"Does anyone know the answer? Or do I have to set more homework that half of you probably won't bother doing?"

Half a dozen hands shot into the air, desperate to stave off the threat of yet more homework. Dean just sat back and watched, aimlessly dragging his pen across his blank page. Sitting in the back had its pros and cons, and in this class, he was coming to learn that it was mainly a con.

"Mr Winchester, care to brighten my day with your input?" Mr Crowley's raspy voice drifted down to the back of the class, pulling Dean from his self-imposed exile. He took his time looking up, slightly enjoying the narrowed eyed glare coming from his short, balding English teacher. He honestly didn't know why Crowley had become a teacher. It was only two days into the new school year, and already he looked grumpy, ruffled and slightly hungover.

"That depends what the question was, sir." Dean wasn't trying to be a dick on purpose, quite the opposite, in fact, but Crowley must have taken Deans very existence as a personal insult, because his scowl only deepened.

"I don't appreciate your tone, boy. Now, answer the question." Dean sighed, flicking his pen absently against his hand. He did know the answer, but it was so damn easy he didn't know why Crowley had singled him out.

"Montague and Capulet." Dean was convinced if Crowley's scowl deepened any further, his face would fold into itself.

"Thank you! See, was it really that hard?" Crowley turned back to the blackboard and Dean was left with a minor case of whiplash. He'd have to get used to the Englishman's mood if he wanted to pass the class. He just hoped he wouldn't pick on him too much. Maybe he could have a word with him, ask him to go easy.

No, he could do it. He just had to suck it up and deal with it.

Packing his stuff up at the end of class, Dean was surprised to see some girl standing over his desk.

"Ah, can I help you?" For some reason, the girl blushed and giggled nervously. He cringed inwardly, only the second day and already it was starting up again.

"I was wondering, there's a party this Saturday. Um, do you wana go with me?" Apart from the fact that he was going to say no anyway, he didn't like it when people avoided eye contact when asking questions. It made him feel like they were afraid of the answer.

"Nah, sorry. I got this… thing on with my little brother." He didn't even bother saying 'maybe another time'. Why they kept asking, he had no idea. Since when had 'no' started meaning 'ask him again and he might say yes', it made no sense. He hated seeing their faces fall every time, but it didn't seem to dent their enthusiasm.

"Oh… that's cool! That's so nice that you hang out with your little brother!" God he really hated peppy girls. They always sounded so fake and unsubstantial. They just wanted his 'pretty face', as Chuck delighted in reminding him. It was actually kind of depressing, when he thought about it, which he tried not to a lot of the time. No one at this school, hell, even this town, really knew him, or wanted to get to know more about him other than to get in his pants.

Well, apart from Chuck.

And not the pants part.

Just, Ew.

Peppy girl was looking at him strangely, and he realised he hadn't responded, even though she hadn't actually asked him a question. He was saved from further social torture by the second bell, and he hurried off to art, not even bothering with a glance back.

They all thought he was dark and mysterious, with his leather jacket and muscle car. He barely talked to anyone besides Chuck, and that was only because he appreciated silence as much as Dean. His teachers told his parents that he was withdrawn and sullen.

His parents knew better.

He loved his parents, more than the rest of his generation seemed to, anyway. They talked to him, listened to him and respected his opinion. They treated him like an adult, and he appreciated that more than anything.

He was only a few minutes late to class, but his teacher, Ms Mosley, loved him, so she just waved him to his seat. Art was by far his favourite class, and it helped that he was pretty good at it.

They were still going over what they would need in their portfolios to pass the class, so Dean sat back and let the syllabus wash over him.

"Twenty percent of your grade is made up of stills from nature, and that can be done with anything from water colour to graphite." She looked up from where she was reading, probably to make sure everyone was still paying attention. "Another twenty percent is still life, and that can be anything of your choosing, but the majority of your grade, because you've all chosen to do AP Art, is your sculpture. It can be from anything you can imagine, but it must stick with the theme." Ms Mosley adjusted her glasses and squinted down at the paper. "This year it's something that inspires you. Now, isn't that original." Some of his classmates laughed, it was well known how Ms Moseley felt about the syllabuses year after year.

