Dean started to struggle with school about around school fifth of second grade. He figured that school was just getting harder, second grade wasn't exactly first grade, and his new teachers weren't like Miss Sherry at all. He didn't have Bobby around to help him when things got really hard like the year before and his dad was just too busy to sit down and help Dean understand a story meant for second graders to comprehend he had bigger problems to worry about.
It wasn't that Dean wasn't smart, most of the time he knew the answers, it was just writing then down that difficult. He could never figure out what part of a story came first and spelling test, he'd had to have his dad sign more failed spelling test than he could remember. Each one of his teachers had commented about his practically illegible handwriting and no matter how many times they made him write lines, it never got any better. Books were starting to get harder too. Not the books he read to Sam, those were the same books his mom used to read to him, he knew them by heart. He taught Sam to read them just like his mom taught him, taught him how to write like she taught him too. Sam picked it up a lot faster than Dean did, but Dean just figured that Sam was way smarter than he ever could be.
The longer he was in second grade, the more he felt like he was probably the dumbest second grader of all time. How he'd ever make it to third grade was a problem he let eat at him all that summer as their dad tried to find a place to situate them for a while. The boys spent a few weeks with Bobby that summer, but Dean was so afraid that Bobby would tell him he was actually as dumb as he thought he was he didn't say anything.
Dean started third grade, and Sam Pre School, in Minnesota. Dad promised that they would stay in Minnesota until Christmas. Dean doubted it; he couldn't remember the last time Dad kept a promise. For someone who constantly told Dean it was wrong to lie, he sure did a lot of it himself.
Dean's teacher for now, Mrs. Bergeron, wanted him to take a special test, Dean figured it was a test to prove he was actually stupid because he was so far behind in school and hadn't learned how to use an old fashioned clock yet and couldn't get the hang of the poems they were writing and reading in English.
Dean sat in a booth in the diner that had become their usual dinner on Fridays around the corner from the duplex they were staying at staring at the table while they waited for drinks to arrive.
"My school has the biggest slide in the world!" Sam said excitedly wiggling in the booster seat he was in so he could see over the table. "It's so high that it goes all the way to sky."
"I don't think it does, Sam," John answered.
"Yeah-huh, Daddy," Sam smiled. "I go-ed up it all the way to the top, and there was a cloud. I licked it."
Dean turned to look as Sam who was nodding excitedly.
"You licked a cloud?" Dean laughed.
"Yeah," Sam said eyes wide. "It tasted like cloud. I think-ed it would taste like cotton candy cuz I had it that time one when Pastor Jim taked us to the fair, but it didn't."
"You didn't lick a cloud, Sam," John sighed.
Sam leaned over to Dean and whispered into his ear, "Did too."
"You're quiet today, Dean," John said. "What's going on?"
"Nothin'," Dean mumbled. "School's okay. It's not too bad yet. The kids are okay, teacher's nice, I guess. I can get used to it."
"Good," John smiled as the drinks arrived, a beer for John, a big strawberry milk shake for Dean and small glass of milk for Sam. "So looks like it will be a good year then?"
"Teacher gave me some papers for you to sign," Dean said softly. "I think they say that I'm stupid, but I don't know. She said she wanted me to take some tests but that you had to sign the papers first cuz I'd have to miss class. They're in my back pack."
"You're not stupid Dean," John sighed. "Don't talk like that."
"I gots a friend at school!" Sam said. "She likes me cuz Dean teach-ed me how to write letters, and I can make the "S's" the right way. Not like Simon, he maked them backward. My friend lets me use her crayons. Her name is Mandy."
"Sammy's got a girlfriend?" John laughed looking over at Dean over his beer as he took a drink. Dean smiled and looked down at the table. "What about you, Buddy?"
Dean shrugged. "I don't really have a friend yet."
"Maybe you should play a sport?" John suggested. "That's a good way to make friends."
Dean shrugged, and pulled his milkshake close. "If you want me too."
