Hey yall! Before you begin this lovely fic of mine I have a few things to say! First, thank you for taking the time to click on it and look through! This is a Destiel high school AU that deals with stress, love, and chronic illness. I started writing this fic way back in 2012 when I was 16, and now in 2017, am rounding out on finishing the first draft. To get to the point: I was not as aware at 16 as I am at 21, and I didn't have the nuanced understanding of chronic illnesses that I have now. Please take the depictions in this fic with a grain of salt.

That said, enjoy! This fic deals with kids falling in love, and also some cats.

-VP

Dean Winchester is not a morning person. Neither could you really consider him a mid-morning, noontime, or mid-afternoon person. He's more of a swell-of-the-evening type of person, when the sun dips just below the horizon and paints the sky every shade of red and gold. Sometimes, he likes to look up at the stars staring back at him. It makes him realize how entirely insignificant he is. But that's okay, really.

Dean isn't a morning person, yet he somehow finds himself awake before the sun, a few stray stars still blinking in through the open window. Through the fog of sleep, he hears his name being called from the kitchen down the hall, by a voice that's always far too energized for such an ungodly hour of the morning.

"C'mon, hurry up! I made breakfast!"

He can't help but grin. He shouts back that he'll be ready in a minute, tacking on the nickname his brother hates so much. His grin only widens when he hears the familiar response of "It's Sam, not Sammy!"

Dean scrubs his face with his dry hands, feeling a few prickles of stubble on his otherwise smooth face. He runs a hand through his short hair, contemplating whether or not he should put jeans on before going out to meet his brother. He decides to throw on a pair crumpled in the corner, holes worn in the knees. Some oil stains permanently accent the pockets, though he's long forgotten they were there. The calendar on his wall glares at him like he's forgetting something important. He ignores the tug in his gut.

While he's pulling on an old t-shirt, he goes to meet Sam in the kitchen.

"Dad out again?" Dean asks, as he's handed a paper plate piled high with breakfast foods.

"When is he not?" Sam scowls, scraping eggs out onto his own plate. He's not wrong: Dad's out hunting or working more often than he's home. But Dean never really thinks about it, that's just the way it is.

"C'mon, Sammy, eat up. We can worry about Dad after we get you to school," He forces a smile, ruffling his brother's hair.

"Alright, alright. And it's Sam."

They both eat in silence, the heater in the corner blasting white noise and far-too-hot air around their house. Once they finish eating, they find themselves sliding into the front seats of their '67 Chevy Impala, Dean's pride and joy. He got it from his dad when he turned sixteen. The car is his baby, as he reminds his brother any time he can.

When they're both situated, Dean flips the radio to Metallica, playing at a low volume. They both know all the words, Dean through passion and Sam through association, singing shamelessly off-key while rambling down the highway. They stop singing for a few minutes in the middle, when Sam reminds Dean to pick him up after book club. Which leads Sam to explain in detail the plot of whatever he had been assigned to read. ("He just wanted to be loved, Dean, but Victor didn't understand!" ). Dean nods along, asking questions occasionally, but most just letting Sam go off.

Dean has one fist on the top of the steering wheel and the other in his lap, looking more at his brother waving around than at the road. Eventually, Dean turns the radio off, wanting to listen to Sam more than Hetfield. He makes a mental note to look up Frankenstein on SparkNotes later. He remembers teaching Sam how to read at the tender age of four, when Dean himself was eight. Every night, they struggled through the first Harry Potter book aloud, before they both crashed on the couch, or floor, or bed, or wherever they wound up. But they read it, cover to cover. Dean hadn't read a book all the way through since.

Sam waves him a goodbye when they get to the school, a couple of his friends already waiting on the front steps for him. Dropping Sam off at the middle school is the only reason Dean gets up so early in the morning. He doesn't bother much with his own classes, he usually takes a smoke break out by the Seven-Eleven before sauntering into Shop halfway through the lesson. When Sam is too sick to get out of bed, Dean doesn't show up at all. The teachers hardly expect anything more from him.

