SPN Fic: 4 Times ... The Teacher's Lounge Coffee Klatch (Gen, Pre-Series)

[dodger_winslow]

Title: Four Times the Winchesters Had to Move (And Once They Didn't): The Teacher's Lounge Coffee Klatch
Author: Dodger Winslow
Genre: Gen, Pre-series
Rating: R for language
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while ...

Summary (The Teacher's Lounge Coffee Klatch): "I didn’t start it," Dean said before John had even cleared the door to the principal’s office. The kid was wound up tighter than a clock. His expression was pure pissed off, and his shoulders were so tense he looked like somebody’d jerked him to a screeching halt in mid-smack down. Which, as far as John could tell, was exactly what someone had done.

Four Times Times the Winchesters Had to Move (and Once They Didn't)
1) Run
2) See Me. Know Me. Remember Me.
3) Failure is Not an Option
4) The Lost Myth of Normal


-1-

The Teacher’s Lounge Coffee Klatch.

"I didn’t start it," Dean said before John had even cleared the door to the principal’s office. The kid was wound up tighter than a clock. His expression was pure pissed off, and his shoulders were so tense he looked like somebody’d jerked him to a screeching halt in mid-smack down.

Which, as far as John could tell, was exactly what someone had done.

"It’s not my fault," Dean added almost like he didn’t think John was going to believe him, so he needed to get his story on the books before someone else told his dad a more likely version. "I didn’t do a damn thing you wouldn’t have done; these jack-offs just have their heads shoved so far up their own asses they can’t smell anything but their own shit-for-brains."

Oh, good. That was a productive way to start a "your kid is a disruption to our school, and we’re looking to see if you’re the reason why" kind of conversation.

"Mouth," John said. He fixed Dean with a quick, evaluative assessment of damages, then turned his attention to the rest of the room and its occupants. There were three other people here besides Dean and his principal. None of them looked like they were on Dean’s side.

Still standing in front of the chair he’d popped up out of the moment he spotted John’s approach from the outer office, Dean clamped his mouth shut, but the wiry agitation in his spine didn’t let up for a moment. He didn’t look much worse for wear for someone who’d been jumped by a pack of classmates, but his eyes were so full of un-detonated ordinance that he was still hot enough to take out the whole room with a little boom left over for the lobby.

"Hello, Mister Winchester," Principal Welkins said in a calm, diplomatic tone. "I’m glad you could come on such short notice. If you’ll take a seat, we’ll get started."

Welkins indicated one of the two empty chairs directly in front of his desk with a small hand gesture, but John ignored him to cross to Dean instead. He did a quick once-over just to reassure himself that whatever damage had been done to his son, it wasn’t lethal on the sly, a timebomb in the ticking, then said, "Let me take a look," as he put one hand behind Dean’s neck, used the pressure of his thumb against Dean’s jaw to adjust his head to an angle that made the best use of the room’s less-than-optimum lighting.

The kid was going to have a hell of a shiner. His eye socket was swollen and had already started making black and purple promises of more to come. He had a few over-all cuts and bruises-an abrasion on one cheekbone, another up in his hairline, a smattering of bruises along his jawline-but beyond that, he was in good shape. His eyes were sharp and focused; and when John turned his head away from the light, then turned it back, the pupils reacted exactly the way they should. He could tell from his son’s guarded posture that he’d taken a couple of shots to the ribs, maybe one to the shoulder, but none of them were bad enough to keep Dean from bouncing on the balls of his feet like a fighter itching to get back into the ring as soon as his trainer cleared him for action.

John was ready to label this supposed knock-down-drag-out fight he’d been called in to "conference" over nothing more than a bitchslapping contest that got a little out of hand when his fingers ran afoul of a bump the size of a goose egg behind Dean’s left ear.

Dean winced, let out a small hiss of air that was his equivalent of a pained yelp. John shifted his hand away from the lump before increasing the pressure on the back of Dean’s neck, indicating which way to bow his head to let John get a better look. To his surprise, Dean resisted. He’d suffered the quick exam in silence to this point, but he met John’s eyes now, shook his head so slightly it looked more like a twitch than a communication. Even that small movement was enough to make him wince again, enough to make him grit his teeth to keep from hissing.

They didn’t know they’d managed to hurt him then, and Dean didn’t want them to.

