Hidden Depths for serawade

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Title: Hidden Depths
Author: dante_s_hell
Recipient: serawade
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Thanks to my beta for helping me iron out the kinks!
Summary: Poor grades and recalcitrant behavior do not endear Dean's teachers to him. However, one day Dean does something that has at least one teacher re-evaluating his opinion.


Hidden Depths

Eric Franklin leaned back against his desk, watching his world history students file into class and take their seats. Dean Winchester sauntered in and slid into his seat with a lazy smile on his face. He lifted his chin in greeting to a few boys in the room, but didn't say anything. Franklin had noticed that Dean wasn't much for socializing with the guys in class. He was much more of a ladies' man, as evidenced by the few girls now hovering around him as if drawn by some magnetic pull.

It took a whole lot of effort for Franklin to not roll his eyes. Teachers were supposed to be above that sort of thing. At least in front of students. Sometimes, though, it was hard to remember that. Especially with Winchester.

Dean chuckled loudly and the girls around him seemed to light up in a buzz of activity like dragonflies in the twilight.

Sabrina McNeil, new student to Jefferson Middle and High School, was leaning toward Dean. Head dipping so low that her lips were practically pressed to his ear; blonde hair tickling his cheek.

Franklin sighed and straightened up. He was going to have to break the little love fest up. He had taken a few steps up the aisle when Dean's hand landed on Sabrina's hip and she tumbled into his lap with a giggle.

"Okay, guys, that's enough," Franklin said in exasperation as he came to a stop in front of Dean's desk. Not a day went by that he didn't have to correct Dean's behavior, which tended to distract from the objective of teaching, but wasn't at office referral level. It was as if Dean knew his limits. "You know the rules. No PDA."

Dean smirked at him, lip curling upward. "Aw, come on, Coach. This isn't a public display of affection," Dean protested, curling his arm around the girl's waist. "This is," he added roguishly before planting a kiss to Sabrina's lips.

Sabrina moaned, clutching at Dean's t-shirt.

"Dean," Franklin said quietly, a note of warning in his tone. Dean was quite good at figuring out what buttons to push. Franklin had seen him do it to a number of his colleagues in the short month Dean had been at Jefferson. Unlike his fellow teachers, Franklin didn't often fall for those games. Never show fear was his motto. "Hey," he added lightly. "You should probably offer to take her out to dinner first."

Dean pulled away from Sabrina and laughed. "You're alright, Coach," he said, a hint of respect in his voice. "Go on, Sabrina," he told her, patting her on the shoulder. "I'm sure Coach wants to start teaching or something."

"Or something," Franklin murmured.

Sabrina pouted. "We going out to dinner, Dean?"

"Sure, why not?" Dean answered easily, leaning back in his chair. "Pick you up at seven. Friday."

Sabrina clapped her hands and moved back to her desk.

"Now that we've got your social calendar set," Franklin said drily, "do you mind if we talk about the Great Depression?"

Dean waved a hand. "Whatever you wanna do, Coach, is fine by me."

"Gee, thanks, Dean, your blessing means a lot to me," Franklin replied with a quirk of his lips.

Dean laughed again, but that was the last sound out of him for the duration of the period. He wasn't always paying attention to the lecture, his gaze kept on drifting to the window with the view of the parking lot, but he never interrupted Franklin. That was something most of Franklin's fellow teachers couldn't claim.

Soon enough, the bell rang. Students rose, shoving notebooks into backpacks, talking as they left the room.

Franklin stretched. Last class of the day and he would have to be on the soccer field for practice soon.

It wasn't until the noise of the mass exodus of students finally died away that he noticed Dean hadn't left.

"Hey, Dean, you know you can go home now, right?" Franklin joked. "The asylum is closed for the day."

Dean didn't respond, didn't even crack a smile. Instead, he tugged at his lower lip with his teeth.

"What is it, Dean?" Franklin asked, wondering what could have caused this complete change in behavior.

"Here," Dean said quietly, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and thrusting it at Franklin. "You wanted this."

Franklin frowned and took the paper, smoothing it so that he could read it. "This is your report card," he said, stating the obvious. "You were supposed to bring it back signed a week ago."

Dean shrugged. "I finally remembered to get my dad to sign it. Sorry it took so long."

Franklin studied the report card, sighing. It was made up of mostly C's and D's with an F in English. There was a lone A on the list and Franklin was unsurprised to discover it was in auto mechanics. The shop teacher, Mr. Bailey, often raved about Dean's work. Apparently, Winchester was a genius when it came to cars. Unfortunately, the rest of his high school performance was less than stellar.

"Dean," Franklin finally spoke, looking up. "Why are your grades so low? I know you can do better than this."

Dean shrugged.

"That's it?" Franklin asked. "You don't want to add anything else?"

"What is there to say?" Dean asked, glancing toward the door. "Can I go now?"

"No," Franklin said, shaking his head. "You have so much potential, Dean. I can see it. You could get good grades if only you would apply yourself."

Dean stared at him, a slow smirk spreading across his features. He folded his arms. "That so?" he drawled. "Maybe if I came in for tutoring and did my assignments, I'd be at the top of my class. What do you think, Coach? You think I could be valedictorian?"

The sarcasm was deep and familiar, the words sounding like a well worn record. Franklin felt his heart sink, knowing deep down that this kid didn't really see a future for himself. Not in school anyway. "You've heard this speech before," he said wearily.

"Yep!" Dean answered promptly. "Same spiel I've heard at every school I've ever gone to. It's pretty old."

"Not going to change anything, is it?" Franklin asked.

"School's not my thing," Dean answered. "You're just wasting your time on a guy like me."