Dean had no idea what he was going to focus on, but he wasn't worried. He had plenty of time to think about it, and he could get some material together in case he came up with a total blank.

His other teachers always said they were 'worried about him'. It made no sense to him, he did the work and he wasn't disruptive or anything, but they still insisted there was something wrong with him. They couldn't accept that he was just quiet and reserved. He hated any kind of attention and he didn't like going to parties, no matter how many of the popular girls asked him to go.

The only reason Chuck understood him was because they were pretty similar, in a lot of ways. They both valued silence, which was good for Dean's art and Chucks writing. He had pestered Dean into reading his Fanfiction, and he had to admit, it was pretty good. Of course, that had caused Dean to delve further into the void of Fanfiction, and he grudgingly admitted he was hooked. Chuck hadn't even mocked him, just told him he was now his 'beta', whatever that was.

School days always felt like they had a personal vendetta against him, slowing down time to the point where it looked like the clock was actually going backwards.

The bell rang, and Dean packed up his stuff, tipping it all into his backpack. He'd almost made it out the door before he heard his name being called behind him.

"Dean, can I have a word?" Dean turned back to Ms Moseley, standing next to her desk.

"I saw your work from last year, Dean. In fact, I've seen all of your work since you started at this school." Ms Moseley, fearsome and motherly, was looking at him like she wouldn't take any of his shit. "I know you have what it takes to do very well in this class. Now, I don't believe a word of what the other teachers have put in your file." Dean was fairly sure she shouldn't be telling him what was on his permanent record, but he wasn't going to tell her that. "You have talent, young man, so much talent. I don't give a rat's ass that you're quiet or don't stick your hand up in class. You do the work I set and I'll leave you be. How does that sound?" Dean thought that sounded fucking fantastic, but he couldn't exactly say that. So he settled with a politer version.

"That sounds great, thank you, Ms Moseley." She waved her hand, essentially dismissing his gratitude.

"Don't thank me, just don't disappoint me, ya hear?" She gave him another look that brokered no argument, and he nodded, before making a tactical retreat. He wasn't exactly scared of his teacher, but he knew better than to get on her bad side. He'd heard enough around the school to know what happened when you pissed her off.

At least she had the sense to actually listen to him.

By the time he made it all the way over to the other side of the school where the student parking lot was located, Sam was already waiting by the Impala. He waved when his brother noticed him, wondering when the hell he was going to get his hair cut. The shaggy brown hair was almost past his eyes, and he was forever having to swat it away to see. Their mother had been trying to convince him, but he steadfastly refused. He had to give it to the kid; he was a stubborn son of a bitch. Must run in the male side of the family, since him and his dad were the same.

"Heya, Sammy." Dean ruffled his brother's hair, smirking when Sam batted his hand away, huffing in annoyance.

"I told you, Dean, don't call me that." Dean knew he hated it, but that's what big brothers were for.

Climbing into the car, Sam chatted happily about his first few days of high school, and Dean couldn't help feel a little bit jealous. His brother was a pro at making friends, all he had to do was bat his puppy dog eyes at someone and they pretty much fell at his feet. He was easy going and talkative, almost the total opposite of Dean.

It was a short drive from school to their house, but in that time Sam had already told him all about the new friends he'd made, including a girl in his class that he thought was cute.

Merciless teasing ensued, but to be honest, he didn't know why Sam thought he'd do anything else but that.

"Oh my god, Dean. I haven't even talked to her, just shut up, ok?" Dean wondered if he was ever a whiny teenager. He remembered being really quiet when he started high school, not much had changed there, and Chuck making his way over to where he sat, alone, in the cafeteria. He'd continued to do it all week, until Dean had plucked up the courage to ask why.

Chucks answer?

