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Sep. 2nd, 2006 12:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cathybitesThe Wheels on the Bus (Go 'Round and 'Round)
[spn, gen, g, 2882 words]
written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_flashback challenge, prompt #283: Sam and Dean ride on the bus to school, the one that picks them up at four in the morning and drops them off around six at night because of where they are on the route. Maybe they bring their blankets because the bus is always cold. Walkmans? Flashlights? Pillows? Where do they sit and what do they do to keep busy those eight hours each day on the bus? um, I deviated a little from the prompt, mainly with the length of time spent on the bus. hope that's okay. much love to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
queenbitter for the readthrough.
The bus picks them up at a quarter-of-six every morning. It's early enough that a few stars are still visible against the dusky blue sky, but long past the time when the night creatures have slunk away into the shadows. When winter comes, it'll be just as dark as it is in the middle of the night and they'll have to be more careful, more watchful of what might be out there, but for now there's little to fear.
It's the first year that Sam has to ride the early bus and Dean expects to hear him complain about losing an hour of sleep. Dean had when he'd started seventh grade, grumbling under his breath about cruel and unusual punishment, but Sam seems as awake as ever. It's like he thrives at the earlier hour, getting dressed and packing his bookbag with a smile on his face, and Dean stares at him blearily, wondering how they're even related.
They wait for the bus at the end of a long dirt driveway, one that winds through the dark woods and then snakes through a cornfield. It only takes ten minutes to walk to the bus stop from their trailer - eight if Dean is by himself - but John usually drives them to make sure they get on the bus okay, sitting in the truck with them on cold and rainy days.
When the weather is decent, though, they climb out of the truck and John leaves, sometimes going back to the trailer, sometimes continuing on down the road, arm raised out the window to wave good-bye. He always drops them off ten minutes before the bus is due, to be sure they catch it, and Sam usually spends the extra time checking his homework, making sure it's all there and finished, and then checking Dean's.
Dean leans against the mailbox, arms crossed over his chest and eyes half-shut like he's about to doze off. He watches Sam, though, from under his lashes, and keeps an ear out for the rumble of the bus's engine or anything else that might be approaching.
---
The driver is a big bear of a man with watery blue eyes and wisps of white hair clinging to his pale scalp. He grunts when Sam says good morning and eyes Dean suspiciously when he does the same. The tag on his red nylon jacket reads 'Bob', with a cartoon face smiling beside it, something neither Sam nor Dean ever sees Bob do.
Bob is one of those old men who look like they've never been young a day in their lives, eyes glaring out at the world from the heavy folds of his face. His hands are gnarled and the veins pop up through his paper-thin skin as he grips the wheel. Every day he wears the same red jacket, the same blue shirt, and the same stained pair of grey slacks. He doesn't have a wedding ring but he does have a blurry and faded tattoo that curls around his wrists from under his sleeves. For two weeks straight, Sam believes that it's because he's actually a demon who works as a bus driver to make it easier to hunt his victims, returning to their homes at night to torture and devour them.
John ends up having to drive them to school for a week after Sam throws a capful of holy water into Bob's face.
Dean ends up doing Sam's chores for a month once John finds out where Sam had heard that story.
---
They're the first kids on the bus, every morning, because their trailer is at the edge of the school district, several miles from the nearest house, a little over a half-hour from the nearest household with school-aged children. Being the first to be picked up means they get their choice of seats, and every morning, Dean leads Sam to the back, letting Sam have the full bench while he takes the single across the aisle.
The first morning on the bus, the kid that gets on after them is a big, burly boy with bright red hair and freckles spattered across his face. He stomps up the aisle and flickers a curious look at Dean before he turns to Sam and, thinking a twelve-year-old will be an easy target, says, "That's my seat, loser. Get out," with a jerk of his head.
Sam glances up from his book, shrugs, and says, "Your name's not on it."
