Content Warning: for language and character death
Regret
When they were young, kids would make fun of his brother. “What’s wrong with him?” they would ask. “Nothing, what’s wrong with you?” he would retort, then steer Matty by the hand in the opposite direction. Matty would coo and gurgle like a baby, and Dean would pet his head, smoothing his unruly hair down.
When he was twelve, his parents had assured him that Matty would die before he’d graduated high school. They told him not to get too attached. But Dean couldn’t do that. Matt was his big brother, and he needed to be taken care of. In fact, by the time he graduated college, it was his parents who had passed away, not Matty, leaving them with a small pile of inheritance money. So day-by-day, he diligently took care of his brother.
A year later found Dean in a small 1K apartment. It contained a wall for the kitchen with a long countertop interrupted by the sink and stove. A few feet away were the short, square table, and finally the bed that he shared with his brother. Their life was a simple one, and they followed the same schedule each day.
Dressing Matt was easy enough when they followed the usual routine. First the white Hanes sleep shirt came off, then the pajama pants. He helped his brother stand awkwardly, and eased down the simple briefs that barely clung to his brother’s thin, boney hips. When the older man was naked- aside from his socks, he hated being barefoot- Dean took a cloth from the bowl of water at their bedside and gently wiped down his brother’s frail form.
Matt would occasionally sigh or gurgle, but usually an uncontrollable foam of bubbles grew and shrank from his moistened lips and Dean would be forced to wipe his mouth countless times by the time a soft t shirt and lounge pants had been pulled back on.
For breakfast, Dean would try to get Matt to eat eggs, some cut up sausage, and a few grapes. Matty would eat about half of it, which he considered to be a successful endeavor.
Every day was the same. He grew weary in his routine of monotonous caretaking. He longed for someone to converse with, and found himself speaking to Matty, waiting for the older man to respond, but was met with only silence. As months went by, Dean stopped talking to his brother.
One morning, he awoke to Matty’s ice cold feet digging into his claves. His brother’s cramped and gnarled fingers splayed and contracted while the man gripped Dean's shoulders with his bony wrists.
He obviously had to go to the bathroom. From experience, Dean knew it would be a bad idea to ignore him. Growling, Dean chucked the covers up and onto the floor, and twisted around in the full bed to seize his brother’s crippled form and hoist him up and into the air. The man was light, but made no movement to help him, so the trip to the bathroom was a struggle.
Round the bed, past the dresser, into the bathroom, past the tub, onto the toilet. He steadied his brother as the man finally relieved himself. Thankfully it was just piss. When he was finished, Dean flushed the toilet, pulled up Matt’s SpongeBob pants, and pumped out liberal amounts of antibacterial gel. He massaged his brother’s hands between his own, easing out the cramped fingers. Matt stared at him while he did this, vacant as always, then gurgled. Time to sleep again.
Everything was on Matt’s schedule. Dean dragged his brother and tucked him into his sleeping position, knowing the man-child would let out a series of animalistic shrieks if a limb were set out of place. This was his life. Bathe Matt, feed Matt, tuck him into bed. He never thought at 23 he’d be wiping someone else's ass. Matt gurgled again before shifting and falling asleep, his mouth hanging open. Dean stiffened, angry, and watched as his brother’s chest rose up and down. And he would never get any thanks for it. No acknowledgement, no prize reward, just flung vegetables, cold feet in his cramped bed, and drool, and piss, and shit.
He shook for a moment, and walked around to his side of the bed to grab his cigarettes from the bedside table. He started towards the balcony to smoke, then stopped. This was his fucking house. He should be able to smoke in his own fucking bed. He slid down against the headboard and grabbed his lighter. Glancing at Matt, he lit the cig and took a long, slow drag. He tilted his head up, preparing to let the stream flow up towards the ceiling, but Matt was gurgling again. Annoyed, Dean leaned over and blew the stream of smoke into Matty’s face. The man-child shucked some wet coughs, and then opened his eyes. The two stared at each other for a moment. As Dean took another drag, he watched his brother, wanting to see fear, anger, anything- a reaction.
What he got was a snot bubble. It didn’t pop and Matt struggle, his crippled hand smashing against his face to relieve his nose for proper breath. Normally Dean would get a tissue. He would walk across the apartment to the junk drawer below the sink, and he would get the bulb syringe.
Not tonight though. Not tonight. He let out another stream of smoke and watched with no small amount of pleasure as Matt’s eyes turned red. Dean grunted and put out his cigarette in the change jar on his bedside table. He twisted over, not bothering to get under the sheets, the sounds of Matt struggling growing dimmer.
“Oh, fuck off,” he muttered to Matty, and drifted off to sleep.
He woke hours later to cold feet digging into his calves again.
“God damn it Matty!” he growled, and turned over.
But Matt was not awake. He was not awake, and he was not gurgling, and his chest was not moving up and down.
“Matty?” Dean whispered, leaning down to touch his brother’s face. He made contact with the flesh, then pulled back with a jerk. His brother was cold cold cold, and very much dead.
“Matty!” he wailed, “Matty I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it, come back! Don’t leave me alone, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean it, I swear.”
But his brother remained stiff and motionless. His eyes were closed, and the lines that normally cramped his face were soothed out. He looked more adult that Dean had ever seen. He looked like an older brother.
Dean let out a shaky breath. He could not stay still. He abruptly stood and grabbed his cigarettes, stepping out on the balcony, and feeling the cold wind of November bite at his flesh.
He brought a cigarette to his lips, his hands trembling as he tried to light the stick. The flame struck and went out over and over again.
“Fuck… Fuck!” Dean shouted then threw his cigarette and the pack down over the balcony. “Fuck,” he whispered, and began to cry.
