chance may crown me - SN fic - PG13
Jul. 12th, 2007 06:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tigriswolfTitle: chance may crown me
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: the Winchesters aren’t mine. Everyone else is. Title from Macbeth.
Warnings: pre-pilot; rampant run-on sentences; a smidge of language; frequent Shakespeare mocking
Pairings: none
Rating: PG13
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 4735
Point of view: third
Point of view: third
Notes: written for the ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
spn_summergenfic-exchange
spn_summergenfic-exchangeDedication: i_speak_tongue, as ‘twas her prompt. iamstealthyonefor reading over this and offering awesome advice.
i_speak_tongue, as ‘twas her prompt. iamstealthyonefor reading over this and offering awesome advice. Her name was Marigold Hawkins, and she was totally evil. Dean knew it the first time he walked into her English class and saw her beady little eyes. He told Dad, he told Sam—hell, he even called up Pastor Jim and told him. But no one listened.
You're overreacting, Dean.
She just wants your best work, Dean.
C'mon, Dean—act your age, son. (Clearly, that last was Dad.)
The woman was evil. Not to mention insane.
What seventeen-year-old male in the history of the world cared about Shakespeare? Some overrated dead guy who could barely write a coherent sentence, for real.
But Marigold Hawkins insisted on a major project, due at the end of the year, that would be worth half the final grade, and she would pair students up together. With Dean's luck, he’d get Tucker Marcus, that creepy-ass pale dude who probably worshiped Satan and sacrificed babies in his spare time.
With Ms. Hawkins.
And, of course, Dad swore upside down and backwards that they’d spend the entire year in this one place, because of some cracked-out deal he'd made with Sammy.
Dean, also of course, had no say in the matter. Not that he ever did.
Not that he’s bitter.
Honest.
--
Ms. Hawkins paired him with Tucker Marcus, of course, and assigned them Macbeth.
Stupid play.
Dean pouted in his desk until third period ended and stormed out, ignoring Ms. Hawkins’ beady glare and Marcus shouting his name.
The school wasn’t that big, though, and Marcus tracked him down to his fourth period, calculus with Mr. Trudeau, and sank down into the desk next to him. Dean ignored him(like he wasn’t already the odd kid out, what with coming in the middle of the year and all) and pulled out his math book.
“We’ll need to get together and go over the assignment,” Marcus said. “No way I’m failin’ just ’cause I got partnered with you.”
Dean continued to ignore him. Marcus huffed and got up, pausing by Dean to say, “I’ll see you at lunch, Winchester.”
--
Of course, creepy-ass, pale, devil-worshipper Tucker Marcus actually did sit by Dean at lunch that day. And the next. And the one after that.
So, finally, Dean gave in and actually talked to the jerk.
They agreed to meet at Marcus’ house on Saturday, around nine, and go over the assignment, read that stupid play, and start their retelling.
’cause that was the assignment. Ms. Hawkins wanted them to rewrite Shakespeare(overrated hack)’s masterpiece.
Clearly, the crazy witch was evil.
--
Dad didn’t see it that way, big surprise. And, unfortunately, there was no hunt he needed help with. So Saturday, Dean headed for Marcus’ house.
It was clear across town, and Dad had the car, so Dean hoofed it, which didn’t endear the project or Marcus to him. He grumbled the whole way, listing everything he’d rather be doing—having his gallbladder ripped out by a pissed-off poltergeist topped it.
But he eventually reached the address Marcus had shoved at him, far sooner than he’d have liked. And it was a good house, upper middle-class, two stories.
He rang the bell, counting down his last seconds of freedom. The door opened to reveal a little girl, no more than nine. He would never have let Sammy open the door at that age.
“Who’re you?” she asked, big blue eyes guileless and the color of the sky.
“Dean Winchester,” he answered. “’m’here to do a project with Tucker?”
She stared at him for a moment before backing up and yelling, “Billy, it’s for you!” Then she shut the door in his face.
Dean stared at the smooth, dark brown wood in stupefaction. Had Sammy been that rude? And “Billy,” huh? Weird.
The door swung open again, this time revealing Marcus. “I’m sorry about Clara,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.
Dean shrugged and Marcus continued, “C’mon in.”
--
They read most of the play that morning, and Dean wondered how half the world could be in love with Shakespeare. He sucked. Out loud.
Marcus sang the dude’s praises, though, and Dean rolled his eyes. “How ’bout you jus’ do the assignment, then? Seems like you’re in love with the guy, anyway.”
Marcus glared at him and snarled something Dean didn’t quite catch.
“Billy!” the munchkin shrieked, throwing open the door. Marcus jumped and Dean flinched. “Mama wants you!”
“Clara!” Marcus roared and she wheeled around, raced off. Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at Marcus.
“Siblings, man,” he said and laughed, shaking his head. “Adorable, ain’t they?”
Marcus snorted, rolling his eyes, and stood. “I’ll be right back.”
--
It took Marcus a good twenty minutes to come back, and Dean entertained himself by flipping through the yearbooks decorating the shelves. Marcus had attended school in this town since kindergarten—geeze. Dean couldn’t even imagine being stuck in one place for so long.
But finally Marcus came back. Dean looked up from his spot, lounging on the bed, and said, “We gonna do the assignment or not?”
Marcus glared at him. “My mom wants me to invite you to supper. I assured her you have plans.” His glare intensified. “You do—right?”
Dean nodded, a little in shock—he’d almost thought they had a moment of connection. Oh, well. Not like he wanted friends in this place, anyway. “Don’t worry, dude. My schedule’s full up.”
“Good.”
He decided not to push Marcus any more after that, and buckled down, trying to slog his way through the rest of Macbeth with a minimum of grumbling.
“My dad called,” Marcus finally said, the words spilling out in a rush. “He’s not comin’ back till next week.”
“Um…” Dean didn’t know what to say. “Sorry?”
Marcus sighed. “He’s been gone for three weeks—business trip.” Marcus shook his head and scoffed, continued with disgust, “Like we don’t know what he’s really doing.”
You're overreacting, Dean.
She just wants your best work, Dean.
C'mon, Dean—act your age, son. (Clearly, that last was Dad.)
The woman was evil. Not to mention insane.
What seventeen-year-old male in the history of the world cared about Shakespeare? Some overrated dead guy who could barely write a coherent sentence, for real.
But Marigold Hawkins insisted on a major project, due at the end of the year, that would be worth half the final grade, and she would pair students up together. With Dean's luck, he’d get Tucker Marcus, that creepy-ass pale dude who probably worshiped Satan and sacrificed babies in his spare time.
With Ms. Hawkins.
