And May Your Guiding Light Be Strong
Title: And May Your Guiding Light Be Strong
Author: tcs1121
Characters: Sam and Dean, gen.
Rating: PG/13 for language
Word Count: ~1900
Warning: Yes, just one, but it will spoil the story. I have The Warning at the end so you can scroll down and open it if you must. However, there is no death or violence.
A/N 1: prompt supplied by mangacrack at geckoholic s Gecko's Utterly Self-Indulgent (hurt) Dean-Centric Comment Meme. I'm certain it's not what mangacrack had in mind, but here it is anyway. Enjoy!
A/N 2: The title are lyrics from Rod Stewart's Forever Young.
A/N 3: Special thanks to meus-venator for the shined-up title picture. Thank you, my dear.
Disclaimer: These characters were created by Eric Kripke and do not belong to me. No money exchanges hands. All for fun.
Also at AO3
Exact Prompt: Dean is 60 (or older) and starting to look like it. While Sam is dead, gone or just looking young.
Summary:
"Well, we all can't be forever thirty-three like you, now, can we?" Dean wasn't bitter. He liked that Sam hadn't aged a day in twenty-three years.
~~*~~*~~
"Let me help you up there, old man," Sam teased, grabbing his older brother's wrist helping him stand. "At your age, a fall like that could break a hip."
"Shut up, you," Dean scowled. "And shove that "old man" shit. I'm not in the mood. Goddam son of a bitch knees are hurtin' like a motherfucker today."
"Cranky, cranky." Sam scolded, as he dumped Dean into a nearby chair. "What were you doing down there, anyway? Searching for birthday presents under the kitchen table?"
"Shut up, asshole. I wouldn't have been down there if you'd remembered to close the goddamned drawer." He gently rubbed his swollen knees.
Dean's arthritic knees would have made a great barometer except they only had one forecast. Damp. As far as his knees were concerned, it was always raining, foggy or snowing; never any fair weather. As a result, his creaky, squeaky knee joints needed very little excuse to give out on him. His hips and ankles weren't much better.
"I know, I'm sorry."
Dean nodded. "Damn right you're sorry." He huffed a couple more breaths until something Sam said clicked.
"Wait a minute. You said it's my birthday? And you got presents somewhere? Shit, Sam," he shook his head, "what the hell day is today?"
"Dude," Sam chuckled. "You are so clueless. Today's January fourteenth. Ten days until you're the big six oh."
Dean whistled through his teeth. "Damn, Sammy. Sixty. Can you believe it? I made it."
"Yeah, man, you made it." Sam was silent for a few seconds, and then he said, brightly, "I'll bet you'll forgive me for leaving the drawer open if I give you an early birthday present?"
"Maybe," Dean agreed.
"Thought so," Sam said. "Oh, and, by the way, I'm not dumb enough to leave your presents out where you could find them."
Sam opened the refrigerator door, turned on the water in the sink, and cracked an ice tray. "So don't even try looking, 'cause another fall can kill an old man like you."
Dean displayed his middle finger. "Well, we all can't be forever thirty-three like you, now, can we?" Dean wasn't bitter. He liked that Sam hadn't aged a day in twenty-three years.
"I wish you'd stop saying that, Dean." Sam lifted Dean's left, then his right leg and gently propped them on a padded stool. A moment later, two ice packs were placed, one on each knee.
Dean rubbed the coarse, buzzed hair on top of his head. Sam kidded him relentlessly about how his gray hair made him look "dignified." Fuck that. His hair may be gray, but, thank God, he still had a lot of it even though it prickled his scalp if Sam buzzed it too short.
The arthritis invading his legs assaulted his wrists and hands as well.
Dean leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The cool of the ice seeped through the fabric of his jeans, and his knees were mellowing out. He knew he had drifted to sleep because he heard himself snoring.
Now, he was sitting in a boat on a calm, clear, mountain lake. The crests of the craggy hills were steep and dotted with snow, but the sun warmed his face. Hawks circled high in the clouds, their outstretched wings catching the updrafts.
Dean's fishing line trailed in the water off the stern while Sam stood at the bow fighting an earthworm to get it properly hooked. The boat, in this dream, was long and wide, without a motor or sails. Everything looked fuzzy and far away, but the colors were sharp.
As Sam readied his rod, the sun burst through the clouds and reflected a golden white halo around him. Dean had to shield his eyes against the glare.
With his right arm cocked back and the reel released, Sam let the hook and bobber fly-the newly impaled nightcrawler thrashing desperately on what was both its first and final flight.
Immediately, Sam's bobber dunked below the waterline rose up fast only to submerge again. Sam jerked the line to set the hook and pulled back, arching his rod into a graceful bow. He handled his catch well-letting out the line, reeling it in, tensing and relaxing the tension until the snared fish became too exhausted to keep fighting. Dean scooped with the net as Sam hauled a golden fish with deep red fins out of the water. The scales sparkled in the sunlight and the bright red gills fluttered in the over-oxygenated atmosphere.
Beautiful, beautiful, Dean thought.
"Yeah, that's how it's done!" Sam whooped. "Dinner tonight, big brother. I caught it, you clean it."
Dean smiled sadly, "You know I can't."
"Yeah, I know you can't." Sam's eyes glittered hazel and fond. He looked at the floor of the boat where the fish lay flipping its fins against the boards. "You know what? I'm in the mood for burgers tonight."
The breeze kicked up and blew the dark brown strands of hair away from Sam's unlined face as he carefully held the fish, removed the hook from deep inside its mouth and tossed it back into the blue, blue lake. Sam gripped the sides of the boat and leaned over to watch it swim away.
