Frail, Chapter 4
xxxx
"The ninja turtles are an interesting choice for Christmas cookies," Jo commented.
"Dean!" Sam's yelp of protest from across the kitchen made Dean hunch his shoulders.
"Tattle-tale," he muttered to Jo, who smiled at him, unrepentant.
Sam had crossed the room and was frowning unhappily at the cookies his older brother had cut out.
"Come on, man," he said. "Be serious."
Sam pried the
Michelangelo cutter out of Dean's hand and replaced it with one of
a plain, old angel. Tommy joined them, looking at Dean critically.
"You're gonna have to start over," he said, reaching out to mash the unfortunate turtles into a ball.
"Hey!" Dean protested, grabbing the small wrist before the little hand attached to it could do any damage.
"Ah, ah," Jo intervened, gently moving Tommy out of the way. "Ninja turtles aren't completely out of the question." Both Sam and Tommy made shocked, disapproving noises. "Just… maybe we could start on some more traditional Christmas shapes, Dean?"
He scowled at his brother and Tommy, but acquiesced, waggling the angel cookie cutter at them before he put it down to start rolling out the next ball of dough.
"Thank you."
Dean had been a grudging participant in the baking from the get-go. Having failed to convince Jake and Michael to join the festivities, Tommy turned to Sam and Dean. Sam had been unselfconsciously enthusiastic about the Christmas baking, and the double team of Tommy and Sam had been impossible for Dean to refuse. Jo had watched with amusement and no small amount of pity as Tommy's pleading and Sam's excitement had battered down Dean's defenses.
"Fine," he'd ultimately grumbled.
"Sucker," Jake had muttered derisively as soon as Dean was out of earshot.
Dean's reluctance had manifested itself in sarcastic remarks and lots of banging things around, which Sam had cheerfully ignored, content that he'd gotten his way. If Tommy had been initially cowed by these signs of Dean's displeasure, he soon adopted Sam's attitude, chattering happily at both Winchesters as they'd worked. After they'd finished mixing the ingredients, Sam handed Dean a bowl of dough and an old Tupperware container with a selection of random cookie cutters, assigning him the task of cutting out the sugar cookies.
His first choice rejected, Dean used the angel shape until he couldn't stand it any more, and then dug around the box of cutters for something else. He paused over a shape, picking it up slowly.
"We used to have this one," he said suddenly.
Jo turned to look. "Which one?"
He held it out to her. It was an old metal cookie cutter in the shape of a Christmas tree. Jo had gotten it as a wedding present almost 30 years before.
Sam moved over to Dean, taking the tree from him and examining it carefully. He peered into the box, stirring the contents slightly with a finger.
"Are there other ones we used to have?" he asked.
Dean's hand joined Sam's and they sorted through the container.
"Yeah, this one, I think." Dean pulled out a Santa Claus. "And maybe this one?" A different angel.
They were from the same set as the Christmas tree. Jo looked in the box of the remaining cookie cutters and pulled out another one – a star.
"What about this one?" She handed it to Dean. "And I think there may have been a present and a wreath." It had been a box of six. Two were lost.
Dean nodded. "The present," he said softly. "I always wanted that one." His gaze was a little unfocused.
Sam was watching Dean uncertainly. "You never talked about making cookies before."
Dean blinked. He glanced at Sam and then away. "I forgot," he said, turning his back to his brother, setting the cookie cutters they'd gathered to the side.
"You forgot?" Sam wasn't questioning it, just trying to understand.
"Sam, I was four. Stuff is… I don't know… hazy." Dean was focusing all his attention on rolling out the dough. "Weird things make me remember sometimes, OK?"
Sam was silent for a beat. "Yeah. OK." He went back to his place, stirring the gingerbread dough.
Tommy looked from Sam to Dean and then at Jo. She smiled at him.
"Who's going to help me make the icing?" she asked.
The quiet between the brothers had been thoughtful, rather than tense, and Jo had let it be. Tommy maintained an uneasy silence for about two minutes and then began a medley of Christmas carols that Jo joined in on. Sam's tone deaf contribution to Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer had been particularly poignant, and Dean's heckling helped make the rest of the afternoon pass quickly.
Tommy's help had lasted until the first set of cookies came out of the oven. He'd taken a tray with sugar cookies and milk on it out to his brothers and uncle never to return. Sam's downfall had been a soaking bowl of red icing that he'd upended down his front as he was washing dishes, dying his shirt, jeans and shoes an ugly shade of pink. He'd stripped down to his boxers, tossed his clothes into the washer and made a dash to the back of the house for a shower. He was later waylaid by cookies and milk in the television room as well.
