~~~~~Chapter 7~~~~~

(Monday 4:10PM)

The house smelled like warm bread and melted cheese. Normally, that would have been as comforting as a fleece blanket over flannel pajamas on a cold March afternoon. And cold it was. The temperatures had dropped to a whopping 16 degrees, with a wind chill that was doing its best to make that feel balmy. The weather stations had been teasing snow all morning as if it were a trailer for a blockbuster movie, but were cagey about when and how much as though afraid to give away the big reveal and spoil the show.

Jody sat on the couch with Sammy in her lap. The clock on the mantel ticked away steadily, each little click sounding louder than the one before until she was tempted to toss the damn thing out the front door. She'd have done it, but Sammy was watching it, his lack-luster eyes swinging between it and the front door and back.

Even sick, Sammy was one smart cookie. He knew how to count to three on his fingers. He couldn't tell time, but he understood what the hands meant and how they interacted with each other, how the skinny red hand whizzed around the dial, pulling the long black hand one notch after every cycle, and how the short black hand only moved to the next number after the long hand had gone all the way around. He'd asked Jody how long until Dean would be home, insistent on a number instead of soon or before supper or any other vague answer she'd tried to give him, and he had been watching that clock ever since. He seemed to be feeling better, though his fever wasn't improving, so maybe it was helping him to see those hands eke along toward 4:30.

She hoped Dean hadn't needed to stop for more than just gas along the way, because she'd only been able to pad him so much.

At 4:10, she heard a low rumble from outside. It could have been the wind. It had been picking up as evening approached, whooshing through the trees like scaled-down diesel trains. Sammy's head shot up, and she knew.

"Dee!"

Figures he'd know the sound of that car. He probably knew it in his very bones. He pushed the army blanket aside, scrambling to untangle himself from it so he could get down and run to the door. Jody scooped him up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and under his legs.

"It's cold outside," she explained as she tucked him in and carried him to the front window.

"An' I been sick," he replied as though finishing her sentence.

"You're still sick, kiddo."

"Dee make me aww better now."

The confidence in that statement, the sheer faith he had in his big brother's ability to fix any and every hurt or ailment or problem, was humbling. She wondered if Dean had had to live up to that expectation his whole life. It seemed as though he had, that maybe he'd wanted that responsibility and had placed it on his own shoulders.

What do I always tell you?

Nothing bad is gonna happen as long as you're around.

What kind of pressure did that put on a person? What happened when he couldn't live up to it?

The rumbling grew louder, and as they watched, the sleek, black car came into view, salt-stained and mud-splattered.

"Dee!" Sammy shrieked excitedly, showing the most animation and energy he'd shown all day. "Dody, Dee's home!"

He threw his arms around her neck and hugged her so hard, his head dug into her jawbone. She hugged him back and told herself that the tears she could feel stinging behind her closed eyelids were tears of joy because he was so happy.

~~~~~SPN~~~~SPN~~~~~

The car wasn't in her driveway ten seconds before the driver's side door creaked open. Dean was much slower to emerge, moving stiffly and carefully as he pulled himself out of the car and pushed the door closed. Jody immediately started triaging, her worry warring with annoyance that he'd said nothing about being injured. He walked slightly hunched over, one hand wrapped around his ribs and the other clutching his coat closed at his throat. He dipped his head against the icy wind and walked quickly—as quick as one could walk when one was clearly in pain—to her door taking the most direct route even though it meant traipsing through the snow instead of circling the extra two yards to take the walk.

He mounted her steps and she opened the door to him stomping the snow from his boots and the hem of his jeans. Sammy squirmed in her arms, eager to get to Dean the very second he stepped through the door.

"Easy, Sammy." Jody shifted him onto her hip to get a better hold on him. "Let him come in and take his coat off first."

Dean lifted his head and reached out for the storm door. He looked exhausted, dark rings under his eyes. If he'd shaved once since Friday, she'd eat her badge. The urge to get the name of the ME he'd been working with and give her a piece of her mind for letting him drive in his condition was almost overwhelming.

She held the storm door open, stepping aside so Dean could drag himself up and over the threshold. "How bad is it?" she asked.

