Because of Houdini, Part 4/?
PART FOUR
The thing about CF is it catches up with you.
You're a kid and you overhear the phrase "progressive illness" a lot but you don't really know or care what it means. You run around and you fix dinner for your little brother and pretend to kill monsters under his bed and shoot cans with Uncle Bobby and wish Dad would come home and you don't think much about being sick.
Then you get old enough to count how long the hospital keeps you. You count it in days but also in the way Dad taps his feet and bobs his knee and how Sammy gets bored and fidgety and finally downright pissed that he's stuck playing Nintendo with you in the hospital for longer and longer and longer.
You count it in how many stairs you can walk up before you need a rest. In the amount of shit you cough up and how there's always more. In the hours you spend curled up in bed with what feels like great big hooks sewing one side of your stomach to the other.
One day you notice you're really, really tired and the exhaustion starts to follow you everywhere. You asked Dad why you're so tired all the time and he explains, though not in so many words, that you are a Sick Person and Sick People get tired. Then another day your spine begins to ache and your lungs grow spikes and you figure there's no point in telling anyone how much it hurts.
Suddenly your little brother is making dinner for you instead of the other way around.
Then you're almost fifteen and trying to fuck Derek's girlfriend Jennifer Higgins (she must've had a fetish) in the backseat of her Dad's Escalade. She's worried about getting pregnant and you tell her don't worry the disease makes me sterile. And then instead of coming (which is a pain in the ass for a CFer to begin with) you cough out a handful of blood and kinda hold it helplessly in your palm while Jenny's freaking out and screaming over and over again my dad's seat my dad's seats my dad's seats.
And that's when you realize fuck, you are sick.
But you're not dying like everybody says-- just because the line between totally healthy and dropping the fuck dead is a lot thinner for you-- that doesn't mean you're dying.
So you try not to let it ruin your day.
Ruins everyone else's day, though. Like when Sammy has his stupid soccer game that's like a championship or some shit (you can't understand why the fuck he cares about kicking a fucking ball, especially when his lungs are perfect and could kick all the ass he wanted if he didn't spend all his time fuckin' whining about how much he hates hunting) and the morning of the stupid game you wake up with a high fever and there's shit in your lungs so thick it's practically bubbling out your mouth like when you blow milk through a straw. And Sammy's just a kid so he doesn't understand that CF made this decision for you so he stands there in his fucking soccer uniform and surgical mask and looks at you like you did this on purpose.
And then a few weeks later it's like nothing was ever wrong and Dad lets you go with him on hunts more often. And you're good at wasting shit and you like the control and the way Dad smiles at you when you're standing over something dead.
Cause truth is dad never looks at you much otherwise. His arms are strong and steady on your back and his orders are clear and he cares about your safety and wants you to know how to protect yourself.
But he also has to find the Thing That Killed Mom, he lives for that. Somewhere inside he loves you but also you get in the way and you slow him down and you make him feel guilty.
Then you're an adult and Dad still keeps you around to do research and your little brother is safe and happy in college and things aren't so bad. But The Thing That Killed Mom is still out there destroying lives, and that's the only thing you still want:
You want it dead before you are.
You're twenty-six now and you realize that progressive means worse and worse. That you and CF are in a footrace and CF can run forever and forever but you can't. And Sammy has a way of making you so comfortable-- under his hands you can breathe better and all the aches and pains are gone and yes-- yes it's nice not to be alone.
But you can't stay.
So you do your treatments and you cough like a good boy and you rehearse ways to tell Sammy the truth, about where you've been, why Dad left, and you know he ain't gonna like it.
But you can't stay. You gotta keep running.
***
The next day and half is very quiet. Dean tires easily and tires a lot. He sleeps fourteen of the first twenty-four hours, waking up only to let Sam pound him on the back, do his various nebulizer treatments and be stuffed full of pills. He needs pills for everything-- to manage pain, to help him digest food, to settle his stomach, to prevent infections, to prevent allergies, to prevent asthma attacks. On top of that he puffs dutifully on an array of inhalers in the morning and again before he goes to bed. He coughs and huffs and spits until his face is lined with pain and he falls back against Sam, asleep.