And, of course, Dad swore upside down and backwards that they’d spend the entire year in this one place, because of some cracked-out deal he'd made with Sammy.
Dean, also of course, had no say in the matter. Not that he ever did.
Not that he’s bitter.
Honest.
--
Ms. Hawkins paired him with Tucker Marcus, of course, and assigned them Macbeth.
Stupid play.
Dean pouted in his desk until third period ended and stormed out, ignoring Ms. Hawkins’ beady glare and Marcus shouting his name.
The school wasn’t that big, though, and Marcus tracked him down to his fourth period, calculus with Mr. Trudeau, and sank down into the desk next to him. Dean ignored him(like he wasn’t already the odd kid out, what with coming in the middle of the year and all) and pulled out his math book.
“We’ll need to get together and go over the assignment,” Marcus said. “No way I’m failin’ just ’cause I got partnered with you.”
Dean continued to ignore him. Marcus huffed and got up, pausing by Dean to say, “I’ll see you at lunch, Winchester.”
--
Of course, creepy-ass, pale, devil-worshipper Tucker Marcus actually did sit by Dean at lunch that day. And the next. And the one after that.
So, finally, Dean gave in and actually talked to the jerk.
They agreed to meet at Marcus’ house on Saturday, around nine, and go over the assignment, read that stupid play, and start their retelling.
’cause that was the assignment. Ms. Hawkins wanted them to rewrite Shakespeare(overrated hack)’s masterpiece.
Clearly, the crazy witch was evil.
--
Dad didn’t see it that way, big surprise. And, unfortunately, there was no hunt he needed help with. So Saturday, Dean headed for Marcus’ house.
It was clear across town, and Dad had the car, so Dean hoofed it, which didn’t endear the project or Marcus to him. He grumbled the whole way, listing everything he’d rather be doing—having his gallbladder ripped out by a pissed-off poltergeist topped it.
But he eventually reached the address Marcus had shoved at him, far sooner than he’d have liked. And it was a good house, upper middle-class, two stories.
He rang the bell, counting down his last seconds of freedom. The door opened to reveal a little girl, no more than nine. He would never have let Sammy open the door at that age.
“Who’re you?” she asked, big blue eyes guileless and the color of the sky.
“Dean Winchester,” he answered. “’m’here to do a project with Tucker?”
She stared at him for a moment before backing up and yelling, “Billy, it’s for you!” Then she shut the door in his face.
Dean stared at the smooth, dark brown wood in stupefaction. Had Sammy been that rude? And “Billy,” huh? Weird.
The door swung open again, this time revealing Marcus. “I’m sorry about Clara,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.
Dean shrugged and Marcus continued, “C’mon in.”
--
They read most of the play that morning, and Dean wondered how half the world could be in love with Shakespeare. He sucked. Out loud.
Marcus sang the dude’s praises, though, and Dean rolled his eyes. “How ’bout you jus’ do the assignment, then? Seems like you’re in love with the guy, anyway.”
Marcus glared at him and snarled something Dean didn’t quite catch.
“Billy!” the munchkin shrieked, throwing open the door. Marcus jumped and Dean flinched. “Mama wants you!”
“Clara!” Marcus roared and she wheeled around, raced off. Dean raised an eyebrow and looked at Marcus.
“Siblings, man,” he said and laughed, shaking his head. “Adorable, ain’t they?”
Marcus snorted, rolling his eyes, and stood. “I’ll be right back.”
--
It took Marcus a good twenty minutes to come back, and Dean entertained himself by flipping through the yearbooks decorating the shelves. Marcus had attended school in this town since kindergarten—geeze. Dean couldn’t even imagine being stuck in one place for so long.
But finally Marcus came back. Dean looked up from his spot, lounging on the bed, and said, “We gonna do the assignment or not?”
Marcus glared at him. “My mom wants me to invite you to supper. I assured her you have plans.” His glare intensified. “You do—right?”
Dean nodded, a little in shock—he’d almost thought they had a moment of connection. Oh, well. Not like he wanted friends in this place, anyway. “Don’t worry, dude. My schedule’s full up.”
“Good.”
He decided not to push Marcus any more after that, and buckled down, trying to slog his way through the rest of Macbeth with a minimum of grumbling.
“My dad called,” Marcus finally said, the words spilling out in a rush. “He’s not comin’ back till next week.”
“Um…” Dean didn’t know what to say. “Sorry?”
Marcus sighed. “He’s been gone for three weeks—business trip.” Marcus shook his head and scoffed, continued with disgust, “Like we don’t know what he’s really doing.”
“Oh.” Dean stared at him. “Man, I’m sorry.”
Marcus shook himself, stretching. “Forget about it. Let’s just work.”
“Okay,” Dean agreed.
--
They planned to meet at the public library when it opened the next afternoon at three. Marcus said he might have to bring the munchkin, and Dean shrugged—“Dad’ll probably make me take Sammy.”
“Was it as bad as you were expectin’?” Dad asked when he got back and Dean shrugged one shoulder.
“Could’a been worse, I s’pose,” he answered. “We’re not done yet, though.”
“Oh, really?” Dad said, raising an eyebrow. “And what’s left for you to do, son?”
“The whole thing. We just read the stupid play today.” Dean sighed, showing Dad what a sacrifice that was. “We’re goin’ to the library tomorrow.”
Just like Dean knew he would, Dad said, “Take your brother.”
---
He told Sam to not leave the baby-books section, and if he did, Dean wouldn’t play basketball with him for a month.
“They’re not baby books, Dean!” Sam called after him, and Dean ignored him.
He headed for the back, where he and Marcus had agreed to meet. Marcus was already there, the munchkin sitting beside him. Dean plopped down across the table and waited to be acknowledged. Marcus held up a finger and continued reading. Dean rolled his eyes.
Finally, Marcus set aside his book and said to the munchkin, “Clara, go look for some books you want.”
She pouted at him. “Mama told you to watch me.”
Marcus looked at her; she shot to her feet, flounced off.
Dean raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Sure am glad Sammy’s a boy.”
Marcus tossed a slim volume at Dean; Dean grabbed it out of the air without looking, smirking at Marcus’ small impressed noise.
“So, how we gonna do this?” Dean asked, opening the book. It was a history of Shakespeare. “Aww, hell.”
Now, Marcus smirked. “Well, we can make it a modern-day rendition, or fiddle around with the characters a bit.”
“Hate this play,” Dean muttered.
--
They decided to retell the play in the fifties. Marcus agreed to write it out, since his handwriting was about a billion times better than Dean’s. But Dean came up with the basic storyline—since it couldn’t be a verbatim plot—and convinced Marcus to change the ending.