"You can't just have no friends," John said. "Even Sam has friends. If I knew you were just going to mope around and not try I would have fought harder with Bobby to just home school ya."
"It's hard when we move around so much," Dean complained. "I mean, I understand that we got to because of the job, but it's hard to have friends when you know you're only gonna be around for a couple months."
"Dean," John said sternly, "Stop moping. You know what's going on. Sam's learned to deal with it."
"Sam's four," Dean replied. "He doesn't know better."
"Don't talk back, Dean."
"Yes, sir," Dean said to the table as the waitress delivered their food.
"On Monday, we's gonna have art class!" Sam said excitedly as John cut his grilled cheese into small pieces. "I's gonna show Mandy how to draw dragons. I bet she like them."
"That's good, Sam," Dean said fluffing this little brother's hair. "You do draw the best dragons."
They ate while Sam went on about his school and his friend. Dean felt a little swell of pride that he had taught Sam how to write and read before he started school; that this made Sammy one of the smartest kids in the class, and therefore everyone liked him. Dean couldn't explain it, but he wanted to make sure that everything was always good for his baby brother.
Dean liked sitting in the back of the classroom, it made it easier for him to not pay attention; not that he didn't like school, he did, he just had a hard time keeping up, and he hated asking for help, because that made him feel more stupid. His dad had signed his paperwork for the special testing his teacher wanted done, two whole afternoons of seemingly random tests about things he wasn't even learning about in class. Later, his dad was coming after school to review the results. Dean was not looking forward to that. He knew he'd be in trouble when he got home.
Mrs. Bergeron stood at the chalkboard showing everyone how to write in cursive. Dean was trying, but he couldn't read what he was writing when he did it Mrs. Bergeron's way. He liked writing the way him mom taught him, the way he taught Sam. It was easier. There was no way he'd ever get a good grade on a spelling test if he had to write like this forever.
"Dean," Mrs. Bergeron said voice thick with annoyance. "Are you paying attention, this is important."
Dean nodded. "Yes ma'am."
"Why don't you come up here and try it on the board?"
Dean's eyes widened and he shook his head quickly. "No, thank you."
"Dean," the teacher said. "Come up here. Everyone else will have a turn."
"I'd rather not," Dean answered. A few of his classmates snickered; Dean let a small smirk grow on his face.
"Stop joking around," Mrs. Bergeron sighed holding out a piece of chalk. "You're not getting out of this."
Dean sighed and slid out of his chair, this was stupid. He took the chalk from Mrs. Bergeron and looked up at her. "What do you want to me write?"
"Let's start with your name," Mrs. Bergeron smiled. "Surely you've been paying attention enough to know how to write your name in cursive."
Dean took a deep breath and placed the chalk to the board. He scribbled something that almost looked like his name is butchered cursive.
"Good," Mrs. Bergeron said. "Nice try, but the letters are all supposed to connect, like this." Mrs. Bergeron wrote Dean's name next to his on the board far better than he ever could.
He looked up at her and nodded. He felt like crying, like crawling under his desk and disappear. No one was laughing as he walked back to his seat in the back of the room, but he felt like they were. Mrs. Bergeron called other kids to the board, many making the same mistakes that Dean made. It didn't make him feel better. It was just one more thing that made him feel like he wasn't good enough.
His dad sat in a chair across from Mrs. Bergeron at her desk while Dean tried to keep Sammy occupied in the reading corner across the room. He was trying not to eavesdrop on what was being said as Mrs. Bergeron went over Dean's test results, but it was hard.
"Dean," Sammy said poking Dean in the side. "Does your school have blocks? My school has blocks. I wanna play blocks."
"We don't have any blocks, Sammy," Dean answered. "We don't have a lotta toys, just books. This is big boy school. You still go to little kid's school."
"Your school isn't as fun as my school," Sam declared. "We has blocks for building forts and stuff."
"We'll you can practice reading these books," Dean suggested. "You can be super awesome at school."