It was a foolish point of pride, given that the fight was over and the other boys involved weren’t even in the room; but John respected it by downsizing his intentions from a visual inspection to a couple of germane questions that could be asked and answered without outing Dean’s bluff. "You dizzy? Nauseous? Double vision?"

"No."

"Pain?"

"Hell of a headache," Dean conceded. "Fucker hit me from behind."

"Mouth," John said again.

Dean’s jaw flexed. He started to say something, but changed his mind at the last minute, snapped his mouth shut with an audible click instead.

"Something else?" John prompted.

"No, sir." The response was tight, clipped. Dean’s eyes were in lockdown, but John couldn’t tell for sure what he was hiding: anger or pain.

Anger, he decided after watching Dean’s eyes for another three seconds in silence. Maybe a sense of embattlement, intensified by feeling that his only ally was calling him down in front of the enemy. Satisfied Dean wasn’t downplaying the injury to his own peril, John shifted his hand to the side of Dean’s neck, let it rest there for a moment while he held Dean’s gaze, made sure his son understood he wasn’t one-man-against-the-mob any longer.

"From behind, huh? Didn’t realize you got jumped by cheerleaders."

"Dean didn’t get jumped by anyone," the man leaning against a bookcase said like he thought John was talking to all of them instead of just his son. "He’s the one who started the fight, and no one hit anyone from behind."

"I didn’t start anything," Dean said. "All I did was finish it." But his eyes had changed. Coming back out from behind the walls he’d thrown up just moments earlier, they’d already lost the reflective blank John had learned to recognize as one of Dean’s most significant tells, something that meant he wanted to say something (usually something about John being a jackass to Sammy), but he didn’t think now was the right time to do it (which it usually wasn’t).

John nodded. He let his hand drop away and walked over to sit in one of the hot seats that fronted the principal’s desk. Dean stayed where he was, still bouncing slightly with pent-up aggression. It was a good choice. Wouldn’t be a good idea to confine him to a chair when he was still this seriously amped, still struggling to master the urge to lash out. Whatever set him off, he must have had to go in full bore just to stay afloat, or he wouldn’t still be this wound up, wouldn’t still be so agitated that it was a moment-to-moment fight just to keep the cork in the bottle.

"So," John said, speaking to Welkins. "Dean and a couple of his classmates got into a little tussle. I’m assuming no one went home with broken bones or scars or there’d be a uniform in the room, so let’s get down to brass tacks here. What’s the damage, and how many days is it going to cost him?"

The only woman in the room huffed with disdain. "I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that this time, Mister Winchester," she said. Her voice was damn near as constipated as her expression. She couldn’t have been over forty, and she might have even qualified as pretty if your tastes ran to swizzle sticks in skirts; but even so, she looked like every bad joke he’d ever heard about a spinster school marm who needed a good lay just to loosen her up so she wouldn’t squeak when she walked. "Your son is a consistent disruption, both in the classroom and out of it. This can’t be allowed to continue, so we’re here to discuss options a little more drastic than yet another suspension."

John met her gaze mildly. "And you are?" he asked.

"I’m Mrs. Primrose, head of the school board," she said.

Primrose. Well that was fitting. Not a spinster though … more of a ball-and-chain harpy with freezer burn on her thighs, if the book followed suit off the cover.

"And the rest of you?" John prompted like he hadn’t already tumbled to the fact that their failure to offer names was a deliberate manipulation intended to put him at a disadvantage.

Dean was right about this whole damn town. He’d been saying for months that his school was nothing but one big yatch club; and that anybody who wasn’t a charter member of the local country club was just chum the rich boys used for sport.

John had noticed the same dynamic pretty much everywhere he went, too. It was particularly prevalent amongst the patrons of the University library. He spent the lion’s share of every day in the stacks there, digging through their newly acquired medieval mythology collection in search of ritualistic and divination details that didn’t exist anywhere else. Once inside, it was just him and better than a thousand volumes of moldy paper bound in rotting leather and ancient dust; but getting in and checking back out again were always their own special treat. It was a twice-daily jaunt with forged credentials through an academia gauntlet where the weapons of choice used to cudgel outsiders to an overpowering sense of inadequacy were condescending, judgmental glances that said "I’m better than you," "I’m smarter than you," "I’m richer than you," and the ever-popular "I belong, and you don’t."