"Look that good, do I?" he remarked. He sounded exhausted, too, his voice rougher than usual. He shrugged his coat off one arm—the one not wrapped around his middle—then carefully reached across his chest to peel it off the other. A small grunt of pain escaped him as the coat cleared his elbow, but Jody had no time to ask him about it. He looked up at Sammy and the smile that spread across his face wiped nearly 200 miles of exhaustion off his face.

"Hey, buddy!" He reached out both hands to his brother and Sammy launched himself into Dean's arms before either of them was really ready.

"Dee!"

Dean staggered back a step under the sudden weight of that tiny body, another grunt—this one considerably louder and more pain-filled than the first—punching out of him. Jody noticed his face lose a shade or two. "Whoa! Go easy on me, Tiger," he said. Still, he pulled Sammy in close, letting him wrap his little arms and legs around him in a chokehold that would have made a WWF champion turn blue. He closed his eyes and just held him as if he'd thought he might never see him again.

Jody pushed the door close behind them.

Sammy was shrieking a steady stream of DeeDeeDeeDee that was quickly escalating into all-out crying. He clung to him tightly, would have burrowed himself into Dean's shirt if not for the tight hold Dean had on him, too. Jody reached out to take him back. It couldn't have been doing Dean's injury—injuries?—any good, but Dean shook his head.

"It's okay," he told her. "Really." To prove his point, he gave Sammy a little bounce, then leaned him back a bit so he could see his face. "Dude, you better not be blowin' snot bubbles all over my favorite shirt."

Sammy giggled. And, just like that, the crying stopped.

It took some doing, but Dean managed to toe off his snow-wet boots without falling over. He padded over to the couch on stocking feet and set Sammy down on the cushion before lowering himself gingerly beside him. Sammy immediately climbed back into his lap, dropped his head against Dean's chest, and popped his thumb into his mouth.

"Still not feeling too good?" Dean asked.

Sammy shook his head. "'M hot," he said around the digit.

Dean pressed his knuckles to Sammy's forehead and scowled. He looked up a Jody. "No change?"

"Not really," she answered. "He's been quiet most of the day. Tylenol's been doing the rest." She looked at the clock on the mantel, not that she didn't know exactly what time it was. "He's due for another dose soon.

He just nodded. "Hey, Sammy. Ya mind me takin' a look at you?"

He really didn't wait for an answer, though Jody doubted Sammy would have refused anything Dean had asked of him at that moment—well, except something that might mean leaving Dean's side. Pushing aside the army blanket, Dean lifted Sammy's shirt to reveal his chest.

His smooth, unmarked chest. No sigil. Not even so much as a rash. They both let out a deep sigh of relief.

"No tickew," Sammy said with a little pout.

"Not even a little one?" Dean teased, but he only walked his fingers up Sammy's sternum, then tapped him on the nose. Sammy giggled.

Jody was going to miss that sound.

Shirt back in place, Sammy scooted back into Dean's lap, clutching his tiger and the army blanket in one arm—the arm attached to the thumb in his mouth—and the chest pocket of Dean's shirt in the other. Once again, Dean flinched, barely biting off another grunt of pain.

"Dammit, Winchester," Jody hissed under her breath.

"What?"

He wasn't fooling anyone. Jody gave him a withering look. She'd had hardened criminals quail under that look, but Dean Winchester just gave her back his best butter-wouldn't-melt smirk and shrugged his shoulder.

Then, clearly, wished he hadn't.

She folded her arms in from of her chest and called his bluff. "That would be more convincing if you weren't turning green."

Okay, so he wasn't turning green. He was more the color of watered-down milk, but close enough. He was clearly in pain and trying—unsuccessfully—to hide it.

"It's nuthin'," Dean said.

"You're a terrible liar."

"Hey! I'm a fantastic liar."

She'd forgotten just how infuriating he could be. "Did you even let the good doctor take a look at that nuthin' before you tore outta there, or are she and I gonna have to have a few words?"

"Be my guest. She should be calling with an update in an hour or two."