"No student is a waste of my time," Franklin responded tersely, wondering if he could convince Dean that someone still cared.

"You know?" Dean said wonderingly. "It actually sounds like you really believe that."

Franklin wanted to reach across his desk and shake the cynicism from that young voice. He wanted to give Dean hope. "School's important, Dean," he tried. "You want a good job, you have to go to school."

"Don't worry about me, Coach," Dean said. "I'm good with cars. I'll find a job."

"You sure that's what you want to do?" Franklin pressed.

"My dad's a mechanic. It works for him," Dean said.

Right then, Franklin knew he had lost the battle. The hero worship in Dean's eyes as he said the words was enough to convince Franklin there was no way to change the boy's mind about school.

"Gotta go," Dean said, heading for the door. He paused in the doorway and looked back at Franklin. "You emceeing the Junior Academic Decathlon tomorrow night?"

Franklin was surprised. He hadn't expected that Dean even knew about the decathlon, let alone would ask about it. "Yes, I am."

Dean smiled suddenly. It wasn't a cocky smile or a smirk. It was open and carefree. This was a smile that Franklin had never seen before. It made Dean appear younger, happier. Now that he had something to compare, Franklin realized that most of the time Dean wore a guarded expression; even when he was joking and playing the class clown. Franklin wondered why a kid Dean's age would need to do that.

"My kid brother is on one of the teams," Dean said.

"Yeah? I didn't even know you had a younger brother," Franklin said.

Dean nodded and said proudly, "Sam's really smart. You'll see tomorrow night when he blows the competition away."

"I'm looking forward to it," Franklin said sincerely. It was obvious Dean thought highly of his little brother and Franklin couldn't wait to meet the boy.

"See you tomorrow, Coach," Dean said. He gripped the door jam, leaning into the room. "And for what it's worth," he added quietly, "thanks for trying."

There was nothing Franklin could say to that. Not that he had a chance to say anything. Dean was gone.

~.~.~

The school auditorium was a buzz of activity. Proud and excited parents were filling up the seats in the audience. Franklin was seated on the stage at the emcee table, waiting for the signal that the decathlon was going to begin.

John Morris, English teacher and timekeeper for the decathlon, was seated next to him.

"Ole Agee is one of the judges," Morris said.

Franklin groaned. "How did that happen?"

"Ms. Lienen went into labor," Morris explained. "Agee agreed to step in for her."

"How noble of him," Franklin muttered. The math teacher was the least liked teacher on campus by students and staff alike. Most of the time he was glaring down his nose at someone. Unless, of course, his nose was stuck up in the air. "It's going to be a long night."

Morris nodded. "Yeah, I saw him in the lobby and he was already at it. I swear if he doesn't quit his complaining, I'm going to throttle him."

"What's Agee complaining about now?" Franklin asked.

"Not what. Who," Morris corrected.

Franklin sighed. "You've got to be kidding me. Agee needs to give it a rest."

"He won't," Morris said, shaking his head. "He thinks Dean Winchester is out to get him."

Franklin rolled his eyes. "I seriously doubt that."

"Probably not," Morris agreed. "Not that Dean's really done anything to him."

"Winchester towers over him," Franklin said.

"Lots of students tower over him," Morris pointed out. "I don't know what it is about Dean that scares him, but it sure is funny. Well, until Agee won't shut up about it. Then it's just annoying."

"Yeah," Franklin said. "Great. Here he comes now."

Winston Agee, taking tiny prim steps, was carefully making his way across the stage toward them. He was trying to hurry and it made him look as if he were waddling like a penguin.

Franklin exchanged grins with Morris.

"Look! Look!" Agee's breath was coming in short little gasps as he pointed to the first row, dead center.

Franklin peered out into the audience. "What am I looking at, Agee?" he asked in a resigned voice. Though he was a math teacher, Agee had a sense for the melodrama. "There are tons of people out there."

Agee jabbed his finger at the row of seats, impatience in his gesture. "Don't you see?"

"Ahhh," Morris said, squinting. "I see."

Agee nodded vigorously. "Dean Winchester."

"Oh, I see him now," Franklin said, finally spotting the teenager sitting in the first row, arm draped along the seat, and chatting with a girl.

"What's he doing here?" Agee wanted to know. "I can't see how an event like this would appeal to him. He's here to cause trouble. I just know it! We should have him removed immediately!"

"Take it easy, Agee. I'm sure he won't attack you in public," Morris said drily.

Agee glared at him. "You think you're so funny! He's trouble, I tell you."

"Winchester's kid brother is in the decathlon," Franklin informed him.

Agee looked incredulous. "There's another one! Dear god no."

"Sam's one of the decathlon participants," Franklin repeated patiently.

"Oh," Agee said as if finally realizing what Franklin was trying to tell him. "There's a smart one! Maybe not all is lost then."

"You sure are a piece of work," Franklin muttered.

Just then, the lights on stage flashed and the audience quieted. The decathlon was ready to begin.

For the next two hours, Franklin asked questions in various subject areas. It was the district finals and the winning team would go on to compete at the state level. Therefore, the questions were harder. It was a team effort to answer, but Franklin was impressed by the younger Winchester's knowledge. Sam certainly knew his stuff.

Franklin asked another question, then looked down at the audience. The stage lights made everything very bright, but he was able to see Dean easily enough. The boy was leaning forward in his seat, elbows on knees, and he was staring intently at his brother.

Dean wasn't one for sitting still and the word serious didn't seem to be in his vocabulary. Franklin was taken aback by the boy's almost preternatural stillness. The intensity in Dean's eyes and posture also shocked Franklin. The thought of being the center of all of that attention unnerved Franklin, but when he looked back at Sam, the boy was smiling at Dean.

