You were just fucking like him, and it infuriated Dean beyond belief.

Since you'd become a teenager, learned a bit of free will and how to voice every disagreement you held inside of you, you had become the splitting image of him. Gone was the pang he felt when he looked at you and saw a littler, more innocent version of your passed mother, and here was the pang he got when you talked back to him.

Dean couldn't even be angry, because damn it, at least you had your own opinions. At least you didn't just echo his every belief. But there were some things that he could not let up on, and you'd just have to come to deal with it.

Hunting was one of those things. Your mother was a hunter, too, and though he hated that he had to introduce you to the world that they'd both been a part of, the best thing he could do was keep you far away from it. And he was trying, but you were just as stubborn as your mother was (and, he guessed, himself too).

"You ain't goin' anywhere, kid," Dean says off-handedly over his shoulder, the bacon frying on the stove sizzling beneath his words, "and that is final." He couldn't exactly blame you or your curiosity, that was all natural. He could blame you for trying to get involved, to drag him back into hunting again.

He makes sure to send a stern, pointed look backwards at you, sat at the dinner table with that furious little pout in your eyes. His eyes. The stoic expression melts away instantly. "C'mon. Breakfast's almost done. Y'can worry about the vampires or whatever y'said later. Gotta eat."