Dean supports the sapling while Mrs. Winchester carefully palms dirt around its roots. As usual, his mouth has an idea it didn't run by his brain first. "So, you and Coach only have the one kid?"
She frowns up at him, resting her garden-gloved hands on her knees. "Why would you say that?"
"Oh. I just assumed. You know. There are a ton of pictures of Jo with horses and Jo on the beach and all that. Not any others. You don't talk about any other kid, so, yeah." He shrugs, as innocent and nonchalant as possible.
Silently, she returns to caring for her new baby tree. Apricot.
Dean mouths the word 'OK' to himself and figures that's the end of that.
When they are done, Mrs. Winchester pulls off her gloves and sighs. "Would you come with me, please?"
He kicks off his dirty shoes next to hers by the back door. They both trudge up to the master bedroom. Dean had only seen the closed double doors. It might actually be bigger than his entire apartment. His fingers brush lightly over the gossamer curtain around the four post, king-sized canopy bed. "Wow. You guys have a fireplace in here?"
"Have a seat, Dean." She gestures for him to take a place on the plush antique sofa nestled into the bay window.
She disappears into a walk-in closet the size of Jody's room and returns with a huge trunk. When she stumbles slightly under the weight of it, Dean hurries over to help. "What is this? A treasure chest or something? You a pirate, Mrs. Winchester?"
Her dour expression doesn't change, even with his joke. "This is my son."
She cracks the combination lock and lays it to the side. The first thing she hands Dean is a tattered, well-loved elephant with one eye missing and stuffing sticking out of its trunk. "That's Edison."
Her eyes are already glassy as she sifts through straight A report cards and yellowing chess club certificates. She lines up medals, small trophies and stacks newspaper articles in a growing pile near where Dean sits cross-legged on the floor. Then she hands him a little, misshapen clay figure. After that, it's a laminated chalk drawing. Each one of them has its own story and a special, sad smile. "He was in third grade when he made this. Can you believe it?"
Dean's brow lifts as he continues to sift through the papers and knick knacks Sam's mother sets before him. "Looks like you got quite the overachiever here."
"He was such a good boy. So sensitive."
"In what way?" He puts the lumpy, handmade clay thing - possibly an elephant, but hard to tell - on the floor and watches her face.
She picks up the figurine and smiles slightly, "Oh, in every way. When he was very small, he would squint, like this, trying to keep his eyes closed all day. He'd be awake and active, just avoiding the light. And sound. That was a big one. Loud noises, he didn't like. You couldn't raise your voice around him. Then, it was certain foods. Not allergies, mind you, just ... sensitive. And thoughtful; empathetic. Like he was made out of something a little …" She rubs the air between her fingers, searching for the right word, the right texture to explain what she means. "... lighter than the rest of us."
Dean nods, not wanting to break the spell she seems to have brought on herself.
"Don't get me wrong. He was tough, too. Tough as nails. He could take it and dish it on the field. And he had this laser sharp accuracy." Her head snaps up at Dean, apparently back in the present moment. "John tells me you're that kind of quarterback. Strong and focused. My son was that way."
Dean turns over a mosaic self-portrait and traces his finger over the kid-scribble on the back. "Sam."
Mrs. Winchester nods and looks like she is about to lose it. So, he's about to reduce his coach's wife to tears. 'In for a penny…'
"So, what? Is he dead?" Dean would have been less crass if he didn't already know the answer.
The only other obvious conclusion is that the guy he's been texting is a ghost. 'Which … come on.'
She doesn't reply. At the bottom of the chest, there are photo albums and yearbooks that she spreads out at his feet so she can watch him thumb through. It all begins with a hospital photo of a plump, bald baby in blue. Dean has never seen a picture of himself as a baby, but he likes kids. Kids are allright. And Sam was cute. But that was to be expected.
He laughs a little to himself.
Mrs. Winchester tells another story for every shot. Dean listens with a growing grin. Sometimes, he trails his finger over the face of the boy, growing up before his very eyes in the scrapbooks and photographs.
