Dean, Age 11; Sammy, Age 7

"Dean, do you remember Mom?"

Ouch. God, I didn't know the heartache could still flood so quickly. Flashes…meals, her singing me to sleep, her golden hair, cuddles while watching TV, swimming together in a neighbor's pool, taking walks together. The memories were like a tsunami, and like being struck by a giant wave, I had to catch my breath before I could talk.

I swallowed hard. "Mom was like all the best TV moms, but better. She wasn't just an adult that lived in the same house as us. She'd sit in the sandbox and build sandcastles with me."

"You had a sandbox?"

"Yeah."

"What else did she do?"

"Sit with me and watch dumb cartoons. Go to the park and push me on the swings and merry-go-round. Played Chutes and Ladders. Stuff like that."

"She was your friend."

"I suppose she was."

"Was she strict, like Dad is?"

"She could land a mean swat if you ticked her off or scared her to death by running into the road or something, but most of the time she was content, just happy to be a Mom. She loved you, Sammy. They were both so excited when you were born. We all were."

"Did she cook? What was her food like?"

"Boxes, cans, frozen foods, and sandwiches. Not that much different from what we usually eat. At least for a lot of meals. But she made a mean meatloaf and this seafood casserole that you'd think was a food from one of those dare games, but actually tasted so good!"

"Can we make it, Dean?"

I squirmed a little. Did I want to shine such a bright light on that memory? Thinking about Mom, hurts. This conversation had been hard enough to get through. But Sammy was blinking his big, doe eyes at me and I couldn't say no to him. It wasn't his fault Mom had died before Sam could build memories of her. He deserved this experience.

"Sure, kid. Let's go to the store and see if we can afford the supplies."

We managed to get the supplies with the money Dad left us. We were staying in a real house this week, some friend of Dad's who was out on a hunt, so we had access to an oven.

It had been 7 years since I'd last helped Mom layer the smushed tater tots, smashed fish planks, and cheese, along with the goopy sauce of mayo, mustard, and taco seasoning, interlayered with fried bologna. When it had 10 minutes left to bake we'd top it with another layer of cheese and one of potato chip crumbs.

This time, Sammy and I made it together.

I tried to get Sammy to play cards with me while it baked, but he kept running out to check on it, to see if it was done. The smells were like what I remembered. It gave my heart another twist, but I wanted this for Sammy, and I wanted it for me too. I miss Mom, and this was kind of like having a part of her back.

I carefully removed it from the oven. Sammy stood on a chair and we each took handfuls of chips and started crushing them to cover the top of the casserole.

That's when Dad came in. "Hey, boys, what are you two up to?" For a fraction of a second, Dad froze. Then he morphed into a rage monster. "What the hell are you up to? Get away from there."

Sammy clambered down from the chair and I grabbed him and pushed him behind me. You're supposed to stand at attention when in trouble, but I couldn't in that moment. I did quick glances up at Dad, but mostly kept my eyes aimed at the floor. They were burning with tears. We hadn't done anything wrong.

Crack!

I jumped and I could feel Sammy cower behind me and start to cry when the casserole dish collided with the doorframe, smashing it in two and spilling its contents on the floor.

I gripped Sammy's hand and drew in a slow deep breath. I wanted to sob. God, I was struggling to hold in the tears. But I had to protect Sammy. I had to make him feel safe again. I had to try to get Dad to calm down. Dad grieved best when he grieved into a bottle. "Sammy, get Dad a beer, then get out the bread, peanut butter, and jelly and start working on sandwiches. I'll clean up the mess. I don't want you touching glass."

I chanced another quick look up at Dad. His head was up, towards the ceiling and his eyes were covered with one hand, like he couldn't bear to look at the memories of what our life had been like before the fire.

I understood. It's why we so rarely talked about Mom and why Sammy had to ask questions, because thinking about her made Dad and me sad. It was easier just to focus on what needed doing today.

Sam was trying to obey me, but his inching progress told me he feared Dad too much at the moment to make those last few steps towards him to give him the beer. Same goes, little bro. I leaned down and quietly ordered him, "Take it in and set it on the end table by the sofa and switch the TV to something Dad likes."

He responded, "Yes, sir."

I think his response surprised us both. I was used to playing dad to Sam whenever Dad was out and Sammy was used to being expected to follow my orders, but he didn't address me as sir like we did our father. I think the sir was meant to say, that of the two older Winchesters in the room, I was the one he trusted to make everything better.

"Go on, now."

He did.

Dad bent down so he was eye level with me, "Dean, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted like that. But please, don't make that meal again."

"I won't. Sorry, Dad."

Then I was in his arms, and I let the tears go. We held on and wound each other up, then calmed each other down, while Sammy silently worked on the sandwiches.

It was a long time before Sam asked about Mom again.