Not on my watch

7. It's not my job to be liked

I lose my way
And it's not too long before you point it out
I cannot cry
Because I know that's weakness in your eyes

(Because of you, Kelly Clarkson)

They came out of the woods half an hour later and Sam stopped before stepping foot into the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the quiet house. He expected to find his father waiting there, outside, staring at the spot where he and Dean would have reappeared, but the porch was deserted and both the old rocking chair and the wooden swing hanging from the ceiling were still. Sam was trying to guess where his father was waiting for him, but Dean interrupted the flow of his thoughts putting a hand on his shoulder to give it a warning grip.

- If you'll make him come and get you...

- I'm only going to piss him off more. Yeah, I got the idea, thanks a lot - Sam hissed, starting to move forward again, without waiting for him.

He was going back home because of the love he had for his brother, but he still couldn't stand his attitude in that situation. He couldn't bear the fact that Dean had advices to give him, that he knew what was the best way to deal with what was going on, that he was throwing it at his face. Sam knew the twenty-year-old was just trying to help him out, but all those words did nothing but remind Sam that Dean had already been through that shit. More than once. And he hadn't even realised.

Once in the house, Sam reached the kitchen threshold and there he stopped, with his fists clenched at his sides. John Winchester was sitting at the table with his belt within easy reach and slowly looked up at him, as if concerned that any sudden movement could have made Sam start running towards freedom again. Sam saw his dark eyes wander somewhere behind him and understood that his father and Dean had nodded at each other. The man had taken for granted that his oldest son wouldn't have disappointed him.

That was also the first instant since he had entered the house that Sam was fully aware of Dean's presence behind him. Only asking himself what his big brother would have done, Sam found the courage to step up and address his father directly.

- I apologize for running away, sir.

His voice came out of his throat like a gasp. His father didn't stop studying his eyes, but Sam didn't look away, aware of how much eye contact mattered to John Winchester.

- Are you planning on quitting that childish attitude of yours?

Anger was still clearly defined in his father's voice, but Sam tried to forgot the possible consequences and just nodded. If his escape had made things worse, there was nothing he could do to improve it now. If anything, he could take steps to ensure that it remained stable.

- Yes, sir - he whispered in spite of the lump in his throat.

- Good. We can still call it a day at sixteen, then - the man sentenced, standing up again, collecting his belt and folding it with the same aplomb he had greeted his sons with. - Here. T-shirt off and lean on the table.

Sam was about to obey when his brother's voice filled that lethal silence.

- Excuse me, sir - Dean hesitated, but it was only for a moment. - He's hurt. His hand and feet need care. With your permission, I'll get some antiseptic and bandages before...

John Winchester raised a hand in the air to stop him while he approached his youngest son. Sam stepped back, but his father wasn't looking in his eyes anymore.

- Show me your hand - he ordered, and the boy obeyed reluctantly, flinching when the man touched his fingers to spread them out. The knuckles of Sam's right hand were still red with dried blood and covered with little pieces of bark, which made his father frown. - What did you do?