𝒮𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝑅𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓌𝑜𝑜𝒹 - a Supernatural Fanfiction

chapter 4

learning more

Sunlight streamed through my window as I woke up and looked around quickly. My heart started to beat faster with anxiety as I searched for someone, anyone to be there. Finally looking at the floor, I saw Sam curled on the rug, a blanket around the lower half of his body. His head was on a pillow, one arm above his head and the other resting on his chest. He was still asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly, eyes shut and mouth partially open.

I sighed, laying back on the bed, but was far from being calm My heart continued to beat fast. Slowly, I breathed in and out, my heartbeat starting to beat at a natural pace. I'd had terrible problems with anxiety when I was younger, as well as other issues, but I'd become better at controlling my panic attacks. When I knew one was starting, I'd talk to myself or listen to music, trying to control my breathing and think about the things that were good. It usually worked and I hadn't had one in years. Last night, if Sam wasn't there to comfort me, I probably would've had one, but the thought of him knowing I struggled with those issues made me feel terrible.

He was so brave, so unshakable and I couldn't bear him to know that I had issues with being so terrified. It was so childlike, so lame and stupid in my mind, but that never made me feel better to think about that.

Slipping out of bed, I snuck out of the room to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and threw water on my face to wake up fully. The dream had haunted me so terribly, I wanted to be awake forever. I put my contacts in and went downstairs. Opening the fridge, I saw a carton of eggs and some butter. I grabbed both, putting a pan on the stove and watching the butter slowly melt on its hot surface. I frowned, feeling sick. The butter was me, slowly melting and losing myself to become a puddle of despair. Well, in the last case, I was nothing like butter. Butter is delicious and pretty much the opposite of despair.

I tipped my head to the side, realizing how dumb I must've been to compare myself to a freaking condiment.

"Hey, asshat, why're you up so early? It's friggin 6am." I heard Dean's voice as he stumbled tiredly down the stairs, probably smelling the food and getting up. He walked into the kitchen and I replied,

"Couldn't sleep, dipshit." Smiling widely, I looked behind me at Dean.

"Sorry," he smirked sheepishly. "I thought you were Sam." The older Winchester was wearing jeans and a black, v-neck tee, showing off his nice arms. How he was in shape and ate burgers and diner food mostly, amazed me. I was also pretty jealous about it. I worked out often, feeling especially strange that I hadn't worked out in a few days, the last time the day before my family's murders. When he was closer, I saw that he held a journal in his hand that he had at the diner the day before and my curiosity was piqued.

Hearing a faint sizzle, I turned and cracked eight eggs in a bowl. Whipping them, I said without turning,

"It's fine. Do you want eggs?"

"Sure, Sammy will probably want some, too."

"Okay." A pause.

"Dipshit?" I poured the eggs on the pan, glancing behind me. Dean's face was contorted in confusion.

"Asshat? Who calls anyone an asshat?"

"Touché." He shrugged, sitting at the table and opening the journal.

"Honestly, I'd rather you call me asshat than Rosewood."

"Really?"

"Only if I get to call you dipshit." I smirked, Dean mirroring me.