Kansas in April wasn't normally warm, but Mary took advantage of the smoldering sun and spent most of Easter Sunday outside on the back deck watching Dean make colorful chalk designs on the cement.
By the time the sun started to make its descent, the entirety of the patio looked like the underside of a rainbow – the freckles of Dean's nose unreadable in the light with the thick layer of chalk dustings covering it from bridge to tip.
"I'm tired," he said with an exaggerated flop against her side, his little hands coming to rest upon her belly. "Is the baby tired too?"
"Not yet," she smiled, pulling him down onto her lap. "He's still kicking, has been this whole time." She moved his hands to the bottom of her belly. "Can you feel it?"
"I don't feel anything," he pouted. "I never get to feel him kick. He never kicks when I'm around."
"Try here," she said and again pressed his hands harder into the sweater fabric. "Huh," she mused. "Guess he got tired."
"He's so boring whenever I'm around."
Mary smiled. "He's not boring, silly, he's just relaxed. Maybe when he feels your hands you lull him right to sleep."
"You think he can hear me?"
"I'm sure he can, baby."
With delicate precision Dean pressed his face gently above her navel and started to whisper words so quietly even Mary couldn't make out what was being said.
*
Sometime in September the leaves began to change – green to yellow, gold to red, the veins of each plant making mesmerizing prints that captivated Dean with wonder.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Mary said from behind his shoulder and the sweet breath of her mouth puffed out to tickle the hairs on his neck.
"The gold ones are the best ones," he stated proudly with the sure-fire attitude of a four-year-old with no doubt. He looked up to gain her recognition, another excuse to stare into the blues of her eyes and she smiled at him in agreement. "Sammy likes the gold ones too," he mumbled, then arched his back to rest against her legs.
"Oh he does now, does he?"
"Yup." He tilted his head a bit to the right, as if by taking on this new stance the pattern of the leaves became more interesting.
"Maybe the red ones are his favorite."
He shook his head, "they're not."
"How do you know," she laughed, one hand positioned on his chest, the other combing through his hair.
"I know him," he shrugged, and then turned to face Sammy who was just out of arms reach, blowing spit bubbles into the cloudless sky.
"Sammy," he kneeled in front of him, "which color?" He made a point reaching out to grasp a bright yellow leaf from the overhanging Oak. He held it high in front of him, waving it until Sam caught on and his gaze moved in rhythm with the dipping rise and fall of Dean's hand.
Sam's eyes caught the motion of the gleaming yellow making its iridescent sail through the air and he squealed in delight – chubby hands trying to grab at the stimulating object his brother held. Dean turned to grin at his mom. "See? Sam says, 'gold.'"
He ran back to her, wrapped his arms around her hips. "Just ask him, he'll answer," he told her, his eyes shining bright. "He talks to me all the time, you just have to listen."
*
The first of November brought with it the chill bitterness of the winter air. It cascaded through the open window of the nursery and ruffled the ends of Dean's hair as he wedged between the rocking chair and Sam's body.
"Careful now," Mary said as Dean went to haul Sam onto his lap by encircling his stomach with both hands. "Gently, Dean. Not so rough."
"I am being gentle," he huffed breathlessly as he scooted his brother closer to his side. Sam didn't seem to mind, his little lips continuing to experiment with different noises, blowing "raspberries" being the talent of choice at the moment.
"One book and then bed."
"Two books," Dean countered. "One for me, one for Sammy."
"Alright," Mary smiled. "What book does Sammy want to read?"
"Goodnight Moo – ouch," he giggled suddenly when Sam happily tried to shove Dean's entire fist into his mouth. "What is he doing," he squealed. "He's trying to eat me!"
"You must taste good," Mary teased, tickling both their bellies.
Dean giggled even harder and Sam continued to chomp down in delight. "Stop it, Sammy," Dean scolded with no heat behind the words. He lessened his brother's grip on his hand and pulled his drool-covered fist out of harm's reach.
Sam didn't seem too perplexed by the sudden loss of fingers, just smiled widely up at Dean, a content serenity playing at the corners of his lips.
"He's always smiling at me," Dean mused with eyes locked intently on the boy beside him.
"He always saves his best smiles for you, Dean."
*
There was nothing good about February and that included the knee-high snow. Bates Motel was the third place they stayed in the past three months, family friends and close relatives nowhere to be found. There was no place for them to go, save the amicable motels where not a lot of questions were asked and you could rent out rooms on a weekly basis.
Dean tugged on his dad's pant leg for the fourth consecutive time, declaring that both his blanket and Sam's rabbit were missing. "Sammy can't sleep without his rabbit and I need my blanket."
John continued to scribble furiously into the leather-bound, brown journal, his eyes never leaving the sight of his pen.
"Dad," Dean sighed.
But John was too consumed in the task at hand, his eyes subtly welling with unshed emotion, his hand drawing unknown symbols – he was overwhelmed and completely checked-out. Dean knew that when that look appeared on his dad's countenance, all bets were out the window.
"Sammy," Dean rolled his eyes when his brother started to fuss when his stocky legs and arms couldn't propel his crawling body over the barricade of pillows that surrounded him on the bed.
"Lay down, Sammy." Dean bounced across the room and jumped into the middle of the pillow fort. He pushed slightly on his brother's chest to make him lie back down and to his astonishment, Sam complied.
"Babb," Sam mumbled around the pacifier in his mouth; one non-word and Dean didn't even have to ask twice to know the answer.
"I don't know where it is," Dean explained. "I think we left it at the last motel."
"No."
"Go to sleep, Sammy. We'll find it tomorrow, alright?"
"Baaaabb," he whined, but Dean decided to ignore it this time and instead grabbed the polyester comforter from the end of the bed and tucked it around both their bodies.
"Goodnight, Sam," he yawned into his brother's face.
"Dee."
"And goodnight Dean," Dean giggled and Sam puffed out a sweet breath of air that hit him squarely in the mouth – the same breath that reminded him so much of that autumn day, that he clutched Sam even tighter as they slept.