AN: So, here it is. The final chapter. I can't believe this story is finished and posted, after two years with a lot of ups and downs, doubts, tears, and countless texts and emails to my awesome betas for encouragement and smacks up the side of the head. Often they provided one in the form of the other, and I can't thank them enough for their continued support. Thank you so much to everyone who has followed, favorited, and left reviews. Every one means so much to me. I hope this last chapter lives up to your expectations. Mwah!

~~~~~Epilogue~~~~~

(Tuesday 4:30PM)

She'd fled to her dining room. Not her greatest hour. Even in the days after she'd lost Owen (again) and Sean, she hadn't run away from her responsibilities. Not once. It wasn't in her DNA. But there she was sitting at her dining room table with an empty shot glass and a full bottle of whiskey, having a mental conversation with a stuffed tiger about the pros and cons of filling the former until the latter was empty.

The tiger clearly didn't have an opinion, either way, or if it did, it was keeping it to itself. Strangely, she couldn't set it aside, couldn't stop running her fingers over the damp fur where Sammy's tears had soaked into the plush fibers. She looked into its tiny black button-eyes and traced the stitching that formed its nose and mouth. She twirled the short filaments that were its whiskers, trying to focus her attention on how they felt under her fingers so she wouldn't think about what had happened in the bedroom, so she wouldn't throw the little stuffed animal that had meant so much to the little boy she'd never see again, across the room.

What was she going to do with it? And with the blocks and puzzle pieces that were still scattered on her living room floor. Maybe it was better she didn't handle those things in her present state. As potential projectiles went, they would be a lot more satisfying and a lot more destructive.

An over-sized child's snowsuit hung on the peg by her back door, two little black boots set haphazardly beneath it on the rubber mud mat. She should probably start gathering those things together and stuffing them all back into the bag they'd arrived in. Marjorie had told her to donate whatever she hadn't used of the winter clothes when Jody was done with them. The boys could take it all to the drop box outside the thrift store on their way out of town. Give some other child in need the means to make snow angels in the snow on a cold March morning.

Still, she didn't move from where she sat. The shot glass remained empty and the bottle remained full. The toys remained strewn about, and the clothes exactly where they hung. The little stuffed tiger endured her absent manipulation of its tiny ears and floppy paws with all the same patient indulgence it had Sammy's tears. It knew how to do its job after all. It didn't shirk its responsibilities no matter how painful they might be. Neither did it admonish her for her circular, disorganized, and unproductive thoughts.

Oh yeah, definitely not a moment for the history books by a long shot.

The sound of a door opening and closing snapped her out of her daze. How long had she been sitting there, her thoughts spinning around uselessly in her head? One glance at the clock above the kitchen sink had her shaking her head in disgust at the amount of time lost, though she really couldn't say how much of it had been spent staring at the stuffed tiger in her hands and how much had been spent sitting dazed after the spell had knocked her on her ass.

Another door opened, then closed, and she heard the shower turn on. At least, one of them was moving about, and she had to assume that if one felt well enough to take a shower, the other had to be okay, too. Should she go check on them? Even as she wondered, she decided it was probably better to give them some space. It wasn't as if they could sneak off without her knowing. Her house wasn't that large, and they had to walk by her to get to the door.

"And, dammit, Jody," she uttered, "they're not going to find you crying into a goddamned Beanie Baby."

She pushed herself to her feet and positioned the stuffed tiger on the table in a nonchalant pose, its front paws together in the V of its back paws, and its head cocked inquisitively to the side. She grabbed the shot glass and the bottle and returned them to the cupboard. She had no doubt they be back out later, but not at 4:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Not while she still had two boys in her house who needed her help. It didn't matter how old they were.

Knowing those two boys as well as she did, she had a feeling they were going to want to be on their way as soon as they were dressed and packed. Short of cuffing them to the dining room chairs, she couldn't stop them.

And probably not even then. She'd seen what those two could do with a lock pick.

She may not be able to stop them from leaving, but she sure as hell intended to make sure they were fed first.

