A/N: Many thanks to all those who read and replied; you're wonderful! Stay tuned for the seventh part, which will wrap this baby up. I have most of it written, so it should be up quite soon.

6. An Object in Motion

There was something thick and bittersweet in the air, like the end of a thunderstorm, leaving muddy grass and half-formed rainbows lying in its wake. I could make neither heads nor tails of the odd sensation on the morning of November 3rd, gloomy with the dismal weather outside and heavy with the strange feeling of the air.

Math class was so dull I had trouble keeping my eyes open; the lids kept slipping lower until all I could see was a darkish haze of eyelashes and the ever-looming black horizon of the inside of my eyelids. Once or twice I felt inclined to glance over at Dean, reclining in his seat in his usual manner of faux-relaxation, but there was nothing new to observe, no new data to take in. His demeanor had shifted back to the state it had been in for the past month, excluding yesterday; I did not know what yesterday signified, but whatever it was must have been some sort of fluke, an aberration in the habit of Dean's schedule that, like a warm front moving up erratically from the south, created a sudden storm, only to diffuse into nothingness by the following day. Whatever had happened yesterday stayed with yesterday.

And thus, I gave up my chance to observe my specimen, which had become something more than a specimen, of course. My attachment was more than purely scientific. But I could only stare at him for so long before I got bored waiting for him to do something new.

Wondrous how ironic life can be, really. For that something new happened later that very same day.

The sense of ending was still in the air when my lunch period rolled around, and it was with a heavy trudge that I traipsed to the cafeteria and took up residence at my usual table, extracting the contents of my lunch and placing them in a neat order on the surface before me. Turkey-on-rye, potato chips, apple, water. Tradition.

Outside the window, if I so cared to turn my head and gaze through the spotted glass, the sky had turned a dismal shade of gray, the murky clouds above roiling like a tempestuous whore. Streaking down in great currents that rattled the rooftop like gunshots was a mixture of sleet and hail, which littered the frosty, matted grass and decorated the world in a kind of obscene glitter.

I was, perhaps, the only person mildly delighted by such an abomination of nature.

Right on schedule, Dean walked into the cafeteria, looking no less confident than usual, despite his current predicament. Unless he wished to become filled with holes, he would surely be needing a seat inside the cafeteria today.

I had a seat waiting for him.

The usual whispers cued his arrival, though his indifference to them was fiercely and consciously exuded. They had died down since yesterday, becoming the mindless droning of those with nothing interesting to talk about other than the gossipy affairs of George Washington High. Many had clearly moved on from the topic, having been quickly bored by the inane repetition of dirty jokes, poor jokes, and druggie jokes. Still others, however, looked fervent to outcast the mysterious young man and sent him hateful glares across the room that would make one's hair stand on end.

In any case, Dean did a quick scan of the cafeteria, and I had to wonder if it was to look for an open seat, to assure himself that there were no open seats, or to find the Slut and tie her down so that he may run her over with his purported Harley. Thus, I took this chance to engage him in the way I normally greeted newcomers to the school, the method which had failed on first attempt with him, but perhaps might succeed on a second try.

His hazel eyes drifted across the cafeteria, finally sliding past my table, and I lifted a hand and waved cordially, throwing in a rather larger smile than was my wont. The passing glint of recognition told me that he had seen my gesture and was about to react; a thrill of suspense jumped through me as I waited to see if the results would be positive or negative.

He did not frown in disgust and walk away; that was a good thing.

Yet he did not smile, return the wave, or heaven forbid come over to my table to say hello, either.

He merely stared at me.

It was déjà vu, for certain; in the very same manner as our first encounter a month ago, his eyebrows furrowed questioningly, as if he could not fathom why someone would direct such a kindly gesticulation towards him. His lips quirked and pursed, clearly attempting to rationalize the incomprehensible gesture, and his eyes revealed both a deep understanding and a complete puzzlement, as though he was not sure what to do with my greeting. As though it were absurd for anyone in the entire world to greet him with something other than a glare, or a whisper, or something terse and thoroughly unfriendly. As though he were somehow unworthy of this unexpected kindness, and even though he'd had a month to try and give reason to it, he still hadn't come up with anything that made sense, so he'd pushed it to the nether regions of his mind until it came back to, proverbially, bite him in the ass.

Which wasn't to say I particularly wanted to bite him in the ass, for that wasn't really in my natural disposition, but that is how the saying goes.

