Chapter Text
Pastor Jim Murphy sighed, then whispered a quick supplication to St. Jude, the patron saint of the Chicago Police Department, lost causes, and, of course, Hunters and their allies.
"Give me strength," he petitioned silently.
He climbed the steps of the edifice that housed the rural school district's K-12 classes and administrative offices. It was built because of the generosity of a 19th century native son who had became the Midwest's leading lumber baron. The man amassed a fortune that, after moving to a palatial home in Chicago, he donated to institutions in the Windy City, putting his name on hospitals, schools, museums, and one major thoroughfare.
Built in the 1920s, his one gift to his birthplace was copied from a painting of a Renaissance-era villa with columns and a rotunda, an anomaly in the Heartland farming community.
"See," it said, on behalf of the boy who grew up in a shack on the outskirts of town, "I done good."
At first, the small Midwestern community's residents were more than proud of their new school, which attracted lookie-loos from two hundred miles away. However, as the decades rolled on, the defects became more apparent. With its big windows and high ceilings, the behemoth was expensive to heat and cool. Replacing light bulbs and sweeping cobwebs in the intimidating–and useless–three-story atrium was a once-a-year-event, requiring special ladders borrowed from the district fire department.
And with the advent of educational technology, the school board discovered that adequately upgrading the wiring to host the future routers, servers, and computer peripherals would be costly. And require strengthening the floors with additional support beams and drilling into the marble walls.
A team of local construction workers and tech gurus from a neighboring college did their best, using state and federal funds to improve the school's equipment and software. It was an ongoing challenge to jerry-rig and find funding to maintain the popular computer lab.
Just outside of the town was an open field, leveled and shovel-ready, donated by one of the founding families. A group of far-sighted citizens had been raising money for a new building for years, stymied by the misplaced nostalgia of an entrenched cluster of older residents, which their political opponents called "The Coven" behind their backs.
None of The Coven had children, but they were convinced that the building was the town's most important asset, bringing status and wealth to the community. Like most such entitled folks they were out-of-touch with Real Life issues: the comfort of the students and faculty and the requirements of running a school in the late 20th century.
The building, thought the good pastor, was an apt metaphor for his meeting with the school's principal, the middle school's science teacher, and almost-twelve-year-old Sammy Winchester, aka Sammy Singer. A clash among philosophies regarding how to nurture young minds, particularly those with genius and talent.
Some days, the good pastor, a powerful Adept (meaning White Wizard), a celebrity in the Hunter world, and the bane of monsters on three continents, thought battling hell spawn was easier than managing a civil and productive conversation with petty and pretentious small-town bureaucrats.
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The first rule the children of Hunters learn, to be blunt, is to keep their mouths shut. Don't talk about the Supernatural or the Hunting Life with civilians, especially people in authority who could whisk them away from their loved ones.
The Winchester boys, both Dean and Sammy, were obedient to what was sometimes referred to as the Prime Directive, until Dean's relationship with Cassie Robinson.
And the second rule? Keep a low profile. Don't draw attention to yourself. In effect, stay invisible.
Hmmm.
Neither of the boys succeeded at not being noticed. What protected their secret identities, superheroes in the making that they were, was that they were rarely in one place long enough to reveal unconventional truths regarding what's really hiding under the bed. Or show off their advanced Special Ops skills to naive civilians.
First of all, there was Dean being Dean. By his teen years he was turning heads. Usually he had a clutch of giggling admirers following him through the hallways and playgrounds of whatever school he and Sammy attended. He would even catch the attention of the teachers, who would sigh and inappropriately fantasized about the boy with the swagger and the green green eyes.
Also, there were the Incidents.
Some big kid would say something to Sammy, or strike him and make him cry. The someone would be discovered that night or the next morning huddled behind the bleachers in the football field, in a sorry state. Wouldn't tell their parents or the police what happened.
"I fell down," they would say, squinting at the adult interrogators through a swollen black eye.
There were suspicions, but nothing could be proven.
Like the powerful gravitational pull of an unidentified celestial object, Dean's influence could be identified by the impact he had others.
The Dean Smile®, which could cause indiscriminate fainting and, according to at least one observer, lights to flicker.
The requisite bully population of every public school would somehow diminish. Heads down. Avoiding their former victims and shy attempts at making amends.
And the former bullied would walk tall and smile more. Speak up in class.
Dean made the good kids a little braver, and the mean kids a little more hesitant.
The school nurses knew. The one school counselor or coach or librarian whom students would confide in. They knew.
"Dean is our hero," the kids would tell them.
Sad to see him go. But he left his mark in the best way.
When Dean deigned to show up for team tryouts, coaches swooned. He was fast, tough, agile, and accurate, whether throwing a football or running bases. Took direction like a little soldier. But, he was rarely around for more than a few games.
Secretly, Dean like the positive attention from the teachers who ran the athletic departments of the schools, usually family men with boys of their own. They recognized the longing behind the bravado and made sure the boy received his fair share and a little more of praise and affection.
By the way, do you really think classmates and the general population did not notice Baby? The Impala's sleek beauty? Distinctive roar? "Sex on Wheels" was her nickname, and she became known on her own merits. But then, she wasn't wont to discuss the Supernatural with her admirers. Just basked in their praise. Until it was time to leave town, usually before dawn.
And then there was Sammy. A quiet kid brother, the worshiping moon in the blazing light of Dean's sun. Just surviving in the shark-infested lagoons of most of the schools they landed in, even under Dean's watchful eye.
But, all it took was the first homework assignment, the first time he couldn't help himself and raised his hand to answer a question. The first time he entered the school media center and confidently ask the librarian for a specific title by its Dewey Decimal number. The first time he found a typo in a ten-year old text book.
Sometimes, Sammy couldn't help himself.
And, any teacher worth their salt, the kind who believes in the innate goodness of children, who looks for the spark in every student, who hunts for the gold, would recognize the remarkable heart and mind of Samuel William Winchester (or Campbell or Singer or Smith). And never want to let him go.
They would shift their attention in class, like a weather vane tracking the leading edge of a storm front, to the kid in the front row, sitting up straight, hazel eyes locking on the teacher, making notes in a neat cursive. They would delight in giving the shaggy-haired boy the thickest books and the hardest assignments. Extra time after school.
With every meeting those teachers would delight and wonder at the boy's gifts. More than smart; wise beyond his years.
Sometimes, the older brother Dean would show up at those afterschool sessions. "Rough and ready" was an apt description of the boy, slouched by the door of the classroom. Eventually, with Sammy's nagging, he would sit next to his little brother at a too-small student desk. On the alert, like a loyal and protective guard dog, with the same kind of unconditional love shining in his eyes.
The teachers always made sure there were after school snacks for growing boys. Sammy had to have his fill first before Dean would reluctantly accept the homemade cookies and milk from paper cartons that all of the teachers stocked. And the teachers would be nice to Dean, who would lose some of his snark.
But then there were the other kinds of teachers. Some were indifferent, and some were cruel, eliciting uncomfortable laughs from the other students as they poked fun at the new kids.
And some were jealous of the eager boy with the big brain, which brings us to the meeting Pastor Jim Murphy was dreading.