Dean ended up in Mr. Brown's homeroom class with Eric when school started. In this middle school they got to switch teachers between classes and had lockers, most of the kids already had a year of that under their belts, but Dean had never been to a school like that before, so it took a bit of getting used to. He picked up quickly enough with guidance from his new friends. This was an entirely new school experience for him actually having people to eat lunch with, houses to go over to on weekends.

The boys fell into a routine by the third week of school: up early for breakfast and run before school; Sam went to soccer practice and Dean played basketball with his friends until practice was out, back home, hopefully before John so Dean could put some kind of dinner on the table, then homework. It was as close to a normal apple pie life as they'd ever lived. It was bizarre, but it was wonderful.

"The guys think I should join the basketball team," Dean announced with a mouth full of potatoes at dinner one Wednesday night.

"Could be good for ya," John agreed, pointing at Dean with a piece of bread. "I told ya sports would be good for you. Like Sammy and his soccer, how's that going buddy?"

"Fine," Sam said to his plate as he pushed some peas around. "We have a game tomorrow."

"What time?" John asked.

"Right after school," Sam shrugged. "In the big field behind the middle school."

"So, at three?" John asked. "I'll try to be there, okay?"

Sam nodded. "Sure." Sam got up and tossed his plate in the sink, went to the room and slammed the door.

"What's wrong with him?" John asked.

"No idea," Dean shrugged mouth full of meatloaf that Bobby taught him to cook last time they were there. "He was fine earlier."

"Find out, would ya?" John asked.

"Yeah sure," Dean nodded. "I'll try to crack him after I clean up."

"Thank you," John replied. "This is good, you did a good job."

"Thanks, Bobby showed me how to do it," Dean smiled. "Said we should probably eat something 'sides cereal and pizza when we weren't at his house."

"Nice," John chuckled.

"I told him that we sometimes have spaghetti and chicken fingers," Dean continued. "So he dragged me into the kitchen and taught me stuff. I can make some chicken stuff and pork chops, but I'm best at the meatloaf I think. It's pretty easy."

"Just don't burn the house down if I'm not home," John said ruffing Dean's hair.

"I'm very careful," Dean said seriously. "Kitchen safety is very important."

It was hard not to laugh as how serious Dean's face was when he told his father this. It was kind of hilarious the things Dean took seriously, but when he did he put one hundred and ten percent into it, not matter what it was.

In their bedroom, Sam sat cross legged on his bed writing in a notebook. Dean walked in, closed the squeaky door and flopped down back on his own bed, staring at the ceiling.

"What's goin' on with you?" Dean probed. "You've been all moody lately, like a girl."

"Nothing," Sam mumbled. "I'm not a girl."

"I know you're not," Dean spat back. "But you're acting like one. Somethin' happen at school? At soccer practice?"

"Dad tell you to check up on me?" Sam sighed. "There's nothing wrong. Everything's fine, okay."

"Whatever," Dean sighed. "Don't tell me. Keep being a little bitch see if I care. But if you don't tell me I'm not taking the blame when you piss off Dad and he yells at you."

"Don't be jerk," Sam groaned. "I can take care of myself. Last time I told you about something that happened at school you beat up somebody and Dad almost skinned you. I can deal with it myself."

"Hold up," Dean said pushing himself up onto his elbows and looking over to his brother. "Someone's messing with you at school and you don't think I should know about it?"

"Do you tell me every time someone's a jerk to you?" Sam rolled his eyes. "You don't gotta know everything that happens in my life, Dean."

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean spat back. "I do. I'm supposed to protect you."

"You don't gotta protected me," Sam whined. "I can take care of myself. Just let me take care of myself for once in my life."

"Whatever," Dean said leaning back down so he was flat on his back again. "Just don't get the snot kicked out of you cuz I'm not jumpin' in."

"Maybe…" Sam whispered like their dad was listening on the other side of the door. "Maybe you could teach me how to fight. No listen… like how Dad teaches you. You can teach me so that you don't have to protect me if there's a bully or something."

