Chapter Text
February 1997 – St. Louis High School
The classroom smelled of chalk, way too many different perfumes and that weird cleaning-solution smell that every public building somehow has. The students sat in rows, most dozing off or whispering, only a few pretendting to pay attention. All the way in the back, where teachers rarely looked, two boys sat next to each other, largely ignored by everyone.
Dean Winchester rested his elbows on the desk, his boots tucked halfway under the chair. His history book lay closed in front of him, and instead he filled the margins of his notebook with doodles: pentagrams, skulls, a semi-recognizable werewolf with oversized teeth. It was his third day here, and already the first kids had started calling him “Creepy Dean.”
Next to him was Danny Brooks, new to the class that day. His dark curls fell into his face, and he held his pencil with a precision that didn’t look like bored scribbling at all. While the teacher droned on about the American Civil War, a perfectly shaded one-dollar bill appeared on his paper. The eagle, the numbers, the fine lines—everything done with a pencil, but astonishingly convincing.
For a while, both boys remained silent, each in his own world, united by the unspoken wish to remain invisible. But eventually, Dean’s gaze drifted over. First by chance, then longer. He studied the tiny details on Danny’s paper and raised an eyebrow. Finally, he murmured softly, almost under his breath, “That’s… damn good.”
Danny lifted his head just a little, eyes cool, waiting. “And yours looks like you’re headed for a career as a prison tattoo artist.” Dean grinned crookedly. “Hey, at least it stands out.” “Exactly what I’m trying to avoid.” Danny closed his notebook a bit, as if he’d done something forbidden.
Dean twirled his pencil between his fingers, leaning forward slightly. “You know, Pretty Boy, if you keep making perfect bills like that, you’re gonna attract more attention than you want.” Danny pursed his lips. “It’s just practice. No real plan.” “Sure.” Dean let out a short laugh. “And my demons? Just… art.”
For a moment, they just looked at each other, two boys with their own secrets, too young and yet too old for the room they were in. Danny shook his head slightly, as if to end the conversation, and returned to his drawing. Dean just grinned. He liked that the new kid hadn’t immediately shied away.
The teacher asked a question about the Reconstruction Era, and nobody responded. Her eyes swept the back row, and she only saw two students pretending to be invisible. She sighed and turned back to the front.
Dean leaned back, whispering almost inaudibly, “Welcome to the club of the uninterested.” Danny let the pencil circle without looking up. “Club sounds like community. I just see solitary cells.”
Dean grinned again, that shameless but honest grin. “Well… maybe our cells are at least next to each other.” No reply. Just a tiny twitch at the corner of Danny’s mouth, as if he were holding back a smile.
When the bell rang, Dean slowly packed his things while the others rushed out. Danny lingered for a moment, not wanting to dive straight into the crowd.
Dean threw him a glance as he passed. “Hey, Brooks. If anyone gives you crap about your drawings, just say the word. I’ll make sure you get home with your nose in one piece.” Danny looked up, his blue eyes assessing. “And what do you get out of it?” Dean shrugged, grinning widely. “Boredom combat.” Danny nodded shortly, slipped his notebook in his bag, and followed a few steps behind. Something about Dean’s remark made him feel less alone for the first time in days.
The next day, they had English together. The teacher clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone, today you’re doing partner work. Topic: find similarities. The more, the better.”
A collective groan spread across the class. In the back row sat the new kids, Dean and Danny. By chance—or bad luck, because nobody else wanted to sit next to them—they were paired. Dean threw Danny a look and snorted. “So… similarities. Sounds like a damn personal ad.”
Danny shrugged, a thin smile. “Better than poetry analysis, at least.” “True that.” Dean twirled his pencil. “Okay, let’s start: when’s your birthday?”
Danny answered cautiously, “March 21, 1979.” Dean blinked, then grinned. “Ha. Mine’s January 24, 1779. So we’re practically the same age.” A brief silence, then Danny laughed. “That counts, I guess.” Dean scribbled something on the worksheet. “Good. Next category. Any siblings?” “Nope. Only child.” Danny looked at his notebook, almost embarrassed.
Dean nodded, chewing his lip. “Got a little brother. Gets on my nerves sometimes, but…” He shrugged. “He’s my brother.” Danny glanced at him, serious, then slowly nodded. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, having someone around.” Dean didn’t respond, but his gaze lingered on Danny a moment longer than necessary.
Then he changed the subject. “You’re new too, so do you move a lot?” Danny laughed quietly, bitterly. “Enough that I don’t even unpack everything anymore.” Dean grinned crookedly. “Well, then we’re two. My dad’s always on the move, so we never stay anywhere long. New job, new city, new school, same game every time.”
For the first time, Danny relaxed a bit. He leaned back and grinned too. “Maybe we’ve got a competition going—who’s been to more schools?” “Oh, I’ll win that easily.” Dean nudged him lightly with his elbow. They continued writing in silence until Dean asked almost casually, “So… parents?” Danny paused, pencil lifting briefly. “My dad’s dead.” Dean nodded shortly. “My mom too.” He said it so calmly, it didn’t invite sympathy. Just a fact.
A few seconds of silence. Then Dean turned his head, forcing a grin as if to shift the mood. “Okay, now the really important question. Is Cindy Crawford hot, yes or no?” Danny let out a short, unexpected laugh. “Definitely yes.” “Thought so.” Dean wrote “CINDY CRAWFORD” in big letters on the paper. “That alone should save you from failing completely.”
The teacher came by, leaning over the desk. “So, you two newbies—found any similarities yet?” Dean grinned without looking up. “More than enough.” Danny looked at the list: almost the same age, constantly moving, lost a parent, Cindy Crawford. A strange, warm feeling spread through him. He murmured, “Seems like you’re not the only one who doesn’t really fit anywhere.” Dean looked at him, eyes flashing briefly. Then he playfully smacked Danny’s arm with his fist. “See? Freaks stick together.”