Once, math made sense.
Maybe he was never one of the nerdy-genius types (not like Sam), but with listening to most of his classes and doing some of his homework, it used to slide into place fairly easily.
Math was always easier than English, say, where Dean would wade through some decades old book and maybe enjoy it,
but certainly wouldn’t have enough to say about it at the end that he could write a decent essay.
English always felt like he was squeezing his thoughts and ideas through a straw before he could get them down on paper; it took effort.
It took reading the damn thing fourteen times and trying to remember what the hell the teacher had said about metaphors to come up with something passable. Maths though, was okay.
He got the same sense of satisfaction that he used to get out of Sam’s puzzle books on long car journeys across state lines. It was logical. It made sense.
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