Well, this is the last chapter. I think it ends pretty well, there are a few rocky spots here and there. Please read, review, and enjoy! –hugs to all reviewers-

Disclaimer: They aren't mine. Period.

Over the course of hash browns, orange juice, coffee, pancakes, and biscuits, neither brother made a sound. All concentration was on digesting, which to a Winchester was a sacred thing. This is why Dean was a bit taken off guard when he raised his head from his plate and, inhaling deep breaths, found himself looking at a little girl holding a doll. The doll was missing its eye, and was possibly the most ragtag thing Dean had ever seen, including a few banshees he had gone up against.

"Uhh…" Dean fumbled, looking around desperately for Daddy Dearest, who had disappeared into the kitchen. The man needed a freaking cowbell for his kids, Dean thought. Here was another one, obviously, judging from the color of her hair in regards to that of the rest of the children's.

The child kept her eyes on Dean; wide, brown gaze taking in every leather jacket fold and biscuit crumb. She was captivating, looking full of mischief yet shy and innocent at the same time.

"Hi," Sam tried in a soft voice, having swallowed down his mouthful a minute earlier. Wide eyes blinked in acknowledgement as she took a step forward, her reddish-brown curls bouncing. She stuck her thumb in her mouth in the same manner as the other girl had. It must be a sister thing, Dean found himself thinking.

"What's your name?" Sam asked her gently. Carefully, the girl removed her thumb from her mouth and wiped it on the doll's dress. Cautious yet sparkling eyes took in the question for a moment.

"I'm Molly," she said in a voice so child-like, questioning yet wary that Dean found himself, against all reason, charmed.

"How old are you?" Sam asked, warming up to the conversation. He always had a way with kids, thought Dean, waiting for the child's reply.

Molly held up four finger, and turned back to Dean. He was a little nonplussed by her steady gaze, feeling as though her glossy orbs could read straight into his soul. Dude. Snap out of it. Dean told himself sternly. He noticed the doll, and remembered the earlier quarrel over the Barbie between the other two siblings.

"Did your sister ever get her Barbie back?" Dean asked her, bending his head to get to her height. She nodded, and broke out into a completely carefree, sunshiny smile that sent Dean's head spinning. He could practically see the rays of light bouncing around her. At that moment, right when Dean was experiencing intense vertigo, she hit him with a question he never expected.

"Are you a big brother?"

"Huh?" Dean was being sucked into those childishly vivid pools of dark brown, her question only serving to confuse him further.

"He's littler, right?" Molly asked, pointing at Sam with the hand holding her doll. " 'Cuz you're taking care of him, right? Does he ever steal your toys? My biggest brother does. His name's Jimmy. He's a big boy. He has really red hair and when I made fun of him once he made me cry uncle and he tickled me forever and he made me cry. But he always gives me my toys back, but Tommy's the one that took Jenny's Barbie and he only gave it back after Mommy made him. Jimmy gives 'em back if I cry and then he says he's sorry and he gives me candy. He's eight," she said, splaying her fingers wide so the boys could see all six digits. "Once, when we were playing, and I fell and I bleeded, and Jenny went to get Mommy and everyone else cried, Jimmy stayed and hugged me and told me that it was mean for the swing to do that to me and he went and hit it so it wouldn't do it again and it didn't ever."

Molly stuck her thumb back into her mouth as if she were putting a stopper in a cork.

"MOLLY!" bellowed a female voice from above the stairs. "Stop bothering the customers! Do you want your strawberries or not, girl?"

Before either of the boys could say anything, Molly darted behind the counter and up the stairs as fast as her chubby toddler legs would let her. As her pitter-patters died away, Dean finally dared to breathe again. Sam chuckled at the look on his brother's face.

"I thought the run-on sentences would never end," Sam said, shaking his curly mop.

"I think she's cute," Dean remarked, the words coming out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"She's a little young for you, Dean…"

"Ah, shut up. You know what I mean. She reminds me of you, in a weird, girly way. You had that habit of talking to any and every stranger that crossed your goddamned path—"

"Until Dad sat me down and told me to shut the hell up, yeah, I remember."

