Chapter Text
Dean Winchester isn’t a morning person. He is a sleep-til-noon, 3-cups-of-black-coffee-when-he-wakes-up person. Of course, the universe is an uncaring bastard, so today like most days, he's up before the sun, yanking on a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans while someone calls his name.
“Be right there!” He calls back. It's not technically a crime to be up this early, but Dean thinks it oughta be.
“I made breakfast,” Sam says when Dean emerges. He rubs his eyes. Their house is always a touch too warm, and Sam cooking doesn't help, but it smells amazing, so Dean decides valiantly to not care. He grabs a paper plate.
“Damn, Sammy,” He says around a mouthful of crispy bacon, “What did I do to deserve this?”
“It's Sam,” Sam corrects, “And it's, y'know, it's today.”
“Okay, be more mysterious, wouldja. You seen Dad?”
“No,” He says quickly, flipping a pancake and not looking at Dean.
“Damn.”
“Yeah, whatever.” As he turns the bacon, he adds, “Oh, I have bookclub this afternoon.”
“Oh? Cool. Will you need a ride home?”
“Yeah.”
Dean shrugs, “Alright.”
As he cooks, Sam chatters about his trip to the mall with Kevin last weekend and Dean makes himself a cup of coffee. Apparently they got Starbucks courtesy of Mrs. Tran, and they were able to get free samples at the food court three times before they got recognized. While he talks, Dean checks the calendar for John's work schedule. Monday, November 2nd. Huh, he's not scheduled the next couple days. So where the hell is he?
Dean's stomach feels queasy when he pulls on his jacket. Probably the damn pancakes.
He feels sick the whole time he drives Sam to school. It gets worse the more he drives. Jesus shit, not even the smooth rumbles of his '67 Chevy Impala makes him feel better.
About a block from the middle school, Sam turns down the music.
“Hey!” Dean snaps, “Driver picks--”
“Shut up, I know,” Sam says, “Listen, I was wondering if I could come with you today.”
“Come with me? Where?”
Sam looks at him like he's stupid, “To see Mom.”
Oh fuck, that's right. It's November 2nd,, that's why his stomach hurts.
“Oh, fuck,” He says. Sam hasn't offered many times before, “Shit, uh, yeah, if you want to.”
“I do,” He says, his brow furrowing.
“Fuck, okay. Yeah. We can swing by after book club.”
The rest of the drive is quiet. Dean's stomachache travels up to his throat. Sam has a couple of friends waiting for him on the front steps when Dean drops him off, and watching them take him in with a smile eases Dean's yuck for a moment. The sun has just started peeking over the trees when he pulls out of the parking lot.
***
Dean pulls into the high school parking lot and kills the engine. Ugh. It couldn't just be November 2nd, no, it also had to be a fucking Monday. He scrubs his face with his hands. High school doesn't start for another half-hour, so he hops out and walks over to the convenience store. He grabs some beef jerky, and a candy bar for Sam. On his way out he spots some roses on clearance and grabs those, too.
By the time he gets back to school, first period has already started. He considers calling Ash and asking him to hang out under the bleachers instead of going to class, but they got caught last time, and the more he thinks about it, the less he wants John to read him the riot act again. Ugh, class it is.
Woodshop is fine. They're making bridges out of popsicle sticks, and more than one of Dean's classmates makes theirs look like a dick. He gets a laugh out of it. He flirts with some of the girls. All in all, not a bad class, except he's so distracted he almost forgets his bookbag on the way out.
Forensics is cool. He spends most of it chatting with Ash while they analyze blood spatter samples that may or may not just be watered down ketchup.
English is next. He likes it more than he admits. Their teacher, Miss Sands, is a fiery woman who does her hair in complicated 50s swirls, and she makes their work actually interesting. He is ducking in just as the late bell is ringing, and he kicks the back of Jo's chair as greeting.
