A/N: I'm still flabbergasted by the response this fic is getting. Once again, thank you so much to everyone who replied; your kind words inspire me to continue. Hopefully I'll get chapter five done by the end of this week.

4. Shortest Distance Between Two Points

The boys' locker room—a most detestable, unsupervised area of the school which is best to exit as quickly as possible—was brimming with half-dressed teenagers as they donned their grey gym uniforms and idly discussed what sport they might be playing today in class.

It was like a jungle, so far entrenched in the wildness of the young male, and I diverted my eyes to the floor as I found my locker and pulled out my gym suit.

"Hey, if it isn't Rod 'n Balls!" came the jubilant voice of a tall, dark-haired troublemaker-type, whose locker happened to be not far from my own. "Why don't you go change in the girls' locker room, huh? 'Cause I'm not so sure you've got a rod and balls, if you know what I'm saying…"

At this most vulgar comment, the entire row gave amused chuckles of agreement, and the ringleader, only too eager to drink in more respect from his buddies, appeared all the more obliged to continue the barrage of insults, his leer lengthening across his thin face. "C'mon, Rod, you know we're just yankin' your chain… but, ah, look the other way when I change, huh? I don't want no dudes checking me out or anything!"

The volume of the laughter increased this time, and several young men held up large shirts in front of their bare chests in mock anxiety. I practically buried my crimson face in my locker as I pulled on my suit, promptly dashing out of the locker room towards the field house in order to escape the taunting jeers.

Much to my delight, as it surely assuaged by humility at the taunting, it appeared that the two classes sharing the field house today were my own class and that of the notorious Dean Winchester. The small inside track was already busy with students who had changed quickly, jogging a few laps before class officially began. I sauntered over to my class while keeping the other in view as well, spotting Dean sitting on the bleachers with a thoroughly unimpressed look on his face. He wore the same everyday clothes that he had that morning in math. Curious.

"Take three!" my teacher shouted to the arriving students, who all groaned and grudgingly took up the track to run around it three times and return to the teacher. As I took off at a slow jog, well behind most of my class, I rounded the curve and came up to another slow jogger like myself—though her excuse was most probably mere apathy for physical activity than ability, for she was rather slim.

Upon coming up next to her, I adopted my most nonchalant and unconcerned tone of voice and nodded my chin in Dean's direction. "What's up with him?"

Through a mane of light brown hair, she turned her bored gaze up to the bleachers… and a devilish glint invaded her eye as her lips curled up in a soft, wistful smile. "The new kid? Doesn't have a gym suit."

Baffled, I glanced at the bleachers and back to her. "Hasn't he been here for several weeks?"

The girl nodded conspiratorially. "Yeah... Mr. T doesn't know what to do with him anymore. I mean, he can't force a kid to buy a gym suit… he can fail him, yeah, but that doesn't seem to bug him too much. He keeps telling Mr. T to let him participate, but Mr. T says no uniform, no dice, so he just sits there everyday and watches."

As we passed the bleachers, I cast a quick glance up at Dean, who sat sprawled out in a devil-may-care sort of way. I could not tell if his eyes followed us as we went, but he seemed to be observing the field house at large, somehow privy to yet detached from everything going on around him.

"But it's stupid, really," the girl continued—clearly she could be something of a chatterbox when given the right motivation. "I mean, uniforms are only, what? Thirty bucks? Fifteen for the shirt, fifteen for shorts. What's the big deal? If you don't want to fail gym, cough it up and buy a suit." I watched as her eyes traced across the field house towards Dean, a thoughtful look in her soft gaze.

Then, as we rounded another corner, she tore her eyes from the bleachers and, for the first time, looked upon the person jogging next to her in affable quietude. A minute look of horror crossed over her features for the briefest of moments before she turned her face back to the track in front of her and took off at a run, as though worried that standing near me for any undetermined amount of time might cause her the most grievous bad luck. It seemed to be the way with girls; they did not notice me right off the bat to begin the taunting, as it was with young men. In any case, she caught up with a small group of girls ahead and slowed her pace fractionally to match theirs.

I continued to jog in solitude, finishing my laps behind most of my class, my eyes continuously gravitating towards the lone student leaning back against the otherwise empty bleachers.

---------------

Check: Dean's injuries had healed startlingly fast, as though his body were quite used to cleaning up the messes it got into.

