“Wednesday’s child is full of woe.”

Dean Winchester doesn’t have time for self-pity; he’s too busy telling the rest of the world to kiss his ass.

*

Getting under people’s skin comes as second nature to Dean. Like breathing, he doesn’t really have to think about it; it just happens. So when Dean walks into the homeroom class of the sixth school he’s been to in two years, it doesn’t surprise him at all when the tall, blond kid in the oversized letterman’s jacket stares uneasily at him through dark blue eyes.

The teacher – a middle-aged man in jeans and a faded green button down open at the collar – looks over at him, thick eyebrows rising to meet his receding hairline. He’s standing propped against the edge of the decrepit teacher’s desk when Dean walks in; now he stands, straightening his posture as he pulls himself to his full height, which is about an inch or two shorter than Dean’s nearly six feet.

Dean glances from the teacher back to Blue Eyes, sees the kid still staring at him, flipping a ballpoint pen between his right finger and thumb. Dean gives him a cursory nod, swallowing the smirk that’s fighting at the corners of his mouth, and turns his attention back to the teacher.

“Here you go, Teach,” Dean says, smiling as he holds out the slip of paper the lady in the front office had given him. “Name, rank, and serial number.”

The teacher meets his eyes, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, then flicks his gaze at the paper as he takes it from Dean. “Welcome to Lincoln Senior High School, Mr. Winchester. I’m Mr. McCready.” He motions to the rows of student desks in front of them. “Please have a seat.”

Dean turns to survey the class, finds an empty desk halfway down the row directly in front of him and heads for it. He’s not carrying any books, not even a notebook, and he walks unimpeded down the aisle and sinks into the desk.

The conversation that halted when he entered the room slowly begins to start up again until the sound is a dull roar in the background of his thoughts. New school, same crap, he thinks.

“That’s Robbie’s desk.”

Dean looks to his left, sees a pretty brunette with gray eyes looking back at him. When he meets her eyes, her smile widens, revealing even, white teeth. “Yeah?” he asks. He smiles and sees hers falter just a little; it’s an effect he’s used to and one he’s used to his advantage more than once. He leans in a couple inches, his face pushed out into the aisle. “Who’s Robbie?”

Her tongue darts out, leaving a moist trail over the swell of her bottom lip. “He’s my boyfriend,” she says. “Off and on.”

Dean nods and sits back in his chair, but keeps his eyes on her. She’s pretty enough. A little chubby, but in a way that makes her curvy, if the swell of her boobs beneath her top is any indication. “And right now?” he asks her, tucking his smile away, replacing it with the arc of an eyebrow. “Is he off or on?”

She smiles unabashedly at him. “I’m not really sure,” she says. “We had a fight last night.”

Dean grins at her, whistling through his teeth. “You beat him up or something? Is that why he’s not here?”

She laughs, the apples of her cheeks squeezing her eyes half-shut. “He’s here,” she says. “He’s just not here here.”

“I see,” Dean says, trying not to roll his eyes.

She laughs again. “He’s on the student council. He does the morning announcements on Tuesdays.”

“Ah,” Dean says. “One of those.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh,” she says. “Just wait. It gets better.”

As if on cue, the intercom crackles to life. “Goooooood morning, Lincoln High!”

Dean looks over at her. “Robbie?” he asks.

She nods. “Uh-huh,” she says, grinning. “He thinks he’s Robin Williams.”

“Well, I’m Dean,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Clarissa,” she says, taking it.

When Dean looks around the room, he catches Blue Eyes still looking at him. Except instead of just staring, he’s now glaring at Dean like he can’t wait to shove his head into a locker.

Well, that didn’t take long, Dean thinks.

*

Turns out, Blue Eyes’ real name is Scott Prentiss and he’s been Robbie’s best friend since nursery school.

Or so Scott tells him after gym class when he grabs hold of Dean’s shirt with both hands and shoves him against the lockers. Dean knew it would be gym class; that’s the style of jocks. Locker rooms are their territory, like they get their strength from the smell of old sweat and jock straps.

“Stay away from Clarissa, asshole,” Scott’s telling him, his breath hot against Dean’s face. “She’s Robbie’s girl.”

“I didn’t see his name on her,” Dean quips, a half-grin curving his lips. “But I haven’t finished looking yet.”