“C’mon, dude,” he wheedled, “it’s entirely too easy for the MacDuff guy to win.”
“We can’t rewrite the ending!” Marcus countered. “It’s a historic classic!”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “And?”
Marcus glared. Dean smirked.
And Marcus sighed, “Fine.”
--
Monday, Dean walked into class and Ms. Hawkins greeted him with a bright smile. “Hello, Dean,” she chirped. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
He stared at her. “Yeah, Ms. Hawkins,” he finally answered. “Lovely day.”
Slowly, he worked his way around her; her beady little eyes followed him and her thin lips still smiled. Creepiest woman he’d ever known.
Class started and she called roll; Marcus walked in late and got detention, to be served with Ms. Hawkins on Wednesday. He pouted throughout English, glaring at her, but he held his tongue, which was more than Dean could have done.
After the bell, Marcus stalked up to Dean and said, “Still meeting at my house tonight?”
Dean nodded. “Sorry ’bout the bitch, dude.”
“Mr. Winchester!”
Dean blanched.
Mr. Calley, the principal, came around the corner, eyes narrowed in fury. “You will serve detention on Wednesday, Winchester. And consider this your last warning!” He stalked off.
Watching him go, Dean muttered a curse.
--
Sammy laughed. And laughed. Dean folded his arms and glared. And demanded of Dad, “Do I hav’ta go? There’s gotta be hunt, or somethin’.”
“Nope,” Dad said serenely. “It’s not your first detention, son.”
“I know,” Dean groaned. “But Dad, it’s with her.” Her, that evil, virgin-sacrificing witch.
“Dean,” Dad said, in that tone.
Dean pouted. “Yes, sir.”
--
Dean and Tucker(since they had detention together, and the guy wasn’t that bad, Dean decided to call him by his name now) commiserated before getting to the play. “Bitch,” Dean muttered and Tucker nodded.
“I’ve never had detention before!” Tucker told him. “Not once!”
Dean stared at him. “Really? Dude, how’d you pull that off?”
Tucker looked at him, canting his head. “For real?”
“Yeah.”
So Tucker told him about his entire high-school experience, how he stuck to the walls and the shadows, never drawing attention to himself. How he had no friends, but also no enemies, and teachers that often ignored him. “Can’t get in trouble if you aren’t seen,” Tucker explained, the sadness in his eyes cutting Dean, hitting too close for comfort.
Dean nodded. “I get that.” He chuffed a small laugh. “I’ve played so many different roles… jus’ decided to be the bad-boy here, I guess.” He shrugged.
Tucker studied him for a minute. “How many of them stories people tell are true?”
Dean’s smirk was strained, but he answered, “All of ’em.”
--
They got a great deal of work done that afternoon: character lists, the basic outline of what they would change, and Dean’s ending.
Tucker invited Dean to dinner, but Dean said, “Sorry—gotta go home and spend time with Sammy ’fore the kid thinks I’ve forgotten about him.”
Tucker nodded. “See you tomorrow, then.”
Dean grinned. “Later.”
--
Tuesday came and went without any problems. But Wednesday, Wednesday started with a storm. The rain lashed at the windows and the trees moaned. Sam woke with a fever of one-hundred degrees and got to stay home; Dean told Dad he should stay with Sam, just to be on the safe side.
“He’s not a baby anymore, Dean,” Dad patiently explained. “And I’ll come home at lunch to check on him. You’re goin’ to school.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said sulkily, then braved the storm.
--
School sucked. It wasn’t his first detention—not by a long-shot—but he’d have to spend time with Marigold Hawkins.
Bitch. All her fault.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the day, and Dean trudged to Ms. Hawkins’ classroom. He met up with Tucker at the door.
“We could always skip,” Dean suggested hopefully.
Tucker sighed. “No, we couldn’t.”
Dean deflated. “Yeah—Dad’d kick my ass.” It was his turn to sigh. “Damn.”
--
Ms. Hawkins gave them dictionaries and assigned letters; Dean got F and Tucker V. “Write until I tell you to stop,” she said, thin lips twisted in a creepy smile.
She sat at her desk, grading papers, and placed Dean in the front row, with Tucker in the back. And Dean felt her eyes, throughout the entire hour, roaming over him, studying him, judging him.
It weirded him out. A lot.
But finally the detention was over. He didn’t flee the room, just hurried out, nearly stepping on Tucker’s heels. He felt her eyes on him as he went, and apprehension filled him.
Something was really, really wrong with that woman, and no one would believe him. No one. Not Dad, not Sammy, not Pastor Jim or Bobby or Caleb. And it wasn’t like she scared him, or anything. Just a feeling of oddness about her, something that scraped at him.
He was on his own.
--
Sam’s fever was up to a hundred-and-two. Dad had to go out of town for a couple of nights, so he told Dean to stay home till Monday. And Dean had no problem with that, at all.
Sam slept most of the time, uneasily, always on the edge of waking. Dean kept water and soup close by, reading aloud any time he sensed Sam was close to consciousness. He also brought his Calculus(the only class he enjoyed) book into Sam’s room and worked on the next few chapters, getting ahead of the lesson.
Tucker called Thursday afternoon, asking why he hadn’t been at school. No one had ever done that before, showed concern when he missed a day, except teachers. And even that was rare. They usually cared more for Sammy.
“Sam’s sick,” Dean explained, heating up some more soup for Sammy. “I gotta watch him tomorrow, too.”
“Can I come by?” Tucker asked. “Ms. Hawkins gave us some more instructions for the project today.”
Dean shot a look towards Sam’s room. “Sure. But just long enough to tell me what she said. Sam needs quiet.”
“Okay,” Tucker agreed. “Give me your address.”
--
Tucker arrived about an hour later, bearing all of Dean’s assignments for school.
“You just had to, huh?” he asked.
Tucker grinned at him, depositing his load on the kitchen table. “I got your locker number from Ms. Alvin.” Tucker looked around. “Can I get some water?”
Dean nodded and filled him a glass. “Now, what’d the bitch say?”
“She’s moved the due date up,” Tucker said, taking a long gulp. “To three weeks from tomorrow.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Why?”
Tucker shrugged. “Dunno.”
--
Sam was better the next morning, his fever down to one-hundred. Dean reread the first act of Macbeth and did some of the Physics homework, then made Sam more soup for lunch. After that, he did a load of dishes, straightened up the apartment, and read the second act of Shakespeare’s stupid play.
By that time, Sam was up and slowly moving around. He took a quick shower, Dean hovering outside the bathroom door.
