MONDAY
On his way up the hall, Dean keeps peeking over his shoulder and nearly, literally runs headlong into Ash. "Dude."
'This mullet does not belong in the 21st century. I have to hand it to the guy, though. He is always good for a grin.'
Dean raises both of his hands in apology. "My bad. Hey, look. I been meaning to talk to you. No hard feelings, right?"
Ash furrows his brow in a severe scowl before his whole face melts into easy laughter. "What about? Dude. No way, man. You're the best fucking QB I've had the pleasure of being benched for. We're cool, man."
"Cool."
Ash puts a fist in the air and grunts, "Gator pride."
"Right." Dean bumps the fist with his own.
Once the hall is clear, picking the lock and slipping into the coach's office is cake. Every few seconds, he raises his head to check out the door. He hisses in a breath as he tries to keep the middle drawer from squeaking so loudly.
"Shut up!" Dean whispers to the wood and puts a bit of weight into the process to quiet it.
Once open: nothing. He sucks his teeth and shoves aside a useless stack of papers and pens that rattle loosely. There is a treasure trove of candy and old wrappers hidden underneath them. Clearly contraband, but not what he is looking for. He swears and shuts the drawer far more easily than he'd opened it.
Still watching the door, he tries a side drawer next. He doesn't actually expect it to be there, but tries the one below it. There, he finds a manila folder with a hairy bush porno magazine inside. He picks it up and chuckles. "Dirty old bastard."
Beneath that, there is a silver flask which Dean starts to unscrew out of curiosity … just as the door creaks.
The coach's eyes narrow. Dean freezes and just waits for the busting of his balls. Just like that, the coach closes the door behind himself. He tilts back his head and takes a deep breath. "You want to explain, son? Or should I just assume?"
He tosses the flask on the desk and raises his hands like he is under arrest. "Go ahead and assume."
Coach Winchester sighs and hangs his jacket over the back of his chair. "Wait here."
When the door shuts behind him, Dean digs through the the old man's jacket. In the first pocket, his hand clenches around the cell phone. He subdues an annoyed growl. "Fucking moron."
He wastes no time in pulling the thing out. "Flip phone, for fuck's sake? They still make these?"
It takes a minute to figure out how to use the buttons to control the ancient thing. He scrolls directly to the coach's contacts. The entire list consists of Brady, Jo, Mary, and School. That is it.
However the coach plans to punish him, Dean knows he is good and royally screwed. All for nothing. Both fists raise to the ceiling. "Fuuuuck."
Mary Winchester is a 46 year old version of Jo, which means pretty damn hot for an old chick. She clasps her hands, French manicured pointer fingers extended in front of her burgundy lips. "Well, I guess you can start by taking out the trash?"
There is hardly anything in the bin at all: today's newspaper, some coffee grinds and a couple of eggshells. Dean lifts the mostly empty plastic bag and makes his way out of the kitchen door. Before he even drops the trash, Jo bounds out of the garage. Her hair is in two thick braids that hang over her shoulders like Dorothy Gale. Even before she gets close, he can smell her flower-sweet, little girl perfume. She marches over and punches him in the arm. Not lightly, either.
It doesn't actually hurt, but he rubs it. "Ow?"
Her eyes flicker to the spot she hit for a moment before she shakes her head. "Idiot."
"Yeah. I know." Dean drops the lid.
She folds her arms over her chest and leans against the wall. "My dad said all you would have had to do was ask him… for anything."
Dean sighs. It's not like he can explain himself.
"At least you're not off the team or anything." Jo lodges herself between him and the door.
"No. I'm just your mother's personal slave." Dean pushes her, gently, but firmly, the fuck out of his way.
He steps back into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together. "Mission accomplished."
Mrs. Winchester waits in one of those white skirt aprons June Cleaver always has on. "Okay. I think I have a job for you. Would you go get Joanna, please?"
