The thing to remember is, it wasn’t Dean’s fault. It wasn’t Sammy’s, either. If you want to get really technical, it wasn’t even Ben Cartwright’s, it was his parents’. This is what happened:
Sammy Winchester was five years old, in kindergarten, and he loved it. His dad had chosen a rinky dink little town, with a school so small that all of Sam’s classmates could have fit into the Impala. It also meant that all seven grades, K-6, ate lunch together in the cafeteria. Each grade was separated, sure, but they were still all in one room. Which was not only just fine with Sammy, but with his older brother, Dean. Dean was in the third grade, and really was not all that sure about letting his brother do the whole school thing. Small the school might be, but it wasn’t so small that the grades all had lessons in the same room, and Dean just didn’t like the thought of his baby brother being under anyone’s eye but his own or his father’s. And he wasn’t all that thrilled with that latter option, truth be told. So the communal lunch hour was a boon on his frazzled nerves, even if he wasn’t permitted to sit beside his brother.
Each day, Sammy would bound into the lunch room, sack lunch bouncing in his hands. His eyes would scan the room and lock with his brother’s, and he’d grin brighter than all the florescent lights in the building put together. Dean would smile back, relieved more than anything, and nod his head. Connection made, Sam would happily take his seat and tear into his lunch, eager to see what Dean had packed him. It was usually the same thing, day after day, but sometimes Dean would give him something different. Regardless, Sam was, without fail, just as thrilled with his big boy school lunch as most kids are on Christmas morning. And he got that five days a week!
That day was no different. Sam bounded in, leading the small pack of five year olds, and found his brother’s eyes. Dean nodded, smiling, already seated with his lunch in front of him. Sam found his usual seat, his four classmates settling around him, and tore into the paper sack. He found within: one peanut butter and banana sandwich, cut into squares; one apple, uncut and shiny green (the red ones didn’t have that slight tartness to them) and one Little Debbie snack cake. All combined with his chocolate milk that the school provided, it would just hold him over until he and Dean got home. Sammy Winchester had the best big brother in the world. Ask him, he’ll tell you.
Now, all would have been just fine, if not for Ben Cartwright. Or his parents, however you want to look at it. See, Ben was a, shall we say, chunky boy. In sixth grade, he could easily have made two of any other child in the school. He’d been born a tad early, and his parents really didn’t know what to do with him, so they compensated by letting him do what he wanted. Which had always been eat and watch television. Until he’d grown so overweight that his doctor had sat his parents down and started tossing out things like ‘heart problems’ and ‘diabetes’, and so frightened his mother that she’d instantly put him on a very strict diet. The poor kid went from a diet of cakes and cookies and chips and fried things to....vegetables. Fruit. Whole wheat bread. You know, healthy stuff. And for the first time in his young life, no amount of screaming and kicking could get his parents to budge on the issue.
Now, in addition to being spoiled at home, he was a little spoiled at school as well. His parents were very rich, and from the moment Ben entered the school at age five, they’d donated a lot. Which was a boon to such a small school in the middle of nowhere that didn’t receive much in the way of funding. The Cartwrights could have lived in a more urban setting and sent their darling to a private school, but they felt that the rural area offered a more personalized approach. Also, they felt that the country air was easier on dear Benny’s weak lungs. Anyway, the teachers and principal, although aware that it really wasn’t in Ben’s best interests, walked a fine line between mentioning that their son was a rotten little bully and not offending the generous duo. So Ben discovered that he had almost free reign, if not over the teachers, then over the other students.
The other kids in the school all knew the way the world worked, and were resigned to giving Ben whatever he asked for. It had, in fact, been some time since Ben had even had to hit anyone. Word traveled fast, even in (especially in) a small community. Older siblings warned younger, and whatever was demanded even of new arrivals was usually handed over without fuss. Except there had been something a little...off, about Dean Winchester, and no one had thought to warn him. And they certainly didn’t go near his little brother. Which wasn’t really a problem, since the kindergartners generally fell beneath Ben’s radar.
Now, word had gotten around that Ben was on a diet. Nobody dared laugh at him, of course. The kids weren’t stupid. But after a couple days, the general strategy of the other kids in the school in regards to their desserts became: eat it on the way to the lunch room. That way, Ben wouldn’t have a chance to see it, and therefore steal it. And if he asked, a polite lie of ‘mom didn’t give me one’ usually sufficed. In this manner, kids remained bruise free, the teachers didn’t have to deal with any situations, and all but Ben happily got their desserts.
