The Tear In Our Hearts

Chapter 2

"Sammy - I'm so glad...see you...'live." Dean tries to form a coherent sentence as I tuck him into in bed after cleaning him up. Dad is out now, trekking through the lessening snow storm to the nearby convenience store to pick up some essentials. We're nearly out food and toilet paper, and Dean could certainly use a heavy dosage of strong medicine.

With a weighed sigh, I press a cold, damp washcloth against his forehead with the tips of my fingers, using my other hand to gently smooth back his sweaty hair. His cheeks are still fairly pale and sickly, but I can tell by his steady breathing that he's doing a bit better. He's definitely had worse.

"You're going to be fine, OK, Dean?" I mumble a few times as I slowly run my hand through his hair, and his eyes flutter open after a moment.

"Du', why you pettin' meh lika dog? I know 'm ador'ble but this's ridic'lous." he slurs with an amused grin, raising an eyebrow at my odd affection. I frown at him and roll my eyes, dramatically removing my hand before suddenly giving him an awkward side noogie and cooing at him like I would to any dog. He hisses and groans, lazily swatting in my general direction with a hearty smile.

"Stop it, ya little bitch!"

"Well, you had it coming for you, you ass! How about you stop acting like a drunk puppy and we'll both be set right."

"'m not a drunk puppy!"

I mock him in return and he tries to smack me, failing pitifully as I easily dodge his wimpy attempt.

"Is that seriously all you got?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry that 'm legitimately ill here." he retorts, pouting with arms folded firmly across his chest. If he can do one thing...I sigh (again).

"Alright whatever, Dean. Since you're mister helpless and you're just so ill, then I suppose you need rest more than TV time. At least until Dad get's back." I say slyly with a coy grin, and his eyes narrow.

"What kinda dictatorship do ya think this's?! Why should you be the one callin' the shots?! 'm older 'n you, therefore I should have authority no matter the circumstance." he makes out, his words sounding better and more clear in the heat of his anger. I shake my head with a smile and tsk at him.

"Who's the one tucked tight into a bed? Who's the one who's so defenseless they can't even hit the other after they've been treated like a 'drunk puppy'? Who's not terribly ill?" I can go on for days, but once he gives me the worst 'bitch please' face I wrap it up nice and straight to the point, "You. Exactly. So shut up and keep quiet, old man." I conclude proudly, my hierarchical stance elevating the bigger my head gets.

Dean looks slightly taken aback at first, then simply rolls his eyes.

"Whatever you say, Queen Samantha." he coughs, but if it's to hide his obvious laughter he fails miserably. Great, another nickname - as if 'Samantha' wasn't bad enough. As I safely decide to reserve a further developed argument for a later date, when a solid knock resounds from behind me.

"Must be Dad - check the eye hole ta be-"

"Yeah I know, Dean." I move to the door and squint through the hole to see Dad shivering with several heavily filled plastic bags hanging from his arms. I nod to myself and open the door, the frigid air shoving its way inside and nearly knocking Dean's plastic cup of sink water over on the side table. Dad shuffles in and hastily sets the bags down on the narrow kitchen counter, his breathing heavy and somewhat labored.

"You boys still doing, alright? Sam have you looked at your wound?" Dad turns to me pointedly, his brows furrowing when he notices no change in bandage or clothing. I shrink under his wary gaze and move towards Dean as if he just silently called for me.