A/N: For a prompt on Livejournal:
Based on a quote from Bobby in 5x21
"Back at Niveus? I watched that kid pull one civilian out after another. Must have saved 10 people. Never stopped. Never slowed down. We're hard on him Dean. Always have been. But in the meantime... he's been running into burning buildings since he was, what... 12?"
I wanna see Sam, 12, running into a burning building to save people. Why not add in some protective Dean and John freaking out that his youngest has run straight into a burning building?
Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me. No money being made here.
And The House Burned
The bell rings.
Sam drags himself out of his seat, book still open, and walks slowly to the cafeteria. His legs are burning from his morning run – and why can't I skip training on school days? Not like I don't have PE. He rolls his eyes at the thought. Right, because when is Dad ever reasonable. Two mile run every morning, rain or shine, and target practice or sparring with Dean after school. Unless Dad needed help researching a hunt, then it was target practice after dinner. And never mind finding time to do his homework.
Family first, Sam. You gotta learn this stuff.
So Sam collects his free lunch from the cafeteria staff, smiling shyly at the lunch lady, and retreats to an isolated corner to eat and start on his math homework. With luck, he'll be done before his next class.
xxxxx
The bell rings.
Sam shoves his book into his backpack, hitches the good strap over his shoulder, and pushes his way out the door with the rest of his class. Their house is a mile and a half away, tucked into a deserted stretch of trees, and he has exactly fifteen minutes to get home before the phone will be ringing, Dad checking to make sure he isn't slacking off. Plenty of time to jog it, but not a lot of wiggle room. He makes it through the door, dropping his bag on the table and lunging for the phone as it started to ring.
"You're out of breath. Shouldn't be. Gotta get your condition up, Sam."
"Yes, sir."
"Extra mile in the mornings."
An extra mile means another five minutes to be carved out of something less important. Five less minutes of sleep, because Sam won't skip his homework (reading by flashlight under the blankets) and can't skip training. Five minutes means being late more often, as he can barely pull himself out of bed in the mornings now.
"Yes, sir."
"Target practice now. I'll be back late, don't wait up."
Click, and there's nothing to do except grab a gun and head out back to the improvised shooting range, line up cans and bottles and shoot them down until Dean gets home from school.
xxxxx
"Sammy! Dinner!"
Sam stops shooting at Dean's yell, leaves battered cans and shattered bottles at the end of the range, and runs inside. His stomach grumbles, and Dean laughs, poking at his soft belly.
"This is why ya gotta run more, Sammy. Getting too old for baby fat."
Sam flips him off, grabs a bowl of mac and cheese, studded with bits of hot dog and frozen vegetables. He squeezes ketchup out of packets stolen by the handful from McDonald's, ignoring Dean's exaggerated gagging. Sam shovels forkfuls into his mouth, chewing fast, finishing his dinner in record time.
"Slow down there, champ. What's the rush?"
"Got a lotta homework. History, science–"
"Please. You're acing everything, slack off a bit. Spar with me."
Sam glares at Dean. He doesn't get it. "I'm acing everything because I don't slack off. I do math at lunch, English at recess, and the rest I have to fit in after training every day. I don't have time to spar!"
Dean's face hardens. "Sparring is more important than history class, Sammy. Which'll keep you alive when a werewolf attacks, knowing which state was founded when or knowing how to throw something bigger, stronger, and faster than you off your back?"
"Not chasing after werewolves in the first place might keep me alive best," Sam mutters.
Of course Dean hears him. "We have to, Sam. It's our responsibility, our job, our purpose–"
"Why? I never asked for this!"
"Well, suck it up, kid."
Sam tries to respond, but a familiar lump is in his throat and his eyes are hot with angry tears. He spins on his heel, runs to his room and slams the door, throws himself onto the bed and screams into his thin pillow. Every day is a fight, every day is another reminder that he doesn't belong in this messed up family, every day he tries to do everything that Dad and Dean ask of him and every day they ask for more.
He can't stay still, so he gets up and starts pacing but his mind keeps racing until he has to get out or explode.
xxxxx
The door slams.
Dean lifts his head from the table, just in time to see Sam disappearing down the road, kicking up dust with every step. Running away again. Could've cleaned up dinner, at least. He looks down at his untouched bowl of mac and junk, appetite completely gone. He scrapes it into an old Tupperware bowl that was left in the cupboard by some previous resident, adds the leftovers from the pot, and shoves it into the fridge before starting on the dishes.
Wednesdays suck ass. Dean can't go hunt with Dad, has to be home to make sure Sammy does his training. He's only halfway through a bullshit week at some bullshit school, only still in school because Dad won't let him drop out yet, and fuck, why can't Sam get with the program already? The fighting and tension is a constant drain.
Dishes finished, Dean grabs a beer from the fridge and settles on the couch, turning on the television and flipping through the channels.
Static.
Static.
Friends.
Static.
