A/N: Once again, my unending thanks to all those who replied. Your reviews are wonderful to read, and they really do keep me motivated to finish this. I'd also like to note that I've upped the rating a bit for some unsavory language in this chapter. Thanks, and enjoy!
5. Velocity of a Falling Object
It was a day filled with slutty nurses, axe murderers, slutty cowgirls, evil clowns, slutty witches, and the occasional man-riding-a-penguin. I was clad in my elegant black and orange—a tribute to the holiday without being subjected to the inevitable harassment about my costume and questions as to why I had not come dressed as one large rainbow.
Some teachers were kind and handed out candy to the class; others were cruel and handed out tests.
Some girls were dressed as sluts; some were actually sluts. And it was this most unfortunate affair that led to the day's interesting events, for the Slut of the school (who claimed to be dressed as Malibu Barbie, though I was quite certain she had come dressed as her usual self), in what appeared to be a bout of annoyance at the indifference that Dean showed her after their scandalous evening, had revealed where the latter lived.
And for some reason, it was quite appalling that he lived in the nasty, rundown neighborhood that many students at George Washington High reviled; "Dead Man's Lot," as they called it, for it housed the poor, decrepit, drunk and nearly-dead. The implications were disastrous for his reputation.
He was poor—not just poor, but poor. Living in poverty. Disgusting. Dirty. Shameful. Probably the son a drug-addict… probably a drug-addict himself. Would grow up to be a wife-beater. Would grow up to be a rapist. Would grow up to be a serial killer.
The gossip zipped through the air faster than a bullet; faster than gamma rays through the endless nothingness of outer space; faster, even, than the rumors about Dean and his motorcycle, his affair, his fists of steel. It was all anyone would talk about.
The first time I saw Dean after hearing the news, I was shocked to see how calm he was. It was in the hallway, and students around him parted like the Red Sea, as though terrified that he was contaminated and close quarters might infect them with some horrible disease that all Poor people have.
But there was Dean: nonchalant, acting as if he were completely unaware of the wide eyes and whispers encircling him as he went. He was not dressed in a costume, but merely sported his usual attire; they commented on how he was too poor to afford anything for the holiday. They said it quite loud enough for him to hear them. He said nothing.
Check: Dean's silence sometimes spoke much louder than anything he might otherwise have said.
As he came closer, our paths crossing before we continued in separate directions, I inspected his appearance more closely. And that was when I saw that he was not calm at all; his shoulders were tense, like a student waiting for a teacher to yell at him. His facial features were tight, expressionless; his eyes were trained on his forward path, focused and deadly and straining not to look at any of the mocking passersby. I nearly lost my footing as I walked.
It clearly bothered him much more than he would let on to the unobservant eye; this much I should have already guessed, for it seemed to be a recurring motif in my observations of him. But this struck me even more because I knew. I understood. The rejection by the masses, the accusing stares, the whispered gossip… I knew indeed. And I felt a great surging desire to run after him and commiserate, to ease that horrible pained look in his clenched jaw and his too, too focused eyes.
Because I, unlike the teeming masses of the junior class, did not care where he lived.
I knew that gossip was merely a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury… signifying nothing. Dean was still just… Dean.
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"I can't wait to get the hell out of this fucking school," was the only thing that Dean grumbled irritably to Sam as they met up in the courtyard and proceeded to trudge over to the sidewalk. I tried to be inconspicuous, but the bright orange in my shirt made my stomach appear twice as large as it normally did, which I should inform you was quite a feat.
Sam's face was pointed downward, whether in embarrassment or exasperation, I could not tell. He shook his head slightly, hitched his bulging backpack higher onto his shoulders and plodded along after the elder Winchester. Sam was, too, lacking a Halloween costume, and I wondered sadly if it was because they couldn't afford them. Yet neither seemed to bothered by their lack of festiveness for the holiday, so I wondered if they merely had never been quite as invested in it as others.
Those who were also out in the courtyard continued to avoid him like the plague as he walked past, and a deep ache filled me, for it reminded me so vividly of my own situation. This renewed despair clogged my throat, and I could barely speak with my mother when I arrived at the car.