Scott shoves harder and Dean’s head bounces with a hollow thud against the metal locker. “You think that’s funny?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s a little funny.”

“No, jerk-off, it’s not,” Scott says through his teeth.

Dean can feel the kid’s fingers dig even harder into his shirt and has to squeeze his own fingers into fists to keep still. It would be so easy to just kick this guy’s legs out from under him, to drive his body to the floor and introduce his nose to Dean’s fist, but he promised his dad he wouldn’t fight at school. Hell, he promised Sammy, who worries about him more than any twelve year-old should have to worry about anything.

So he grinds his teeth and looks over Scott’s shoulder at the small crowd of half-dressed teenage boys gathered around them. “Nothing to see here,” he says, smiling self-deprecatingly.

The crowd parts and a tall, graying man just this side of his prime steps into the gap – Coach Strickland. “Prentiss!” he barks and Dean feels Scott’s hands loosen in his shirt. But he doesn’t let go completely and keeps his blue eyes fixed on Dean.

Dean holds up his hands. “There’s no problem here, Coach,” he says, meeting the man’s eyes. “Scott here was just showing me the finer points of block tackling.” He looks back at Scott, sees something shift behind his eyes, then feels him finally let go.

“Yeah, Coach,” Scott says, turning to look at the coach. “He said he was thinking about trying out for the football team.” He smacks the side of Dean’s face a little too hard. “I was just giving him a little tutorial.” Another smack. Dean clenches his jaw.

Coach Strickland drags his gaze from Scott to Dean, where it stays. “Well, break it up. The bell’s about to ring.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, smoothing his rumpled shirt.

When the coach walks away, Scott takes the opportunity to grab Dean’s collar. “I’ve got my eye on you, Winchester,” he says into Dean’s ear and if Dean still wasn’t seething over having to hold back, he’d laugh.

Instead he says, “Lucky me,” and pushes past Scott on his way out of the locker room.

*

Junior high lets out a half hour after senior high to help relieve traffic congestion in the big circular driveway out front. The two schools are housed in one enormous complex with an outside common area in the middle. It’s in the common area where Dean waits for Sam, sitting on top of a cement picnic table, his feet resting on the bench.

It looks like it’s going to rain, the overcast sky a blanket of gunmetal gray clouds. Dean sighs and thinks about how far it is to their apartment building – not far enough to take the bus, but far enough to mean they might get soaked walking.

He also wonders if Dad bought groceries today or if he’ll have to do that, too, later. Dad already said he’d be gone when they got home.

“Hey.”

Dean snaps his head up. Clarissa is standing at the end of the table, hugging her books to her chest. “I’ve been informed that talking to you may be hazardous to my health,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “Scott?”

Dean snorts. “Yup. Got right up into my personal space.”

“Robbie’s personal bodyguard,” she says, shaking her head. “I swear those two were separated at birth.”

“Robbie must’ve gotten the brain,” Dean says, smiling.

Clarissa takes a step closer and sets her books down on the table. “Don’t be too sure about that,” she says, smiling back.

Dean just huffs, then looks back up at the sky. A raindrop hits him square on the forehead and he quickly wipes it away. “Terrific,” he mutters.

“You need a ride home?” she asks him.

He looks over at her, sees the hopeful look on her face, and thinks about Sam. Answering ‘yes’ will only mean trouble, which will only mean it will be harder to keep his promise.

“Nah,” he says. “I’m waiting for my brother.”

She looks over his shoulder to the junior high building behind him, then back to him. “What’s his name?”

“Sam.”

“What grade?”

“Seventh.”

She smiles. “Ah, seventh grade. The wonderful world of puberty.”

Dean laughs. “If it isn’t shaped like a book, Sammy ain’t interested.”

A moment passes, then Clarissa asks into the ensuing silence, “What about you?”

Dean looks up from where he’s watching intermittent rain drops soak into the tabletop and meets her eyes. “What about me?”

“Are you interested?” she asks him, her fingers smoothing out a wrinkle on her homemade book cover.

Shit.

*

He doesn’t sit in Robbie’s seat in homeroom the next day, opts instead for a desk in the back where he’s far away from both Scott’s and Robbie’s icy glares and from Clarissa’s sly grins. He’s not sure what she’s playing at, but whatever it is, it can’t be good.

