"You are such a little—"

"Don . . ."

"Get outta my sight."

Sam skirted past his foster father, sighing when his foster mother followed him.

"I need you to clean your room, Sam."

"Screw that," Sam muttered under his breath.

His foster mother whirled. "What did you say, young man?"

"Nothing." Sam straightened his cot with a sneer.

He paused, fingertips brushing the coverlet before dipping under the pillow for Dad's old journal. Dad would be ashamed of him, Dean . . . sometimes even just thinking about his brother felt like his stomach was being ripped out, and two years hadn't changed that at all.

Sam scrubbed his face and tucked the journal in his pocket. Forget this. He needed to get back in the game.

"Sam Smith?"

Sam slouched forward, carefully hiding his lock picks in his back pocket again.

"Officer?" he mumbled.

"You've been causing trouble again. What do you say we set you up with another foster family, huh?"

Sam scowled. "Is there a door B?"

"Kid, this is the third time. You run away again, and you'll end up in juvie somehow."

He looked at the officer in the eye. "I didn't steal anything, I didn't hurt anyone. You can't send me to jail."

The cop scowled. "You're gonna come to a bad end."

"Same to you," Sam called as he left. He shifted the lock picks out of his pocket and began working on the door again. With a click, he escaped. Sam slipped through the dark streets of St. Louis, avoiding the spots where he knew the gangs liked to hang out.

"Yo, Sammy!" Jack ran up with a grin. "Heard the CPS snagged you again."

Sam punched Jack in the face. "Don't call me Sammy."

Jack covered his nose, grimacing at the blood. "Point is, Smith, you gotta rep. Cuz you always get out. So, c'mon, 'fess up. You willing to go into business with us?"

"Getting people killed and poisoning them? No thanks. Get away from me, Jack."

Sam moved on ahead of the kid, ignoring the yelled insults at his back. He snuck into the warehouse, trying to avoid the jagged metal sticking out on the fire escape.

"Hey, whatcha doin' back here, Smith?"

"Did you steal any of my crap?" Sam asked, going over to his corner.

Tommy wheezed a laugh. "Crap is right. Nothing there worth stealing, son."

"I ain't your son." Sam shivered, pulling off Dean's jacket and quickly pulling on a hoodie before slinging the jacket on again. St. Louis in winter was miserable.

"Sure you ain't. You also ain't got no brains—"

"—double negative—" Sam muttered.

"—cuz you run away from them nice homes they get ya. C'mon, kid. What's the use of running around on your own? You're what, twelve?"

"Fourteen."

"Well, go into one of those foster homes. Put up with 'em for a while, and then steal their valuables and start over elsewhere."

"No can do." Sam eased his hunting knife into the inner pocket in Dean's jacket without Tommy seeing. "They all think I'm gonna murder them in their sleep, Tommy. They watch me like a hawk and beat me when I screw up. I'm not living like that."

"Sure, whatever. What do I know," Tommy groused. Sam would have to make it up to him by stealing him some donuts.

"I gotta go, man. Keep warm."

"Yeah, yeah."

Sam slid down the fire escape carefully, pulling his hood up as soon as he hit the ground. The walk was long, but at two foster homes ago, the parents had bought him new boots. Sam may have hated how they looked at him with pity, but he did appreciate the new clothes.

Sam entered the hotel, feeling ridiculously conspicuous. Skirting past the receptionist, he pulled out his homemade EMF meter and began the long journey, floor by floor.

On the seventh floor, he paused due to a blip of light.

"C'mon, ghostie, where are you?"

A rush of cold air answered him. The EMF meter flared again. Sam crouched. His salt-encrusted knife in his hand, Sam put his back against the wall. The spirit began coalescing, and Sam waited patiently.

"There you are." Older, sleazy-looking man. Sam mentally scanned through the suspects he had researched and settled on Paul Mendelson. Guy had tried to rape some girl and the girl had smashed him in the head with a paperweight.

That paperweight had to be the answer, since all of the suspects had been cremated, aside from a couple of the others.

Slashing with his knife to make Mendelson disappear, Sam darted into the stairwell, quickly opening up his notes. The paperweight was fancy. Too fancy to be put into a normal room, since the hotel had lost a lot of business since Mendelson's day.

Manager's office.

With huge leaps, Sam hurtled down the staircase. When he reached the first floor, he slowed down, breath crystallizing in the air.

"You stay away," Sam muttered, sneaking out. Thankfully the receptionist was occupied checking a family in, so Sam was able to crawl under the desk and get into the back.

"Hey, there you are." Sam hefted it, grimacing a little. Too big to melt down. Ritual?

Sam began reciting the most general one he knew. In response, the lights began flickering.

"I will have you," Mendelson snarled.

"Get a life," Sam returned. "Oh wait, you can't."

Mendelson darted forward and Sam whipped his arm out. This time, though, the ghost was ready for him, and flickered to the side, slamming into Sam and throwing him into a filing cabinet.

"What was that?"

The receptionist's voice was loud, and Sam swore under his breath. Levering himself to his feet, Sam spat out the rest of the ritual, sprinkling salt and holy water as Mendelson screamed and disappeared.

"What the—"

Sam shoved through the receptionist and vaulted over the desk. Cries rose behind him as he darted onto the streets.

By the time he made it back to the warehouse, night had fallen. Tommy raised a hand as he collapsed inside.

"Sam, you gonna get yourself killed."

"Don't I know it." Sam wiped away his bloody nose and hunkered close to the fire Tommy had built, tossing his research into the flames.

"What you runnin' around doing, huh Sammy?"

"I've told you, Tommy, and I'll tell ya again. Call me that and I'll cut your throat."

"Yeah yeah. You talk big for a little shrimp."

"Shaddap." Sam blew into his hands. "Gotta go grab some food and hit the library." He stood.

"You run around all the time. Why not sit and enjoy the fire?" Tommy asked.

"Running keeps me going." Sam pushed up the window. "I'll bring you some peanut butter sandwiches."

"And coffee."

"And coffee."

The streets of St. Louis were icy by now, and Sam meandered over to the library first, sneaking in the back and disarming the alarm.

He was currently in the middle of a biology textbook like other kids his age. At least, that's what Sam figured they were studying in school. He didn't really know, but it wasn't like he'd ever go to find out.

By the time Sam's flashlight ran out of battery, his stomach was aching, so he headed to the soup kitchen.

"Sam!"

"Jerry." Sam stepped up for his soup and sandwich.

"You staying warm, kid? You know I don't wanna report you in."

"Man, don't do that to me. I don't wanna go back into the system."

"Sure you ain't. You gettin' nowhere, like this."

Sam had finished off two ghosts, a demon, and a rogue kitsune in the last two months. But he smiled and nodded blandly.

"Gotta get someone to watch your back," Jerry continued, doling out more soup.

"I don't need anyone," Sam muttered.

"Everyone needs someone."

"Well, I don't."

Jerry paused, setting aside his ladle. "Sam, kid, this isn't a life for you. Get out, huh? Two years I seen you here, and you just gettin' tired and too old for your age. Promise me you'll try and move on."

Sam planned on moving to Chicago next month. What Jerry didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He smiled and told Jerry sure and brought Tommy coffee and a sandwich. His life was his punishment. And it was enough.

A/N: Thanks for the response, guys! Just so you know, usually I do respond to every review I get, but this time around since I'll be updating so frequently, I won't message back every time. Thanks for reading!