Description - Short stream of consciousness fic from Sam's point of view highlighting just what may have been going through his head at the end of Croatoan. Contains a slight spoiler for episode 2.10, Hunted.

Disclaimer - Don't own them, but continue to dream.

Rarely Pure and Never Simple

"Right before dad died, he told me something..." he hesitates, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second before darting away once more. This is hard for him. I can tell. He continues, downplaying his discomfort, "He told me something about you."

You Me.

A beat passes as I make a feeble attempt to process this. I'm surprised as hell, yet somehow I knew it all along.

"Dean, what did he tell you?"

I try not to sound too worked up. I try not to sound over-anxious. But I do anyway. And I am.

Our eyes lock, and his reluctant, almost guilt-filled gaze suddenly brings a flood of past exchanges washing over me.

--Before he...Before he d-- ...Did he say anything?

...No--

--This doesn't have to be the end for you, man. You can go on.

What makes you think I want to?

...What are you talking about...?

It's not about dad...not entirely...I'm tired...I'm tired of carrying this weight on my shoulders--

He's been trying to protect me. This whole damn time he's been trying to protect me. I see it now. The way he's looking at me.

Hesitating still, he doesn't want to tell me.

"Dean," I press, my voice betraying me slightly more than I expect it to.

What are you trying to protect me from, Dean?

What are you keeping from me?

Talk to me, Dean! Tell me the truth!

"Hey...hey," gentle hands shake me and the darkness scatters a bit.

"Sammy, it's okay, kid. It's me. Come on, wake up, bud," the reassuring pressure on my shoulder chases the darkness further. I think I'm waking up.

"'Atta boy," he says in Puppy Speak. That's what I call it. It's his most comforting tone. Also his rarest. Reserved exclusively for the puppy, Scout, we had for a week, and for me. When I'm sad. When I'm scared. When I need my big brother to tell me everything will be okay.

"Dean?" I croak, my eyes sliding open. I'm on the floor, jumbled in a confusing mass of twisted blankets. Dean gives my shoulder a squeeze in response. He's here.

"Hey," he guides me into a sitting position, trying to peer at my face through the dim glow of the night-light. "Must have been some nightmare, kiddo."

It comes back in a flash. Flames. Heat. An overwhelming sense of pain and darkness and loss and everything so horrible in the entire world that I would rather die right on the spot than have to feel it again. And something so significant about it all...

"Hey," his voice snaps my attention to him. I look to his face.

"What was it about?" he says, repeating the question I just missed.

I can't answer. All I can do is throw my arms around him and bury my face in his tee-shirt. He's here. I'm not alone. I didn't burn in those flames.

Caught off guard, I feel Dean draw back a little, but I hold fast and he contents himself with awkwardly patting my shoulder. He had lately been attempting to wean me from the habit of such physical contact. It must embarrass him now that he thinks he's getting so grown up. I don't care, though. There are some reassurances that can only be gained from clinging to the one person you know cares.

"Hey, hey," he says softly, his hand still gently thumping my back. When my sobbing dies down sufficiently he draws me back at arms length and takes a good look at me. "You okay?" the concern in his voice is evident. I'd never reacted to the nightmare like this before. But it had never been this intense before either. It seems to get worse every time I'm forced to relive it.

It almost seems like a dream of a dream. The kind of dream you don't remember until midway through the day after you dreamed it. And then when you do remember it, it hits you with a clarity so strong you can't imagine how you ever managed to forget it in the first place.

Or maybe a dream of a memory...

"Sammy," his voice brings my attention back to him once more. He just asked me something.

"Tell me about it," he pleads.

I can't. I wipe my eyes and give a slight shrug, trying to show I'm okay now.

"Sammy, this is the fourth time it's happened. And it's been worse every time. You actually fell out of bed this time. And I—I couldn't get you to wake up, Sam!" he takes a breath, looks down, and releases his hold on me. "It's scaring me, Sammy. And when I try to get you to tell me about it, you brush it off like it's no big deal," he looks back up and meets my eyes. "I think it is a big deal, Sammy. And I'm your big brother. You shouldn't keep things like this from me; You should be able to tell me everything."

I blink.

He quickly goes on, a tone of persuasion evident in his voice, "And in return, I won't keep anything from you. We're brothers. We'll always be honest with each other, 'kay, squirt?" he tussles my hair.

I can't help grinning, and his face blurs up in my still water-logged gaze. It sounds like a good deal to me.

That night I opened up to Dean about the nightmare that had been plaguing me. And as a result, it occurred less often and was somehow less frightening. I wasn't so alone anymore. And in return, Dean offered to fill me in on some history of a night that occurred seven years prior. A night filled with heat, and flames, and loss, and what our father suspected might have been something much more terrible.

-We're brothers...We'll always be honest with each other-

I blink and the memory fades in an instant.

Our gazes are still locked, only mine is different now. Betrayal changes many things.

Dean sees it. He suddenly sees how I feel. Funny how he seems surprised. And still he hesitates. I can't believe it.

He looks down with a sigh, breaking our eye contact. And I suddenly realize. He is tired. Whatever he's hiding is a burden. A burden so heavy it's slowly but surely dragging him down with it. How could I not have noticed?

A moment passes and he's forgiven. He's my brother. My big brother. The same brother that comforted me from nightmares, and tucked me in bed, and read me Dr. Seuss, and made me spaghettios, and always, always told me everything would be okay. He's the brother that even now still stands here trying to protect me. Protect me from a truth I might not yet be ready to know.

He looks up once more. His mouth opening to either reveal the destructive truth, or dismiss the whole thing with an ill-timed joke.

But my mind is already made up. Tell me or not, Dean, I have to go.

And while I know what they say about the truth, it's not the that that's burdening you. It's me.

And after all you've done for me, the least I can do is set you free.