Not on my watch

When he opened the Impala, he allowed himself a moment to observe how Sam had messed it up and he sighed, dejected: his brother was soaked to the skin from head to toe. Under the thick wool blanket that a firefighter had wrapped him in, his summer clothes were dripping as much as his hair locks and the teenager was shaking badly because of the bitter cold that had leaked in his bones. His hands, purple, were holding on tight to the edges of the blanket; his feet, covered only by socks that by then looked like chewed seaweed, had never stopped rubbing against each other in a useless attempt to retrieve at least a glint of heat.
"We fed him for sixteen years for nothing", Dean had thought implacably when, not an hour before, he had understood in what kind of trouble Sam had got into.