Yikes... it's been how many months since I filled a prompt? Hopefully, I can finish the last few. I think there will be a total of 20 chapters to this prompt series. I'd like to re-open prompts some day again and I'd like to use a theme or a challenge of some sort. But for now, here's a new prompt-fill.

This prompt comes from Aziza Maye: I know how much you like preshow so my prompt takes place when they are both in school. I will leave it up to you on what their ages will be. During lunch a couple of bullies start causing trouble. Dean is stuck in the cafeteria with everyone else, but Sam. So it's up to Sam to save his brother, and everyone else.

The library is empty at lunch. Honestly, it's empty most of the time. Maybe that's why Sam likes it so much, this way he doesn't have to talk to anyone. Not that anyone actually wants to talk to him. Except for maybe Mrs Dill the librarian, and even then she's adamant about the no talking rule.

She smiles at Sam a lot, always asks if he needs anything. Sometimes, she brings him a cookie wrapped in foil that she'd baked herself. After the first one, Sam wrote her a quick thank you note on a torn scrap from his notebook and left it on her desk with a daisy he'd picked outside his motel. He didn't have anything else to give.

God forbid Dean ever found out. Sam would never live down the fact that his only friend in this crap-town is the sixty-year-old librarian.

It's been almost a month and Sam has spent every lunch break in the library with Mrs Dill. From his first ever period at this school his classmates had made it clear he wasn't welcome. The toilet paper hanging from his backpack (which he didn't notice until he got back to the motel) and the words he found written on his locker every week said as much.

Who knew there were so many offensive variations of the word gay?

And Sam knows they're all just nasty, dumb kids who don't know anything. But it still hurts. And he still cries when he's in the shower because that's the only place no one will see.

That morning he found queer printed across his locker, thicker and blacker than any time before. And he didn't bother trying to clean it. He didn't bother telling a teacher. None of that made a difference. Sam's dealt with his fair share of bullies. For whatever reason, being poor is uncool.

As if Sam gives a crap what's cool. As if he cares if people think he's gay. It just isn't fair that people treat him like dirt when he's never even done anything wrong.

Dean doesn't deal with this. Sam's seen him around school with a girl under his arm and guys in baseball shirts following him around like he's managed to work his way to the top of the pack. Dean always grins or winks when he sees Sam. Sam doesn't have the heart to tell him what's going on. Dean actually looks happy at school for once in his life. He shouldn't have to deal with Sam's problems.

Besides, Sam's old enough to look after himself. He's been hunting monsters since he was nine. He can handle this.

Thank God Dean never goes down to the junior side of school. Thank God he never sees Sam's locker. Sam really wouldn't want to deal with the massacre Dean would commit if he did.

Glancing up at the clock, he sighs. There's still half an hour of lunch left. His next class is Math with Mr Woodrow, one of the strictest teachers Sam's ever come across in all of the schools he's been to. And that's saying something. No one dares speak in Woodrow's class. No one would dare mess with Sam for fear of Mr Woodrow catching them at it.

Sam loves Math.

He glances down at his notebook. He's finished all of his homework and it's not even due until next week. His stomach growls, and in the silence of the library Mrs Dill hears it from all the way across the room.

"Have you had lunch yet, Sam?" she asks, raising an eyebrow critically.

"Um." Sam considers lying but it doesn't feel right to lie to the only person in school who actually treats him like a person. Besides, his stomach already gave him away. "No, miss."

She purses her lips, frowning. It's not anger, definitely not that. She's worried. Maybe pitying. "Go and get something to eat, Sam."

Sam slowly closes his books and folds up his notes. "Um. I don't have anything."

There's that pinched expression again on Mrs Dill's face. Sam shrinks under the weight of it, wishing he could melt into the floor and never come back. "Oh, dear," she says, sighing. She leans over and rummages around in her purse. It's this ugly floral thing with a metal chain, just about big enough that she could cram Sam in there. She pulls out a few dollars and holds out her hand.

"Go and buy something to eat," she says. Sam has just managed to stuff everything into his backpack and he slings it over his shoulder, making his way hesitantly over to his desk.

"It's okay, Miss Dill," he insists. "I just forgot my lunch today. I'll have something when I get home."

