SPN Fic: 4 Times ... The Teacher's Lounge Coffee Klatch 2/2 (Gen, Pre-series)
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): John drove for more than a minute in silence before he asked, "You seriously don’t think I trust you?" Dean glanced at him. "I know you trust me," he said a little too quickly. "I mean, dude. You just took my word over a teacher’s, so absolutely I know you trust me. I was just saying that you don’t say you trust me very often. At least not straight out like that. Unless you’re, you know, dying or something. Then you say it, but not really any other time. Except. You know. When you do … can we change the subject?"
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 (Part 1)
Part 2 ...
John lifted one eyebrow. "Did you just say my son has a behavioral disability, Mister Welkins?"
Still looking down at the floor, the corner of Dean’s mouth twitched to a half-smile. The tension in his shoulders eased significantly.
Welkins sighed. Folding both pudgy hands on his desk, he met John’s gaze with a level, unblinking gaze of his own. "I don’t like to put labels on children," he lied. "But I do think it’s important to quantify where the shortfalls are so we can start addressing them. And it’s also important to remember that disabilities are not failures on the part of the child. They are simply short comings in the child’s developmental skills; and Dean has shown repeated evidence of a severe deficit when it comes to controlling his own behavior and keeping it within the parameters of school policy. So while I realize ‘disabled’ may seem like a harsh designation, I feel-we all feel-that in this particular instance, that designation fits."
"So you’re saying my son’s behavioral disability isn’t his fault, it’s mine," John clarified dryly.
Beside him, Dean snorted.
"There are many contributing factors that play into a child’s developmental skills falling short of societal norms," Welkins soothed. "Poor nutrition, personality disorders, genetic deficiencies, inadequate socialization, economic considerations that might limit access to certain social support functions … all of these things and countless others can affect how children develop as they age, so this isn’t a situation where ‘blame’ can or should be attributed to parenting skills or any other aspect of a problem child’s upbringing. In short, Mister Winchester, we’re not trying to judge you. All we’re trying to do is help your son; offer some effective solutions to empower him to become a more productive member of society than he might otherwise become."
John had to work a little to keep from laughing outright. "Okay. Let me get this straight: I shouldn’t blame myself for starving my little antisocial jackass of an inbred street urchin into a behaviorally disabled teenager who can’t follow the rules because that isn’t something you’re going to judge me for. Is that more-or-less the gist of what you’re saying here?"
Dean snorted again, louder this time. He slipped back in his chair, relaxing to a slow uncoil as he listened to John turn Welkins’s double speak back on itself to the end of making the principal sound like an idiot.
When Welkins opened his mouth to respond, John cut him off at the pass. "Wait. Before you answer that, let me backtrack for a moment to the whole thing about the participants in any physical altercation being subject to expulsion. Are any of the other boys in this melee you keep referring to also subject to expulsion? Or are they immune from that particular penalty for some reason that Dean isn’t?"
"Student athletes," Dean observed blandly.
Welkins expression strained itself at the seams. Struggling not to out his frustration at having someone challenge him on things he wasn’t used to being challenged on, he tried to smile and failed miserably. "The disciplinary action that is or is not being taken with the other students isn’t really the issue here," he said. "I think our time is much better spent discussing Dean’s situation-"
"I’m sorry, Mister Welkins," John interrupted again. "I hate to keep interrupting you this way, but I can’t say I agree with that. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I don’t really give a rat’s ass about what you do with those student athletes of yours except in how it relates to what you plan to do with my son. But I do care about your plans for them in that context, because their punishment, or lack thereof, reflects directly on the parity of your justice protocols and how those protocols are applied … something that, at this point in time at least, seem to lack a certain even-handedness that your district superintendent might find interesting. So as time well spent goes, I think I’d have to say that how you plan to handle the other participants in this melee is not only a good way to pass a couple of minutes, it’s also something you might want to consider for a moment before you outline it for me, given what you’ve already said about your plans to slap my kid in some kind of educational halfway house where he’s not allowed to participate in a full range of the activities for which my tax dollars pay."
For just a moment, the room was so quiet the only sound was the clock on the wall, ticking the seconds by, one by one by one.
