Rating/Warning: PG (language)
Category: Gen - wee!wing!fic
Notes: Part of my gen wing!fic verse.
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
“…and you know that big coat he always wears.”
Dean is sitting on the hood of the Impala, waiting for Sam to get out of school so they can go for burgers. There are three boys approaching and Dean has no reason to automatically assume they’re talking about his Sammy but the certainty is there anyway.
“Maybe he gets touched at home,” the second boy says, sniffing mightily and using a sleeve to wipe across his nose. The other two kind of look at him for a beat before both nodding sagely.
“Bet he’s all bruised and shit. Wonder he doesn’t like people bumping him,” the third one speaks up, kind of fluttering his hands around his torso like he’s pantomiming personal space. Dean’s eyes narrow as they get closer. They’re about Sammy’s age, probably in some of his classes and if these boys are starting to question then maybe…
“Hey!” Dean looks away from the teens and spots Sam loping across the quadrangle with its dying grass, the kind that itches like a mother if you sit on it, even in jeans. Sam’s got his book-bag held in one hand and he’s swinging it back and forth in lazy arcs. He usually has to walk home so it’s a rare treat that he gets a ride.
“Hey, Sam?” Dean’s gaze jerks towards the older man who has called out. He’s wearing something knitted with a crazy design that’s hard to look at and the look of a guy that’s been too long in the one job that’s beaten him down. He’s frowning as he approaches and Dean gets a gut-punch bad vibe about the whole thing. The teacher, because that’s what he’s got to be with the god-awful hair-jumper, makes to put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and Sam shies away.
Dean sees it then, clear as day. The way the man kind of narrows his gaze and manages to look pissed off and sympathetic all at once. His eyes tick to Dean and the sympathy ebbs but doesn’t disappear completely because he’s got to not be sure just who is doing the beating at home. He squints and shades his eyes a second and then the sympathy is back in full force. Dean’s hand rises to his face involuntarily.
He’d forgotten all about the shiner.
“Can you just think about what we discussed?” the teacher asks as he ducks down to Sam’s eye line. The man’s a bean-pole but Dean is startled by how much he doesn’t really need to duck. At fourteen Sam is nearly as tall as Dean and he still has some growing to do.
Sam makes some kind of non-committal noise meant to get the man to go but he’s not leaving. He’s looking between Sam and Dean like he’s contemplating making an approach and Dean tenses right up. He’s done this dance before. There’s been a whole laundry list of Samaritans through the years who have taken the various bumps and bruises both he and Sammy have sustained just by the virtue of birth the wrong way. They usually have to pull up stakes and move on when this happens and Dean isn’t looking forward to that. Despite his fellow classmates thinking he’s odd or damaged in some way, Sam is doing well for once. They’d been able to settle long enough for Sam to make some decent grades; enough that Dean knew his teachers were talking to him about scholarships.
Sam couldn’t ever accept any of them of course, but it must have made the kid chuffed just to be offered.
“C’mon kiddo!” Dean calls, because Sam is stuck in that awkward space of wanting to escape but not being able to abandon an authority figure when he hasn’t been dismissed. It’s almost funny that Sam is the rebellious one in their family with a harsh taskmaster like their father, but automatically comes to heel in the face of a cardigan-clad forty-year-old man with a potbelly and from Dean can see, soft hands.
Sam pivots his body towards Dean because he senses liberation is near but still hesitates because he’s being stared at in an imploring way. Dean has the crazy impulse to just walk right up to his brother and whip the giant overcoat off him, revealing to the man who thinks he knows what’s going on just what is going on.
He fights the urge, just.
“Young man-” the teacher starts and Dean groans because he’s suddenly become another soul to save apparently. The wince reminds him of his bruised eye and he can’t exactly blame the guy. Frankly, most people wouldn’t bother trying to help and it’s nice that there are still people in the world willing to step up and Do Something. It’s just unfortunate that the man is swinging wide with the sad cases he thinks he’s found.
My brother’s fine, just got wings is all.
Yeah, that’d go down a treat.
“Sammy, now!” Dean barks because he’s willing to make this guy think that maybe he’s the problem if they can get out of there. Mr. Charity Project will think he can collar Sam at school the next day and not know that the Winchesters will be well on their way to another state by the time the bell rings.
Dean’s dreams of a quiet night with his brother, a couple of burgers and the Nightmare on Elm Street marathon playing that night at the local run-down drive-in disappear.
Thankfully, Sam’s feet get moving under that thread of command in Dean’s voice. The teacher actually makes a grab for him and Sam bats his hand aside like a pro, eyes narrowed. “I’m fine Mr. Keating, geez!” he says, injecting just the right amount of eye-roll and teenage scorn into his voice to make the teacher hesitate. By the time Sam reaches the Impala he’s looking thunderous and Dean knows that Sam has realized just what this little confrontation has cost him.
No more school, no more semblance of normal.
The passenger door squeaks open and closed and with Sammy safely secured, Dean turns to face the teacher who had been momentarily derailed but is now rallying like a champ, approaching with his hands out. “Can you just wait a minute?” he implores as Dean rounds to the driver’s side.
Dean pauses, because he’s being approached by a decent guy and that kind of thing shouldn’t be stamped on. Maybe next time he sees bruises sticking out of some kid’s shirt, it’ll be the right conclusions he draws. Dean puts a hand up on the roof of the Impala, keys poking between his fingers. “Me and Sam are okay, really,” he says simply and the teacher stops.
“Is fine. He’s a pain in the ass but no one will lay a finger on him while I’m around.”
“What about you?” the teacher asks, a hand flitting up to touch at his own eye.
“Me? I can take care of myself,” Dean says with a grin.