Prompt fill for the Birthday challenge on Ohsam.
A little late, but I loved this prompt and had to do it. Thanks to soncnica for the quick beta reading:)
Prompt:Sometimes, Sam needs to take a quite moment to look through his memory box by madebyme_x
In Memoriam
An old wooden box, rusty hinges, peeled off paint. All of his thirty three years, in there. Not much to look at from the outside, but he knows better.
Nearly all of the photos are old, the colors all but faded. Most of them rescued from their old house, some showing Dad and Mom, sometimes with him and Dean. There is one John took of them on the day of Dean´s High school graduation. He never went, since there had been a poltergeist to hunt, but the photo remained.
Then one of him and Dean that is maybe five years old, the colors still clearly visible in the dim light of his bedroom table lamp. They´d been in the middle of trying to hold off the apocalypse and there had been too many empty glasses and then this photo booth in an empty street. He vaguely remembers puking on Dean´s shoes on the way to the motel, but on the picture they´re both grinning like the idjits Bobby had always accused them to be and Dean´s arm is lazily slung around his shoulder. There had been a time when he didn´t believe he´d ever do that again.
And then there is the one of him, Dean and Mary that he had laid down at his brother´s feet, waiting for the scythe to descend and hoping Dean would still be able to see the love and trust and goodness when it was all said and done. He never stopped hoping that.
There is his old pocket knife, a gift from Dad for his eighth birthday. There is a battered looking Zippo lighter and he will never forget the moment he dropped it into the grave, felt the heat of the rising flames on his cheeks and Dad´s hand on his bony shoulders. “Good job, son”. His first hunt and the night after, sharing a beer with his father and brother in a dark motel room and feeling like he belonged, if only until the sun came up in the morning.
Beside it, Bobby´s baseball. He remembers spending an entire summer trying to learn the finer points of the game and after accidentally shattering the windows in one of the fixed cars Bobby took him out to a small clearing behind the junkyard and taught him.
In a small plastic bag there is the bullet he pulled out of Dean´s side when he was sixteen and too tired from spending the previous night studying for a chemistry test and too worried about the English essay he still had to finish to see the shapeshifter sneak up behind his brother. Dad had held a trembling Dean down, mumbling reassurances too silent for him to hear while he dug the bullet out with shaking fingers and the knowledge that he could never wash his brother´s blood from his hands. He kept it as a reminder.
On the right side, there is an old deck of cards, worn out, some edges torn off, having passed between his and Dean´s hands thousands of times over the years. Dean had taught him how to play poker when he was seven and they were both cooped up in a motel room waiting for Dad´s return. He had seen his brother and father play and begged and pleaded until Dean grudgingly relented. It became their favorite pastime on long drives and during longer waits until Dean learned there were things in this world even more interesting than cars and guns, but even when they got older, they would find half an hour for a game here and there and it´s been a long time since he had been defeated by any stranger.
The wooden amulet the girls from the play had given Dean eventually found its way in there along with the real thing. Back then, he couldn´t bear the thought of leaving it behind and so it always traveled with him. He´ll tell Dean about it, eventually. Many things have changed since then and it wasn´t until he saw Dean wind the fake amulet around the rearview mirror that he realized that it ultimately makes no difference. They don´t need the amulet, not anymore. Maybe, one day, he´ll just drop it on the kitchen table, or bring it up in a casual conversation over a bottle of beer, just to let Dean know. That would be nice. Until then, it will be safe here.
On the bottom of the box is a folded piece of paper where a child´s unsteady hands have drawn three somewhat sketchy people in front of a big black car. “My family”, it said in slightly blurred printed letters, proudly signed by one Samy Winchesder. He had found it in Dad´s lock-up, along with Dean´s first self-made sawed-off and some of his old report cards.
There are few things he kept from Dad after he died. His wedding ring is one of them. Beside it, there is a small red box containing another ring, the one Jessica will never wear.
On top of the pile, there is the brochure from Oak Park retirement home. When they clinked glasses tonight, after the cake Dean insisted on making was all but gone he said “To the next thirty three, Sammy” and there had been a time where he might have chuckled and shook his head and threw the glass back already reaching for the bottle, but today he allowed himself, if just for a few moments, to actually believe in that. It was a blurry picture still, but lately it had become a little clearer. Deep down in his heart he knows that it is probably a fool´s dream, that the world will end before that and even if it doesn´t, there is a bullet out there with their names on it. Had always known that. But, hope is the whole point, after all.
The alarm clock on his nightstand tells him his birthday is over since three minutes. And, all in all, it had been fine. Dean had given him a book and they sat together eating cake and drinking. But that´s not what matters. He carefully closes the lid of the wooden box. What matters is sleeping a few doors down the hallway. It´s in his memory, stronger than anything hell could ever inflict on him. It´s in there. Sometimes, all he needs is a quiet moment to remember.