It was closing in on Christmas. Ben hadn’t had anything sweet in weeks. Not since Thanksgiving, the one day all school year that his parents had permitted him something besides lean meat and fresh veggies, with an orange or something for sweetness. Ben was pretty much desperate. Hoping against hope, Ben scanned the lunch room. Even going so far as to glance at the baby table. And low and behold, there it was! Little Debbie, that coy minx, smiling at him from the corner of the cellophane package that surround the cheerful green tree shaped cake. Ben almost drooled.
Now, for all that Ben was most certainly a bully, and possibly unsalvageable by anyone except for perhaps a Marine drill sergeant, he wasn’t stupid. He’d ignored Dean, dismissing him to all that would listen as a freckled little freaky nobody loser. Since Dean never responded to that, Ben was safe from having to confront the odd boy. It was something about the eyes, really. The way they could look through you, like you weren’t important. No, like you weren’t even there. You could tell the difference, because when he looked at his brother, you could tell that all he was seeing was his brother. It was creepy. So this situation called for some serious planning. He didn’t necessarily want to threaten or just steal the treat. The baby Winchester might well go running to big brother. Not that Ben couldn’t take him, he just didn’t wanna get his hands dirty. Yeah. So he’d have to make the kid want to give him the treat.
Ben thought of his cousins, Ron and Jeremy. Ron was older than Jeremy, and always teasing the younger. Always pulling pranks and messing with him, and Ben had found it disappointingly easy to get Jeremy to believe that Ron had done something to one of his toys or something. This being the only example of brotherly behavior he had to go on, Ben decided it was typical, and would apply to the Winchesters. With this in mind, he got up from his spot and lumbered over to where the babies sat. He loomed behind the round-faced Sammy, displeased to find himself ignored. For an apple, no less. Although this made him want to bop the boy on the head, Ben restrained himself. “Hey,” he said.
Sam was surprised to hear someone talking to him that wasn’t from his class. Although communal, the grades were still separated. Still, he was a friendly boy, and his dad thought it important to be polite, so he twisted around, mouth full of crisp, juicy apple, and smiled. “Hi!”
“Yeah. Uh, you can’t eat your cake,” Ben tried.
“Yes I can. Dean packed it for me, so that means I can eat it,” Sam informed the rather large boy. He assumed, in the vague way where he didn’t really think much about it, that the boy was offering him advice. Like, don’t take candy from strangers. His intention was simply to correct the assumption that he had received the treat from a stranger.
“Yeah, well, that’s the problem. See, I heard Dean talkin’, and he put something in the cake. I’m just tryin’ to help you, kid.” Ben held out his hand. “You can’t eat it. I’ll take it for you.”
There was silence from all of Sam’s classmates as they watched this strange little drama play out. They’d all heard stories about Ben, and they were certain that at any moment, Sam was about to be violently slaughtered. Sam, however, just frowned a little. “Like what?” He examined the package. “The wrapper isn’t torn. So what did he put in it, and how did he get it there? Is it spinach? ‘Cause that stuff’s gross, I don’t care what Popeye says.”
“No, you twerp! Poison! He put poison in your cake! Uh, Ex-lax,” Ben threw out there, assuming all beings knew what that stuff was. Sam’s confused frown nearly made him scream. “It’s stuff that tastes like chocolate, but it gives you the runs so bad you die. You, like, crap out all your innards. He, like, used a needle and melted the stuff down, he said. ‘Cause he’s sick of you. So you can’t eat the cake or you’ll die.”
Sam may not have known what Ex-Lax was, but he knew what a lie was. Furious over the defamation of his brother, Sam jumped to his feet, little hands balled into fists. “You take that back, you big fat liar!” Now, you must understand, Sam wasn’t actually commenting on the older boy’s weight. Considering how extensively they traveled, and the sheer diversity of the people they met, the Winchester boys had learned tolerance as a matter of course. Sam didn’t see color or gender or ugly or pretty, he didn’t notice fat or skinny, just people. He did notice age in the way that all kids do, where anyone more than a couple years older than they are is just ancient. But that wasn’t the issue here. The issue was his use of the word ‘fat’. He meant it in reference more to the size of the lie itself, and not in reference to the size of the individual.
