Dean
"Sammy, you look like shit."
I chomp down on some hash browns and fix Sam with a stare that demands an answer.
'Come on, Sam, say something. Say some sappy girly thing to let me know what's going on in your freakish brain.'
My silent plea is only heard by me and the only response I get from Sam is a half-hearted glare over his plate of food.
'God damn it.'
If I didn't know that something was wrong before (which I did), I sure as hell do now. If the lack of bitching and chick flick moments weren't a dead give away, the zombie look that my little brother is now sporting sure is.
I narrow my eyes at him and violently shove more hash browns in my mouth. Sam's eyes are sunken in and dark, looking a lot like he went a few rounds with a large biker dude and lost. His jeans fit loser now, hanging from his hips like a gangly teenager instead of an adult man.
Sam pushes his eggs around his plate and stares at them, as if fascinated by their yellow color.
I eat some more, trying desperately to keep my mouth shut. I know what's wrong, I'd be an idiot if I didn't, and it's all the more reason to keep my mouth shut. Sam's been obsessing over my crossroads deal ever since he realized that he hadn't survived the stab wound. I don't want to talk about it, don't even want to remember it, which of course is next to impossible. If I remember I'm going to hell, I have to remember that Sam died, and that I failed to protect my little brother. It's selfish and I know it, especially since Sam is ramming himself into the ground, but I just can't face it. Not yet, not only three weeks later.
Nighttime is the worst. I drove myself crazy the first week. I couldn't sleep more than an hour without waking up from a too vivid nightmare, and then finding Sam asleep in the bed next to me. Only at that point, he wasn't asleep; he was dead, just like in Cold Oak. Then I'd be awake till dawn, just trying to keep my head on and reminding myself that I brought Sam back, that he was alive.
I let out a huff and look at Sam again, who still hasn't touched his food.
I whip out my wallet and throw a few bucks on the table. "Let's get out of here."
Sam follows without a word and slides into the Impala next to me. The ride back to the motel is silent and so thick with tension that it's damn near suffocating. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I try like hell, once again, to keep my mouth shut. Opening my mouth wouldn't lead to a chick flick moment, it'd lead to the whole damn movie, possibly even the sequel.
I let out a breath as the motel comes into view and I practically run to the room.
Sam sits at the table and drags out the lap top, while I flop down onto the bed and flip on the t.v.
"Gonna do some research," Sam mumbles and I flinch at the empty tone in his voice.
"Yeah," I reply softly.
Sam's too absorbed in what he's doing to notice that I'm staring at him, and not the t.v. I open and close my mouth a few times, each time trying to find something to say or debating if I want to say anything at all. I finally settle on keeping my mouth shut and glancing back and forth between Animal Planet and my brother, getting more pissed and worried with every look.
Sam shifts in the chair before standing up, a few of his joints cracking. I wince at the sound.
"I'm going to call Bobby," he says and walks out of the motel door.
I shake my head and try to direct my attention to the bears mauling each other on the screen, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Sam, pale and wasting away, and reminding me daily of what I almost lost at Cold Oak.
'Come on, Sammy, snap out of it, don't leave me, here.'