The boy leans in and grabs Sam's book out of his hands, but before he can say or do anything else, his face gets shoved against the emergency door, arms twisted painfully behind his back, and Dean, his voice cool and calm, says, "You're gonna give my brother his book back, say that you're sorry for being an ugly fathead, and then you're gonna plant your ass in a seat up front and keep it there."
The kid nods frantically and Dean lets him go. He hands the book back, mumbles his apology, and runs up front to sit behind Bob, making it his new permanent seat.
Nobody else on the bus or at school bothers Sam for the rest of the year.
---
While Sam spends most of his time on the bus reading, Dean tries to think of ways to keep from being bored. He sleeps; he daydreams; he listens to his walkman when he remembers to bring it.
Usually, though, he relies on Sam for entertainment.
The first spitball lands softly on top of Sam's mop of a haircut; he doesn't even notice, just turns a page and keeps reading.
The second one grazes his ear and he lifts a hand to swat at the imagined fly.
The third hits his knee, the fourth his thumb, and by the fifth, which nails him right below his left eye, he's glaring at Dean.
"Quit it!"
"Quit it!" Dean parrots, pitching his voice high.
"I mean it!"
"I mean it!"
"That's not funny."
"That's not funny."
Sam's face twists up in a scowl and he turns so his back is against the window. He pulls his legs up and scrunches down until his face disappears behind his book.
After a few seconds, Dean reaches over and pokes Sam's shoe. "Sammy."
Silence.
"Sammy." Poke. Silence. "Sammy." Poke, poke. Silence. "Sammy Sammy SammySammysammysammysammysa--"
"Oh my god, Dean!" Sam yells before launching across his seat to wrestle Dean into a headlock, knuckles raking across the top of his head. Dean could easily peel Sam off, hold him down and smack him until he says 'uncle', but he just laughs and pokes at Sam's stomach, feeling anything but bored now.
---
Towards the end of October, the weather takes a sudden, sharp turn towards winter. The cornfield has lain bare for close to a month, and each morning it sparkles in the light from John's truck, broken frost-covered stalks scattered in the dirt like pieces of glass.
The boys have to wear their winter coats, bulky and heavy ones that they pick up at Goodwill. Sam hates his because it's slightly too small in the shoulders, enough that he can't zip it up comfortably. Dean's is two sizes too big, leaving enough room for a sweatshirt or two to be worn underneath it, but he still complains (to Sam, never to Dad) about the cold air that comes in through the gap at the neck.
The window by Sam's seat on the bus doesn't close all the way, the pane tilting at an angle towards the back. On most days it's nothing but cold air that blows in, setting Sam's teeth chattering until Dean slides into the seat next to him without a word, just unbuttons his coat and hauls Sam to his side, wrapping the coat around the both of them.
Sometimes, though, rain whips through the crack, icy water puddling on the dark green vinyl of the seat. On those days, Dean takes one look at the rain-spattered seat and pushes Sam into his own seat, over Sam's protests, and sits in the seat in front of him.
"I don't need to take your seat, Dean," Sam says.
"Sure you do," Dean says, cracking a smile. "Cool kids sit in the back and you need all the help being cool that you can get."
Sam rolls his eyes and flips Dean off, but he settles into the seat with a hint of a smile on his face.
---
Dean's out of school for a week in December. "The flu," their dad tells the school nurse over the phone. Dean's teachers send his assignments down to the junior high and Sam carries them home, knowing full well that Dean wouldn't look at them even if he were home.
They've been gone for three days. John had left the keys to the Nova with strict instructions that unless there's an emergency, Sam isn't to drive it past the driveway. Sam thinks, 'Duh,' and, making sure all the lights are shut off, grabs the keys off the kitchen table and heads out to the car.
On the bus, he sits in his seat as always, opening up his history book to study for the test on Friday. It's quiet and Sam finds himself cutting a glance every few minutes to the empty seat across the aisle.
