Sweet December

When you have a newborn, the time seems to fly by. You want the child to stay young and gurgling, their eyes bright and skin unscathed; you want them to be stuck inside their crib for the rest of eternity so no harm can come to them. So on the 2nd day of January, with snow falling heavily outside the window, Dean is baffled that December is already 6 months old.

It seems like just yesterday they were taking her to barbecues, showing off their precious baby with all the gusto and glee only the parents of a newborn can muster. All the doctor visits, the rare moments where December was finicky, her small body wracked with a cough - they all seem to have happened all within a week, not over the span of six months.

It’s been the easiest six months of his life, and a lot of people have told them that they have a surprisingly calm child. Jo’s friends praise her and go on endless rants of how they're jealous of December’s calm demeanor.

He watches Jo put their baby down for bed, the soft moonlight casting shadows on the nursery walls. The mobile above the crib spins softly, and though it was more than a week ago it feels like just yesterday he was oiling the squeak away. Nobody tells you that you lose all sense of time when you have a child.

When December is sound asleep he wraps his arms around Jo's waist, tugging her out the door towards their own bedroom. Sex since the baby has been more cautious, but the heat behind it remains high and sweltering. After months without it, it’s refreshing to feel Jo dig her nails into his back, moan his name on a broken sigh. The exertion, the sweat, the complete and utter pleasure of feeling her around him, feeling himself inside her, makes him weak.

Not to mention it helps him sleep better at night, and ever since they started having sex again he hasn’t had a single dream of the frightening monsters. The one’s that only children are supposed to be afraid of.



It’s neither December’s wails over the baby monitor or the screaming of Jo that wake him, but rather the smell of something awful burning. With his heart in his throat and the shrieking fire alarm in his ears, he rushes to the nursery and scoops his baby into his arms. Only when she’s tucked tight against his chest does he see the fire burning on the ceiling, Joanna nearly fully engulfed in flames with blood soaked across her abdomen.

But he doesn’t have time to react because the firemen are there quicker than expected, yanking him out and thrusting him into the cold, fresh night air. He stumbles and nearly trips, his feet not working, as he runs from the house. When he’s a safe distance away he glances towards the nursery bedroom and someone, or rather something stares back at him, yellow eyes glowing – burning as bright as the fire destroying his house, killing his wife.

A neighbor, some homely old woman with pink curlers in her hair and a heavy winter jacket on, extracts December from his arms and passes the baby to a medic. Behind walls of tears he watches as they check the baby for lung damage and burns. After a moment of stunned silence he reaches a shaky hand out, taps Mr. Palmer on the shoulder. His neighbor turns, eyes full of pity and sorrow.

“Can I use your phone?” Dean chokes out, his demeanor quickly falling, crumbling.

The man hands over his cell phone without hesitation and Dean quickly dials his brother, hoping and praying that he’s home or awake enough to answer the phone. He’s the only person, while not terribly close, that Dean can even think to turn to. Sam’s the only family he has left, apart from December.