Finally, they come to Sam's senior yearbook. Dean pores over each caption and looks long at the striking, young man in his cap and gown. The photo he lingers over longest shows Sam with Coach Winchester. Both of them wear huge smiles as they share a massive trophy. State championship. Dean sighs and closes the book.
"There's a whole separate chest for his college years. We can do that another day, if you like. Thank you for letting me show you all this. I don't…" She wipes a tear from her eye before it even falls.
She begins to pack everything away in a reverent, meticulous order.
"Yeah. No problem. Thank you." Dean is reeling from a peculiar cocktail of thoughts and emotions. The ones he can pinpoint are shittiness for making her dig all that up; curiosity about why she has it buried in the first place. Mix in a massive dose of nostalgia for a guy he doesn't even know. The result is one muddled teenager escaping out into the hallway before he can feel any weirder.
"Dean. Don't mention this to my husband, please. Don't mention Sam."
'OK.' "Can I ask why?"
"It's just better that way."
CHAPTER 11
Sam hunches up his shoulders against the unseasonably cool, damp air. He really should have worn a jacket. With a deep breath and a cautious glance over his shoulder, he tucks the dog lead under his arm. He thumbs a message into his phone and shivers.
SW: I'm sorry if I gave you a wrong impression.
Five minutes later, he receives:
DS: NP
It takes Sam a moment, but he figures out that must mean No Problem.
SW: Cool.
'Kids still say cool, don't they?'
DS: R U frkd out?
SW: No
DS: Cool
SW: Flattered.
That's a gross understatement.
DS: WAYD
Sam wracks his brain, but nothing occurs to him for the acronym. It's a stupid waste of his limited time.
SW: Please write in English.
DS: What are you doing
SW: Punctuation is nice, too.
DS: What are you a fucking English teacher?
SW: I'm walking the dog
DS: Cool.
DS: What breed?
SW: Chi-Poo
DS: WTF
DS: What the fuck?
SW: Chihuahua Poodle Mix
DS: No shit. Herbal tea and a ChiPoo and ur not interested n me?
DS: JK
SW: Refer to my first impression
DS: LOL.
DS: Laughing out loud.
That's the one abbreviation Sam actually knows. He's also doing it: laughing out loud. It feels good and more than a little dangerous. After all, he is right across the street from his apartment. He covers his mouth with his hand and checks for spectators again. Not spectators. One in particular who would be very upset to see him enjoying himself.
DS: What's your mutt's name?
SW: Chalupa
DS: Hilarious
SW: Wish I could take credit
DS: Oh … GFs dog
SW: It's complicated
DS: What is this? Fucking FB?
SW: You have a dirty mouth
DS: U have no idea
Sam shakes his head. "No."
SW: Flirt free zone
DS: UR a cock tease
'Subject change.'
SW: What are you doing?
DS: Jerking off to your yearbook picture.
DS: U look way better now, btw
DS: Technically, flirting is subtle. Way I see it, if I'm not subtle, it's not flirting.
DS: Sam?
SW: Good night, Dean
Sam deletes the messages: every last one of them. He tries not to imagine this gorgeous, green-eyed kid masturbating with his picture. He stands perfectly still until his own body is completely under control. He slips his phone into his pants pocket and covertly adjusts himself.
From his other pocket, he produces a small, blue plastic bag and stoops to clean up Castiel's dog's shit.
Dean leans against his locker; he lets the bustle of students and teachers pass. He nods at a couple of girls who speak to him. Once they pass, he takes out his phone.
DS: Happy Friday
DS: U mad?
Garth (who Dean would have left in his locker if he had only known) brings him this week's third coke and smile. Dean accepts both with a chuckle and waits for the beanpole to skedaddle before he checks to see what Sam wrote back.
SW: I would like to be your friend, but that's only going to work if you can respect my boundaries
DS: My bad.
DS: I'm about to be so respectful it's going to blow your fucking mind.
SW: :)
DS: I have a rule too.
SW: Shoot
DS: No emoticons
There is no reply for a few minutes. Then, Dean receives an actual picture of Sam, smiling.
"Aw, fuck. That's not fair. Fucking dimples?" He blows out a loud breath and wipes his hand down his face.