“’m’fine,” Sam grumbled when he came out, but he didn’t shake Dean off as Dean led him back to his bed and tucked the covers around him.
“Want somethin’ to eat?” Dean asked but Sam shook his head, burrowing into his blankets. “Alright. I’ll be in the livin’ room, Sammy—call me if you need me.”
He read the third act of Macbeth, finished the World History study guide, and watched a basketball game on TV. During half-time, he checked on Sam, and then cleaned the guns, sharpened some of the knives, and started supper.
Finally, the sun fully set and Sam stirred again. Dean watched as he lumbered to the couch and lowered himself down. He looked around quizzically and asked, “Where’s Dad?”
“Gone on a hunt. He should be back tomorrow,” Dean answered. “Hungry?”
Sam nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “Not soup.”
Dean studied him for a moment. “You can try some of the chili I had for supper.”
He slipped off the couch and padded over to the kitchen, warming a bowl of chili in the microwave. He snagged some crackers and a spoon, then carried his prizes back to Sammy, who was stretched out along the couch, looking miserable.
“How you doin’?” he asked, setting the bowl, crackers, and spoon on the coffee table before helping Sam up.
“Fine.” Sam sniffed and rubbed at his eyes again. “My head’s about a gazillion pounds, though.”
Dean made a sympathetic noise and handed off the chili, waiting till Sam had it securely before giving him the spoon. “Here’re some crackers, too.”
Sam’s smile was a pale shadow of its usual self, but it was genuine.
--
Saturday, Sam was a mite sluggish but basically his former self. He ate real food, drank glass after glass of water, and generally made a nuisance of himself as Dean tried to work.
And Dean relished every second of it. He hated it when Sam was sick.
Dad got home around noon, smelling like shit and scowling. “I got the son of a bitch,” was all he said and stalked to the bathroom, stripping his sodden clothes as he went. Dean gingerly picked them up and shoved them into the washer, starting it without adding anything else but the soap.
While Dad was still in the shower, Tucker called. “Yesterday, Ms. Hawkins told me we have to go her house.”
“Excuse me?” Dean couldn’t have heard him right.
Tucker sighed and sounded apologetic. “Tomorrow. Something about making sure we understand the assignment. She’s meeting with all the groups. We’re the first.”
Dean muttered a curse. “And she can’t ask us in class, why, exactly?”
“I dunno. But she’ll dock points if we aren’t both there.”
With a scowl, Dean said, “Fine.”
Not like she frightened him, or anything. Just some old woman who sacrificed virgins to her dark lord. Not a problem.
--
They met at the library with all their materials. Tucker drove from there, an old black ’vette that he said his dad gave him as a bribe.
“She picked the time, I’m guessin’,” Dean said and Tucker nodded.
“Three-twenty in the afternoon is the best time for her, for some reason.”
That niggled something in the back of Dean’s mind, but then his favorite Metallica song came on the radio and he turned it up loud without asking. He sang along and Tucker joined in, and Dean wondered, for one split-second, if that was what it’d be like to have friends.
--
Ms. Hawkins’ house was almost too normal. Dean studied the white shutters and neatly trimmed roses with a critical eye. She seemed to be trying too hard.
“Well, let’s do this,” Tucker said.
Dean followed him to the door.
--
Ms. Hawkins welcomed them into her lair with gleaming eyes and a wide grin, offered them lemonade and sandwiches, and told them to take a seat at the dining room table. Tucker spread their project out and Dean slouched next to him as Ms. Hawkins rifled through it all.
“Oh, well done, boys!” she praised, and the words sounded somewhat flat to Dean, like they were rote and she was reading from a manual. Tucker didn’t seem to notice anything, though, and he straightened up with a smile.
“So, we’re on the right track?” he asked, taking a big bite of his ham-and-cheese sandwich.
“If I were grading this right now?” She refilled Tucker’s glass. “I’d give the two of you a very high B.”
Tucker practically glowed.
Dean rolled his eyes, uncaring of the grade, and wondered if the room had always been so dark, because shadows seemed to be growing on the walls. But neither Ms. Hawkins nor Tucker noticed, and they kept on discussing the project. Dean tried focusing, he really did, but there was a pounding behind his eyes and his head weighed a thousand pounds, and something in his stomach recoiled.
He looked at Ms. Hawkins and she smiled, saying to Tucker, “I think you have the project well in hand, Mr. Marcus. So why don’t you head on home? Dean and I still have some things to talk about.”
Tucker shot a glance at Dean, but he must not have looked as bad as he felt, because Tucker agreed and gathered up his part of their work, and said “Bye,” before taking off.
And Ms. Hawkins smiled. Dark and dangerous, her thin lips stretched obscenely, and she lunged for him. Dean threw himself back, and she laughed, she laughed so loud it echoed in his head, drowning out the pounding, and she said, “You’ll do nicely.”
Everything went dark and he welcomed the silence that came with it.
--
Dean woke to chanting. The floor was cold beneath his cheek, and he kept his eyes closed, listening hard. It wasn’t Latin or Sumerian, wasn’t Hindu or Aramaic… no language he knew. Probably demonic.
Which was great. Just great.
So, Ms. Hawkins really was was evil. When he got out of this, he’d be telling people I told you so for years.
Dad knew where he was, though. Dad’d miss him soon enough and come in, guns blazing, deal with Ms. Hawkins and save him before…
“I know you’re awake, Dean,” she said, patting his cheek.
He rolled away, hands bound and held tight to his chest, eyes snapping open, and he glared at her. “Don’t you touch me,” he hissed.
“Come now, Dean,” she cooed. “You’re being honored! Not just anyone can be a sacrifice, you know. That’s why I sent Tucker away.” Ms. Hawkins wore a dark robe; maybe it’d be blue in good light. Her hair was down, a deep brown with a strands of gray streaming through it.
“I’ll kill you,” he told her, looking around for any escape. It was a basement, a damp and dark basement, with candles dotting it, the flames dancing threatingly. He shook his head, the world still hazy from whatever she’d roofied him with.
“I doubt that very much.” Her voice took on the teaching tone he hated at school. “See, Dean, I’ve been planning this for years, before you were even born. And everything’s finally in place. I was just waiting for the right person to come along.” She smiled again, leaning over to touch his face. “And you finally did.”
“What’m I bein’ sacrificed to?” he asked, testing the ropes around his wrists. His feet were free, but didn’t seem to want to listen.
Her eyes gleamed some more. “Anubis.”
“The jackal dude?” Dean stared at her. “What for?”
She laughed. “Immortality. What else? I needed someone young, someone beautiful, someone pure—”
“I ain’t pure, you crazy bitch.”