It was Primrose who recovered first. "Given that Dean was the clear instigator of the altercation," she said, "we are considering his role in the conflict to be far more serious than the roles of the other students. Consequently, his punishment will also be proportionately more severe."
"Actually, I wanted to get back to that, too, now that you mention it. Not to beat a dead horse or anything, but I’d like a little more clarification on the whole ‘clearly the instigator’ thing. Explain the math to me again: how does four-against-one becomes a melee at my son’s instigation?" He looked at Lidden. "How exactly does that work, Mister Lidden? I mean, you saw the whole thing, right? Did Dean line them up or something? Did he go down the line one by one, belting each of those student athletes in the chops while the rest of them waited around with their thumbs up their asses until he finished so they could all retaliate en mass, in kind, to his violent outburst? And by retaliate, I mean retaliate defensively, of course, rather than in any way that might be considered instigating further melee."
"I would appreciate it if you would refrain from the use of such vulgarity in my presence," Primrose huffed indignantly.
"What? You mean the ‘thumbs up their asses’ thing?" John flicked her a small, insincere smile. "You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Primrose. That is vulgar. You have my deepest apologies. But then again, I’m sure you won’t judge me too harshly, given the depressed economic conditions in which I was raised, and the inadequate socialization I received as a Marine. The sad truth is, my wife did the best she could to offer effective solutions to my vulgarity in hopes of empowering me to become a more productive member of society than I might otherwise be, but I’m afraid her gentler ways just never really took. In the end, my stunted developmental skills were just too much of a hurdle for one woman to overcome. The behavioral disabilities I developed while deployed to the asshole of the world to kill for my country had already progressed too far to do much more than just quantify my shortcomings as a social travesty amplified by genetic inadequacies and call it good. But all those excuses aside, I will try to make a sincere effort to limit my vulgarities to the bare essentials in the future. And if all else fails, I’ll consider remedial behavioral therapy to address them. I hear it’s all the rage these days, and God knows, I am one to follow the crowd right off the cliff, if that’s what it takes to be a productive member of society."
John pushed to his feet. Dean popped up to stand beside him.
"I think we’re finished here," John said. He glanced at Dean. "You ready to hit it, boy?"
"Yes, sir," Dean agreed, grinning.
Behind his desk, Welkins jumped out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box with a sprung spring. "Now just a moment, Mister Winchester," he started. "I think we’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere, but if we all just sit down and take a deep breath, I’m sure we can work through this to everyone’s mutual satisfaction."
"I think you dramatically underestimate what it would take to satisfy me at this point," John said.
"If you’ll just hear me out-"
"I did hear you out," John interrupted. "I sat here and listened to everything you had to say despite the fact that I know my son well enough to know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell-pardon my vulgarity, Mrs. Primrose-that my son actually instigated a four-on-one eight-fisted clusterfuck-again, pardon my vulgarity-the way you’ve accused him of doing. But I still listened. And what I heard was you shutting him down every time he tried to speak up in his own defense and-" he turned and looked straight at Lidden, "-lying out your ass about having witnessed something I damn well know you didn’t witness. Unimpeachable, my fanny. Dean’s told me several times over the past months that it isn’t just the students here who have a few short comings in the … ethical … department; but I advised him to tough it out, to just do the best he could, even if trying to play by the rules in this yatch club of yours was paramount to trying to win at Black Jack against a stacked deck. I told him if he just hung in there and gave you a chance to work through your biases based on a bad start made early, things would get better. Or at the very least, they wouldn’t get worse. So I told him to mind his Ps and Qs. I told him to do everything he could to keep his nose clean and just get along until I tied up my business here so we could blow this popsicle stand and go someplace better.
"And I know he did that. I know he did it because, despite the way you’ve tried to paint him to the contrary, my son’s not only a good kid, he’s one hell of a good soldier, particularly when it comes to doing what I tell him to do." John glanced at Dean, flicked him a small smile. "He’s as dependable as the day is long, and twice as diligent; which is why I know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he’s done exactly what I asked of him after that last go around with you to the end of taking a three-day suspension for kicking an ass that was in sore need of kicking: his level best to stay out of trouble. To not start anything. To just get along. So whatever this melee was today? It wasn’t at his instigation. I don’t know the details of how it went down, and I don’t need to know those details. I know my son. And if my son says those boys jumped him? They jumped him. There’s no doubt in my mind about that, just as there’s no doubt about who’s lying out their ass when they claim to have witnessed something to the contrary."
