Work Text:
-z-
It was nothing more than another crowded day at the mall. You wouldn’t be here if your father hadn’t kicked you both out of the house to do a little “research.”
“Want some ice cream, dude?” Dean jerks his thumb at the ice cream stand in front of the children playground.
You grin widely and don’t have to say anything.
Dean pays and the two of you sit at the fountain, quietly licking. You and Dean do this a lot, just come here and people-watch. The funny thing is, no matter how many different places you’ve ever lived or how many mall fountains you sit at, the people are always the same. Their clothing and conversations never differ, maybe the accents and faces but that’s about it.
“Sam? Sam Winchester?”
You look up at the sound of your name and there’s a middle-aged man looking at you through a pair of dainty black-rimmed glasses. Your math teacher from your last town.
“Mr. Wilkinson?” you almost choke.
You don’t like this man. You’re pretty sure that Dean can sense this.
“How’ve you been, Sammy?” he was there now, in your personal space, a hand on your shoulder.
“Fine, sir,” you try to scoot away, closer to Dean and to the protection only your brother can offer.
“How’ve your studies been?” he’s ignoring Dean as much as possible.
You say nothing as his eyes run over you, however, you could never trust Dean to do the same as he throws his arm around you neck and snarls a dangerous threat that you choose not to hear.
Dean’s pulling you away now, his arm still around your neck and his eyes glowering at the old man. His hand is going inside his jacket and you’re sure that he’s packing.
“Get out of here, leave us alone,” Dean barks.
The light in Wilkinson’s eye dims a little and you see them following Dean’s hand.
“Okay,” the man holds up his hands in an attempt to placate your brother as he takes a few steps back. “Okay. It was good seeing you again, Sammy.”
You’re still not saying anything and the feel of your brother’s body starts to calm you.
When you get home, you immediately run to the bathroom and shower. The hot water washing away the chills you get every time you ever saw Wilkinson.
Dean questions you about it later, demands to know what the guy did.
“Nothing, Dean,” you say, "he never did anything. He's just a creeper."
Dean growls something under his breath as he turns away from you and leaves the kitchen, moving the five feet to the ratty recliner in the living room and sitting down.
He keeps mumbling until Dad comes into the room and tells him to shut up.
-z-
End.