He gave her a meaningful look; though Jody wasn't sure he'd meant to or even realized he'd given himself away. It wasn't too hard for her to guess what he wasn't saying: he was more hopeful his ME friend in Nebraska would be calling with an update—preferably a favorable one—than he was convinced that an update would be forthcoming at all. Were they in a waiting game, then, helpless to do anything but monitor the victims' stats and hope they improved, that whatever spell had been cast on them simply wore off now that the caster was gone?

She assumed he was gone, but Dean hadn't been specific. He'd merely said that they'd 'got the sonuvabitch'. Did that mean he was still alive? What did one do with such a person? It wasn't as if the law would recognize the supernatural threat behind the mundane one. Most likely, they'd only see a nut-job who'd spent too much time in his mother's basement playing World of Warcraft and now couldn't separate reality from fantasy. They wouldn't see a witch who'd been turning men into children and living off their stolen life force. They'd see a delusional psychopathic serial killer who thought he was a witch.

"So, what now?" she asked, because it was all she could ask.

Dean made a face that Jody could only translate as a shoulder-less shrug. "Now? I could really use a shower, a drink, a heapin' plate of whatever you got bakin' in the oven that smells so damn good, and to sleep for a week. Not, necessarily, in that order."

Jody sighed. "Yeah? Well, that's how you're getting them." She walked over and scooped Sammy up out of his lap. "C'mere, sweetie. Wha'diya say you let Dean get cleaned up while we make him some of that hot cocoa?"

"Wiff the big, huge-mongus mawshmawwows?" Sammy asked, his fever-bright eyes wide with excitement.

