I don't know how I feel about this chapter or even how long I plan to keep this story going. I think perhaps until the boys find John, but who knows. I'm a terrible updater so I can hardly look past the next chapter.


Sam was lying in the middle of Marissa's big bed, eyes full of flames and yet his body was frozen as he stared up at this lovely girl he had only just met, this girl he had wanted Dean to marry because she had pretty blonde hair and a dog named Deefer.

Sam screamed.

Sam screamed and screamed, screamed, "Marissa, help, Marissa, help!" Even though she was the one pinned to the ceiling with her blood spilling out of her her and onto Sam's face, stinging his eyes. Marissa's mouth was open, wanting to perhaps tell Sam to run, perhaps wanting to beg him to help her but no words would come out. There was life still in her eyes but Marissa was already dead. Suddenly the flames grew wider and engulfed the babysitter, like a monster swallowing its prey in one bite. Sam slid off the side of the bed, sobbing no longer for his babysitter. She was gone. Forever. Sam curled into a ball, feeling the heat and sweating.

He remembered that his mom died in a fire.

He had been there then, too.

He had been in his crib when-

"SAM!"

Strong arms gripped Sam's entire body and before Sam knew it, he was gone from the room, gone from the house entirely.

This time, Dean made the street without the help of his father before the glass from the windows exploded.

The EMTs kept insisting that Sam ought to go to the hospital. Over the past four and a half years, Dean had become uncomfortable such ideas.

One paramedic, a stocky kind of guy who looked like maybe he played hockey in his spare time (he had the whole kind eyes, broken nose thing going on), put his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean jumped and looked at the guy with suspicision. The paramedic said calmly, "I'd hate to see anything happen to the kid. You love the kid, so you feel the same. I think that's why you don't want him to go. But smoke inhalation in kids can be pretty serious."

So they went, albeit in the Impala (there was no comment about the lack of seatbelts). Sam was quiet. He sniffled. He coughed. However, it seemed to Dean that Sam was done with the crying. Just as he had quieted the night Constance Welch took the car for a joyride with Sammy still in the front seat, Sam was quiet for hours. They were in the hospital, a nurse having just cleared away a breathing treatment, and Dean, speaking soft, sweet words, was in the middle of yet another, "We'll be home soon, Sammy" when Sam whispered, "Dean?"

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"Marissa dead?"

Dean bit his lip, stared hard at glass-encased defibrillator . "Yeah, Sammy."

"Like mommy."

Dean cleared his throat before saying hoarsely, "Looks like, Sammyboy."

Sam's skinny legs, which had been dangling over the exam table, were drawn up to his chest with a deafening crackle of paper. His lip trembled and his eyes filled with tears. Dean jumped up from his chair and threw an arm around his little brother.

"Sammy, it's okay." Looking down at Sam, Dean tried to smile. "It's okay now. We're gonna get away from here. Go home and sleep tonight. Hey, maybe we'll drive to Disneyland tomorrow, yeah, Sam? Betcha all those princess chicks will call ya charming."

Dean saw, there was a split-second where Sam tried to smile back, tried so hard. But the second he tried he crumbled.

There were so many things Sam wanted to say but couldn't. Finally he gasped out, "Fire, Dean."

Dean picked up his baby brother and cradled in his arms. "Don't be. I'm gonna kill the monster, Sammy. Don't you worry. I'm gonna kill the monster."

And Sam tried to tell Dean about his bad dreams but Dean hushed him and shushed him, and Sam didn't try talking anymore.

Dean didn't sleep well. For a long time he had laid awake in the darkness of the motel, one arm thrown around Sam's little body. Sam snored when he slept. He wasn't snoring.

"Sammy, you have to sleep," Dean whispered gruffly. Sam shifted on the itchy blanket cream colored blanket, clutching the corner of it in his fist.

Dean drifted in and out. At one point, around 2 AM, there was still no snoring but rather the deep and slow breathing of sleep. Dean smoothed Sam's hair and flopped back on the pillow, instantly out.

But at 6 AM he woke again.

"Your friends will be there when your back is to the wall. "You'll find you'll need us cause there's no one else to call …"

Dean groaned, squinting through the slanted light coming through the thin curtains.

Sam was on the floor, his face hardly a foot from the television.

"Sammy?"

Sam turned and grimaced contritely before turning back to 21 Jump Street.

"Why the frig is that on this early?" was the only thing Dean could think to say. What was he supposed to say?

Dean settled down next to Sam, who looked up for only a moment before looking back to the show. "You're awful quiet, Sammy."

Sam frowned before pointing at the screen irritably.

"Do you wanna talk about last night?" Dean said gently.

Sam stared stone-faced at the screen.

"We won't," Dean said immediately. But a few moments later, he realized the implication of such a statement to someone Sam's age. "Not now, anyway … Sam? Sammy, just say something. Say okay."

But Sam just kept staring at the television.

Sam wouldn't say a damn word.