"I'm not teachin' you to fight," Dean sighed. "Not unless you tell me what's up."

Sam exhaled loudly and went back to his work. "I'm not gonna tell you what's goin' on at school unless you teach me to fight. I bet I'll be really good at it. And you'll be super proud of me, and you'll never have to stand up for me again when I get picked on."

"Look, Sammy," Dean said as patiently as he could. "If some dick at school is being a jerk to you, let me handle it. I got a record at schools for fighting. You don't. You don't need that kind of reputation following you around too. Plus, you're, like, twenty pounds. Unless the kid picking on you is a preschool-er I doubt you could take them."

"Whatever," Sam huffed blowing his hair out of his face. "If you taught me to fight I could gain muscle."

"Not teachin' you to fight, kiddo," Dean repeated. "End of discussion, got it."

"You suck," Sam spat.

"Watch your mouth short stack," Dean spat back.

Sam groaned and started to tap away at his notebook. "Don't you have homework or something?"

"Just some stupid book for English," Dean shrugged. "And I'm not doing it. I can get the answers to the questions if there's a quiz from Chris. His got English right before us. "

"Well, don't just lay there and do nothing it's distracting," Sam whined.

"You're such a freakin' baby," Dean rolled and pushed off the bed. He left the room, slamming the door loudly.

The next afternoon Dean stood next to the bleachers with his friend Eric watching Sam's soccer game. John, as Dean kind of figured, was nowhere to be found, but at least someone was around to cheer Sam on. He was pretty good actually. Dean though soccer was a lame sport, but Sam took it, he was fast and pretty nimble being so small. He almost scored a goal, before being totally robbed by the goalie.

"Great job out there kiddo!" Dean beamed as Sam came over to him sweating and smiling after the game. "Wanna grab pizza to celebrate? Don't think I got time to throw anything together before Dad gets home."

"Dad didn't bother to show?" Sam asked rolling his eyes. "Figures."

"What's your problem?" Dean sighed. "He has a nine to five, he's doing his best."

"Whatever," Sam sighed. "Pizza's fine let's just get outta here."

"You don't wanna hang with your teammates for a bit?" Dean asked. "We're not in a hurry; pizza place is on the walk home."

"Not really," Sam shrugged. "Let's just go."

"Hey, Winchester!" a voice called from behind them.

Dean felt Sam exhale slowly before turning around.

"What Derek?" Sam answered weakly.

"This the kid that's been bugging you?" Dean asked out of the corner of his mouth.

"Don't," Sam warned. "Just let me deal with it, alright?"

"Thought you said your dad was coming out for the game?" Derek smirked. The kid looked like a punk, spiked up white blonde hair, crooked smile, two bigger muscular guys on either side, the kind of kid that looked like he'd gotten away with everything his whole life.

Dean's fists clinched at his sides, he started to step forward but Sam grabbed his wrist.

"He's working," Sam answered. "He'll be at the next one."

"Must suck," Derek chuckled. "Both your parents hating you that much."

"Excuse me?" Dean said, stepping forward as he shook Sam off.

"Let's just go," Sam pleaded tugging at the tail of Dean's coat. "He's not worth it."

Dean let Sam pull him away as the kid started to laugh.

"That's right," Derek laughed loudly. "You got ya big brother to protect you. Big oaf who likes to pick fights. I've heard about you."

"Don't," Sam warned. "He's just a punk kid."

Sam pulled Dean by the arm through the parking lot.

"Who is that?" Dean shouted when they got to the street. "What's he talking about?"

"Just some stupid kid," Sam mumbled. "Nothing to worry about."

"Didn't seem like nothing to worry about," Dean grabbed Sam by the elbow as he tried to walk away. "Is that why you wanna learn to fight? Sammy those guys he hangs with are bigger than me. Are they even in third grade?"

"Derek is," Sam said softly. "His friends are in fourth. I don't have to fight them, just Derek."