He sighs and settles himself in the corner of his own seat, wrapped up in Dean's coat and Dad's old sweatshirts, ignoring the chilled air that blows through the window. As the bus starts to fill up, the other kids chatting and laughing with one another, he lays his hand over the page he's on and closes the book, twisting his head to stare out the window.
The countryside ambles by, hills and fields slowly rolling past, and Sam sighs again, his breath fogging the glass. He presses the side of his fist to it, then his fingertip, five times. He does it again, alternating hands until a trail of miniature footprints decorate the glass.
Dean and Dad are two hours to the southeast, checking out reports of a ghost ship off the Eastern Shore. They don't expect to be back until Saturday, maybe even later, depending on how the job goes.
Sam smears the footprints away with his hand and rests his forehead against the glass, pulling Dean's coat tighter around himself, and closes his eyes.
---
Everyone is screaming in fright and all Dean can think is, You guys have no idea what scary is, as the wasp dodges a book swatted at it and zips up to rest on the ceiling of the bus. The girl sitting underneath it shrieks and scurries out into the aisle, hands covering her head like the thing was planning on burrowing its way into her brain.
Bob sits up front, watching through the rearview mirror and smirking.
Dean tilts his head to the side and watches as the wasp goes about its business, ignoring the commotion it's caused. He glances over at Sam, who's actually paying attention for once, an amused expression on his face.
"Twenty bucks says I can take it out from here," Dean says.
Sam looks at him, then back at the wasp, mouth pursed as he thinks about it. "Nah," he finally says, shaking his head. "I don't have twenty bucks. Anyways, what would you hit it with?"
Dean tosses a quarter in the air and Sam snorts, but he shakes his head again. "It's not even really bothering anyone. If they just leave it alone, it'll go away on its own." They both look up to see the wasp crawl for a little bit, then take off to fly lazy circles over the heads of the screaming kids.
"C'mon, Sammy, you know I could do it and you just don't want to admit it. How about chores for a month?"
The wasp makes its way to the back, landing on the window by Sam's seat, antennae waving as it crawls across the glass. Sam says, "Forget it," and reaches up slowly to pull the window down. The wasp's wings flutter in the sudden rush of air, then it's gone, out the window faster than Dean can see.
"Spoilsport," he grumbles, and he flings his quarter at the back of Sam's head.
---
In the afternoons, the bus is nearly empty. There are sport practices, play rehearsals, music lessons - any number of activities keeping kids from going straight home. A few nights it's just Sam, Dean, and a handful of other kids, and the bus ride takes half the time it does in the morning.
"You ever think about going out for a sport or something?" Sam asks Dean. There's only one other kid on the bus with them, a frail-looking boy with asthma. The bus pulls up in front of his house and he gets off; Sam can see him coughing as the bus pulls away, throwing up a cloud of grey dust. He looks back at Dean, who shrugs.
"Why?"
"I dunno," Sam says. He glances out the window. They'll be home in fifteen minutes, twenty at the most, and Sam will have about an hour to get his homework done before Dad gets home and training starts. "It's what everyone else does, isn't it?"
"Pffft. Who wants to be like everyone else?" Dean doesn't even look up at him, concentrates instead on the comic book in his hands. "You don't, do you, Sammy? That's boring."
Sam thinks about the kids in his class, trying out for spots on the baseball team, or on the track team. He thinks about how they make plans for the weekend, passing notes and yelling, "Call me!" as they say goodbye to their friends. He thinks about how Sherry Walker had asked him to a dance that he ended up missing because Dad needed his help in catching a will o' the wisp.
The bus stops abruptly and Sam reallizes that they're home. He gets up and Dean is watching him, eyes guarded. "You don't really want to do all that crap, do you?"
Sam hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head. "Nah, I was just wondering."