Ben wasn’t much for asking for clarifications. All he heard was that much hated word. The doctor might not have used it, but that’s what he’d meant. And it had landed him in this position in the first place. Without thinking, his fist lashed out and caught young Sam right in the mouth.
Sam was knocked over, totally unprepared for violence. Thus far in his life, all his battles had been verbal, and with certain notable exceptions, won with the aid of tears. So long as his dad wasn’t there, anyway. His dad had a peculiar immunity to his tears that his brother didn’t. And never in his life had his father or brother struck him, much less anyone else. Now, Sam wasn’t a baby. He’d gotten hurt, fallen down and scraped his knees, taken an accidental elbow to the tummy and things. But always before, physical pain had been accidentally caused. So this very deliberate punch to the face seemed to hurt more than it probably really did. Sure, he ended up with a bloody nose and fat lip. But the wail that he let loose was more outrage than real hurt, and possibly a touch of fear. It didn’t matter.
Dean had gotten up when he realized that Benny had stopped beside his brother. He’d begun to stalk, head down, over to the kindergarten table, in order to shoo the school bully away from Sammy. He didn’t know what Benny wanted, and he didn’t care. He just didn’t want that sort anywhere near his Sammy. Dean was watching from beneath fiercely lowered brows, and saw his brother jump to his feet, tell-tale angry flush to his face, and increased his pace. Not in time, though. He saw the punch, broke into a run, and at the sound of Sammy’s distressed wail, fairly flew at Ben. He tackled the larger boy, and they went down in a tangle of limbs. Dean was more motivated even than Ben was, and came out on top. Having ended up perched on the ample belly of the boy, Dean sat up straight, drew back his fist, and let fly in a perfect right cross. Then, even as Ben bucked and heaved, he added a left hook that left Ben curling up and sobbing, clutching at his bleeding mouth (now sans two teeth, but they’d been loose anyway. Shame he swallowed them, though) and swelling eyes.
Deciding the threat had been eliminated, Dean climbed off and went to his brother as the teachers, late to the party, were finally descending on them. And it was only the presence of the teachers that kept Dean from going back and adding some well placed kicks into the mix when he got a look at his brother’s bloody nose. Dean used the hem of his shirt to wipe away the blood. When more flowed, he shifted so that Sam’s face was pressed into his belly and pressed a wad of his shirt to his nose to try to staunch the flow. “You’ll be okay, Sammy,” he asserted, ignoring the desire to vomit. He’d never liked it when Sammy got hurt, and although he always successfully suppressed them, a scraped knee brought tears to the back of his eyes. This? So much blood, all because he hadn’t moved fast enough when he’d seen the threat? Yeah, he was ready to lose it.
Sammy peeked over the wad of shirt on his face, a little awed by the sight of Ben crying, deaf to the words of the teacher bending over him. Dean, his brother, had reduced him to that. For him. That fact was not lost on the clever boy, and it was a lesson that would stay with him, often refreshed, for the rest of his life. He looked up and clearly read the worry on Dean’s face. “He hit me,” he blurted.
“I know. ‘M sorry I wasn’t faster, Sammy. I won’t let him do it again,” Dean promised.
Sam smiled, and snuggled in. “I know,” he said, a trifle smugly. “He wanted my cake, and he said you put stuff in it to make me crap out my innards, but I told him he was lyin’. The big liar. And then he hit me, and then you were there. Can I have my cake?”
Dean glared away Sam’s teacher, who attempted, foolishly, to pry Sam off his lap and check on him. “Sure, Sammy.” He stretched, nodding his thanks at a helpful little girl in pigtails who handed the cake down, blue eyes wide as saucers. Right about then, the adults decided that there’d been too much commotion already, and they should take the problem elsewhere. Sam, Dean, and Ben were all urged up and out of the lunch room, Ben’s howls preceding them the whole way. The secretary doubled as the school nurse, and rather helplessly handed out ice packs before getting on the phone and calling parents.
Ben had to watch through nearly swollen shut eyes as Dean alternated feeding his brother bites of cake with holding the ice pack to his nose and lip.
So you can see where the issue of fault was perhaps not so clear cut? And, ultimately, fell on Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright? Thought so.