"Of course." She tossed a wicked smirk over her shoulder as Sammy wrapped himself around her body like a spider monkey. Damn, she was going to miss that, too. "Towels are in the cabinet under the sink."

~~~~~SPN~~~~~SPN~~~~~

Forty-five minutes later, Dean appeared in the kitchen looking considerably better than when he'd first arrived. His hair was still damp from the shower, sticking up in disorderly spikes as though he'd simply run a towel over the hop of his head. He was still in the same clothes, too tired or sore to go back out to the car to get his stuff before he'd headed to her bathroom. She might have suspected that he hadn't brought it in with him in the first place because he hadn't planned on sticking around, except no way would he have taken Sammy out in that weather with such a high fever.

No way would she have let him.

Sammy sat at the table drawing, paper and crayons scattered in front of him. He, too, looked a little better than he had a few hours ago, more alert and happy. Jody wished she could say the latest dose of Tylenol had finally turned the tides, but it was still too early to tell. Dean circled the table and stood behind him, serendipitously confirming what Jody already knew with a playful ruffle of Sammy's floppy hair: his fever wasn't dropping.

Not significantly. Not enough that they could let go the collective breaths they were holding and count themselves out of the woods.

Sammy looked up at Dean and smiled, his dimples poking two deep holes in his flushed face. As far as he was concerned, his world was set. Dean was back. Nothing bad could possibly happen now. Dean returned his smile, betraying none of the doubts, fears, or uncertainties he had to be feeling, and ruffled his hair again.

"So, where's this incredible hot cocoa I keep hearing about?" Dean asked. That was for Sammy's benefit only. The look he gave Jody as he continued around the table and approached the counter told a different story: the least of which being that there had better be something a little more potent in that steaming mug than just marshmallows.

Jody discretely held up a nip of whiskey. "One or two?"

"I had fwee in mine!" Sammy exclaimed. "An' dey was huuuge!"

"Yeah? Think I should go with three, too?" Dean replied. He made a face at Jody, pointing to the nip in her hand, then holding up two fingers in front of his chest where Sammy couldn't possibly see. She rolled her eyes at him but dumped about two shots worth into his mug and topped it off with the Sammy-recommended three marshmallows.

She slid the mug across the countertop. "You're looking a little less like a wilting rose," she commented, up-ending the remaining contents of the nip into her own mug. Something told her she was going to need a little Irish courage to get through the next 24 hours. "I trust the shower helped?"

"You have no idea," he answered, clinking the bottom edge of his mug against hers. He took a small sip. "Wow, kinda reminds me of Sam's eggnog."

If there was a joke in there, it was a private one. He set his mug down on the counter and looked back at Sammy drawing away, seemingly oblivious to their conversation.

"Just getting back here…" He cleared his throat self-consciously. "Seeing that he's okay…sort of…" He shook his head and rolled his shoulder, brushing off the sentimental crack in his armor. "Anyway, uh… I wasn't up there trying to empty your hot water tank. I was talking to Dr. Michales."

"The ME? Already?"

He shrugged, unapologetic and maybe a tad defensive. "So, I called her. Sue me."

Jody raised her hands in surrender.

He sighed. "Sorry, just… I was hoping she had some news, ya know? Something that might…"

Something that might help Sam. Jody nodded in understanding. She'd felt a tiny flare of hope the minute he'd said he'd spoken to the ME, and the disappointment she could feel coming off of him was like a punch to the gut.

"What did she say?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Nuthin' that helps us."

She'd figured that just by looking at him. "Tell me anyway."

He gave her a wry grin. "I know what you're doing."

It was her turn to shrug unapologetically. "Good. Saves me the trouble of calling this Dr. Michales back and asking her myself."

He leaned over so he could put his elbows on the countertop, cupping his hands around the mug as though they were cold. "She was able to confirm the identities of the two kids," he said, staring down at the floating marshmallows melting into a creamy cloud. "They're the last two missing men. And she also confirmed what we knew from the other four kids: no drugs, no foreign substances, no injuries of any kind to account for them being unconscious. EEGs show brain activity, which…was something she couldn't check before." Guilt twisted his features, but he shook that off. Bitter frustration took its place.

"So, not vegetative?"

"She doesn't think so. It's not her specialty, and it's not like she can consult with a neurologist on this, you know? Their fevers are still crazy high, though, between 103 and 104. They should be seizing all over the place but they're not. Respiratory is slow, but steady. Blood ox is normal, so…"

"It sounds like whatever your perp did to them, he needed them to stay relatively healthy while he was doing it."

"So it seems."

"And you have no way to find out what he did or if there's a way to simply reverse it?"

His head shot up, his expression suddenly angry. She had to lock her knees to keep from taking a step back. She hadn't meant to imply anything by the question. She opened her mouth to intercept whatever he was about to unleash on her, but he beat her to it.