"You're quiet."

It was good enough then, and it was good enough now.

Parking in the garage and making their way inside, Dean unlocked the door and threw his bag by the table. He'd do his homework later, after his brain settled down and he'd had a snack. His parents wouldn't be home until after six, he knew his dad had some extra work to catch up on at the garage and his moms shift didn't finish at the hospital until then anyway.

He flopped on his bed when he got to his room, staring up at the poster of ACDC on his ceiling. He'd had a poster phase when he was fifteen, and then never had the heart to take any of them down. They just became part of his room, along with his dresser, double bed and desk. His laptop had been a present for Christmas, the only one he'd gotten but he'd been so grateful that it hardly mattered.

His parents were comfortable, but they weren't frivolous by any means. He knew they were saving up to send Sam to a fancy college, and that was more than fine with him. He didn't need to go to some fancy assed school to do what he wanted anyway. Sam though, he wanted to be some big shot lawyer and that cost money. Dean knew he'd be good at it, too. From as early as he could remember, he'd been getting away with murder and had their mom wrapped around his finger.

Dean eased his way off his bed before making his way to his desk. Starting his laptop up, Dean wondered if Chuck had any more chapters he needed to be edited. He hoped not, that last sex scene had been disturbing on so many levels.

Logging on to Facebook, he saw that he had three more friend requests and two party invites. They asked him in person, he said no, pretty clearly and yet they sent him virtual invites as well. How long would it take them to figure out that he didn't want any part of what they wanted to do?

He had a message from Chuck, asking him to review another chapter, damnit, but nothing from anyone else. Big surprise there. None of the people that asked him to the parties or whatever actually stopped to talk to him. He knew everyone saw him as a bad boy, quiet and dangerous. They couldn't have been further from the truth.

The jocks thought he was cool, even though he wasn't on any sports team and the cheerleaders wanted him even though he wasn't a jock. Every time he said no to some floozy looking for a good time, it was like he spurred their determination further.

Yeah, made perfect sense.

Not that they would ever find out, but they just weren't his type. So he would just keep saying no until they either got the message, or he graduated.

Whichever came first.

Chucks stories were quickly traumatising him, he was sure of it. Seriously, how much sex did one story need? He'd gotten to the point where he could just skip the sex scenes all together, because more often than not, they didn't even pertain to the actual plot.

After reading through the chapter, Dean considered which horrible life choice brought him to that moment. How on earth was he friends with a guy that not only wrote angel porn, but was actually good at it too?

Chuck was the only person outside his family who knew about his particular attractions, so of course Dean was the perfect sounding board to bounce ideas off for Chucks writing. He'd asked him once why he didn't just write the stories with straight sex instead. He'd looked at him like he was in idiot, told him he was one, then went on to explain that for some unthinkable reason, his readers wanted two dudes, so that's what they were going to get. Chuck was as straight as they came, not that he gave any attention to much aside from his writing, so he needed Dean's advice on certain things from time to time. Not that Dean had any experience, but he wasn't afraid to research, unlike Chuck. He'd received more than one horrified text or message with a link, more often than not leading to a porn website.

Seeing that the author was online, Dean thought it appropriate to vent his feelings.

Dean: Dude, really?

Chuck: Did you read it?

Dean: I can't believe you haven't been banned from that website yet.

Chuck: Rules were meant to be bent.

Chuck: But seriously, what did you think?

Dean closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind of the horribly graphic, and mystifyingly detailed, Angel sex he had just been subjected to.

Dean: It was… graphic

Chuck: Do you think it goes well with the story?

None of the sex was strictly necessary, but Chuck's readers seemed to like it, the more the better, apparently.

Dean: I think your readers will enjoy it.

Chuck: Awesome. I aim to please

Dean laughed to himself, yeah, that chapter was certainly going to please someone out there.

Dean: You hear about the party on Saturday?

