Dean's POV
I pulled into the driveway of my house and sighed, turning off the ignition. I rubbed my hands over my face and tried not to scream. Don't get me wrong, I'm ecstatic that Mr. Novak and I have a real thing now and it's not just something for benefits. It's just that I'm afraid somebody will find out about us. Nobody's going to allow that. He's twenty-something years old and I'm eighteen.
My mind started coming up with the worst case scenarios.
What if somebody found out about us?
What if Mr. Novak dumped me?
What if my dad comes back?
What if-
No more "what if's," brain!
I groaned and slammed my head on the steering wheel. Unfortunately, my head connected to the horn and a loud noise blared. I pulled back quickly, the noise silencing, and held my head. "Motherfucker!" I yelled, still holding my head.
There was a knock, suddenly, on my window and I jerked my head up to look besides me. Bobby was looking at me through my window, glaring and frowning at me. I opened the door and Bobby moved away as I stepped out of my Impala. I closed the door softly and looked sheepishly at Bobby.
"What're you doin', boy?" Bobby asked sharply. "You were supposed to be back thirty minutes ago, ya idjit."
I sighed and started walking to the house, Bobby following. "I know," I said, "but Mr. Novak wouldn't let me leave unless I finished the history packet he gave me." Bobby looked like he didn't believe me. "It's hard to do a packet when I'm barely passing history, Bobby."
Bobby glared at me. "You better be passing history, boy," he said.
"I am," I said quickly. I opened the door to the house and was met with a very angry Sam. "Uh, hey, Sammy."
Sam glared at me and crossed his arms over his chest. "Where were you?" He asked. "Why are you late? You missed dinner. It's 8:00, Dean. You're an hour late. What were you doing?"
I pushed past Sam and walked to the kitchen. "Mr. Novak wouldn't let me leave until I finished a history packet he gave me," I answered, opening the refrigerator door and took out a beer. I opened and took a sip. Sam entered the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You're lying, Dean," he deadpanned. Sam glared at me. "I can tell when you're lying."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm not lying, Sam," I insisted. "Novak gave me some weird history packet for me to work on. I had to turn it in before I was allowed to leave."
Sam continued to glare at me. "Whatever, Dean," he said. He turned to leave but stopped and looked back at me. "When you're ready to actually tell me the truth, you know where to find me." He turned around and walked out of the kitchen.
I sighed and slumped into one of the kitchen chairs, placing my still-full bottle of beer on the table. I put my elbows on my knees and placed my head in my hands, groaning. "Why is this so difficult?" I asked myself.
"What is what so difficult, boy?" I snapped my head up and stared at Bobby standing in the kitchen doorway. Shit. I didn't want anybody to hear that.
I shook my head. "Nothing, Bobby," I muttered.
"Bullshit." Bobby sat across from me, leaning back in his chair and staring at me. "What's so difficult, Dean?"
I sighed. "Just high school drama, I guess," I said. I didn't want to talk about Mr. Novak to Bobby. I sure as hell don't want him to know I'm having an intimate relationship with my high school history teacher.
Bobby nodded. "Anything you want to get off your chest, boy?" He asked.
I looked at Bobby carefully. He was leaning against the back of his chair lazily. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt like usual with one of his infamous baseball caps. He looked tired, the worry lines on his face were more defined. "Yeah, I guess so," I answered after a few minutes of silence. Bobby nodded and motioned for me to continue talking. "Bobby, remember when I asked about wondering if you did the wrong thing even though it felt right?"
Bobby nodded.
I sighed and took a sip of my beer. "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing," I started, "but it feels right to me."
"We're not talkin' 'bout drugs, right, boy?" Bobby repeated his previous concern.
I rolled my eyes. "No, Bobby," I sighed, "we are not talking about drugs." Bobby nodded. "I don't know what to tell you, honestly. It's something I'm not comfortable about sharing and I want to keep it to myself."
Bobby nodded again. "Alright, boy," he said, "I accept your decision." Bobby stood up and walked to the kitchen doorway, then stopped and turned back to look at me. "But, when you're ready, talk to me. Ya idjit." He turned and walked out of the kitchen.
I sighed and rested my head on the kitchen table, closing my eyes. Why is Bobby so understanding when he doesn't even know what he's supposed to understand?
I sat up.
What the fuck am I even thinking?
