Don't Do It

F o u r t e e n

•Dylan's POV•

"Dylan."

My eyes widen because of the fact that he's actually standing underneath the porch. I'm still holding onto the door knob, but my phone crashes against the tiles.

"Dean?!"

I don't believe this is happening. This guy died a year and a half ago. He is supposed to be six feet under, yet he's here in the flesh.

He's wearing all black, a silver chain around his tattooed neck and small diamond studs on his ears. His hair is red, but then it becomes black at the tips. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."

He chuckles as though this is some funny joke. It's not. In fact, this has to be a twisted and an unbelievable nightmare, during broad daylight. This is too surreal for my liking.

"Wait . . . What . . . How are you—?"

"Still alive?" Dean wipes his shoes on the doormat before stepping over the threshold. "This goddamn rain made my boots dirty."

I move back so that he can enter, shutting the door after he has. I arch my back and retrieve my phone. "Yeah."

I'm praying it's not cracked, since I haven't gotten the time to put a screen protector, but it's useless.

There's a huge crack that goes right through the entire screen. It's fixable though. I'll just replace the screen, and make sure to get the best screen protector that's on the market. I shove it into my pocket.

"Got any food?" Dean enquires before wandering off into the kitchen and removing his leather jacket. He throws it at me and I catch it.

Since it's quite heavy, I throw it on a nearby chair. His biker boots make noises, and leave some footprints, as he steps on the polished white tiles.

I follow him. "There's chicken in the oven. And Coke in the fridge." I answer back, standing in front of the kitchen table and leaning over it. I rest my arms on it whilst Dean is standing behind it.

Opening the fridge, he takes out a 2-litre bottle of Coke that's halfway, unscrews the lid, and attaches his lips to the opening of the bottle. He drinks a large amount of Coke.

"Really?" I ask, deadpanning. "Can't you drink from a glass like a decent person?"

Dean lowers the bottle to his chest before burping loudly. I scrunch up my face in annoyance, disgusted by his lack of manners. "I was seriously dying from thirst. So I didn't have time to look for a fucking glass."

A painful sigh escapes from my mouth.

Meet Dean Hunters: my twin brother. We're not identical, and we're polar opposites. I mean, I'm good and gentle; he's bad and brutal. I'm homeschooled; he dropped out of school. I own a car; he owns a motorcycle.

It's sometimes hard to believe that we're even related.

"You know what? Nevermind." I wave a hand lazily in the air. "I'd rather listen to you explain why you're not in a coffin, oh dear brother."

Groaning out of irritation, Dean rolls his eyes as he looks for the chicken in the oven, taking it out and placing the oven pan on top of the kitchen table. "Fine, Dylan. I'll tell you."

He walks to the bread bin, yanking the whole loaf of bread and then searching for a plate in one of the kitchen drawers.

After finding one, he returns to the kitchen table, breaking the full chicken into soluble pieces. He throws some of them on the plate.

"I'm listening." I say hoarsely, my eyes never leaving his face. I need to know what the fuck happened on the night he supposedly "died". It's not everyday your brother rises from the dead.