As he waited for a reply, he opened a new word document for his English homework and typed his name, date and title. Dean wouldn't give Crowley the satisfaction of giving him detention, especially not in the first week. Ms Moseley might have agreed to leave him alone, but the rest of his teachers were nothing like her.

The ding of a new message sounded from the other tab.

Chuck: What do you think? Just a bunch of dicks getting drunk and fuckin around.

Dean: I couldn't agree more man. You wana do something instead?

Sam had something on that night, some smart kid thing that his parents were going to. So if Chuck didn't want to do anything, it'd just be him, his hand and whatever delights the internet held.

Chuck: Sorry man, I got something on with my parents

His hand it was then.

Dean: Sucks man. All good. I guess I'll see you tomorrow, lunch?

Chuck: Yeah man, sounds good. I'll have another chapter for you in a couple of days.

Chuck: Cya.

Dean: Do some school work, for fuck sake. Cya.

Because they didn't have any classes together, Dean and Chuck always met up for lunch to hash out various things. What movie they were gonna go see at the weekend, which jock they hated the most that week (at the moment it was Gordon) and if Dean was doing some cover art for Chuck, how that was going.

But for now, he had a shitty essay about Shakespearian literature to start. God dammit he hated Crowley. He'd needed basic English to graduate, so the only option was Mr Crowley's class. Didn't mean he had to like it, but he was also determined not to fail.

Halfway through stalling on the third paragraph, Dean decided he deserved a break, so wandered down stairs to start dinner. He liked helping his parents out, they did so much for him and Sam, they deserved a break somewhere, and if he could enable that, well then he would.

"Sammy, come here and give me a hand." Didn't mean he had to do it alone. Sam wandered in stretching his ridiculously long arms above his head.

"What do you want jerk?" Sam smirked at him, and Dean wondered when Sam had become such a snarky little bitch.

"You can start by cutting those onions, bitch." Dean was making spaghetti Bolognaise, quick, easy and his parents both loved it.

By the time he had the pan bubbling, Sam was seated at the table doing his homework, and Dean had grabbed his sketchbook. Not too early to start hashing out ideas for his portfolio. It was quiet around the table, just the scratch of Dean's pencil and Sam tapping his pen against the table.

"Dude, are you stuck on a question or something?" Dean asked after it felt like the tapping was drilling into his head.

"How do you know if a girl likes you?" Sam was looking at him like he held all the answers of the universe, which was ridiculous, and they both knew it. Dean snorted, and Sam quickly followed him.

"Are you serious? How in the hell would I know that?" Sam just shook his shaggy head.

"I'm actually kinda serious, Dean. I wana know if Jess likes me before I ask her out. Is there like, a tell or something?" Dean knew it was a mistake teaching Sam how to play poker, and even worse that he knew all the tricks.

"Um, well it's hard to tell without seeing you guys together. I think… if she laughs at your stupid jokes and shit like that, then yeah, go for it. No harm in trying, right?" He grinned over at his brother, who looked equal parts thrilled and terrified.

"So, have you got anyone…" Dean shot Sam a look that told him to just stop. "Sorry Dean."

"You know how to finish dinner. I'll be in my room." Dean collected up his books, ignored Sam's damn puppy dog eyes and went back to his room. Clutching his chest would have been all kinds of dramatic, but it felt like his heart was trying to rip its way out. Closing his door, Dean leant against it heavily, closing his eyes.

No, he didn't have anyone, not even close. So many rumours had been spread about him, getting off with all sorts of girls at every party he'd never even been to. Most of the girls he'd supposedly hooked up with, he was pretty sure he'd never even spoken to. In every ones minds at school, he was some kind of man whore who hooked up with random floozies and slipped off into the night, like a slutty batman.

Taking a shaky breath, Dean sat down on his bed and laid his head in his hands. He had his reasons for not wanting people to know he was gay. As far as he was concerned, it was his private business and he wanted to keep it that way. He lived in a small town, he went to a small school, only eight hundred kids. If anyone found out about his orientation… he wasn't ready for that kind of attention. He wasn't ashamed of it, far from it. He'd had his freak out when he was fourteen and realised he was getting more than his fair share of awkward boners after gym class.

