My Light That Is You (G)
artwork by tru_faith_lost
Sam was in a bad mood. Which, Dean decided, had pretty much been his constant state lately. No matter how hard Dean tried to be cheerful—God and everyone else knew he was a delightfully cheerful guy in the face of his impending going-to-Hell deal—Sam managed to remain cranky. Hell, Dean figured Sam could probably be cranky during sex he was so damn good at being cranky.
So, when they stopped for the evening, Dean let it slide when Sam slammed the car door a bit too hard, the trunk even harder and dumped their bags with a bit too much gusto onto the motel room floor. He completely ignored Sam rifling through his own duffel, then Dean’s, then the computer satchel, grumbling, growling, freaking downright snarling.
Shirts and other various items were tossed out here and there while Sam dug with both hands, looking like a pissed off dog digging for a bone it couldn’t find. Whatever it was, eventually Sam would ratchet down from totally angered to his normal state of perpetual crankiness.
Sam muttering something totally unintelligible—and really usually it was best these things weren’t understood anyway—then storming back outside to the Impala did raise Dean’s curiosity. Sam not coming back in after ten minutes raised Dean’s suspicions. Everything they owned was in the Impala, but still, it was just a car. Space was limited. Searching for anything in it shouldn’t take this long.
After twenty minutes Dean gave in to a twinge of curiosity and a huge pang of anxiety and headed out the door to the parking lot. Hairs along the back of his neck rose, shivers moved along his skin, raising his flesh when he saw the car, but not Sam. He knew Sam wouldn’t have gone off, even on some short coffee run, without telling him. Sam got pissed off if Dean was away from him for more than ten minutes, so he’d either want Dean going with him, or know where Dean was while he was gone. As the days closed in on deal day, Sam closed in on Dean, forever Dean’s shadow, more so even than when they were children.
Stride lengthening to a run, Dean stopped at the car long enough to look inside. An odd muffled sound from the car’s far side caught his attention almost at once.
Sam. It was Sam. More to the point, it was a sound Sam was making, his voice, though he wasn’t speaking. Dean didn’t like that sound at all, not one bit.
Feet crunching the gravel as he moved, Dean rounded the front of the car, seeking out his brother. Sam sat, leaning against the car, one leg stretched out, one bent. One arm lay at his side, something held loosely in his fingers. The elbow of his other arm was propped against his knee, forehead pressed against his palm. His shoulders shook.
It took Dean a minute to see how Sam’s entire body trembled and shuddered. Tears mingled with sweat coursed small rivers down Sam’s face.
None of that was responsible for Dean’s stomach dropping, his heart freezing in his chest. It was the noise Sam was making. One fast scan assured Dean Sam had no horrid wounds, no gashes, broken bones, no physical injury. Yet there was his little brother, sitting on the ground, against their car, in a parking lot, crying. Not just crying, sobbing.
“Sammy,” Dean dropped to his knees next to Sam, taking hold of his shoulders with both hands. “What’s going on? What’s—”
Sam jerked, then jumped, turning toward Dean. He hadn’t even heard Dean’s approach. His entire body stiffened as he yanked away from Dean. Wide, puffy red eyes stared at Dean for a second, before Sam pushed away from the ground, away from Dean.
“I need some air. Won’t be gone long.”
With that Sam was running off. Weren’t they outside? How much air did a guy need?
“What the hell Sam?” Dean stood, hands on hips, sighed deeply, and actually addressed his question to the Impala. Eyes dropping to the ground, he spotted what Sam had held, and probably didn’t even realize he’d dropped, on the ground.
Stooping, Dean picked it up, examined it for a few seconds before twisting on his heels, looking in the direction Sam had taken off. Dean brushed the parking lot dust from it, turned it over in his fingers a few times. This was what Sam was sobbing buckets over? This ancient piece of junk? It had to be twenty years old, if it was a day.
It was a small, metal flashlight. The thing must have fallen out of the car, been run over, since now it was more flat than round. No batteries were inside, though Dean doubted it had worked for years, otherwise Sam would have had batteries in it. Sometime, long ago, it’d been Dean’s.
He turned it over, examining it as he walked back inside the motel room, wondering why on Earth Sam would have this thing. Oddly the one spot not damaged as much as the rest was where he’d carved his initials. DW stood out as plain and clear as the day he’d carved them. As if someone had kept that part of the metal clean and polished.
He’d forgotten all about the flashlight.
He’d not forgotten about the night he’d given it to Sam.
How many years ago was that?
Dean couldn’t remember for sure, Sam couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve. Dean remembered the bitter cold, the wind blasting the windows of wherever they were staying. It was just the two of them, as usual, when the blizzard hit, shutting down the town. Eventually the power shut down too. Sam and he, huddled together trying to keep warm, their only light from the small flashlight Dean carried with him.
They’d used it that night to entertain themselves with comic books and magazines. He’d given it to Sam, let him keep it. Dean couldn’t even remember the reason, other than maybe Sam just liked the light.
How many nights after that had Sam used the small flashlight under his blankets, or turned it on in the back seat of the car? Dean had no idea. How many times before that snowy night had Dean held the small light to read to a small Sam? Even for years after Sam could read on his own, he’d coax Dean into reading to him. Sam loved to read, to learn.