Franklin uttered the last question of the evening, marveling that the boy sitting in the audience was the complete opposite of the student Franklin saw in history class everyday.

Sam gave the right answer and won the competition. There was a roar of applause and Franklin heard Dean give a high-pitched whistle. The students rose, took a bow, and then there was chaos as the noise level in the auditorium rose and everyone started moving to meet up with parents, teachers, and friends.

"Wow, that Winchester kid is super smart!" Morris exclaimed in awe. "I think he could have won the competition all by himself."

"I can't believe it," Agee said, shaking his head. "Maybe he was adopted? Dean's too stupid to be related," he added with a snort.

Franklin opened his mouth to retort. He was sick and tired of Agee putting down students, Dean in particular. But before he could utter a word, a voice filled with steel spoke up.

"My brother is not stupid." Sam Winchester stepped up to them.

His shoulders were thrust back, arms held loose at his sides. For a young boy of twelve, he projected an air of confidence and strength.

In that moment, Franklin realized that Dean wasn't the only Winchester full of surprises. Sam's face was grim, dark eyes flickering over Agee, assessing. He shook his head as if he found the math teacher lacking.

Agee seemed to wilt under Sam's gaze.

"Sorry, Sam," Morris was saying. "I'm sure Mr. Agee didn't mean anything by it."

Sam and Agee were practically eye level. "Words are very powerful, Mr. Agee," Sam said quietly, speaking well beyond his years. "You shouldn't say things if you don't mean them."

"Y—yes," Agee stammered. "Quite right, Mr. Winchester, quite right."

"Hey, Sammy!" Dean bounded up to them. "Congrats, man. That was amazing!"

Sam grinned at him, his defensive stance melting away. "Thanks for coming, Dean."

"Ah, Sammy, I'll always be here!" Dean said, slapping his brother on the back. "Man, you really rocked it! Let's get some ice cream. My treat!"

Sam nodded. "I could go for that."

Dean turned to Franklin. "Told you my brother was super smart," he said, grinning widely.

"You weren't kidding," Franklin agreed, noting that despite the smile there was just a hint of anger lurking in his eyes. "Dean," his voice dropped lower and he took a step closer to his student. "I'm really sorry you had to hear that."

Agee sniffed disdainfully.

"Heard what?" Dean asked, confused.

Nonplussed, Franklin looked from Agee to Dean to Sam.

Sam let out a sigh and shook his head.

Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Everything okay, Sammy?" he asked seriously.

Franklin realized his error right away. Dean hadn't heard anything, but he had been watching Sam. And for a few minutes there, Sam hadn't been too happy. Dean's anger had just been a reaction to that.

"Then we should go," Dean said. "I'm sure all good--" he looked at Franklin and Morris, deliberately skipping over Agee, "teachers need to get home to bed so that they're bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to teach in the morning."

Agee frowned at him, but Dean ignored him and headed for the stairs that would take him off the stage.

Sam stared at Agee. "My brother is one of the smartest people I know," Sam said, the hint of steel back in his voice. "You might not recognize it, but that's your problem, not his."

"Sam?" Dean called. "You coming or what?"

"Coming!" Sam shouted. With one last dark look at Agee, he shot off after his brother.

"I think you made an enemy, Agee," Franklin said, staring after them.

"Poppycock!" Agee sniffed. "He's just a boy."

"So is Dean," Morris said.

Agee glared at them then stormed off.

"Who the hell still says, 'poppycock'?" Morris asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Franklin laughed.

~.~.~

Franklin slipped his coach's whistle over his head, and made for the stairway that would take him downstairs to the soccer field behind the building. He pushed open the door to the stairwell, but stopped short when he heard voices.

Oh great, he thought. He was going to have to bust some kids for doing god knows what in the stairwell. It seemed the haven of choice for students who didn't want their displays of affection not quite so public.

Franklin listened for a moment. Was that Dean Winchester? That was no great surprise. He had caught Dean in here before, kissing Lindsey Patterson.

Leaning around the corner, Franklin frowned at what he saw. Sylvia Mitchell was seated on the steps with Dean sitting next to her. Dean had a hand on her shoulder and was speaking quietly to her.

"Sylvie, you can't let him keep doing this," Dean said. "You need to dump his ass."

Sylvia sniffled. "I—I know. It's...it's just that we've been together for a long time."

Dean shook his head. "A month isn't a long time, Sylvie. You can't stay with him."

"But, Dean," she wailed. "He's the first boyfriend I've ever had. What if...what if I can't get another one?"

"Sylvie," Dean began earnestly. "You'll get another one. You're beautiful and smart. Any guy would be lucky to have you."

"Would you go out with me?" Sylvia asked in a hopeful tone.

Dean nodded. "You know I would," he said. "But I'm not sure that's what you want," he added gently. "I'm not really your type, am I?"

She looked at him, smile wobbly. "You're everybody's type, but..."

"But, you really like Mark Spencer," he finished for her.

"Yeah," she whispered. "I don't think he knows I exist, though."

"'Course, he does," Dean said confidently. "You're the type of girl that makes an impression."

"A good one. I hope," Sylvia said jokingly as she brushed the tears off her cheeks.

"A great one," Dean corrected. "Give Spence a chance, Sylvie. And stay away from John Beckett. All he's going to do is hurt you more." Dean paused. "And I don't want that to happen. I won't let it."

"Will you...will you," Sylvia started hesitantly. "Will you be around when I break up with him? Just in case."

"Just tell me where and I'll be there," Dean promised.

Sylvia put her arms around him. "Thanks, Dean. You're a good friend."

