The Difference Between Me & You...
Title: The Difference Between Me &You is that You’re not on Fire
Summary: “It seems like he ends up doing this song and dance at every school, eventually. There’s a certain way that teachers in any town react to boys in ill-fitting clothes who miss three days out of ten and come back with unexplained bruises and cuts.”
Word count: 1,000
Rated: pg-13 (language)
Notes:Set preseries; no spoilers
Warnings: Reference to child abuse (nonsexual)
Genre: Angst, gen
Characters: Dean, OFC
A/N: Title from Mclusky album “The Difference Between Me & You is that I’m not on Fire
Disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belongs to WB/The CW, I own nothing and make no money.
***
Dean has a hatred of high school biology so immutable it might as well be congenital, but even Mr. Baker’s 5th period lecture is better than the counselor’s office. Life sucking like it does, though, that’s exactly where he’s headed. It seems like he ends up doing this song and dance at every school, eventually. There’s a certain way that teachers in any town react to boys in ill-fitting clothes who miss three days out of ten and come back with unexplained bruises and cuts. They’ve got it all wrong, but whatever. It’s not Dean’s job to explain it to them.
Still, while he’s in school, he has to play along and let the over-concerned adult of the moment clumsily prod at him with her words and insinuations, like he hasn’t heard it all before, like he can’t tell what she’s getting at. It’s pretty annoying that they imply he’s a scared little kid who gets smacked around by his alcoholic dad, when really he’s a hero. Braver than they’ll ever be.
Mrs. Thompson’s office looks like every other counselor’s office, bookshelf to the side, two framed posters on the wall with inspirational quotes, and a big wood desk with a few cheap presents on it from brown-nosing students who wanted to pretend she made some huge difference in their lives. Dean slouches into the chair in front of her desk, and she smiles warmly at him.
“Dean Winchester, right?” she asks, even though his file is right there in front of her. She’s younger than most, blonde and cute. Yeah, she’s not going to be as hard to put off as some of the ones he’s had to deal with before.
“You got it, sugar,” he replies with as much condescending charm as he can muster, which is plenty. He throws in a leer for good measure.
Her lips thin for a moment as she glances again at his file, and Dean thinks, that’s right, I’m not your pity case. I take care of myself.
“So Mr. Baker tells me you got that bruise when you fell into a table?” she asks, tapping her cheekbone.
“Yup,” he says. It’s not even a total lie. The impressive bruise under his eye and the cut where the corner split his skin were technically caused by a table. It’s exactly how his face ended up bouncing off that sharp edge that isn’t up for discussion.
“Mhm,” the counselor hums disbelievingly. “And your jaw?” Another bruise is swelling there, violently colored though only a day old.
Dean grins, spreading his hands palms up between them. “Would you believe it? Another table. Just not my lucky night.” And that last part is the truth, too. Friggin’ poltergeists.
The counselor sighs through her pert nose, laying her pencil down and leaning towards him in a familiar gesture. It’s the, look at me divesting myself of authority gesture, the I just want to be your friend, so you can tell it to me straight gesture.
Dean crosses his arms and juts his chin out, his own personal you couldn’t drag the truth out of me gesture.
“Well it’s good that you’re just clumsy,” she says even though they both know he’s a bald-faced liar. “You know, some kids with bruises like yours didn’t just fall into tables. Somebody that’s supposed to take care of them hurts them, as a punishment. And some of those kids, they think that they have to protect that person, their Dad, or their uncle, so they don’t tell anyone. They’re scared.”
Dean sneers. He’s not a scared little kid. He doesn’t even blink an eye at the evil undead whipping furniture around like so much confetti.
“Or they think that the deserve it,” she pushes on. “They tell themselves it’s not so bad to have a black eye, or a bruised jaw. They think it’s their fault. If they’d just been quicker, or listened to their parents, they wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all.”
“You don’t know anything,” Dean says. Then he clamps his mouth shut again, because rule numero uno of the Winchesters is that you don’t talk about the family business.
“Why don’t you explain, then,” the lady says, as if she could ever understand.
Dean blows out an angry huff of air. “Sometimes if you aren’t quick and you don’t listen, bad things happen. It’s not punishment, its just what happens when you mess up.” he cuts off before he can say anything more, like how easily little brothers can be killed if big brothers aren’t paying attention to their dad and putting the hex bags in to the walls at just the right spot.
“You going to tell me how you really got those bruises?” she asks softly, ducking her head forward to catch his eye.
Dean just stares at her, willing his face into a wall of silence.
“Well, anytime you want to talk, you know I’m here,” she says.
“Yeah,” Dean says. ‘Definitely.” With the poltergeist exorcised they’ll be gone by morning.
“You don’t deserve to be punished,” she says as he’s heading for the door. “No matter what you do, it isn’t right for anybody to hit you.”
Dean rolls his eyes. Civvies just don’t get it. His dad isn’t some wino who beats his kids for making noise in the morning, or not folding the paper right. Dean knows what child abuse means: the type of people who do that. His dad is a hero. And if sometimes Dean gets a healthy sock in the jaw for letting his guard down and almost getting Sammy killed, well, he does deserve it. He needs to learn better. When you’re a hunter, your mistakes are life and death regardless of how old you are. And that’s just something these counselors will never understand.
