Stepping into Jenny's home, into their old home, Dean knew it was going to be hard, but he wasn't really prepared for the sudden onslaught of memories.

There were things he recognized, but it wasn't at all like he remembered it, not really.

The house seemed smaller than it had when he was four, or maybe he was just bigger.

Standing in Jenny's kitchen his throat and eyes burned with a feeling that spread right through him and he struggled to keep his face blank.

His memories were fuzzy, like faded black and white photographs, but being here was enough to make some of them burst into vivid Technicolor.

He'd sat in this room at their table, feet swinging from his chair, watching mom flip pancakes, listening to dad read out stories from the newspaper.

He'd colored in this room with blunt and broken crayons and mom had stuck his pictures on the fridge.

He'd stirred cookie dough and licked the spoon.

He'd built a fort under the table with dad, lining the floor with plastic army men.

God, it seemed like forever ago, like someone else's life, he didn't even remember how to be that boy anymore. That boy died in the fire with his mother. Someone else took his place, someone else ran out of this house, all those years ago with his brother in his arms.

He caught Sam watching him as they followed Jenny into the other rooms, his eyes asking you okay? Saying, I know this must be hard for you, I'm here, you're not alone.

He answered with a smile, not wanting Sam to worry, watched as Sam looked around the room with something like wonder, maybe even regret on his face.

Perhaps a few memories, however painful were better than none at all.