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

The baked ziti was just about done baking when Jody heard the sound of someone approaching. She was back at the dining room table, a cup of coffee in front of her instead of a shot glass, though it had probably grown tepid as she'd been sitting there staring at it. Her hands tightened around the porcelain, but otherwise she didn't move.

She didn't have to. She knew by the sound of his footsteps who she'd see standing at the end of the table when she finally forced herself to look up. For someone of his size and length of bone, he didn't have a heavy footfall. That wasn't to say that his stride wasn't weighted.

For as long as she'd known him, there had been a weight on Sam Winchester, a burden of the soul she'd often wondered how he carried day in and day out and still managed to be so damn tall.

It was the weight of secrets so dark and terrible they paid lie to every attempt to deny they were there.

They showed in his bowed shoulders, in his lowered brow, and in his sad and distant smiles. They had stared out at her from behind those tired, chameleon eyes, spanning the length of the table and lit by the glow of the laptop monitor in front of him, and even a few stiff belts of black label to toast Bobby's memory hadn't been able to loosen his tongue sufficiently to let them out of their cage.

She'd heard him walk across the floor of that abandoned house with that terrible weight bearing down on him, worry and panic for his missing brother like lead shackles around ankles already hobbled by life. She'd wondered how he'd managed to drag his exhausted, drunk body up the stairs. And how he'd managed to run back down only a few minutes later, eyes so manic-bright even the secrets were momentarily banked.

It really was no wonder Jody had always had a soft spot in her heart for Sam Winchester. How could she not? She had never, in her entire life, met someone as stubbornly resilient as he.

Or, as infuriatingly heartbreaking.

The floorboards creaked as he shifted his feet. She wasn't ready to look at him just yet, to have the last of her... She didn't really know what to call it, but whatever it was, she wasn't ready for it to be dispelled. She didn't need to see him, though, to know he was steeling himself.

"Jody?"

And there was the exact sound she'd been expecting, that subtle little catch in his soft voice that matched the guilt she could feel radiating off him in painful waves.

She felt a faint stinging in her eyes. She pushed herself to her feet and gave him her back while she composed herself.

"Sam Winchester, I swear, if you make me cry, so help me..."

She let the threat dangle, hollow, empty thing that it was. She had a feeling it was inevitable.

There was silence behind her, then a soft huff of breath followed by a softer, "I'm so sorry."

She looked up, catching his reflection in the glass doors of her hutch just as he was looking down at the floor. His fists were stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, and his shoulders were pushed up toward his ears as if he were cold. His face was lost beneath the fall of his hair.

"Don't you dare be sorry for this," she said. The words were a little harsher than she'd intended, but they weren't angry. It wasn't anger she was feeling. It was something else.

"And don't you dare be upset with Dean for bringing you here."

His head shot up at that. Even in the glass, she could see the liquid brightness in his eyes, but he didn't look away. Not even when she squared her shoulders and turned around to face him for real.

She found herself studying his face, mapping the sharper contours of his cheekbones and jaw line, the subtle lines around his eyes and mouth as though she could find some trace of the cherubic little boy he'd been just a few hours before.

She didn't even realize she'd approached him until she was standing right in front of him, staring up into his tear-bright eyes as he looked down at her with an expression so open and raw it was almost painful.

"It's like..." he uttered in a voice better suited for a confessional, soft, reverent. "I suddenly have all these memories that were never there before, you know? And they feel like they've always been there. Memories of...of having a mo—"

His voice broke on the word. Color rose in his face, just a flash of pink across the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones, but it fled just as quickly. So quickly, she reached out and grabbed his arms for fear he was about to faint. The muscles tensed beneath her hands, but he didn't pull away.

He blinked and a single tear dislodged and traced down the side of his face. A second chased it down the other side.

"I feel like I've been given something I've wanted my whole life, but... I had to hurt you to get it."

The small laugh that escaped him was tinged with bitter irony, and something even darker. She could almost hear the words churning in his head: of course, what he wanted would come at her expense; it was the story of his life.