Ms. Hawkins stood back up and strode to the far wall, gripping something he couldn’t see in the dim light. “You are pure, Dean.” Her voice rang throughout the room, echoing off the walls. “Far purer than anyone I’ve ever known. Anubis will be pleased with you.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “My dad’ll come and kill you, so this sacrifice-thing is pointless. You might as well let me go.”
“No, Dean.” She sounded patient and sincere. “No one is coming. No one will be here until it’s too late.”
For a moment, he believed her.
“No,” he denied, shaking his head. “Dad’ll come.”
She walked back over and jammed a knife into his left shoulder; pain flared up and rolled throughout his entire body.
“I’ll be back,” she said gently. “Be good, Dean.”
He bit his lip to keep in the pain and glared up at her. She kissed his forehead and strode away, locking the basement door behind her.
Once he was able to will away the pain, Dean realized that Ms. Hawkins had left the knife in his shoulder. Stupid bitch.
--
It hurt like hell, but he finally twisted his hands around enough to grip the knife handle and pull it out of his shoulder. Of course, then he had to deal with the blood making his grasp slick while he tried sawing through the ropes with bound hands, but he managed. With a minimum of whimpering and cursing. Honest.
When he got himself free, he cut off the bottom of his shirt and pressed it into his shoulder before standing. The world tilted around him for a moment ; he took a minute to catch his breath and will back the pain again, then lumbered for the door, sticking close to the wall. He had no idea how long he’d been gone, if Dad had even started looking yet. If Dad even knew to look.
Sam would, though, right? He had to know.
No. Dean slumped down against the wall, the knife loosening in his fist. He was on his own. He had to get out of here before he bled to death all over the bitch’s basement. Once he was out, he could send Dad back here. Once he was out…
The door opened, Ms. Hawkins framed in the light from the hallway.
“Dean!” she exclaimed, eyes widening. “What are you doing?”
He reacted on pure instinct, throwing the knife before he even realized he’d thought about it. He lost his balance and sagged down, jarring his shoulder on the stone floor.
But she went down, too, the knife in her neck. He had to look away from her eyes as she gurgled and whimpered and died with barely a groan.
Dean lay there, his blood mingling with hers as the puddle grew, and when lightning flashed Dean knew he was completely fucked.
--
Looking back later, Dean hated talking about it. He explained the situation only once, and only to Dad.
C’mon—how can someone talk about a god of death deciding to let them go because their eyes are the wrong color? It’s kind of embarrassing.
Marigold Hawkins made a great sacrifice, though. Anubis actually seemed excited about taking her.
--
Dean walked to school on Tuesday with his shoulder bandaged and a dark bruise coloring most of his face. He still had the remnants of the worst headache of his life and he wasn’t in the mood for school. Stupid bitch with her stupid drugs and stupid psychosis—
But Dad made him go. He was running on about three hours of true sleep, his body ached all over, and he could still hear Anubis’ booming voice and Ms. Hawkins’ soul screaming in his ears, but Dad made him go anyway. The stab-wound wasn’t deep enough to warrant a hospital, so it wasn’t bad enough to keep him out of school for a third day in two weeks.
The English substitute was nice enough, though. And cute, in a perky blond sort-of way.
Dean slept through most of his classes and sat in Mr. Trudeau’s room at lunch, slumped over a desk, resting his eyes.
“Dean?” Mr. Trudeau asked. “Everythin’ alright, son?”
“Yeah,” Dean answered, yawning so widely his jaw cracked. “Just a bad night’s sleep.”
“Your shoulder? And face?” Concern filled the words, and Dean was shocked. Sure, Mr. Trudeau was his favorite teacher at this particular school, but he’d never really showed Dean any attention before.
Dean smiled up at him. “Fell off my bike, ’s’all, sir.”
Mr. Trudeau studied him. “You sure?”
“Yes’re,” he repeated.
--
Two weeks later, Dad packed them up and moved. Sam glared and grumbled and bit his tongue to hold in any words he’d regret later. Dean just felt relief. He never wanted to come back to this town.
He did tell Tucker goodbye, gave him the rest of the assignment even though it didn’t matter anymore. “Take care of your sister,” Dean said, clapping Tucker on the shoulder. “If she’s anything like Sammy, she’ll need it.”
Tucker smiled. “I will.”
--
A part of Dean wanted to stay, even if Ms. Hawkins’ ghost sort-of haunted him. Tucker wasn’t that bad a guy, and could be cool, and Dean had even kind-of liked talking to him. But… what if Ms. Hawkins had decided to sacrifice them both, and not just him? Hunters couldn’t get close to people, just like Dad always said.
So, Dad put that town in their rearview and Dean never looked back.
Honest.
Marcus shook himself, stretching. “Forget about it. Let’s just work.”
“Okay,” Dean agreed.
--
They planned to meet at the public library when it opened the next afternoon at three. Marcus said he might have to bring the munchkin, and Dean shrugged—“Dad’ll probably make me take Sammy.”
“Was it as bad as you were expectin’?” Dad asked when he got back and Dean shrugged one shoulder.
“Could’a been worse, I s’pose,” he answered. “We’re not done yet, though.”
“Oh, really?” Dad said, raising an eyebrow. “And what’s left for you to do, son?”
“The whole thing. We just read the stupid play today.” Dean sighed, showing Dad what a sacrifice that was. “We’re goin’ to the library tomorrow.”
Just like Dean knew he would, Dad said, “Take your brother.”
---
He told Sam to not leave the baby-books section, and if he did, Dean wouldn’t play basketball with him for a month.
“They’re not baby books, Dean!” Sam called after him, and Dean ignored him.
He headed for the back, where he and Marcus had agreed to meet. Marcus was already there, the munchkin sitting beside him. Dean plopped down across the table and waited to be acknowledged. Marcus held up a finger and continued reading. Dean rolled his eyes.
Finally, Marcus set aside his book and said to the munchkin, “Clara, go look for some books you want.”
She pouted at him. “Mama told you to watch me.”
Marcus looked at her; she shot to her feet, flounced off.
Dean raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Sure am glad Sammy’s a boy.”
Marcus tossed a slim volume at Dean; Dean grabbed it out of the air without looking, smirking at Marcus’ small impressed noise.
“So, how we gonna do this?” Dean asked, opening the book. It was a history of Shakespeare. “Aww, hell.”
Now, Marcus smirked. “Well, we can make it a modern-day rendition, or fiddle around with the characters a bit.”
“Hate this play,” Dean muttered.