In the end, it had been Dean and Jo who'd put the last of the cookies in to bake. They stood at the kitchen sink, Jo rinsing while Dean put dishes in the dish washer.
"Sorry for the cookie drama earlier," Dean said suddenly as he bent over to drop a handful of silverware in the holder.
Jo cast a quick glance at him before she shrugged, handing him a bowl.
"That wasn't drama," she said easily. "You know the drama that goes on in this house."
The corner of Dean's mouth quirked up as the looked over at her.
A couple more dishes went into the dishwasher.
"I think it's hard not to remember a parent," Jo said. "Tommy goes through stages where he can't get enough about his parents. It's not always easy on those of us do remember. Bringing up those memories."
There was a comfortable silence.
"Sometimes I think Sam doesn't get that I was four when she died. He thinks I should remember, and a lot of times I don't."
He paused.
"I always tried to tell him everything I remembered," he said.
Jo had no doubt about that. Thoughtfully, she faced him, leaning a hip against the counter.
"On some levels, I would imagine that in Sam's mind you've always been 'grown up,' so it's hard for him to think of you as a child. It probably doesn't occur to him very often that you weren't much more than a baby yourself when y'all lost your mother," she said gently.
Dean nodded accepting a plastic tumbler from her.
"May I ask you a question?" she asked hesitantly.
Dean found a place for one last glass. He closed the door of the dishwasher and turned his face slightly toward her, but didn't meet her eyes.
"How did she die?"
Jo nodded.
"A fire."
She couldn't help the sharp intake of breath.
"Oh, Dean."
"I woke up because Dad was yelling and when I went out in the hall, he was there with the baby. Dad gave me Sam and told me to run and not look back."
His eyes finally came to hers. "So I did."
Jo swallowed. She reached out and took his hand. "You did exactly the right thing, Dean."
He eased his fingers out of hers and smiled tightly, taking a step back.
"I know," he said, expression closed, not believing a word.
xxxx
Luke's daughter and her family arrived the following day. Although Dean and Sam had tried to insist that they should move out to the motel so that Jenny and Henry and their daughter, Macy, could be in the house, they were overridden every time they tried to force the issue.
"Have you lived in a house with a small child recently?" Luke asked blandly.
"Really, Dean. We appreciate it, but I promise. It's better that we have our own space." Dean had tried again when the Fosters arrived. Jenny smiled at him, but her eyes followed her husband who was scowling as he dragged their suitcases out of the back of the station wagon toward the door to their room. Jenny was heavily pregnant with their second child, and holding Macy, looked ready to drop.
The Winchesters had met Luke's children the weekend of the wedding, but they'd barely exchanged more than a sentence or two, Jenny and Daniel having understandably focused the majority of their attention on friends and family. This would be the first time Dean and Sam had spent any time with Luke's daughter, and Dean found himself mildly uneasy about the new dynamic.
Luke's son, Daniel, would be spending Christmas with his girlfriend's family in Florida. Luke had told them at dinner a couple of nights earlier that Daniel planned to ask Cynthia to marry him on Christmas Eve.
"At least we'll only be responsible for the rehearsal dinner this time around," he'd said dryly to Jo.
Jo had stuck her bottom lip out at him. "With only boys left, I'm never going to get a chance to plan a wedding." She'd looked consideringly around the table at the five young men sitting there. "I think one of you should fall in love with a girl who has a bad relationship with her mother, so that I can help with the wedding." She'd nodded her head to herself as if that settled the matter. The oldest four had pointedly ignored her. The youngest had mulled over his aunt's words.
"Abby says her mom's mean sometimes," he'd said thoughtfully.
xxxx
Macy was, in the words of her grandfather, a pistol. Bright and inquisitive, she talked a blue streak while in constant motion. Her five "uncles" were enthralled.
"Sam. Michael." Jenny found them seated on the floor in Dean's and Sam's room, stuffed animals and a couple of dolls scattered around them on the floor. Macy was directing some sort of game. The two young men turned toward the door.
"You know that you don't have to do whatever she says, right?"
"Oh. Yeah, of course," said Sam, as if not understanding why she felt the need to ask. His finger nails had been painted bright pink.
"We don't," agreed Michael. His hair had a pig tail over each ear.
"Found it!" Dean's voice was triumphant behind her. He held aloft a green plush elephant.