This is the situation that John Winchester walked into about half an hour after the boys had been taken to the office: his youngest son, perched on his eldest’s lap, half melted ice pack plastered to his face. His eldest, slight look of nausea behind his eyes, shirt covered in blood and snot. A very large brown haired boy, with two swollen eyes that were rapidly bruising, bawling and yelling into the silk blouse of a very frazzled looking woman. The principal sitting behind his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose, as a moderately tall man in a polo shirt yelled about expulsion and lawyers. Dean, he saw, alternated between fussing over Sammy and shooting death glares at the bawling boy. Sammy, he saw, kept shooting his brother a look that was a combination of awe and smugness. Somehow, nobody noticed him standing in the doorway, even when he cleared his throat. So he drew in a breath, set his diaphragm, and said, “What in God’s name is going on here?”
He didn’t yell. John Winchester rarely needed to yell. He’d learned to project his voice without yelling a long time ago, and he’d found that it worked on people of all ages. Except five year old boys named Sammy, but that was a whole different issue. Anyway, it got the attention of everyone in the room. The man stopped yelling, and the boy, assumed to be the man’s son, stopped bawling and stared at him with a tinge of fear. Dean didn’t stop fussing over Sammy, but he did straighten in his seat and fix his eyes on his father.
It couldn’t last. The man, whose name John eventually found out to be Cartwright, turned his furious yelling on him. There was a lot of pointing, and threats of lawsuits, and the word ‘bully’ was tossed around with frequency and ease. The principal attempted, ineffectually, to interject a few words, but was simply overridden. The boy, apparently deciding that his father would protect him, began bawling dramatically again.
John rubbed his forehead, sighing. “If you insult my son again, you and me are going to have to take this outside, away from the ladies and children. Is that clear?” he finally snapped. Cartwright shut up, aghast at the very notion. “Dean, Sam, front and center.” His boys hopped off the chair and presented themselves, doing a fair imitation of standing at attention. If one ignored the worried hand that Dean kept on his brother’s back. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Dean said contritely. “It’s my fault, I...”
“There, see?! The boy admits it!” Cartwright crowed. John shot him a Look, and he shut up again.
At John’s nod, Dean continued. “I wasn’t fast enough, and Ben over there hit Sammy. I’ll be faster next time, sir. I promise.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sammy piped up loyally. “It was his. He said you poisoned my cake so that I would crap out my innards, and...”
“Samuel Winchester, where did you hear the word ‘crap’?”
Sammy pointed at the older boy. “Him. That’s what he said, Dad. He said it. He said that Dean poisoned my cake so that I would crap out my innards and die. And so then I said he was a big fat liar, and then he hit me!” Sammy pointed at his face, where his nose and lip were swollen. John could see blood crusted around his nostrils, probably the source of the blood on his brother’s shirt. Indignation turned to awe as he continued, “and then Dean was there. Dad, you shoulda seen! Dean jumped on him and hit him back, and made him cry! And then he made my nose feel better, and let me eat my cake, and that Ben was just crying and crying like a baby.”
“I see.” John had no doubt that the accounting was completely accurate. Lies weren’t tolerated, and neither of them tried, really. He sat, pulling his boys to him with a hand on each of their shoulders. “Now, boys. It’s good that you stick up for each other. That’s the way that brothers are supposed to be. But Sam? Are we supposed to name call?”
“No, Dad,” Sammy mumbled. Then his eyes lit on fire. “But he said Dean was tryin’ to kill me! He lied, and so doesn’t that make him a liar?”
“It’s still not right to actually call him that. A better way to say it would have been, ‘you are lying’, instead of ‘you’re a big fat liar’. Whether he was lying or not doesn’t make it okay for you to call names. Is that clear?” Sammy bit his lip and nodded, eyes calculating. John had an uneasy feeling about that look of calculation, but for the life of him, couldn’t figure out why. “Good boy. Dean. I understand that you were protecting your brother,” unseen by the others watching, he squeezed his eldest’s shoulder in approval. “But it’s still wrong to hit. You should have maybe picked Sammy up and gotten him away from the boy, rather than jumping on him and hitting him. Twice, from what it looks like. That was a little excessive, don’t you think?”