---
"They oughta put a/c into these things," Dean gripes. "It's gotta be at least five-hundred degrees in here." He slides down his seat halfway and his shirt rides up behind him. The skin of his back sticks to the vinyl of the seat and he arches up a little, scowling in discomfort when he peels away. He'd spent a long, boring day in school, sitting on his ass and trying to stay awake while his teachers talked about a bunch of crap he didn't care about; all he'd been able to think about was going home. It had felt like the longest day of the year, so of course - of course - today would be the day the bus breaks down fifteen miles from home.
Sam has his back pressed against the side of the bus, moving every few seconds to try and find a cool spot. He looks absolutely miserable, skin flushed pink from the heat, eyes closed as he fans himself with a notebook. "Wouldn't matter if they did," he says, pushing his bangs out of his face. His hair curls in damp ringlets around his face, almost black with sweat; he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, flicking the moisture off. He'll need a haircut soon, Dean thinks, scrubbing a hand through his own hair. Probably pitch a fit again. "If the bus is broke," Sam continues, sounding like everything's been sapped out of him, "the a/c won't work anyways."
Bob is on the radio with the dispatch, hollering about it being "hotter than a rutting pig in the pits of Hell, so get someone over here to fix this damn thing!" before slamming his hand on the dash and climbing down the steps to take another look at the smoking engine.
A weak, warm breeze blows through the windows, bringing more misery than it does relief, and Dean sighs. There's a list that he keeps in the back of his head of the twenty worst ways to die. He wriggles in his seat and pushes himself up, sweat-slick palms skidding on the vinyl, and replaces, "Being eaten alive by gigantic zombie army ants," with, "Roasting to death on a school bus."
---
The bus drops them off at a quarter after four until the last few weeks of school, when all the sports and clubs have finished up for the year and the bus is full of kids again. Those days they don't get home until almost five; by then, the sun has started its slow descent towards the horizon, dipping behind the trees that line the cornfield, long shadows stretching out to the road. The few times it's raining when they get home, John is at the end of the driveway, waiting in the truck for them no matter where he might have gone during the day.
Every other day, though, when the sky is clear and it'll be hours before nightfall, they hop off the bus, Sam waving bye to Bob, and make their way back home.
thank you for reading!
[spn, gen, g, 2882 words]
written for the
spn_flashback challenge, prompt #283: Sam and Dean ride on the bus to school, the one that picks them up at four in the morning and drops them off around six at night because of where they are on the route. Maybe they bring their blankets because the bus is always cold. Walkmans? Flashlights? Pillows? Where do they sit and what do they do to keep busy those eight hours each day on the bus? um, I deviated a little from the prompt, mainly with the length of time spent on the bus. hope that's okay. much love to queenbitter for the readthrough.The bus picks them up at a quarter-of-six every morning. It's early enough that a few stars are still visible against the dusky blue sky, but long past the time when the night creatures have slunk away into the shadows. When winter comes, it'll be just as dark as it is in the middle of the night and they'll have to be more careful, more watchful of what might be out there, but for now there's little to fear.
It's the first year that Sam has to ride the early bus and Dean expects to hear him complain about losing an hour of sleep. Dean had when he'd started seventh grade, grumbling under his breath about cruel and unusual punishment, but Sam seems as awake as ever. It's like he thrives at the earlier hour, getting dressed and packing his bookbag with a smile on his face, and Dean stares at him blearily, wondering how they're even related.
They wait for the bus at the end of a long dirt driveway, one that winds through the dark woods and then snakes through a cornfield. It only takes ten minutes to walk to the bus stop from their trailer - eight if Dean is by himself - but John usually drives them to make sure they get on the bus okay, sitting in the truck with them on cold and rainy days.
When the weather is decent, though, they climb out of the truck and John leaves, sometimes going back to the trailer, sometimes continuing on down the road, arm raised out the window to wave good-bye. He always drops them off ten minutes before the bus is due, to be sure they catch it, and Sam usually spends the extra time checking his homework, making sure it's all there and finished, and then checking Dean's.