"'Her,' Uncle Dean. Ellie is a girl!" Macy's voice was impatient.
"I found her, I mean," he amended.
Jenny looked down at Dean's bare feet. Fluorescent purple toe nails.
That's it.
"Macy. Come here, please."
Her mother's tone was pleasant, but unmistakably firm. The little girl climbed slowly to her feet.
"Jenny, we're sorry," Dean said, exchanging a glace with Sam and Michael. "We didn't…"
"Dean this is so not about anything y'all did. This about Macy taking advantage…"
"She wasn't…" Now Sam and Michael scrambled up.
"So y'all usually paint your nails," she asked, an eyebrow raising. Sam jerked his hands behind his back and Dean curled his toes under.
"Ummm."
"And I've never seen you wear your hair that way, little brother." Quick fingers pulled out the small rubber bands.
"Well," Michael mumbled smoothing down his hair.
"We'll be right back." She held out her hand to her daughter and, dark head bowed, Macy took it as she trailed after her mother.
"I told you letting her paint our nails was going too far, Sam!" Dean hissed.
"You said it was going too far when she wanted to paint your nails, Dean," Sam retorted. "You thought it was hilarious when she wanted to paint mine." He huffed out a breath at his brother. "It's not my fault you cave at the first sign of tears."
Dean scowled at Sam. It was true. He'd always been helpless in the face of tears. Sam's tears being the ones that had broken him more often than not when they were growing up. Though, of course, Sam wouldn't recognize that.
"Bi-- Brat," he growled.
"Ass," Sam returned, smirking that Dean had changed what he was going to say. Jo really hated the word "bitch."
There was a motion at the door and all three young men turned toward it.
"I'm sorry," Macy said softly.
Three sets of male eyes looked at her mother in confusion.
"Macy's sorry that she's been bossing you boys around and asking you to do things that you may not have wanted to do," she looked down at her daughter, "but have done anyway because you love her so much. She's sorry she took advantage of how much you love her."
Michael stepped forward and crouched down in front of the girl.
"It's OK, Macy." The child put her arms around his neck, and Michael hugged her gently. He looked up at Jenny.
"It's really OK," he said again, smiling a little shamefacedly at her. "I've kind of had fun."
Jenny smiled at him, shaking her head. "Well, you're not going to have to live full time with the little monster you've created after the holidays," she said dryly.
"It's our job, as uncles, to spoil her, right?" Dean asked.
He was watching Jenny carefully, not sure how she'd react to his claim of "uncle" on her daughter even though she'd been the one who had bestowed that title on both him and Sam.
Jenny met his eye squarely, reminding him of her father for the first time since he'd met her.
"And a mother's duty to bring the hammer down when it's needed."
Dean snorted softly, nodding his acknowledgement of that truth.
"Fair enough."
They exchanged brief smiles of understanding.
"Macy, honey, will you play nicely with your uncles while mommy takes a nap?"
The child nodded, snagging her toy from Dean as she re-entered the room.
"Jo said she'd watch her if y'all get tired, OK?" Jenny added to Dean as he followed Macy in.
"Sure," Dean agreed, just because he knew she wanted him to. "I hope you get some rest."
Jenny sighed ruefully, pointing at her belly. "This one's a night owl."
xxxx
At dinner that night, Jenny replayed her conversation with the Winchesters and Michael, heartlessly including the painted nails and pigtails in her story.
Jake and Luke had hollered out loud, demanding to see Sam's fingernails and Dean's toenails, which were, by the time supper rolled around, completely devoid of polish. A raid of Jo's bathroom had produced a bottle of polish remover that they'd practically bathed in to get all the color off.
"I'm surprised she didn't braid Sam's hair," Luke drawled, rolling he eyes. "It's long enough." He looked pointedly at Michael. "If you'd get a haircut…"
There were groans around the table. The length of the boys' hair had been one of the few things that Jo and Luke couldn't agree on. Jo actually liked the shaggy look the boys were all wearing these days and so refused to back Luke when he tried to insist that the kids – Michael specifically – get a haircut. Sam's hair, which had never bothered Luke before except on principle, was now an added voice of dissent in his campaign for short hair on the males in the family. And so he'd expanded his war to include Sam.
"Now Jake and Dean," he continued loudly over the moaning, refusing to back down. "That's some masculine hair on those two." Jacob and Dean clinked milk glasses across the table.
"Whatever," Michael and Sam said in chorus, secure in Jo's approval. They toasted each other.
A chair scraped back.