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Lunch was abysmal on November first. Outside, the weather grew cold and windy, and the clouds roiled with brimming gray clouds. From my empty half of a table, I happened to spot that Alice girl several tables over, chatting amicably with several new friends. Good for her.
I had been generally displeased with the world ever since yesterday, even though I knew I should be glad—Dean was now as ostracized as myself, perhaps even more so. It was the perfect opportunity to gain friendship, true friendship. And yet mankind as a whole embittered me to the entire concept of communication with such fiends, and I felt the absolute antithesis of sociable.
Dean strode into the cafeteria five minutes late, as usual, with his leather jacket pulled over several layers of clothing and the expected paper bag at his side. Immediately, my senses pricked with the apprehension of some approaching storm. I was not far off the mark, for the Slut and her newest boy-toy, along with several other skanky girls, stood from their table and strutted through the cafeteria with smirks on their faces.
"Ew. Looks like someone needs to take out the trash," the Slut drawled loudly as they slowed to a near halt before him. Dean stopped as well, tensing as though preparing for an altercation.
"I swear, this cafeteria gets dirtier every year." So the lump speaks! I was quite shocked to hear something intelligible stream from his empty head to his pretty-boy lips. The Slut grinned at her Toy approvingly and petted his arm.
As Dean's back was to me, I could not see the expression on his face; however, was I to venture a guess, I would say he was probably rolling his eyes about now. Really, the display was quite ridiculous. I was embarrassed and infuriated on his part. After a moment, Dean attempted to step around them, but the Toy moved in front of him, blocking his path. Was I to make another guess, I would say that Dean was smirking with a sinister glint in his eye as he spoke his next words in a vicious tone.
"I could kick your ass to kingdom come… but you're not worth it."
He tried to step around them again, but the Toy grabbed his left arm, as though ready for a battle to the death over the gaudy piece of blonde jewelry at his side (who would probably stick around only as long as the new kids stuck around at my lunch table, anyway).
Everything about Dean's countenance changed.
It was like watching a sleeping cheetah awaken to the sound of running antelope and, in one fluid motion, transform from innocent bystander to deadly, graceful predator. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I watched this metamorphosis within Dean, and suddenly I could not shake the image of the cheetah ripping the antelope to bloody shreds…
Dean's right fist closed tightly around the Toy's wrist, yanked the Toy's hand from his arm, and twisted it so that I was sure it would snap by the way it seemed to be on backwards. The Toy's knees crumbled slightly and he let out a feeble whimper. Without further delay, Dean released his arm, allowing the Toy to fall gently to his knees. And just like that, the entirety of Dean's form relaxed, as though the cheetah were merely out for an enjoyable stroll. He easily side-stepped the appalled Slut and her Toy, heading out the far doors into the courtyard.
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November 2nd held something of an odd, haunting quality in its mysterious depths; at least, it did whenever one cared to glance over at Dean Winchester. While he usually made a point to do something—anything—other than math while in math class, today he merely gazed off into space, as though his eyes could perceive a different place and time, and his thoughts were too loud for his ears to pick up on Mrs. Grimm's dull ranting.
The school had calmed down, but only very slightly. Students continued to veer their paths so that they did not intertwine with Dean's, and there remained a whooshing whisper of gossip to sweep the halls every time he passed. But the Slut and her Toy had ceased all communication with him, resigning themselves to sulking and glowering hatefully at him when their paths crossed. I was not sure how long this stalemate could continue, but once again, Dean seemed unperturbed by the drastic downward spiral of his social status ever since his Popularity's nosedive.
And there he sat, several seats away from my own, staring blankly into space with the corners of his mouth turned down in an ever so slight frown. Everything about his limp posture screamed pensive! at the top of its lungs. There seemed to be nothing left of the cool, dominant cheetah that had sprung from the wells of his being only yesterday.
