It is exceedingly difficult to wake up pissed when you are drugged, but as one of the most stubborn men on earth, Dean Winchester deftly managed it. His eyes fell on the clock when he woke, informing him that he had wasted the last 15 hours on sleep. One smack of his lips told him that it wasn't a natural sleep, either. He ignored the fact that he finally felt rested, instead thankful that he now had the strength to effectively punch his idiot of a little brother. He lurched to his feet, still groggy from the previous day's dosage, and stumbled to the door. "Sam?" He shouted irritably. His recent sleep thickened his voice, and it took him a couple of tries to clear it. "Sam?" He tried again. There was no answer. Dean headed to the library, sure his brother was there reading and choosing to ignore him. Well, Sam was going to find out just how well that was going to work. He rounded the corner, now fully awake and ready to confront his brother. Except he wasn't there.
The knot that had been living in his gut tightened slightly. He checked the kitchens, the firing range, and finally the garage to see if the Impala was even still here. It sat in its normal place, parked by the garage doors and ready to go. Dean checked his watch. It was just after one in the afternoon. Still, he returned to check the one place he assumed Sam wouldn't be, but hesitated outside the door. "Sam?" he tried, less angry and more worried by the minute. Images of his dreams flickered in the back of his mind. But when he opened the door he found his brother, tucked neatly into his sheets in that particular way of his, sleeping peacefully. Dean let out a heavy sigh, muscles relaxing again. He noticed a residual ache that suggested he had been clenching them a lot lately. Anger followed relief, and Dean found himself storming up to his brother. He grabbed the glass of water that sat on the nightstand and upended it over the bed. Sam awoke, spluttering in shock. He sat up and shot a glare at his brother. Dean didn't flinch.
"What the hell, Dean?" He asked, panting slightly. Dean noticed he hadn't been sleeping with a knife or a gun handy, or his brother would have no doubt drawn it on him. He made a mental note to lecture him on that later. For now there were more important matters to discuss.
"That's my line, Sam! What the hell were you thinking, dosing me up like that?" He asked, gesturing to the bedroom door with annoyance.
"I was thinking," Sam replied tightly, "That you looked like hell. You were so tired it's not like you were getting anything done in the first place. I just made sure you actually slept so you wouldn't up and die on me reading books in the damn library!"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, Sam! Do you really have to be so dramatic? I was fine. Actually, I was more than fine! And you know why? Because I was actually trying to find a way to cure the damn thing, unlike you! Do you even want it off?"
Sam clenched his teeth, biting back a response. Dean always did this. He always tried to push through every problem, and wore himself to the bone doing so. And he always turned Sam's choice to rest and maintain himself back on him, accusing him instead of not caring about the problem in the first place. It's not like he didn't care; he just knew from past experience that they rarely came across the answer to a new problem in a week or two. Some of their more complicated cases went a month or more. If there wasn't a monster to pursue, more often than not it took months to find a decent lead, and several more to properly pursue it. The fact that his brother always wanted to condemn him for pacing himself infuriated him. Yelling wasn't going to solve anything.
But damn was it satisfying.