"Well, good-night."
Jenny's husband, Henry, stood, picking up his plate and taking it to the counter.
There was a brief moment of confusion among the rest of the family.
"Oh!" Jo said, surprised, looking around the table. "Well, Henry, there's dessert coming up, if you'd like some. We can get these plates cleared…"
"No, thank you, Jo," he said, smiling politely. "I'm just going to go on to bed." He looked at Jenny.
She stood.
"Yes, thank you, Jo. We really probably should get Macy to bed." She was smiling, but her eyes were apologetic. She reached for her plate and her daughter's.
"Leave that, sweetheart," Jo said. "The boys will get it." She stood. "Are you sure you don't want any dessert?"
"Good night." Henry said it just before he shut the back door behind him.
There was an awkward silence.
Jenny picked up her daughter. Macy had her thumb in her mouth.
"Thank you, Jo," she said, kissing Jo on the cheek as she moved past her. "Maybe we can get some tomorrow?"
Luke stood as Jenny approached him.
"Baby, are you sure?" he asked softly, before she kissed him.
"Yeah, Daddy, I am," she answered. She looked around the table. "Good night, y'all," she said. Macy wiggled her fingers at everyone, thumb still firmly in place.
"Night."
The door closed behind her.
"OK, that was rude."
Jake spoke first.
"Jacob." Jo's voice was quelling, but her eyes were concerned as they met Luke's across the table.
Luke's own face was troubled as he looked at his wife. But "Let's get this table cleared" was what he said. And "I'm in the mood for some cobbler."
xxxx
"Do you like Henry?"
The question was from Jake and addressed to Luke. Luke saw Dean's head come up from where he was working. The three of them were in an old shed out behind the house, making repairs that Luke thought could transform the run-down building into a barn of sorts. There should be enough space for a couple of stalls and a tack room—if they'd measured correctly. A small field to the back of it, fenced, would make a serviceable corral. Jake was in ecstasy.
Luke sighed. He'd been afraid he was going to have to have this conversation with one of the boys during the week. Henry had not endeared himself to many of his new in-laws over the last few days.
"Well," he started.
"He's kind of a jackass," Jake said.
Luke heard Dean's muffled snort and turned to pin that young man with a stare. Dean ducked his head back to the board he was painting.
"Jake…" Luke tried again.
"Why would Jenny even marry him?" He sounded personally offended. "She's really cool."
Luke bit his lip, deliberately avoiding Dean's gaze this time. Jacob had something of a crush on his quiet step-sister (step-cousin?), and it had not gone unnoticed – or uncommented on – by the adults in the family.
"I know Henry can be difficult sometimes," Luke acknowledged. He wasn't about to admit to Jake his own struggles with the man. Not at this point anyway. "But he has his good qualities."
Now, Jake snorted. "Like what?"
Crap.
"Well…" Luke tried to think. "He's smart." Jake was watching him, expression completely unconvinced. OK, what else?
"He tries." This was from Dean, and Luke looked at the younger man, surprised.
"He does." Dean sounded defensive. "The other night when he left the table before dessert?" Jake and Luke nodded. "He hasn't done that again." Dean lifted a shoulder slightly. "I bet Jenny told him he'd been rude." He returned his attention to his painting. "You have to give him credit for trying."
Luke raised an eyebrow. He hadn't noticed that.
"Look, Jake. I know that Henry's a little awkward socially, but I don't think he means to be rude. He's just never been around a family like ours before."
Henry was the only child of a single mother, and seemed to expect a degree of quiet and control in his surroundings that just didn't exist in the Sweed household. It hadn't even before Luke had married Jo, but three young boys combined with the personalities of the Winchester brothers created a noise to chaos ratio that could be overwhelming to even the most seasoned. Henry was way out of his depth, and he responded by shutting down and shutting out.
"And the truth is… what matters most is that Jenny loves him." This was a mantra that Luke chanted under his breath during visits. "And Henry loves Jenny." He paused to let that sink in. "He may not show it the way you and I would, but he does."
Jake's eyes were downcast as he absorbed what Luke said.
"Still…" the boy mumbled.
Smiling with sympathy, Luke reached out and put a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "I know it's hard, and that, well, it sucks sometimes, but the best way we can love Jenny is to try to love Henry, too." He squeezed gently. "OK?"
Jake scuffed the toe of his tennis shoe in the dirt of the floor. "Yeah, OK."