"Dean," John called from across the room, he didn't sound angry, just annoyed. "Come over here."
"Stay here," Dean said to his brother. "Don't break anything."
Dean came over to his Dad and his teacher, standing straight like his Dad taught him.
"Why didn't you tell me you were having trouble at school?" John asked.
Dean chewed on his lip and looked down at the teacher's desk.
"Dean," John said forcefully. "Look at me." Dean looked up slowly. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"I didn't want you to be mad," Dean mumbled. "I wanted you to think I was smart like Sam. I didn't want you to think I was dumb."
"No one thinks that, Dean," Mrs. Bergeron said. "Your dad and I want to help you do better in class. We want you to do better, but if you don't say anything when you don't understand the material I can't help you."
Dean looked between his teacher and his dad then back at the floor. He'd asked his dad for help with his homework all the time but his dad told him to do it himself. He'd done everything he could to try to be better at school but no one would help him. The only person who ever tried was Bobby, but when Bobby wasn't around there wasn't anyone willing to help. He knew he was stupid maybe Mrs. Bergeron didn't think so, but he knew his dad did. His dad would never be proud if he couldn't do well in school.
"I don't like asking questions," Dean mumbled.
"Speak up, Dean," John said. "Speak like you mean it."
"I don't like asking questions," Dean repeated clearly. "I don't want the kids to laugh at me."
"No one's gonna laugh at you because you ask a question," John sighed.
"You don't know," Dean said quickly. "You've never been in third grade. In Miss Sherry's class every time I asked a question that Julie girl would make fun of me. And in Kentucky last year I got picked on all the time for asking questions about math and reading and stuff. I told you about that one kid that use to call me retard all the time. Why would it be different here?"
"Dean," Mrs. Bergeron said sweetly. "If you that's what you're scared of, you can come to me after class, or during recess or during free time or any time."
"But the other kids are gonna know," Dean said. "I just want to be normal."
"Why didn't you say anything about having a hard time reading?" John said forcefully. "You read to Sam all the time, why didn't you say anything?"
Dean rocked back and forth and didn't answer.
"Answer me," John sighed.
"I just figured that third grade was too hard," Dean answered. "Just like everything else. The stuff I read to Sammy I've read a bunch of times I know what it says. Mom used to read it to me."
John sighed loudly.
"Mr. Winchester," Mrs. Bergeron said. "Dyslexia is a common learning disability. It's easy to learn to cope with it if Dean accepts the help. We just have to figure out a way to work with it. He's just having a hard time with reading and rhyming, the concept of time. He can get there. Dean is normal in every other aspect. He's a very smart little boy. If it wasn't for the dyslexia he'd be on grade level if not ahead of it. He's a good kid, he just needs help."
"So I'm not stupid?" Dean said, eyes wide looking between his father and teacher.
"No," Mrs. Bergeron said. "You're brain just doesn't work like everyone else's."
"What can I do?" John said, his voice growing annoyed. "To fix this."
"You can't really fix it," Mrs. Bergeron said. "We just have to work with it, it will take a while, but if Dean lets me I can help him."
"Okay, do what you gotta do," John said. "Make him if you have to. Is there anything else?"
"No, Mr. Winchester," Mrs. Bergeron said. "That covers my concerns with Dean. Thank you for meeting with me."
"Yeah," John said, standing. "Get your brother, let's get out of here."
Dean went and helped Sammy put away all the books he'd taken off the shelves, and took his hand. They followed their father out to the parking lot to the Impala. He strapped Sammy in while his dad got into the front. Dean did his own seatbelt and waited for his dad to start driving. He knew he was going to get yelled at when he got home. Mrs. Bergeron may have told him that he wasn't stupid, but there was no way he'd let Dean get away without having words with him.
When they got back to the duplex, Dean sat down at the kitchen, expecting his dad to want to have a serious talk with him, but instead, John followed Sammy into the living room.
"Dean is you coming to play?" Sammy yelled from the next room. "I gonna build a big fort for my army men so you can't kill them all."