Blinking myself away from my ponderings of the complex creature in my math class, I lowered my face and robotically completed the problem on the board. I finished with moments to spare, glancing up to see that Dean had moved not an inch from his position; the stillness was almost eerie, and I wanted someone to poke him just to watch him jerk, so that I may see that he was still capable of movement.
"Everybody done?" Mrs. Grimm asked, her eyes dancing over the students. "All right, who's got the answer, who's got the answer… how about… Dean?"
The vocalization of his name seemed to startle him out of some deep reverie, for the young man winced in his seat and blinked up at the teacher, his eyes lost and wild.
"Square root of three over two," I spoke quietly out of the corner of my mouth, the volume loud enough for the surrounding students to hear me yet not quite audible enough for Mrs. Grimm to catch my mumbled words.
Automatically, upon hearing an answer, Dean replied in a monotonous voice, "Square root of three over two?"
Mrs. Grimm narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her lips pursing as she turned back to the board to write the answer. "Correct."
His face was a mask of confusion and relief, and his eyes briefly flitted in my direction to see who had saved him with the answer. For a small, small moment, our eyes locked, and I could read the gratitude within them; there was more that I could not read, despite my greatest efforts and my careful practice of human observation ever since his arrival and George Washington High. Something deep and dark and terrified and immensely miserable. But I could not place it.
As quickly as he'd glanced over, he yanked his eyes back down to his own desk, his shoulders slumping forward as he leaned his elbows down on the surface, once again falling victim to his own mysterious thoughts.
At long last the bell rang, signaling us Pavlovian dogs to rush to our next class. Mrs. Grimm's eyes darted over to the back row, and she said, "Dean, can I see you for a moment?"
I slowed my movements as the class began to filter out in clusters, sluggishly placing my things back in my backpack as I discreetly watched Dean approach the teacher's desk from my seat in the back of the room.
Mrs. Grimm sighed in a frustrated sort of manner. "I'm sensing that you're not putting forth as much effort into this class as you could," she began without preamble.
Dean remained silent.
"And… well, clearly you're a bright young man. I just feel…" She visibly struggled with her thoughts for a moment. Her tone immediately changed from a disappointed teacher to that of a concerned friend. "I know it can be difficult to transfer schools. You've got to start all over, replace all your old friends, and everyone around you seems to know what they're doing. You get lost in the shuffle. I understand; I've been there. It's never easy to arrive in the middle of everything. But that only means you should try twice as hard in your classes to keep up with what's going on. I know you can figure it out. I'm just worried that you're letting all these other things get in the way and prevent you from… living up to your potential."
And there it was. The flicker of a smile; I could see it from across the room. Yet his smile seemed mirthless, sardonic… as though he were amused by the irony of something that wasn't in the least bit amusing… as though he'd heard the Potential speech a thousand times and had been waiting for it to crop up here, as though he was so sick and tired of the word Potential that the mere mention of it sent him into fits of hysteric frustration. Or perhaps I was over-analyzing.
"If there's anything I can do to help get you back on track… tutoring, extra help—I really just want you to do as well as I know you can," Mrs. Grimm continued, like an annoying broken record. "Or if you'd ever just like to talk… if there are problems, maybe with your home life, that are interfering with—"
"Mrs. Grimm." It was soft. It was lethal. It was not a request, or an entreaty. It was a command. It was the warning hiss of a rattle snake slithering through high grass. And all at once, by the way his back tensed up and his eyes flashed, I could tell that he had returned to the world of the predator, as the cheetah reared back on its haunches, prepared to strike, shouting 'You had better stop the FUCK right there!' without ever so much as making a sound.
"Thanks, and all," he continued, his voice still of the deadliest and most controlled calm. "But everything's fine. I don't need anything."
Mrs. Grimm now looked highly distraught. "Are you sure? You seemed awfully distracted today…"
There was a pregnant pause. Then Dean replied, "See you tomorrow, Mrs. Grimm."
I felt the chill of his cold demeanor breeze past me and freeze my bones as he trudged past and departed the room. Well aware that I would be late to my next class, I stalked out after him, entirely undetected by either of the two parties that I had previously accompanied.
