So i have several chapters of this story written and will be posting it quite frequently...hope everyone enjoys...please let me know what you think!! this is my first attempt at a Wee!chester and would love all feedback!! thanks for reading!! bambers;)

Another Brick in the Wall

Chapter One

When we grew up and went to school

There were certain teachers who would hurt the children anyway they could

By pouring their derision upon anything we did

exposing any weakness however carefully hidden by the kids . . .

Another Brick in the Wall – Pink Floyd

The door to the classroom swung open, and a tall man with dark wavy hair entered the room. He strolled to the chalkboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and began writing his name on the board. When he was finished, he pivoted around to face the class, a bright smile lingering on his face as he looked around the room, his attentive blue-eyed gaze studying each and everyone in the class.

"Good morning, class. My name is Lyle Owen Modedey and I will be your teacher for the remainder of the year. Mrs. Darien unexpectedly resigned her post, due to health issues."

Mr. Modedey took a seat, rested his elbows on the desk, and stroked his long angular jaw thoughtfully as he once again peered around the room. "Mrs. Darien left a homework assignment for each you last night, can you please pass it forward now."

He watched intently as the students opened their folders, and pulled out sheets of paper to turn in to him. His gaze then trailed to the young man in the back of the room, and saw him squirm and sink down into his seat. Lyle glanced at his seating chart, and then back at the boy sitting in the last seat in the fourth row. Clearing his throat, Lyle called out, "Sam Winchester."

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not one who liked to draw attention to himself, he couldn't help the rise of color in his cheeks knowing why the new teacher had singled him out. "Yes, sir," he replied in a low tone, sinking further into his seat as the whole class turned to stare at him.

"I couldn't help but notice that you failed to turn in you assignment. Do you have an excuse, or do you think you are above doing such menial tasks?"

"Had a family emergency, sir." He didn't elaborate even though he knew the teacher was waiting for a better response. How did you tell your teacher you couldn't finish your homework because you had to salt and burn the spirit of some damn thirteen-year-old girl who decided it sounded like kicks to kill three innocent people by pushing them down a flight of steps?

"Do you have a note?" Mr. Modedey smirked, and Sam could tell he was enjoying taunting him.

"A note?" Sam felt a tightness in his chest, his lungs burning as he tried to draw in a breath.

"Yes, Sam. A note. You know, something written on a piece of paper, preferably by your parent." Mr. Modedey raised a quizzical brow, his grin widening as the other kids in the classroom started chuckling. "Are you sure you don't belong in remedial studies instead of AP English?"

Wincing, Sam's ab muscles clenched tightly, feeling as if someone was slamming a sledge hammer against his stomach.

"Is there a problem, Sam?" Lyle leaned further over the desk, his taunting smirk still prevalent. "Do I need to speak slower?"

Laughter erupted in the classroom, all eyes on Sam waiting for his response.

"No, sir," Sam replied between gasping breaths. "Haven't got a note."

Mr. Modedey cleared his throat again, and returned his attention to the rest of the classroom. "Class, I am afraid that our friend, Sam, feels he is above doing such menial tasks as homework." His gaze lingered on Sam for another moment, and Sam felt his face flush with anger as the other students continued to laugh.

Lyle continued onward as if he hadn't noticed the hateful scowl directed at him. "So I am afraid the rest of you are going to have to make up for his lack of enthusiasm toward his studies." The laughter died on Sam's classmate's lips as they heard Mr. Modedey say that, and they turned to glared at Sam. "So tomorrow, on top of your normal homework assignment, I would like a seven thousand word essay on the importance of being a team player."

"That's not fair," Sam's classmate, Kevin Sanderson, growled. "Why the hell do we all have to suffer cause Winchester over there is a freakin' loser?" All the students nodded in agreement with Kevin. "He doesn't belong in here with the rest of us, anyway. Never gets his homework in on time. Sleeps in class. Just a waste of space if you ask me."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk . . . such dissension in the ranks will not be tolerated in my classroom," Mr. Modedey glanced at his class seating chart, and then at Kevin. "For all you know, Mr. Sanderson, Sam might be a night watchman somewhere and needs his beauty sleep in class." Crossing his arms, he leaned back, his chair squeaking loudly in the dead silence of the room. He once again sought out Sam. "Well, Sam, are you a night watchman?"

