Sam woke up to the faint sounds of an older boy crying. He was used to hearing these sounds in the middle of the night by now. He decided to lift up his flannel bed sheet and walk two doors down to the slightly bigger room at the end of the hall. Quietly peeking in through the slight crack in the light brown, wooden door, he could see his older brother sitting on the edge of his bed in a way that seemed like he was sitting at the edge of a cliff, counting the seconds to find the perfect time to jump. Ever since their parents, John and Mary, died in a car crash three years ago, the now seventeen year old Dean lost the sparkle in his eyes. He and John used to do a lot of things together, for instance, go to ranges and test out different types of guns, shooting tackle dummies and targets.
"Good job, son! I'm so proud. I could never make a shot like you can," John used to say when Dean would make a shot straight through the tackle dummy's eye.
Sam was always jealous of Dean's relationship with their parents. Even Mary seemed to treat him better. She would make Dean peanut butter and jelly sandwiches whenever he was feeling down, perfectly cutting the crust off, because that's how Dean liked it. White bread without the crust, creamy peanut butter on both sides, and finally, strawberry jelly in between, just enough to slightly seep out of the sides whenever he bit into it.
Remembering this, Sam walked down the hallway of their one floor apartment, opened the bread box, and pulled out the white Wonder bread he liked to make Dean's special sandwiches with. He opened the cabinet above the sink and grabbed a white paper plate, and put two slices of bread on it, starting to delicately spread the peanut butter onto both sides, reaching every corner of the bread. He then grabbed the half-full jar of jelly out of their stainless steel fridge and spread it onto one side of the slices of bread, on top of the peanut butter.
After putting the sticky halves together, and cutting the edges of light brown crust off, he poured a glass of ice cold, two percent milk into Dean's favorite AC/DC mug. This was the mug that Sam had bought him last Christmas with the money their Uncle Bobby gave him for his birthday. It was a black, circular mug with the band name written in chrome lettering, a lightning bolt right in between the middle letters: "C" and "D." He didn't really know who they were, but he knew for a fact it was one of his brother's favorite bands. How could he not know that, when Dean blasts songs through the house, singing and dancing along. His favorite songs, he came to realize, are "Highway to Hell" and "Hell's Bells." Sam never really knew why he liked songs talking about Hell, considering Dean used to have horrid nightmares about going to Hell; screaming weird Latin incantations in the middle of the night because they were torturing him, and he wanted it to go away.
Sam walked back down the narrow hallway to the end, slowly opening Dean's door.
"Dean? Are you okay? I made you a- Dean?"
He walked into the middle of the room, only light coming from the just rising Sun peeking through the shades on the window. He came up to his bed nervously, until he noticed Dean's eyes were closed. He just fell asleep. He put the sandwich on the black, wooden night table, and pulled a piece of paper and pen out of the compartment inside of it, wrote him a note, then went in his room and drifted back off to sleep.
When Dean heard his door close, and then another from down the hall, he finally reopened his eyes, as they adjusted to the brighter lighting. He knew his little brother saw him in his room earlier, and he really didn't feel like talking about it. His twelve year old brother would not understand what it's like to walk in his shoes. To feel like you're never good enough, like you're unwanted and alone, ugly on the inside and out. To feel like a monster. Or even worse, like there's a monster living inside of you, feeding off your insecurities and self-hatred. And, even with all these thoughts, to then have your parents, who were the only people to truly care about you in any way, just leave you like that. It makes him feel like if they'd truly cared about him and little nine year old Sam, they wouldn't have driven so carelessly. Now, along with the weight of this monster on the inside, he also has the weight of not only taking care of his younger brother, but maintaining his life, too. He had to work at Uncle Bobby's salvage yard after school every day, taking John's place there with fixing cars, building cars, anything along those lines. He even had to gamble in poker on Sundays, as well, to pay for food, while the money from his job paid for the bills and for clothes when they needed it, and a whole bunch of other things that was so hard for him to keep up with, Sam knowing about none of his struggling.
Dean rolled over in his bed and picked up the sandwich, noticing how well his brother had mastered the art of making these for him.How many times has he noticed me upset and had to make these for me that he's so perfect at it now?
He took a bite, and then read the note that was carefully placed on top.
Dean, I made you your favorite sandwich, but you were sleeping, and I didn't want to wake you. So, when you wake up, if you need to talk, I'm here. Don't think that just because I'm your younger brother you can't tell me things or talk to me about anything. I won't judge you. Please don't forget that. Love, Sam.
The corner of Dean's mouth slowly rose into a slight simper as he read through the note. He stood up, wiped the single tear from his malachite eyes just before it fell down his cheek, and roamed to Sam's room. He opened the door slowly so the old thing wouldn't creak too loud and end with waking up Sam, and then walked to the side of his bed. Pulling out Sam's note and a pen, he scribbled something onto the back, and kissed his brother on the temple. Once he was done, he vamoosed back into his room.
I'll never forget that, Sammy.
That was all Dean had written. That short little sentence that truly took him forever to think of, since his mind was preoccupied with the one thing he really couldn't tell Sam, no matter how guilty he felt, or how obvious it was. He wanted to just tell him and get it over with, but he's made up so many horrid scenarios in his head if how awful his brother could take this news, while completely forgetting that downhill isn't the only way life swings. Sometimes, gratifying things happen. If only he could bring himself to realize this, before it's too late.