Nothing's Really Working But That's Okay

Chapter 2

Dean

I never wanted to come to this fucking school. Like, for Christ's sake, who the hell ever heard of a town like Silver Creek? I've slept with more people than there are in this town. I can tell the move is hard on Sammy, too. He hates how we have to migrate from place to place, never staying at one school or in one city for more than a month. He gets why it has to happen though; at least, I think he does. I can't talk to him about it because we're guys, y'know? All that touchy feely shit just doesn't fly in our household. We don't have time for that kind of stuff. Bobby's a good foster dad, and he takes care of us in the only way he knows how: tough love.

Not that Bobby's vicious or anything. But he's not afraid to slap us upside the head if we screw up, and Sam's real sensitive about that kind of thing. After how our dad treated the poor kid, it's no wonder; our foster parents don't know about any of that though. They just know we were thrust into the system to prevent us from "going off track," or some bull like that. I could've taken care of my little brother if it had come down to that, but the social workers got to us first.

When we were first taken in by Bobby and his wife Ellen, Sam begged me not to tell them about how we'd lived in the past. "We have to start over, Dean," he said. "I just don't wanna have to think about it. And I don't like the way your eyes go all dark when you remember the stuff we went through. It scares me and I hate it. Just, please Dean, for me," and dammit but when that kid looks up at me with his big innocent eyes, fuck it if I don't fold every single time.

So I've kept quiet, watching as my brother suffers through the memories our birth father forced on him. I almost told Bobby a couple of weeks ago, before we'd moved to Shit-Town, USA, when he was yelling at our foster sister Jo for sneaking cigarettes into the house and Sam was in the corner of our shared bedroom having a panic attack because he doesn't do well with loud noises, and it was so fucked up because what could I do but hold him and murmur, "I'm here, Sammy, it's just me and you, me and you," until the shaking had subsided and he was silently sobbing into my arm. I couldn't do anything. And it almost broke me.

Then Ellen announced a week later that Jo had been expelled from her fourth school in the past four months, and we were moving to Silver-fucking-Creek, North Dakota. Three days later we're on the road and arriving in this small good-for-nothing town. At first I was a little bit excited, you know; new town, new chicks, new friends, a brand-smacking-new start. And then school started, and it all went downhill.

Sam was good at integrating himself into unfamiliar surroundings. He could make a friend just by smiling at them. He was that kind of person; the one you always wanted to be around. I, on the other hand, tend to scare people enough that they just avoid me...unless they're chicks. Then they just want me for my, well, dick.

The thing about Garrison High is how proud everyone is of their dinky little town. The level of pep makes my skin crawl, to be honest. And yeah, the ladies love me, the guys are jealous of me, and the teachers having given up on trying to actually teach me. But all of that doesn't mean anything because Jo will eventually fuck something up, and then off we'll go to a new town and I'll have to watch as a little piece of Sam is left behind.

The atmosphere is all off, too. In the past, we'd gone to schools where the jocks were the jerks, not the kids with good grades. The cheerleaders were bitches, not the band kids. The religious kids were the outcasts, not the majority. It's all topsy turvy here, and I don't know if I like it. Plus, people stare…a lot. They stared at us as we drove into town, and when Sam and I entered those damn green doors on the first day of school two months ago, it was like we were some kind of extraterrestrial creatures.

Two months ago

"Dean, will you button up your shirt for once? No one wants to see that much skin," Ellen complained as she pushed us out the door of the pickup truck. "And Sammy, hun, please zip up your jacket. We aren't in California anymore. It's like you two S.O.B's live to torment me," she huffed.

I grinned wolfishly at our foster mother, whom I adored. "Ah El, we're angels, aren't we Sam?" I ruffled his hair and he swatted my hand away in annoyance. I kissed Ellen's cheek and gave Sam the go ahead to do the same before we backed up onto the curb outside the entrance to the school. We waved, she waved, she drove off, and we were faced with yet another school filled with thousands of faces I'd forget, but I knew Sam would always remember.

We started to make our way toward the steps, weaving our way through the sea of high school kids. I watched as a football player narrowly missed the head of some guy sitting in the grass with a pen wedged between his teeth, a thoughtful look on his face. It was a nice warm face, one I probably wouldn't mind getting to know. I felt a hand tug on my sleeve and I looked down at my little brother.

"D'ya think Bobby and Ellen will let me join any sports teams this time?" he asked, his expression devoid of the hope I knew he was harboring inside.

I shrugged, keeping up my general nonchalant attitude. "If you ask nicely and get good grades, I don't see why they'd say no. But why do you want to join the league of wasted space, anyway?" I had no patience for lugheads. And in my experience, all sports players were lugheads. They were just a bunch of beefy guys who assumed being good at anything physical removed your responsibilities completely, and that pissed me off.