Dean patted her back. "Whatever you need, Sylvie." He held her for a time then continued, "I'm taking my little brother out for pizza tonight. Wanna come with?"

Sylvia sniffed and sat back. She nodded. "I'd like that."

"You say that now," Dean said, grinning, "but you haven't met Sammy yet."

"Little brothers, huh?" Sylvia said.

"Yeah, little brothers," he said fondly. "But the brat has his moments."

"I can't wait to meet him," Sylvia said quietly.

"I think you'll like him," Dean admitted, then added proudly, "He got all the brains in the family."

"Oh, I don't know," Sylvia said. "You're pretty smart yourself, Dean Winchester."

"Nah," he said easily. "I got all the good looks."

Sylvia laughed.

"Come on," Dean said, nudging her shoulder. "Let's head out. Can't keep Sammy waiting too long. He gets pissy."

Sylvia laughed again.

It faded as the two of them descended the stairs and opened the door at the bottom.

Franklin stood on the landing, thinking.

Just another surprising side to Dean Winchester.

~.~.~

"We have a faculty meeting today?" Franklin asked, picking up his mug and sipping at his coffee. It was cup number three which meant that the morning was finally done, lunch had come and gone, and now it was a matter of time before the day ended.

"Yup," Morris answered, pouring his own cup.

"Wonder what it's about this time," Franklin mused.

Morris smirked at him. "Discipline, tardies, could be anything. But it'll probably be just another blah-blah meeting where everyone talks, but no one listens."

"Then I guess I'm not missing anything," Franklin said, grinning.

Morris rolled his eyes. "Right, I forgot. You have soccer practice after school."

"We're headed for the championship, baby," Franklin crowed. "Gotta practice if we wanna win."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Morris grumbled. "Any excuse to get out of the faculty meeting. Just don't rub it in, okay?"

"Aw, where's the fun in that?" Franklin responded.

Morris stuck his tongue out at him.

"Oh, real mature, Morris," Franklin said as he fed a dollar into the snack machine and selected a bag of M & M's.

Morris sat down and shuffled through some papers that had been lying on the table. "Guess what?" he asked, holding up a paper. "Winchester finally turned in a paper."

"Yeah?" Franklin asked, taking a seat at the table and tearing open his M & M's.

Morris nodded. "We're analyzing folktales. He chose to do an urban legend." He held out the paper. "He actually came up with some pretty interesting stuff."

"You sound surprised," Franklin said drily.

Morris arched an eyebrow. "I am. Winchester isn't much of a writer. Not that I've seen much of his writing since he usually doesn't bother to turn in any of his work. But if you read that," he nodded at the paper, "you can tell he knows his stuff. For someone who's always chasing girls, I just never figured him for a deep kind of guy."

At one time, Franklin might have agreed, but after overhearing Dean and Sylvia's conversation a few days ago, he now knew better. There were facets to Dean Winchester's character no one knew about. And thanks to Dean's smart alec remarks and posturing in class, no one would even think to look. Which, Franklin thought, might be the whole point behind Dean's class clown behavior. He was beginning to understand that Dean was quite the con artist. No one else in the school probably even realized the act the boy was playing.

"Guess kids can surprise you sometimes," Franklin finally said.

Morris nodded. "Yeah. Didn't think that could happen anymore, but it's nice when it does."

"Bit cynical, aren't you?" Franklin asked.

"I've been teaching for almost twenty years," Morris said. "Not much out there I haven't seen."

"Yeah, I get that," Franklin nodded. He indicated the paper that Morris still held. "Good thing the Dean Winchesters of the world keep us on our toes."

Morris shook his head. "Got it all wrong," he said. "There's no one quite like Dean Winchester."

Franklin could only agree.

~.~.~

The day was overcast; a hint of rain in the air. Franklin eyed the clouds, trying to determine how long he could hold practice before the sky opened up and he would have to call it quits. There might be just enough time to get a decent practice in before he'd have to dismiss his team for the day.

Franklin blew his whistle. "All right, girls, gather round," he called, indicating for his soccer players to come closer.

Two girls were huddled a few feet away, whispering behind their hands, and looking over their shoulders. They were taking turns giggling.

"Kathy? Regina? Think you could join us? Or do you have something more important to do?" Franklin inquired.

The girls looked startled, guilt settling on their faces. "Sorry, Coach," they mumbled. They looked over their shoulders again, smiled and giggled, before coming to stand with their fellow players.

Franklin looked across the field toward the parking lot, wondering what it was that had caught his players' attention. I should have known, he thought in exasperation. At this age, boys weren't the only ones ruled by their hormones.

Dean Winchester was sitting on the hood of his car, boots balanced on the bumper, hands dangling between his knees. The collar of his leather jacket was flipped up, protecting him from the chill in the air, and upping his cool factor. He was grinning cockily at the girls who passed him, chatting to the few who had the nerve to stop and say hello. He nodded at Franklin then looked over at the two soccer players who had been eyeballing him earlier and winked.

Both girls blushed.

Franklin shook his head. The kid was incorrigible. "Okay, okay," he said, clapping his hands. "Need you to focus, girls. We're going to do some practice drills and maybe a short scrimmage depending on the weather. We've got to be in tiptop shape if we want to beat Kennedy on Saturday."

There was a high-pitched scream, cutting through the usual cacophony of students at practice.

Franklin froze; eyes shifting toward the parking lot. He saw Winchester's car, but no Dean.

"Fight!" someone shouted.

That word. Every teacher knew instinctively how to respond to it.

Franklin started to run, heading for the source of the scream and the shout. He blew his whistle in short, tiny bursts, warning students to get out of his way as he zigzagged through the crowd.