They all start doing a lot of nodding off, actually. They throw a clean sheet over the couch and watch TV and doze and eat. Sam whips up an elaborate salad and Dean sniffs and bitches at the dried cranberries and capers but eats it anyway. Jess makes a giant stir fry and Dean wolfs down most of it, then curls up with a stomachache still groaning with pleasure.
After that the kitchen appears to be empty but at dinnertime Dean rummages through the cupboards and comes up with the most fucking delicious stew Jess has ever tasted. Dishes pile up on the coffee table and they watch TV and fall asleep again, wake up, fall asleep, wake up again, the three of them squished and leaning on each other and sharing the same massive quilt.
They go hours and hours without really saying anything besides will you hand me that thing on the coffee table and I hate Tyra Banks and we're out of cheese.
Around midnight on Sunday someone pounds sloppily on the front door. Dean is hugging a pillow, bent forward between Sam legs, and Sam's perched on the back of the sofa, doing the chest percussions before sending him to bed.
"Get rid of them," Sam says without looking up.
Jess goes to the door. It's Nate, this guy who works at the library circulation desk with her, and he's slobbering red-faced jolly drunk.
"Jess-say!"
She closes the door so that just her nose and one eye and half her mouth are visible. "Bad time."
"But I've got whess-kay!"
"Bad fucking time," she hisses, "We're-- we're having sex."
Nate looks up and down the crack in the door, then closes one eye and looks again. "But yer fully dresss."
Damn it. So she is. "Look, Sam's brother is visiting and he's-- call you later, okay?"
"Sam's brother?" Nate bellows, his voice bouncing off the overhang. "Since when does Sam have a--"
Jess slams the door. The slamming mixes with "BROTHER" and it's definitely ringing in her ears, but when she turns around Sam is still pounding and Dean is huffing drowsily over his cup, his eyes barely open.
"Dumb drunk asshole," Sam mutters. "Alright Dean. Bed."
Jess stands in the doorway of their bedroom, watching Sam ready Dean for his tube feeding, which he does expertly though he apparently never did it when he was younger. Dean is already asleep, his body limp and unguarded as Sam jostles him around.
When he has Dean covered adequately and has felt his forehead for fever like he does incessantly, Sam turns to her. "I'm gonna go to the store."
"Sam--" She begins, but he's already gone.
***
He stands in the cheese aisle for almost an hour.
Mozzarella would probably go best with an omelet, but he likes the kind that crumbles off in great big chunks that would probably sink to the bottom of the pan, right through the egg, and burn.
Colby Jack. He remembers Uncle Bobby grumbling about it all through his childhood; apparently it was some kind of manmade, manufactured, unreal cheese that gave you polyps on your sphincter and cancer in your ass.
Cheddar. Cheddar is what the government gave them, back when Sam and Dean were kids, big blocks of what Dad called "government cheese," along with oversized jugs of peanut butter and gallons of whole milk that went chunky in the fridge because it upset Dean's stomach and Dad wouldn't touch a glass of milk with a ten foot pole. A lot of times it was just Sam and the gallon of milk and a huge, quickly staling bag of Marshmallow Mateys, and a spork if he was lucky, and Dean's empty bed, and the gnawing, sick feeling that any minute he was going to be an only child.
Finally he decides on some pre-grated shit called "Mexican blend," which is nice and ambiguous, a mystery concoction of cheeses impossible to solve, and as long as it's calories it'll work for Dean.
He picks up the bag of Mexican blend and then just stands there staring at the cheese anyway. The refrigerator aisle is fucking cold and makes the hair stand up on his arms. As inopportune as it may be at this moment, his mind begins to make the aching transition from fullfucking panic to Plans for the Future and he is frozen.
He can't let Dean go. He can't keep him, either.
What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck is he going to do?
***
Jess walks out of the bedroom the next morning to find Dean sitting on the couch by himself. He's attached to a little humming machine-- an oxygen concentrator, her grandmother had one-- a tube running under his nose. He's wearing a pair of Sam's pajamas pants, which hang over his bare feet propped up on the coffee table. His chest is bare, and Jess is surprised to see that he's a little built, has some muscle.