So I sat there like the fool that I most certainly was, having failed again, as Dean turned around and left the cafeteria in the direction he'd come. My internal gloom darkened a bit to match the weather outside.

I did not know where Dean ate lunch that last, most dreary day. But I, as always, had lunch alone.

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

The sky had lightened marginally, having ceased its downpour of sleet during seventh period. The last bell tolled, and I dragged myself over to the parking lot, a sense of defeat welling within me that forced me away from the courtyard where I usually found the mystery man who, I now realized, would never join me in the cafeteria.

Just beginning to peak through cracks in the dense clouds above was the sun, its few rays filtering goldenly down to the sea of cars and milling students.

My mother was late picking me up.

It was an oddly fortunate turn of events.

For, you see, there was an old-looking car parked across the way from me as I waited; I knew nothing of cars, but it was sleek and black and edgy, the sort of car that you see coming and lock your doors upon its passage. It had a huge front grill with two large headlights that, I was sure, would seem to look right through you in the dark when they were turned on.

The car reminded me of something; well, not the car itself, but more of the persona of the car. And it wasn't until Dean and Sam Winchester stalked out of the school that I realized the match. It was almost poetic, how the car resembled Dean; their personas were nearly interchangeable, if one might go so far as to describe a car in such a manner.

But it was indeed true. The predatory prowess that the car exuded mirrored Dean's outward demeanor. Like the car, he appeared tough and threatening, impenetrable, wrought of hard metal and sharp edges. When Dean walked by in his torn jeans and leather jacket, he seemed to be the sort of person that you see coming and lock your doors upon his passage. Yet what was the purpose of this suit of armor, I had to wonder? Was it a shallow reflection of a hateful way of life, or was it more of a coat of protection? And if so… from what?

It was no surprise to me when the two young men headed towards the very car of my intrigue: Sam, with a most miserable look on his face as he gazed wistfully back at the building, and Dean with what appeared to be fortitude and indifference, with a modicum of relief as he stared straight ahead to the classic black car.

I could not see the man in the driver's seat. He was obscured by the window and by the angle of his head, which was turned slightly away from me, as though thoroughly bored with his surroundings and itching to get out of here.

I did, however, get a good view of Dean as he led the way to the car as though magnetized there by some invisible force field. His posture was straight, determined, agile; his face was set, outwardly impassive. And his eyes, those hazel, intense, profound eyes which practically sang aloud of experience and wisdom and loss, of purpose and burden, of responsibility and devotion… those eyes bore a hole in the driver's seat of the car, lighting up with something fierce that I could not quite identify.

Sam pulled open the squeaky door, piling himself into the backseat with one last soulful stare at the school. Dean went around to the passenger side, pulling open the door as he finally gazed above the top of the car, back at all the milling students who either paid him no mind or deliberately avoided walking in his direction.

I realized that I was standing perpendicular to him, facing the car and unable to tear my eyes away from it—the only person who had awe and reverence for the wonderful beast rather than disgust at the dirty old car bought with dirty old money by the dirty old family. And when Dean looked up, he looked right at me.

For a moment, we stared at one another from our distance, like two strangers mutually accepting the other's existence. Then Dean did something that stalled my brain for a moment and jumbled my thoughts together in my head so that not a single message could pass from my brain to my limbs in time to properly respond.

He lifted two fingers off the roof of the car in a kind of wave, and the corner of his lips curled up in a kind of half-smile.

And I, too dumbfounded to do something, anything, merely stood with my jaw hanging agape, my body limp and unresponsive, and stared. I imagine it was much the same bewildered expression that Dean had given me twice since I'd first seen him, conveying an inner question of Why is somebody showing me a friendly gesture? Why would somebody bother to greet me? Me, of all people. Why?

He seemed quite perceptive of the nature of my reaction, however, for he seemed not in the least bit put-off by my slack-jawed gawking. Maintaining that same satisfied little smirk, his eyes twinkling in the growing sunlight, he bent down and slid into the car, slamming the squeaky door shut behind him.

As the car grumbled to life like an awakening lion and put-putted to the exit of the parking lot, careening onto the street like a wild beast, I watched the closest I'd had to an actual friend zoom away from George Washington High, and it seemed to me the end of something grand and wonderful.

And I wondered if maybe my method was flawed, for I realized that what I had been doing before Dean Winchester arrived had been anything but survival.