Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, or their father.
John Winchester thought he was one sly son-of-a-bitch. He thought he was going to waltz through parent-teacher conferences, give her his charming country drawl, well, Ma'am, my boys are special, and oh, it's so hard with having lost their mama so young. As though she hadn't been teaching for twenty-five years and hadn't had that waltzed past her in a deep accent a time or ten before.
My boys are special.
Is that what we're calling it these days?
Dean had swindled more slick stories past her in his first week than most little con-artists-in-training tried in a year. He'd fail a month of quizzes and then turn around and get just one answer --always the easiest question—wrong on an exam, and just smirk like he'd planned it all. That smirk!
The pranks alone were going to drive some of her best teachers into retirement. Just last week he'd handed in a brief history report on ancient Rome. Mr. Dufrene was unfortunately unable to grade it, as it had been written entirely in Latin. While waiting for a local college professor to get around to translating it, he'd given the boy an A, for sheer mastery of the language, if not for a slight, secret admiration of the audacity behind its use.
As it turned out, it hadn't been a history paper at all. Not by a long shot… and it was altogether inappropriate for a boy his age. She'd been secretly horrified to find a copy of the translation being passed around the staff lounge.
She really didn't care how clever the limericks had been.
Three weeks before that they thought he'd been cutting classes. He'd been found just seconds away from successfully talking his way into the girls' locker room, spinning a ludicrous tale about how hard it was to fit in and if these ladies would kindly help him out on this dare? Two girls, freshman, mind you, were eating it up, right out of the palm of his hand. It was the eyes… and the dimples.
Speaking of dimples… Sam.
Lord have mercy.
Miss Barrone, the second grade teacher, had sworn with God as her witness that if she heard the phrase, 'but Dean said,' one more time, she was quitting on the spot and to hell with her contract.
The very next day she'd been in the office at recess talking about how sweet little Sam had stayed behind to clean the classroom after school and talk about a story he'd read and wasn't he just the dearest, kindest little thing. His art teacher had nearly had an emotional breakdown when Sam had drawn a portrait of his family. He'd whispered in her ear that he wanted her to keep the picture, because he'd drawn his mommy in it, too, and seeing it might make Daddy and Dean sad. He'd smiled, and said that she was real pretty, and he'd drawn her just like the picture Dean kept, and that was okay, right? The poor woman had sniffled her way through a staff meeting and taken the picture home with her.
Sam's main problem was being too advanced for his grade. He finished all his assignments quickly, and immediately started looking for something else to do. That something was generally talking to whoever was around him… or reading ahead in his books, which inevitably lead to a game of twenty questions with his teacher that the woman never seemed to be able to win. They would normally skip him up to the third grade, however…
Third grade was in the same wing as the sixth grade… just two doors down. Dean was in the sixth grade.
Two Winchesters in the same place at one time… passing in the halls and sharing a lunch period?
No. Just no.
But this… this latest …debacle! It was just the limit… the absolute last straw.
"Mr. Winchester, I don't think you quite understand the seriousness of the situation. Your sons have been running an underground homework ring. They've been charging fellow students to have their homework done for them! I caught Dean hustling, there's no other word for it, two fifth graders yesterday!"
John Winchester shifted slightly in his seat, giving her a look that said clearly, way to go, Dean, while smiling apologetically, flashing his hazel eyes and dimples at her.
Good Lord, it's genetic.
"If this is about the money, ma'am, I'll see to it he pays them back." His smooth voice was appropriately contrite, and deeply sincere. She was beginning to realize just how close Dean had really been to getting into that locker room.
"Oh, it wasn't money. It was apparently M&M's. Peanut, if I'm not mistaken." Her tone was dry. I have a ruler with your name on it, was what her tone implied. I will not raise my sons to be con-artists and hustlers. Let's see that on the board a hundred times, Mr. Winchester.
He shifted again, more like a recalcitrant student than a former marine. "That sounds like Dean. I'll be sure to talk to him, and put a stop to it."
Her brow arched. Not so fast, mister. "And Sam?"
He arched his brow right back. Was it getting warm in here? "Sam? Sam's in second grade!"
Really, sir, have you met your sons?
"Yes, Sam. He's been writing the history and English papers, while Dean takes the math and science work. I believe Sam's fee runs from a Snicker's bar to a comic book, depending on the length of the assignment. The work is really quite good, especially for Sam. The sixth grade papers are not quite at A level, but they're close. As for Dean, if he did work of this quality for himself and not just for profit, well, his grades would be quite different, I think."
John's expression was blatantly proud, and she had a sneaking suspicion his pride had less to do with his son's academic potential than with their clear futures as criminal masterminds. She resisted the urge to throw her Oxford unabridged dictionary straight at his shiny white smirk. Dean's smirk. Sam's dimples.
Ugh. There is no God.
"Well, ma'am, they are special, like I said." His tone was light, but subtly tinged with something she hadn't heard before.
My boys are special.
"I totally agree, Mr. Winchester. Your sons are very special." She caught his eyes, an understanding passing between them. "It's the special ones that need the most attention. They seem to be crying out for it."
He seemed very sad, his eyes wounded, and she felt a sudden stab of compassion for Sam's art teacher, poor girl. "I do my best for them."
She sighed, leaning back from the confrontation. "That's all we can ask. They are special boys; they want to make you proud."
He smiled softly, and she smiled back before she could help herself. "They always do."