When Sam failed to respond after a few moments, Lyle added, "Come now, Sam, the classroom is waiting with bated breath to learn of your exciting nightly escapades. Do you hunt down wanted criminals in the dark of night? Or is there a far less interesting reason why you fall asleep in class? They need to understand why they are being held accountable for a slacker in their midst."

Sam met his new teacher's watchful gaze, and tried to remain outwardly calm although he desperately wanted to fly across the room and slam both his fists into the man's smug face. "No, I'm not a night watchman, sir," he ground out through clenched teeth, finding it increasingly harder to breathe, as the pain inside his chest escalated.

"Ah, then perhaps you are honing your skills to become the best damn burglar this town has ever had the displeasure of knowing? Is that it, Sam? Come on, share the details," Lyle goaded, raising his brows until they nearly disappeared beneath his shaggy bangs. "Do you stealthily creep into people's homes while they are away, stealing and destroying their property?"

Grimacing, Sam swiped at the sweat dripping down his forehead, and then brusquely raked his fingers through his hair. He leaned forward in his seat, clutchin his stomach with both arms, feeling as if he might throw up at a moment due to the overwhelming pain he was feeling. "Can I go to the nurse, Mr. Modedey?" Sam asked, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat. "I'm really not feeling well."

"No, you can not. Not until you answer the question."

"Video games," Sam hastily replied, and waited for another scathing comment about the lie he'd just told. It was the first thing to come to mind, and he knew it was bound to elicited more trouble for himself and his classmates. But at this point he didn't care, he just wanted to get the hell out of the classroom before he puked all over the floor, and made a bigger fool out of himself than the teacher was already doing.

"Oh, you can do better than that, Sam. If you're gonna lie, at least make it believable." Mr. Modedey returned his attention to the class. "As Mr. Winchester has decided to take up all our class time today, I have decided to make that an eight thousand word essay on what you really believe Sam does in those nightly hours that causes him to sleep in class the following day. Extra credit goes to the person with the best idea."

Kevin leaned over and snarled, "Nice job, Winchester. Why don't you and your whole freak family go back to wherever the hell you came from?"

Sam was about to respond, but his stomach lurched so violently, he found himself clamping his hand down forcefully on his mouth as he flung himself out of his seat, and bolted for the door. He'd barely made it outside the classroom when his legs gave out, and he crashed to the floor, puke spewing from his mouth to splatter sickeningly on the ground.

"Oh, gross," exclaimed a girl who was walking by.

Sam glanced up at her for a second through teary eyes, humiliated as he noticed it was Brandy Stewart, the most popular girl in tenth grade, and also the girl that he'd had a crush on since starting at Roth Senior High School.

From inside the classroom, Sam heard his new teacher say, "Well, apparently Sam is not only a slacker in class, but also a closet alcoholic as well. Let him be an example to all the rest of you as to the dangers of late night drinking. Hangovers are not pleasant."

"That sonuva — " Sam's words were lost as another round of nausea overwhelmed him, stomach cramping tightly, and he heaved even more violently then before.

Swiping the back of his hand across his lips, Sam inched away from the puke on the ground and rested against the cool green tiled wall. He waited there until after the bell had rung and all the students had filed out of the classroom, laughing and jeering as they passed him by.

Slowly, he got to his feet, sidestepped the mess on the ground, and headed back into the class to retrieve his book bag, purposely keeping his eyes averted from Mr. Modedey. At this point, he just wanted to get his stuff and hightail it out of school before the whole student body learned of his early afternoon pukefest.

He could feel the weight of the older man's stare on his back as he bent to grab his bag off the

ground, and crammed his books inside it. When he turned to leave, Mr. Modedey stopped him.

"From this point forward, Sam, I expect all your homework to be turned on time." He eyed Sam for a moment, the same smirking grin plastered to his face. "You may have wormed your way through this class up until now, but things change, and I will not tolerate slackers of any sort."

Sam swallowed hard against the biting insult that was forming on his lips, knowing it would just get him in more trouble. "Yes, sir."

"As for your assignment, I have decided I want you to write about where you see yourself in ten years. Hopefully the words prison or 'do you want fries with that, sir', will not accompany the paper." He chuckled.

"Was actually thinking law school," Sam muttered, without really thinking about it.

"Oh, high hopes, Sam. Don't see it happening, but one can always dream."

"Are we finished here." Sam trembled with scarcely controlled rage at the continual insults directed at him by his horrible excuse for a teacher.

