CARRY ON WAYWARD ROAD

THE ROAD CONTINUES

CHAPTER 13

It seemed like Dean was gone forever. I was beginning to regret ever opening my mouth. Ever asking the first question to start this emotional roller coaster. But, Dean had said he was in control. I believed him. He seemed calm, well, besides the breakdown with the gun, but that was before we had started talking. I figured he was in control even during those moments because he had enough restraint not to pull the trigger. Not to say he didn't come close.

I began wondering, again, how much pain my brother must have to come to that dark of a place in his life. I got tired of sitting around, in the silence. I pulled the notebook out of my bag, propped myself up on pillows against the headboard on my bed, and began reading again.

I hadn't gotten very far in reading before Dean came back into the room. His arms were full of paper sacks, that I could only assume held bottles of booze. I glanced up from the notebook to see him walk in.

"That thing again?" Dean said when he looked over and saw me holding the notebook.

I just drew my attention back to the book and started reading again. He sat the bags down, I heard him rustling the bags, I assumed removing the bottles from it. I hadn't realized he walked over to my bed until he had placed his hand on the book I was reading and pulled it out of my hands, laying it, closed, on the bed beside me.

"Hey!" I said a bit surprised and annoyed that he disturbed me.

He sat down, drink in hand, handing me my own. I took it, even though I didn't really care about drinking as much as he did.

"What'cha wanna talk about?" Dean asked.

"I don't know, someone didn't let me finish what I was reading." I had a hateful, irritated tone in my voice, I wasn't sure why, but there was no mistaking it.

"Sorrryyy Mr. grumpy!" Dean replied, noticing my irritation.

"Sorry." I replied, sheepishly, once I realized how hateful I sounded.

Dean remained seated beside my feet on the bed. I looked up at him as he rubbed his hand down his face, appearing drained and exhausted. He took another big guzzle of his drink, finishing the bottle, sitting it on the floor and picking up another one he had sitting beside him. He took a long-ragged breath, opened his bottle and took another swig. I sat, watching him, for a moment.

He took in another deep breath, repositioned himself on the bed so he was turned, sitting Indian style, looking at me. He took another drink. Silence pierced my ears worse than any words could have. I wasn't sure what words to say to break the silence. Dean wasn't helping any, he didn't say a word, just stared back at me. I had a million questions I wanted to ask him, a million stories I wanted him to tell. I wanted him to start from day one, detail by detail, telling me about every day of our lives, the parts I know about and the parts I didn't.

But, how could I expect him to do that? There were moments in my life I kept from him. Thoughts I never expressed. Moments I held back and shoved away. Why was I expecting him not to do the same? My brother, who had built a wall around himself, hiding every bit of himself. Keeping his life, his mind, his feelings, a secret from the world. Here he was, opening himself to me. Allowing me to send him down an emotional road, just to satisfy my own needs. I knew he didn't need this. I knew he didn't need to be reminded of the pains he has suffered through. But, my selfishness wouldn't leave well enough alone. I kept pushing him, hell, I even almost killed him.

With that thought, I looked at the still healing gash in his head. The stitches were removed. Most of it was healed, or at least scabbed over. The fractures healing, the bruises on his face gone. It almost killed him, he was so wounded by life he never gave it a second thought. Never thought of facing death any different than anything else he faced day to day. It was just part of life. Part of his life.

"Well," Dean spoke, finally, breaking the silence. "Let's see, we've already talked about how adorable you were as a baby." He said, reaching over and messing up my hair, causing my face to scrunch up.

"Adorable?" I said, a little shy.

"Yeah," he said, looking me up and down, "I don't know what happened." He added in a playful tone, causing me to roll my eyes and give a little chuckled. "You were the cutest little thing." Dean continued. "Everyone always oohhed and awed over you, everywhere we went. Dad would beam with pride," Dean said with a smile.

"He would?"

"Yeah, Sammy, Yeah. He loved you, so much. When you were just a little thing, toddling around, you would crawl up in his bed, or in his lap on the chair. He just adored you. He would lay you on the bed and tickle you, you had such a cute little giggle. He'd toss you up in the air and catch you in his arms." He was trying to smile while holding back tears, his lips quivering with the attempt to hold a smile. I could tell it almost pained him how much love and adoration Dad had for me.

"What about you?" I questioned, as I watched the expression on his face change.