John put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezed gently. "So I’ll tell you what, Mister Welkins," he finished. "Why don’t you and your Circle Jerk of a Teacher’s Lounge Coffee Klatch here-damn, there’s that vulgarity again, Mrs. Primrose. I just don’t seem to have the discipline to resist it, do I? What a behaviorally disabled fuck I’ve grown up to be-sit down and work through this to your satisfaction, because Dean’s no longer your problem. You can feel free to consider this my official notification: as of today, I’m withdrawing my son from your educational facility. Which, in the vulgar vernacular, translates to kiss my hairy ass. And his, too."
John shifted his hand to the back of Dean’s neck, careful to avoid the lump behind his ear. "Come on, son. We have better places to be than here."
They left Welkins’s office together, striding side-by-side down the long hall and out the front door.
Dean’s face split to a grin wider than the South Dakota badlands as the Impala pulled out of the parking lot and left the squat, brick building behind. "Dude," he said, his eyes bright with relief and appreciation. "You were awesome in there."
John glanced at him, smiled. "Yeah, well, don’t go getting your hopes up. This doesn’t mean you don’t have to go to school. It just means you don’t have to go to that school."
"I can’t believe you called them a Circle Jerk of a Teacher’s Lounge Coffee Klatch. That was excellent."
John’s smile deepened. "A little well-placed vulgarity goes a long way."
"I thought Mrs. Primrose was going to pop a vein. And you calling Lidden out as a liar? That was freaking perfect. Unimpeachable him wasn’t even there until after everything was already over and done, but all four of the jerk-offs who jumped me are on the football team, and one of them is some kind of senator’s son or something, so Lidden sure as shit wasn’t taking my side over theirs."
"How’s the head?" John asked.
"Hurts like hell. The senator’s kid hit me with a chair. Can you freaking believe that? What a pussy."
"You get your licks in?"
"Oh, hell yeah. Two of those guys are going to be walking funny for awhile. And the senator’s kid? Well, let’s put it this way: it’s probably a good thing he whacked me with a chair when he did, or you might have been un-enrolling me from jail instead of school."
John flicked him a sideways glance of vague disapproval.
"What?" Dean demanded. "He hit me with a chair, Dad. Or technically, he hit me twice with a chair. The first time didn’t do much more than just piss me off, but the second time damned near took my head off."
"You sure we don’t need to go get that looked at?"
Dean flashed him a cocky grin. "Nah. I’ve got a head just like my dad’s: hard as hell and twice as thick. Just ask Pastor Jim."
John snorted because that’s what Dean wanted him to do. "Yeah, well, Jim’s vaunted opinion on the relative thickness of your old man’s head notwithstanding, you sing out if you start experiencing anything I need to worry about, or if that headache of yours isn’t exponentially better by the time you’re ready to hit it tonight."
"My headache is already exponentially better, just getting out of that place," Dean said. "And you telling the whole bunch of them to kiss your hairy ass? Best medicine ever."
The car fell to a companionable silence that lasted several minutes.
"Sorry to pull you out of the library though," Dean said suddenly. "I tried to convince them to just expel me and leave you alone, but they were dead set on having a meeting about it. I think they thought you’d sell me out to that remedial behavior BS. Klaus, in particular, was getting his rocks off at the idea of my old man having to stand up and tag me as damaged goods. Or what was it? Behaviorally disabled or whatever. But I knew you wouldn’t do it. Figured I’d have to take a suspension of some kind, but I knew you’d never let them get away with locking me in some freak class for the rest of the year."
"Not even for a day, son," John agreed.
