She wanted to hit him and kiss him.

"Sammy, my baby." She gathered him into her arms, pressing him close like it could make up for the last two weeks. He was filthy and bony. Had he managed to eat?

"Ma'am, do you want us to—"

"We're fine," she said to the police man. "Thank you for finding him."

"Sure thing." The cop scratched at his ear. "Y'all have some paperwork to do before you head home, but we'll be right through here."

"I'll take care of it," John said. The ice in his voice made Mary cringe. Her husband didn't forgive easily, and after this, who knew how his relationship with Sam would suffer.

"Are you all right, are you hurt?" she demanded.

"Fine," Sam said dully.

Mary tilted his chin up, staring into his opaque gaze. "Sammy," she whispered. "Do you hate me?"

That got a flash of emotion. Sam's eyes closed, and he shook his head. "No," he whispered.

"Then why?" she begged, "why did you run?"

"I—I had to."

"Why did you have to?" she asked softly.

Sam bit his lip, and Mary waited with baited breath.

"We can leave." John, impenetrable, looked dispassionately at Sam. Mary swallowed her disappointment, and tugged Sam along.


"Saw you on the news, Winchester."

"Life too much for you, wanna run away again?"

"Hey, runaway!"

Sam dodged the comments like they were bullets, settling into the corner where he belonged. A headache was brewing, and he pinched his nose wearily. There was not a moment in his life where he was not under surveillance, whether it be by teachers or his parents.

Running away had been dumb. But his nightmare had been so awful, so real . . . in some ways it made more sense to hide in alleyways and snatch food from dumpsters than go back home. At least that way he hadn't been able to dream of his parents burning and look up to see their faces hovering above him, knowing it was his fault.

"Sam Winchester to the office. Sam Winchester to the office."

Sam ignored the jeers of his classmates as the intercom blared out his name. He silently gathered up his bag and made his way to the front of the school.

"Surprise!"

Sam dropped his bag and launched himself at Dean. "What are you doing here?" he asked. His voice was muffled in the heavy material of Dean's uniform.

"Bit of a change in plans," Dean said, too lightly. Sam's warning bells went off. He took a step back, staring at Dean.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain at home."


"It's just a year, Sam."

Sam scowled at the ground. "A year is a long time."

Dean sighed, scooting closer to settle his shoulder against Sam's. "You'll be driving when I get back from my tour. Think Mom'll let you drive her baby?"

Sam was not drawn out of his funk, to Dean's dismay. "You could die," he said bluntly. "You could die, Dean. And I wouldn't even know. What about that?"

Dean reached up to muss Sam's hair. "Hey. Don't be a fatalist, okay? Don't you know how good I am? You should see me with an AK-47. Nothing can kill me. I'm Batman."

Sam bit his lip, a sure sign that he wanted to cry, and Dean gave into his big brother instincts, slinging an arm around Sam's still-bony shoulders. Dean had seen the bruises, and was pretty sure Sam was lying when he muttered stuff about playing soccer while Dean had been in training. There were also those unaccounted weeks Mary and John had told him about.

"Don't die, okay?" Sam whispered, fingers curling into Dean's collar. "Please, don't die."

"I won't," Dean promised quietly. "Promise."


All his dreams started the same. Walking down the hall, the smell of something burning.

His parents, burning on the ceiling.

Sam shot up in bed and tried to take a deep breath to calm down. Instead he choked on smoke.

"Mom! Dad!" He fell out of bed, coughing as he darted out into the hall. Upon entering, he screamed. Mary and John were splayed out across the ceiling, red dripping from their bellies. Sam leapt up onto their bed, reaching up. The heat made him flinch, but Sam pushed past it, grabbing at his parents' shoulders. He tugged, but they didn't move.

"Kid!"

Someone grabbed him around the waist. Sam struggled, reaching out for his mom and dad as he was thrown over a hardened shoulder.

"No, no!" he wailed.

When the person set him down, Sam struggled to his feet, ready to push back in, until calloused hands gripped his face.

"Kid, they're gone. Look at me."

Solemn dark eyes met his. "No, I can save them, I can," Sam cried.

"They're gone," the man repeated. "I'm sorry."

Sam shuddered. "Who are you? Did you . . . did you do this?"

The man shook his head. "Something dark and evil."

"But—"

Sirens wailed. The man stood. "They'll ask too many questions. I have to go."

"I'm coming with you," Sam declared.

"No, kid, you have to—"

"I'll tell them about you, and I know your license plate number," he said.

The man shook his head. "This is gonna be a big mistake," he muttered.

When the fire department arrived, it was only to find a smoldering house.


After they made it into the motel room, Jim focused on taking care of the traumatized kid. A quick shower (avoiding his arms) to rinse the smell of smoke away, salve, and then bandages for the worst of the burns.

"Need any more pain killers?"

The kid shook his head, shaggy dark hair falling across his eyes.

"What happened?" he whispered.

"What's your name?" Jim ignored his question.

"S-sam."

"Howdy, Sam, I'm Jim." He dropped down onto the edge of the bed and nodded to the couch by the window. "You can sit down if you like."

"What happened?" Sam repeated after sitting.

Jim rubbed his hand over his face. "I wish I knew," he sighed, "but I can only tell you that something evil was targeting your house. Got word from a psychic I know who said something, maybe a demon, was getting close. I came too late. I am sorry for that."

He watched the kid closely. The boy seemed shocked, but not as shocked as some victims were.

"Is that why . . . is that why I had the dreams?" he whispered.

"What dreams?" Jim asked.

Haunted hazel eyes met his. "Dreams of Mom and Dad burning," he said, "on the ceiling."

Jim didn't let his surprise come through. "I don't know about that," he said calmly. "I'll have to look into it."

They sat in silence for a moment. Jim glanced at the clock, grimacing when he saw it was three in the morning.

"Why don't you sleep?" he suggested. "We'll talk in the morning. You can take the bed."

There was something wary about the way Sam got onto the bed. Jim eased himself into the bathroom, eager to get rid of the soot on his own body. There was no victory in tonight's hunt.


Sam felt like he was going to shake out of his skin. A million thoughts buzzed through his mind, but he was unable to capture a single one. The man who had saved him was asleep on the couch.

"Mr. Jim," Sam whispered before he could think better of it.

There was a grunt and shifting sound from the couch. "Wha'sat,"

Sam bit his lip, not even sure what he needed to say or how to say it.

"Kid?" The man got up. He was slow and deliberate in moving to the bed to keep Sam from freaking out, which Sam appreciated.

"I c-can't stop shaking," Sam said.

Jim sat down on the edge of the bed. A warm palm settled on his shoulder. "Easy, Sam."

Sam was fifteen and a half, far too old to cry, but suddenly he was sobbing like a baby, stomach hurting with how hard he was crying.

Jim drew him up and pressed Sam's snotty face into his shoulder. "Easy, kid, let it out," he crooned.

Everything hurt too much, and Sam lost himself in it all. It was only when he heard Jim saying "no, no," that he realized he was talking, saying "I killed them, I killed them," over and over.

"Sam, snap out of it." Jim shook him, hard. "Look at me."

Through blurry eyes, Sam stared at the man.

"You didn't kill them," he said firmly. "And we'll figure this out. I promise."

Sam pulled himself together and nodded. He nearly lost it again when Jim gently brushed his hair away from his face, just the way his mom used to.


A/N: Yes, I am evil. Just a little bit.

I am very excited to have Jim play a big part in this story, though. Hope you like the way I write him (cuz I'm not so sure myself haha)