Auction: Dean Thomas
Amber's Attic: quote below
Book Club, Media: television, pleasant, offer
Days, Sibling Day: Write about siblings
Lyric Alley: But I live with that.
Ami's Audio, Beware the Rainbow Lights: rainbow
Word Count: 570
"How many wars will it take to learn that only the dead return?"
-Andrea Gibson
"Dean? Dean!"
He bolts upright, his heart racing painfully in his chest. Cold sweat beads his skin, and it takes several moments to bring himself back to reality. He is home. The familiar pressure of the couch's springs press against his back. A pleasant female voice drifts from the television.
He's fallen asleep in the living room. Again. He can lie and say it's an accident. No one would dare contradict him. After all, they all know he's still broken from the war. They know that there are pieces of himself that didn't return. No one would dare suggest that he's sleeping in position that makes it easy to defend his mother and sisters. No one would suggest that he's struggling to give up the habits he learned while on the run.
"I'm fine, Samantha," he mutters.
His sister scowls, as she often does when anyone calls her by her proper name. "Sammie," she says with a sniff, sitting down; Dean barely moves his feet in time. "People who are fine don't scream in their sleep like that."
He swallow dryly. He's been trying so hard to keep it together. His family's had enough to worry about over the past year. He wants them to be able to move on, to pretend there's nothing left to worry about. "Nightmare," he says, but he cringes at how obviously flimsy the word sounds. "Nothing to worry about."
Sammie raises a brow at him. She draws her rainbow pajama-clad knees to her chest, studying him for a moment. "Why do you have nightmares?"
Dean feels a flicker of panic pulse through his body. No one has explicitly asked since the war. They've let him carry on and just accepted that he has this horrible burden to live with. "You don't want to hear my stories."
There are those who talk about the war like it's the most glorious thing. Some sit around the pubs, raising their glasses as they recount the battles with excruciating detail. Dean doesn't understand those people. He's watched too many people die before his eyes, and he's felt pieces of himself slip away and die. How can anyone brag about going through hell?
"I'll fix some tea," she offers, climbing to her feet and hurrying off before Dean can protest.
He glances at his watch. Three in the morning. Somehow, he knows he won't be falling back asleep.
Maybe it will be therapeutic to talk to someone about what he's been through. Sammie doesn't understand, but maybe that will make it easier.
Dean knows he will never be the same. Those who have survived will always be plagued with fear, nightmares, and regret. But maybe, at the very least, he can begin to heal at least.
He can only hope.
Sammie returns a few minutes later with two mugs of steaming liquid.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Dean asks, accepting the mug and inhaling the aromatic steam with a ghost of a smile. "I thought you liked your beauty sleep."
Sammie takes a seat beside him, stretching out so that her long legs drape over his lap. "Some things are more important," she says. "Like knowing my big brother is okay."
Dean relaxes slightly, nodding. Opening up won't be easy, but Sammie makes it feel like it's possible.
"It all started with a letter."