--
They decided to retell the play in the fifties. Marcus agreed to write it out, since his handwriting was about a billion times better than Dean’s. But Dean came up with the basic storyline—since it couldn’t be a verbatim plot—and convinced Marcus to change the ending.
“C’mon, dude,” he wheedled, “it’s entirely too easy for the MacDuff guy to win.”
“We can’t rewrite the ending!” Marcus countered. “It’s a historic classic!”
Dean raised an eyebrow. “And?”
Marcus glared. Dean smirked.
And Marcus sighed, “Fine.”
--
Monday, Dean walked into class and Ms. Hawkins greeted him with a bright smile. “Hello, Dean,” she chirped. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”
He stared at her. “Yeah, Ms. Hawkins,” he finally answered. “Lovely day.”
Slowly, he worked his way around her; her beady little eyes followed him and her thin lips still smiled. Creepiest woman he’d ever known.
Class started and she called roll; Marcus walked in late and got detention, to be served with Ms. Hawkins on Wednesday. He pouted throughout English, glaring at her, but he held his tongue, which was more than Dean could have done.
After the bell, Marcus stalked up to Dean and said, “Still meeting at my house tonight?”
Dean nodded. “Sorry ’bout the bitch, dude.”
“Mr. Winchester!”
Dean blanched.
Mr. Calley, the principal, came around the corner, eyes narrowed in fury. “You will serve detention on Wednesday, Winchester. And consider this your last warning!” He stalked off.
Watching him go, Dean muttered a curse.
--
Sammy laughed. And laughed. Dean folded his arms and glared. And demanded of Dad, “Do I hav’ta go? There’s gotta be hunt, or somethin’.”
“Nope,” Dad said serenely. “It’s not your first detention, son.”
“I know,” Dean groaned. “But Dad, it’s with her.” Her, that evil, virgin-sacrificing witch.
“Dean,” Dad said, in that tone.
Dean pouted. “Yes, sir.”
--
Dean and Tucker(since they had detention together, and the guy wasn’t that bad, Dean decided to call him by his name now) commiserated before getting to the play. “Bitch,” Dean muttered and Tucker nodded.
“I’ve never had detention before!” Tucker told him. “Not once!”
Dean stared at him. “Really? Dude, how’d you pull that off?”
Tucker looked at him, canting his head. “For real?”
“Yeah.”
So Tucker told him about his entire high-school experience, how he stuck to the walls and the shadows, never drawing attention to himself. How he had no friends, but also no enemies, and teachers that often ignored him. “Can’t get in trouble if you aren’t seen,” Tucker explained, the sadness in his eyes cutting Dean, hitting too close for comfort.
Dean nodded. “I get that.” He chuffed a small laugh. “I’ve played so many different roles… jus’ decided to be the bad-boy here, I guess.” He shrugged.
Tucker studied him for a minute. “How many of them stories people tell are true?”
Dean’s smirk was strained, but he answered, “All of ’em.”
--
They got a great deal of work done that afternoon: character lists, the basic outline of what they would change, and Dean’s ending.
Tucker invited Dean to dinner, but Dean said, “Sorry—gotta go home and spend time with Sammy ’fore the kid thinks I’ve forgotten about him.”
Tucker nodded. “See you tomorrow, then.”
Dean grinned. “Later.”
--
Tuesday came and went without any problems. But Wednesday, Wednesday started with a storm. The rain lashed at the windows and the trees moaned. Sam woke with a fever of one-hundred degrees and got to stay home; Dean told Dad he should stay with Sam, just to be on the safe side.
“He’s not a baby anymore, Dean,” Dad patiently explained. “And I’ll come home at lunch to check on him. You’re goin’ to school.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said sulkily, then braved the storm.
--
School sucked. It wasn’t his first detention—not by a long-shot—but he’d have to spend time with Marigold Hawkins.
Bitch. All her fault.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the day, and Dean trudged to Ms. Hawkins’ classroom. He met up with Tucker at the door.
“We could always skip,” Dean suggested hopefully.
Tucker sighed. “No, we couldn’t.”
Dean deflated. “Yeah—Dad’d kick my ass.” It was his turn to sigh. “Damn.”
--
Ms. Hawkins gave them dictionaries and assigned letters; Dean got F and Tucker V. “Write until I tell you to stop,” she said, thin lips twisted in a creepy smile.
She sat at her desk, grading papers, and placed Dean in the front row, with Tucker in the back. And Dean felt her eyes, throughout the entire hour, roaming over him, studying him, judging him.
It weirded him out. A lot.
But finally the detention was over. He didn’t flee the room, just hurried out, nearly stepping on Tucker’s heels. He felt her eyes on him as he went, and apprehension filled him.
Something was really, really wrong with that woman, and no one would believe him. No one. Not Dad, not Sammy, not Pastor Jim or Bobby or Caleb. And it wasn’t like she scared him, or anything. Just a feeling of oddness about her, something that scraped at him.
He was on his own.
--
Sam’s fever was up to a hundred-and-two. Dad had to go out of town for a couple of nights, so he told Dean to stay home till Monday. And Dean had no problem with that, at all.
Sam slept most of the time, uneasily, always on the edge of waking. Dean kept water and soup close by, reading aloud any time he sensed Sam was close to consciousness. He also brought his Calculus(the only class he enjoyed) book into Sam’s room and worked on the next few chapters, getting ahead of the lesson.
Tucker called Thursday afternoon, asking why he hadn’t been at school. No one had ever done that before, showed concern when he missed a day, except teachers. And even that was rare. They usually cared more for Sammy.
“Sam’s sick,” Dean explained, heating up some more soup for Sammy. “I gotta watch him tomorrow, too.”
“Can I come by?” Tucker asked. “Ms. Hawkins gave us some more instructions for the project today.”
Dean shot a look towards Sam’s room. “Sure. But just long enough to tell me what she said. Sam needs quiet.”
“Okay,” Tucker agreed. “Give me your address.”
--
Tucker arrived about an hour later, bearing all of Dean’s assignments for school.
“You just had to, huh?” he asked.
Tucker grinned at him, depositing his load on the kitchen table. “I got your locker number from Ms. Alvin.” Tucker looked around. “Can I get some water?”
Dean nodded and filled him a glass. “Now, what’d the bitch say?”
“She’s moved the due date up,” Tucker said, taking a long gulp. “To three weeks from tomorrow.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Why?”
Tucker shrugged. “Dunno.”
--
Sam was better the next morning, his fever down to one-hundred. Dean reread the first act of Macbeth and did some of the Physics homework, then made Sam more soup for lunch. After that, he did a load of dishes, straightened up the apartment, and read the second act of Shakespeare’s stupid play.
