Not on my watch

4. Sassy

I'm tired of being what you want me to be
Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface
Don't know what you're expecting of me
Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes

(Numb, Linkin Park)

The following morning, the twenty-year-old awoke because of the light filtering through the open wide window. The night had been muggy and, as if that wasn't bad enough, the memory of the words with which his father had sent him to bed the night before had made his sleep restless.

With semi-closed eyelids, Dean kicked away the sheets in a huff and sat grunting. After rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger, he laid his eyes on Sam's bed: his brother was sleeping with his face turned towards the ceiling, one leg swinging from the mattress and his mouth open. The heating pad and half of the blankets had slipped to the floor during the night. Getting closer, Dean noticed that the sixteen-year-old's forehead was covered with a thin layer of sweat, but when he leaned the palm of his hand on it he found a normal body temperature and thanked heaven.

The night before could as well have been a nightmare and once again his brother was just a teenager dealing with the beginning of the summer. Dean felt bad at the thought of waking him up, but the clock on his bedside table marked ten minutes to seven a.m. and John Winchester didn't need another reason to get irritated.

- Hey, Sam - he murmured, gently shaking his shoulder. As soon as the sixteen-year-old opened his eyes, Dean smiled automatically. - Hey. How are you feeling?

- Good - the youngest admitted with a sleepy voice, looking around to make sure he was in his room. - You?

Dean let out an amused snort, facing his brother's pure courtesy.

- I'm feeling great. Listen, if you're sure you're okay, you gotta get up. Dad wants to have a chat with the both of us.

Something flashed in the boy's eyes, but Dean couldn't find a name for it.

- Now?

- Now.

Sam climbed out of bed with an annoyed sigh. As soon as he was sure his brother wouldn't have thrown himself back to sleep, Dean got dressed and preceded him downstairs. He entered an empty kitchen, not to mention floor, and frowned asking himself what was his father's game. When his younger brother joined him, Dean was cooking some eggs in a pan and answered the question in Sam's eyes with a shrug.

- We might as well have breakfast - he suggested, putting two slices of bread in the toaster. - How would you like a couple of eggs?

Sam crawled to the closest chair, put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands before letting out an abstruse noise that Dean took a while to interpret.

- You want coffee? - he tried, raising an eyebrow toward his brother. - Is that it?

- Yes - the sixteen-year-old grumbled, sliding with his head on the table and rubbing his temples.

- It's not a good idea. After yesterday night, you need to eat something.

But Sam didn't get discouraged and went along with his well-trained whiny and shuffling tone. His older brother never had the burden of having to manage him the morning after a hangover, since the experience of last night was probably Sam's first approach to alcohol, but he was starting to think it was worth convincing the sixteen-year-old to become a teetotaller.

- I couldn't swallow anything, Dean, I feel sick up to my brain.

Dean was about to reply rudely, but, as he was turning around to face the youngest, he stopped with his mouth open and with the wooden spoon he was using to cook half-raised in the air.