Salt (and other secrets to survival)

Disclaimer: Kripke owns them. I just borrow them for my own amusement.

Summary:

Sam and Dean pose as high school teachers in order to investigate a couple of suspicious suicides. Well. This should be interesting.

Feedback is luff.

Part One

Sam tightens his tie for the fourth time, eyeing his reflection in the mirror worriedly.

"It's gonna be fine," Dean says from behind him, loosening his own tie and rolling the cuffs of his starched white dress-shirt up to his elbows. "Seriously, Sammy."

"Yeah, whatever," Sam mutters, turning to scowl disapprovingly at his brother. "You know what I think about this stupid idea."

"I do," Dean says mildly, "and I still don't give a crap that you're convinced it's—what was the term you used? Immoral?"

"It is immoral!" Sam snaps angrily. "This is almost as bad as that prison job!"

"Oh, for the love of Christ," Dean sighs, rolling his eyes. "You know this is the only way we're going to get close enough to actually do the job, Sammy, and it's not going to be that hard. You're a smart guy, you'll do great. And me…well, I'll be cool! Kids like cool."

"Teachers aren't supposed to be cool, Dean. They're supposed to educate!"

"Yeah, ok, Sam." Dean snorts. "How 'bout this—you do the educating, I'll do the corrupting. Then your conscience can sleep well at night."

As expected, Sam appears neither amused or less nervous. Instead, he just tightens his tie again and gives his guilty reflection another very through once-over.

Basically, this is how it went down:

They managed to win the war on Hell (for the time being), Sam made good use of time-travel and successfully saved Dean's ass from the crossroads demon, and just when they'd thought they could take a nice long vacation, Dean found the article.

The article announced two teachers had committed suicide at a high school in a tiny town in Upstate New York—on the same day, at the same time, for no apparent reason whatsoever. They also left identical suicide notes and seemed to—here was the weird part—have choked themselves to death.

"Sounds like a vengeful spirit if you ask me," Dean had said when he had shown Sam the suspicious story. "I think we should check it out."

Sam had sighed long-sufferingly and muttered something about how screwed-up their lives were, but he'd agreed they should at least look into it.

Then Dean had come up with his stupid idea: apply for the dead teachers' jobs, get friendly with the students and staff, and see if they had a haunting on their hands.

Somehow they'd gotten the jobs, even though Sam had tried his best to thoroughly not impress the principal in his interview. Apparently she must have been desperate to fill the position, because despite the fact he'd mentioned he hated kids with a burning passion and enjoyed throwing knives in his spare time, she told him they'd be "all too delighted" to take him on as the English 11 and Honors American Lit. 12 teacher.

Apparently the school hadn't bothered with especially scrupulous background checks, because the fake diplomas and references Dean whipped up for them passed inspection. Ah well, Sam had thought. If they're this stupid, it's their own fault they're hiring a couple of ghost hunters as teachers.

Dean had been assigned the job of teaching U.S. History 11 and Government 12, which Sam initially thought was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard of. They'd also decided to pose as best friends so they could get away with being instantly familiar with each other; of course they then took different last names, and Dean had been dumb enough to steal his from a band member from Metallica.

"We are so going to hell," Sam had sighed the night before their first day.

"I almost did, Sammy," Dean had reminded his brother, smirking widely. "Trust me, it's not as easy as it sounds."

When it comes down to it, Dean thinks with a sigh, high school is just never going to change.

The jocks still walk around like they're such tough shit, like just 'cause they can throw a fucking football they've got something to be proud of. The cheerleaders are still plastic, all fake tans and high-pitched giggling, thumbing their pretty little noses at the lesser mortals who dare breathe their air. The outcasts still band together, determined to pretend they've never wanted to feel the shine of so-called popularity, like even when they've been called every nasty, biting name in the book, they could care less about the mean laughter that follows them everywhere they go.

The braniacs still cling to their books and their graphing calculators and sit in the front of the class, serious and focused and too mature for their age, hiding behind facts and figures, insecure despite themselves. The druggies still come to class high, slouch their way through four years of high school and forget about college, their lives already half-wasted. There are a thousand other labels, a million other categories, that teenagers fit themselves into before Real Life happens.

Dean remembers seeing how ridiculous it all was when he was their age, and it's almost sad to see it's the same bullshit it always was now that he's nearly 30. He wouldn't be surprised if the two teachers actually did commit suicide; this is just plain depressing.

The small classroom is full of chattering sixteen-year-olds, all of whom talk straight through the morning announcements and completely ignore Dean long after the final bell has rung. Dean smirks, stands up, and begins writing his name on the chalkboard.

"My name," he hollers over the din, "is Mr. Hetfield."