Beer half empty, Dean settles on an infomercial. The product is stupid – why buy some lame exercise… bike? thing? when the road is free, but there's a hot chick in spandex, and it's better than nothing. He doesn't notice the room getting dark around him as the sun sets, doesn't notice when the infomercial ends and the screen turns to snow. He doesn't notice anything, doesn't let himself think, until the door bangs open and Dad's standing in front of him with just one question.
"Where's Sam?"
xxxxx
He smells smoke.
Sam isn't sure how long he's been running – longer than he ever runs in the mornings, but the pounding of the pavement beneath his feet is soothing, a balm on frayed nerves, hypnotic and drowning out everything. The sun set long ago, shadows filling the spaces between streetlights and the moon has risen high. Sam sniffs at the air.
The smoke smells like burning wood, simple and clean. No tinge of salt or old bones, no stench of burning flesh. Smoke like a bonfire, and he remembers sitting in a forest with Dean, marshmallows speared on long sticks peeled clean of bark, talking and laughing as logs crackle and send sparks swirling into the night sky. But there's no forest here, just buildings and houses, and the smoke is out of place.
His feet follow the smell without his permission, jogging slowly through a neighborhood of pretty houses and well-maintained yards, drawing closer to the source. Lights are starting to come on in the houses he passes, and his steps get faster. A house is glowing at the end of the street, and Sam starts to run again.
By the time he reaches it, flames are spreading, clearly visible consuming the curtains in the windows, plumes of smoke rising into the darkness and blotting out the stars. Neighbors have started to gather outside their own homes, pointing and whispering in huddles of confusion and indecision.
Sam runs up to a man, recognizes him as a classmate's father. He grabs his arm, shocks the man into looking down at him. "Call 911!" he says, and the man nods, runs back to his own house and leaves Sam again.
Sam takes a breath, deep and slow, ignores the burn of smoke in the back of his throat. No one has come out of the burning house yet, and he remembers lessons about smoke inhalation. They may not have woken up.
Only one thing to do. He runs into the sprinklers of a nearby house, wetting his shirt thoroughly, then pulls it up over his mouth and nose and runs towards the burning house.
xxxxx
The streets should be empty.
John swears under his breath as he slows the car, the engine growling into low gear as the Impala protests the snail's pace. Too many people on the streets for the suburbs near midnight. Beside him, Dean is tense, quivering and anxious.
"Shouldn't have let him run off like that," Dean says, and as much as John agrees, he can't bring himself to berate Dean for this. Boy's taking care of that all on his own.
More people are pouring out into the street, and sirens are sounding faintly, getting louder. Fear starts to uncurl in John's stomach – he's not sure how, but he knows that Sam's involved, and he turns onto a street in time to see flames push through the roof of a house halfway down the road with people gathered all around. Too many people to keep driving.
John stares at the house, memories of a happy home and beloved wife going up in flames, and almost misses the small body that darts out from the gathered crowd and into the inferno. He doesn't understand what he sees until he hears Dean's choked scream.
"Sam!"
xxxxx
The fire roars.
It's a strange sort of peace, surrounded by crackling flames and oppressive heat, shrinking his skin and coloring the world orange. Sam stays low to the ground, heading to the bedrooms at the back of the house. The fire is spreading out from the living room, licking along the walls, and Sam moves quickly to beat it. It's cooler towards the back, but the air is thick and full of smoke.
It feels like forever, but can't be more than a few minutes, before Sam finds the bedrooms and the sleeping family. A glass of water on a nightstand wakes the father, and he quickly takes charge, shaking his wife awake and running to the next room, coming out with a sleepy toddler. The family follows Sam out, meeting fire fighters when they've almost reached safety, and they end up crowded together at the back of a fire engine, covered in soot and shivering in the night air with oxygen masks held to their faces so they can't speak.
Sam looks away from them, tries to escape their grateful eyes, and sees Dad and Dean pushing frantically through the fire fighters.
xxxxx
Sam ran into the fire.
The longest minutes of his life, spent holding Dean back from attacking the firemen who wouldn't let him run after his brother into a burning house. John's almost glad that Dean's falling apart. Holding Dean together keeps him from attacking the men blocking them from following Sam.
They hear snippets of talk – "Too far gone" and "Just stop it from spreading" – and it sounds impossible. Sam ran into the fire, and how can he get out?
Then a flurry of activity, and a small family is being herded out towards paramedics, and John gives a brief prayer of thanks that Sam is there with them, sooty and coughing but gloriously alive. He follows Dean through the crowd, yells "That's my son" at the last fireman trying to keep them away. Sam sees them coming, and seems to shrink in on himself, small and frightened.
I love you, John wants to say, and I'm proud of you, and also don't you ever do that again! but what comes out is "Why?"
Sam looks up at him through shaggy bangs, batting away Dean's prodding fingers. He shrugs and says "'S what we do, right? Saving people."
There's so much to say, but John's no good with words, never has been, so he sits on the back of the fire engine with Sam and Dean, rests his hand on Sam's shoulder, and hopes that Sam understands.
And the house burned.