Small author's note: This is the final project from my English 102 class. I was so excited when we got this project because how often do teachers ask you to write fanfiction?! Anyway, The prompt was to take a character and write 5-10 years after their coming of age or after something traumatic that made them grow up. I asked if I could do that and add on what happened as seen from the character's view because Supernatual come first to my mind and I wanted to write how Dean saw the fire. Anyway, for my people following other stories, I have the next chapter of Brother's almost done, I just have to type up a couple more sentences,and for my Many Meanings followers I have a chapter in the works. It's been a long year and it ain't getting any shorter. I work basically every day, so I have limited time to get any writing done.

Without further ado

November 2nd, 1983

Smoke. All around me. It's thick, and it makes my chest hurt. It's still cold in my dark room, but there's a light at the end of the hall. The ear-splitting scream startles me as it cuts through the silence of that frigid November night. The scream sounds like Mommy, although I'd never heard her scream like that before. The soft patter of tiny feet echoes through the hallway as I run as fast as my little legs can carry me. I was going to be five in a few months, and Mommy and Daddy kept saying how big I was getting, but I couldn't have felt smaller as I found myself in the doorway of my little brother's nursery. My first thought was that I had to get Sammy, and then Mommy and Daddy would know what to do. The heat hits my skin like when I step outside in the summer, leaving the cool, air-conditioned house behind me. Flames licked at the walls and the ceiling, and fear made me freeze as sweat trickled down my spine. Sammy's cries break me out of my trance, and a sense of desperate urgency overtakes me. Daddy yells out, screaming Mommy's name. I look up, and terror rears its ugly head as I recognize Mommy, but she's stuck on the ceiling, and she's on fire.

"Daddy!" I yell, suddenly terrified that he's going to be up there next. Almost instantly, Daddy is in front of me, and Sammy is in my arms.

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back!" Daddy orders. I've never heard him use that voice with me, and it's a voice that leaves no room for questions or disagreements.

"Now, Dean, Go!" I didn't want to leave Mommy, or even Daddy, because I didn't want him to catch on fire too, but I ran, not thinking about anything except that I had to get Sammy out of the house like Daddy said. Maybe Daddy would be able to get her down from the ceiling. I run down the hall, feeling like the hallway goes on forever by the time I get to the stairs. I clutch Sammy close to my chest, because Mommy says babies can get hurt really easily; that's why I'm not usually allowed to hold Sammy without Mommy or Daddy with me. Went I get down the stairs, I run to the front door, carefully getting it open without dropping Sammy. I didn't notice the cold wood of the porch steps, stopping in the grass nearby to wait for Daddy. The cold dew drops cling to my bare feet and the cuffs of my blue pajama pants, soaking through the heavy fabric.

"It's okay, Sammy," I whisper, trying to halt his cries. I can see Sammy's room from where I stand, and it's glowing with all the flames raging inside. The flames lick greedily at the curtains around the window. Without warning, Daddy is there, scooping us up and running away from the house; Mommy isn't with him. An explosion sounds, and I can't drag my eyes away from the raging ball of light that was our house. I tear my gaze away, pressing my face to Daddy's neck. He smells like sweat and smoke, and he clings as tightly to me and Sammy as I cling to him. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realize that we're sitting on the hood of the car, and that we have nothing left but each other. It's all I can do to not ask the sad looking firefighters where Mommy is. I know she's gone, but I want her back. My chest aches with need for her.

I snap up from the hard, unforgiving mattress, panting heavily. The draft wandering through the room chills my damp skin. Sweat drips from my hair, the rough sheets and mattress soaked through. The ghost of the flames still laps at my skin, and silent tears slide down my cheeks; the tears are quickly wiped away as if they burn. A quick glance at the bed next to mine confirms that Sammy is still sleeping. Good. I didn't want to explain to him that, even after thirteen years, I still miss mom. The nightmares stopped occurring every night by the time I turned ten, but I still dream of it all now and then. I refuse, however, to be that lost little four-year old who watched his mother burning on the ceiling. I get up, not caring that it was three in the morning and that I will likely be exhausted when it's time for school in the morning. Not that I particularly care about school. I have plans to drop out before the year is done. I walk to the bathroom, pressing my palms to the cold sink, leaning heavily against the chipped, stained porcelain. After a moment, I look up. The face staring back at me is almost foreign in its exhaustion, although I'm certainly not a stranger to sleepless nights and enough stress to make lesser men crumble. Dark circles underline emerald green eyes. Freckles stand out against pale skin. Dirty blond hair, cut short for ease of maintenance and usually spiked up, falls limply onto my forehead. My shirt hangs loosely on my lean frame. I'm starting to bulk up, my constant physical training paying off. Mom wouldn't have wanted this. She wouldn't have wanted us to be living in motels, moving every other weekend, never having friends, never settling down.

"Stop it," I hiss to myself, careful of my volume because I don't want to wake Sammy.

"You're not a kid, so stop acting like one," I growl at my reflection. I haven't been a kid since that night; someone had to take care of Sammy, and Dad just couldn't do it.

"You hunt people's nightmares, you can deal with your own," I say, trying to convince myself that maybe I can deal with it. I stand up straight, squaring my shoulders and thinking about that little boy I used to be, that helpless child who I swore I would never be again. I grew up that November night, and I never looked back.