Dean parks across the street from the high school. The wind nips at his face when he shuts the door behind him. He checks his watch: he's got more than enough time. He watches his breath curl like smoke towards the sun, and spends a moment craving a swig of his dad's Jack Daniel's. He can never do Monday mornings. Something about today makes his chest feel particularly full.

He decides to fuck it at the last minute, he can shock his teacher by showing up on time for once. He strolls in, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, just as the late bell is chiming. The teacher purses her lips and gives him a look, but can't be bothered to say anything. The room is all but empty, a few kids scattered around the tables. His friend and occasional fuck-buddy, Jace, is sitting on her desk next to another girl that Dean doesn't remember the name of. He can't focus long enough to care.

Something's off today, something's wrong. Dad didn't come home from his night out drinking. Which happens often enough, but never at the beginning of the week. Dean half-heartedly checks the date, to see if his calendar was right this mor- Oh. November 2nd. Fuck.
The room feels ten degrees too hot.

He nearly knocks his chair over when he stands up, flashes a hall pass at the teacher, and leaves. How could I have forgotten? This happens every year, no big deal. Fuck. He thinks, leaning his back against the side of the building. The brick is sharp on his back. He can't get in a good lungful of air- too much smoke. Fuckin' pathetic, Winchester. Not enough smoke. Dean isn't sure how long he stands outside like that, ignoring his shivering for just long enough to finish a couple cigs and not caring if the teacher chews him out for it.

He makes a mental note to give their uncle Bobby a call when he gets the chance. And to stop at the flower shop before the cemetery. Shit, and Sammy's got book club today, too. Guess he can join me this time. Sam usually doesn't.

The obnoxious chime of the school bell smashes into his thoughts. He hardly remembers to grab his bag before leaving.

His phone nearly burns a hole in the fabric of his jeans as he makes his way around the building. He wants to cut his next class, English, to give Bobby a ring, but his last test grade, barely a C, advises him against it. He doesn't need to give his dad any more of a reason to be angry. With a sigh, he makes his way.

English is one of the few dual-taught classes Dean has run into during his three years in high school. Ms. Nisbet and Mrs. Leonard are both fresh out of college and have an inane passion for literature. As Dean walks in, the class is already chatty and someone's stuck a cucumber to the front chalkboard. Dean takes the seat two rows behind his friend Jo.

"Alright, everyone." Ms. Nisbet says once everyone settles down. "We're starting a new unit. Who's ever heard of Frankenstein?" A few hands in the room go up. Dean sits up a little straighter: that's the book Sam had been talking about in the car this morning. Now, Dean had seen he old black-and-white flick a few summers back, very creepy-cool. Of course, Sam just had to tell him everything that was wrong with it, spoil-sport.

Mrs. Leonard continues for her partner. "You'll be reading the original novel, and writing a speech on it with a partner." The room springs up with chatter and everyone turns to face their friends. Dean meets Jo's eyes from over the head of some lanky kid in a trenchcoat. He flashes her a grin and she nods.
Jo and Dean have been best friends since sixth grade or so, when Dean moved here for the first time. She'd showed him her knife collection and they spent most of a day carving their names into every tree they could find.

"But," Leonard's voice cuts the chatter, "we'll be assigning your partners."

Ain't that just my luck today. Dean scowls at nothing in particular. He shoots Jo a mournful look, before glaring at the chalkboard ahead of him. He watches the cucumber slice splat onto the floor. He's sure he'll be stuck with some deadbeat who expects him to do all the work. Ms. Nisbet drops the rubric onto his desk, and he almost audibly groans. Christ, he practically has to write a whole 'nother novel. Hello, C minus. Yet another reason for his dad to come down on his head.

And fuck, he's right back where he started. Did he need to call Bobby now more than ever. He looked around, from the back of Jo's head, to one of the teachers, to a black-haired boy sitting at the front of the class. Everyone else listening attentively to something he knew he should care about. A moment later, though, he feels his phone vibrating on his leg. His heart short-circuits for a moment before he realizes it was only a text, and neither his dad nor Bobby are technologically efficient enough to know how to do that. He steals a glance at his phone, blinking when he sees that he has a new message from Jo.

