This is half based on my own experiences of living with and looking after my autistic brother, and half from the Supernatural world. With a little sprinkling of imagination.
I'm kinda a Dean sort of big sister. I look after my little bro and protect him from anyone who wants to hurt him. I think the same way Dean does in this - anyone hurts my little bro, and you're screwed.
Hope you like it. If you have any questions about autism, then go ahead and ask :) And I'd love to hear how people with autistic siblings cope with it.
Living in our family, things are always different. No one's really normal. Dad and I hunt supernatural monsters that aren't supposed to exist. We're never in the one place for very long. I don't have any friends, and I learnt to shoot a gun before I learnt how to ride a bike. Dad was like that after Mary died, after our mother died.
Sam was a different kind of different. Ever since he was little, I knew there was something not right about him. I didn't know what, but there was something that just didn't quite fit. When Sam stopped talking as a toddler, Dad and I didn't know what to do. It was a few months before Dad decided to take him to the doctors. There was something obviously wrong with him. He'd been a happy, albeit slightly odd baby, and then he suddenly stopped talking and became withdrawn.
It took a while for the diagnosis to come back. Dad and I were left hanging until they finished testing Sammy to find out what was wrong. Then, when we finally found out the truth, it all started to make sense.
Sammy was autistic.
Neither of us really knew what autism was. We had to research, talk to people who knew. When we finally got a grip on what was wrong with Sam, Dad refused to believe it. He refused to believe that Sam was different. He tried to train Sam the same way he trained me. Needless to say, it didn't work. As Sam got older, he and Dad got in so many arguments. Too many.
I was the only one who really understood Sammy. Dad never did. I was the one who stood by him, who helped him when he needed it. If he didn't know how or couldn't say something, I always knew exactly what it was he wanted to say. I'd say it for him. If someone didn't understand him, I'd explain what he'd said, and then what was wrong with him – why he was different.
I looked after him as he grew up. I was the one who was there when he needed it, when he'd argued with Dad, when he was scared or upset. I was always there for him. That was my job – I was his big brother, I was there to protect him.
School was hell for Sammy. The kids at every single school would tease him, taunt him all the time. They'd call him 'retard', 'stupid', 'spastic' and other names. Sammy didn't understand properly. He'd didn't realise they were making fun of him, that they were laughing at him. He needed someone to look out for him, and the school didn't do that. I had to be there to protect him.
At every school, I'd find Sam at break time and talk to him. I'd scare off the kids that would come up and taunt him. I'd tell him that he had to stand up for himself, tell them he didn't like what they were doing. But Sammy didn't understand. So I just ruffled his hair and smiled, and told him he was a great kid. And he'd smile.
When he got older, we were at different schools. I would race straight to his school after mine had finished, hoping he was okay. Once I found him beaten up and hiding in the toilets. I got him to point out who had done it. Those kids didn't walk for a week, and whenever they saw me after school they'd run to the other side of the street, absolutely terrified. I didn't care. I had to protect Sammy.
Someone had the nerve to insult Sam in front of me. They called him a retarded spaz and pushed him as I walked beside him. The kid didn't know what had hit him when I turned around and spat out every curse that came to mind. That was before I pushed him to the ground and kicked him. Dad didn't stop yelling at me for hours when he found out, but I blocked it all out. I did what I had to in order to protect my little brother.
Now he's eleven, and he's growing up. I can't protect him all the time. Dad is still warming to the idea that Sammy isn't entirely normal, and the fights are getting less. But the lack of social skills, the trusting nature, the obsession with routine and order – they're still there. They aren't going to leave.
I have to look after Sammy. He's my brother, and no matter what anyone says, no matter what anyone tries to do, they can't stop me from doing it.
I don't get any thanks for helping Sam. Dad takes it for granted that I'm the one who deals with Sam when he has tantrums (although they have almost faded). I'm alone in helping Sam, but I don't care. He thanks me in his own way. All it takes is a few hours together, just talking and messing about together. All it takes is a smile, and I know I'm doing the right thing.