"I told them that, but they called you anyway. I guess most parents give in or something. At the very least, they don’t call Klaus and Welkins a Circle Jerk of a Teacher’s Lounge Coffee Klatch like you did. Or tell that bitch Mrs. Primrose that you left your dictionary in your other pants. That was awesome, by the way. Freaking awesome. But anyway … sorry about crapping out your whole day on this stuff. I really did try to avoid it, but they caught me alone in the cafeteria, and there wasn’t anything I could do except fight back or get my ass kicked bad."
"Some particular reason these guys were after you?" John asked.
Dean shrugged. "Some girl," he allowed dismissively. Then, after several seconds of silence, he said, "That part, I guess I could have probably thought through better. I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong; but still, I knew who she was going out with, and I hit on her anyway. So, you know, that part was probably my fault. Or at least something I could have avoided if I’d realized it was going to end up screwing your day this way."
"Senator’s kid hits you with a chair, and you’re worried about screwing up my day." John shook his head.
"No. I’m not worried about it. I’m just saying … you know … that I could have planned a little better. That I could have paid a little more attention to what I was doing, and considered the ramifications of picking her instead of somebody else. So, sorry about not doing that, and it biting you in the ass."
"Worst you ever have to apologize to me for when it comes to girls is not considering the ramifications of who she’s dating before you hit on her, I’ll consider myself lucky, son."
Dean grinned. "Dude. Get your mind out of the gutter. We studied is all. Studied."
"Yeah. Right. That’s what ‘hitting on her’ meant in my day, too. Studying." John looked over at Dean, considered him for a moment before asking, "So … she worth it?"
"Screwing up your day, or getting jumped?"
"Getting jumped."
"Oh yeah," Dean said. Then he added, "Hell, yeah."
John chuckled. "Then don’t lose any sleep over screwing up my day. I was just about finished at the library anyway."
"Maybe I can help you research some things with all my free time," Dean suggested.
"I appreciate the offer, son; but I wasn’t kidding about not getting your hopes up. You’ll be back in school as soon as I can get you there. Can’t have you growing up to be an antisocial little street urchin."
Dean hesitated for a beat, then ventured, "Uh … pretty sure it’s an idiot move for me to bring this up, but there’s only one high school in this bullshit town, and we kind of burned the bridges behind us when we left."
"Didn’t say you’d be back in school here."
Dean straightened a little in his seat. "We moving?" he asked hopefully.
"Thought we might." He glanced sideways at Dean. "Scenery’s getting a little stale around here, don’t you think? Looks like a freakin yacht club or something."
"But … I thought you needed another six months or so in the library."
"What? You don’t want to move now?"
"Oh, I want to move, all right," Dean said quickly. "I hate this freaking town. And so does Sammy. Hell, he even hates school here, so that tells you what a crap-ass place this has to be. But … I mean … if you need to stay …." He let the rest of the thought trail off to silence.
"If I need to stay, what?" John prompted after a beat.
Dean shrugged. "If you need to stay, then we probably should. I can find something to do to keep busy. I mean, you’re hanging out in a library, right? How hard could it be to find something educational there to bore me with all day long?"
"If I needed to stay, I wouldn’t have burned those bridges behind us," John said. "I’m done here. I’ve gotten as much out of that mediaeval collection as I’m going to. Besides, digging through a mountain of moldering books all day long is more Bobby’s style than mine. I’m a kick-ass-and-take-names kind of guy, and this little educational field trip has put me way behind in my ass-kicking quota."
When Dean didn’t respond, John flicked him a quick glance. His son was watching him. Evaluating him. He looked like he didn’t believe a word John had just said: like he thought he should probably challenge it, but he wanted to let it slide because he really, really hated this place that. Fucking. Much.
"Library’s not going anywhere, son," John added. "If such a time comes that I need something specific, I can always come back and camp out in the stacks for as long as it takes to find it."
"So … it really won’t screw you up too much to leave?"
"If it would, I wouldn’t do it," John lied.
"Then we really are moving?"
"I’ll leave that up to you and Sammy. Last thing I need is another rashing of shit from your brother about pulling him out of school again like I’m always doing because I never consider anybody but myself when I make those kind of decisions. So as long as the both of you want to go, we’re out of here. But if Sammy wants to stay, you and he are going to have to duke it out."