"Dammit. What did I just say about making me cry, young man?" she scolded.

He smiled, even as more tears fell. And there, in the two deep dimples that formed in his cheeks, was the glimpse of Sammy she'd been looking for.

"Dammit," she said again as she yanked him into her arms. She felt him stiffen, resisting the comfort—and damn him for thinking that he didn't deserve it—but she just held him tighter, cupping her hand behind his head and forcing his head down on to her shoulder.

She felt the resistance leave him and his arms slowly encircled her. It couldn't have been very comfortable for him, bent so far over. It wasn't that great for her either, practically standing on her tiptoes to lessen the difference in their heights. Yet, she still pulled him closer.

"You didn't hurt me, sweetie," she told him, whispering the words into his hair.

She'd earned the right to call him that. She didn't even feel the least bit guilty about the small sob the word seemed to tear out of him. It was just the one choked sound before he reined it back in and fell silent. A shudder ran through him and she wondered, fleetingly, if he was crying silently.

But then his arms tightened until he was hugging her in earnest, and he whispered, "I'm so sorry," repeatedly despite her assurances that none of this was his fault. She suddenly wasn't so certain that she wasn't the one who was crying silently.

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

"Smells great in here," Dean said as he walked into the dining room a little while later.

Jody didn't look up from where she was cutting a tomato to add to the small bowl of lettuce beside her. As salads went, it was pretty sparse, but it was giving her something to do with her hands while the ziti set on the stove. Sam had offered to help, perhaps out of the same need to keep busy, but she'd declined. She'd expected him to retreat to his room, but to her surprise (and relief), he'd slowly drawn out a chair at the table and sat.

"It's just pasta," she replied, "which, I expect you boys to help me eat before you go."

"Go? You kickin' us outta here?" He sounded light, teasing. She could picture the smirk pulling his mouth as he spoke, and knew it was all an act.

"Oh, that wasn't the sound of your duffle bags I just heard hitting the floor before you walked in here?" she shot back as she scooped up the chucks of tomato and dropped them into the bowl. "My mistake."

She gathered the knife and cutting board, and brought them to the sink to wash, casting a quick glance at him as she passed. There was nothing casual about his posture or his expression. It was there all over his face, a damn near perfect mirror image to what she'd seen on Sam's not thirty minutes ago: guilt, concern, and regret.

She thought about ignoring it, pretending it wasn't there at all. Maybe it would be better not to dig at it and make things between them go from temporarily mildly uncomfortable to permanently irreparably awkward. And maybe that was the surest way to make things go south. Well, she wasn't having that. Not after all that had happened in the last few days. It was not going to be for nothing.

She quickly washed the knife and cutting board and set them in the dish drain to dry, slamming the board down into the rack with a little more force than was truly necessary. She dried her hands on the dishtowel and tossed it on the counter with equal irritation, then turned to face him.

"Okay, here's what's gonna happen," she said sternly.

Dean took a step back in surprise, looking at Sam as though he thought to find succor from that quarter. Sam looked just as leery, both hands splayed on either side of the book he'd been leafing through—one off the pile of Bobby's 'stinky' books Dean had left on the table—like he wasn't sure if he should stay where he was or get the hell out of there fast. Dean looked like he was considering the same options.

Well, she wasn't Sheriff for nothing. "First, get these disgusting books off the table so we can eat without the threat of dysentery. Second, wash your hands for the same damn reason. Third, get your asses back here A-sap. Dinner's ready and I wasn't joking when I said you're helping me eat it."

Sam and Dean just blinked at her as if she'd suddenly started spouting one of the languages from the books in front of them. When neither of them made to move, she clapped her hands together loudly. "Chop! Chop!"

Dean bristled, but Sam actually smirked, dimples and all. "Yes, Ma'am," he answered and pushed himself to his feet.