"You remember what you called me after me and Dad would come back from a hunting trip? Nah, you were only like five, how the hell would you know—"

"Dean the Fighting Machine. Dude. You loved that. Your nine-year-old ego just swelled like a balloon,"

"Hey, I was nine," Dean stated, raising his hands in a so-sue-me gesture. "Cut me some slack. Besides, you totally adored me."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Well, at the time you were my superhero,"

Whoa, Dean thought. Oops. I totally started this shit. My bad.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean? 'At the time'?"

"Well, now, with the Incredibles and Batman remakes, I have so many idols to look up to—"

"Don't make me knock you out…"

"Don't worry, bro. You're still high up on the superhero list,"

Perfect time for an awkward silence, Dean's inner voice chimed.

"Did you ever want kids?"

Great ice breaker, Sam. Next thing, you'll be telling me you need a hankie to sob into…

Out loud, he snarked, "I've fulfilled my Precious Moments slash reflections quota for the day, Sammy-boy,"

"Whatever, I was just curious," Sam muttered, hiding the evident hurt on his face by concealing it with his huge mug of cocoa.

Dean tapped his coffee mug, thinking.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But, I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do, hold the gun filled with rock salt in one hand, and the baby in the other?"

"Good point. But couldn't you give this up eventually?"

"Eventually? Sure. But you know as well as I do that we can't really have distractions around if we want to find the thing that killed Mom and Jess,"

"Well yeah, but I never knew that you felt that way. Wanting to have kids, I mean."

"I know you want 'em. Little rugrats all over the place, right?" Dean switched the topic around, looking Sam in the eye. How long has it been since I've done that? Dean wondered to himself.

"Like you said. The way we live, it's not practical. Plus, after Jess…I mean, I guees I always thought that…that I'd have her kids, you know?" Sam's sentence eventually trailed off, so the last few words were whispered. Dean looked down at the table, picking at one of the scratches in it with his fingernail.

I have no idea who I would have kids with.

I really want kids. His own thoughts surprised him. He flashed back to his earliest memories of his dad, trying to help him grasp a football in hi tiny, barely-four-year-old hands. With those memories inevitably came those of his mother that he tried to keep locked away for his pride's sake. Emotions came flooding back to him as he remembered her voice, the feel of her skin, how she held him in her lap—feelings, never faces, just senses. Dean realized, with a sudden pang, how his life would be so completely different if his mother were still around. Her laugh, he remembered…it sounded like…

Like the chiming of bells; innocent, pure and good.

And he realized with another pang, this one straight to his heart, that he wanted a chance to teach HIS kid how to play football, and he wanted HIS kid to be held by his mother-Dean's wife- my wife. He wanted a family—

Damn. A little girl in a small-town diner makes me go soft.

Dean shook himself out of his memories, grinning abstractly at the now-worried looking Sam.

"Dude, you were a million miles away,"

"Not really," Dean said distantly, in his own world again. Sam. With kids. Dean couldn't even imagine it, but somehow he knew that his brother would make a great father. He remembered all of Sam's complaints against their father, and sighed inwardly. He wanted Sam to be happy, but that was nearly impossible nowadays, what with Jess dying and Dad disappearing. It was like all they had left was each other, just like when they were little and alone in the house while John was out on a hunt. Dean remembers holding a six year old Sam close at night, when they were alone in the house and every shadow on the wall seemed out to get them. We get that feeling a lot now, don't we, Dean commented dryly in his head. But at least we have each other, his inner voice whispered. I won't let go of Sammy, because he makes me the man I am today. And if it takes a little girl in a diner to remind me of that, so be it. Damn, I sure am deep, Dean thought to himself, with a genuine smile.

In unison, both brothers lifted their respective mugs and took a sip. Upstairs, a certain red-headed brother helped his little sister find the other eye for her doll. The rest of her siblings hovered nearby, each annoying and mischievous in their own way, but knowing that they could count on each other for whatever they needed. And out there in the universe of thought, Dean shook himself free of the funk that had settled its hold upon him and nudged Sam just as he readied his mug for another sip.

Lukewarm cocoa dripped down the twenty-two-year-old's Stanford hoodie in a slow drip-drop, as the man behind the counter guffawed good naturedly.

Dean grinned a Cheshire-cat grin and, in response to Sam's wordless curses in his direction, said,

"Well, isn't that just what big brothers are for?"

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