Henry wasn't a bad man. Luke knew that. Henry had deep convictions and solid integrity. He loved Jenny and Macy without reservation. But, good Lord. Luke had never met such a humorless, rigid man in all his days. Although, frankly, marriage to Jenny and the birth of Macy had softened Henry fairly significantly.
Jake had no idea.
Late in the afternoon, Jake left with Michael for a hayride several of the parents had set up for the kids. The fact that there would be hot chocolate and carols as they rode had prompted great eye-rolling from Jake at the cheesiness of it all. But he clearly hadn't wanted to miss out either.
Dean stayed behind after Jake left, and Luke enjoyed the company. Dean was a clever hand at construction—quiet and diligent once he got started. The two men worked in an easy silence for awhile.
"Listen." Luke was holding the end of a 2x4 Dean was cutting with a circular saw. Dean looked up.
"Thanks for what you said earlier about Henry. I get so frustrated with the man I forget that he does try."
Dean shrugged, bending his attention to his cut again.
"Sam does that sometimes. Tells me I'm being rude when I don't realize it."
Watching Dean speculatively, Luke let the silence fall again.
It had taken Luke awhile to get a handle on the young man he was working with. Luke had watched Dean closely when he and his brother had first shown up at the motel, wary of any potential for danger to Jo and the boys. Jo's immediate connection with Dean and Sam had alleviated some of Luke's uneasiness because he trusted her insight into people. But he'd still kept an eye on the Winchesters, particularly Dean, who Luke judged to be one of those handsome kids who'd always been able to get by on his looks, long-practiced at smooth-talking his way out of trouble—usually leaving behind a mess for others to clean up, rarely touched by the devastation left in his wake.
In some ways, Luke thought he'd probably been pretty accurate in that initial assessment; but he also recognized that there was a deep-lying sensitivity in Dean Winchester that very few people ever got a chance to see. Even Sam didn't seem to see it a great deal of the time.
The trouble, Luke had discovered, was that Dean was a skillful chameleon, changing faces according to the need of the moment. Luke knew that everyone, to some degree or another, put on a different face with different people. The interesting thing to Luke was how different each of Dean's faces could be, and the puzzle that Luke chewed over was which of these faces was closest to the truth of who this young man really was.
In Luke's estimation, he and Jo had probably gotten a better glimpse of Dean's true nature than most. Primarily because the boy had been so worn down when he and Sam had stumbled into their lives. The kid had been too physically tired, too emotionally exhausted, to maintain the walls that usually shielded him—walls that were mostly impregnable to the world, but that had been surprisingly fragile in Jo's presence.
The brashness and protective arrogance had fallen away, been chipped away, exposing a strength and a kindness in Dean that had caught Luke by surprise. Underneath the "in your face" attitude and wicked charm had been a maturity and thoughtfulness beyond anything Luke would have expected, and it had brought him up short. How often, he wondered, had he misjudged people by holding onto first impressions?
Luke caught the 2x4 when it dipped, the pitch of the saw's grind changing as it finished its cut. He set that piece to the side, reaching for the next board. Dean tossed the extra wood toward a pile of kindling in the corner. He took the end of the piece of lumber Luke lowered toward him, checking for the tick on the edge indicating where he should make the cut. Finding it, he eased the board into the blade, thumbing the trigger of the saw, ready to start.
"You're a good judge of people, Dean," Luke said, looking at the young man across from him. "You see deeper into folks than most people – including yourself – give you credit for."
Dean's head came up. He was clearly uncertain what to do with Luke's statement and the implicit compliment.
"Thanks," he said hesitantly.
Luke shrugged.
"Just callin' it like I see it," he said easily. He checked his watch. "I figure we'll give it 15 more minutes. Sound good?"
Dean nodded, pressing the start button of the saw.
xxxx
"OK, sweetpea, you got it?" Jo was holding a carefully measured cup of flour over a large mixing bowl. Macy, standing on a chair next to her, took the handle of the cup in two small hands.
"Uh huh," she said, little tongue poking out as she held it.
"Good girl," Jo said encouragingly. "Now, just dump it in."
Meticulously, Macy turned the cup over. She handed the utensil back to Jo.
"Salt next." Jo put the cup into the sink, reaching for the teaspoons.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam standing in the doorway.
"Hey, sweetheart," she said. Macy pirouetted in her chair.
"Sam!"
"Hey, punkin." Sam dug a finger into the girl's tummy and she giggled.
"Stop!"
Sam obeyed and stepped up close to Macy.
"What are you making?"
"Gram's showing me how to make chocolate chip cookies, so we can take them in the car tomorrow when we go home!"