Dean leans against the mailbox, arms crossed over his chest and eyes half-shut like he's about to doze off. He watches Sam, though, from under his lashes, and keeps an ear out for the rumble of the bus's engine or anything else that might be approaching.
---
The driver is a big bear of a man with watery blue eyes and wisps of white hair clinging to his pale scalp. He grunts when Sam says good morning and eyes Dean suspiciously when he does the same. The tag on his red nylon jacket reads 'Bob', with a cartoon face smiling beside it, something neither Sam nor Dean ever sees Bob do.
Bob is one of those old men who look like they've never been young a day in their lives, eyes glaring out at the world from the heavy folds of his face. His hands are gnarled and the veins pop up through his paper-thin skin as he grips the wheel. Every day he wears the same red jacket, the same blue shirt, and the same stained pair of grey slacks. He doesn't have a wedding ring but he does have a blurry and faded tattoo that curls around his wrists from under his sleeves. For two weeks straight, Sam believes that it's because he's actually a demon who works as a bus driver to make it easier to hunt his victims, returning to their homes at night to torture and devour them.
John ends up having to drive them to school for a week after Sam throws a capful of holy water into Bob's face.
Dean ends up doing Sam's chores for a month once John finds out where Sam had heard that story.
---
They're the first kids on the bus, every morning, because their trailer is at the edge of the school district, several miles from the nearest house, a little over a half-hour from the nearest household with school-aged children. Being the first to be picked up means they get their choice of seats, and every morning, Dean leads Sam to the back, letting Sam have the full bench while he takes the single across the aisle.
The first morning on the bus, the kid that gets on after them is a big, burly boy with bright red hair and freckles spattered across his face. He stomps up the aisle and flickers a curious look at Dean before he turns to Sam and, thinking a twelve-year-old will be an easy target, says, "That's my seat, loser. Get out," with a jerk of his head.
Sam glances up from his book, shrugs, and says, "Your name's not on it."
The boy leans in and grabs Sam's book out of his hands, but before he can say or do anything else, his face gets shoved against the emergency door, arms twisted painfully behind his back, and Dean, his voice cool and calm, says, "You're gonna give my brother his book back, say that you're sorry for being an ugly fathead, and then you're gonna plant your ass in a seat up front and keep it there."
The kid nods frantically and Dean lets him go. He hands the book back, mumbles his apology, and runs up front to sit behind Bob, making it his new permanent seat.
Nobody else on the bus or at school bothers Sam for the rest of the year.
---
While Sam spends most of his time on the bus reading, Dean tries to think of ways to keep from being bored. He sleeps; he daydreams; he listens to his walkman when he remembers to bring it.
Usually, though, he relies on Sam for entertainment.
The first spitball lands softly on top of Sam's mop of a haircut; he doesn't even notice, just turns a page and keeps reading.
The second one grazes his ear and he lifts a hand to swat at the imagined fly.
The third hits his knee, the fourth his thumb, and by the fifth, which nails him right below his left eye, he's glaring at Dean.
"Quit it!"
"Quit it!" Dean parrots, pitching his voice high.
"I mean it!"
"I mean it!"
"That's not funny."
"That's not funny."
Sam's face twists up in a scowl and he turns so his back is against the window. He pulls his legs up and scrunches down until his face disappears behind his book.
After a few seconds, Dean reaches over and pokes Sam's shoe. "Sammy."
Silence.
"Sammy." Poke. Silence. "Sammy." Poke, poke. Silence. "Sammy Sammy SammySammysammysammysammysa--"
"Oh my god, Dean!" Sam yells before launching across his seat to wrestle Dean into a headlock, knuckles raking across the top of his head. Dean could easily peel Sam off, hold him down and smack him until he says 'uncle', but he just laughs and pokes at Sam's stomach, feeling anything but bored now.
---
Towards the end of October, the weather takes a sudden, sharp turn towards winter. The cornfield has lain bare for close to a month, and each morning it sparkles in the light from John's truck, broken frost-covered stalks scattered in the dirt like pieces of glass.