"Yes, I think we are, for now." Lyle leaned back in his seat, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Just remember, I am keeping my eye on you."

"Comforting thought," Sam flung the words back over his shoulder as he trudged from the room, and heard the teacher's derisive laughter.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sam rushed in the door, hurried to his room, slammed the door behind him, and threw his school books on the bed. Standing in front of the mirror, he peeled off his flannel shirt to get a better look at the deep purplish welts on the side of his stomach and chest.

As he stood staring at the hideous looking bruises, wondering exactly how they'd gotten there, his older brother, Dean, came barreling in the door.

"What the hell, Dean. Door closed means I want privacy, for Christ's sake."

"Aww . . . Sammy, it's not like you have a girl in here." Dean's grin turned rapidly to a frown as he caught sight of the bruises Sam was so desperately trying to hide from him. "What happened?" His fists clenched tightly as he imagined someone picking a fight with his kid brother.

Stalking over to him, Dean grabbed hold of his arm, and swung Sam to face him. His breath caught in his throat as he saw Sam's chest and stomach covered in bruises. "Who the hell did this to you?" he fumed, barely controlling his temper.

"Don't know, Dean." Averting his gaze from his brother's questioning eyes, Sam shuffled his feet, embarrassed that his brother always assumed someone was beating up on him.

"Don't give me that shit, Sammy. How could you not know who beat the crap outta you."

Sam shrugged free of his brother's grasp, his own anger flaring. "No one beat the shit outta me, Dean. I can take care of myself. Have been doing it for a long time now." He stormed to the bed, and flopped down onto it, letting out a deep aggravated groan. Wasn't it bad enough that he'd had to put up with Mr. Modedey's jeering insults? Now his own brother was adding to his crappy-assed day by insinuating he couldn't take care of himself.

"What happened?" Dean tried again in a more rational tone.

Shaking his head, Sam replied, "Don't know. One minute I was fine, in AP English, next thing I know I have all these bruises."

He didn't bother to mention his new teacher or how Mr. Modedey seemed to have it in for him all due to one missed homework assignment. Nor did he mention his embarrassing trip into the yuking hall of fame. No, Dean definitely didn't need to know his kid brother threw up all over the hallway of the school. It was bad enough that little tid-bit of information made the rounds before Sam was able to skip out of school.

"An' no one touched you?" Dean was having a hard time believing what his brother was saying. "An' you didn't fall or anything like that?"

Again, his brother shook his head. "No. They just appeared."

"You're sure you didn't blackout or somethin' like that?"

"Dean, I'm telling you, I was fine. Just all of the sudden got these sharp burning pains, felt as if my lungs were on fire, and couldn't catch my breath. When I looked later, they were there."

"Well, they had to come from somewhere." Through shaded lids, Dean peered at his brother's injuries again, noting that the worst of them seemed to be centralized around his upper chest near his heart. "Maybe we should tell Dad about this."

"No. I wanna finish up one school year in the same place I started."

"Dad would want to know, just in case it's something — "

"Don't say it, Dean. This isn't something we hunt."

"You can't be sure of that," Dean tried to reason, but knew his brother had his mind made up, and was determined not to listen. "I mean, bruises don't just show up outta nowhere. Something causes them, and if you can't see what did this to you, then it sounds pretty damn supernatural to me."

"Maybe I was just allergic to something I ate." Sam eased himself down into a lying position on the bed, wincing as he did so.

"I'm not buying that, dude. You've never been allergic to anything a day in your life. So why now?"

"Dunno. Can't we let this drop, I just want to sleep."

Dean had no intention of letting the subject drop, but for now he would concede to let his brother think he had. However, tomorrow was another matter entirely. And whether his little brother liked it or not, Dean planned on being Sam's constant shadow until he found out what was hurting him.

"What do you want me to tell Dad?"

"That I'm not feeling good." Rolling onto his side, Sam groaned as he clutched onto his stomach. "It's near enough to the truth." Before closing his eyes to try and get some rest, he muttered, "Wake me in a few. Got a paper to write."

"Okay, Sammy." Dean watched his brother for a long time, noticed that his panted breaths had evened out, and finally heard him softly snoring. Silently walking to the window, he pulled down the shade so the late day sun wouldn't disturb his brother, and left the room, having no intention of waking his brother who sorely needed his rest after their most recent hunt.