Students were hardly paying attention as they, too, moved en masse toward the fight. They were equally programmed, a Pavlovian response, to cluster around a fight. Human nature, a feeling of satisfaction that it wasn't them, and a bloodthirsty curiosity, all added up to poor choices and a gawking audience.

Franklin had no time to reprimand them, to get them to disperse. There never was time. The administration would be along shortly to deal with crowd control. Right now, he had to address the more immediate problem.
The violence occurring under the bleachers.

The next few minutes seemed to move in slow motion as Franklin took in the scene.

Sylvia Mitchell was sitting on the ground, knuckles pushed to her mouth as if it would help keep the tiny sobs wracking her body from escaping into the open air. There was a bruise already forming on her cheek. Her pink sweater was torn from the collar down across her chest, revealing a broken bra strap, and angry red scratches along her skin. She was huddled in on herself. Her eyes were wide with fear; gaze locked on the combatants in front of her.

John Beckett, the boy Franklin knew to be Sylvia's former boyfriend, pulled back his right fist and sent it flying toward Dean's face. In a move that took Franklin by surprise—Dean seemed to be full of surprises these days—Dean snapped his head back, turning his chin so that the fist sailed harmlessly by.

"That all you got?" Dean taunted. "Man, who taught you how to fight? Little Johnny fights like a girl."

Franklin blinked. It was a dangerous ploy. Dean was forcing the heat, trying to throw his opponent off balance. Most fights were fueled by emotion, but to win one there shouldn't be any emotion at all. Although Dean was smirking, his eyes were calculating, his expression cold.

"Fight, fight, fight, fight!" the crowd chanted.

In an untelegraphed move, Dean's fist drove deep into Beckett's solar plexus. Beckett doubled over, clutching his stomach, groaning. "Mother fucking piece of shit," he spat.

The sky was growing darker, wind picking up.

The crowd was pushing closer, a seething mass of emotion, feeding off the angry energy generated by the two fighters. "Knock his head off, Beckett!" someone yelled.

"Make him bleed, Dean!" someone else shouted. "Beckett, you're gonna finally get what you deserve, asshole!"

Franklin knelt next to Sylvia as the two fighters circled around each other. "Sylvia?" he asked, tentatively reaching out to touch her arm.

She jerked back with a gasp, scuttling away on her butt. "Dean," she whimpered.

Damn it! Franklin thought to himself. Where the hell is everyone? No way he could stop a fight and help the girl at the same time.

As if in answer, the wail of sirens reached his ears. Glancing quickly toward the parking lot, Franklin saw a police car and an ambulance screech to a halt.

"Over here!" Franklin shouted, hovering over Sylvia, but making no attempt to touch the traumatized girl again.

"Break it up! Break it up!" Principle McNally pushed through the crowd, followed by two police officers.

"We need an ambulance," Franklin called anxiously, indicating the girl.

McNally nodded and one of the police officers lifted his radio to his lips.

"Dean Winchester! John Beckett! Stop!" McNally shouted, but like Franklin, he didn't move in any closer.

The two boys were oblivious to the authority figures in their midst. The demands to quit fighting lost in a haze of anger.

"I'm the one who's a mothering fucking piece of shit?" Dean asked. "I'm not the one who doesn't know what the word 'no' means. What the hell, Beckett? You so stupid you failed kindergarten?"

"Think you're so fucking cool," Beckett snarled at him, rushing forward. He grabbed Dean around the waist, propelling him backward until he was slammed into a bleacher post, head banging hard into the wood. "You're nothin' but a wannabe. Why don't you go back to wherever the hell you came from. No body wants you here."

Dean grunted, teeth grinding. He brought up his arms, breaking Beckett's hold. "Aw, do I scare you, Beckett? Cuz you should be!"

"Fuck you, Winchester!" Beckett shouted, swinging his fist toward Dean.

"Fucking lame, Beckett!" Dean blocked the punch easily.

"Let us through!" A paramedic said urgently, pushing past Franklin to kneel next to Sylvia.

Lightning flashed.

Beckett charged Dean.

Dean sidestepped him, smirking.

To Franklin's eyes, he looked like he was enjoying himself. This has to stop, Franklin thought.

As if hearing his thoughts, the cops waded into the fray, reaching out to grab the two fighters.

Before they could pull the pair apart, Dean delivered a hard right hook to Beckett's cheek. Blood flew from his mouth.

Beckett growled with rage, leg snapping out and catching Dean hard in the thigh.

Dean stumbled backward, going down on one knee.
Thunder crackled in the distance.

And just when Franklin thought it couldn't get any worse, it did.

"Dean!" Sam Winchester shouted, running toward his brother, heedless of the danger.

Franklin left Sylvia to the care of the paramedics and raced to grab hold of the younger Winchester.

Dean grinned crookedly at Sam as Beckett took a menacing step forward. "It's okay, Sammy."

"Dean, look out!" Sam shouted just as Franklin threw an arm around his waist and held on tight.

Sam struggled against him. "Let me go!"

It required a lot of effort for Franklin to keep a hold of him. The kid was slippery like an eel and strong to boot. "Sam, stop! You can't help your brother. It's too dangerous."

"I can, too, help him," Sam muttered, trying to slip out from under Franklin's arm.

Franklin shook his head in amazement. The boy had sounded dead serious. "Sam, no."

Dean stood up, swaying slightly on his feet, but as Beckett rushed toward him, he turned his body and using Beckett's own momentum, drove the other boy face first straight to the ground. Dean threw himself on top of Beckett, clamping his knees tight against Beckett's waist. He twisted Beckett's arm, holding it high up on his back.

Beckett gave a hoarse cry of pain and tried to buck Dean off.