"Sweet," Sam said.
It was the day after Christmas and the family, including the Winchesters, would be dispersing the following morning. He peered into the bowl.
"Are you making enough for Dean and me?" he asked.
Jo slanted him a glance and a small smile. "What do you think?"
He grinned.
"You can't help, Sam," Macy said suddenly. "Me and Gram are baking."
"Gram and I." Jo corrected her without thinking.
"Gram and I are baking," Macy said carefully.
"Honey, if Sam wants to help…"
"No," Macy said stubbornly. "I'm helping!"
"Macy…" Jo started.
"It's OK, Jo." Sam cut in quickly. "I got to make cookies before Macy got here, right? It's Macy's turn."
Sam watched Macy and was pleased to see the slight pout fade.
"You can watch, if you want," she conceded graciously.
Sam moved to a corner of the kitchen, hitching up on the counter, stretching long legs out along the edge, careful to keep his feet off the flat surface.
Jo raised an eyebrow at him, but Sam just grinned, not moving. She shook her head.
Both Winchester boys liked to sit on the counter at that corner spot, backs against the cabinets, watching her work, usually laughing. Michael and Jake had followed their lead and taken up residence there, too, when Sam or Dean weren't occupying the space. Tommy'd be up there soon, she knew, as soon as he was tall enough to make the hop without having to pull up a chair.
In theory, Jo had a problem with people sitting on her clean kitchen counters.
In theory.
In practice?
When one of the boys was perched up there, sharing his day, keeping her company—she couldn't scold him for that. And they all knew it.
Sam settled in and Jo and Macy kept up their steady progress through the recipe. Occasionally, Sam reached over, sticking a finger in the bowl. Checking their work, he told Macy solemnly, as he put the finger in his mouth. She was doing an excellent job. The girl beamed.
Jo was not taken in and shook a spoon at him behind the child's back with a mock scowl. He widened his eyes at her, taking another taste when Macy asked him to check now, see if she'd added the chocolate chips right. In fact, she had. Sam was relieved. Macy was thrilled.
Jo was amused.
After Macy had finished putting the cookies in the oven and been collected for her nap, Sam continued to sit on the kitchen counter, legs now dangling, using a finger to scrape out the last of the cookie dough from the mixing bowl. Jo cleaned up around him.
"Macy's four, huh?" he asked, examining the interior of the bowl carefully for smudges of sweetness he may have missed.
"Yeah, she is," Jo agreed, running a wet rag over the counter.
"Dean was her age when our mom died." He said it casually, apparently just making an observation. He looked up at Jo, putting his finger in his mouth again.
"Yes," she said somewhat cautiously.
"It's funny to think of him being a little kid like that."
"Yes," she said again, watching him, not sure where, if anywhere, he was going with this.
Sam hopped off the counter, moving around Jo to put the almost spotless bowl in the sink. He turned on the water and let it run.
"It's weird, isn't it, that if Macy never saw us again, she might not remember us at all?" He squirted some soap into the bowl and started to swirl it around with a brush. He looked over at Jo. "But we'd always remember her, wouldn't we?"
He said it so surely, eyes meeting her with a certainty and sweetness that stole her breath.
Jo felt her throat close up, and she was frozen there, clutching a damp dish towel, tears starting into her eyes.
What was this sudden, awful ache that gripped her?
It was so many different things, rushing at her, overwhelming her—the idea of never seeing Macy again, of her love for that precious little girl being forgotten; the thought of Dean, four and bereft, slowly losing moments like these with his own mother; that knowledge of a mother's love for her babies, fading from the memory of a little boy who'd adored her, never known by the boy standing here in Jo's kitchen.
Jo swallowed hard, willing the tears away.
"Yes, we would," she said softly. "We'd always remember." She handed him the towel.
Sam nodded thoughtfully, accepting the cloth and running it around the rim of the bowel. He finished drying the dish and bent down, opening the cupboard next to him and putting it away.
He leaned back against the counter, eyes on the toes of his high-tops.
"Even if she didn't remember, it wouldn't mean that we hadn't loved her, would it?" he said, thinking it through.
"No, honey, it wouldn't. That love would be true, no matter what she remembered."
He nodded again, eyes still down.
Moving close, Jo leaned against the counter next to him, her shoulder just brushing his arm.
She felt the sigh run through him.
"You OK?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, quirking a small smile at her, an image of Dean in that brief moment. "Yeah, I'm fine."
xxxx