By that time, Sam was up and slowly moving around. He took a quick shower, Dean hovering outside the bathroom door.
“’m’fine,” Sam grumbled when he came out, but he didn’t shake Dean off as Dean led him back to his bed and tucked the covers around him.
“Want somethin’ to eat?” Dean asked but Sam shook his head, burrowing into his blankets. “Alright. I’ll be in the livin’ room, Sammy—call me if you need me.”
He read the third act of Macbeth, finished the World History study guide, and watched a basketball game on TV. During half-time, he checked on Sam, and then cleaned the guns, sharpened some of the knives, and started supper.
Finally, the sun fully set and Sam stirred again. Dean watched as he lumbered to the couch and lowered himself down. He looked around quizzically and asked, “Where’s Dad?”
“Gone on a hunt. He should be back tomorrow,” Dean answered. “Hungry?”
Sam nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “Not soup.”
Dean studied him for a moment. “You can try some of the chili I had for supper.”
He slipped off the couch and padded over to the kitchen, warming a bowl of chili in the microwave. He snagged some crackers and a spoon, then carried his prizes back to Sammy, who was stretched out along the couch, looking miserable.
“How you doin’?” he asked, setting the bowl, crackers, and spoon on the coffee table before helping Sam up.
“Fine.” Sam sniffed and rubbed at his eyes again. “My head’s about a gazillion pounds, though.”
Dean made a sympathetic noise and handed off the chili, waiting till Sam had it securely before giving him the spoon. “Here’re some crackers, too.”
Sam’s smile was a pale shadow of its usual self, but it was genuine.
--
Saturday, Sam was a mite sluggish but basically his former self. He ate real food, drank glass after glass of water, and generally made a nuisance of himself as Dean tried to work.
And Dean relished every second of it. He hated it when Sam was sick.
Dad got home around noon, smelling like shit and scowling. “I got the son of a bitch,” was all he said and stalked to the bathroom, stripping his sodden clothes as he went. Dean gingerly picked them up and shoved them into the washer, starting it without adding anything else but the soap.
While Dad was still in the shower, Tucker called. “Yesterday, Ms. Hawkins told me we have to go her house.”
“Excuse me?” Dean couldn’t have heard him right.
Tucker sighed and sounded apologetic. “Tomorrow. Something about making sure we understand the assignment. She’s meeting with all the groups. We’re the first.”
Dean muttered a curse. “And she can’t ask us in class, why, exactly?”
“I dunno. But she’ll dock points if we aren’t both there.”
With a scowl, Dean said, “Fine.”
Not like she frightened him, or anything. Just some old woman who sacrificed virgins to her dark lord. Not a problem.
--
They met at the library with all their materials. Tucker drove from there, an old black ’vette that he said his dad gave him as a bribe.
“She picked the time, I’m guessin’,” Dean said and Tucker nodded.
“Three-twenty in the afternoon is the best time for her, for some reason.”
That niggled something in the back of Dean’s mind, but then his favorite Metallica song came on the radio and he turned it up loud without asking. He sang along and Tucker joined in, and Dean wondered, for one split-second, if that was what it’d be like to have friends.
--
Ms. Hawkins’ house was almost too normal. Dean studied the white shutters and neatly trimmed roses with a critical eye. She seemed to be trying too hard.
“Well, let’s do this,” Tucker said.
Dean followed him to the door.
--
Ms. Hawkins welcomed them into her lair with gleaming eyes and a wide grin, offered them lemonade and sandwiches, and told them to take a seat at the dining room table. Tucker spread their project out and Dean slouched next to him as Ms. Hawkins rifled through it all.
“Oh, well done, boys!” she praised, and the words sounded somewhat flat to Dean, like they were rote and she was reading from a manual. Tucker didn’t seem to notice anything, though, and he straightened up with a smile.
“So, we’re on the right track?” he asked, taking a big bite of his ham-and-cheese sandwich.
“If I were grading this right now?” She refilled Tucker’s glass. “I’d give the two of you a very high B.”
Tucker practically glowed.
Dean rolled his eyes, uncaring of the grade, and wondered if the room had always been so dark, because shadows seemed to be growing on the walls. But neither Ms. Hawkins nor Tucker noticed, and they kept on discussing the project. Dean tried focusing, he really did, but there was a pounding behind his eyes and his head weighed a thousand pounds, and something in his stomach recoiled.
He looked at Ms. Hawkins and she smiled, saying to Tucker, “I think you have the project well in hand, Mr. Marcus. So why don’t you head on home? Dean and I still have some things to talk about.”
Tucker shot a glance at Dean, but he must not have looked as bad as he felt, because Tucker agreed and gathered up his part of their work, and said “Bye,” before taking off.
And Ms. Hawkins smiled. Dark and dangerous, her thin lips stretched obscenely, and she lunged for him. Dean threw himself back, and she laughed, she laughed so loud it echoed in his head, drowning out the pounding, and she said, “You’ll do nicely.”
Everything went dark and he welcomed the silence that came with it.
--
Dean woke to chanting. The floor was cold beneath his cheek, and he kept his eyes closed, listening hard. It wasn’t Latin or Sumerian, wasn’t Hindu or Aramaic… no language he knew. Probably demonic.
Which was great. Just great.
So, Ms. Hawkins really was was evil. When he got out of this, he’d be telling people I told you so for years.
Dad knew where he was, though. Dad’d miss him soon enough and come in, guns blazing, deal with Ms. Hawkins and save him before…
“I know you’re awake, Dean,” she said, patting his cheek.
He rolled away, hands bound and held tight to his chest, eyes snapping open, and he glared at her. “Don’t you touch me,” he hissed.
“Come now, Dean,” she cooed. “You’re being honored! Not just anyone can be a sacrifice, you know. That’s why I sent Tucker away.” Ms. Hawkins wore a dark robe; maybe it’d be blue in good light. Her hair was down, a deep brown with a strands of gray streaming through it.
“I’ll kill you,” he told her, looking around for any escape. It was a basement, a damp and dark basement, with candles dotting it, the flames dancing threatingly. He shook his head, the world still hazy from whatever she’d roofied him with.
“I doubt that very much.” Her voice took on the teaching tone he hated at school. “See, Dean, I’ve been planning this for years, before you were even born. And everything’s finally in place. I was just waiting for the right person to come along.” She smiled again, leaning over to touch his face. “And you finally did.”
“What’m I bein’ sacrificed to?” he asked, testing the ropes around his wrists. His feet were free, but didn’t seem to want to listen.
Her eyes gleamed some more. “Anubis.”
