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"Gordon Walker. Sick bastard. Y-you should stay away from him, a little. I mean, he won't come near you, but your brother-"
Dean whips around so fast the guy- Chuck- cowers, literally, hunching his shoulders, to seem smaller, maybe.
"H-he likes to line them up. Freshmen. Or, whatever, I mean, t-that's a rumour, but everyone knows he goes for the freshmen. He looks at each one, a-and screams, at them. If they've been bad, or something. He's just always had an issue with people being less than saintly; sort of psycho, really? I don't know. We're in the same year so we didn't get, like, anything, but he often calls people- freshmen- out on other mistakes."
When Chuck finishes his lips thin into a feeble smile, and Dean reaches to squeeze Sam's shoulder once. He nods, gruff- at least they know now, sort of. They've been warned and shit, they can look out for themselves now. They know what to look out for. "Anybody else?"
"Everyone else's pretty chill, pretty normal, really," Chuck nods a lot, as if to reassure himself,"Well, this is a private school for boys, so as normal as you can get here. Mostly guys just do drugs. But- oh! The girls from Kripke Prep- you gotta watch out for some of them, that's all.
They're like, really pretty? But scary. They've got a cult following, almost, I'll write down for you the hierarchy later. I doubt you'll like, actually see Lilith and her entourage, but some of them, like Ruby or Bela, they're tricky. Great ride, according to some guys. But. Um. Not worth it. It's like they teach you Bitch 101 there."
It sounds ludicrous, but Dean feels the corners of his lips tugging up, and he claps the Prefect on his back. "Thanks, Chuck, you've been useful."
They've almost walked away- Chuck seemed pretty hesitant about everything, despite his authority, so at first glance Dean had decided to navigate the school by himself without his help- when Chuck calls out. "So, uh, what's your story? Y-you don't belong here. I can tell."
Dean ignores him, grits his teeth. Of course Chuck can tell, and if he can, so can the rest of the student body. They're fucked. "Don't worry, Sammy," he whispers, low enough for his brother to hear and not Chuck, or anyone in the immediate vicinity. "We'll be fine."
They carry on walking.
-
St. Robert Preparatory School for Boys, or Rob Prep as it is commonly called by its students, if Chuck is to be believed, is terrifying. Also really expensive, but Dean hadn't needed Chuck to tell him that; he had seen the glossy brochures and the monumental fees that had been waived simply because Mr. Singer, or "call me Bobby" came from a long line of descendants that had founded the school. Or something like that. He doesn't give a crap. All semantics anyway, because he's got eyes, and. Hell, he can see the vast manicured lawns, feel his uniform tie between his fingers. Like silk, for crying out loud.
It hadn't mattered though. It had been tough for him and Sam both- first Mum in that fire, which led to what, traveling like nomads? They'd traveled miles and miles, been to the most rural of places, him and Sam and Dad, all to escape their grief. Their memories of the most precious hugs, of the little herb garden outside their house, of wafting smells of home-cooked food. (Dean almost envies Sam, who can't remember anything.) It had just been them and the Impala, passing people with lives and crafting an escape, all of their own. Dean had all the fresh starts he could want, all the friends he could keep at arms' length and never tell that his mum had died, and Sam had a flying landscape to serve as a background for his daydreams and a penchant for collecting motel shampoo bottles, and Dad had his odd jobs and cassette tapes full of music Mary had wrinkled her nose at but joined in singing all the same.
And they had each other. That was it, really.
But then Dad had gone and died, in a stupid car accident, of all things: knocked down as he was walking out of a 7-11. Pronounced dead at the scene, so at least he hadn't suffered. But Dean had only turned 17 and he wasn't even legal yet, couldn't support Sam if he wanted. Which, yeah, he did. He parties and drinks and has had many girls, but he knows what his responsibilities are.
Instead of handing them over to the State though, they were passed onto one Robert Singer. (Sam had asked, the night before they were passed on again, this time to Rob Prep, if it was the same Robert that been immortalized in the school name. Bobby had laughed.) Sam and Dan had never met him before, and Bobby was a good, if rich, man, but it was clear he had no idea how to handle kids. So they had been shipped off again, this time to some fancy boarding school. Dean doesn't blame him though: he likes Bobby, but everything is awkward. Their only common topic is Dad, and no one wants to broach that. So he keeps in mind Bobby's good intentions, and doesn't say a thing as Winchester, Samuel and Winchester, Dean are signed up for St. Robert Preparatory School for Boys.
-
"You get anything, you call me, you hear me?" Dean's voice is terse and gruff and his anger is barely restrained at the thought of anything happening to Sammy. When Sam doesn't reply, he grabs his brother by the shoulders and shakes him.
"You hear me?" Except it sounds more like an exclamation, an order.
"Yeah, yeah, Dean, I know," Sam looks away, face resigned and tired and petulant. His lips are pouting, and Dean just wants to- he doesn't get to pursue that train of thought when Sam finally mutters, "I'm not a little kid anymore."
A ragged sigh leaves Dean's throat. "I know," he admits. "I just don't want you hurt."
Sam shrugs carelessly. "They can't hurt me where it matters. Besides, you know I know how to fight." This time, when Sam looks back at him, he is no longer a petulant child, but a defiant teenager.
Dean shrugs, but the movement is jerky, off-base. "Well. You- you know where to find me, right?"
Sam nods briskly. "You gotta stop worrying, Dean. We're in different years, of course we're gonna be in different dorms."
This time it's Dean's turn to pout. "Stupid rules."
Sam gives him a wry smile. "I didn't make them, Dean."