The boys have to wear their winter coats, bulky and heavy ones that they pick up at Goodwill. Sam hates his because it's slightly too small in the shoulders, enough that he can't zip it up comfortably. Dean's is two sizes too big, leaving enough room for a sweatshirt or two to be worn underneath it, but he still complains (to Sam, never to Dad) about the cold air that comes in through the gap at the neck.
The window by Sam's seat on the bus doesn't close all the way, the pane tilting at an angle towards the back. On most days it's nothing but cold air that blows in, setting Sam's teeth chattering until Dean slides into the seat next to him without a word, just unbuttons his coat and hauls Sam to his side, wrapping the coat around the both of them.
Sometimes, though, rain whips through the crack, icy water puddling on the dark green vinyl of the seat. On those days, Dean takes one look at the rain-spattered seat and pushes Sam into his own seat, over Sam's protests, and sits in the seat in front of him.
"I don't need to take your seat, Dean," Sam says.
"Sure you do," Dean says, cracking a smile. "Cool kids sit in the back and you need all the help being cool that you can get."
Sam rolls his eyes and flips Dean off, but he settles into the seat with a hint of a smile on his face.
---
Dean's out of school for a week in December. "The flu," their dad tells the school nurse over the phone. Dean's teachers send his assignments down to the junior high and Sam carries them home, knowing full well that Dean wouldn't look at them even if he were home.
They've been gone for three days. John had left the keys to the Nova with strict instructions that unless there's an emergency, Sam isn't to drive it past the driveway. Sam thinks, 'Duh,' and, making sure all the lights are shut off, grabs the keys off the kitchen table and heads out to the car.
On the bus, he sits in his seat as always, opening up his history book to study for the test on Friday. It's quiet and Sam finds himself cutting a glance every few minutes to the empty seat across the aisle.
He sighs and settles himself in the corner of his own seat, wrapped up in Dean's coat and Dad's old sweatshirts, ignoring the chilled air that blows through the window. As the bus starts to fill up, the other kids chatting and laughing with one another, he lays his hand over the page he's on and closes the book, twisting his head to stare out the window.
The countryside ambles by, hills and fields slowly rolling past, and Sam sighs again, his breath fogging the glass. He presses the side of his fist to it, then his fingertip, five times. He does it again, alternating hands until a trail of miniature footprints decorate the glass.
Dean and Dad are two hours to the southeast, checking out reports of a ghost ship off the Eastern Shore. They don't expect to be back until Saturday, maybe even later, depending on how the job goes.
Sam smears the footprints away with his hand and rests his forehead against the glass, pulling Dean's coat tighter around himself, and closes his eyes.
---
Everyone is screaming in fright and all Dean can think is, You guys have no idea what scary is, as the wasp dodges a book swatted at it and zips up to rest on the ceiling of the bus. The girl sitting underneath it shrieks and scurries out into the aisle, hands covering her head like the thing was planning on burrowing its way into her brain.
Bob sits up front, watching through the rearview mirror and smirking.
Dean tilts his head to the side and watches as the wasp goes about its business, ignoring the commotion it's caused. He glances over at Sam, who's actually paying attention for once, an amused expression on his face.
"Twenty bucks says I can take it out from here," Dean says.
Sam looks at him, then back at the wasp, mouth pursed as he thinks about it. "Nah," he finally says, shaking his head. "I don't have twenty bucks. Anyways, what would you hit it with?"
Dean tosses a quarter in the air and Sam snorts, but he shakes his head again. "It's not even really bothering anyone. If they just leave it alone, it'll go away on its own." They both look up to see the wasp crawl for a little bit, then take off to fly lazy circles over the heads of the screaming kids.
"C'mon, Sammy, you know I could do it and you just don't want to admit it. How about chores for a month?"