She doesn't look like she believes him. His shoes are too small for his feet and he wears the same jeans every day, even though the hole in the right knee keeps stretching wider and wider. She leans over the desk and grabs his hand gently, pushing the money into his hand and pressing his fingers tight around it.

"You can make it up to me next week by helping me organize the returned books," she promises. The money feels a little lighter in his hand when he knows he can earn it. She smiles and waves him off, turning back to whatever she'd been doing.

Sam stuffs all three dollars into his pocket and leaves. The corridors are empty and Sam is thankful. Still, he keeps an eye out as he makes his way to the cafeteria. God. The freaking cafeteria. Hopefully, by now most of the kids will have gone outside and he has a better chance of avoiding the assholes from his class.

Sometimes, Sam likes to imagine taking them on a hunt. He'd bet Johnny Layton would piss himself at the sight of a Wendigo. And honestly, Sam wouldn't want the Wendigo to miss out on dinner. Those are fantasies he keeps to himself while he lies in bed and dreads the morning.

Assholes.

He stops short when he notices a few kids from Dean's class. They don't look particularly friendly and they're laughing about… something. Sam ducks behind a row of lockers and listens. Someone definitely said Winchester. And they don't seem exactly pleased at the mention of the name.

Sam doesn't know any of these clowns and there's no doubt in his mind that they're talking about Dean. Dean, who Sam can just about see through the cafeteria doors, sitting with a couple of friends and the girl he's been making out with in the cleaner's closet for the past month.

The group of guys walk into the cafeteria and shut the double doors behind them.

This can't be good.

It takes Sam way too long to find the vents. Obviously, the doors are locked from the inside. Almost immediately there had been yelling, and a lot of cursing that sounded a lot like Dean. Sam has no clue what kind of mess Dean is in, but there's no way he's leaving his brother alone to deal with it.

He'd run back to the library and told Miss Dill there was trouble in the cafeteria and the doors were locked. Not long after that, the janitor and the principle had turned up. The principle made some lame threats through the closed cafeteria doors. The janitor rolled his eyes and swung his sledge hammer, looking way too eager to knock the doors down.

Of course, Sam had been told to go outside and stay out of the way. And of course, Sam did no such thing.

The kitchen is empty; the lunch staff are already gone. He leaves his backpack on one of the counters. The shutters are down and Sam can hear more clearly.

"Fuck you, Winchester." Sam doesn't recognize that voice.

"Fuck you, Donnie. Seriously, get a life." That's Dean. "She doesn't want to be with you. Move on!"

"Please, Don. This is ridiculous!" A girl's voice. There's a loud smack and a yelp.

"Don't touch her!" Dean. Then Sam hears grunting, a struggle. Sam hurries, finding a vent low down to the ground near shelves stacked with tins. He uses his pen knife to unscrew the grate from the wall. It looks like a tight squeeze, and it's pretty dark at the turn. It's a lucky thing Sam's so tiny. Maybe once he saves Dean, Dean will stop calling him a shrimp.

Sam holds the pen knife between his teeth and crawls inside. The metal under his hands is seriously dusty and he has to hold back from coughing, worried someone might hear and too busy trying not to drop the knife.

By some goddamn miracle, the grate on the other end is loose. Probably some asshole students broke the screws at some point. At a crapfest school like this one, it's not surprising. Sam just has to wiggle the remaining screw off as quietly as he can, which is hard when the metal is so rusty. The grate squeaks and Sam freezes, glancing up into the room.

No one has seen him, but it's only then that he notices one of the kids has a freaking gun.

Dean is standing, arms out, in front of the girl and some other people. Some of them are crying, the girl has a hand clasped over her bruising cheek.

"Come on, Donnie, man," Dean says slowly, hands up. "You don't want to hurt anyone. I know you don't. This is a mistake. Just put the gun down and we can talk about it."

The kid opposite, Donnie, raises the gun higher. The long barrel is pointed right at Dean's chest. Sam can feel his heart beating like crazy in his chest, his hands are slicked with sweat and he can feel his grip on the grate slipping.

He barely manages to lower it to the floor of the cafeteria without a sound. He keeps his eyes on Donnie and his gang the whole time.

"You don't know anything about me," Donnie spits, pushing the gun forward until it bumps Dean's chest. The girl behind whimpers and clasps her other hand over her mouth.