This has absolutely no effect on the tenth grade U.S. History students of Chapman High. A braniac girl in the front row with square-framed black glasses and sad blue eyes gives him a ridiculously pitying look before she stares quietly down at her notebook. Exasperated, Dean tries to get their attention a few more times, bellowing at them to "quiet it down a little," then to "be quiet right now," and finally to "shut the hell up!" None of this even remotely works, so Dean shrugs and decides he's going to have to resort to drastic measures if he wants any respect around here.

"Hey!" Dean yells casually, plopping down at his desk and folding his arms. "In case you're interested, anyone who's still talking within the next five seconds is getting detention for three weeks." Instantly, the entire class shuts up.

Well, almost the entire class.

One jock (distinguished by a padded football jersey that proudly claims his I.Q. is 34) is still loudly telling a raunchy joke to a group of admiring cheerleaders, fellow jocks, and a scant handful of overly-eager social climbers, apparently unaware of Dean's warning. He's a big guy for his age, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with an easy smile and a playful glint in his eye. He's also going to be the first dumbass Dean makes an example of. Dean saunters up to him, leans down, and asks pleasantly,

"What's your name, man?"

The kid eyes him skeptically, guffawing a little with his friends.

"Gary Whitman," he says, as though it should be obvious.

"Gary," Dean repeats, smiling dangerously. "And what time do you have football practice every day, Gary?"

The kid blinks, a little confused. The rest of the class seems to be holding their breath, eyes darting nervously from Dean to Gary, seeming to know that whatever's coming isn't good.

"Uh—three to five-thirty," Gary manages nervously.

"Great." Dean smiles widely. "Then that's when I expect to see you in this room every day for the next month."

A stunned silence follows, broken only when Gary exclaims,

"What?!"

"Let's get a few things straight, folks," Dean says loudly, talking over Gary and striding to the front of the classroom. "When I say shut up, you'd sure as hell better pay attention, because you can bet any and all punishments will be cruel and unusual. When you talk to me you'll either call Mr. Hetfield, Mr. H, or Dean—I don't care which one of those, but you'll show me some respect either way." He pauses, allowing this to sink in, then continues, arms folded across his chest as he surveys the now terrified group of teens staring up at him.

"I know I'm new around here and you all think it's gonna be easy to pull one over on me, huh? Well, think again. You screw with me, I screw with you. Do your homework when I say you have it, listen in class, don't pull any crap like you just did ever again, and we'll get along fine. I can be a pretty cool guy if you give me the chance—but I can also be your walking and talking worst nightmare, so tread carefully, kids." Dean gives them all a disconcertingly friendly grin, then leans against his desk, grabs the attendance roster, and uncaps a pen. "So, let's get this party started—let me know if you're here or not…uh, Anderson, Clarke."

The bell rings, and Sam surveys his Honors American Lit. 12 class, all of whom survey him right back with mild curiosity.

"Um, hey," he says awkwardly, scrawling his name on the board and quietly trying not to panic. "I'm Mr. Worthington, and I'll be your teacher for the rest of the year." Immediately, a pretty girl with bright red hair shoots her hand up into the air.

"Yes, Miss…?"

"Lucia Jones," she says quickly.

"Yes, Miss Jones?"

"Do we still have a test on The Great Gatsby on Thursday?" she asks nervously. "Because I've been studying for weeks, and—"

"Lucia!" a girl sitting next to her hisses, looking irritated. "Why did you have to bring that up?"

"I've gone over your previous teacher's notes, and it does say you're scheduled for the test," Sam informs Lucia. "However, in light of the recent tragedy, I think it'd really be best if we postpone it." The entire class seems to heave a sigh of relief. "That doesn't mean I don't expect you to be prepared for it, though," Sam adds hastily. "We'll have it sometime next week."

He hurries to take attendance and then go over his notes on The Great Gatsby. The lesson even bores him, and he feels even more hopeless about this whole than before.

When there are only fifteen minutes of class left and everyone is growing restless anyways, he gives them some free time, sits down at his desk, and begins consulting all the information about the suicides that he has. According to the newspaper article, the Honors American Lit. 12 and English 11 teacher, Mrs. McGuire, was found by a student, one who'd come in for extra help after school on a Tuesday. The student's identified as a senior boy---but no name is given. Sam glances around the classroom, trying to decide who could have found the woman…considering nobody's absent today, he has to be in the room.

There are ten girls and five boys in the typically small Honors class, so that narrows things down considerably. But how can he really be sure? It's not as if he can just round up all the guys in class and ask which one found McGuire—the poor kid is probably traumatized or something. Sam shakes his head, trying to clear it, and continues his search.