It was a dreary October 30, and my spirits seemed perpetually low to the ground. The school was still horribly interested in the goings-on of Dean Winchester, yet he had still refused to buddy up with anyone and confirm or deny any of the rumors still bouncing inexhaustibly about.

It was also the day that a new transfer student entered the halls of George Washington High; have I not mentioned that our school seemed a magnet of sorts for new students halfway through the year? In any case, I was not as enthused about her arrival as I usually was about new students, which worried me only insomuch as I gave thought to her. My attention was still wholly and indefatigably focused upon Dean, despite my greatest attempts to forget him.

And so, when I spotted the redhead entering the cafeteria with a woebegone, lost look upon her face, I put an effort into a small smile and wave, half-hoping that she would not see me and half-desiring her to come whisk my thoughts from the mysterious Dean. She did spot me with a most relieved smile, and she strode over to my table with a slow but deliberate gait.

"Hey… aren't you in my French class?"

My face, as it were, is quite generic and not at all noteworthy; it was therefore quite easy for one to simply see any overweight young male of roughly 16 years and believe him to be myself. And, on a complete side-note, my only foreign language happened to be Spanish.

"Why… yes, I think you're right," I replied, forcing my tone to be pleasantly surprised. "Would you like to sit down?" I asked, motioning to the seat opposite mine.

"Sure. I'm Alice." At once, her voice was bubbly and excited, as though she had been waiting for someone to show a kind gesture so that she could cling on for all she was worth. I usually adored the clingers; they almost always lasted for over a week.

"Rodney."

I glanced about for Dean; it was still early, and he usually did not arrive until five minutes after the period had begun, being one of the stragglers. Still, I tried to be discreet about watching the door.

When nobody came through, I blinked and glanced down as she took out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, looking awkward at the silence that had befallen us. I tried to catch my fumble. "Peanut butter and jelly? What a coincidence; that's my favorite."

"Really?" she asked, her face a mask of annoyance. "I hate it. I keep telling my mom not to put it in my lunch. What's that you've got there?"

"Oh, look at that." I tried to make my voice sound unpleasantly surprised. "Turkey on rye. What an unfortunate turn of events."

Alice said something that I didn't quite catch, for Dean had walked through the door of the cafeteria, performing his usual ritual of exiting out the far door. However, today Alice was seated in the spot across the table where I usually moved to so that I could have a clear view of the windows. So I craned my neck around to watch as he exited, completely ignoring the hindrance of a girl before me.

"Um… Rodney? Do you want to switch?" she enunciated each word as if I were half-deaf.

"What? Oh, I suppose." Grudgingly, I handed over my favorite sandwich for the peanut butter and jelly, which I was certainly not as fond of. As I ate, I continued to sneak glances out the windows behind me, in case Dean changed his routine.

"…if you didn't want to talk to me, you shouldn't have asked me to sit down," Alice spat heatedly, as, for the umpteenth time, I was caught completely ignoring her in favor of the windows. I whirled back around to face her wrath. She nodded angrily towards the windows. "Oh, go sit outside if I'm bugging you so much!"

And with a grand harrumph, the emotional girl grabbed her lunch violently off the table and marched out of the cafeteria.

Well, if I had known she was so unstable, I wouldn't have even tried in the first place.

---------------

As I trudged down the hallway between sixth and seventh period, weary even of my observations and speculations of Dean, I found my eyes focused down on the rhythmic back-and-forth motion of my shoes, and it wasn't until I nearly collided with another student who was hurriedly rounding a corner that I whipped my gaze up again.

He let out a shout as he sidestepped me hastily, the stack of books in his arms tilting, sliding, and tumbling gracelessly to the floor where they flipped open, revealing a flutter of pages. Startled, I stopped in my tracks and ventured to see who it was I had caused to drop his things.

My shock did not end with the near-collision, for standing before me was Dean's younger brother, Sam. His unmistakable shaggy, brown hair hung low over his eyes, which were only several inches closer to the earth than my own; I could tell the boy would grow up much taller than I would. Anyway, he seemed flustered as he bent down to retrieve his books, barely bothering to flip them closed before he pushed them into an untidy heap on his way to his next class.

"Let me help you," I spoke, feeling an odd pang of… pity? Odd. Normally that feeling was reserved only for myself. I did not know why I felt such sympathy for a near total stranger, whose only conceivable woe was that he had dropped his books while in a hurry to seventh period. Yet there was something more in his troubled demeanor that told me the books were the least of his problems, despite the way it appeared.

