There is nothing that can be said to a young boy that watches the house he grew up in, had birthday parties in, has his first kiss with the neighbor at age seven in the kitchen, burn to the ground in a display of stolen oxygen and rising flames the color of the sunset after a storm.
Sam was five when his parents were killed in the fire, just barely old enough to start school that following fall. He remembers the unyielding flow of tears from his eyes, not even stopping for Dean's pleads that he be okay. He remembers Uncle Bobby's thick hands on his shoulder in comfort and Aunt Ellen's fierce, motherly whisper of promises. But above all Sam remembers the helplessness and guilt that wrecked him, caged him, ate at him. And almost twenty-five years later, he holds those feelings in the pit of his stomach.
Goosebumps rose over his body before his brain registered the breeze floating through the window and billowing the curtains towards him as if they were mocking a beckoning lover. He crossed the room and shut the window, clasping it shut and drawing the shade. All he wanted, needed, was a long sleep and for the feelings that kept him up most nights to numb.
Fire is terrifying and beautiful in a classic way that is taken lightly by some and for granted by others. The heat from a flame can give life when the temperatures drop but the slick flames will engulf a soul when given the opportunity. Gabriel was asked once by a child during a presentation at the local school why he has decided to become a firefighter. He thought it over and over, letting the taste of the question rest on his tongue and bounce around in his mind. Gabe recited the cliche "to fight fires" which seemed to appease the child, yet months later he still pondered that question.
Was it the vibrant colors that painted a night sky and the faces of the grieving owners? Or the empty hole inside of him that held the blood of his "heroics" and begged for more? No, that wasn't it. Gabriel could be selfish, yes, but saving lives had nothing to do with that. There were the lucky ones, and the not so lucky ones, but he never took credit for the bodies - dead and alive - that he carried from burning buildings.
Gabriel scrubbed a hand over his face and felt the prickles of his beard bring him back from his thoughts to the unnaturally quiet lounge of the building. The station was a beautiful building of high arches and added flairs of each member. The men and women of the station were proud to call it their second home, especially Gabriel. In the thirty-three years of his existence, the man had experienced the hell (how ironic) of a religious family that held more intolerant members than any group Gabe could think of off the top of his head. His older brothers bathed in the attention of being the perfect children as well as perfect members of the church.
Gabriel believed in God; he had seen it in the eyes of children he rescued from the fire and in the eyes of the parents he handed them over to. He had seen it in the smile of his brother after he came to terms with his sexuality and accepted life to the fullest.
But in all the holy crap they fed him growing up, Gabriel had never found God. He secretly collected money from a job he had at a candy store and the weekly allowances his parents gave until he had nearly five thousand dollars. On the night of his eighteenth birthday, Gabriel hastily packed suitcases, made a promise to his brother that he would return for him, and drove off in a mess of screeching tires and his mother's curses.
The money lasted almost a year before Gabriel became bored and, unfortunately, had to pursue a career. With a degree in Art, he assumed finding a job would be a pleasant experience until he found that Kansas City was known for three things: their fire department, the mechanics, and their pie. And of course, Gabriel being one for quirky adventures, settled for being a waiter at Eve's diner. It was there he met Dean Winchester and the two became inseparable from there. It was Dean who finally convinced Gabriel to join the fire department with him and the rest is history.
"The last time I saw you this focused, I had to call Chief to run a drug test on your happy ass," Dean said from the doorway. Gabe could hear the smirk in his voice without turning around to see it.
"I remember that. I still owe you for that. Might get it by hitting on that innocent baby brother of yours." Gabriel retorted. He had never met Dean's brother, only heard stories about the big time author through the proud voices of the family. He might have, quite possibly, read Sam's books on top of searching his name on the Internet. The only pictures Gabe had seen of him were the younger ones that decorated Ellen and Bobby's home.
A loud snort had him raising his brow in amusement.
"If you can get Sammy to come out of his lair long enough for a few hours of human interaction, I would kiss the ground you walk on." Dean shrugged and plopped down beside his friend, legs stretching out in front of him. "Dude, I'm not joking when I say the kid has been holed up in his room for three days now. Says he's fine and all that bull."
"Why don't you bring him by the station? He might be having writer's block and in need for a little inspiration," Gabe finished the sentence with a - what he deemed - a seductive tone.
Dean's face was thoughtful a moment before he nodded his head, a bright smile stretching and warming his face. Gabriel knew that if circumstances were different and they weren't better as friends, he would "put the moves" on Dean.
"Great idea, Gabe. I knew you weren't a total loss." A rough hand squeezed the man's leg affectionately before Dean raced off to..do whatever the hell Dean Winchester does in his free time. Well gee, Winchester, Gabriel thought, thanks.
They stood facing each other with fists clenched and a pregnant silence, only feet apart but it felt like miles to the two lost brothers. There was no time to turn back, no measure of time at all between them. This was it. It was the final battle to end the war that had plagued their existence from the minute the Morningstar fell from his pearly throne of Heaven. Glowing and burning, twisting and fighting. It was a blur of sorrow and history. No longer could they hold off in hopes that-
"Dammit, Sam, I thought I told you no writing today." Dean's annoyed voice called from behind Sam. He was typing away with fervor as he always did when inspiration struck.
"But, Dean," The younger brother began, only to be cut off by Dean's scoff.
"You sound just like this guy at work. Off the computer, Sammy, and I mean it." Dean rolled up the sleeves of his white work shirt and sent his brother a look before walking out of the room.
Huffing, Sam clicked the save button and shut his computer with a soft click. Lean fingers, strong from his earlier years of working on cars with his brother and helping his Aunt Ellen build her bar, were tapping his desk idly in a broken rhythm.
"Get dressed," Dean reappeared and said before leaving yet again.
"For what? You're the one yellin' at me to relax."
"You, Sammy, are going to work with me today," The older Winchester's voice carried into Sam's room and he let his head fall backwards and a scowl take over his face.
"Why would I want to go hang out at a fire station? Wouldn't I just be in the way?"
"Nah. It feels like a calm one." Dean said as he shrugged. With a final groan, Sam dragged himself on unwilling limbs to his closet. It was going to be a long day.