Dean had just escaped Joanna, but the agreement was: Mrs. Winchester says hop, Dean makes like a rabbit. He rolls his eyes and trudges through the parlor and up the stairs. "Joanna."
From down the hall, her voice comes back, "Out in a second."
He nods and begins to head back to the kitchen when he notices a bedroom with baby pink wallpaper and Justin Bieber posters.
'That kid seriously thinks he's hardcore because he's got some tattoos. I'm going to kick his pop-singing Canadian ass if I ever get the chance.'
In the middle of the fluffy pink bedspread, a Hello Kitty cell phone telephone case twinkles like the Holy Grail. Dean glances over his shoulder before he creeps into the room. He taps the screen. Password protected. Of course. "Fucking Winchesters."
"What are you doing?"
He spins on his heels. "Where are you on panty sniffing?"
"Kids!" Jo's mom's voice rings out with improbably good timing.
Dean's hand sweeps out to point the way for Jo to go first. Then, he swipes it down his face in relief.
"Hands washed, Dean?" Mrs. Winchester hands Jo a pink apron with her name embroidered over her heart.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Show me."
"Seriously?" He rests his hands, palms up in her outstretched hands for inspection.
She gives a little sniff before she's satisfied.
"Happy?"
"Don't sass me, young man." She flips his hands and gives them a light tap.
"Sorry."
"Mmhm. Now, hand me the flour."
"Flour." Dean repeats it and pores over through the steel containers on the marble-topped kitchen island.
He carries the canister over to Mrs. Winchester, a bit prouder of himself than necessary. The next instruction is to measure out four cups and pour them through the sifter. Dean pours as slowly and methodically as if he were working with corrosives in a chemistry lab.
"What is this stuff?" He rubs the powdery substance between his fingertips and thumb.
"It's flour." Jo answers, rolling her eyes.
Her mother nudges her. "It's what bread and cake and cookies are made of. The most basic ingredient. Ground up wheat."
"Hm."
Mrs. Winchester guides him through the recipe while Jo stands with her fist over her mouth, trying to hide her giggling. Her mother scowls and tells her to grease up the trays. "So, Dean, what do your parents do?"
Dean mulls it over. His parents. Right. Sometimes, he forgets that he has one of those. "Um. My mother's a hairdresser."
"I could use a trim."
After the cookies are in the oven, Jo insists on teaching Dean how to play checkers. He is beating her by the middle of the second game when his train of thought is totally derailed by an insanely marvelous scent. He sniffs the air and rises from his seat like some cartoon character dragged along by a curling finger of fragrant steam.
"Oh my God. That is amazing." He crouches in front of the oven and nearly presses his face to the glass.
Mrs. Winchester smiles. "Have you never had homemade cookies, Dean?"
Dean takes one look at her smug little smile. The cookie smell spell is broken and his blood is starting to boil. "So, like, not having homemade cookies is how you breed criminals?"
She actually looks offended. "Not what I'm suggesting at all."
"I should probably head out." 'Before I get really pissed at the coach's Stepford family.'
He is already completely pissed at himself for getting into trouble for nothing. This whole situation is stupid. Dean has to accept that he is never going to find what he's been looking for. He had met That Guy once, knew nothing about him, and had become mildly obsessed. Now, it's time to let the craziness go.
Mrs. Winchester won't let up, though. "I want you to wait and take some home with you."
Jo's head snaps back and forth between them like she's watching a tennis match.
"I think my sentence is complete for today." Dean's jaw is clenched tight. He does not want any more of these people's charity. He wants to go home and suffer in peace.
"When I say it is." Her voice is at once kind and unyielding.
"So, you're going to force me to eat cookies?"
Her eyelashes bat. "If I have to, yes. Joanna, didn't you say you have some homework left?"
Jo gawps up at Dean with wide eyes before she traipses off like an obedient little lap dog.
Mrs. Winchester nods, unyielding. "Dean, I'll have you on your way shortly. In the meantime, you can go and bring me my cell phone from the table by the front door?"