“The jackal dude?” Dean stared at her. “What for?”
She laughed. “Immortality. What else? I needed someone young, someone beautiful, someone pure—”
“I ain’t pure, you crazy bitch.”
Ms. Hawkins stood back up and strode to the far wall, gripping something he couldn’t see in the dim light. “You are pure, Dean.” Her voice rang throughout the room, echoing off the walls. “Far purer than anyone I’ve ever known. Anubis will be pleased with you.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “My dad’ll come and kill you, so this sacrifice-thing is pointless. You might as well let me go.”
“No, Dean.” She sounded patient and sincere. “No one is coming. No one will be here until it’s too late.”
For a moment, he believed her.
“No,” he denied, shaking his head. “Dad’ll come.”
She walked back over and jammed a knife into his left shoulder; pain flared up and rolled throughout his entire body.
“I’ll be back,” she said gently. “Be good, Dean.”
He bit his lip to keep in the pain and glared up at her. She kissed his forehead and strode away, locking the basement door behind her.
Once he was able to will away the pain, Dean realized that Ms. Hawkins had left the knife in his shoulder. Stupid bitch.
--
It hurt like hell, but he finally twisted his hands around enough to grip the knife handle and pull it out of his shoulder. Of course, then he had to deal with the blood making his grasp slick while he tried sawing through the ropes with bound hands, but he managed. With a minimum of whimpering and cursing. Honest.
When he got himself free, he cut off the bottom of his shirt and pressed it into his shoulder before standing. The world tilted around him for a moment ; he took a minute to catch his breath and will back the pain again, then lumbered for the door, sticking close to the wall. He had no idea how long he’d been gone, if Dad had even started looking yet. If Dad even knew to look.
Sam would, though, right? He had to know.
No. Dean slumped down against the wall, the knife loosening in his fist. He was on his own. He had to get out of here before he bled to death all over the bitch’s basement. Once he was out, he could send Dad back here. Once he was out…
The door opened, Ms. Hawkins framed in the light from the hallway.
“Dean!” she exclaimed, eyes widening. “What are you doing?”
He reacted on pure instinct, throwing the knife before he even realized he’d thought about it. He lost his balance and sagged down, jarring his shoulder on the stone floor.
But she went down, too, the knife in her neck. He had to look away from her eyes as she gurgled and whimpered and died with barely a groan.
Dean lay there, his blood mingling with hers as the puddle grew, and when lightning flashed Dean knew he was completely fucked.
--
Looking back later, Dean hated talking about it. He explained the situation only once, and only to Dad.
C’mon—how can someone talk about a god of death deciding to let them go because their eyes are the wrong color? It’s kind of embarrassing.
Marigold Hawkins made a great sacrifice, though. Anubis actually seemed excited about taking her.
--
Dean walked to school on Tuesday with his shoulder bandaged and a dark bruise coloring most of his face. He still had the remnants of the worst headache of his life and he wasn’t in the mood for school. Stupid bitch with her stupid drugs and stupid psychosis—
But Dad made him go. He was running on about three hours of true sleep, his body ached all over, and he could still hear Anubis’ booming voice and Ms. Hawkins’ soul screaming in his ears, but Dad made him go anyway. The stab-wound wasn’t deep enough to warrant a hospital, so it wasn’t bad enough to keep him out of school for a third day in two weeks.
The English substitute was nice enough, though. And cute, in a perky blond sort-of way.
Dean slept through most of his classes and sat in Mr. Trudeau’s room at lunch, slumped over a desk, resting his eyes.
“Dean?” Mr. Trudeau asked. “Everythin’ alright, son?”
“Yeah,” Dean answered, yawning so widely his jaw cracked. “Just a bad night’s sleep.”
“Your shoulder? And face?” Concern filled the words, and Dean was shocked. Sure, Mr. Trudeau was his favorite teacher at this particular school, but he’d never really showed Dean any attention before.
Dean smiled up at him. “Fell off my bike, ’s’all, sir.”
Mr. Trudeau studied him. “You sure?”
“Yes’re,” he repeated.
--
Two weeks later, Dad packed them up and moved. Sam glared and grumbled and bit his tongue to hold in any words he’d regret later. Dean just felt relief. He never wanted to come back to this town.
He did tell Tucker goodbye, gave him the rest of the assignment even though it didn’t matter anymore. “Take care of your sister,” Dean said, clapping Tucker on the shoulder. “If she’s anything like Sammy, she’ll need it.”
Tucker smiled. “I will.”
--
A part of Dean wanted to stay, even if Ms. Hawkins’ ghost sort-of haunted him. Tucker wasn’t that bad a guy, and could be cool, and Dean had even kind-of liked talking to him. But… what if Ms. Hawkins had decided to sacrifice them both, and not just him? Hunters couldn’t get close to people, just like Dad always said.
So, Dad put that town in their rearview and Dean never looked back.
Honest.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 01:56 pm (UTC)although i do like shakespeare.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 02:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 02:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 05:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 03:21 pm (UTC)Honest.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 06:04 pm (UTC)Wow, his teeth are white.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 03:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 06:13 pm (UTC)Also, I love that icon. *hee*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 06:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 06:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 06:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 05:03 pm (UTC)Shakespeare isn't evil. You'd think he'd actually have liked Macbeth, though, with the witches and all....
I liked his interaction with Tucker, going from wary posturing to acceptance by easy stages. He might have been a little too forthcoming when they bond over the detention, though. And Sam seems a little young if Dean's 17.
But it was a cute plot and more light-hearted than your other stuff of late, so a fun read for all that. Nice job.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 06:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 06:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-13 06:30 pm (UTC)Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-14 10:21 am (UTC)Honest.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-14 12:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-15 07:13 am (UTC)Excellent job. I really loved Tucker and the way you fleshed him out so quickly. He and Dean's relationship was lovely. Great job.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-15 03:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-15 04:15 pm (UTC)Oh, very nice! I've been looking for good SPN gen fic, just found this comm, and the first story I read is an A+ winner! Loved Dean's attitude -- so very Dean. And it was so great that he was right, instead of just having normal teacher-dislike. Well done! And thanks for sharing.
.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-15 05:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-16 12:50 am (UTC)Very well done!!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-16 01:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-17 02:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-17 03:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-17 07:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-10-22 09:44 pm (UTC)Nicely done, I've met a few English teachers that counted as evil (diagraming sentences - yeesh)but Macbeth can be a hard play if you prefer Calculus and Physics.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-10-22 11:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-12 08:00 am (UTC)Very good.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-03-12 03:19 pm (UTC)Thank you for reading!