Which is proven a week later when she catches his arm in the hallway on his way to Biology and pulls him to her, placing herself between him and the wall of lockers. Her small hands grab fistfuls of his denim jacket and she tugs him closer, bringing her mouth up to meet his in the empty space between them. He closes his eyes instinctively as he braces his palms against the lockers on either side of her head. She smells like flowers and her lips are soft and a low sound escapes her throat as she pulls him in closer, sliding the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip.

He opens his mouth, feels her tongue slide past his teeth, and gets a faint taste of bubblegum before a hand grabs his collar and jerks him roughly away. He’s still trying to catch his breath when a fist makes hard contact with his mouth and he loses his balance, sprawling to the polished cement floor amidst scattered screams.

Scott’s looking down at him, blue eyes dark with anger, fists still clenched at his sides. “I told you to stay away from her, asshole,” he says. “But I guess you didn’t hear me. So let me say it again.” He reaches down and grabs Dean by the front of the shirt, jerking him up as he pulls back his right fist.

Dean’s itching to slam his knee into Scott’s groin, but grabs Scott’s left arm with both hands instead, digging his fingers into the soft spot right below Scott’s elbow. He gets the intended result as Scott’s grip releases and Dean falls back to the floor.

“You–” Scott grits out, reaching for Dean again, but the sound of a whistle freezes all movement.

“That’s enough!” a deep voice bellows as a tall black man pushes his way into the center of the circle that had formed around Dean and Scott – it’s one of the assistant principals, Mr. Washington. He instructs the rubberneckers to go to class, then glares at Scott, turning the look on Dean after a few seconds. “What’s going on here?”

Dean pushes himself up into a sitting position, then stands, touching a knuckle to the corner of his mouth. When he pulls it away, there’s blood on it, and he licks his lips, tastes blood and cherry lip gloss.

“Just a little misunderstanding, sir,” Dean says evenly, flicking his eyes to Scott, who’s still breathing heavily, then back to Mr. Washington.

Mr. Washington holds his gaze for a moment, then turns his eyes towards Scott. “Mr. Prentiss? Care to elaborate?”

Scott looks at Dean and the evil little smirk that creeps across his lips tells Dean he’s about to be fucked over. “He was forcing himself on my buddy’s girl, sir,” Scott says. “I was just defending her.”

Dean doesn’t say a word, not even when the principal asks him if what Scott just said is true.

“Fine,” Mr. Washington says. He turns to Scott. “Mr. Prentiss. While I admire your willingness to defend a young lady’s honor, there is no fighting on school grounds. Perhaps you can think about that this afternoon in detention.”

Dean lets a muted snort escape, then instantly regrets it when Mr. Washington turns his steely eyes on him. “What’s your name, son?”

“Dean Winchester.”

The man nods. “Mr. Winchester. I’m glad you find the situation amusing. Lucky for you, you’ll have the opportunity to relive it. This afternoon. In detention.”

“But my brother,” Dean says, picturing the worried look on Sam’s face when he discovers Dean’s not there to meet him after school. “There won’t be anyone to pick him up.”

Mr. Washington’s gaze softens a little at that. “Does he attend the junior high?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sam.”

“I’ll be sure he knows where you are. He can wait for you in the front office,” Mr. Washington says.

It’s not the outcome Dean wanted, but it’s better than nothing, and he nods. “Thank you.”

“Now, both of you,” Mr. Washington says, the edge back to his voice, “get to class.”

As Dean walks towards Biology, he catches sight of Clarissa peeking out past the end of the row of lockers, smiling at him.

*

When Dean reports to detention, Scott’s already there. He’s sitting in the back, looking down at the open textbook on the desk in front of him, and when Dean moves towards one of the desks in the front row, he looks up and meets Dean’s eyes across the room.

Scott glares at him, then produces a smile Dean’s rarely seen on a human. Dean suppresses the urge to flip him off before sinking down into a desk. He brought his Chemistry book with him – he’d never admit it, but he likes the subject – and lays it on the desk, opening it to the chapter on Oxidation-Reduction reactions.

