Reflections

Chapter 2-Dean

          I left Sam's room feeling like my entire world just crashed. I felt like everything was falling apart and it would never be fixed. It would never be okay. I had already lost someone close to me, I couldn't bear to lose Sam. 

I walked out to the hospital's parking lot, without looking back at the hospital doors. I felt the overwhelming need to be there for Sam, to protect him from everything; but I knew I couldn't protect him from this. I couldn't punch it in the nose or insult it to make it run off. I couldn't do anything but hope. Hope that Sam will make it out alright, and hope that the tumor just shrunk. I couldn't see Sam in that damn hospital bed, it brought back memories.

I open the front door of the Impala, getting into it with a heavy body. My eyes felt heavy, I wanted nothing more for this to be just a bad dream and I would wake up and go talk to Sam about it; healthy Sam about it. But I came to the dreadful truth that this was true, that this was actually happening. But I had hope, hope that Sam would survive. He had to.

With a heavy heart and an even heavier mind, I start up the Impala and back out of the parking lot, making my way toward "home".  It isn't really home; it never would be with Sam gone. Sam was my home, my safe space, my rock. And it was like someone picked him up to skip stones, seeing how far they could throw it. They threw it pretty damn far.

I drove until my eyes grew tired, until my body wanted nothing more to do then to lay down and sleep. It was dark by the time I arrived at the house, and I knew Dad would chew me out for it. He wouldn't be very happy.

I pulled into the driveway of the small three-bedroom house, turning off the ignition in the Impala and sitting back in my seat. I closed my heavy eyes. They burned, felt dried out from my endless hours of sobbing.

With my limbs feeling like lead, I heavily put my hand on the handle of the door, pulling it until it was extended fully and opening the door. I felt the coldness of the fall air fill up my car, making goosebumps rise on my pale skin; but I couldn't find it in myself to care.

I get out of the Impala, slamming the door shut and walking to the front door. With a shaky hand, I open the door, stepping into the dimly lit room. It wasn't a big house; the door opened into the living room; to the left was a dining room. Walk through the dining room and there was the kitchen. In the kitchen was a bathroom and a smaller bedroom; the smallest in the house.

"Where have you been, Boy?" I heard my father slur, breaking me from my thoughts. "I thought I told you to be home hours ago!" He yelled, swaying over to me, alcohol bottle clutched tightly in his left hand.

"Dad, I know, I'm sorry." I gulped, my eyes not quite meeting his own.

"Excuse you, Boy?" He asked dangerously low, his face so close to mine I could smell the whiskey that was on his tongue.

"I'm sorry, sir." I spat out, my lip twitching in anger. "My brother is dying and all you can care about is if I can get here to do chores?" I scoffed, sudden confidence filling my body. I looked into his eyes; his pupils wide from his being drunk, dilating. I don't even know why I was wasting my words, he'd never remember them in the morning.

A quick smack to my cheek was what broke me from my thoughts, it was hard enough to smack me into the other wall. "Do you have any right to speak to me like that!?" He yelled in my face, spittle flying from his lips. "You will obey me, Dean!" He was mad now, and I felt red hot anger pulling at the pits of my stomach. But I knew I wouldn't do anything unless I wanted to be beat into an inch of my life, so I stared him in the eyes; hatred, pain, anger in my eyes as I stared at the man I so desperately hated.

"Just go. Before I do something I regret." He slurred, staggering over to the small sofa and plopping down onto it.

I walk into the dining room, taking a right and into Sammy's room. The smallest room in the kitchen was mine, the biggest room in the living room being Dad's.

I closed Sam's door, looking around his room. Books lined his shelves, random posters of soft-rock bands on his walls.

I sat down on his bed, the mattress sinking under my weight. I kicked off my boots, not caring to change into any pj's as I scooted back and into one of Sam's pillows. My lip quivered as his smell engulfed my senses. And I was suddenly reminded of hard nights like these ones; where dad would come home drunk off his ass and in a bad mood, where he just wanted to beat something, or someone. That someone was usually me.

I couldn't bare to see Sammy hurt, to even hear him cry. I usually took his beatings. Afterwards, I'd hold him while he cried, even when I was beaten, bloodied, and bruised. I didn't care about any of that as I let Sam lay on my lap and cry until he cried himself hoarse, until he fell asleep as I whispered to him it would be okay.

I told him those things because I knew it eventually would be okay. You can get out of an abusive situation, but how do you tell a kid whose sick with cancer that he'll make it out okay with that? The answer is; you can't. You're filling them with false hope, hope that would slowly diminish over time, as treatment doesn't work and surgeries are out of the question. What was I supposed to do while my brother was sick?

Those thoughts clouded my mind as I silently let the tears fall and plop onto Sam's pillows. The ones that were so full of his scent it felt like he was here. Like he was the one comforting me this time instead of the other way around. I just wanted to feel his fingertips through my hair, telling me it'll be alright, telling me we'll make it through, telling me of a future, one better then whatever the hell was going on now. Just like I used to do. But beggars can't be choosers, and all I had was pictures of healthy Sam and the scent wafting up into my nose.

I felt my chest constricting, my breathing quickening. I felt like the walls around me were closing in, squeezing the very life from my body. I felt shaky, scared. Tears fell from my eyes like a waterfall and there was not a damn thing I could do to stop it.

But I kept hope. Hope for Sammy, hope that he'd get better with time, with treatment and support from his family. From his friends. I'd be there for him, through everything. Because that's what Sam needs. He doesn't need a broken brother, he doesn't need me to mourn him when he isn't even dead yet.

No, not yet. He won't die. He'll survive this, he'll go to college and get a wife and he'll have kids and grow old and fat and die happy. Happy. Just like we always talked about.

I will be there for Sam. No matter how hard it gets for me. No matter how badly I just want to break down in someone's arms, no, I wouldn't let Sam see me cry. I had to be strong, his rock, his shoulder to cry on. I needed to be there for Sam. And that's exactly what I'll do.