"The sonuvabitch never gave us a chance. Believe me, I'd have gotten it outta him. But then those two kids would'a been dead." He pushed himself away from the counter, giving Sammy a quick glance to make sure he wasn't listening to them. Seeing Sammy fully engrossed with his coloring, he pulled Jody further into the kitchen. "When I got back to Nebraska after dropping Sammy off here, I went back to that house bent on tearin' that place apart, but the altar was gone. I knew I should have smashed that damn thing before we bolted, but…I just… I couldn't be sure…"

"You got Sammy out of danger," Jody told him, grasping his arm and shaking it for emphasis. "That is first priority, always. You get the civilians out of harm's way."

"Yeah, well, it ain't like Sam's a civilian, but…" He pulled his arm free, then hissed.

Jody grabbed him again, careful not to jostle him; but dammit, this time he was going to give her a straight answer. "No more bullshit. How bad are you hurt?"

He sighed. "It's just bruising, I swear. Michales tossed me a coupla' ice packs then told me to suck it up and get my ass back to Sammy before she died of shmoop, whatever the hell that is."

Jody could make a guess, but she didn't think Dean was in the mood for such levity. Instead, she picked up the thread of their conversation. There was no telling how long Sammy was going to sit there idly coloring and ignoring them. If they were going to discuss this, they needed to do it now.

"Look, Sam may not be a civilian," she said, "but Sammy is, and he's just a child, to boot. You did the right thing getting him out of there."

Dean didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. Knowing what she did about them, she had a feeling that he wasn't feeling guilty about putting his brother ahead of the case. He was feeling guilty for not feeling guilty about it.

She pulled open the small cupboard near the fridge and took out a bottle of ibuprofen. "Trust me." She placed the bottle in front of him with maybe a bit more force than was really necessary.

"Thanks." He popped off the lid, dumped out three pills into his palm. Jody refrained from commenting, just returned the bottle to the cupboard as he tossed them back and chased them with a mouthful of spiked cocoa. "It's done, anyway. Not much I can do to change it. Maybe, if I'd been able to find his grimoire…" He rolled his eyes. "'Course, Sam's a hellava lot better at deciphering those things than I am, so…"

"So, what are our options?"

Dean turned his back on her and ran both hands through his hair then locked his fingers at the base of his neck. If the pose pulled or strained his injuries, he made no sound and Jody couldn't see his face to tell. His frustration was palpable. "We stopped him before he could finish his ritual, or whatever, on his last two vics, but he'd already started it. He'd already linked himself to them and opened the channel, assuming we're right and that's what that sigil is for. With him gone, it's possible that they'll be able to take back whatever he'd taken from them through that open channel."

"But what about what turned them into children in the first place?" Jody asked, looking over at Sammy. He was intent on his drawing, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and his feet swinging beneath his chair.

"I don't know." It had to be so hard for him to admit that. He dropped his hand to his side with a sigh and looked at her over his shoulder. "If it was tied to something in the house where Sam got turned, an object or something painted on the floor, I couldn't find it. He could have moved it when he scrubbed the place, but it could've just as easily burned out of existence once he was done with it.

"I think he had all the victims he needed, or dared take at that time. Once he was done with those last two, he was gonna move on. Just find some place to lie low for a while, reestablish himself where he could blend into the scenery until it was time to start harvesting again.

"I mean, he had already cleared out of his house. Maybe, we'd spooked him and that's why he moved, or maybe that's where he'd been takin' all the others. I don't know. All we found in that room with him was those two kids, a single black candle, and an athame with a black, bone handle. No altar. No books. Not even a soup pot boiling on a hibachi. If he had a grimoire, he'd hidden it already."

"You mean it could still be out there somewhere?"

Dean's smile was grim. "Comforting thought, huh?"

No, it wasn't. Neither was the thought that their options seemed so limited. "So, where does that leave us?"

He balled his hand into a fist, and for a second she thought he was going to punch the wall or the countertop, anything to vent his frustration. Thankfully, he drew his hand down his face, instead, that familiar gesture of helpless. "I don't know," he answered. "We wait and see if it wears off now that the caster is dead."

And hope that Sammy didn't get worse in the meantime.

It didn't bear saying, though it was gouging furrows in Jody's gut. In Dean's, too, she had no doubt. She wanted to ask him how long he thought that might take, but she refrained. He'd already said there were just too many unknowns. Any answer he gave her would have been a guess at best. She knew them both well enough to know how poorly that sat with them, not having the answers they needed to solve the problem, especially when the fate of the other hung in the balance.

She gave him a resigned nod instead. There wasn't much they could do to fix Sammy's problem at the moment, but at least she could help with Dean's. "Okay, then," she said in her take-charge voice. "You've had your shower and you've got your drink. Food is next. Grab the plates, Winchester. This ain't no restaurant."