As I handed him a book, he turned his large eyes to me, and they quickly melted from cold suspicion into warm gratitude. "Thanks."

"Can I ask why you have so many books with you?" I asked, truly interested, unlike during lunch with the peanut-butter-and-jelly girl.

Sam huffed a sigh of half-exasperation, half-amusement. "I don't have any time to stop at my locker… I'm taking too many classes." Then, as though he'd either forgotten I was there or been too engaged in his fiery annoyance at his predicament, he added under his breath, "Not that it'll matter much…" I was startled to see the seething fury and rebellion in his eyes for that brief moment, but it soon vanished as he seemed to remember himself, and he gave a small smile. "Anyway, thanks."

As he stood up again to leave, I heard myself blurt out, "Are you the little brother of Dean Winchester?"

At once, his stance shifted backwards slightly, as though he were preparing for a fight, and his eyes became shady and wary. "…Why? Are you a friend of his?"

"Sort of," I replied noncommittally, already shameful at the stupid outburst.

He seemed to accept that answer, though, for his features relaxed. "Oh. Okay." But his eyes seemed to convey, Any friend of Dean's is a friend of mine.

Down the winding hallway crammed with a multitude of teenagers he was swept away, and I too followed my own path to seventh period, an odd sense of triumph overcoming my gloomy manner.

---------------

Stepping out into the courtyard after school, as was my ritual nowadays, I shivered in the chilly breeze that attacked my jacket and glanced about for my mystery man.

Sure enough, he stood leaning against the building casually, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans (which were now, I noted, not only ripped, but also stained with some dark burgundy substance—perhaps he was a messy eater). After several moments, Sam appeared with his backpack full of books, a scowl marring his features. They spoke for a moment in low, heated tones that I could not hear from my distance, so I casually moved a bit closer. As usual, my presence was undetected.

"This is bull," Sam muttered angrily as he hunched under his heavy backpack and stalked ahead of his elder brother.

"Dad's orders," Dean replied cryptically by way of explanation. "And could you maybe stop whining for about two seconds?"

"But it's not fair!" Sam burst out, turning around and finding that Dean hadn't moved an inch from the wall. He took a few steps back towards his brother, his scowl deepening and the shadows lengthening across his face. "We haven't even been here very long. I've got friends." Then, as though finding an argument that would suit his case, he added, "We stayed in Iowa for a whole year."

"Well, this is different," Dean spoke in a commanding tone that clearly said, Drop-it-or-die. But Sam, clearly quite as adverse to authority as his brother—but perhaps of a different sort—rolled his eyes and scoffed.

"No, it isn't. Dad's just being Dad, as usual. It's not fair. Why do we have to go? You don't want to go, do you?"

Dean's face tightened into a stony expression that would have sent the bravest of men dashing under their beds in fright. I even felt myself cowering slightly. Sam moved not an inch. "I'll be honest, I couldn't care less. In fact, the sooner, the better."

"That's because you don't have any friends here."

Something in Dean's eyes grew dead cold, like the icicles hanging from rooftops in the middle of winter. "No, it's because this place is stupid and I'm sick of it."

"You had friends in Iowa. You didn't want to leave," Sam pointed out, looking thoroughly smug and victorious. Dean remained silent, which seemed to be cause for Sam to continue. "And do you hear the way people talk about you here? You could be the most popular kid in school if you wanted."

"I don't care, Sam," Dean growled, but from the spark lighting his cold hazel eyes, it seemed as though he cared a great deal more than he wanted to let on. Was anybody else seeing this? Was I the only one who could read such things in his eyes? Or was I merely the only one who'd bothered to pay close enough attention to see it?

"But you don't want to," Sam continued his thought, as though Dean hadn't said a word. "You'd rather be Dad's lapdog and follow him around wherever he wants to go."

At once, Dean pushed himself off the wall with one smooth, fluid motion and began walking away from his younger brother with his hands still in his pockets. When he spoke, I couldn't tell if he was joking or dead serious. "If you're still bitching by time we get home… I'm kicking your ass."

And that was the end of it. Sam dragged his feet along behind his brother, looking somewhat defeated—and not at all pleased about that. And before my mother could get impatient, I hurried off to the parking lot, wondering what the brothers could have been talking about.

But my meditation was cut short the next day at school, for as you should know by now, all opinions of a person can change drastically in a single school day. Halloween proved this without fault.