It was no wonder the boys hated this place. He didn’t give a rat’s ass what a single one of these professional snobs thought of him or his sons; but he could see how the constant hazing rituals of the Privilege-Out-the-Ass Club could get damn old, damn fast, especially for a kid like Dean, who wasn’t much for fitting in even under the best of circumstances.

And it wasn’t only Dean. Even Sammy didn’t like it here. He hadn’t joined a single extra curricular activity, and he didn’t like his classes either. He complained constantly-complaining in general not being out of the norm for Sammy, but complaining about school being so far out of the norm it was damned near just cause to break out the holy water. He said the teachers were all snootier than hell; said they didn’t like him-which made a good case for baptizing the teachers in holy water, too, just because teachers always loved Sammy, no exceptions, ever-and they wouldn’t take the time to talk him through things they were teaching that hadn’t been covered in his last school, even though he offered to come in early, or stay late, or do whatever the hell they wanted him to do to make it more convenient for them to do their damn jobs.

"I’m sorry," Welkins said disingenuously. "I probably should make a few introductions." He indicated the bulky man standing closest to Dean: the only one of the three John had already met, the only one Welkins knew full well he would have already recognized. "This is my Vice Principal, Mr. Klaus. He’s in charge of all disciplinary matters here at the school."

Built like a bull’s ass and only half as pretty, Klaus hadn’t changed since the last time they were all sitting in this office, discussing Dean like Dean wasn’t there when he was. That time had been about using some pretty creative (and pretty explicit) profanity when he mouthed off to some gym teacher who tried to exert a little more authority over Dean’s personal space than Dean thought was warranted. The time before had been about decking a kid who said the wrong thing to some girl in the lunchroom, then followed it up with a chaser of Your Mama when Dean rallied to her defense … never a good choice with Dean.

Standing with his feet shoulder width apart and both arms crossed over his chest, Klaus had his objective mediator face on, glowering at Dean like Dean was just about his favorite kid in the whole world, barring Attila the Hun and Hitler. No change there, either. This guy had his mind made up about Dean before Dean was born, so he was absolutely the right guy to give Dean a fair shake in any disciplinary matter that arose, the same way he’d given Dean a fair shake by scaring that poor girl silly until she sold Dean down the river in self defense, said her punk boyfriend hadn’t called her a needy slut who’d fuck a dog if it licked her face, then told Dean he had a video tape of that same dog fucking his mother if he wanted to use it to whack off to later.

Kid was lucky Dean didn’t kill him.

"He and Dean know each other quite well at this point, as you can imagine," Welkins quipped like he thought that was funny. "And of course, Mrs. Primrose you’ve met. And this-" he indicated the man who’d spoken earlier, the one leaning against a bookshelf to his right, "-is Mr. Lidden. He teaches social studies here and is the faculty member who observed the altercation we’ve called you in to discuss."

Called him in, like he was a dog trained to the whistle with a shock collar; given him a whole thirty minutes to make it to the school if he wanted to participate in this little kangaroo court of theirs rather than just leaving it to them to handle the situation fairly. Like they’d handled it fairly last time when he didn’t realize it was requisite for him to be there to stand up for a kid no one else was going to even consider, let alone defend.

"It wasn’t an altercation," Dean piped up from across the room. "It was an eight-fisted clusterf-"

Not that Dean made it easy to defend him.

"Dean," John snapped, putting enough censure to his tone to warn Dean off finishing what he was going to say, the way he was going to say it.

Dean dragged his overtly antagonistic glare away from Lidden with an effort, looked at John instead as he re-configured his defense to something intended to communicate rather than agitate. "It was an ambush, Dad. Pure and simple. They set me up to get my ass kicked, and Lidden here was the ‘faculty advisor’ assigned to make sure the right team ended up on top."

Welkins sighed. "You’ll have your turn to make your case, Dean," he said like it was a major imposition to do so. "For the moment, though, I’m going to ask you, once again, to keep quiet until that time."

"I didn’t hear you ask him the first time," John said.