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

"So, Michales was able to recreate the sigil on her end," Dean continued around a mouthful of pasta, recounting his latest conversation with the ME that had occurred shortly before he'd returned to the table, "and she just pushed his gurney right through it."

"And that worked?" Jody asked.

Dean nodded. "Guess so. I mean, Danielson was in pretty rough shape, so he's still unconscious. But his fever has been dropping, so…so far, she's hopeful. Course, he's gonna have a hard time explaining to everyone why he looks like a teenager again."

Sam and Dean had returned to the table, washed up as instructed, but still looking a tad uncomfortable. Tentative. Like they'd thought they needed to treat her with kid gloves. She'd put a quick stop to that with only a look. For the first few minutes, the silence had been broken only by the sound of utensils scraping plates. It was weighted and awkward, but probably unavoidable under the circumstances. Sam had pushed his food across his plate more than he actually ate, but Jody couldn't fault him for it. She hadn't felt much like eating, either, questioning the decision to make pasta while she tried to push noodles past the lump in her throat.

Dean had lit into it as he had every other meal. After a few bites, interrupted only to tap his fork against the side of Sam's plate as a reminder to keep eating, he'd brought up the phone call with the ME. Things had seemed to shift back into place almost immediately.

"The spell wasn't just symbolically stealing years," Sam said. "It was actually stealing them. Unfortunately, simply reversing the spell didn't return them. Maybe, if…"

Jody knew Sam was blaming himself for getting caught in the spell and forcing Dean to abandon the hunt to get him to safety, and Dean was blaming himself for not finding and stopping the witch sooner. They were both full of shit, but nothing she could say was going to change either one of their minds.

"And if wishes were horses…" she remarked instead.

"Beggers would ride," he finished with a small half-smirk. "I know."

Dean just rolled his eyes. "If, nothing," he said. "Neither one of us saw that sigil on the floor. And it could'a just as easily zapped me."

Sam shook his head. "Not likely. He had a type, remember?"

"Yeah, well, maybe if you ate a friggin' Ring Ding, once in a while."

Sam scoffed. "Yah, and maybe if you ate a vegetable once in a while."

"I eat vegetables."

"Ketchup, salsa, and Funyuns don't count."

Dean stabbed a noodle and stuffed it in his mouth, staring at Sam with an antagonistic smirk on his face as he chewed. Sam made a great show of ignoring him as he speared a piece of lettuce and put it in his mouth. Jody just rolled her eyes at the both of them. As long as they didn't start kicking each other under the table or showing each other their half-chewed food, she was content to let them bicker.

She kind of enjoyed it, actually. It seemed to shake loose the last little bit of tightness around their eyes, and eased the tenseness from their shoulders. She noticed how Dean seemed to sink more into a casual slouch the more relaxed he became, while Sam seemed to sit up a bit more straight as some of that weight lifted.

She also noticed how Sam ate most of his meal without seeming to realize he was doing it. Dean gave her a discrete wink as if to say it had been his plan all along.

When they were finished eating, Jody cleared the dishes, waving away their offer to help. "I'd offer you boys a drink," she remarked as she returned with three mugs of coffee, "but seeing as how you'll be leaving soon…"

She couldn't help the way her voice lifted at the tail end, making it almost a question even though she knew the answer already.

Sam looked down, his hair hiding his eyes from view. She often wondered if he kept it long for that very purpose, to hide his too-expressive eyes before they could give him away. Dean, she knew, had his own way of hiding what he was feeling.

"So, y'are kickin' us out," he teased, though it sounded a little flat.

Jody smiled at the attempt. After all, she was wired much the same way. "You're welcome to stay to do the dishes. Then, the bathroom needs new grout. And let's see…"

Dean clapped his hands together once and started to push himself to his feet. "Whoa, would ya look at the time."

Beside him, Sam just gave them a wan smile.

"Drink your coffee." Jody slid a mug to each of them, then returned the kitchen for cream and sugar.

