I could not easily watch him and attempt to find similarities now, not when all of my fellow students were likewise trying to get the truth of his injuries out of him. An indescribable and rather curious woe washed over me, as though I'd lost my very dearest friend.

Though I had none, so I could not very well tell you what that would have felt like. Still, it was something like dismay.

Normally, I would let this newfound popularity of a newcomer fall to the wayside of my mind, but not this time. Dean clearly did not want popularity, though I was at a lack of comprehension in this matter; popularity had always been the most desired and sought-after achievement of any student at George Washington High. Therefore, why might Dean be different?

I needed to stop thinking about him, but I could not quite let it go. My fascination overrode my reason, and I continued to watch and speculate.

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The first time I heard the inevitable words, I was passing the girls' bathroom on the first floor as several semi-popular females were exiting.

"Don't you think he's kind of cute? …In a rugged sort of way, I mean?"

I knew it; the injuries had, indeed, had an auspicious affect on his appearance. I had known that the idea would slip into the heads of the female population eventually; it had just taken rumors and undesired popularity to bring it about.

The next I knew, girls were flapping around in flocks, whispering their opinions of Dean behind their hands as he passed them in the hall, throwing him deliberately shy, flirtatious looks. He ignored all of them.

Until, after another week had gone by, the Slut of the school presented herself.

She had given a fluttering little wave to Dean as he passed her in the cafeteria, and—to the surprise of others—he returned her wave with a salacious smirk.

The Monday following this event, it was announced that the Slut had spent an evening with Dean… and that was all that needed to be said. More rumors abounded, though I was sure that these were far closer to the truth.

For some reason, it made me want to vomit. Shacking up with the first easy girl to fall at his feet? Was that my mystery man? I'd had the idea that he was more of a romantic… reading poetry to his sweetheart in the moonlight, showing a more tender side in contrast to his rough exterior. Perhaps I'd been wrong about him all along; perhaps my assumptions were merely the fancies of an unusual young man. I should have ended my obsession there, but I could not.

Check: Sex is high on the list of things-to-do for most high school young men, and Dean Winchester was no exception.

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It wasn't until people started to follow him out to the courtyard that I began to lose hope on our ever becoming friends. It had started innocently enough: the jocks shouting, "Hey, Winchester!" across the cafeteria as though he were their closest pal; the cheerleaders seductively inviting him to sit at their table. Yet he continued to bypass these offers, and so, fed up, the Populars decided that they would go to him.

In twos and threes, they slowly made their way out into the gray, chilly day, choosing places near the one that Dean had claimed as his own. A flicker of surprise crossed his normally stoic features—similar to the bemused look that had passed over his face the first day I'd waved to him in the cafeteria. There was no doubt that he'd heard all the rumors and had still neglected to set them straight, but he didn't seem quite willing to suddenly become all chummy with those who had given fuel to his newfound popularity. Thus, he did not move closer to them in order to begin conversation as they ate their lunches—this I perceived from my spot at my table, for I had decided to remain inside, forlorn and forgotten. After all, following the masses was certainly not my style, and it would be hypocrisy for me to follow the herd out now (even though I was the one who had initially had the greatest interest in the mysterious creature in the courtyard).

After three days, it had become too much; that was quite palpable in his tight, frustrated features. So he moved inside, eating his lunch at an open table in the cafeteria. Those sitting outside appeared utterly bewildered by the sudden transition and, weary of the unfavorable weather, began filtering back into the cafeteria. Once everyone had re-situated themselves to their normal positions after several days of moving, Dean returned to his ritual of eating in the courtyard.

They had all been duped, and they knew it; but they also seemed to know when to leave well enough alone, and therefore did not attempt to sit with him anymore at lunch. Mission accomplished.

Check: Dean Winchester enjoyed his solitude, and would rather eat alone than with others, despite his great opportunities at companionship. According to physics, opposites attract.