Welkins didn’t like being challenged. His expression tightened, but he smiled through it like the condescending jackass he was. "Dean’s been sharing his version of events with us for the last half hour … in the most vulgar language possible, I might add. He’s been asked a number of times to hold his comments until the appropriate time and has, unfortunately, chosen to disregard that direction. Rather, he continues to compound his original transgression at every opportunity, displaying an appalling lack of judgement with his insistence on offering up lies and accusations against not only his fellow students, but also against trusted faculty members, all of those accusations liberally salted with belligerence, aggression and increasingly unacceptable language."

"Boys will be boys," John said.

Welkins liked that response even less. His smile got a little less condescending and a lot more forced. "Yes. I suppose they will. So this is the situation as it stands, Mister Winchester. According to several eye witnesses, including Mister Lidden, Dean attacked four of his classmates without provocation. Somewhat of a melee ensued, and all the participants were injured to some degree, albeit it minor injuries, for the most part."

Melee. John resisted the urge to snort. "Four on one," he noted instead. "Got to admire the boy’s enthusiasm. He’s a real go-getter."

The agitation in Dean’s expression eased noticeably. He almost went so far as to actually smile. The others in the room, on the other hand, didn’t find John’s observation either amusing or endearing.

"That’s not the kind of enthusiasm we encourage here, Mister Winchester," Welkins said.

"Not the kind I encourage at home either," John returned calmly. "Which is why I have to question who the aggressor really was in this ‘melee’ of yours. Because as enthusiastic as my son can be? He’s not reckless enough to take on four-to-one odds just to see if he can win. Even if he knows he can win."

"Dean was the clear instigator of the altercation," Primrose sniffed. "There isn’t any doubt of that. The witnesses are all in accordance on that point, as well as many others."

"Those witnesses being the other four boys involved in this melee," John surmised.

Primrose hesitated for a beat, then said, "And a teacher."

"And those boys wouldn’t have any reason to lie."

"All four boys are honor students," Primrose informed him archly. "And student athletes. Your son, on the other hand, has accrued quite a record of misbehavior and lying in the few short months he’s been with us; and we can see from his record at previous schools that these aren’t isolated or infrequent incidents."

"So those witnesses who are all in accord on their stories are four student athletes my son attacked with no provocation … who wouldn’t have any reason to lie," John revised.

"And a teacher," Primrose repeated like that was her trump card. "Which puts the question of Dean’s guilt quite beyond the purview of speculation."

"Because the teacher’s story is in perfect accord with his own story," John summarized. "And with the story of four student athletes who were also involved in this melee, but who have no reason to lie."

Mrs. Primrose looked at him like he was the jack of assholes. "I’m sorry, are you suggesting that the teacher who witnessed this altercation is lying?" she demanded finally.

"I don’t know if he’s lying or not," John lied. "But I do know that all your witnesses being in accordance with one another’s stories doesn’t hold much water when you only have one witness who wasn’t just as much of a participant in this melee as my son was."

"The witnesses aren’t on trial here, Mister Winchester. Your son is."

"Is this a trial?" John asked mildly. "I thought it was a parent-teacher-principal-vice principal-school board representative conference."

"Let’s not get distracted from the issue at hand on a point of semantics," Welkins offered in a conciliatory tone. "I think we all realize that Dean’s not on trial here, this is simply a meeting to discuss what transpired, and how we proceed from here."

"I’m still not clear on what actually did transpire, Mister Welkins," John said. "And it’s looking more and more like you aren’t either, unless you’re simply dismissing Dean’s version of events out-of-hand."

"We’re not dismissing his transparent claims out-of-hand," Primrose said tightly. "We’re simply giving more credence to a teacher’s testimony than we are to a student’s. Any student’s."

"But in particular, the students who aren’t honor students and student athletes."

"That really isn’t relevant, Mister Winchester. When distilled down to their most fundamental components, the facts of this situation are as damning as they are inarguable. A teacher saw what happened. An unimpeachable witness saw your son instigate this situation. That’s really the only criteria that needs to be considered to know exactly what happened, and who was at fault."

"Unimpeachable," John repeated.

"That means beyond question," Primrose supplied.

John smiled. "Thank you. I wasn’t really clear on that, and I left my dictionary in my other pants. So you’re the teacher who was there, then? Unimpeachable also meaning beyond any capacity for intentional misrepresentation, which is something I’d assume someone could only know unimpeachably about their own intentions, as compared to someone else’s."