"Seriously, though," Dean called after her. "As much as Sam, here, looks like he needs his beauty sleep…"

"Shut up," she heard Sam grumble. As she was returning to the table, though, she saw Sam give his brother a good-natured shove in the arm—no doubt in retaliation for the shove Dean had given him while Jody's back was turned— his dimples deepening.

Dean smiled, looking rather proud of himself. "Danielson may be outta the woods," he continued, sobering as the subject warranted, "but Michales' team still hasn't found the sigil. I don't like leaving things that might come back and bite us in the ass."

Jody nodded. She understood the need to see a case finished down to the last report. It was always those loose ends that tripped you up unexpectedly and usually when your hands were too damn full to grab onto something before you fell. Still, she couldn't help but worry about them heading back to the scene.

"I know," she said instead. "I'll sleep a lot better knowing that thing is out of service."

"We all will," Sam agreed.

"I'd feel a helluva lot better if I'd been able to get his damn book," Dean said, a note of frustration in his voice.

Sam frowned. "Dean, you know as well as I do, there was no way that witch was going to hand that over to you, any more than he'd have agreed to reverse that spell, not if he was like any of the others we've run across. He'd have just whammied you, too, and then disappeared. Then where would we be?"

Unsaid was, Where would I be? From the look on his face, Dean had heard him just fine. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the absolution, or maybe embarrassed by it. The two of them were terrible at accepting pats on the backs for a job well done, she'd noticed, even from each other.

"Yeah, well… Wherever he hid it," he replied, "the sonuvabitch won't be usin' it no more."

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

It was just a few minutes past seven o'clock when Sam and Dean put on their coats and shouldered their duffle bags, prepared to leave. They both looked tired. It had been a long week for all of them, especially Dean, though now that they were standing at the door, he seemed to be finding a second wind. Sam still looked a little pale, though he insisted he felt fine. Whatever ailment had been affecting Sammy, it seemed to have gone away when he did.

Jody was trying very hard not to think of it in those terms: Sammy having gone away, but every once and a while it would slip by her defenses. She was probably going to have to get used to that happening for a while. Right now, she just wanted to get through them walking out that door, getting into their car, and driving away without her falling apart.

"We can take these with us," Sam said, hoisting up the duffle bag that contained all of Sammy's toys and necessities. "Unless, you know anyone around here who might need them."

She shook her head. She didn't trust herself not to tell him to leave them with her. It was bad enough she'd kept the little stuffed tiger, though she still wasn't sure why.

"I saw a drop box on my way into town," Dean offered. "We'll hit it on the way out."

She'd already packed up the winter clothes Sammy had used, and she handed that bag over to Dean, too. "You can put this with it," she said. He looked into the bag then up at his brother, and a small smile tugged one corner of his mouth. She couldn't bring herself to look at Sam just yet.

"No problem," he said, setting the bag on the floor beside him.

Then, because she wasn't sure he would do it if she didn't initiate it, she spread her arms out in front of him. "Okay, get over here," she said, beckoning him forward.

She really didn't wait for him to respond before she pulled him into a hug. He didn't hesitate, just hugged her back. "Thank you," he said softly. "I don't know what I would'a…" His arms tightened around her.

"Anytime," she replied. "And I mean that." They broke apart, but she continued to hold his arms, holding him away from her enough that she could look him in the eye. "You hear me, young man? Anytime."

"Yes Ma'am," he answered with a smile that was devilishly charming and sincere all at the same time.

"You call me when this is over," she said, waving her finger in front of his face. "Don't leave me hanging. I will come down there…"

"I hear ya, Sheriff. Jody."

She yanked him into another quick hug then let him go. He gave her a smile and a wink, then turned toward the door.

"Oh," she called him back, turning to grab the small, clear plastic container off the coffee table. "For the road."

His face lit up when he saw what was in it. "Cookies? Sweet!" He gave her a kiss on the cheek, all bad boy charm, smiling ear to ear. He turned back to the door, slapping his hand against Sam's stomach as he reached for the doorknob.

