Wednesday, October 24, 2012

"Say goodbye to your father, boys. Ms. Lattimer, our guidance counselor, will be here in just a minute with your First Friends."

"First Friends?" Garth asked the principal curiously.

"It's a volunteer program, Mr. Fitzgerald. First Friends volunteer to show new students around the school and help them get settled in."

"Oh. That sounds nice, doesn't it, Sam?"

"Great," Sam muttered without enthusiasm. He struggled as the lanky hunter abruptly swept him up in a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Gar—Argh! Put me down!"

Garth set Sam back on his feet and moved in on Dean, who backed up hastily. "Big third-grader, remember, Dad?"

He settled for tousling Dean's hair. "Be good. I'll pick you up after school."

Two days ago…

"Here, Sam, these are perfect for you." Dean tossed a pair of pink sweatpants at Sam's head.

Batting them away, Sam saw that they had the word Juicy spelled out across the backside. He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's really mature, Dean."

They'd found a Goodwill Bargain Center that sold clothing by the pound. It was the perfect place to outfit a pair of marginalized, transient kids with school clothes. Unfortunately, Garth was the only one taking this particular hunt seriously. He dug deep into the unsorted bins of cast-off clothing, conscientiously checking labels for the correct size and piling his selections in a wire shopping cart.

A rhinestone-studded handbag hit Sam in the chest. "It's just your style," Dean joked, "and you don't even have to wait until you've been shrunk down to kid-size to use it."

"Come on, guys," Garth pleaded, trying to keep the brothers on track.

Sam pounced on the perfect accessory for his annoying big brother. A second later, a string bikini top soared through the air to hit Dean square in the face. "Keep up the cheeseburger and pizza diet and you'll need that to hold up your moobs," Sam snickered.

"Moobs?" Garth looked baffled.

"Man-boobs," Sam smirked. "Moobs."

"Oh, very funny," Dean groused, dropping the bikini back into a bin.

Sam finally turned his attention to actually trying to find some wearable clothing in a boy's size six. He rummaged through the bins for a while, sifting through the smorgasbord of baby clothes stained with spit-up, mismatched shoes, stretched-out sweaters, and the occasional seventies-era artifact of polyester doubleknit.

"Hey, Sammy."

Bracing himself to be pelted with yet another women's clothing item, Sam turned in time to catch the t-shirt Dean tossed at him. Soft and baby blue, when he inspected it he saw that it had Little Brother printed on it in white letters. His eyebrows arched. If there was an insult here, he wasn't seeing it. He looked to Dean, waiting for the punchline, but he was searching the depths of a bin with a diligence that was completely out of character.

"Huh," Sam grunted. It seemed his big brother was feeling a bit sentimental. He watched him for a few more seconds, but Dean was studiously avoiding his eyes. Sam examined the t-shirt once more, decided that he liked it, and added it to the growing pile of little boys' clothes in Garth's shopping cart.

"Hey, Sam, your First Friend is cute," Dean whispered as they trailed after the guidance counselor on a tour of the school.

"Dude. She's six years old," Sam whispered back, disapproving.

"Yeah, but technically so are you." Dean leered and waggled his eyebrows until Sam's youthful features settled into a very adult-looking scowl. Sometimes it was just too easy to provoke his little brother.

"And this will be Sam's classroom," Ms. Lattimer announced. "Danielle, why don't you show Sam where to hang up his backpack and then you can introduce him to Ms. Williams."

Dean was peering past the guidance counselor into Sam's homeroom. He elbowed Sam in the ribs. "Your teacher is totally hot, too."

Sam shot him one last glare and followed the freckled, pig-tailed little girl into the classroom.

"Bring your lunch box, Dean," his own First Friend, a skinny boy named James with caramel-colored dreadlocks instructed later that morning as the class lined up to go outside. "We go straight from the playground to the cafeteria. More time for recess," James grinned.

"Yeah, Dean, bring your lunchbox, Dean...Dean the Bean," another little boy teased.

"Just ignore him," James advised. "Brandon doesn't make good choices."

"Dean the Bean. Dean the Bean," Brandon chanted in an undertone, careful not to let the teacher overhear.

Dean ignored him as they filed outside. The taunts would have required a response back when he was a real elementary school student, but now they barely registered. Dean was more concerned with blending in on the playground. The children scattered the instant they passed the doors, swarming over the slides, swings, and climbing equipment.

"Hey, Dean, you play basketball?" James to the rescue. Dean joined the game, careful to hold back. He'd retained his adult coordination and reflexes, which was a good thing considering the Leviathan they were hunting, but it did mean he had to be cautious not to display a precocious level of skill.

"Dean the Bean! Dean the Bean!"

Brandon had joined the game, elbowing James in the ribs and taking control of the ball. Dean snagged it back and sank a basket. So he had to blend in as a third-grader, he thought. Didn't mean he had to be a klutzy third-grader.

"If you drink all your milk you're allowed to get extra, but you've got to raise your hand and ask the lunch lady first."

James was taking his First Friend duties seriously. Dean grinned and clapped him on the back. "Sounds great, James. Save me a seat."

"You're not supposed to get out of line," the little boy protested, but Dean was already gone. He'd caught sight of Sam sitting with his first grade class at one of the long tables, and the instinctive urge to check up on him had kicked in, too strong to resist.

"Hey, what's with the bling?" Dean demanded, coming up behind Sam and tugging on the string of plastic Mardi Gras beads around his neck.

"I'm the designated table-wiper." Sam rolled his eyes. "Apparently it's a highly coveted job among first-graders."

"You always were the teacher's pet," Dean smirked.

"You need to sit down at your own table, young man."

A lunch lady had arrived, complete with hair net and white apron. Dean wrapped an arm around Sam and beamed his best bright-eyed, innocent smile up at her. "Just checking on my baby brother, ma'am. It's our first day here."

"Well, don't you have just the nicest manners. Don't worry, I'll look out for your brother until his teacher gets here. Give him a hug and run along back to your table and eat your lunch," she said kindly.

Dean gave Sam's shoulders a dutiful squeeze, surprised when Sam turned in his seat and buried his face against his chest, wrapping his skinny six-year-old arms around Dean's waist in a brief but fierce hug. "Sam?"

Sam's grin was sheepish as he pulled away with a shrug. Apparently Dean wasn't the only one caught up in long-forgotten childhood patterns. Dean tousled his brother's hair, earning himself another classic Sam glare, and went to eat his lunch.

Author's note: So I work at an elementary school and we have 'First Friends' for the new students just as in this story. I don't know how helpful it is, having spent my entire K-12 years in the same small town with the exact same people in my classes every year, but the concept sure seems nice. We also use the Mardi Gras beads at lunch because otherwise the younger kids will literally riot over whose turn it is to wash the tables. Insanity! Many thanks to CommChatter, Olivia Crane, OneCutePug, and 'Guest' for the reviews! Thank you for your patience, everyone.