Periodically, he looks at the clock, calculating the time until Sam gets out of school, kicking himself for getting himself in this mess in the first place. After a while, his mind drifts from chemical reactions to speculating about just how many times he’d have to punch Scott before the cartilage in his nose popped.

God, he wants to beat that guy senseless.

But he promised Sammy, and the last thing he wants to do is disappoint the kid who, for some reason Dean can’t fathom, thinks he’s worth looking up to.

Oh, well. Detention is only an hour, so at least Sam won’t have to wait too long for him.

*

When Dean pushes through the doors of the front office, he expects to see Sam sitting in one of the chairs in the waiting area, expects him to come running up to him, nearly tripping over his overgrown feet, waving some kind of paper in the air with a big red 100 on it.

But Sam isn’t there and Dean can’t keep his heart from jumping against his ribs. “Excuse me,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm though even he can hear the edge of panic in it.

The lady behind the desk looks up, gives him a cursory smile that looks weary and practiced. “Yes?”

“My brother, Sam,” Dean says, walking up to the desk and pressing his palms flat against the surface to keep his fingers from trembling. “He’s supposed to be waiting here for me, but I don’t see him.”

The woman’s forehead crinkles. “Are you sure he was supposed to be waiting here?” she asks and the question freezes Dean’s blood.

“Mr. Washington,” Dean says, his breath suddenly gone. “He said the front office.” He looks around, hoping to find Sam hiding in a dark corner, knowing deep down he won’t.

“Maybe he meant the junior high’s front office,” she offers. “Let me call over there.” She picks up the phone and presses a few buttons, holding the receiver to her ear. Dean looks at her, not really seeing her, hears her voice in the background but can’t make out the words over the noise inside his head.

“He’s not there,” he sees more than hears her say as she meets his eyes over the top of the tall desk. She presses her lips together, then opens them to say something else.

Dean looks back over his shoulder and through the glass doors into the empty hallway. “Thanks,” he says to her without looking back as he pushes away from the desk. For nothing, he wants to add but doesn’t.

*

He’s checked every restroom, girls and boys, in the senior high building and poked his head in every classroom and there’s still no sign of Sam.

“Sammy!” he yells as he bursts through the double doors at the other end of the building, the name tearing painfully from his throat. He stops outside the doors and scans the landscape: The back of the property is nothing but athletic fields and portables and his eyes search frantically for his brother.

He runs to the common area, hoping Sam decided to wait for him in their usual meeting place, but when he gets there, the place is empty. “Sam! Sammy!” His heart is thundering so hard behind his ribs, he can hardly breathe.

Dean looks around again, debates checking the junior high building, then decides to check the back again. Maybe he’s hiding in one of the portables, watching Dean run around like a madman, laughing his goofy little ass off.

I’m gonna kill him, Dean thinks, but the words leave him cold, and he makes his legs move faster. He can feel the sheen of sweat beneath his clothes, can feel the amulet bounce against his chest, and tries not to think about anything but finding Sam.

He rounds the corner of the first portable, grabbing onto the wooden railing and hauling himself up the steps. The door is locked and he pounds on it, then cups his hands around his eyes and presses his face to the square of glass, peering inside.

Empty.

He runs to the next one, then the next, checking all twelve outbuildings, finding them all empty.

Running back down the last set of steps, his body forces him to stop and catch his breath, and he bends at the waist and props his hands against his knees, chest heaving. A wave of dizziness overtakes him and he falls to his knees on the grass, bracing himself against his palms.

He wants to throw up, but can’t.

He wants to find Sam, but can’t.

“Sammy,” he gasps between breaths. “Please.” Sudden tears sting his eyes and he sinks down onto his forearms, his forehead resting on the grass.

His breathing finally slows, but he doesn’t move. It’s like the earth has stopped spinning; everything is quiet. He can hear the wind, smell the grass, feel the warmth of the late afternoon sun on his back. He can taste his fear, heavy and bitter on his tongue. “Sammy,” he whispers.

“Dean!”

The sound is faint, but Dean snaps his head up at it, strains to hear it again. When he doesn’t, he thinks maybe he imagined it.

“Dean!”

There. There it is again.

He pushes himself up on shaky knees and tries to pinpoint the sound’s location. He takes a tentative step forward, straining to listen.

