What it's Like

I don't remember only appeased for so long. At first, that was enough, but then came the poking and prodding, probing for bits of information. Soon, too soon, it's all a blank just wasn't enough.

Elevator music and chick flicks 24/7 - couldn't cover your eyes or ears. Honestly, he thinks the only reason the joke slipped by was because Sam was so surprised at the change of direction. It was a diversion that worked only once. Not that he didn't keep trying.

No coffee, no beer - just lukewarm herbal tea and diet decaf Mountain Dew. Why did everyone have to ask? Why did they want to know? He had wanted to know. Before. But, he had a sane reason - he wanted to be a little prepared. As if preparation could somehow soften the blow. But everyone else? Did they all just up and make deals while he was away?

A full-on mental assault, he told Jo after he couldn't, in good conscience, ignore her calls any longer. Miss Daisy was driving me everywhere and insisted on listening to that 'Notebook' guy's whole collection of books-on-tape. She didn't call again after that.

A month long slumber party, he told Ellen when she continued to ask, voice full of motherly concern. And not the good kind - with topless chicks and pillow fights. I was stuck at a twelve-year-old girls' all-nighter. Since my hair wasn't long enough to braid and I had no bra to freeze, they settled for painting my fingernails bright pink and my toenails purple. Got out just before the make-overs. OK, so he had snapped a little. Who wouldn't?

Flashes, he finally tells Bobby. The man's like a second father and he couldn't keep up the entire charade around him. Not that Bobby asked or gave him the old "I'm here if you need to talk" or even the pity eyes and gentle voice. Maybe that's why he couldn't hold it in any longer. Flashes of sounds and sights and feelings. And that was all he needed to say before Bobby was nodding, not in agreement or understanding, just taking in what he was willing to share.

But Sam. Sam just kept asking, kept in his face and space and softly demanded the truth. Wanting to somehow share his burden, out of guilt or love or some other emotion he wasn't sure if he himself even knew how to feel anymore. Sam just kept wanting more.

The problem was, there were no words. No, it wasn't that he didn't know the right words - there were. No. Words. There was absolutely no way to completely and precisely explain Hell. All those words we have: agony, anguish, torture, torment, unbelievable pain, indescribable suffering, unspeakable misery. None of those were enough. There was no way for him to define Hell for his brother. There were no correlations he could draw from life - even their lives - that would encompass the whole of what Hell was. How could he look Sam - his baby brother, Sammy - in the eye and verbalize what he witnessed and felt, physically and emotionally?

How could he express his newfound understanding of demons - what they are made of, how they become what they are? How could he tell his little brother that he had no idea how long he could have held out before he became just another creature for Sam to hunt down?