Sam had found him after school, crying in his room. His ridiculous little brother had bounded up, all puppy dog eyes and stupid floppy hair. He'd just told Dean that he would love him, no matter what, and it didn't matter to him who he liked, as long as he liked Sam the best. It managed to distract him enough to not miss their mother hovering in the doorway, her eyes soft and loving watching her two boys.

She'd told him she loved him no matter what, but it was his decision whether to tell other people. She knew the kind of town they lived in.

His dad had just raised his eye brows and shrugged, telling him it didn't matter to him what he stuck where. As long as he continued to be a good man and look after his brother, he'd do right by him.

Like he said, he loved his parents.

It didn't stop the growing realisation that he was seventeen, a senior, and had never even been held by another person apart from his family. It made something inside him twist painfully, probably the part of him that wanted some physical fucking human connection.

Rolling onto his bed, Dean covered his eyes with his arm, willing the stinging behind his eyes to go away. The last thing his parents needed was to come home to their oldest son serving them dinner with red rimmed, blood shot eyes.

The tight feeling in his chest wouldn't let up, and when he felt the first tears flow from his eyes and dribble down into his ears, he choked back a sob. He was being stupid, crying in his goddamn room like a girl. He was happy in his life, he had everything he needed. Well, maybe not happy, but content. Yeah, content.

Content was a shitty word. He wanted to rip content apart.

There was a small, tentative knock on his door, so he sat up, wiping his eyes as best he could. He was a teenage boy, why the hell didn't he keep some tissues in his room?

Sam's solemn face peaked around the door, gaze burning a hole in the wooden floor.

"I'm real sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to… I know it's hard for you…" Dean watched as his stupidly awkward little brother edged his way further into his room. "I just… is there anything I can do?" Dean was amazed at how Sam constantly turned the tables on their relationship. Dean was the one who was supposed to take care of Sam. That was how it went; big brother took care of little brother. More often than not, though, it was Sam showing Dean the logic of the situation, or telling him when he was being a dick.

He let Sam sit down next him and wrap his orang-utan arms around his shoulders. His hugs did help, not that Dean would ever admit it, but it was the only physical human contact he'd had in like, a week, so he was a little desperate as well.

"Nah Sammy, its ok. I've just gotta… suck it up." Dean wouldn't even think about how that sounded like it had a double meaning, especially not around his brother.

"Would it really be that bad if… if people knew, Dean? You could find someone, be – be happy." Shit, had he really been that transparent?

"I am happy, Sam." His brother looked at him like he didn't believe that for shit, and neither did Dean. He ran a hand through his short, dark hair. "Its just not worth the drama, Sam. You know what this towns like, what school's like." He turned to look at Sam, a watery, shaky smile on his lips. "I just have to get through this year, then I'm out. I can go to college, not too far, and then I can be myself." Sam looked doubtful, but smiled anyway.

"I just want you to be happy, Dean. You can't be happy if you have to hide parts of yourself." Fucking hell, his minor moose of a little brother was going to be one hell of a lawyer.

He ruffled Sam's hair, knowing that would break him out of his doom and gloom mood. "You should write a book, Yoda."

Sam batted his hands away, huffing indignantly. "Fuck off, Dean, we were having a moment."

Dean snorted, well and truly leaving their moment in the dust. "Well, you and your moment are more than welcome to stay here, but I just heard Mom and Dad get home. So unless you want your dinner cold…" Dean left the threat hanging in the air as Sam got up slowly, looking back at Dean from the doorway.

"Whatever happens, Dean, I'll back you up." Sam looked so wise for his fourteen years, and he shouldn't. He was supposed to be carefree and happy, not worried about when life was going to come and kick his brothers ass.

"I know you will Sammy, I know." Dean smiled, his heart tightening in love for his little brother. "Thanks."