"Oh, you won’t have any trouble with Sammy about leaving this school," Dean assured him. "Trust me on that one."
"I do," John said.
Dean shot him a surprised look. "Uh … you do what?"
"Trust you."
"Oh," Dean said. Then, after a long, awkward silence, he added, "Okay."
John frowned. "What? You saying you didn’t already know that?"
"Um. You mean that you trust me? Yeah, I know that, I guess."
"You guess?’ John challenged.
"Well. Um. I guess I’m not really … you know … used to hearing you actually say it like that is all."
"Say it like what?"
"Like that. Just straight out, or whatever."
John’s frown deepened. "I don’t say things like that straight out-or whatever-because I’m not a girl. That a problem for you, son?"
"No," Dean said quickly. Too quickly. "No problem."
John drove for more than a minute in silence before he asked, "You seriously don’t think I trust you?"
"I know you trust me," Dean denied, again, a little too quickly. "I mean, dude. You just took my word over a teacher’s, so absolutely I know you trust me. I was just saying that you don’t say you trust me very often. At least not straight out like that. Unless you’re, you know, dying or something. Then you say it, but not really any other time. Except. You know. When you do … can we change the subject?"
"No, we can’t change the subject. What do you mean, I don’t say it any other time? You think I’d leave you in charge of Sammy if I didn’t trust you?"
Dean sighed heavily. "I didn’t say I don’t think you trust me. I know you trust me. I just said it kind of threw me to have you just out and say it like that."
"Because I only do that when I’m dying," John surmised dryly. "Or whatever."
Dean turned his head, looked at him for several seconds, then said, "Right."
"Right? What’s that mean? Right?"
"It means right," Dean repeated. "Right, you only say it straight out like that when you’re dying, or when the world is getting ready to end, or when you’re going on a hunt and you aren’t sure you’re going to make it back. The rest of the time, I pretty much have to guess."
"The rest of the time?" John challenged. "Because … me trusting you see-saws back and forth so much? I trust you one day, but I don’t trust you the next? That kind of ‘right’?"
"Dude," Dean said, frustrated. "Head injury. Cut me some slack here."
John considered his son for some time before he finally spoke. "Okay, dude. Cutting you some slack. But just for the record: I trust you. All the time. Always have. Always will. Whether it’s leaving you in charge of your brother until I get back from a hunt, or taking your word over the word of some Circle Jerk of a Teacher’s Lounge Coffee Klatch, I trust you. Completely. Absolutely. Unequivocally." He waited a three-beat, then asked, "So would you like me to cross-stitch that on a little tea cozy for you, or can we just leave it at me saying it straight out at least once when I’m not dying?"
Dean returned John’s gaze for almost a minute before he said, "What’s a tea cozy?"
"Very funny," John said. "You’re quite the comedian, son. Anything else you need spelled out for you while I’m at it? That I love you? That I’m proud of you? That, for an antisocial little jackass of an inbred street urchin, I think you’re a pretty awesome dude … when you’re not being such a little girl, at least?"
Dean smiled a little. "You could tell me I’m handsome," he suggested.
"Uh huh. Then I could braid your hair for you, and paint your toenails, too."
Dean snickered. "Antisocial little jackass of an inbred street urchin," he repeated. "You just about killed me with that one, Dad. I thought I was gonna bust something trying not to laugh."
"Well fuck them, calling you behaviorally disabled. You’re not behaviorally disabled; you’re just your father’s son … developmental shortcomings and all."
"Wouldn’t want to be anything else," Dean said blithely.
"Someday I’ll remind you that you said that."
"Won’t have to. Not like it see-saws back and forth a lot or anything."
John lifted an eyebrow. "Really," he said. "So you like me then? You really, really like me?"
Dean grinned. "Now look who’s being the comedian."
"You just caught me off guard, is all," John added. "I’m not really used to hearing you actually say it straight out like that. Or whatever."
Dean snorted, shook his head. "Man, you are a pain-in-the-ass sometimes, you know that?"
"Better a pain-in-the-ass than a girl," John told him. "So here’s the deal, son. I’m not going to tell you that I trust you, or that I love you, or that I’m proud of you, or whatever straight out every time you turn around. But I do. So are we square on that, now? Can we go back to just being guys?"