“Dean!”

Straight ahead and off to the left a little. Over near the bleachers. He starts walking that way. “Sammy?” he yells, his voice echoing off the hard surfaces.

“Dean!” Clearer this time, stronger. Definitely Sam’s voice.

A wave of relief washes over him, nearly knocking his knees out from under him. “Sam! Where are you?” He starts jogging.

“Over here!” Sam calls to him, his voice hoarse. “Under the bleachers!”

Dean starts to run again, adrenaline fueling his movements, breath burning in his lungs. When he reaches the bleachers, he stops, blinking into the darkness beneath them, forcing his eyes to adjust.

“Dean.” The word is broken, spoken through a sob, and Dean’s eyes finally fall on his brother, who’s cringing in the far corner where the light’s the dimmest.

“Sammy,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice calm and only failing a little. He ducks between two crisscrossing supports and jogs over to Sam, who’s got his knees drawn up to his chest and his head ducked so low, only his eyes are visible – huge dark hollows in the dim light.

Then it suddenly hits Dean: Sam’s legs are bare. His feet, too. He thinks the worst until he gets closer, falls to his knees in front of his brother and sees that he’s not naked, after all. But the truth is almost as humiliating: His gangly body has been stripped down to his boxers. And when Sammy looks up, Dean can see lipstick and blush smeared all over his face.

The first thing Dean does is lay his hands on him; he wants to feel that Sam’s okay, that he’s warm and breathing. The second he does, though, Sam starts crying, shaking sobs that wrack his body.

Dean touches Sam’s hair, runs his fingers through the unruly stands, and opens his mouth to ask Sam what happened, but Sam beats him to it.

“Mrs. Jenkins told me about you getting a detention,” Sam says through his tears, sniffling loudly and wiping at his face with the back of his right hand. “She said I was supposed to wait for you in the front office of the senior high.” He looks up at Dean, his eyes pleading. “I swear that’s where I was going, Dean. I swear it.”

Dean bites at the inside of his cheek, scoots on his knees a few inches closer to Sam and swipes at a few tears with his thumb. “I know, Sammy.”

Sam nods. “They came up to me in the common area. They said they were friends of yours. Said I could shoot hoops with them until detention was over.”

Dean has a pretty good idea who these “friends” of his were, but asks Sam anyway.

Sam shrugs. “One’s name was Robbie,” he says. “I don’t know the other kids’ names.”

Robbie. That asshole.

“They tied me to the goal post,” Sam says, “and left me there. But I got free.” His voice diminishes to a hoarse whisper on the last few words.

Dean grabs Sam’s wrists, sees the angry red abrasions around both of them, and brushes his thumbs lightly over the battered skin. He feels his brother start shaking beneath his hands, looks up to see Sam sobbing again.

“I’m tired of being the new kid, Dean,” Sam manages, shaking his head. “I’m tired of being the freak.”

Dean clenches his jaw so tightly he thinks his molars might crack and he lays Sam’s arms gently back across his knees. He runs his hand through Sam’s hair again, then lets his palm rest on the back of Sam’s neck.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he whispers around the lump in his throat. “This is all my fault.”

Sam looks up, lashes clumped wetly around his eyes. “Dean–”

“Those guys,” Dean says, his voice stronger now. “They’re after me, not you. They’ve been trying to get a rise out of me all week, but I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. They’re on a mission to piss me off.” He bites at the inside of his lower lip and looks away, out through the slats in the bleachers into the growing afternoon shadows. “Well, I’m pissed off.”

Sam grips his arm, drawing his attention back. “Dean, don’t,” he says, an edge of pleading in his voice. “It’s not worth it.”

Dean gives Sam a smile, knows it doesn’t reach his eyes, knows Sam knows it, too. “Don’t worry, Sammy,” he says and leaves it at that. He stands up, holds a hand out for Sam. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Sam takes his hand and stands up, then looks down at himself. “I can’t go out there looking like this,” he says, looking back up at Dean. “What if someone sees?”

“I’ll just tell ’em you’re my sister,” Dean says, grinning. Sam’s only twelve, but he’s almost as tall as Dean, which means Dean doesn’t have to look down to talk to him.