As Dean settled at the small table in their room, it came to him, he’d done that, nurtured in his young brother a natural curiosity, desire to know more, to extend beyond and grow.
Sam, as Dean, rarely kept things. They were impractical, their home being a car and all. There were a few, however, they each had, and Dean was always surprised to discover what treasures were precious to Sam. There were a few photographs of their parents, Jessica, but most linked back to Dean somehow. A knife, a note he’d left Sam at some forgotten time, a book or CD he’d given Sam, even a shirt of Dean’s, long outgrown. He’d found these things every now and then, tucked away in Sam’s bags, but never this flashlight.
Metal scraped and scratched against metal, sending shivers down Dean’s spine when he unscrewed the top to expose the small bulb. He removed it, held the length of the flashlight up to one eye. Not completely smashed. He peered through. Spreading the parts of the flashlight across the table, Dean sighed, considered what he could do, if he could fix this.
Straightening, he rubbed fingers over his forehead. He could do this. This he could fix.
A quick trip to a nearby hardware store, snagging his toolbox from the trunk of the car on his way back into the motel, Dean had what he needed. He’d hoped Sam might have come back while he was gone, but it was not so. Setting his cell phone on the table beside the flashlight parts, Dean set about work.
First he worked on straightening the casing, smoothing it out, making it round again not flat. What part of ‘roll the maps’ don’t you get Sam? Dean’s lips curled to a small smile. They’d had that conversation more times than Dean could count, more than once it’d ended with Dean being whapped over the head with those same maps, Sam clicking off and stuffing a small flashlight in his pocket. How many years ago had the small metal one been replaced by something fashioned out of plastic? Dean had never even paid attention. Probably more years ago than the maps had been replaced by a
Sam had to have known all along, Dean could repair the small light, yet he hadn’t asked, just kept it tucked away somewhere. Obviously it was tucked within easy reach if it’d been able to fall out of the car. It was something Sam must have kept close, readily accessible.
Something that meant home.
Long ago and far away Dean learned home wasn’t a place, but something far greater. Had he instilled that in Sam, too? Nurtured home, as well as reading? Sam’s earlier reaction came from losing yet another link to Dean, to a brother who may not be around many more days. Losing a link to his home, the only one either had ever known. The home they made for one another.
Dean traced the smoothed over side with his initials on it with his thumb, could see where another thumb had rubbed the metal smoother, worn down the crisscross grips originally carved along its center section.
Not all links were made to be broken. This one could be salvaged.
Holding the small light up for inspection, his efforts paid off, it looked nearly new. One final addition to make it complete, Dean pulled out his pocket knife, carved into the side of the light, right next to his own initials. He was careful not to slice his thumb open, as he’d done the first time he’d marked this light. Bitch joined DW.
A new bulb and batteries were added to the old casing and glass lens. Every home needed some redecorating once in a while. Dean aimed the light toward the ceiling, smiling and chuckling when it shone bright and true.
Jumping when the door opened, Dean shoved the light under the table like a small child caught stealing an extra cookie. Apparently Sam had had enough ‘air’ for one day. He came slouching in, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes making sure his feet hit where they should. His face was blotchy, eyes puffy and raw.
“ ‘M sorry, didn’t mean to be gone so long, make you worry.” Sam’s voice was thick and rough, pulled from a too wet throat.
“You okay?”
Sam stopped his advance across the room, lifted his gaze far enough to meet Dean’s for a few seconds, before dropping it again. His head barely jerked a nod. He wiped one hand across his eyes, down his nose to one corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”
In another second his back was to Dean, shoulders hunched, hands going through his duffel, but with none of their earlier desperation, anger.
“You uh, dropped something.” When Sam turned to him, Dean held out the flashlight. “Shined it up a bit for you while I was waiting.”
Sam stood frozen for a few beats before his eyes liquefied. He reached out, took the flashlight, stared down at it.
“I put some batteries in it, works better that way.”
Sam moved back until his legs hit the bed, then he dropped onto it. Clicking the light on and off a few times, he finally looked up at Dean with damp, little brother wonder in his eyes.
“You fixed it?”
Dean snorted. “Dude, I rebuilt a whole car. A flashlight took me no time at all. I would have fixed it for you a long time ago. All you had to do was ask.”
“I thought it was ruined forever.” Sam’s mouth curved upwards when he turned the light far enough to see what addition Dean had carved in the side. Rubbing his thumb over it, he sat with the flashlight in his hand, gripping it as if it were some lifeline.
Maybe it was.
“Naaa…just dinged a bit. I don’t think there isn’t anything that can’t be fixed if you try hard enough, are determined enough.”
Sam bit his lower lip, nodded again.
“Anyway, I’m hungry and been sitting here for a while now waiting on your ass, cause I don’t want to sit and eat by myself. Go get cleaned up. We’ll get some dinner.”
“I’m not really—”
“Stow it. I just said I’m not eating alone.”
Rising slowly, as if every muscle, every joint and bone ached, Sam moved toward the bathroom.
“Hey, Sammy.”
Sam turned dark, moist eyes on him, silently waited to hear what Dean had to say next.
“I did my part.” He dipped his head at the flashlight. “Now you just make sure that light doesn’t go out.”
Wiping at his eyes again, “You can count on it.”
“I know, Sammy” Dean said. “I know.”
The End