He rolled his eyes and turned to stare straight ahead, not responding. "Sammy, bro," I prodded, "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

He sighed. "I'm tired of being bullied, okay? I'm tired of getting good grades and being made fun of for it. I figured if I joined the football team or the soccer team or something, the bigger guys would stop beating me up."

Anger bubbled up inside of me. "You're supposed to tell me when bastards beat on you so I can show 'em not to mess with a Winchester," I snapped, and when he winced I regretted my tone immediately. Sam had repeatedly refused to let me teach him how to fight, and it annoyed me to no end.

"That's the point, Dean. If I'm of some kind of use to the school, the other kids won't think I'm expendable," he reasoned, "and then you won't have to live in the principal's office this time."

It bothered him that I was always getting in petty fights since he thought it was some kind of psychological thing, 'cause of our dad. That was bullshit, of course, but I liked it when he talked smart. It gave me hope. "Whatever, little man. Just remember to let them know who your big bro is if they ever decide to mess with you," I replied, grinning down at him and laying my arm around his shoulders. He was pretty short, but I always reassured him that he'd grow someday. He wouldn't be as tall as me, obviously, but he'd grow.

We walked in and the tension was palpable. In a town as small as this one, it's hard to blend in when you're new, and we stuck out like a sore thumb. I realized I was probably dressed like a hood rat and Sam was, by association with me, also seen as a hood rat. I pushed him in front of me and challenged anyone staring with a cold look of my own. That turned some eyes away, but not all. With a shrug, I directed Sam toward his first class.

"Okay, Sammy," I said, bending down till I was eye-level with him. "Use that freakish brain of yours and knock 'em dead." He smiled at me with that knowing look of his.

"Only if you promise to not literally knock anyone dead. I can't babysit you all the time, you know," he teased, and I gave him a little noogie before straightening up. "You're a punk," I growled.

"Jerk," he called over his shoulder as he hoisted his bag up and walked into class, his head held high. If there was anything in this world I wanted, it was for him to be stronger than me. So far, so good, I guess.

I felt a familiar sense of vulnerability as I turned in the direction of my first class, AP Physics. Make it through the first day, Dean, just make it through today, was the mantra running through my head as eyes watched me intently, the curiosity bordering on down-right creepy. I was trying my damned best to avoid eye contact with anyone, but there always seemed to be that one person who just had to make life harder than necessary, and right now the person in question was a hot—and ridiculously persistent—blonde chick to my right. As I was approaching her, I could practically feel her undressing me. I was going to throw out the usual smolder but when one of the lugs put his arm around her and nearly growled at me, I decided that wouldn't be the best plan of action.

Her big blues followed my back, burning symmetrical holes through me as I turned the corner and recognized someone; it was that one guy I'd noticed on the grass earlier, and he was standing next to another blonde girl, not as hot as the first one, but definitely cute. She not-so-subtly pointed in my direction, and his eyes landed on mine. I felt myself go numb, and I decided then and there that his blue eyes kicked the hell out of the blonde chick's eyes.

Now, up until that point, I'd never thought of myself as anything but heterosexual. But this boy; no this man, had the most mesmerizing face I had ever seen. When I said his eyes were blue, I mean they were blue. When Sam was little, we would blow bubbles out in the yard on summer days, and when the bubbles drifted upwards it was like looking through a magnifying glass, and their soapiness made the sky appear almost as though it was glistening. And that's what his eyes were like. They were like little tiny magnifying glasses pointed at the summer sky.

His hair was darker than mine, and just a tiny bit longer; it had that 'I just got out of bed and I don't give a fuck' vibe, and I was digging it. He wore a navy pinstriped button-down shirt and black Levi jeans, the knees worn down so they were a lighter shade of grey. His black converse had holes in them along the sides, as if those were his only shoes and he wore them with love. And his lips…his lips were the palest pink, and cracked in a way that showcased his habit of licking them when he didn't have the energy to reach into his pocket for the chapstick he probably carried everywhere.

Needless to say, I was a teensy bit overwhelmed. And fuck it if I didn't want to walk right up to him and introduce myself. But what would he think of me, the little hoodlum with the leather jacket and torn jeans, and a devil-may-care attitude? The possibility of being judged by him made me rethink my goals and force me onward toward AP Physics. I felt a tiny bit of satisfaction when I noticed those glorious blue eyes of his watching me, and the little blush that crept up his veined neck.

I heard a screech and figured the girl beside him was having an aneurism over me being within breathing distance of her. It was a reaction I was used to instilling in girls—and women—of all ages. But at the moment, I didn't feel the satisfaction I usually experienced after making a girl melt. If anything I felt antsy; antsy to introduce myself to that guy and be his friend, be someone he could talk to. I wanted to know more, because he made me feel lost.

And I figured if I could get to know him, maybe it would help me find whatever it was I was missing.