Everything ok? He grimaces, knowing she won't take a lie.

Check the d8. is all Dean needs to say. Jo knows what it means, what his dad will be up to.
At the front of the room, Mrs. Leonard is standing on a chair, hitting the overhead projector with a ruler in an attempt to make it start working again.

Want 2 come over for dinner?

I was abt 2 ask u the same thing. He hears a chuckle from up ahead of him, though whether it's from his text, or the fact that the projector was now smoking, he isn't sure.

Do we need a horror flick marathon?

U no it

When they realize the projector is totally shot, everyone is handed a copy of Frankenstein and told to read until the end of class.
It takes a few minutes for the smoke to clear, and a few more for everyone to shut up about it. Jesus, does Dean need that movie marathon. Or at least a good fuck. Something to take his mind off of everything. He scans the room again: there's a cute brunette a few seats away that doesn't look away when he looks her up and down. He smiles. She licks her lips.

"Ah, fuck, Dean!" The brunette tangles her fingers through his hair as he thrust his hips forward. He bites down on his bottom lip, feeling the familiar clench in his lower stomach; he's close. He digs his nails into her shoulder and his hips arch up of their own accord. He thrusts back again, and she lets out a whine, forcing their lips together messily. Her hands is between her legs, rubbing herself jerkily, muttering his name into his shoulder. He comes hard with a shudder through his spine, and she follows soon after.

He presses his forehead against hers, pulling out and panting into the thick air. They don't stay like that for long: the girl shimmies out from under him and collects her panties from under the seat. When she opens the door, Dean hardly feels the blast of cold. He fumbles with his zipper, maybe muttering something about doing that again, but by the time he gets himself together, she's already gone. He stands up shakily outside the car, with only a small twinge of annoyance. No big loss, he's not even sure he can remember the girl's name.

The bell chimes again, and Dean heads off to lunch.

He swaggers into the lunch room and the familiar aroma of shitty food and teenagers greets him. He spots Jo at their usual table in the corner, listening half-heartedly to one of Ash's alien abduction theories. Ash is a year older than them, and has been sporting a mullet since seventh grade. Today, he's tied the 'party' part into a short braid. When Dean slides up, Ash is busy telling Jo that the pyramids were built by aliens. "No, seriously."

"Ash," Dean cuts in, "dude, I know you're well researched in the art of bullshit and conspiracy theories. But I was telling Jo earlier that we should have a movie night."

"Uh, dude, you know it's a Monday, right?" Ask asks, quirking his eyebrow expertly. "Don't we usually do that kinda thing on Friday?" Jo gives him a look, so he shrugs it off. "Fine, whatever, backwards-ass kids these days. But Jo still has my copy of Dracula."

"Hey, don't look at me! I gave it to Dean for his birthday!" Jo defends. Ash just shakes his head, disappointed. Dean thinks he hears the guy mutter 'typical'. Which, really, it shouldn't be a surprise any more. Every movie or video game that got handed to one of them was passed through all of them at least twice. Dean remembers his birthday, and wondering why the DVD case looked so used.

Dean is laughing when he feels his phone ringing against his leg. Shit. The rest of his laugh dies quickly. His blood runs cold, checking the caller and mouthing the word 'Bobby' at Jo before hurrying out to the boy's bathroom around the corner. He checks the stalls, thankfully all empty, before answering.

"Hey Bobby," He says with well-practiced ease. His heart slams against his ribs, feeling his stomach churn with bile. He's surprised Bobby can't hear it through the crackle of the phone line.

"Hey kid," They both know this conversation by heart. "Your dad's fine. Passed out on my couch near three."

"Okay," His voice wavers, "Good." The pause that follows is thick.

"He'll be fine." Dean really doesn't want to get into it now. Neither of them do.