The wasp makes its way to the back, landing on the window by Sam's seat, antennae waving as it crawls across the glass. Sam says, "Forget it," and reaches up slowly to pull the window down. The wasp's wings flutter in the sudden rush of air, then it's gone, out the window faster than Dean can see.
"Spoilsport," he grumbles, and he flings his quarter at the back of Sam's head.
---
In the afternoons, the bus is nearly empty. There are sport practices, play rehearsals, music lessons - any number of activities keeping kids from going straight home. A few nights it's just Sam, Dean, and a handful of other kids, and the bus ride takes half the time it does in the morning.
"You ever think about going out for a sport or something?" Sam asks Dean. There's only one other kid on the bus with them, a frail-looking boy with asthma. The bus pulls up in front of his house and he gets off; Sam can see him coughing as the bus pulls away, throwing up a cloud of grey dust. He looks back at Dean, who shrugs.
"Why?"
"I dunno," Sam says. He glances out the window. They'll be home in fifteen minutes, twenty at the most, and Sam will have about an hour to get his homework done before Dad gets home and training starts. "It's what everyone else does, isn't it?"
"Pffft. Who wants to be like everyone else?" Dean doesn't even look up at him, concentrates instead on the comic book in his hands. "You don't, do you, Sammy? That's boring."
Sam thinks about the kids in his class, trying out for spots on the baseball team, or on the track team. He thinks about how they make plans for the weekend, passing notes and yelling, "Call me!" as they say goodbye to their friends. He thinks about how Sherry Walker had asked him to a dance that he ended up missing because Dad needed his help in catching a will o' the wisp.
The bus stops abruptly and Sam reallizes that they're home. He gets up and Dean is watching him, eyes guarded. "You don't really want to do all that crap, do you?"
Sam hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head. "Nah, I was just wondering."
---
"They oughta put a/c into these things," Dean gripes. "It's gotta be at least five-hundred degrees in here." He slides down his seat halfway and his shirt rides up behind him. The skin of his back sticks to the vinyl of the seat and he arches up a little, scowling in discomfort when he peels away. He'd spent a long, boring day in school, sitting on his ass and trying to stay awake while his teachers talked about a bunch of crap he didn't care about; all he'd been able to think about was going home. It had felt like the longest day of the year, so of course - of course - today would be the day the bus breaks down fifteen miles from home.
Sam has his back pressed against the side of the bus, moving every few seconds to try and find a cool spot. He looks absolutely miserable, skin flushed pink from the heat, eyes closed as he fans himself with a notebook. "Wouldn't matter if they did," he says, pushing his bangs out of his face. His hair curls in damp ringlets around his face, almost black with sweat; he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, flicking the moisture off. He'll need a haircut soon, Dean thinks, scrubbing a hand through his own hair. Probably pitch a fit again. "If the bus is broke," Sam continues, sounding like everything's been sapped out of him, "the a/c won't work anyways."
Bob is on the radio with the dispatch, hollering about it being "hotter than a rutting pig in the pits of Hell, so get someone over here to fix this damn thing!" before slamming his hand on the dash and climbing down the steps to take another look at the smoking engine.
A weak, warm breeze blows through the windows, bringing more misery than it does relief, and Dean sighs. There's a list that he keeps in the back of his head of the twenty worst ways to die. He wriggles in his seat and pushes himself up, sweat-slick palms skidding on the vinyl, and replaces, "Being eaten alive by gigantic zombie army ants," with, "Roasting to death on a school bus."
---
The bus drops them off at a quarter after four until the last few weeks of school, when all the sports and clubs have finished up for the year and the bus is full of kids again. Those days they don't get home until almost five; by then, the sun has started its slow descent towards the horizon, dipping behind the trees that line the cornfield, long shadows stretching out to the road. The few times it's raining when they get home, John is at the end of the driveway, waiting in the truck for them no matter where he might have gone during the day.
Every other day, though, when the sky is clear and it'll be hours before nightfall, they hop off the bus, Sam waving bye to Bob, and make their way back home.
thank you for reading!
