It had been a little over two years since the fire that had killed their mother. Dean tried not to think about it as he carried Sammy to the bed in the motel. After the fire, their father had packed up the Impala with anything salvageable, bought necessities, and taken off with the boys. Dean had lost count of how many motels they'd stayed at. John was out, probably at the nearest bar.
Dean laid Sammy down in the center of the dingy bed, tucking the scratchy blankets around him. He found extra pillows in the closet and piled them around Sam, ensuring he didn't roll off in the middle of the night. In the years since Mary had passed, John hadn't once mentioned her, and so Dean felt there was an unspoken rule—not to talk about her at all.
But he was scared that he wouldn't remember her. How she smelled, her smile, how she cut the crust off of his sandwiches. He lied down next to Sammy and began to sing softly.
"Hey Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better."
He only remembered the words of the first verse, but Sammy's eyes had already closed, and his breathing had slowed. Dean leaned over and kissed Sammy on the forehead, whispering "Goodnight," and shut off the lights.