One of Donnie's friends steps forward. "I think that's enough, man," he says. "We should just go, okay?"

Donnie doesn't lower the weapon, he steps back until everyone is in front of him and the barrel of his gun. He's facing back to Sam, about a foot away. Sam glances to the side where a few tables are stacked. He slides slowly out of the vent and onto his hands and knees, crawling as silently as he can over to them.

He crouches down behind the stack, trying to steady his breath. Dean looks at him then, the colour completely draining from his face. His eyes widen, jaw clenched. He quickly looks back to Donnie.

"Don. You're in charge here. We all know that," Dean says. He's stepping slowly around, turning Donnie away from Sam's direction. He halts when Donnie focuses the gun on him and Sam hears the familiar chuckchuck of the barrel being loaded.

Any sensible thought is gone. Sam isn't even thinking at this point. All he knows is Dean'sgoingtobeshotohgod and suddenly Sam's up on his feet, running straight for Donnie. Dean's moving too, lunging for Sam. And it's all so fast that Sam can barely see a thing, everything is blurred and he doesn't know who goes in which direction.

Then he hears the gun go off.

A girl screams, there are scattered gasps and cries.

"Oh God oh God oh God." That's Donnie. Sam panics, looks around for Dean and finds him right there in front of him, hands held out and hovering over Sam like he's suddenly frozen. Sam's looking Dean over but he can't find any blood. Then he notices Donnie's panicked face as he drops the gun, hands shaking.

"I didn't know it was loaded," he's saying. "I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know. I swear. I just wanted to scare you, I didn't – "

He cuts off and drops to his knees.

"Sam," Dean says, hoarse and breathless. His hands find him, one on his right shoulder, the other brushing back his hair. "You're gonna be okay, alright? We'll fix you up in no time."

Sam feels Dean's hands tremble against his skin. He processes the words and frowns. "What are you talking about?" he asks. Dean just keeps stroking his hair, trying to push Sam to sit down.

The girl appears, cheek red and wet with tears. She holds out some paper towels and Dean takes them, bundling a few up. Sam's about to ask what's wrong, who's hurt, then Dean presses the towels to Sam's left shoulder and he feels something agonizing like a slice through his skin, and he cries out. His vision greys for a second and once it clears he's sitting down on the floor.

He looks down to his shoulder. There's blood everywhere.

"Shit!" Dean hisses. His hands are soaked red now and he looks one breath away from tears. "It's bleeding too much!"

The girl's there again and she sits behind Sam, taking his uninjured shoulder gently and easing him back. "Just rest on me, okay?" she says. Sam lies back, his head against her chest. He looks up and she smiles at him. "You're one brave kid, huh?"

"Dumb kid," Dean corrects thickly.

Even now, Sam's finding it hard to connect the dots. He's hurt, the gun had gone off…

Donnie's panicked ramblings are like a soft backing track to lull Sam further into the girl's arms.

"Hey," she snaps, patting his cheek. "You're not checking out on me, are you?"

"No?" Sam replies, but it's only a guess. He's not really sure what exactly she meant.

"He's cold," Dean says, voice shaking.

"Call 911 immediately." Weird. That sounded like the principle.

"He's going into shock!"

"He's losing a lot of blood."

"I swear I didn't mean it… I didn't know it was loaded…"

"Sammy? Sam! Look at me."

"Hey, kid. Sam. Don't check out on us just yet, okay? We're just getting acquainted."

"Sam!"

"Male. Aged twelve years old. Gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Patient is unconscious and still bleeding."

Sam peels his eyes open. The jostling is making him feel sick and he wants to say as much but he can't open his mouth. A man dressed in blue is sitting next to him and catches his eye.

"Sam," he says. "Can you hear me?"

Sam frowns, gaze drifting. He snaps it back and tries to focus on the man.

"Sam, we're taking you to hospital. Your brother's here, do you see?"

Sam glances away. His eyes slide right over Dean, then back.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean breathes, trying to get closer. "Don't go off again, alright? You can sleep later, you lazy ass."

Sam's mouth twitches into a small smile.

"I don't know what the hell you thought you were doing," Dean says. He pauses and shakes his head. "We'll talk about it once they fill you back up again, alright? You're like a leaking faucet, dude."