It was very plain that Dean most certainly did not, but he nodded anyway. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Good man.” John stood up again, placing his solid bulk in front of his boys, shielding them. “Now then,” he addressed the beleaguered principal. “What are we talking for consequences? Detention, suspension?”
“Expulsion, at the very least!” Cartwright shouted. “That little hooligan of yours beat up my son! He was born three weeks early, he’s delicate! He could have a heart condition! You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue you for everything you have. Little though that obviously is,” he finished with a sniff.
“Huh. I can see where your son gets it from,” he muttered. He straightened, shoulders swelling, making him look even bigger than he was. “Let me point something out to you, Cartwright. Your son attempted to steal part of my son’s lunch by trying to scare him into thinking his brother was attempting to kill him. When my son called him on the lie, however inappropriate his method was, your son punched my five year old in the face. Your boy is what, eleven, twelve?” Involuntarily nodding, Cartwright swallowed. “Your son doesn’t look at all delicate to me. He’s a big boy. And by big, I mean older. He should certainly have the self control by now to be able to ignore name calling, not respond with violence against a younger, smaller child. I’m going to have to have my son’s nose checked to make certain it isn’t broken. And do you know what will happen if my son’s nose was broken by your son?”
“Now, you see here. My Benny is a good boy. He’s just been a little upset since the doctor made us put him on a diet. It’s affected him.”
John cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. “I really doubt that a judge is going to buy that. I know that I don’t. So I suggest you drop this. Accept whatever consequences for your son that he’s earned with his improper behavior, and move on.” He narrowed his eyes. “I strongly suggest that.”
Cartwright’s lizard brain managed, with some difficulty, to override his wallet, and make him nod. “Of course. You’re right. Regrettable behavior from all three. Just a tad upset, you know, this is so unusual for my son. He’s never shown a hint of violence before.”
“Hmm. If you say so.” Dismissing the man, John turned back to the principal. “Well?”
The principal eyed the Cartwrights warily before clearing his throat. “School policy is very clear. Anyone caught fighting earns two days’ suspension. Er, Sammy didn’t actually hit anyone, so...”
“No no. His mouth helped make this situation just as much as the punches thrown. Fair is fair. Boys, go get your coats. You’ve been suspended.” His boys obediently trotted out, Dean solicitously holding Sam’s hand. John turned back to Cartwright. “I think it would be best all around if we instructed our boys to just...stay away from each other.” His eyes glittered. “I’d hate to see a repeat of any of this.” His gaze made it clear that if anything else happened, John would hold the other man personally responsible. Cartwright’s lizard brain made him nod a little frantically. Satisfied, John followed his sons.
All three were quiet until they’d gotten into the car. John put his key in the ignition, but didn’t turn it just yet. “So...who wants ice cream?”
“Yay! Ice cream! I do, Daddy, I do!” Sammy cheered, offering up a winsome smile at his father.
“Dad, don’t we hafta make sure Sammy’s nose isn’t broken first?” Dean asked urgently. “What if it is? He could have bone fragments or something...”
“Easy, son. Sammy’s nose is fine. Just a little sore is all. Right, Sammy?”
“Yeah. An’ ice cream will make it feel better. I still got blood on it?” Sammy thrust his face into his brother’s, nose tilted up to permit Dean to see up.
“Gross! Stop showin’ me your boogers, man.” Dean made a face, making Sammy break out into a fit of giggles. Dean reluctantly smiled. “Ice cream would be good, Dad. I didn’t get to finish lunch, and neither did Sammy.”
“Well then. Sounds like McDonald’s it is. A couple cheeseburgers, followed by a couple of ice cream cones.” John started the car, humming a little under his breath. His message was clear: he wasn’t upset at all with the boys. Indeed, he was very pleased, even if he would have preferred less of a fuss.
A lot of lessons were learned that day. John learned that his sons were indeed turning into the soldiers he’d hoped for, automatically watching each other’s backs. Ben learned that it wasn’t wise to mess with the younger brothers of weird kids, ‘cause you get your ass kicked that way. Mr. Cartwright learned that his money did not, in fact, mean squat to certain people. Mrs. Cartwright learned that her husband could be distressingly ineffectual, and thereafter developed a dominant streak that her husband later learned to love. But that’s private, and we really don’t need to know about that sort of thing.
The Dangers of Bullying by Jassy