"I’m the teacher who was there," Lidden corrected, not smart enough to pick up that John was more than smart enough to remember who the fuck was who in this Circle Jerk of a Teacher’s Lounge Coffee Klatch. "And I can assure you, Mister Winchester, beyond any doubt whatsoever, that Dean was the clear instigator in this situation. I was right there. I saw the whole thing, and I can speak to my own intentions concerning any misrepresentation, intentional or otherwise."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. Right. Johnny-on-the-Spot Lidden and Tricky Dick. Matched set for the history books." He looked at Welkins. "Is it my turn to say something yet?"

"In due time," Welkins said. He turned back to John. "So, I’m sure you can see our difficulty here, Mister Winchester. We do have a first-hand account of what happened, and we do consider that account incontrovertible, so our conclusions on the issue of blame must necessarily be forgone. With that in mind and moving on, we have an obligation to all our students to maintain a safe, threat-free environment. And unfortunately, this isn’t the first difficulty your son’s experienced here, it’s simply the most serious. Surely you can empathize with our situation and see why we feel we have no choice but to take a more aggressive approach in managing Dean’s violent outbursts."

John didn’t say anything for a long moment. When he did finally speak, it was to say, "I see. And where are the … victims … of my son’s violent outburst now?"

"The other boys have returned to class," Welkins said.

That was enough to set Dean off all over again. "You see what I mean, Dad? They jumped me; but I’m the one in the principal’s office being hung out to dry while they’re all back in class like nothing happened. What a crock. That’s the way this place runs. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you about what a fu-freaking yatch club it is."

"That’s quite enough, young man," Klaus said. He stepped forward in a less-than-subtle show of threat, glowering harder (if that was possible) at Dean as he spoke. "You’ve been told several times to hold your tongue, and you’re not going to be told again. If you can’t control yourself, then we’ll continue this discussion without you. Am I making myself clear, or do we need to step outside so the adults can talk without being interrupted every five minutes by you?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow incredulously. "You’re going to have the ‘let’s expel Dean’ conversation without me? Are you freakin serious, dude? I’m the star of this dog and pony show. You can’t expel the guy you’re having the meeting about expelling from the meeting you’re having about expelling him. That’s in the rule book somewhere: go look it up. The Bill of Rights or something. Even criminals get to sit in on their own trials … and that holds true even when the verdict’s been rigged from the get-go. You’re not trying to deny me my civil rights to due process, are you, Mister Klaus? Because that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? Illegal even. Immoral, or something. And probably impeachable, too."

Klaus stepped up to Dean, faced off against him and dropped one heavy hand to his shoulder. "Fine then. Outside it is."

John could see Dean tense up when Klaus’s hand clamped down to the intent of forcibly removing him. He could see Dean struggling not to lash out, fighting his own urge to deck the Vice Principal and let loose the dogs of war.

"Dean," he said quietly.

Dean didn’t look at him. He didn’t take his eyes off Klaus for a moment, didn’t look away from the physical confrontation building like a storm cloud between them.

"Dean," John said again. His voice was still quiet, but it had a harder edge to it now. "Step off and put a cork in it."

"This is bullshit, Dad," Dean countered. "Bullshit." He fairly spat the word at the much bigger man standing in front of him, as ready to take it to blows as Dean was.

"I said stand down," John repeated.

There was no room for negotiation in his tone now. It was an order, pure and simple; and as such, Dean obeyed it, albeit not without protest. He stepped back, turned his gaze on John like an accusation. The frustration burning in his eyes matched the deep, rich undercurrent of outrage running under his tone. "Let’s just go, already then," he said. "They’ve already passed judgement on me. They signed the death warrant before they even called you, so let’s just cut the crap and go, okay?"

"No," John said. "It isn’t okay." And that was it. He didn’t say another word, just waited until the rebellion in Dean’s eyes got itself under control, until his need to lash out stepped back from the rim and found a way to reconcile itself with John’s ruling. Expression tight with resentment and jaw clenched so hard it made the tendons in his neck stand out in sharp relief, Dean acquiesced with a single nod. Only then, did John shift the focus of his gaze to the Vice Principal. "And you," he said, his voice still level but ten times the threat it had been with Dean, "need to take your hands off my son."

Klaus hesitated.