It sounds like a joke but no one is laughing. Sam blinks up at him, not really understanding what he's done wrong. He decides he'll figure it out later. Right now, he's too tired.

"Sammy, hey!"

He can't feel anything. And honestly, it's awesome. It's like sleeping on a cloud. He could stay like this forever, just wrapped up in soft… huh. That's weird. He can't feel anything. It's awesome. Like living in cotton candy. Only less sticky.

Where is he? He feels numb. It's good.

Huh… he can't see anything. He can hear… he's not sure what he hears. The noise is all goopy and dripping from his ears like melted marshmallow.

He can't feel anything…

" – just came outta nowhere. I had no idea. I knew the kid was mad but I never thought he'd do what he did."

Sam feels like he's weightless, drifting up and up with no intention of stopping. Then suddenly, he's weighing down, down, down. And… wait. Is that Dean?

"The kid's a psycho, clearly."

What's Sam done this time? He doesn't remember doing anything wrong, certainly nothing to label him a psycho.

"And what the hell was Sam doing?"

"I don't know, Dad. I swear. He just popped out of nowhere. The janitor said he must have crawled through the vent."

Someone huffs a short laugh. "Why am I not that surprised?"

It takes a moment for Sam to realize that someone is his dad. When did dad get back?

His body feels weird. Heavy and light at the same time. He feels like he's slipped out of his skin and it's not such a nice feeling anymore. He feels his head fall to the side, heavy and loose on his neck.

"Sam?"

Sam opens his mouth and that's about all he can manage for now.

"Sam? Are you awake?"

He manages to figure out where his eyes are supposed to be and puts some effort into opening them. It takes a few seconds, and by the time he's done he can barely see a thing it's so blurry.

"There you are, you dumbass," Dean says. He's smiling, now that Sam can see a little better, but he doesn't look that happy. Just tired.

"Hey," Sam says. Or at least, he meant to say it. What comes out of his mouth is this sort of pathetic whimper like a kicked puppy. And it's only then that he realizes his shoulder hurts… oh. The cafeteria. Right.

"Are you in pain?" Dean asks worriedly, leaning forward but holding himself back a little.

Sam runs a dry tongue over his lips and swallows. "Sorry," he says. It seems like the best thing to say right now because he knows he's pretty much neglected everything Dean and Dad ever taught him. Running like that at a man with a loaded gun is the dumbest thing anyone can do and Sam's sure he'll never live it down.

"Damn right," Dean says but he's cut off when their dad clears his throat.

"Not now, Dean," John says. He turns to Sam. "We're going to have a serious talk. But right now, you're going to rest up and get better, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Sam says. He's already feeling tired again, eyelids drooping. He blinks and forces them open.

"Go back to sleep," dad says. "We'll be here when you wake up."

Three weeks later, Sam is standing at the front of a new class at a new school. Some of the kids stare at him, the rest aren't paying attention. Sam wishes he could just take his seat and skip past the introductions.

"Does anyone have any questions they'd like to ask Sam?" the teacher asks. Sam drops his head forward, hoping maybe his hair will camouflage him and everyone will forget that he's standing there. Surprisingly, quite a few hands go up.

"Yes, Harry," Miss Arlo beams. She's a young teacher dressed all in pastels. Her windowsill is completely covered in plant pots and any spare inch of the walls are pinned over with motivational quotes on bright paper. She's one of those 24/7 cheery types.

Sam kinda misses Miss Dill the librarian and her stern looks and warm smiles that somehow occurred at the same time.

"What happened to your arm?" the boy, Harry, asks. Once he's said it, most of the hands go down.

Miss Arlo sighs a little. "Harry, maybe that's not something – "

"I got shot," Sam answers, cutting over her. Every head in the class turns up and stares at him.

"Liar," someone accuses.

Sam shrugs his good shoulder. "Whatever. But it's true."

With that, he takes his seat. He stares at the board and ignores the whispers around him. For the entire two months he spends at that school, no one defaces his locker, no one tries to trip him up in the hall, and no one threatens to knock his teeth out for being within seven feet of them.

And Sam certainly doesn't sit alone at lunch. For whatever reason, getting shot in the dumbest way possible makes you the coolest kid in school.

Thank you all so much for your patience with me. And thanks so much to all the prompters for their wonderful ideas! Reviews are love!