She's even more surprised to see he's drinking a beer.
"Good morning," she says.
"Morning," he replies with a pleasant smile. "You want the remote?"
"Nah." She sits down next to him. "What you watching?"
"Uh... I don't know. This guy who decorates cakes."
"Where's Sam?"
"He said he wanted donuts."
"Yum."
"Yeah."
"Hey, do me a favor," Dean holds up the beer, "don't tell Sam I had this?"
"Never."
"Thanks."
They go back to staring at the TV. She searches for something to say, did you have a nice drive down here , what do you think of our campus? So, Sam tells me you're gravely ill--
Finally she settles on "so you're how much older than Sam?"
"Four years."
Jessica nods.
Dean changes the channel and clears his throat. "Uh. How long you been dating Sammy?"
"Um. About a year and a half?"
"He ever tell you about me?"
For the first time Dean looks at Jess, makes eye contact with her. He's more handsome than Sam in a conventional, white-bred, pretty sort of way. Bigger eyes. Nose more delicate. Fuller lips. He looks like their mother, from the picture Sam keeps on the mantle. One thing Sam was telling the truth about-- they both have hazel eyes.
"Well of course he-- he told me... yes. Of course." But Dean looks skeptical so she adds quickly, "you know Sam, though. Very private."
The answer seems to satisfy him. He turns back to the TV, coughs, then coughs harder, his shoulders jerking forward. It's a dry cough this time, dry and hacking.
She reaches out to him for a moment, wants to put her hands on his shoulder. But it feels weird. She doesn't know him.
He opens his eyes and leans back. "Sorry. Oxygen makes my throat a little dry."
"Can I get you some water, or anything?"
"I'm good. Thank you."
More silence. Jess looks toward the front door.
"Does Sam," Dean says. "Is he-- does he like it here?"
Jessica searches her lap, not quite sure how to answer. She's pretty sure he's asking is Sam happy and her answer is of course.
But. Maybe she needs to add that to the list of things she only thought she knew.
"He's... focused," she finally answers. "He takes school very seriously."
The information seems to amuse Dean. "Sammy," he mutters.
"Yeah," she says.
"He didn't even tell you he had a brother, did he?"
Jess breaks eye contact with him, looking down to pick at her fingernails, and she can feel herself fidgeting badly even as her brain is telling her to stop because she's going to give herself away.
"Of.. of course he told me about you."
He studies her with the smallest quirk of a smile, ducking his head to search her face. "Just that I'm sick, right? Dying?"
It occurs to her that maybe he's trying to make her feel uncomfortable.
"He... he told me you were a fighter."
Dear God, what a lie. Jessica's ears burn. She can tell from the look on Dean's face that it's something Sam would never, ever say. She watches several emotions play over his face. Something hurt, something vulnerable, something sinister, something angry, something heartbroken.
"He told you I was dead."
"NO!" She blurts, too quickly, too loudly. "No, no of course not. No."
Dean nods. For a moment they sit with the chatter of the television, the hiss of the oxygen.
"Jessica," he says finally. "I came here to check up on my little brother. That's it. I don't wanna fuck up what you got here." He gestures vaguely at their apartment.
Which she takes a good look at. Aside from the picture of Sam's mother and father, everything else in the house is hers. The shit on the walls, the furniture. Sam's never been one to have or keep things. He moved in with a fork, a spoon, a knife, a plate, a mug, some clothes she made him get rid of a long time ago because they were too small and they were ugly. A haircut that didn't fit his face. A pair of shoes. In the kitchen, a Mr. and Mrs. Claus salt and pepper shaker set. Both filled with salt. She'd laughed at that once, but now, for some reason, it kind of pisses her off.
"Tell me one thing," she says, the words spilling out before she can stop them,"tell me one thing that's true about Sam. Anything."
Dean removes the tube from his nose, closes his eyes and coughs. He picks up his cup and spits in it, wipes his mouth, wipes whatever was on his mouth on Sam's pajama bottoms. He looks at Jessica.
"His brother is still alive."
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PART FIVE