Perpendicular Lines

In which junior Sam Winchester is oblivious, quick to make assumptions, and an awful tutor.

Sam Winchester's ass is sore and the minutes are going by like a child waiting for a dentist appointment to end: torturous and slow.

He lifts his head from the desk with the least amount of effort he can get away with and looks at the clock hanging on the wall beside him. It says 3:49 pm in bright, obnoxious red. He drops his head back with an annoyed huff. It's been at least an hour and half since he's supposed to meet up with—he gives a sideway glance at his open planner: Gabriel Eliot—Gabriel and tutor him. Sam will admit that he can be a patient man, but this? Thisis really wearing him thin.

And all for the National Honor Society. Sam is starting to question his judgment when it comes to trusting Mr. Shurley's words. It's an open secret that the NHS supervisor is an English teacher by day and an alcoholic by night. Going along with Mr. Shurley's insistence that "Sam, you'd be a great teacher"? Bad move, Sam Winchester, bad move.

Sam isn't sure how much longer he can wait before he goes crazy, take off all his clothes, and run headlong into the bookcases hoping for a death by book suffocation. That thought gives Sam some pause. He's not quite sure where that came from. His eyes go wide. Oh god, maybe he is going crazy.

He's going through a quick list of signs and symptoms of a panic attack when he feels a nudge on his shoulder. Maybe the librarians are finally getting sick of him emoting by himself since 2:00 pm and want to throw him out. That the old one wearing cat-eye glasses and an eye-searing colored lipstick had been giving him the evil eye for a straight half-hour. He turns to look, ready to tell the