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“I’m sorry, let’s go over this again.” Carefully, Dean adjusts his smile—a little less devil-may-care, a little more adorably-dumb. He scoots the wood-veneer-and-polyester chair forward, leans forward against the desk, keeps eye contact with the woman before him. “You’re saying that Sammy here—”
“It’s Sam,” says the figure sitting in the chair beside and a little behind him; even without turning to look, Dean can picture the way his arms are crossed, the petulant expression on his face. It’s getting to be a habit of his, this stubbornness, settled in around the time he lost the last of his baby fat, and Dean’s not quite sure how to manage it yet, but that’s an issue for a different day—
“—that Sammy here got in a fight with a boy twice his size? And somehow, he’s the one being punished for it?” Dean keeps his tone light, sincerity braided through with a strand or two of genuine puzzlement.
“It’s school policy,” the principal says, face as bland as the cheap wood veneer beneath Dean’s fingers. “I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester, I was under the impression I’d be talking to Sam’s father at this meeting—”
—a loud scoff from behind him, that both he and the principal choose to ignore—
“—remind me again, how old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” Dean says, the lie chocolate-smooth in his mouth. Sam, wisely, keeps silent. “Our father’s off on business at the moment, so it’s up to me to look after Sam.”
“Very well.” The woman still looks uneasy, but clearly Dean’s smile reassures her somewhat. “Middle school is a notoriously difficult time. We recognize that. However, we have a zero-tolerance policy towards fighting. All parties involved are suspended for six days, regardless of who started it.”
Another adjustment to the smile, a sliver of please-understand-me. “Look, if it’d been me I woulda been happy for the vacation. But you have to understand, Sam’s got brains. He likes school, the little nerd, and this kid’s been picking on him for weeks now. How can you punish him for standing up for himself?”
The woman gives a sigh. “It’s not about that, Mr. Winchester. It’s for the safety of the other children—”
“He said you were going to take me away.” Sam speaks up again, and Dean does turn to look at him this time: arms crossed, stubborn jaw set, just as he guessed. But there’s something else there, around the eyes: fear. “Kevin Michaels,” he says to the principal, not even deigning to glance in Dean’s direction. “And his hanger-on, Todd. He said that you and the other teachers were talking to Child Protective Services about putting me in a foster home. Because—” His eyes do flick to Dean, then, and for all his newfound teenage stubbornness, the terror in them is pure child-Sam, Sam when their father doesn’t return on time, Sam when Dean’s been hurt— “because we’re poor.”
Dean turns his gaze back to the principal’s face, expecting a brush-off, bullies will say anything to get under your skin— but is startled to find her looking down at the desk. “This isn’t true, is it?” The smile is slipping, disbelief and cold fear pooling in his stomach.
Finally, the woman looks up at him, her expression level. “You’re correct that Sam’s grades are excellent. It’s his behavior that concerns us. We had…conferred, yes, about possible problems at home.” At Dean’s angry inhale, she holds up a hand. “Your younger brother stood up for himself by beating two children nearly unconscious with a board full of rusty nails. They’re getting tetanus shots as we speak.”
Dean closes his mouth, swallows. It’s not that he expected Sam to need him to fight his battles forever, but the viciousness of the attack, the fear that motivated it—the warmth in his chest, that Sam would go to such lengths for him, for their family—
Seeing his reaction, the principal lifts her chin a touch. “Can you understand why we have the safety policy now, Mr. Winchester?”
Dean holds her gaze, finally speaks. “Sammy?” He’s not looking in his brother’s direction, but he can feel Sam abruptly sitting straighter, alert—no petty scoffing, no complaints about the nickname. “Get your things. We’re leaving.”
The principal gives a nod. “I’ll have his teachers send along homework packets—”
“No need.” Dean’s voice is nothing but chilly formality. “Please consider Sam Winchester withdrawn from this school.”
She blinks, and Dean feels a touch of satisfaction. “Mr. Winchester, there’s no need for theatrics here. Sam will be welcome back next week.”
“Next week we’ll be joining our father,” Dean says. “Thank you for your time.”
They walk home—inasmuch as ‘home’ is an abandoned house on the edge of town; two months of squatting and it’s as good as any—in silence. There’s no sidewalk along the highway; not much traffic either, only the occasional car whoosh ing past.
“I’m not sorry.” Now that Dean’s seen through Sam’s defiance, the terror behind it is painfully obvious. “Todd and Kevin are assholes.”
“Never met a Kevin that wasn’t.” Dean shoves his hands in his pockets. “Why didn’t you say anything? About the rumors.”
Sam shrugs, defiance melting into sullenness. “Didn’t want to have to leave again so soon. Thought they were just being jerks.” Feet scuffing in scattered gravel. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters! What am I gonna do if they come knocking, huh? Dad out of town, the two of us living in sleeping bags and lanterns, no car, no money, a fake ID that says ‘Federal Bikini Inspector’ on it? What do I tell ‘em?”
“Tell them we’re secret agents, investigating the school system. Tell them we’re millionaires who’re roughing it for kicks. Tell them some bullshit about Dad being a secret agent on assignment.” Before Dean can get after him for his snooty tone, Sam stops, turns to look up at him, hurls the words. “Just lie. That’s what you do all the time, isn’t it?”
“I lie to protect you. ”
“Well, I’m sick of lying! It just makes everything worse, can’t you see that?”
Dean’s temper finally flares. “So what, you gonna beat me with a rusty nail about it?”
A pause, and Dean waits to see if Sam really will—not with the rusty nail, but they’ve sparred enough that he can read when Sam’s readying himself to throw a punch. He notices, vaguely, that they used to look far more alike than they do now. Puberty is rapidly broadening Sam’s shoulders, his jaw—not to mention the growth spurts, at thirteen he’s only an inch shorter than Dean is now. Passersby might not even peg them for brothers anymore—
Finally, Sam deflates. “I should,” he says, but there’s no heat in it. He turns to keep walking up the highway. “Make you go to the doctor and get tetanus shots.”
Dean lets out a careful exhale. “You know how I feel about needles.”
“Exactly.” He turns again, walking backwards, and grins—suddenly he’s a child again, wickedly gleeful, practically begging Dean to tackle him and give him a noogie. Rub his face in the gravel. Tickle him until he can’t breathe—“You should see the ones they use for tetanus shots. They’re huge. ”
“You’re asking for it, Sammy, I swear.” It’s taking all of Dean’s willpower to keep his brow knit, his lips downcast.
Sam’s practically skipping backwards, just out of Dean’s reach. “Bet they make you pull your pants down, too. Jab you right in the butt.” He mimes sticking a needle, pressing the plunger.
Dean gives an exaggerated shiver. “If you say one more word—”
“—it’d serve you right. Liar, liar, pants-on-fire—”
“Oh, it’s on, ” Dean says, and takes off running after Sam, who whoops and pivots, taking off as fast as his ratty sneakers and overgrown legs can carry him. Please, Dean thinks, as another car whoosh es past on its way to the next state over. Please, as his own sneakers pound the pavement, closing in on Sam’s head start, fingers outstretched to catch him. Just let me keep him safe a little longer. Let him let me. It becomes a chant, a mantra, intertwined with his heartbeat, his breath, his footsteps against the ground. Let him let me—let him let me—