“Good morning to you, too,” She says, not looking up from her notebook. She's doodling a small gun, the one Ellen has hanging on the wall of the Roadhouse in between the singing fish and the Elvis Presley poster.
“Sup?” He says, “You wanna come over for dinner? We can do a movie night.”
“Movie night? It's Monday, you weirdo.”
He huffs, “I know. But it's-- you know. November 2nd.”
“Oh shit.” She puts her pen down.
“Yeah. I'm, uh, going to see her after school, but maybe y'all could swing by afterwards?”
“Hm... We both work til close, but we can bring by some leftovers.”
Before he can respond that fuck yes, Roadhouse leftovers sound amazing, Miss Sands clears her throat and he flushes.
“Now that I have your attention,” She says, making pointed eye contact with Dean, who sinks into his chair, “Who here has heard of Frankenstein?”
Their next unit is on Frankenstein – the book, not the movie, much to Dean's disappointment – and they'll be doing a semester-long research project about it. Ugh. And it's a partner project. Double ugh. But he doesn't want to disappoint Miss Sands. Maybe he can enlist Sammy's help; They just finished Frankenstein in their book club last month.
Jo is assigned to work with Dorothy, a cute brunette who sits near the window. Dean smiles at her and she winks. Dean is assigned to work with Casteel? who is out today, just his luck. If he remembers right, Casteel sits behind him and doesn't say much. Weird. But as long as he does his work, it's whatever.
On the way to lunch, Miss Sands asks him to stay back for a minute. Jo hovers outside the room for him.
“Is everything okay, Dean?” She asks.
“Uh, yeah,” he lies, “Didn't sleep well, is all.”
“I'm sorry to hear that. If there's anything you need to talk about, please let me know.”
“Uh, thanks, teach,” He says, flushing. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Your partner Castiel let me know he's out sick right now, but he asked me to give you his phone number so you two can get in touch.”
“Oh, alright,” He says. The weirdness meter on this dude ticks up, “Is he gonna be out for a while?”
“I'm not sure,” Miss Sands says, in a way that tells him she does know but doesn't want to say.
Whatever, no skin off his nose. He takes the number and heads out.
Lunch is his favorite part of the day. He doesn't remember who started it, but for the last year everyone's brings one thing each for lunch and they all split it. A very informal potluck. Today, Ash, who's got the party half of his mullet pulled back into a braid, brought fried chicken. Jo pulls out Roadhouse baked potatoes. Dean snagged some leftover pancakes and bacon. He microwaves it for two full minutes, but the microwave just makes a weird whining noise and turns the pancakes soggy and still cold in the middle. Typical.
“Hey, man,” Dean says, as Ash takes a pancake. “Tell Jo what you were telling me in Forensics.”
“Oh god,” Jo sighs.
“No, it's legit this time, just listen.” He steals a bite of potato off Jo's fork.
“Thank you, Dean,” Ash says.
He clears his throat, “Okay, consider this: you're in Arizona...”
When Ash is finished, all Jo says is, “You're crazy,” and rolls her eyes.
Ash winks. “That's what they want you to think.”
“It makes sense to me, man,” Dean argues, “Reverse bird-watching. Seems legit.”
“You also think Sarah Jessica Parker is hot,” Jo points out.
“Cause she is, dude, you just don't get it.”
She rolls her eyes yet again, “Clearly.”
There's a lull in the conversation while they all dig into the collective lunch. While he chews on a chicken wing, Dean taps Cas-tee-el's number into his phone. As he's typing, a call springs up.
“Hey. Bobby?” He answers. Ash and Jo make look at him and he raises his eyebrows.
“Hey kid,” Bobby says, “Your dad's fine, he passed out on my couch around 3 this morning.”
“Oh,” Dean says. Right. John usually drink himself stupid on November 2nd. Right. “Okay. Great.”
“Yeah. Just thought I'd let you know. I'm making him shower and drink two bottles of water before I send 'im home.”
