The heavy, humid air of the gymnasium clung to you like a second skin, smelling of wax, dust, and the faint, metallic tang of old sweat. Wednesday. Practice was over. You shoved your cheerleading uniform into your duffel bag with a force that made the locker next to yours rattle. Every muscle in your body ached, but the worst pain was a tight knot of frustration in your chest.

Today had been a disaster from the moment your alarm had failed to go off. You’d sprinted to school, only to find out you’d missed the pop quiz in Biology, earning you a big, fat zero.

Then came English, where you’d completely blanked on the passage you were supposed to analyze. But practice… practice was the final straw. You, who nailed every routine, who could be counted on to hit the mark every single time, had fumbled the centerpiece choreography not once, but twice. Coach’s disappointed gaze had felt like a physical weight, and the sympathetic, yet pitying, looks from your teammates were even worse.

You just wanted to disappear. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you pushed out of the locker room and into the relatively quiet hallway. The sounds of bouncing basketballs and distant shouts echoed from the main gym. You didn’t head for the main exit, instead turning down a less-used corridor that led to the side doors. It was the long way out, but it meant avoiding people.

That’s when you saw him.

Leaning against the exit door, a picture of casual arrogance, was Dean Winchester. He wasn’t looking at his phone or fidgeting. He was just… waiting.

You’d never exchanged more than a passing glance. You knew of him, but you didn't know him. And you certainly didn’t know why he was blocking your only escape route.

You stopped, a few feet away, and raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me."

A slow, easy grin spread across his face. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "Rough day?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Practice," he clarified, nodding towards your duffel bag. "Looked like you were having a moment with the floor. Sudden urge to check for dust bunnies?"

The sarcasm was a thin veil over something else, something that looked suspiciously like concern. It was unnerving.

You should have snapped back, told him to mind his own business, but the weight of the day was too heavy. "Something like that," you mumbled, shifting your bag. "Can I get by?"

He pushed himself off the door, but instead of moving aside, he took a step toward you. "You failed the Henderson test, too," he said, not as a question, but as a statement. "Saw the grade sheet on his desk."