Dean made his way slowly into the living room, looking at his dad as he walked by, just waiting. He said down on the floor across from Sam and started to build his own fort.
"Are you gonna wait until Sammy goes to sleep to be mad at me?" Dean asked as the silence form his Dad started to weigh on him.
"I'm not mad at you Dean," John answered. "There's nothing I can do to fix it. It's all on you. If you work with Mrs. Bergeron and do what she says you'll do better. I can't make you do anything. I'm not mad at ya, just disappointed that you didn't tell me you were having trouble."
"I asked you for help," Dean said. "But you told me I had to do it myself, so I just gave up. I didn't want to bother you with school stuff."
"You're not bothering me, Dean," John answered. "You're never bothering me. But if you take the training I give you like you treat school. I'll be mad. You know how important that is. I should have listened, okay. If you have a hard time at school you can ask me. Understand?"
"Yes sir," Dean nodded turning back to Sam. "I'll do better. I can do better. I'll make you proud be of me. I'll be the smartest kid in class. And then I'll be the bestest hunter. Uncle Bobby says that doing good at school will help me be a good hunter."
"Bobby's a good man," John said. "Just do your best kidd-o. That's all I can ask, alright."
Dean nodded. "I will Daddy."
Dean struggled with his new reading assignment at the kitchen table less than week later.
"Dad?" Dean asked. "Can you help me?"
"With what?" John said turning from the TV.
"Umm, well," Dean started. "We have to do a book report on Treasure Island, but I don't really understand it."
"I'm not doing your homework for you," John sighed.
"No," Dean corrected. "I just need some help answering the questions. I don't understand what they're asking."
"Did you read the book?" John asked.
"Yeah," Dean nodded.
"Then the questions shouldn't be hard," John replied. "I thought your teacher said you weren't stupid."
Dean shifted in his chair a little. He wasn't stupid, he knew it. Mrs. Bergeron told him that if he needed help with the questions he could ask his dad, but that wasn't working. He was either going to get all the questions wrong or not even bother doing it. Either way he was going to fail.
"But I need help," Dean protested. "You said that if I asked for help you'd help me. I tried to do this, but I don't know how. I've never done it before and I just want someone to help me."
"Dean," John sighed.
"No," Dean basically yelled. "I just want you to explain it. I think I can answer the questions if you explain it. I don't want you to do my homework. I just want a little help."
"Do not speak to me like that," John said finally standing up. "Don't ever speak to me like that."
"I'm sorry," Dean said, trying not to cry.
"When I met with your teacher I said I would help you," John yelled. "I did not say I would sit next to you and hold your hand and make sure you didn't fuck everything up."
Dean drew in a ragged breath to keep the tears from falling.
"It's not my fault you can't read," John yelled. "Maybe you should have helped yourself when you realized you had a problem."
"I tried," Dean said to the table watching little puddles start to form in front of him. "I tried really hard. I answered two questions! But I don't know what the other questions mean. It's too hard."
"You can't figure this out?" John shook the paper at Dean. "You can't figure out what happened in a book you just read? You can't write down the main characters? Sam could do this, Dean. Why don't you ask him for help next time? Stop fucking crying."
"It's too hard," Dean said trying to breathe normal, stop the tears. "Mrs. Bergeron sometimes just sits with me and says the questions again and sometimes I understand it better. I just want some help. Just a little. You said you'd help me if I asked for help."
John pulled the chair next to Dean out loudly and sat down. "I did say I'd help," he sighed. "What do you want me to do?"
"Just say the questions out loud," Dean said quietly. "Just sometimes if I heard them it makes more sense than if I read it. I know what it says, I can read, it's just easier hearing it."
"You can't read it out loud to yourself?"
Dean shook his head. "That doesn't help any. Sometimes it's more confusing."
"Alright then," John ran his hand down his face and let out a slow breath. "Let's do this."
"Thank you, sir," Dean nodded.