The splash from tossing the fish created a steady drip, drip, drip on the deck. Tears came to Dean's eyes as he stared at Sam, healthy and bright-forever and ever his young Sammy.
Beautiful, beautiful.
Sam stood, ran a hand through his hair and smiled a deep dimpled grin. The world grew gray around the edges, closing in until only a pinhole of light was left.
Dean blinked his eyes open. He was turning sixty, but Sam would always be young, his hair without a hint of gray, and his skin unlined except for the dimples. It wasn't really fair to Sam, who would have to watch Dean grow old and grayer, and God-please-no, possibly bald.
The ice on his knees was melting and the sound of drops making little splashes on the floor woke him up fully.
"I'll take these, okay?" Sam asked, softly.
The ice packs came off and Dean groaned as he bent and straightened his legs.
"Thanks, Sammy."
"I really am sorry about the drawer, Dean. I should've noticed it."
"That's okay. You're usually real good about stuff like that. I should be more careful." Dean scratched his chin and said, "But if you want to make up for it…?"
"Yeah?" Sam sounded leery.
"You can give me my early birthday present now. Save the others for later."
"How do you know I have more than one?" Sam laughed.
"You always have more than one," Dean said.
"You'll just have to wait until I'm good and ready."
"You're sounding a little prissy there, Sammy."
"Fuck you."
"I'll Rochambeau you," Dean offered. "I win, I get one birthday present now."
"Rock, paper, scissors, Dean, really?" Sam said. "I thought we gave that up a long time ago."
"You gave it up." Dean made a fist with his right hand and opened his left. "I didn't. I rock at Rochambeau."
"What if I win?" Sam asked.
"I'll quit whining about presents…until tomorrow."
"Okay, fine." Sam said, with a heavy, put-upon sigh. "We'll count it out. Ready?"
"Yeah, I'm ready." Dean made a lewd gesture with his fisted right hand.
Sam lowered his voice and said, "One, two-paper."
At the same time Dean said, "One, two-scissors." Smacking two open fingers into his palm.
"Damn it, Dean."
"You're the one who said it, Sammy." Dean gloated. "You're the one who kept saying, 'Always with the scissors, Dean.' You should listen to yourself sometime."
"Yeah, yeah."
"So, pay up. You owe me," Dean pointed his index finger up and wiggled it, "One present."
"I'm going, I'm going."
Dean hummed to himself, pleased that he'd won that round. Even though he was going on sixty, he still liked to win that game. He also liked Sam's gifts. Sam always seemed to know just what to get.
Still, Sam should have figured for the scissors. Dean never gave it a second thought that Sam might actually be getting older, too. Maybe that was why he left the drawer open where Dean could bang into it and fall. Sam knew that anything out of place, or in the way…
He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He wanted me to win, that's why he went with paper.
"Okay," Sam said. "Open your hands."
Dean reached out with his palms up. Something cool and metal with plastic was laid into his hands.
"Don't tell me it's another vibrator." Dean smirked.
"It was a massager, not a vibrator," Sam sniffed. "And, no, it's not a vibrator."
"It's not the right shape, anyway." Dean said, as he ran his hands up and down the length of the item. "Or size."
"It's a label maker for your DVDs and CDs."
Dean's breath caught in his throat. "Really?"
The smile in Sam's voice was unmistakable. "Yes, really. It's easy to operate so your knobby fingers shouldn't have any problems handling it."
"I'll be able to pick out my own movies and music whenever I want?" Dean was getting excited.
"Yep. You won't have to ask me to find your favorite tunes any more. You can label them yourself, and store them any way that works for you. And, for your information, on the twenty-fourth, you're getting a CD player and a DVD player with Braille on the buttons."
"Awesome, Sammy, that's awesome." Dean's fingers were itching to arrange his music and movie library to his liking, and not have to rely on Sam to get the right title. He could manage the players, but having new ones in Braille, along with the movie titles he could now label, would be like…awesome.
"You come up with the best presents, bro."
"Yeah, well, after your birthday is over, I'll have a request or two for my own presents."
"Like what?" Dean fiddled with the round dial with the raised bumps.
"Like," Sam's heavy sigh cut through the darkness. "Dean, it was almost twenty-three years ago that I was thirty-three."
Dean turned away from Sam's voice. "I know, Sammy."
"When I was thirty-three. You were thirty-seven."
"I know the math, and I don't want to go into this." Dean closed his eyes and attempted to visualize the fishing boat, the water, and the golden fish fighting for its life.
"On that day, Dean, you saw me for the very last time."
"It's my birthday, remember?" He shook the label maker in the air.
"I'm not thirty three forever."
"Goddam it, Sam, I know that. I know that. You're six months old. You're seven years old. You're eighteen and leaving me for college. You're twenty two and riding shotgun next to me. I see you as all of these. But Sam…you were thirty-three when you were taken by a crazed and fallen angel. I traded my eyes to get you back. The last thing I saw was you." Dean steadied his breath. "That's the way I'll always see you."
"I know, Dean, I know, but you made a bad deal." Sam sighed sharply. "You made a really bad deal."
"That's not my take on it. You're here with me, now. I have you to tell me if my socks match, if I have broccoli stuck between my teeth, and when I need a haircut. You get ice for my knees and presents for my birthday. To me, you'll always be young and good and smart, and mine. Always here. Always with me. Always my little brother."
Dean shrugged and blinked his sightless eyes. "It's a fair deal."
~~*~~*~~fin~~*~~*~~
The Warning: ( skip) Dean has a permanent disability, I kept it vague so that you might still be able to enjoy it
Photo Credit- Touring canoa su un litorale del Lago di montagna A photo I found after I'd written about the lake.
Dean's Label Maker