May Your Guiding Light Be Strong
K Hanna Korossy

Sam was wandering, aimless. Away from the infirmary and a worsening Jack, through the crow's nest, into the library. His steps faltered as he found Dean there, sitting alone at the table lit only by a banker's lamp, nursing a bottle of amber liquid.

"I thought you were with Jack?" Sam sort of asked.

"Cas's sitting with him." Dean's eyes stayed on his glass. "Figured I'd give them some alone time."

Sam hesitated, then grabbed another glass from the liquor cart instead. Plunking down across from Dean, he pushed the glass across the table with two fingers.

Dean poured him a drink without a word.

Sam took a swig, eyebrows drifting up. He turned the bottle: yeah, this was better than their usual poor-man's whiskey. Must be from the stock Crowley "upgraded" on one of his final visits. A smile ghosted across his face at the thought of the King of Hell's outrage over the "swill" they stocked.

Dean was finally looking at him, or rather at his glass, then at Sam. The creases in his face deepened a fraction. "How're you doing?"

Sam grimaced: good question. The kid they'd once feared but ended up adopting was dying in the other room, and there wasn't a damned thing they could do about it. "Sad," he finally said succinctly, and took another sip.

"Hmm." Dean's gulps were bigger.

Sam eyed him in turn. He himself was hurting, but as Cas had pointed out, Dean was taking Jack's decline especially hard. "How 'bout you?" he asked quietly.

Dean cleared his throat, but it was still whiskey-rough, or maybe just choked with emotion. "Oh, you know. Mad. Guilty. Screwed up. Sad," his eyes ticked up to Sam. "The usual."

Yeah, that was what he'd figured. And the fact Dean was answering him at all, let alone honestly, said plenty in itself. Sam nodded slowly, turning his glass in a slow circle on the tabletop. "We could check some of the Men of Letters chapter…" He trailed off at Dean's look. Yeah, they were grasping at shadows now..

Dean emptied his glass, refilled it. "I mean, a year ago, I wanted him dead, and now…"

"He's family."

Dean huffed. "Poor kid," he said wryly. He straightened. "Hey, did you call Mom?"

"I tried a couple of times while you were road tripping. I couldn't reach her. I think she and Bobby are off-grid hunting or…something."

Dean didn't even rise to that, just nodded, eyes downcast.

Sam finished his drink, then stood and collected a mug—then after a moment's thought, a second—and poured some lukewarm coffee. Dean had gotten a coffeemaker for the library the first time Sam pulled an all-nighter there. Sam didn't bother doctoring his drink, just sat back down at the table and left the second mug where Dean could reach it.

Dean looked tired. Truth be told, he'd never fully bounced back from the whole Michael possession, and now… How many losses could you take before it broke you irreparably?

Sam took a slow breath. "Cas says this one's harder because…losing a son feels different."

Dean didn't seem to react at first, hunched over his drink and his bottle. But then, to Sam's surprised bafflement, he snorted a laugh. He was shaking his head as he met Sam's eyes.

"I have lost a kid, man. That is different."

For a second, he thought Dean was talking about Ben. Then the penny dropped. Maybe he was only four-plus years older, but Dean had raised a son. He just didn't usually admit it.

Sam got it then. This was bad, and Dean was hurting. But this wasn't the straw that would break him. Not as long as Sam was still there.

It was humbling and scary and moving every time he glimpsed the deep well of Dean's love for him. It made him want to be better. And to make sure Dean knew it was mutual.

For right now, though, Sam would settle for a moment of comfort for his brother in the face of more loss.

So Sam pried the shot glass out of Dean's loose grip and wrapped his hands around the coffee mug instead. He left his own hands there a moment while they both stared at the mug, Sam's longer fingers around Dean's stiff knuckles, the pallor he hadn't lost from wherever Michael had taken him. Scarred but still strong.

Dean carefully pulled free and drank his coffee. Then he gathered up all four glasses and mugs and headed out toward the kitchen. On his way past Sam, he gently knocked one elbow against Sam's shoulder. Then he left, doubtless heading back to Jack's bedside after the kitchen.

Sam rubbed at his eyes. Funny how you could feel even sadder and yet reassured at the same time.

The End