"I know." Dean hears footsteps outside. "Hey, Bobby, I got to go." He doesn't wait for his uncle to reply, just clicks the phone shut. Sometimes inside him uncoils. He swallows, his throat still tight, and sends a quick text to Sammy.

On his way back to Jo and Ash, he feels his like his step is a tiny bit lighter. Not enough, but enough. Ash is back on his 'Aliens and Pyramids' diatribe, to which Dean happily joins in on.

The rest of the school day is a blur. Not that any of his classes were horribly academic, anyway. And he's stuck staying after until it's time to pick up Sammy. Jo and Ash left half an hour before, so Dean hauls himself into the library, using the computer to play Tetris. There's only a handful of people around, including a crotchety old librarian and a dark-haired boy in a trenchcoat whom he recognizes from his English class. What's his name? Calvin? Cranston? It's something strange. He tries not to think about it too hard. Fortunately, Dean doesn't have to, since gets a text from Sammy a few minutes later.

Sammy is sitting on the front steps of the school entrance when Dean pulls up. Dean doesn't even try, just hands Sam the bouquet: roses, and something Susan or another. Mary always liked yellow flowers.

"How was book club?" Dean tries to make some small talk, but they both know it won't happen.

"It was good. Everyone loves Frankenstein," He tries to keep his tone bright, but his eyes lack the normal glitter of excitement. Maybe it's the flowers laying in his lap. Or how tight Dean's grip on the steering wheel is. "Dean..."

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean snaps, sliding his hands against the wheel, feeling the worn leather ignite his senses. The car, not unlike the air outside it, is frigid. Sam dials up on the heat, and they both smile at the familiar rattling in the heater; when Dean was little, he wound up shoving some Legos up the front, and they never managed to get them out.

The ride to the cemetery is short, and the growing silence would be unbearably painful if it were anyone but the Winchester boys in the front seats.

The familiar curl of the iron gate greets them, silhouetted with the orange glare of the setting sun. Out of habit, Dean begins to hum Metallica, to try and stop feeling like his ribs are made of charcoal. He never likes coming here, but he's always felt like he has to. Like healing and reopening an old wound at the same time. He tried to explain it to Sam once, and Sammy did the best he can, but he couldn't really get what Dean wanted to say. It's Sam, though, the kid understood him anyway. That's fine.

The cemetery gate swings open and every other thought is banished from his head.

Parking is a non-issue: no one comes ever comes on a Monday. The wind stings their bare skin when they step out of the car. Sam pulls his jacket tighter around himself. Dean grabs the flowers from the front seat, cursing when the thorns stab at his fingertips.

Usually, Dean spends a few minutes walking around all the shaky plots of land, considering headstones or family graves. But with Sam beside him and the distinct chill in the air, he doesn't bother. The plot they head to is one of the least worn; Mary didn't have a whole lot of family when she was alive, anyway. Her headstone is still smooth.

Mary Campbell-Winchester
loving Wife and Mother
December 5, 19- to November 2, 20-

Dean sets the flowers down on the cold, grassless earth. Sam stands off behind him, not saying a word. So Dean talks.

"Hey, Mom. It's good to be back here, you know?" He snorts, "Fucking cold, but when isn't it, I mean seriously?" He chuckles to himself. "But I'm here anyway. And man, what a year. Sammy and I found a lost dog a few month ago, spent all afternoon cleaning it up. Ol' Sammy was fuckin' crushed when the owners came by to pick him up. Right, Sammy?" He imagines his fair-haired mother throwing her head back and laughing.

"Shut it." Sam warns. Dean ignores him.

"John's-" an alcoholic, falling apart, wasting away, killing himself constantly. "John's good, real good. He misses you. We all Sammy, he's too busy raving about Jess."

"I said shut up, Dean!"

Dean turns back to his brother, who's glaring at him with cheeks pink not only from the cold.

"No, I'm good, thanks though." Dean chuckles again. "But things have been... Well, things have been."

And Dean doesn't say much else. He never does, he never needs to. Mary knows.