"He was the same way… with me… before…Mom." he stopped, holding back the tears again, forcing the same quivering smile.

"What about after Mom was killed?" I questioned. Dean's expression changing again as he took a long drink, finishing that bottle, he sat it on the floor beside the other one and let himself fall onto his back on the bed.

"The day," he began, "the day Mom was killed, the moment Dad placed you in my arms, I had to grow up. I wasn't a kid any more. I couldn't be."

He stopped to take a deep breath, brushing his hand through his hair. He propped himself on his elbows, so he wasn't lying flat anymore, and continued. "Sammy, the important thing is that Dad loved you. He played with you, not that you gave him much of a choice once you started walking. You would climb all over him when he was home. Dude, I was so happy for you when you learned how to walk, I didn't realize it just meant I was going to have to chase you around everywhere, that you would be getting into everything, all the time."

Dean chuckled as the fun memories filled him. "You were into everything, I mean everything!" Dean continued as he pushed himself off the bed to retrieve another drink. "Man, you would wake up before I did, or sometimes, all I had to do was leave you alone long enough for me to use the bathroom and you would find your way into something. Once," he paused to chuckle and take a drink, "once, you got yourself stuck under the bed. You decided you wanted to crawl in a little spot under the crappy motel mattress. I wasn't even sure how you were able to fit in there, but you were not coming out!" He paused again for another drink.

"So, how did you get me out?" I asked, amused by his story.

"I had to drag the mattress off, of course the way that shitty bed was made they weren't gonna make it easy for me. I ended up breaking the frame and what they used for a box spring, pulling it apart to drag you out." He stopped for another drink before continuing. "Dude, when Dad got back a couple days later, he was lit!" Dean stopped talking, not meaning to add that part. I knew what he meant. He had talked enough about getting punished for taking care of me.

"What did he do?"

Dean took another drink, "The usual." Yeah, because that cleared everything right up, I thought to myself, rolling my eyes. "He yelled, at first." Dean said, finishing his next bottle and retrieving another.

I don't know how that boy can drink the way he does. I would be passed out if I tried to drink that much. Of course, I haven't been drinking with Dad since I was 10.

"Then?" I asked, trying to push more out of him.

"Then nothing." He continued after a drink and deep breath, "until I put you to bed. I knew… I knew that he was going to do more than just yell at me. I was expecting it. I didn't know when, but I knew it was coming. After I put you to bed and cleaned the room, after you were asleep…"

Dean paused again for his usual, then continued as he started stumbling over his words, trying to say the right thing. Trying to stay in control of his thoughts and words. "After you were asleep, after I had the room cleaned, I was getting ready for bed and went to use the bathroom before laying down, hoping Dad had forgotten about the events earlier in the day. But, knowing he wasn't going to. He was waiting for me to finish. When I was done and stepped out of the bathroom, Dad was waiting for me, and pushed me back into the bathroom once I opened the door."

Another pause, another drink, another deep breath. "I had fallen to the floor, he knelt on top of me and started punching me, but…his words hurt worse than the punches. Sammy, I hated constantly, hearing Dad's words, hearing how much of a piece of shit I was. I could handle his fists, hell that was easy to get used to. That was a normal part of my day, with or without Dad around the daily physical pain, was just a normal part of my day. A normal feeling, one I became comfortable with." He paused, a little shocked at himself.

He brushed his hand down his face, taking in a deep breath, guzzling the entire bottle in his hand, standing to get another one. When he returned he sat on the edge of the bed across from me. His last comment had gotten my full attention. What was he talking about? Even when Dad wasn't around? A million more questions popped into my head. Concern filling my bones with the confusion that set in. The question that had been screaming in my head for so long, screaming louder, how much pain was he really in?

"Dean" I said, planning to ask him what he meant.

He stopped me, "Sorry, Sammy." He said, continuing, "Anyhow, that's what happened. I got the crap beat out of me and yelled at, again. You know, the normal." Another drink, another pause, as he rubbed his face with his hands. Fighting back any sense of emotions.

"Dean," I repeated, only to be stopped by him again.

"Sammy, don't, okay? Just, don't." He was almost pleading. "Know how I said if you pushed me to far I would stop you?" He pushed himself off the bed and headed to the relieve himself in the bathroom.

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm stopping you."