Dean held on. "No means no, Beckett," he growled tightly. "You're lucky I don't cut off your balls and feed them to you."

The cops reached forward and gripped Dean by the shoulders, trying to pull him away. At first he resisted then Sam said, "Dean, you can let go now. Let the cops take care of him."

Dean looked up and over at Sam, giving a slight nod, and letting the cops pull him away.

"We're going to have some questions for you, son," one of them said.

"Whatever," Dean muttered, easily slipping from the police officer's hold.

The officer made a move toward him, but Franklin held up his hand and shook his head. "He's not going anywhere," he said quietly.

Sam wiggled out of Franklin's grasp and ran toward Dean, gaze sweeping over his older brother anxiously.

Dean smiled reassuringly and nodded before kneeling next to Sylvia.

Arguing and muttering, Beckett was led away, but no one seemed to notice or care. All eyes were on Dean and Sylvia.

"Hey," Dean said quietly. "You okay?"

"He—he tried to—to--" Sylvia hiccuped.

Dean nodded slowly. "But he didn't, right?" he asked.

Sylvia shook her head, wordlessly. Then with an inarticulate cry, tears sliding down her face afresh, she threw herself into Dean's arms, burying her face into his neck.

Dean sucked in a breath, but he held her tight.

Franklin frowned. "Dean?"

Dean shook his head distractedly. He held Sylvia to him, rocking her gently.

"You—you saved me!" Sylvia sobbed. "If—if it weren't for you, he—he would have—he---"

"Shh, Sylvie," Dean soothed rubbing her back gently. "He didn't."

"Be—because of you." She looked up at him. "Only because of you."

Dean gave her a soft smile, brushing a tangled blonde lock from her face. He thumbed away her tears. "I'm glad I was here."

"Me—me too," Sylvia said, laying her head on his shoulder.

Neither seemed as if they wanted to move.

Sam hovered anxiously, looking as if he wanted to reach out and touch his brother. Finally, he gave in and laid a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Everything's okay, Sam," Dean said quietly.

Sam looked worried, dismay written all over his face. He bit his lip. "You still have to talk to the cops, Dean."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem, Sam," Franklin spoke up. "Sylvia will tell her side of the story and everyone will know your brother was a hero."

Dean ducked his head and Sam stared at Franklin in wonder.

Franklin looked askance, wondering what he'd said to deserve that look. "What?"

"You actually get it," Sam said in awe. "Not many people do."

"Sam," Dean said resignedly.

"Get what?" Franklin asked, although he had an sneaky suspicion as to what Sam was referring.

"That Dean is a hero," Sam said simply.

"That's enough, Sam," Dean said tiredly. Still holding Sylvia, he shifted on his knees. His mouth twisted in a grimace, face leeching of all color.

"Dean? What's wrong?" Sam asked immediately.

"What do you mean what's wrong? I was just in a fight Sam," Dean responded, rolling his eyes. "So I'm a little sore. That's all."

Sam was frowning at him. "Something's not right," he murmured, eyes roaming over Dean.

"Stop it, Sam," Dean said wearily. "Quit looking at me as if I'm trying to hide something from you."

"Dean," Sam said warningly, shifting closer to his brother.

They stared at each other. A whole conversation flashing in the silence.

Dean's gaze dropped, shoulders slumping, and his whole body began to tremble. "It's nothing, Sammy," he mumbled.

Sam looked alarmed. "Sylvia, can you move, please? I need to see," he said urgently, tugging at his brother's shoulder.

Sylvia looked up from where she had been drowsing on Dean's shoulder. "Huh? What?"

"Maybe it's best if you went with the paramedics now, Sylvie," Dean told her gently.

Sylvia looked torn. "I—I don't want to."

"They only want to help you," Dean murmured.

"Don't leave me, Dean," Sylvia cried. "Please."

"Aw, Sylvie," Dean said. "It's going to be okay. Beckett won't hurt you ever again."

"But—but..." a tear trickled down Sylvia's face.

"It's going to be okay," Dean repeated, words slurring. "I'll visit. I promise."

"Dean." Sam tugged at Dean's jacket. "Where are you hurt? You gotta tell me."

"Sylvia," Franklin interjected. "You've got to let go of Dean. He needs looking after, too."

Sylvia's eyes widened and she drew away from Dean.

"Oh my god," Franklin exclaimed, noting the streaks of blood along Sylvia's right arm; coating the side of her sweater.

Sylvia looked down. "That's—that's not my blood," she said somewhat numbly. Her eyes flicked up to Dean's. "Dean?"

"It's...nothing, Sylvie," Dean tried to smile.

"No, no," Sam chanted, moving Dean's jacket aside.

"It's...okay...Sammy." Dean's eyelids fluttered closed and he toppled backwards, out cold.

"Dean? Dean!" Sam slapped his cheek.

"I need a medic over here!" Franklin yelled. The side of Dean's black t-shirt was slashed revealing a jagged cut; blood still oozing from the wound, soaking into the surrounding fabric.

Sam saw it, too, eyes going wide. He threw himself across his brother, clamping his hand tight against the cut. "He had a knife," he said in disbelief. "Son of a bitch had a knife!"

Franklin's first reaction was to reprimand Sam for cussing, but he kept his mouth shut. If ever a situation called for cussing, this was it.

Paramedics were suddenly there. One was gently helping Sylvia to her feet. "Dean," she kept muttering helplessly, eyes never leaving him as she was ushered to a waiting ambulance. "Dean."

She sounded so lost and uncertain, and Franklin felt for her, but she was in good hands.

Franklin put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Let the paramedic take a look."