"Yeah," Dean said, his grin taking over his whole face. "Just two guys in a classic ride. One of them better looking that the other one, of course. And a little less vulgar, too. But other than that, just two guys in a classic ride."
"Don’t beat yourself up over the better looking thing, son," John said. "It’s important to remember that disabilities on that front aren’t failures on your part, they’re just short comings in your general level of awesomosity, and no one’s going to judge you for that."
Dean laughed. "Awesomosity?" he repeated. And then he laughed again: threw his head back and laughed like a little boy riding in his daddy’s car, like a happy kid hanging out with an old man he knew would never sell him out as damaged goods or let some Circle Jerk of a Teacher’s Lounge Coffee Klatch get away with putting him in some freak class or calling him behaviorally disabled.
John grinned.
Driving down the highway in a classic ride and listening to his son laugh like the happy child he’d never been allowed to be, John felt a single moment of pure grace in the knowing of one simple truth: that no matter what else he’d fucked up in his life, he’d done a hell of a good job raising a kid like Dean. And for that matter, a kid like Sammy, too. A sense of peace settled over the agitation that roiled twenty-four/seven under the darker shadows of his memory. The weight of failure dogging him day-in and day-out like his own shadow eased up a bit, let him breathe easy for just this single stretch of time, if not any other. It let him remember Mary without grieving for her just by listening to her son laugh, just by brushing the memory of her baby talking about transporters and trying to explain the lost myth of normal to someone who just didn’t get it. Those boys were the essence of her in every way, and even the hard times with them reminded him of Mary in ways that let him feel a sense of accomplishment in the fragile, ass-kicking kindness of his fifteen-year-old; and in the ferocious, intelligent compassion of his pain-in-the-ass eleven-year-old.
But beyond how much they were everything he had left of Mary, Dean and Sammy were also the sum total of everything good he’d ever done. Over the years, he’d lost count of the number of people he’d saved from monsters and demons and other forms of evil that defied the simplistic names humans tried to ascribe to them. He’d lost count of the number of predators he’d taken out before they could notch up one more innocent to their tally: slaughter somebody’s kid, somebody’s wife, somebody’s brother.
But for all those lives saved, for all those monsters destroyed, there wasn’t a one of them that was even a flea on the ass of the accomplishment it was to have found a way to keep himself in the game for the sake of his sons. To stay alive to protect them from the kind of things that would chase them out of their home in the middle of the night or hunt them across every state in the damned country before John either managed to shake them off his trail or pull a switchback to the end of cutting their throats and leaving them in a dumpster behind the school where they tried to ambush a nine-year-old for what he might one day become.
Mary would be proud of what he’d accomplished with her sons. She’d be proud of the boys they were, proud of the men they were becoming. But perhaps more important than even that, John was proud of them, too. He was proud of everything they were; proud of everything they could be and everything they wanted to be. And most of all, he was proud of the fact that, when all other things fell away, as damaged as Dean would always be, and as much as Sammy would always resent him for a whole laundry list of things he did and didn’t do, both of those boys loved him as much as he loved them.
It was the one thing that made his life worth living: knowing that his sons loved him.
And he knew they did. He knew it because he could feel it. Lying in a bed in Blue Earth, Minnesota; half dead and only half conscious as he watched the sleeping face of a child marked for destiny by the same evil that had taken Mary, the same evil that had damned him to an ache of emptiness that would never ease to anything less than the living hell it had been since the night she died; he could feel how much that little boy loved him in just how tightly Sammy clung to his hand, even in the dead of sleep. Sitting in the Impala and driving away from a school he’d refused to let take his kid’s ferocious spirit and turn it against him to the end of calling him inferior, of marking him as damaged in ways that weren’t worth the effort of trying to salvage; he could feel how much that boy loved him in just how purely Dean laughed.
Day in and day out, in a thousand different ways that sometimes seemed more like fistfights than they did efforts to connect, John could feel his sons’ love as surely as he could feel the beat of his own heart. And in feeling that love, the truest of things was: nothing but that love really mattered.
-finis-