"Listen to me," Dean said trying to keep his voice even no matter how much he wanted to grab his brother and shake him. "What was he talking about? Saying your parents hated you? You know Dad doesn't hate you, right? He's working; he wanted to be here for your game."

"I know," Sam said weakly looking at the ground. "Derek… Derek sits behind me in class and we were talking about what our parents did for work for a project, and I said that I didn't know what my mom did, but I don't like telling people that she'd dead because then the teacher, like, takes pity on me and I don't like that. But Derek just started to shake my chair and ask me stupid questions, so finally I just said that she died and at lunch Derek started saying mean things and he just won't leave me alone. But if you teach me to fight, I can just punch him and he'll leave me alone."

"If you punch that kid," Dean said in a warning tone. "You'll get jumped by two kids three times your size."

"But you can't beat up a third grader, Dean," Sam sighed. "You'll go to kid jail. Just let me deal with it. If I keep ignoring him he'll get bored eventually and move on. That's how kids like that work."

"I'm not going to kid jail," Dean sighed. "There's no such thing as kid jail."

"Yes there is!" Sam yelled. "I've heard about it on TV. All the bad kids go there. I don't want you to go to kid jail."

"What does he say about Mom?" Dean pressed, changing the subject. "What does that kid think he knows about our mom?"

"He said that…" Sam started and sighed and tried to walk away.

"Sammy," Dean warned. "What did he say to you?"

"He said Mom left because she hated me," Sam whispered. "That she probably killed herself because she couldn't stand to be around me."

"You know that's not true," Dean said quickly. "That's not what happened."

"She died in my room, right?" Sam mumbled. "Maybe, I don't know."

"It was a fire, Sammy," Dean said pulling Sam's face up to make his brother look him in the eye, the same why their dad did when Dean was acting stubborn and tried to talk to the ground. "It was an accident. That kid doesn't know anything. You understand me?"

Sam nodded and pulled his face away from Dean. "Let's get some food."

Dean couldn't help but stare at Sam the whole time they ate dinner. Sam stared at the table not talking, shrugging noncommittally when John asked a question about the game, letting Dean handle it until he finished and excused himself to do his homework alone in their room.

"I thought you talked to him," John said quietly to Dean as Sam closed the bedroom door.

"I did," Dean nodded. "He's having a hard time at school. There's this obnoxious bully, is all. He wants me to teach him to fight. It's stupid."

"Maybe you should," John replied. "Teach him to spar, give him some boxing lessons, can't hurt anything."

"Really?" Dean said cautiously. "He's eight, does he really need to know all that stuff?"

"You were younger than him when I started to teach you, right?" John said. "At the very least he learns to defend himself. What's that gonna hurt?"

"Dad," Dean shook his head in disbelief. "He's gonna get himself hurt. Sam's tiny. He's literally the smallest kid in his class. He he's barely four feet tall and can't weight forty-five pounds. He'd get his ass kicked."

"Watch your mouth," John said sternly. "People always under estimate the little ones, they're the scrappiest fighters. Just do as I tell you, alright? Teach the kid to fight."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Dean said. "He doesn't know anything. He doesn't know about why we move so much, he doesn't know what you do for work, and I don't want him too. He's too little. I'm gonna keep it from him as long as I can, Dad. He doesn't need that kind of weight on him."

"Can you follow orders?" John asked. Dean nodded. "Did I just give you an order?"

Dean nodded.

"What?"

"Yeah," Dean mumbled.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes, sir," Dean answered. "I'll teach him."

"Good," John nodded. "Get this cleaned up and start when you're done with your homework, alright?"

"Yes, sir," Dean nodded. "Will do."

That was the last thing Dean wanted. Teaching Sam to fight was the worst thing he could ever think of, it would only be a matter of time before he figured everything out. He didn't need to see his kid brother with black eyes and other bruises like he sported at least once every school he went to. He didn't want this life for Sam, but an order was an order and he'd be teaching the kid to punch a mattress in their bedroom as soon as the dishes were done.