Prompt:Sometimes, Sam needs to take a quite moment to look through his memory box by madebyme_x
In Memoriam
An old wooden box, rusty hinges, peeled off paint. All of his thirty three years, in there. Not much to look at from the outside, but he knows better.
Nearly all of the photos are old, the colors all but faded. Most of them rescued from their old house, some showing Dad and Mom, sometimes with him and Dean. There is one John took of them on the day of Dean´s High school graduation. He never went, since there had been a poltergeist to hunt, but the photo remained.
Then one of him and Dean that is maybe five years old, the colors still clearly visible in the dim light of his bedroom table lamp. They´d been in the middle of trying to hold off the apocalypse and there had been too many empty glasses and then this photo booth in an empty street. He vaguely remembers puking on Dean´s shoes on the way to the motel, but on the picture they´re both grinning like the idjits Bobby had always accused them to be and Dean´s arm is lazily slung around his shoulder. There had been a time when he didn´t believe he´d ever do that again.
And then there is the one of him, Dean and Mary that he had laid down at his brother´s feet, waiting for the scythe to descend and hoping Dean would still be able to see the love and trust and goodness when it was all said and done. He never stopped hoping that.
There is his old pocket knife, a gift from Dad for his eighth birthday. There is a battered looking Zippo lighter and he will never forget the moment he dropped it into the grave, felt the heat of the rising flames on his cheeks and Dad´s hand on his bony shoulders. “Good job, son”. His first hunt and the night after, sharing a beer with his father and brother in a dark motel room and feeling like he belonged, if only until the sun came up in the morning.
Beside it, Bobby´s baseball. He remembers spending an entire summer trying to learn the finer points of the game and after accidentally shattering the windows in one of the fixed cars Bobby took him out to a small clearing behind the junkyard and taught him.
In a small plastic bag there is the bullet he pulled out of Dean´s side when he was sixteen and too tired from spending the previous night studying for a chemistry test and too worried about the English essay he still had to finish to see the shapeshifter sneak up behind his brother. Dad had held a trembling Dean down, mumbling reassurances too silent for him to hear while he dug the bullet out with shaking fingers and the knowledge that he could never wash his brother´s blood from his hands. He kept it as a reminder.
On the right side, there is an old deck of cards, worn out, some edges torn off, having passed between his and Dean´s hands thousands of times over the years. Dean had taught him how to play poker when he was seven and they were both cooped up in a motel room waiting for Dad´s return. He had seen his brother and father play and begged and pleaded until Dean grudgingly relented. It became their favorite pastime on long drives and during longer waits until Dean learned there were things in this world even more interesting than cars and guns, but even when they got older, they would find half an hour for a game here and there and it´s been a long time since he had been defeated by any stranger.
The wooden amulet the girls from the play had given Dean eventually found its way in there along with the real thing. Back then, he couldn´t bear the thought of leaving it behind and so it always traveled with him. He´ll tell Dean about it, eventually. Many things have changed since then and it wasn´t until he saw Dean wind the fake amulet around the rearview mirror that he realized that it ultimately makes no difference. They don´t need the amulet, not anymore. Maybe, one day, he´ll just drop it on the kitchen table, or bring it up in a casual conversation over a bottle of beer, just to let Dean know. That would be nice. Until then, it will be safe here.
On the bottom of the box is a folded piece of paper where a child´s unsteady hands have drawn three somewhat sketchy people in front of a big black car. “My family”, it said in slightly blurred printed letters, proudly signed by one Samy Winchesder. He had found it in Dad´s lock-up, along with Dean´s first self-made sawed-off and some of his old report cards.
There are few things he kept from Dad after he died. His wedding ring is one of them. Beside it, there is a small red box containing another ring, the one Jessica will never wear.
On top of the pile, there is the brochure from Oak Park retirement home. When they clinked glasses tonight, after the cake Dean insisted on making was all but gone he said “To the next thirty three, Sammy” and there had been a time where he might have chuckled and shook his head and threw the glass back already reaching for the bottle, but today he allowed himself, if just for a few moments, to actually believe in that. It was a blurry picture still, but lately it had become a little clearer. Deep down in his heart he knows that it is probably a fool´s dream, that the world will end before that and even if it doesn´t, there is a bullet out there with their names on it. Had always known that. But, hope is the whole point, after all.
The alarm clock on his nightstand tells him his birthday is over since three minutes. And, all in all, it had been fine. Dean had given him a book and they sat together eating cake and drinking. But that´s not what matters. He carefully closes the lid of the wooden box. What matters is sleeping a few doors down the hallway. It´s in his memory, stronger than anything hell could ever inflict on him. It´s in there. Sometimes, all he needs is a quiet moment to remember.