~~~~~SPN~~~~~SPN~~~~~

"Dody?"

"Hey, sweetie. You okay?"

Sammy had fallen asleep halfway through dinner. He'd eaten a few bites of his baked macaroni and cheese—balking at the color of the cheese and the shape of the noodles, just as Dean had predicted, until Jody had suggested he try it before deciding he didn't like it—and taken a few sips of his apple juice, before pushing it away with a heavy sigh. As soon as he'd started grinding at his eyes with his fists, Dean had scooped him up off his chair and had settled him in lap. He was sleeping within minutes.

Dean had finished his meal as though unobstructed by the little body wedged between his chest and the table, polishing off two heaping plates. The way he had bolted his food, as though he'd subsisted on nothing but coffee and adrenaline for days, Jody suspected he'd have found a way to eat had Sammy been a squirming bundle of energy, flailing arms and all.

He hadn't been, of course. He hadn't moved at all, even when Dean had pushed himself to his feet, carried him to the living room, and laid him down on the couch, tucking the army blanket around his small body. That had been over thirty minutes ago.

Sammy blinked up at her, his eyes welling with tears and his lower lip jutting out and trembling. "Did…did Dee weave?"

"Oh, no, honey," Jody hastened to assure him. She sat down beside him, squeezing herself between the top of his head and the arm of the couch. "He just went out to the car to get his stuff. He'll be right back, okay?"

He nodded. "'Kay." He clutched the army blanket a little tighter to his chest and squirmed until he could lay his head on her thigh. "We gonna stay here?"

Was that a note of hopefulness Jody heard in his voice? Or, was it just wishful thinking on her part that he'd want to stay there? He'd told her that he liked it there. She'd assumed he'd meant he liked staying with her in her house. If she was terribly honest with herself, she liked having him there, too.

But was that what she really wanted?

The front door opened bringing with it a gust of cold wind and a flurry of in-drawn snow. Dean stomped his feet off on the mat, pushing the door closed behind him, and toed off his boots to dry by the baseboards. He dropped the one duffle bag he carried to the floor so he could remove his coat and hang it on the rack.

At seeing Sammy awake and watching him, he smiled. "Hey, buddy," he said brightly. "Miss me?"

To Jody's surprise, Sammy shook his head.

Dean narrowed his eyes and regarded his little brother, his skepticism way over-played. "Naw, I think you did," he declared, padding across the floor in his socks.

"Nu-huh," Sammy replied, showing a little more animation than he'd shown just minutes before.

"Uh-huh." Dean squatted down in front of the couch, resting his elbows on his thighs. "You did. You missed me." He feint-poked Sammy in the tummy, eliciting a little sound that was part whimper, part giggle. "C'mon, admit it."

Another shake of the head.

Another teasing jab toward the tummy that didn't quite connect.

The sound was definitely more giggle than whimper.

"Just a little?" Dean coaxed.

Sammy huffed, his little shoulders rising and falling dramatically. What she could see from his profile had Jody bracing for a more vehement denial—and maybe readying to issue a stern stop teasing your brother in her best Mom voice—but it faded as quickly as it flared. He sighed. "Maybe, just a wittwe," he admitted so softly she could barely hear him.

The whole exchange was clearly a game and once again she marveled at how at easily Dean seemed to assess Sammy's distress and redirect it before it escalated to something more.

"I knew it," Dean commented with a self-satisfied smirk. He blew on his nails then buffed them on his shirt and Sammy laughed.

"You siwwy."

"You're sillier," Dean returned.

"You more siwwier."

"Yeah, well, you're the most silliest, in the history of ever!"

Jody rolled her eyes. "Okay, you two; knock it off."

"Dat's her Mom voice," Sammy whispered conspiratorially.

"Then, we better listen to her, huh?" Dean whispered back, giving Jody a wink.

"Uh-huh," Sammy answered, sounding very sleepy. His eyes drifted closed, but he opened them again, fighting sleep as only a three-year-old could. "I fought you weft," he said softly and Dean's smile faded from his eyes.

"Naw," Dean said, cupping the side of Sammy's flush face. "We're gonna hang around for a little while."

"'Til I's bigger?"

Jody felt her stomach dip. Alarm flashed across Dean's face, subtle and quickly buried behind a forced smile. "What?"

"'Til I's better," Sammy answered.

Dean looked at Jody, the question clearly all over his face. You heard him say bigger, right? Jody thought she had, but now she was questioning it as much as Dean was. The whole time he'd been with her Sammy had seemed oblivious to what had happened to him. Sure, he'd said things that had made Jody wonder what he remembered of his adult self, but he'd never implied that he was aware he wasn't as he should be.

"Dee?"

Dean tore his gaze away from Jody's, and gave Sammy a reassuring smile that was rather convincing all things considered. "Yeah, 'til you're feelin' better. You don't mind that, right?"

Sammy shook his head. "I wikes it here." His eyes drifted closed and once again, he forced them open, blinking tiredly at his brother. "Guess what we did."

"What?"

A little crater appeared in Sammy's cheek. "We make cookies, an'…an' I got t' hewp."

"Yeah?" A strange smile spread across Dean's face, one Jody didn't quite know how to identify. It seemed a little sad; nostalgic, maybe, but not quite. "That's awesome, Sammy."