-
The four years at Rob Prep have respective dorms each- named after constellations, or something fancy. As a senior, Dean resides in Aquila Dormitory, whereas Sam is a whole two blocks away at Delphinus. It irks Dean, eats away at him and makes him uneasy, being so far away from Sam. The furthest they've been apart this long was- well, two feet apart, in the rare occasions Dad scored enough money for a motel with a bed for each of them.
Dean trudges across campus, passing Orion, luminous in its green color. Each dorm has a house color as well- blue for freshmen, yellow for sophomores, green for juniors, and red for seniors. All very school spirit, apparently.
There are a bunch of guys outside Orion, and when one breaks away from the group Dean realizes it's Chuck.
"Hey, Dean! Wait up!"
Dean almost wants to sling his bag over his body proper and start running as far away as possible, because he likes the kid, he seems alright, just. Dean really isn't in the mood for talking.
But Dean knows that isn't the smart thing to do, so he waits while Chuck catches up. Chuck arrives, heaving and out of breath and worryingly red in the face, and greets Dean with a grin.
"All settled, then?"
Dean gives Chuck the most apathetic glare he can muster, then raises his eyebrows. "Dude, I haven't even reached my own dorm yet."
Chuck's eyes dart towards his duffel bag, and his face turns even redder. "Oh. Oh, right. Sorry, then."
Dean scoffs, and when he makes to leave, Chuck follows. He doesn't stop wringing his hands till they've reached Aquila, then gives him a half-hearted smile. "Well, uh, good luck then! If you ever need any help, you can look for me, just so you know? But, I mean, there are senior Prefects too, what am I thinking," Chuck trails off, then his head snaps up again. "Senior Prefects are Raphael and Uriel, but they, um, aren't that nice? You can approach Mike or Gabriel. Names are on the badges." He gives one last nervous shake, a wave, then runs off.
Then Dean turns to face the huge entryway into Aquila Dormitory.
-
The chatter dies into heavy silence. It feels amplified with each step Dean takes, and he halts eventually, unsure now and self-conscious, bravado stripped to nothing. It feels horrifyingly awkward, and when the silence peters out and the babble resumes again, someone starts walking towards him. Prefect, probably.
"Hey, you must be Winchester!" Firm handshake, enthusiastic grin. Prefect, then. "I'm Michael, but the guys just call me Mike. Do you know which room you're in?"
Dean shakes his head, then starts. "Nu- wait, I, um," he finds the slip of paper crushed in his pants pocket, and hands it to Michael. The Prefect nods solemnly, and focuses intensely on the paper. "F-01. Alright, you're on the third floor, first door on the right when you go up those stairs." Mike points him in the right direction, then claps him on the back. "You okay managing it by yourself?"
Dean nods numbly, more reflex than anything, then remembers his manners. "Uh, yeah, thanks Mike."
Mike throws a cheery grin his way. It's disarming, and yet disturbing, it is. "No problem, glad to help!" Then he walks away, like that amount of pep in a person is nromal.
Dean shakes his head to himself as he walks away. Freaking prep school.
-
Dean finds his room easily- from a quick lookaround of the place, the building is divided into two halves, with the left hemisphere housing rooms A, B, and C, and the right hemisphere housing D, E, and F. On every floor there is a vending machine and a water fountain, and fake potted plants bordering the corridor. The showering facilities are situated at the end of each hallway, and Dean prays the guys he's sharing his with are civil and sane.
F-01 turns out to host two beds, with study desks placed in the middle of the room such that they'll do their work with backs facing each other. To discourage cheating, he guesses. There's a small closet built into the wall where the doorway is, and Dean dumps his bag there. His roommate is absent, but he seems to be alright, judging by the usual mess of clothes, magazines (Dean raises his eyes at one of the skin mags, and the mangas strewn about), stationery, and albums (he starts when he realizes it's all classical music- he almost wrinkles his nose, then remembers Sam's penchant for My Chemical Disco and Fall Out Cutie, and he thinks he'll take what he can get.)
The bed seems comfy enough, but Dean's not picky; after all those motels he'd lived in in growing up, he's fared much worse. He doesn't care. Dean spreads his arms and just falls onto the twin bed, toeing off his shoes as an afterthought.
He doesn't mean to, but he falls asleep all the same.
-
His first impression of the new boy- Dean Michael Winchester- is that he snores. Loudly. Luckily for Balthazar, who doesn't spend much time in his dorm anyway, having somewhere acquired a few other residences, he won't be around for much of the snoring, and could choose to move rooms if he wanted to.
Castiel assesses the boy in front of him, lying eagle-spread on the bed. It seems calling his name won't be enough to stir him awake, and decides on another solution; Sir Campbell isn't keen on anyone missing Dinner, and therefore, missing a "wonderful opportunity in which we reconnect with the school and our fellow schoolmates, reflect, and re-energize", even in spite of any allowances made for newcomers.
So he prods the boy awake.
Dean shoots up like a firework, eyes bleary but with a half-crazed light in them, his hand curled in a grip, but holding nothing. When he blinks and notices Castiel standing there, he stares at him for a while before whatever danger he assumed he was in has cleared his mind, then slumps. "Oh. Uh, what-"
"The dinner bell has rung, and you can't afford to be absent. Sir Campbell will not be pleased if you miss it. I have been sent to ensure you will come along and be punctual," Castiel replies.
Dean quirks an amused smile at him. "Sir Campbell?" he asks, with emphasis on the 'sir'.
"Yes, we are to address all teaching staff by Sir, and for the occasional female tutor, we call them Miss," he nods.
Dean nods absentmindedly, then reaches over to his shoes and shoves his feet in. "Good timing, I'm starving. Lead the way," Dean gestures, so Castiel does.
He doesn't think much of their small talk along the way until he realises that he might actually consider Dean a friend, or potential for one, at least.