Could it be Trenton Bishop, who's staring off into space blankly and listening to his iPod? Or maybe it's Jerry Dawson, who's gone to sleep on his desk with The Great Gatsby for a pillow…

The bell rings abruptly, and the kids rush for the door, barely listening to Sam as he calls after them to have a nice day.

Sam sighs to himself, already exhausted, and thanks God his English 11 class doesn't meet until fourth period. He has plenty of time to do a little snooping…and the best place to start that is probably the teacher's lounge.

He grabs his file on the case and heads out the door, nearly plowing down a kid as he does so.

"Oh, sorry," Sam apologizes hastily to the guy. "I didn't see you there."

"It's ok," says the kid. "I just wanted to say hi. You're the new English teacher, right?"

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling awkwardly. "You in one of my classes?"

"No." The kid shrugs. "I just like to make it a point to know all the teachers around here. I'm Mac, by the way."

"Hi, Mac. I'm Mr. Worthington," Sam says, eyeing the kid. Mac is fairly tall, but scrawny, with round glasses, black curly hair, and hollow-looking blue eyes. "What grade are you in?" Mac pauses.

"Eleventh," he finally says.

"And you're sure I don't have you for English?"

"Yes." Mac glances at the folder Sam's holding. "Well, sorry to bother you. Just figured I'd introduce myself." He turns to go.

"Wait a minute," Sam calls after him as the bell rings. "Do you need me to write you a pass to class or something?" The whole conversation has been weird, but he feels it's the least he could do for Mac. Not too many people have been welcoming around Chapman.

"Nope," Mac says, turning to grin at Sam over his shoulder. "I have study hall."

Sam nods, turns to lock his door, and when he faces the hallway again, Mac's gone.

Gary Whitman shows up for his detention with the principal (Mrs. Mullins) and the football coach (Coach Lloyd).

"Gary, Gary, Gary," Dean tsks as the jock sullenly folds his arms and steps back so the adults can talk. "I expected better of you, man."

"This is outrageous," Lloyd snarls to Mullins, who's pale and looks exhausted. Lloyd jabs a beefy finger at Dean. "Whitman says this clown gave him detention specifically during football practice! For a month!"

"So what if I did?" Dean demands, standing and raising a brow in Lloyd's direction. "If he hadn't earned it, I wouldn't have given it."

"Whitman says it was because he was talking in class—"

"He was," Dean cuts in. "The rest of the class seemed to hear me just fine when I warned them anyone who didn't stop talking within five seconds was gonna have a three week detention, but my main man Gary apparently went temporarily deaf and kept right on ignoring me."

"Three weeks of detention is incredibly severe, Mr. Hetfield," Mullins points out. "This is only your first day, and the kids can be a little rowdy on Mondays. Anyone would understand if your temper got the best of you—"

"With all due respect, Mrs. Mullins, my temper is not the issue here," Dean interrupts calmly. "The issue is that Gary over there was being disrespectful, and as I understand it, I have the right to give him detention for that."

"Well, of course," Mullins acknowledges, nodding her assent. "But three weeks—"

"Is there a rule against it?" Dean asks, ignoring Lloyd as the coach swears under his breath.

"No," Mullins admits uneasily, gaze darting uncertainly from Lloyd to Dean. "However, it is most unusual—"

"Well, I'm an unusual kind of guy," Dean says unapologetically. "I'm sorry if I'm a little tough, but the kid's going to have to get used to that. My punishment stands."

"Whitman is one of our star players!" Lloyd roars, jabbing his finger at Dean again. "He can't afford to sit out three weeks of practices! There are all sorts of college scouts—he's on the verge of getting a scholarship—"

"Again, with all due respect," Dean cuts in, holding up his hands, "Gary might get farther in life if he gets into college for his mind rather than his ability to toss around a ball." A silence to rival the one earlier that day follows, and Dean smirks. "We done here, Coach Lloyd? Mrs. Mullins?"

"If that's your final decision, I suppose we are," Mrs. Mullins says wearily, before turning to Gary. "It seems you've gotten yourself into this, Mr. Whitman, and I trust you'll get yourself out." She leaves, but Lloyd remains, looking murderous.

"This isn't the last of it," he growls furiously. "I'll fight you on this one, Hetfield, see if I don't."

"You go right on ahead, Coach," Dean says cheerfully, but his eyes remain cold. "The door's over there, any time you're ready to show yourself out." Lloyd swallows hard, turns and mutters something to Gary, then stomps out of the room, slamming the door shut. "Well, Gary, it's just you and me now," Dean says brightly before nodding to a chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

"What do I have to do?" Gary asks with a sigh, staring down at his feet. Dean almost feels sorry for him.

"Well, let me ask you a question." Dean flops down into his chair and leans forward across the desk. "Do you believe in ghosts?"