Not on my watch

9. Reaching out

And maybe someday we will meet

And maybe talk and not just speak

Don't buy the promises, 'cause

There are no promises I keep

And my reflection troubles me, so here I go.

(Same mistake, James Blunt)

It wasn't too long since Sam had returned before John reappeared on the threshold of the living room.

- Dean - he called, and his oldest son looked up immediately, forgetting the exorcism formula he had been reviewing. Then John Winchester nodded in the direction of the courtyard. - I'll be waiting for you outside.

- Sure. I'll be there in two minutes, dad.

Sam, who had instinctively lifted his gaze hearing his brother's name, felt a growing heat invade his cheeks and hurried back to the last dirty barrel of the day. With everything that had been going on, he had almost forgotten: Monday afternoons were a regular fixture for the fight training his father had been imposing since Sam was in kindergarten. Usually it involved both boys, but of course Sam couldn't achieve much while his back was in that condition, and his father knew it. Sure enough he hadn't called him alongside Dean.

Sam should have been pleased, given how little he liked to be knocked around by Dean during each training session - even though, with age, the youngest was getting better at returning all the blows back to his brother. He even could have read some compassion from his father in it, some sympathy, a taste of respect. But given the fact that he had been the one who had covered him in welts, all Sam felt being left out was a pure distillate of shame.

John Winchester had already got out the main door when Dean got up from the floor to reach the entrance, and Sam followed him straight away. While his older brother sat on the stairs to put on his shoes, Sam took the opportunity to let his rage burst out.

- Can you tell me why he needs to make everything so hard? Jeez, I just want to go to school! - he snapped, slapping the shoe closet. Sensing only silence beyond his words, he turned to his older brother with a new spark of hope in his eyes. - Dean?

The twenty-year-old was intent on tying the laces of his right sneaker. - Hm?

He wasn't looking at Sam, which wasn't the best precondition, but the teenager didn't give up.

- I was thinking... maybe you could talk to him about that? Maybe he would listen to you! Like he did that time with soccer.

- Too bad this is not about you trying out for the high school team - Dean replied without hesitating, standing up with a sudden movement and reaching out for the door handle without even landing his eyes on his little brother's face. - Anyway, I'm busy now. We'll talk later.

Sam would have let him go without a word, blaming the rush Dean was always in when having to obey his father's orders. But he had doubts biting his fingertips.

- Dean? - he stopped him.

The oldest wavered on the doorstep, without turning around. - What is it?

Sam hardly swallowed, surrounded by an heavy atmosphere. - You don't want me to go to college either, do you?

The silence that followed was worse than getting slapped in the face.

- Dean?

The twenty-year-old held on to the door handle as if it was the only thing allowing him to stand straight.