"An' I save you some."

"You did? Thanks, buddy. "

Sammy nodded, burrowing into his blanket. He stuffed his thumb into his mouth and sighed. It would only be a matter of minutes before he was sleeping again. And really, it was the best thing for him, even if it was unnerving to see him lying so still. Jody knew that Dean feared otherwise, but she wasn't convinced his fever was the product of anything more sinister than just too much stress in too short a time.

She ran her fingers through his hair and he sighed again. "Why don't you take another little nap," she suggested, "while I go make some coffee for Dean to have with his cookies." Before she could finish her sentence, his eyes drifted closed and stayed that way.

She started to slip out from beneath him, but Dean stopped her with a hand on her knee.

"I got it," Dean said, his voice strangely quiet. He pushed himself to his feet, one arm wrapped tightly around his just-a-bruised ribs. "Like you said, this ain't a restaurant."

She didn't have to be told twice. She hadn't wanted to move from her spot anyway. Still, she watched him as he left the room, recognizing the sudden need to regroup without an audience. It wasn't that she wasn't wired much the same way. No, not at all.

She could hear him in the kitchen opening and closing cupboards and drawers. He wasn't shy about searching for whatever he needed and there was nothing in her kitchen she wouldn't have wanted him to find accidentally, so she left him to it. The sounds were normal, for all that they were no longer commonplace in her house. If he was angry or frustrated or… hurt—which, she realized might have been what she'd seen woven into that melancholic smile he'd given his brother—he wasn't taking it out on her woodwork.

She leaned back into the couch cushion and looked down at the child pillowed on her thigh. He was sleeping soundly, his soft inhales and exhales punctuated only by the gentle smacks and pops as he worked his thumb in his mouth. Absently, she twirled a lock of his hair between her fingers. Was it foolish to think she could somehow commit the feel of those silky strands to memory? Did she really remember the way Owen's hair had felt when he was three, or was that just a sentimental notion all mother's had that they never forgot the smell of their children's skin or the feel of their hair or the sound of their laughter?

Jody wasn't the sentimental type, but she'd argue with the skeptics that she would never forget a single thing about her son. And, yet, she knew how the sharpness of the details had begun to fade. Time had worn down the colors and the sounds and the textures, made them pastel and muted and soft. At times, she feared they would disappear altogether. At times, she wondered: if she'd known, if she'd had more time, could she have somehow written those memories deeper into her skin, burned those images on her retinas, and recorded that music on the drum of her ears?

The best she'd been able to do was tattoo his name over her rib. Over time, it too might fade and change colors, but it would never disappear. It would always be there.

She let herself notice the feel of Sammy's hair, the way it glided through her fingers and coiled around her knuckle. Owen's hair had been straight, the color a little lighter and the texture a little coarser. Were she to lift Sammy onto her shoulder and breathe in the scent of him, she'd know he smelled different from how Owen had smelled: nothing she could quantify in actual words, but the way Johnson's Baby Wash smelled different from Mr. Bubble.

Owen's voice had been a little higher than Sammy's was, his Ls and Rs no less pronounced, but his Ss more prone to a slight lisp. Sammy tended to chatter quietly when he played where Owen had filled the house with onomatopoeia: explosions and Bang! and Boom! and Splat! Only their laughter seemed similar, bubbling up out of their little bodies, unfettered and weightless. Owen had laughed more often, and at the silliest of things. Sammy seemed to reserve those deep, effervescent belly laughs only for Dean.

Strange how so many of those things seemed closer to the surface suddenly, and not in the way that damned sippy cup had gone off like an emotional landmine under her feet, knocking down so many of her carefully constructed walls and leaving her raw and exposed. Perhaps, it was the crumbling down of those walls that made it easier for her to remember those things now without the sucker punch to the gut.

Sammy sighed softly, but didn't wake. Jody kept up the gentle motion through his hair, loath to lose that tactile pleasure just yet. Who knew how much longer she'd have to enjoy it? Who knew…

She pushed that thought aside. She didn't want to think about how, by this time tomorrow, Sammy could very well be gone forever.

~~~~~SPN~~~~~SPN~~~~~