Pausing to finish up, he then returned to the edge of the bed across from me. I swear I don't think he has sat still since he came back from the store. He has changed positions at least 20 times. He took a deep breath again, finishing the bottle in his hand, getting yet another. I couldn't believe he wasn't plastered by now, but he continued talking as he leaned himself against the headboard.

"Dad, Sammy, Dad was a sadistic son of a bitch." He paused to take a deep breath. I didn't interrupt, I wanted him to finish what he had to say. "He…he would always do something…. I didn't even have to do anything. I could be sitting on the floor, playing with you, he would walk by and hit me in the back of the head. If I was standing and he walked past me he would push me over. I could be at the sink and he would slam me into the counter, or the wall….so many times."

He paused again for another long drink. "So many times, he would do little things, like catch me off guard and grab my throat, shoving me into the wall, or onto the floor. I stopped closing the door when I used the bathroom because when I opened it, he would be waiting… waiting for me… he would do something… every time… like push me back into the room, onto the floor, or shove me against the wall. He would hold me against the wall with one arm, punching me in the side or stomach, or where ever he felt like, with the other hand. No reason… except…"

Another long drink, "I learned, Sammy, I learned how to protect myself. I learned how to avoid contact, how to wait, move at the last second, I learned if I moved too soon he could adjust his punch and I'd still get hit. I learned how to pay attention to 2 things at the same time. I could pay attention to you and him at the same time. Making sure to keep a constant eye on him."

He paused, again, the same routine. "Sammy, he may not have seemed like the nicest person, but… but I learned what I needed to learn. It keeps me safe when I'm hunting. It's the hunting skills… it's how I learned them." He stopped. I could tell he wasn't sure what to say next.

I sat in silence for a moment. Then I spoke, "and what did chasing you around with a barb wire stick teach you?" I couldn't believe I just brought that up. I was a little irritated that he kept making everything Dad did seem like there was a reason behind it, a reason besides being an abusive ass. Dean let out a sigh, then proceeded to answer my question.

"It taught me how to run, how to hide. Sam, the monsters that we fight out there, they are stronger, and bigger, than we are. Just like Dad was, when I was younger. He taught me how to get away from them, how to keep myself hidden. How to keep myself from being hurt, or worse, killed." He stopped, that was his answer and I was supposed to just accept it.

"And… and when he caught you? When you got tired, or couldn't hide from him anymore?" I asked, even more annoyed.

"It taught me to keep going, to push through the exhaustion."

He wiped his hand down his face. I remembered that I had noticed how exhausted he looked earlier. This, this is what he meant. This is what he was talking about. Even as exhausted as he was, he was pushing through, for me, at this very moment.

"It also taught me to take the pain, the injuries, and fight through them." He continued before he was done. He took a couple more, big swigs from his bottle. A tear dripped from his eye. He was lost in thought, didn't even wipe the tear away.

"Dean?" I said, with no response, repeating myself, "Dean?"

"Yeah." he responded after the second attempt.

"You okay?" I asked, concerned about his sudden quietness and gazed demeanor.

"No." he answered honestly, not moving, not shifting positions for the first time all night. "I'm tired." He continued. "I'm going to go to sleep now, Sammy." he said as he laid down on his bed.

His back turned to me. He already removed his boots but didn't even bother to remove his pants or make an effort to place himself under the covers. I wasn't sure what to do, what to say. I had pushed him so hard. He really did have control over the situation, until now. Now that he was broken, I wasn't sure what to do to fix it. I couldn't make him 'talk it out', that's what caused the problem in the first place, me and my stupid questions.

"Dean." I finally got his name to come out through the lump in my throat, through the tears that were welding up in my eyes.

"Don't Sammy." he said, mumbled. "Please, just don't. Not right now. I'll be fine." He assured me, I'm sure he could feel my doubt from across the room. "I may not, at this specific moment, be okay, but I will be." He added, making me feel more comfortable with his reply. "I just… I need to stop." He said, almost pleading me to not push him anymore. "I need a break. I need… this… my head… everything in my head… I need it to stop… I need it to stop before I can't control it anymore… I'm sorry Sam, I thought I could… but I can't. I'm sorry." He stopped. Unable to go on. "I need to sleep." He finally finished what he was saying.

"Okay, Dean."

I got off my bed, retrieved a spare blanket kept in the bottom drawer of the dresser in the room, and placed it over my brother. Giving him warmth and comfort without needing to put any more effort into surviving the night.