“You suck,” Sam says, but smiles a little, begrudgingly. But the smile fades quickly and Sam’s eyes go wide. “I’m serious, Dean. I’d rather die right here.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Where are your clothes?”

“Locker room, I guess,” Sam says. “At least they were.”

Dean gives him a stern look and points his index finger at him. “Stay here,” he says. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks,” Sam says, his dimples popping around a genuine smile.

“Whatever, squirt,” Dean says, then jogs towards the school.

He has to jimmy a couple locks to get back inside, but he finds Sam’s clothes and his book bag stuffed in the trashcan next to the showers.

*

Dean rarely forgives, but he sure as hell never forgets, and by the time he and Sammy make it home and Dean nukes a couple mini pizzas for dinner, he’s seething. The anger buzzing beneath his skin is so distracting, he can’t even eat, and he dumps his pizza onto Sam’s plate.

“You’re not hungry?” Sam asks him, eyeing him suspiciously because, okay, Dean’s always hungry.

“Sure I am,” Dean says, playing it off. “But I know how much you like these things and after the day you’ve had, I think you deserve it.” He bangs his knee against Sam’s and smiles.

“What about you?” Sam asks around his grin and Dean is glad to see that the only residual damages left over from this afternoon are a couple smears of ground-in lipstick around Sam’s mouth.

“I’ll make a sandwich or something later,” Dean tells him, grateful when Sam shrugs and turns his attention back to the television.

Forty-five minutes later, Sam is snoring open-mouthed, his big head lolled along the back of the couch. Dean flips off the TV and stands up, sliding the empty plate off Sam’s lap and setting it on the coffee table. He debates letting Sam sleep on the couch, but it’s only a two-seater, and with Sam’s long legs, he’ll wake up a pretzel in the morning.

“Come on, Sammy,” he says, tapping Sam on the knee. “Time for bed.”

“Nrrghh,” Sam says and shifts his weight, his head flopping to the side.

Dean sighs and shakes his head. He used to carry Sam to bed all the time, but that was before The Great Growth Spurt of ’95. He nudges Sam again, getting the same response, and resigns himself to the fact that Sam isn’t waking up any time soon.

He nearly drops him, but Dean manages to get Sam to their bedroom and lays him down gently on his bed. Straightening his long legs out, Dean pulls off Sam’s shoes and socks, then pops the button on Sam’s jeans and tugs them off, leaving him in his t-shirt and boxers. Gently pulling the blankets over him, Dean lets his fingers brush through Sam’s bangs.

“Goodnight, Sammy,” he whispers, then strips down to his own shorts and crawls into bed.

He watches Sam sleep for a while, then turns over on his back and stares at the ceiling.

*

Dean checks the knots, making sure they’re secure, humming softly under his breath. Robbie squirms against the restraints, muttering what Dean is certain are four-letter words through his gag.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Dean asks, ducking his head around the side to look at Robbie’s profile, grinning when Robbie just grunts.

“There,” Dean says. “All secure.” He gives the rope around Robbie’s wrists a little tug to demonstrate.

Robbie starts to struggle, glaring at Dean through angry dark brown eyes as Dean makes his way around front. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Dean tells him. “The more you struggle, the tighter they’ll get.”

Robbie grunts again, but he stops moving, goosebumps breaking out over all the skin Dean can see, which is a lot.

“How does it feel being trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey?” Dean asks, then answers his own question. “Not too comfy, I imagine.”

He takes a step closer to Robbie, then another, until he’s right in Robbie’s face. Robbie tries to back away, pressing the back of his head into the cushion around the goal post. Dean just smiles, then lets it slide away when he speaks. “Tell your friends,” he says evenly. “You fuck with my brother, you fuck with me. Touch him again and I’ll kill you. Nod if you understand me.”

Robbie’s eyes go wide, then he nods.

“Good.” Dean turns around and starts to walk away. “Toodles,” he calls over his shoulder.

*

He walks into homeroom smiling and takes a seat at Robbie’s desk. He can feel Scott staring at him from two rows over and looks his way, giving him a little wave. Scott flips him off with a smirk.

“Where’s Robbie?” Clarissa asks from beside him.

Dean looks over at her and smiles sweetly. “He’s gonna be a little late,” he says. “He’s a bit tied up at the moment.”