Their neighborhood, which is little more than a few sidewalks connecting a handful of mobile homes, is devoid of all company by the time they get back. The stray tabby cat that sometimes saunters around their lot is sitting on their porch when Dean rolls up. The temperature's dropped at least ten degrees since they got in the car, so when Dean opens the front door and the cat tries to push its way in through his legs, he doesn't object. He sneezes a couple of times, but he doesn't object. He's almost glad the heater's so shot.

He tosses his backpack down on the couch and hits the lights. Sam files in behind him, setting his bags down on the table. He goes over to the cabinet and digs a can of tuna from the back, sniffing it before setting it on the floor. The cat chows on it and gives Sam a thankful mew. Dean sneezes again.

"You know, Dad would have a fit if we tried to keep it." Dean reminds him, sniffling. Sam glares, but keeps on petting the fuzzy beast. Its contented purring seems to highlight the emptiness that springs up through the rest of the house. Sam notices it, too, bringing his lips tighter.

"Well hey," Dean interjects, flipping his phone out of his pocket, "Ash and Jo are coming over tonight, so we won't be totally alone." Sam perks up. Dean squats down next to him, flinching when the cat rubs its face against his knee. "And you know, if you're good I may just let you stay with us." They both smile, "But, y'know, not next to Jo or anything. Don't want to make Jess jealous." Sam turns away, trying to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks.

"You're a jerk!" Sammy tries not to smile. He fails.

"Yeah, well that makes you a bitch."

Dean hears his phone buzz. The cat, who Sam discovers is male, mews when Dean stands up.

We still on? and Be over in ten wait in his inbox for him. He replies to both quickly.

"Alright, Sammy, let's get ready." He pulls his reluctant brother up by the arms.

They spend a while arguing over whether they can keep the cat for the night or not. Sam decides to call it Gabriel, and makes it a bed out of an old sweater, so that settles that. Dean's friends arrive, Jo by walking in the front door and Ash by trying to shove a pizza box through the mail slot. The four of them and the cat strew themselves across the couch. Sam curls up between Dean and Jo's head, the latter laying across Ash's lap. The TV screen blurs for a minute before one of them decides to get up and bang at it a couple times. The pizzas are stacked on top of one another, balancing dangerously on the rickety coffee table.

They're hardly through the first movie before the pizza's all been devoured. Gabriel sits himself in one of the empty boxes before clambering over to curl up on Sam's lap. Dean squirms out of the way to go and get a drink, chuckling to himself when the cat rubs its face up on Sam's chin. The idea of holding onto the cat for more than one night niggles its way into Dean's head. But their dad is going to be home tomorrow, so he quickly banishes the thought. He digs around in the fridge for a couple minutes before a bottle of beer jumps out at him. He pops the top off with practiced ease, taking a swig before going back over to the couch.

When he plops back down, Jo grabs the bottle from him and takes a drink herself, before passing it off to Ash. Sam shoots his brother a disapproving look, and Dean shrugs out an apology. A couple more swallows from the bottle erases his apology completely.

The credits of the movie roll a while later, and coupled with several more empty beer bottles that lay across the floor. The three older teens are giggling to themselves over something they don't know why is funny, while Sam busies himself with sorting out a bed for the cat. Gabriel curls himself up in the torn-up sweater that Sam lay down for him, purring. In his haze, Dean thinks maybe he could get used to the bugger.

Ash leans over the arm of the couch to grab a forgotten slice of pizza, and nearly falls over. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Alright, I think it's time for you all to head out," he says, looking over to his brother. Sam nods in agreement.

"Wait," Sam turns to the friends and Ash struggles to get his shoes on. "Didn't you drive here?" Jo shakes her head.

"Naw, we got off shift early so we walked over," she explains. Sam nods. They say their goodbyes and then the brothers are left alone. There's a pause, then Gabriel meows from his cat bed. Dean rubs his eyes that are just beginning to sting.

"Well, we might as well get to cleaning this shit up," He shrugs, ruffling his brother's hair.

"This was your idea, you're on your own."

"Fuck you." Dean rolls his eyes and gets to work.