Chapter 8: One and One and One is Three

There wasn't a hell of a lot of information from his time at school that Dean had committed to his memory. There were the basics of course, like reading and writing that had stuck with him. He may not have been or be some brainiac, but not all of the screws were loose in his grapefruit. And yes, being able to successfully sing one hundred bottles of beer on the wall was one of those basic skills he awarded to his imprisonment within the boundaries of the public school systems math classes, and maybe a little bit from John Winchester.

One of the stupidest tid-bits that had slipped through his ears and jammed its way into an open crevice of his brain was from his freshman English teacher, Ms. Rabbit. He'd expected to have an old, bony woman teaching the class that resembled Bugs Bunny, answering the classroom door with a, "What's up, Doc?" Man had he been wrong though. The only kind of rabbit he could relate her to was a bunny. And not the cute kind like Thumper from Bambi (not that Dean had ever seen the movie anyway). Ms. Rabbit was more like a playboy bunny; she was every teenage boys fantasy come to life, right down to the glasses that slid down the bridge of her nose and the way her clothing fit so well in all of the right places. Whenever she snapped her ruler on the desk, every person with a dick in the class began to sweat.

Just because she was a looker didn't mean that she didn't rightfully deserve her position as a teacher. Sure, there were plenty of teachers that weren't fit to so much as step into a classroom or sit their ass behind a desk, but Ms. Rabbit was not one of them. Most people couldn't help the stereotype that rolled to the forefront of their brains- especially the ones below the waist- rather than who she was as a person. She was by far one of Dean's favorite teachers because of her attitude. She didn't take shit from any kid, no matter if they were the mayor's kid or were big and strong enough to beat the ever living shit out of her where she stood. She wasn't spineless, and was always able to force-feed a healthy dose of English crap down your throat like a big damn spoon of slimy canned green beans; whether you liked it or not, you were going to take what she was dealing.

Of course, not all food stays with you forever. Eventually, you shit it out, unless some of it sticks around as a nice little side of fat. I guess I got a nice slice of apple pie shoved down my gullet when she was teaching at one point or another. That bit of fat that seemed to stick around that hadn't seemed to burn off in all of these years was about stories. Typically in stories such as fairy tales, numbers of three and seven were commonly used. Kind of like how that dark haired chick was followed around by seven midgets, and how that blondie in the pink dress had those three irritating fairies waving their stupid damn sticks around.

So, how the fuck is any of this relative anyway? Dean sure didn't mind thinking back on Ms. Rabbit, but the information he had learned from her wasn't thought on often. Especially since Dean knew he didn't live in no fucking fairy tale. Sure, he rode his black beauty everywhere, but that also was supposed to mean he was as rich as Bill Gates, which sure wasn't true. But at this moment, what had once been stuck within his mind came yelling at him, making his ears ring and his temples throb. This was all just a big ol' game for God, and every story needed the right numbers, right? So why not throw another kid into this fucked up situation, if not to only make the numbers look nice at three? Because that's exactly what seemed to have happened in Dean's case.

In the years spent by himself, Dean liked to think he had matured more than he would have if he had had an actual person to converse with. Singing along to Bob Seger on the rolling stretches of pavement across America seemed to have aged him somehow, with no back up singer or somebody to duo with.

After all of the appropriate individuals had been pulled off to the side, John and Sam went on a lengthy spiel about how dear old Kate and Adam Milligan (present in said room) had made their way into the danger zone of the Winchester's life. After Sam had left Dean for college, and John had defeated the yellow eyed bastard, Adam had made contact with John. He could see the timidity shining in everybody's eyes, waiting for one of his blood vessels to burst, maybe even some attention drawing heart attack (they'd probably blame it on a ghost any way) as they explained the details to him. But no, he remained cool as a damn cucumber as those yuppy dickwads would say.

A nice little visit to Wisconsin lead John to throw in the towel on hunting, calling in his retirement. Decided to patch things up nicely with Sam, even put a nice damn rock on Kate Milligan-now-Winchester's left hand. There was an absolutely lovely family portrait including the three and Sam who had flown over for the occasion. Dean found it pretty fucking funny how his invitation must have gotten lost in the post. He'd known the government was shit, but jeez he didn't know the apocalypse was knocking at the door.

However, Dean couldn't find it in himself to genuinely hate Adam. The kid was bright and witty, maybe not a full on Winchester, but he was family. And he knew from experience what it felt like to be rejected by your blood. Plus, the kid was going to be a doctor one day, and sooner or later Dean would be knockin at his door asking him to fix up something that his own "medical training" wouldn't cover.

After all was said and done, everybody continued to stare at Dean with wide eyes. It wasn't quite fear lighting them, but more of a weary film that glazed their eyes since they expected Dean to burst into a fit of rage. And hell yeah, all 6"1 of him was about to burst from the abandonment and anger, but he was a different person. Sure, he was still trying the whole cool cucumber gig, but there was more to it than that. They all had changed, and he had the right to have become a different person over these past ten years, too.

One of those things that Dean had learned was to listen to what wasn't being said. And he was able to hear a whole fucking lot. Standing calmly from the chair he'd been seated in, he made eye contact with John. "If you guys would just give me a minute to take this in," he said with an amount of coolness in his voice that Gandhi would be jealous of. With his best Arnold impression to convince them, he crossed the room, throwing out an, "I'll be back," with a smirk as he left the room.

Dean traced his way carefully back through the halls of the country club to the rented banquet room. Spotting the mass of curls he'd been looking for, he approached Jessica-almost-Winchester. Giving her a light tap on the shoulder, he asked if he could talk to her in private for a moment.

"Of course!" She exclaimed, moving quickly to gather her cup and follow Dean to a deserted table. She reminded him of a puppy in the same way that Sammy used to.

Not leaving any space between, Dean seated himself next to Jess after pulling her chair out for her- because he was a fucking gentleman- before he turned to talk to her.

"So Jess," Dean began, his seriousness as deadly as the approaching topic, "what do you know about the family business?"

A/N:

I know it's a really, really, lame excuse that everybody uses, but I have been busier than a hotdog stand on the fourth of July (stupid pun, I know). I know most of this chapter is fairly boring, but bear with me please. Thank you for all of the reviews and support, I'm always more than happy to hear what you guys honestly have to say. Hope to pop another chapter up soon.

Until then,

Indigo