He chuckles, “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks, kid. I gotta go, but ring me if you need anything.”
“Yeah, I will.”
He ends the call. Jo chews her bottom lip and Ash has one eyebrow quirked.
“Dad's fine, just passed out at Bobby's.” He explains, suddenly feeling 10 degrees too warm.
“Typical old man,” Ash says after a moment, “He probably fell asleep watching that Spanish soap he secretly likes.”
“Quietly crying into his ice cream,” Jo adds.
“For real,” Dean says, very grateful for his friends.
They go back to eating, and after a bit, Dean says, “Hey, uh, do either of you know Castiel Novak? We're partners for an English project.”
Ash shakes his head, “Nah, can't say I do.”
“Novak? I've talked to him a couple times,” Jo says, “He's kinda odd, but he seems nice.”
Dean hums. Alright. “Cool.” He'll probably be fine to work with, then. He reopens his phone, which has gone dark.
hey is this castiel? im dean winchester, we have english 2gether.
He doesn't get an immediate response, so he pockets his phone.
They shoot the shit for a while. Jo and Dean regale Ash with only slightly exaggerated stories from their hunting trip last weekend, and Ash explains his recent computer programming project, which Dean doesn't really follow, but he likes to listen.
Instead of heading to Trig or Guitar, Dean convinces the three of them to shoot the shit under the bleachers, and when Mr. Fueler gets too close for comfort, they head over to the gas station. They get energy drinks and stale donuts and argue about whether a werewolf or a vampire would win in a fight until the store clerk asks them to leave. Dean almost forgets to be sad.
At the end of the day, Dean spends fifteen minutes after class trying to get his Chemistry teacher to explain the different properties of an atom. Eventually, the balding man looks at him pointedly and asks if there's somewhere else he needs to be. Annoyed that he got caught, he huffs and heads out.
***
Smoking outside a middle school is probably not grounds for arrest, but it certainly feels that way. Dean takes quick puffs of his cancer stick, trying to savor the hot, bitter taste in his mouth while training his eyes on the door. When Sam comes out, arm-in-arm with a tall blonde girl, he drops the cigarette and grinds it out with his heel.
“Hey, kiddo,” He says, a little too fast.
Sam doesn't notice the smoking, or at least pretends not to. He just blushes and unlinks arms with his friend, “Hey, Dean. This is Jess. Jess, this is my older brother, Dean.”
Jess waves shyly, “Hi.” She's a couple inches taller than Sam, with a mass of blonde curls and a mole right next to her eyebrow.
Dean grins. “Jess! Sam didn't tell me you were so pretty! How'd you swing a girl like that, eh Sammy?”
They blush, and he laughs.
“It's Sam,” Sam mumbles. He looks over to Jess and they both turn a truly tomatoey shade of red.
Dean grins. He hops in the car while Sam and Jess say their goodbyes, which involve a lingering hug and a squeeze of Sam's hand.
He raises his eyebrows at Sam when he climbs in.
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Sam sticks his tongue out, and that's that.
Before turning onto the main road, Dean tosses him a candy bar, “Uh, thanks. For bein' a good sport.”
“Oh,” Sam says, looking the candy bar over, “Yeah, dude, of course.”
They drive in silence. Mom is little ways away through a winding backroad. Fall is in full effect in this part of town, the leaves on the trees as orange as the sunset. Night creeps over them as they drive, so by the time they pull in to the Campbell Graveyard it's almost completely dark.
Dean parks near the entrance, the cobblestone paths too narrow for his car to get through. They're hit with a blast of cold that sends a shiver up Dean's back. His fingers go numb around the roses. They march through the graves until they come to a plot near the back left, next to a tall angel statue. When they reach the site, the automatic lights flicker on.
He sets the flowers down. Someone else left a little bottle of whiskey next to the headstone.
He takes a deep breath and glances at Sam a few feet behind him, wringing his hands.
“Hey Mom.”