Dad was so absorbed in his own grief that he never noticed anything that went on with me and Sammy. Didn't notice how from the ages 1 to 5 Sammy never wanted to be away from me, how he cried on his first day of kindergarten because I had to go to school too, how he'd spend every night after school plastered to my side.
When Sammy was 6, Dad told him he couldn't come sleep with me at night anymore, but he never noticed that he did anyway, and we'd never tried to hide it.
On September 18th, when I was 13 and Sammy was 9, he slid into bed behind me and shoved his hand down the front of my boxers. He jerked me off clumsily until I came all over his baby-soft hand, and then I watched him lick it clean. He whined and I pulled him to lie on top of me and let him hump my leg.
Dad never noticed that Sammy always sat on my lap, didn't notice that he'd grind down against me until we both came, even if he was sitting just across the room.
He didn't notice the smell of sex permeating the air when he came to wake us up on the morning of Sam's 12th birthday to find us already awake, didn't notice the small bloodstains on stark white sheets. Didn't notice how Sam limped around for the rest of the day, smile growing with every step.
Didn't notice how the headboard of my bed knocked repeatedly against the wall that night.
When we moved out to a secluded farmhouse when Sam was 17, he didn't notice how Sam bent me over the railing of the balcony connected to his room and fucked me hard and fast, almost pushing me over on a particularly hard thrust, even though he was patrolling the forest nearby.
He didn't notice that I spent all my time crying after he told Sam to stay away if he left for Stanford. Didn't notice all the times I almost died on hunts, just told me to work harder, be a better hunter.
He very obviously didn't notice what happened when I met up with him again, how Sammy pushed me to my knees on the side of a lonely road and fucked my mouth until my throat was sore and he was the only thing left in the world.
Didn't notice that when we met back up with him Sammy walked close to my side, hips and shoulders knocking and a finger or two curled through a belt loop.
Daddy dearest never noticed the crowbar aimed for his knees, or his abdomen, or his chest, or his head.
What Sammy and I noticed?
All the blood that splattered onto the wall and our skin and smeared over pale flesh when Dad didn't notice that we were fucking like bunnies beside his caved in head.