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School was hard for Deanna. It was a good thing John was always moving their family around, because with her grades and "behavioral issues", she always managed to get herself on the verge of being thrown out within the first two weeks.
School was hard for Sam, too. But it was different for him. John wouldn't let them stay in one place longer than was necessary to finish one job and pick up the next. Cross-country, motel room to motel room, sometimes without food and often without their father, the Winchesters struggled as best they could to live normally – to go to school like normal kids.
But Sammy couldn't study the way he wanted to, couldn't make friends the way he needed to. He'd come home with a bruise under his eye or a sprained wrist, and as Deana bound his bloody knuckles he'd refuse to meet her gaze and mumble, "It was nothing. I'm fine, De."
Deanna knew he was fine. John had taught them both enough skills; Sammy at twelve was competent enough to handle boys three times his size. That wasn't what she worried about. She worried about the way the light in his eyes died a little when he said, "We'll be moving on soon, anyway."
That part was easier for Deanna. She never wanted to stay in one place very long. In that way she was like John, she guessed – home was the open road, the Impala's worn and smooth seat beneath her, wind and classic rock rushing in her ears. Happiness was the way her knife handle cracked against the breastbone of a shapeshifter, the crackle of burning bones as the remains of a vengeful spirit went up in flames. It was different for Sam. When John tracked kitsunes, Deanna rejoiced; Sam endured. When John left them alone for weeks on end, Deanna worried over food. Sammy built friendships.
Deanna realized early on that Sam was the smart one. He got the best grades, when she was lucky to be sent home with a C. He only got into fights if he was defending someone being picked on. She gave a black eye and a swollen jaw to anyone who looked at her or her brother funny.
Teachers called her "impossible" and "a problem." They complained about her to John, who merely nodded and acted like he cared, but the minute he hung up the phone he was back to lecturing her on the importance of fake ID. And when Deanna acted out by skipping classes and not turning in homework, the teachers threw up their hands and called her a lost cause. John only cared that she fill her extra time with marksmanship practice.
In eight grade Deanna had history with Mrs. Paxton, a forty-odd stick-thin vulture from southern Texas, of whom all the students were deathly afraid but who took an interest in Deaana early on. History was Deanna's favorite subject, the one thing she tried to do well in – yet when her grades continued to be awful, the iron-haired Texan took her aside to ask her why she struggled.
"I don't know," Deanna told her – half truth, half mulish stubbornness. She at in an empty classroom watching dust swirl around the windows, her thirteen-year-old glare fixed on the lazily twirling fan fixture.
"I don't believe you," Mrs. Paxton told her, rake-thin arms crossed over her nonexistent chest. "I've been watching your progress at this school. You appear to...forgive my usage of the phrase here...take offense at the existence of everyone here at this school save your brother. He's what, nine now, isn't he?"
Deanna pulled her glare away from the fan fixture to level it on the Texan, who merely nodded like something had just been confirmed.
"You two live with your father, right?" she asked. "Has he done anything about your dyslexia?"
"My what?"
"Your dyslexia," Mrs. Paxton replied. "You're dyslexic, Deanna. Or at least that's the conclusion I've drawn from watching you read."
Deanna paused. What was she supposed to say to that? But the vulturish Paxton wasn't done yet. She insisted a full check-up be performed by the school nurse – whose results were just what she had already figured out. As for Deanna, the truth was not something she wanted to hear.
When John found out his reaction was just what she expected it to be. He said, "Dyslexia is the least of your worries, Deanna. As long as you can still shoot straight...we don't need to get you glasses, do we?"
And when Deanna tried to tell him, "Dad, that's not what dyslexia is, I've –" he went back to scrawling notes in his journal and she knew he wasn't listening anymore.
It made sense now. Why her grades were so terrible, why she had such a hard time paying attention in school, everything – but she decided that didn't matter. Why did she need to learn what they taught you in history and English? What good were those skills to her? She needed to know how to clean a gun and sharpen a knife and find the ingredients to perform a spell. Learning exorcisms was important. Learning the Gettysburg Address wasn't.
And besides, Sammy had always been the book smart one anyway.
After Mrs. Paxton and eighth grade, they moved on again. Now that she knew what her trouble was, and moreover knew that John wasn't interested in doing anything about it, Deanna figured there was no point in trying. Her grades continued to drop. Now she just went to school to flirt and watch out for Sammy. Her snarky remarks fired at student and staff alike earned her equal parts respect and alienation from everyone around her; her cold glare bought a reputation whispered behind her back. Don't mess with her brother. That little kid, don't touch him. She'll mess you up.
Sam's grades continued to rise. Teachers held high hopes for him getting into college on a full ride, and were surprised when John didn't share their same fervor. But as Sam's grades rose, Deanna's dropped. Oddly, John seemed almost pleased with this progression of events.
"Now you'll have more time for filling salt shells," he told her. "You can clean your guns while you're at it. Homework can wait; we already know what part you play in this team."
Deanna did know. She wasn't meant for lore researching and extensive study. That was Sam's field; he was the smart one. She was the soldier. She did weapons and force and protection detail – protection of their real resource: knowledge. Sammy. Not her.
When she pulled apart an old Walkman and fiddled it into an EMF detector, John smiled and thumped her on the back, mumbling something about how that would save the cost of a new one. Deanna certainly didn't take it to mean that she was clever at anything. When she single-handedly laid the trap for a coven of witches she and John then took care of without so much as a scratch, she knew it didn't mean that she was smart, just good at her job. Sam was the smart one. And Sam was away at Stanford.
And yet for all that, Sam refused to believe what Deanna knew was true about herself. He always tried to tell her what he thought, tried to bolster her confidence – but her confidence didn't need bolstering. She knew what she was.
"That's brilliant, De," he would tell her, glowing with sibling pride when she outlined her plan to catch a werewolf. "That's genius," when she showed him how to make a lock pick out of a paperclip and a chisel.
When he told her, "You're the smartest person I've ever met," Deanna could shrug with a smile, because he was only eleven and hadn't met that many people in his short life yet. When he suggested, "You should show this to Dad. He'll be so impressed," she knew that she wouldn't, because John wouldn't be impressed and it was only her brother who could make her feel like she was clever even when she knew she wasn't.
And, years later, when Deanna was on her own missing both Sam and John, other hunters could compliment her on her intuitive thinking because she already knew she wasn't smart.
Dyslexia might give her a hard time, but it was really okay. She couldn't read as well as most adults she met, but who needed to read that often her line of work? Shooting straight, that was more important. Swinging clean and striking fast was worth more in the end.
If Sammy was her wingman and researched all her lore, Deanna knew she'd be all right. Because her brother was smart in ways she'd never be.
Sam was the philosopher. Deanna was the grunt.