"Now," John added.

"It’s alright, Steve," Welkins said. "I think this is probably something Dean should hear. It is, after all, his future we’re discussing."

"His future or not, I won’t have some punk kid mouthing off to me like that, Bill," Klaus returned.

"Call my boy a punk again, and it will be me you deal with, not him," John said quietly. "And you’ve already been told to take your hands off him once." He didn’t finish the threat. He didn’t have to.

Klaus took his hand off Dean’s shoulder and stepped back. "You open your mouth again, and this meeting’s over," he warned.

"Promise?" Dean asked, his voice hard enough to cut glass.

"Stop it," John said. There was an empty seat to his right, presumably for the more reasonable half of most parenting teams, so he decided to put it to good use. "Come over here and sit by me, Dean."

Dean flashed Klaus an arrogant grin, then crossed the room and took a seat. Although he’d complied with John’s order without saying a word, his posture made the use of words an unnecessary redundancy. Perched on the edge of the chair with an agitated energy that stood out in dramatic contrast to his normal, relaxed slouch, Dean was fairly vibrating with tension. Despite the infuriating expression he’d dropped across his emotions like a mask, the muscles in his face were twitching with fury, as were those in his biceps and forearms. Fists clenched and jaw tight, he was working much harder to keep his cool than anyone in the room realized, with the obvious exception of John.

"Let me handle this," John ordered quietly. Dean flicked him a quick look. "I’m serious," John said. "I know you’re pissed, but you need to get a handle on it. Crank it down and stop making this worse than it has to be. Right now, we have a situation. You keep pushing, and it’s going to turn into a problem. I don’t want that to happen. Do you understand me?"

"This is bullshit," Dean hissed.

"Let me handle it," John repeated.

The frustration in his fifteen-year-old’s eyes was as close to a Dean version of tears as John had seen since the kid turned twelve, but Dean did as he asked nonetheless. Dropping his gaze to the floor, he nodded tightly; not an expression of agreement, but rather one to indicate he understood … understood what John was asking of him, if not of what John was doing, or why.

Turning his attention back to Welkins, John prompted, "You were saying?"

Welkins smiled. "I think Dean has just made our case more convincingly than we could have made it ourselves. His volatility is a serious problem. His lack of respect for authority makes him not only a threat to other students, but also a disruption to the learning process in general. As I mentioned earlier, this isn’t the first incident in which your son has been involved, and this ongoing behavior has become a serious enough concern for us that we don’t feel another suspension either addresses it adequately or has the potential to accomplish any kind of lasting effect to the better.

"That being said, we’d like to offer an alternative. Obviously, Dean’s behavior problems are serious enough to warrant expulsion. The participants in any physical altercation are always subject to that penalty at our discretion, but we like to keep that as the option of last resort simply because you can’t address a problem child’s short comings by throwing the baby out with the bath water, so to speak."

"Short comings," Dean muttered under his breath. John flicked him a warning glance, and Dean left it at that.

"The program we offer as a stop gap between suspension and permanent expulsion is a remedial behavior class," Welkins went on as if he hadn’t head Dean’s muttered remark. "This class is a way to partition problem students away from the student body in general. It provides a suitably restrictive environment where students who lack self discipline can work on those short comings as they continue with their studies, all without disrupting those around them. Unfortunately, extra curricular activities and special programs are off limits to students in this program, but it is a way for them to stay in school and get their diploma, even though their exposure to social events will be curtailed dramatically."

"Dean is exactly the sort of student this program was created to accommodate," Mrs. Primrose interjected. "His antisocial behavior and inability to get along with others will inevitably lead to expulsion if he’s allowed to remain active in the student body general. But by placing Dean in this remedial behavior program, he’ll be confined to a more rigorously disciplined environment where he’ll be able to succeed to the limits of his abilities without any negative impact on the educational experience of his fellow students."

John thought about that for a moment before he answered. "So this program of yours is for the benefit of other students," he said finally. "Not for Dean."

"Oh no, not at all," Welkins assured him quickly. "This program is designed strictly to assist students like Dean, with Dean’s special challenges, find their own path through the difficulties associated with managing a behavioral disability."

John lifted one eyebrow. "Did you just say my son has a behavioral disability, Mister Welkins?"

continue to part 2 ...