Sam shook him off roughly, eyes flashing. "I'm not leaving him!"

"Whoa," Franklin said softly. "I'm not asking you to. You just need to give the medic some room to work."

Sam glared at him, scooting closer to Dean as if he didn't believe Franklin.

Dean stirred; eyes opening to mere slits. "Sam?" he called weakly. "Sammy?"

Sam's attention snapped down to Dean. "I'm right here," he said softly, gripping Dean's hand. "Not going anywhere. Promise."

"'kay," Dean breathed and was out again.

"Another bus is on its way," the paramedic said. "We'll get him to the hospital soon. We're gonna need to contact your parents, kid."

Sam nodded.

"I'll take care of that," Franklin said.

"You won't be able to reach my dad," Sam said in a dull voice. "I'll call him when we get to the hospital." Then he added with determination, "I'm riding with him."

"Okay by me," the paramedic said easily just as the second ambulance arrived.

In no time at all, Dean and Sam were in the ambulance and whisked away to the hospital.

Franklin stood for a long moment, watching the flashing lights disappear, as lightning flickered in the sky and thunder rumbled.

He knew Sam had been right. Dean was the class cut up, the type of student that made most teachers cringe and wish he would transfer to another school; become someone else's problem. Looking at him, no one would think Dean Winchester a hero.

But after today, that would change if Franklin had anything to say about it.

From here on out, Franklin vowed to judge a student on his own merit and not be swayed by popular opinion. He would never make that mistake again.

It began to rain.

~.~.~

Franklin glanced at the scrap of paper in his hand. This was the right place. He knocked on the door and waited.

There was the sound of shuffling feet and a groan. The door creaked open. "Coach?" Dean asked. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd come by and see how you were doing," Franklin said.

"I'm just peachy," Dean drawled, limping out onto the porch.

Franklin frowned. "What's wrong with your leg?"

The knife wound to Dean's side had totally eclipsed everything else and Franklin realized with a start that Dean must have suffered other injuries.

"Beckett got in a lucky shot," Dean answered. "It's no big deal."

Franklin frowned. "Deeply bruised?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Maybe you should keep off of it."

"It's not that bad," Dean said defensively, and Franklin knew right then that the boy wasn't supposed to be on his feet.

"Maybe we should take this inside and you can sit," Franklin suggested.

"I'm good," Dean repeated stubbornly, crossing his arms.

Franklin sighed. He couldn't force the issue. It wasn't his place. He wondered where the other Winchesters were. The dad he had never met, but Franklin was willing to bet that if Sam were around, Dean wouldn't be standing outside in the cold, putting weight on a bad leg. "Where's your brother?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You wanna know where Sam is? Well, he's with my dad. They'll be home soon."

Franklin nodded, leaning against a pillar.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Why are you really here, Coach?"

"Like I said, I just wanted to know how you were doing."

Dean shook his head. "That's not it. Nobody cares about that. So just tell me, what are you doing here?"

There was no bitterness in Dean's voice. Just a statement of fact. Franklin felt a pang of sadness. No child should feel uncared for. Then he thought about Sam and realized that Dean meant other people, not family.

Still, Dean was right. There was something Franklin wanted to know, something that had been bothering him since the fight a few days ago.

"I do care about how you're doing," Franklin stated, "but yes, there's something I was hoping you could answer for me."

Dean smirked, shifting on his feet. He bit back a groan.

"Maybe you should sit down," Franklin suggested anxiously, reaching out to grip Dean by the elbow.

Dean dodged him easily, a grimace of pain crossing his face. "No place to sit. Ask away, Coach."

"Twenty-two stitches," Franklin murmured, staring pointedly at Dean's side.

"Not really a question," Dean said, amused.

Franklin looked up. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Dean looked surprised. "You mean during the fight?" At Franklin's nod, he shrugged. "Didn't feel it."

"Adrenaline," Franklin stated.

"Yep," Dean answered.

"But it must have started to hurt when the fight was all over," Franklin said.

Dean looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, it did."

"Why didn't you say anything then?" Franklin pressed.

Dean shrugged again. "Didn't want anyone kicking up a fuss. Sylvie needed more attention than I did."

Franklin nodded, understanding that Dean had been putting Sylvia's needs before his own. "Your brother saw right through it, though."

Dean grinned. "Yeah, Sammy has that habit. I've tried to break him of it, but he's kind of stubborn about it."

Franklin thought that was probably a good thing. He was beginning to realize that Dean was the type to see to everyone else's needs while probably ignoring his own. Franklin silently commended Sam for keeping an eye on his brother. Dean needed it even if he wouldn't admit it. "Sounds like he's a great brother."

"The best," Dean didn't hesitate to say. "I just don't want him to worry. That's my job."

Franklin figured Sam would have something to say to that, but he refrained from voicing that sentiment out loud.

The sound of a purring engine reached his ears, and he turned to see the car Dean usually drove to school turn into the driveway.

"I've always meant to tell you that your Impala is in great shape," Franklin murmured as Sam hopped out of the passenger seat and came around the car.

The driver's side door opened, and a tall man got out.

"I told you. I'm a hell of a mechanic," Dean said proudly.

He wasn't bragging, Franklin knew. He was telling the absolute truth. "Cherry ride."

"She's a beauty alright," Dean's voice took on a dreamy quality.

"Dean!" Sam said sternly, bounding up the steps. "You're supposed to be in bed."

"Cut it out, Sammy," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "I'm fine."

"You need to get back inside right now," Sam said stubbornly. "You don't even have on any shoes! Dad!" Sam exclaimed in exasperation to the man striding up the walk.

"Sam," Dean growled at him.

"Dean," John Winchester said mildly, but in a tone that brooked no argument. "Do as your brother says."