Summary: “It seems like he ends up doing this song and dance at every school, eventually. There’s a certain way that teachers in any town react to boys in ill-fitting clothes who miss three days out of ten and come back with unexplained bruises and cuts.”
Word count: 1,000
Rated: pg-13 (language)
Notes:Set preseries; no spoilers
Warnings: Reference to child abuse (nonsexual)
Genre: Angst, gen
Characters: Dean, OFC
A/N: Title from Mclusky album “The Difference Between Me & You is that I’m not on Fire
Disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters belongs to WB/The CW, I own nothing and make no money.
***
Dean has a hatred of high school biology so immutable it might as well be congenital, but even Mr. Baker’s 5th period lecture is better than the counselor’s office. Life sucking like it does, though, that’s exactly where he’s headed. It seems like he ends up doing this song and dance at every school, eventually. There’s a certain way that teachers in any town react to boys in ill-fitting clothes who miss three days out of ten and come back with unexplained bruises and cuts. They’ve got it all wrong, but whatever. It’s not Dean’s job to explain it to them.
Still, while he’s in school, he has to play along and let the over-concerned adult of the moment clumsily prod at him with her words and insinuations, like he hasn’t heard it all before, like he can’t tell what she’s getting at. It’s pretty annoying that they imply he’s a scared little kid who gets smacked around by his alcoholic dad, when really he’s a hero. Braver than they’ll ever be.
Mrs. Thompson’s office looks like every other counselor’s office, bookshelf to the side, two framed posters on the wall with inspirational quotes, and a big wood desk with a few cheap presents on it from brown-nosing students who wanted to pretend she made some huge difference in their lives. Dean slouches into the chair in front of her desk, and she smiles warmly at him.
“Dean Winchester, right?” she asks, even though his file is right there in front of her. She’s younger than most, blonde and cute. Yeah, she’s not going to be as hard to put off as some of the ones he’s had to deal with before.
“You got it, sugar,” he replies with as much condescending charm as he can muster, which is plenty. He throws in a leer for good measure.
Her lips thin for a moment as she glances again at his file, and Dean thinks, that’s right, I’m not your pity case. I take care of myself.
“So Mr. Baker tells me you got that bruise when you fell into a table?” she asks, tapping her cheekbone.
“Yup,” he says. It’s not even a total lie. The impressive bruise under his eye and the cut where the corner split his skin were technically caused by a table. It’s exactly how his face ended up bouncing off that sharp edge that isn’t up for discussion.
“Mhm,” the counselor hums disbelievingly. “And your jaw?” Another bruise is swelling there, violently colored though only a day old.
Dean grins, spreading his hands palms up between them. “Would you believe it? Another table. Just not my lucky night.” And that last part is the truth, too. Friggin’ poltergeists.
The counselor sighs through her pert nose, laying her pencil down and leaning towards him in a familiar gesture. It’s the, look at me divesting myself of authority gesture, the I just want to be your friend, so you can tell it to me straight gesture.
Dean crosses his arms and juts his chin out, his own personal you couldn’t drag the truth out of me gesture.
“Well it’s good that you’re just clumsy,” she says even though they both know he’s a bald-faced liar. “You know, some kids with bruises like yours didn’t just fall into tables. Somebody that’s supposed to take care of them hurts them, as a punishment. And some of those kids, they think that they have to protect that person, their Dad, or their uncle, so they don’t tell anyone. They’re scared.”
Dean sneers. He’s not a scared little kid. He doesn’t even blink an eye at the evil undead whipping furniture around like so much confetti.
“Or they think that the deserve it,” she pushes on. “They tell themselves it’s not so bad to have a black eye, or a bruised jaw. They think it’s their fault. If they’d just been quicker, or listened to their parents, they wouldn’t have gotten hurt at all.”
“You don’t know anything,” Dean says. Then he clamps his mouth shut again, because rule numero uno of the Winchesters is that you don’t talk about the family business.
“Why don’t you explain, then,” the lady says, as if she could ever understand.
Dean blows out an angry huff of air. “Sometimes if you aren’t quick and you don’t listen, bad things happen. It’s not punishment, its just what happens when you mess up.” he cuts off before he can say anything more, like how easily little brothers can be killed if big brothers aren’t paying attention to their dad and putting the hex bags in to the walls at just the right spot.
“You going to tell me how you really got those bruises?” she asks softly, ducking her head forward to catch his eye.
Dean just stares at her, willing his face into a wall of silence.
“Well, anytime you want to talk, you know I’m here,” she says.
“Yeah,” Dean says. ‘Definitely.” With the poltergeist exorcised they’ll be gone by morning.
“You don’t deserve to be punished,” she says as he’s heading for the door. “No matter what you do, it isn’t right for anybody to hit you.”
Dean rolls his eyes. Civvies just don’t get it. His dad isn’t some wino who beats his kids for making noise in the morning, or not folding the paper right. Dean knows what child abuse means: the type of people who do that. His dad is a hero. And if sometimes Dean gets a healthy sock in the jaw for letting his guard down and almost getting Sammy killed, well, he does deserve it. He needs to learn better. When you’re a hunter, your mistakes are life and death regardless of how old you are. And that’s just something these counselors will never understand.