What Makes a Home {Supernatural}

Home Isn't a Place

Henderson Iver Specialty School, otherwise known as 'the place you send your kid if they might just be made of something'. Henderson Iver offered courses ranging from acrobatics to astrophysics to advanced literary analysis, all of them coming with some form of college credit or esteemed referral. There were students who came out of the institute ready for the Olympics and others with a giant headstart on their masters'. But that in no way meant there weren't trouble makers, and it definitely didn't mean there weren't cliques. In fact, the groupings in Henderson could be much worse than one would find in any public or prep school. Everyone very obviously had their own corner and if you didn't fit into them, you were toast. Which meant on days like October 11th, 1997, things were a lot more complex than they might seem.

Along with its prestigious reputation, Henderson was known for its strict policies. There was no option for a twenty-minute lunch detention or sitting out of a fun activity. If a student's crimes were deemed worthy of punishment, the only thing they could look forward to was either four hours of the nearest Saturday being ruined, having to work with the faculty on whatever big project the school was undergoing, or being forced to stay home. No one liked those options...usually.

October 11th was one of those Saturdays, a few lonely cars rolling into the oversized parking lot. As the first came to a stop - a shiny Lincoln Continental - its passenger was quicker than a fox to jump out, and even quicker to pull an umbrella out to cover his head. Where the rain guard was more than plain, the teenager's clothes were anything but. The beige of his khakis matched the large trench coat tugged over his shoulders, just barely covering a pure white sweater with yellow bumblebees knitted into it. His head was held high and though it looked like this was the last place he wanted to be, that was far from the truth. Never looking back, the boy ducked inside the building and easily made his way to the detention center.

The next to arrive was a girl, one who parked her own beat-up BMW in the lot. At only fifteen, she wasn't legally supposed to be driving with only a permit to her name. Technically, she wasn't supposed to be smoking, either, but she certainly sat there for a few minutes to do just that. Running a hand down her face, the black-haired teenager eventually pulled up her hood and slammed her way out of the car. Locking it, clenched fists were pushed into hoodie pockets and the girl leisurely made her to the front door.

While she sat, two others arrived. A young boy with shaggy brown hair was stalled in the cab of his mom's baby blue pickup as the woman reminded him of how important school was. He listened and nodded his head with a few 'yes, mom's and accepted her kiss on the cheek when it was finally over. All the while, a dark-haired boy with even darker eyes walked through the pouring rain and, in a particularly foul mood, didn't even glance at the vehicle.

The final girl was late. She kept glancing at the clock as her mother reamed her, growing more stressed as the time dwindled down. With only a minute left, she finally managed to get out but didn't know the old truck's clock was two minutes slow. Even as the freshman tugged on her Letterman and ran up the steps, it was already 9:01.

Rushing through the back door, the blonde got lucky; well, if a student already picking a fight with the administrator counted as luck. Sliding into a seat up front, her lips pursed as she quietly placed a duffle on the ground.

"...on, Fergus, you know you-"

"Sit down, Winchester." The teacher seethes, glaring daggers at the teenager blocking his way into the room. "You are not a friend or a coworker, you are a student, and will address me as Mr. MacLeod."

Finally nudging past Dean Winchester with enough disdain to burn the world, MacLeod leans back against the front desk to stare out at his students for the day. The man is stout but regal, clearly too big for his britches but unaware. Originally from Scotland, anyone could still hear the roll in his r's despite living in Britain for the better part of his life. He'd wanted to teach since he was a boy, but at a British university with tenor, not some specialty American high school with a bunch of snobs and freaks. If he never had to deal with the likes of these kids ever again, he'd die a happy man.