"But, Dad," Dean protested, then immediately clamped his mouth shut.

"That's an order, son," John said. "And it'll stay that way until I know you're okay. Now, go on. Get inside." He turned to his younger son. "Sam, you're in charge."

Sam stared at Dean triumphantly, taking Dean's elbow and ushering him into the house.

"Don't let it go to your head, Sammy," Dean muttered.

"Dad says you have to do what I say," Sam said smugly.

"You aren't gonna go easy, are you?" Dean said, resigned.

"Nope!" Sam responded, voice carrying through the open door. "I get to take care of you for a change."

"You're just eating this up," Dean grumbled, voice fading as they moved further into the house.

"You've got some good kids there, Mr. Winchester," Franklin nodded toward the door.

"Yeah," Winchester said.

Not a man of many words, Franklin thought. He held out his hand. "I'm Eric Franklin. Dean's history teacher."

Winchester reached out and shook Franklin's hand, and the teacher tried not to wince at the strong grip. "Dean's mentioned you a few times." Winchester looked at him appraisingly. "He usually doesn't talk much about teachers."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Franklin said with a smile.

Winchester's eyes narrowed in on him. "You should," he said quietly.

There was an uncomfortable silence and Franklin looked away.

"Did you want something?" Winchester finally asked.

Franklin looked up. "Just wanted to check up on Dean."

Winchester lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah?" he asked skeptically.

Franklin took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm not too proud to admit it, Mr. Winchester, but I misjudged your son."

"You don't say," Winchester said drily. "That never happens."

"I guess it happens a lot," Franklin muttered, shame-faced. "I know most of my colleagues have underestimated him."

"Franklin," Winchester said. "Most of your colleagues are idiots."

"Yeah," Franklin agreed, thinking about Agee and his judgmental ways. He had never given Dean a chance, making assumptions without trying to get to know the boy. "You'd be right."

"I'm always right," Winchester said, deep voice rumbling. "But Dean's used to being misunderstood. Practically makes it an art form."

Privately, Franklin agreed with that, but he also knew that if anyone bothered to look beyond the facade, they'd know better. "I think that's what's bad about the whole thing," Franklin said. "Dean shouldn't be used to it."

"Don't worry about my boy, Franklin," Winchester growled. "He's gonna be just fine."

Franklin glanced at the house, imagining Sam hovering over Dean. Then he looked over at Winchester, the fierce look on his face. No, he didn't think he had to worry about Dean, but all the same he did. The kid deserved more than two people worrying about him. Dean was special even if no one else really understood that.

"I'm sure he will be," Franklin murmured. "He's made of strong stuff."

Winchester gazed off toward the horizon. By the far away look in his eyes, Franklin assumed he wasn't seeing the distant trees or the park across the way. "You don't know the half of it," he murmured.

Suddenly, Franklin felt he was intruding on a quiet moment of introspection tinged with sadness and regret. He wanted to leave, but stayed rooted to the spot; waiting for John Winchester to return to the here and now.

Winchester's gaze never wavered, but whatever he was seeing no one else was privy to. It was quiet, a stillness falling over them as if time had been suspended.

Finally, Winchester shook himself and turned bleak eyes to Franklin. "If we're through here, I've got to get back to my boys. Dean has a tendency to overdo things and while Sammy can handle it, I'd like to check up on him."

Franklin nodded, the resigned sadness permeating Winchester's frame preventing him from saying anything.

"Thanks for stopping by," Winchester said, taking the stairs up to the porch. He was at the door when Franklin finally found his words.

"I look forward to actually getting to know your son better," he said.

Winchester inclined his head indicating he had heard, then entered the house.

Franklin stood a moment longer than went to his car.

~.~.~

The following Monday at lunch, Franklin walked into the teachers' lounge.

Agee was sitting at one of the tables, staring into his coffee cup.

Franklin was reluctant to engage Agee in conversation. Talking to Agee always aggravated him, but something in the man's posture had Franklin approaching and sitting across from him. "What is it, Agee?"

Agee looked up, a troubled look on his face. "Dean Winchester has withdrawn from school."

"What?" Franklin said in surprise. "That can't be, I was just there over the weekend. He didn't say anything about withdrawing."

"Sam Winchester has been withdrawn, too," Agee added. "The Winchesters are gone."

Franklin felt disappointed. He had been looking forward to getting to know Dean better, possibly having Sam in a class in later years. "That's too bad," he said. "But shouldn't you be happy about that? You've been wanting Dean gone a long time."

Agee toyed with his coffee cup. "Yes, well, I might have been wrong about...about him," he said reluctantly.

Franklin lifted a brow. "Might have? You were totally wrong about Dean, Agee."

Agee looked angry for a moment, then his face dissolved into resignation. "Yes, I must admit I was. He was always disrupting my class, never doing any work. I didn't want him there."

"I think that was the problem, Agee," Franklin said gently, no hint of a reprimand in his voice. "No one wants to feel unwanted."

Agee looked away. "It was a good thing he was there for Sylvia Mitchell," he muttered to the dusty fake plant sitting on the window sill.

"Yes," Franklin agreed. "Things could have turned out much worse if he hadn't been around."

Agee nodded.

They sat there silently, lost in their own thoughts, until the bell signaled that the lunch period was over and they both went back to their respective classrooms.

In the years to follow, Franklin would often wonder what had become of Dean, what kind of man he had grown up to be. When he saw that Dean had been killed in St. Louis and blamed for a rash of serial killings, Franklin knew deep in his heart that it wasn't true.

Dean was a hero. It was an undisputed fact.

Franklin would stake his life on it.

The End.