Not on my watch

8. Yes, sir

So you gotta fire up
You gotta let go
You'll never be loved till you've made your own,
You gotta face up
you gotta get yours
you never know the top till you get too low

(I'm so sorry, Imagine Dragons)

Sam didn't repel Dean's help. He had lost all his pride before the seventh whack and didn't care about crying while his brother put an arm around his shoulders, pulled him on his feet and encouraged him to keep walking, one step after another, toward the upper floor. Once they got to their destination, Dean sat Sam on his bed and told him to hold on a minute, squeezing his shaky shoulder to reassure him before walking out of the room. He came back at full speed a few moments later, his hands full with a bowl of cool water, a towel and a first aid kit.

Sam was where he had been left, his body shaking with sobs, his head down and the mustard t-shirt crumpled in his hands on his lap. Dean had to punch the pain he felt invading his chest to be able to kneel down in front of him and place all his stuff on the floor without knocking it all over. He clenched his fists to stop the trembling, then he addressed his brother with the determination of a proper nurse.

- Give me your hand - he only said. But since his brother stayed still, the twenty-year-old put two fingers under his chin and lifted it, carefully but fighting the teenager's resistance. - Sam - he insisted, allowing his voice to soften at the sight of his little brother's tears. - Your hand. Give it to me, please, so I can take care of it.

Finally the sixteen-year-old roused and paid attention to him. While Dean was wiping the blood and bark remains off his knuckles with the towel he had previously soaked in water, drying, disinfecting and bandaging them, Sam kept on sniffing and swallowing his sobs, while the tears fell down his cheeks.

- Now you can lie down - Dean said once the bandage was fixed with a patch, helping Sam approaching his bed. - Easy, little brother. Easy.

Sam was still docile, after laying down on his stomach. His older brother performed the same procedure on the sole of his feet, which had scratches because of all that running barefoot, and disinfected and patched up the small wounds the belt had cut open on the bruises on his back.

The sixteen-year-old never stopped crying softly, like an injured puppy who can't understand. Dean had no physical wound, not this time, but the sight of his younger brother in that state was driving him crazy. He felt unspeakably bad and the whole time he continued to bite his lip to keep himself from screaming, from going nuts, from tipping all the furniture over and starting throwing punches at the wall. He had never wanted that. He should have prevented that. But he had to hold back, he kept telling himself that. His outburst wouldn't have been good for Sam, who was already dealing with shock, nor for him, because his father definitely wouldn't have appreciated any holes in the wall.

- Why did you let him do this?

Sam's question came out of nowhere, his voice muffled by crying and by the pillow he had sunk in. Dean felt something break at the level of his heart, but he ignored it and decided that he couldn't afford insecurity, not in that moment, if he wanted Sam to be safe. Once he cleaned his own hands in the wet towel, he leaned over his brother and grabbed his face, forcing Sam to look him in the eyes.

- You listen to me now and you listen carefully, because I don't want to repeat myself - he stated, firm. - You'll never going to do something like that again. You will not sneak out. You will not go drinking. You will not hang out with total assholes who push you to suicide attempts. You hear what I'm saying? I don't want you to do a single thing that could convince dad you need to have another chat with his belt. Because I never want to see you in this state again, you little dumbass. Did I make myself clear?