"I'll be in the car," he told him. He pulled open the door and stepped out into the cold, and wasn't two steps down the walk before he'd pried the lid off the container. "Shake a leg, Sammy!" he called over his shoulder, brandishing a cookie over his head as he went.

"Those will be gone before we hit the interstate," Sam remarked with a shake of his head.

Jody looked up at him, catching the fond, indulgent smile on Sam's face as he watched his brother walk away. It was a nice look on him, one she didn't get too see all that often. All too soon, though, that smile faded. He dropped his gaze to the floor then lifted it again, turning his head to look at her.

"Thank you," he said softly. "Not just for… for taking care of me, you know, but… for being there for Dean. Since Bobby, well…" He sealed his lips hard on whatever he'd started to say, and Jody was glad. She didn't think she could hold against that subject, too.

"Hey," she said, keeping her tone light, casual. "I've been trying to tell you boys for a while now: you can call me whenever you need anything. And I don't mean just when your asses are in a sling, either."

He gave her a small smile at that. "I'm sure Dean will want more cookies."

"Well, we'll make him help make them next time."

"You might have a bigger mess to clean up."

Just like that, the thin veil of humor they'd been holding up between them fell away. Jody's chest felt hollow, her throat tight. "You really do remember it all, don't you?"

He looked out the front door at his brother, or maybe just at the snow outside, recalling other memories of snow angels and pushing snow off her steps with a dustpan shovel. "Yeah." The hint of a dimple appeared in his closest cheek. "And they're good memories..."

She'd been resisting up to then, keeping a little distance for both their sakes. But there'd been such a note of apology in his voice, and she just couldn't let that stand. She reached out and laid her hand on his arm, giving the tight muscle a squeeze. "For me, too," she told him.

It didn't even come as a surprise to her that she meant it. For all the pain she was feeling, would probably be feeling for quite a while to come, she didn't regret any of it. Not even a little. And she sure as hell didn't want him to regret any of it either.

He sucked in a tight breath, blinking rapidly, and uttered, "I'm glad." His eyes were bright when he met her gaze, so much emotion lurking right below the surface, but he smiled.

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked him. "You know, Dean said you were unconscious for hours when you were turned."

He nodded. "No, I'm—I'm good. I think it was a little harder on the three-year-old body." He shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Are…are you gonna be okay?"

She gave him a smile. "Ah, sweetie, you know me." She waved off the concern, though she could feel her eyes starting to sting a little.

Color rose in his face and he dipped his head in embarrassment. "You're gonna keep calling me that, now, aren't you?"

"Damn straight, I am."

And, with that, she pulled him into a hug—another privilege she'd earned and she intended to take full advantage of it. He didn't seem to mind. His long arms went around her back, and he squeezed her every bit as hard as she was squeezing him. Maybe a little harder. Taking a breath was a chore, but she managed it enough to say, "You give a pretty amazing hug, yourself."

Sam made a small, choked sound, and he hugged her a little harder. When they finally broke apart, his eyes were red-rimmed and wet. "God, Dean's gonna give me shit for miles," he said as he swiped a hand across his face. But he was smiling.

Jody wasn't much better. She could feel tears running down her face, and she knew there'd be more before the night was through. If he noticed, Sam didn't say anything, and she was very grateful for that. He reached down and retrieved the bag of snow wear that Dean, in his excitement over the container of chocolate chip cookies, had left by the door, then shifted his duffle bag higher onto his shoulder.

"Thank you," he said again, then pushed open the storm door and headed down the steps.

Jody watched as he tossed his bags in the back seat of the Impala then folded his long body into the front seat next to his brother. They exchanged a few words, Dean seeming to be doing most of the talking while Sam merely nodded or shook his head in response. Dean reached across the back of the seat and cupped the back of Sam's neck, giving him a little shake, then he put the car in gear and pulled out of the driveway.

As she and Sammy had done those few, short days ago—days that felt like forever ago—Jody stood in the open doorway and watched until the Impala reached the end of her street and turned onto the road that would take them out of town.

The End

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